A Gangster for Capitalism

Growing up, I had big shoes to fill. My heroes were larger than life. They weren’t fictional characters. Their character was very much the theme of my learning experiences. Whether a sinner or a saint, there was one distinct factor in all of them; resolve. Just like our formidable enemies, we are all pawns that become martyrs to the dance.

I grew up believing in things like values and religion, tradition mostly, and guilt-ridden for not upholding them. As a Cold War kid, we were always the good guys, the side of truth and righteousness. It wasn’t until several years after fighting my own kinetic war of “global terrorism” that I understood why “communism” was our enemy too. Twenty-five million. That’s the number of Russians killed during WW2, either by Stalin himself, or the Nazis. And then we dropped “the bomb,” and scooped up the spoils of war, our own blood and treasure for Japan. Generations of Russians will never forget that. In the United States, most of us don’t even know the year it happened. We have had so many enemies in 250 years, but we have never had to fight them amongst our homes.

That’s exactly how I began to understand my enemy in Fallujah. He was trying to kill me, albeit, so I had no empathy for him. We had to make them inferior. We committed crimes. Arson, burglary, larceny, vandalism, and murder. Expunged in the righteous name of Good Will and Freedom. In the name of a Christian god. My family was still “free” to believe those lies, but these people did not. We are a cult, just like them. Their cultural norms, their religion, their tribes, their smells, and their loathing stares. We fear what we don’t understand, and we didn’t want to understand each other. That way we could double-down on whatever was necessary to submit our foe. How many of us had time to reverse the situation, and think about our families, wives, and children being forced to evacuate their homes to avoid being more than just collateral damage? We gave the women and children that much respect to warn them of the impending doom with littering leaflets. Righteous before the slaughter. The men didn’t have too many options. Leave and be a coward, or fight and die.

So, the stage is set and it has come down to this. Neither side really knows what they believe in anymore, they only know that they must fight and die, or survive with the guilt for living. The guilt for finding love, or life’s beautiful evolution. The possibilities of surviving are exponentially greater for me than my enemy. Knowing that, only increases the savageness, the barbarity, the cruel things that man does to man.

Al Fajr, “The Dawn,” reveals an ominous landscape of never-ending calamity. White Phosphorous does unspeakable things to flesh. That, and .50 caliber rounds on human targets. The Swiss kind of mandated that in their conventions, but no one pays any attention to that unless someone is employing gas agents or nukes. That’s why they would not let us clear the whole fuckin’ city with CS gas; Geneva. The reality is that there are so many other alternatives to kinetic killing, shrapnel, and steel forced to subdue the enemy. We starved the Mujahideen in a siege and hunted them relentlessly, on the offensive. This made them erratic and desperate. Adding to the attrition of American lives, young kids, mostly 18-21 years of age, scraping the haji from their embattled holes to avoid collateral damage. The irony of such things.

I would be remiss to ignore the fact that Iraq is made up of three different countries into one by the British, post-WW2, when our treaties should have included some common sense, instead of more colonies of “inferior people that cannot rely on their own self-reliance to govern themselves.” So, if we want to examine history, we should start with colonialism. I digress.

The conglomeration of Allied combined arms on a modern battlefield is the most awesome spectacle a human being can witness short of an extreme, natural phenomenon. You can feel the sheer power rattle your teeth while biting down, bracing for the enormous quake of quantifiable carnage. The senses are the most hypervigilant possible, like methamphetamine. Ears hear the screeching screams and deafening cacophony of cyclic, cannon fodder firing furiously. Noses smell rancid decay of burning bodies and composition B. Hands feel the vibration of rounds expended, ejected, neglected and then the bolt-forward; reloaded. Skin feels goosebumps pushing hair follicles into the collar of a camouflaged blouse, turkey peeking the corner, roused by a mouse. Eyes witness the light-show glow, the last breath of suffering; the violence we dream of in the perfect crime. The inclination for heroic deeds, for medals, for notoriety; squandering bravery for a dollar and a dime.

Pushing past the Line of Departure was no turning back. There were squads of American blood in every stack. A wall may be the only refuge for the onslaught of enemy engagements. I was a combative cocktail of natural drugs. Addicted like a fiend. Depression was already a friend of mine, now I had so many other friends to add to the list. Fear is a friend too.

I grew up in a culture that didn’t talk about fear and how it is vital for survival. It was a taboo word, in a masculine world. Yet, everyone had it and was attempting to ignore it as a side effect of “being pussy.” At a point, it seemed debilitating to move and breathe. Moreover, who could see it in me? The fear in my eyes, not so much of dying, but of getting someone else killed under my charge. And being bestowed the blessing of surviving to endure a life of internal blight.

“We are mortal. The Gods envy us because everything is more beautiful. You will never be as beautiful as you are now.” - Achilles, Troy.

I wanted to kill and be remembered for it, just like him. But I wasn’t that good and, more so, foolish for believing that generations would know my name. I romanticized posterity by forsaking reality. There is no glory in war, those demons will come for their retribution forevermore. Upon breaking this sacrament, I did not feel lust. I did not feel remorse. I did not feel anything. The only thing I knew for sure was that it was much too easy to kill, and I could do it again. There is no greater sin, nor threshold to cross. From then on, no one will help you carry your cross. The real work starts. Empathy for all things that will live and die. Colors become more colorful, smells more potent, and memories more visceral.

It's like anything else that is earned, it is cherished. The wisdom between life and death is the purgatory of our souls. We must transcend these things in a preemptive way to prepare for the inevitable future of “good versus evil.” We must understand that perspective is relative. Our hubris will defeat us. We cannot be hypocrites and expect justice to be served elsewhere. We named this debacle, Operation Iraqi Freedom. As if anyone in Iraq had freedom before or after the Allies left. We killed a lot of people, but failed to offer freedom to anyone, even ourselves.

Knowing the truth will somehow never set us free, because we suffer with the realities of that truth. We mask money for morality. Blood, for treasure. No one has invaded North America since 1812, and we are the most warring nation on planet Earth in our very short experiment in democracy. We excuse the tribulation in our wake for the purpose of national security interests.

When I grew up, my Dad always taught me to love my country, stand for the flag, and remember all those who have given their lives for our freedom. Now as a grown man, I understand what that means. Freedom is not free. It actually costs a lot of money. So, you better get a six-figure job when you grow up and forget about killing people for minimum wage.

“I was a racketeer, a gangster for Capitalism.”

- Smedley Butler. USMC