Saddam's Skeet Range

The Abu Ghraib Palace Complex is a sprawling area the size of a small city. In it's heyday, it was the private club and resort of the elites of the Ba'ath Party. For Saddam Hussein, his sons Uday and Qusay, as well as other high-ranking party officials, it was a private retreat. They even staged canned hunting expeditions on the grounds.

One day, while cutting across a part of the base I rarely traverse, I came across this small underground structure, enclosed inside a little fence. Fences, of course, were made for hopping, and I did my best Huck Finn leap over it to get a better look at what I'd found.

One glance was all it took for this Native Texan and shooting enthusiast to realize what he had discovered. It was the palace's very own skeet range. Here, no doubt, Saddam and his insane followers likely shot a few clay pigeons while smoking cigars and discussing where the next palace would be built, how he would drain the southern marshlands to starve out the Marsh Arabs, or how much of the treasury would be robbed for caviar, champagne and private yachts. One is reminded of the scene of comedic tyranny in the movie "History of the World, Part I" where a perfumed and powdered Louis XVI, played by Mel Brooks, goes skeet shooting and calls "pull!" At that moment, rather than a clay pidgeon, a peasant shoots out, and the arrogant leader blasts him out of the sky.

Saddam's Iraq, of course, was no laughing matter. So this site, to me, was somewhat surreal. After hopping the fence, I took an inquisitive look inside. But rather than the hollowed out shell I had expected, I was surprised to find it relatively untouched, despite being in a relatively accessible area of the base.

In fact, as you can see, many of the bright orange sporting clays are still there. Stacked up and ready to use. Just as they would be arranged for a tournament.

The whole place, it seemed was frozen in time, probably ready for an Early March, 2003 outing by the Ba'athist bigwigs. A much-anticipated afternoon of fun and sun, which was cancelled at the last minute due to inclement weather. In that foreboding Springtime, Iraqi forecasters no doubt predicted heavy showers of cruise missiles and JDAMs, converging with billowing dust storms from the south, which followed a squall line of steadily-advancing M-1 Abrams Main Battle Tanks.

Looking through one of the open portals, at the massive - no doubt expensive - electric skeet tossing machines, I thought that my hunting buddies back in Frelsburg, Texas would kill to have something as cool. It would certainly be something they'd oogle at the Bass Pro Shop in Katy. In fact, it was probably even worth shorting your wife with a cubic zirconium anniversary ring just to stock up the needed cash.

This Ba'athist boondoggle was a small, but facinating glimpse into life at the top in Old Iraq. In America, such a facility would hardly be considered excessive. But in America, it would be open to all, not built with public funds for the sole benefit of an elite, single-party politburo. Nor would it be part of a palace compound of grandeur built in the heart of a land where most people starved.

At the risk of engaging in bad taste, I cannot help but recall the irony that it was just over one year ago this week that Saddam Hussein met his grisly end. As he finally faced the moment of truth for the incredible pain he caused these people over the course of three decades, standing atop the gallows' trap door, it is somewhat ghoulishly appropriate that among the last words he heard was a simple order from an ordinary Iraqi.

"Pull!"

This, should it survive a Trans-Atlantic journey,

will be one hell of a souvernir.

Books

A lot of folks who come over here get serious withdrawal from television. Many, indeed, can’t survive without it. The concept of going without T.V. for a year to a year and a half no doubt fills them with dread. My neighbor’s like that. So it wasn’t surprising when I saw him walking into his trailer, struggling with his friend to carry in a brand-new wide-screen television.

Sure, they sell those here at the PX. I haven’t priced one myself, but I’m sure they’re not cheap. And once you get them, you’ve also got to buy a satellite dish in order to get service, unless you plan to watch local T.V. All that and you don’t get more than 2-3 hours of free time off of work a day anyway.

This amounts to an obsession, and frankly baffles me. Mao had it wrong. It isn’t religion that’s the opiate for the masses, it’s television.

Not that I never watch it myself, but it’s pretty rare. Back home I bought a used big screen television when I moved into a new apartment, but other than the occasional VHS tape, I never watched it for 6 months until the college football season began. Only then did I discover – to my shock - that the internal antenna was dead, and all I could get on network T.V. was snow.

Mostly, my ambivalence towards television is a product of my upbringing. My parents didn’t let me watch television on school nights, and when I was in college, I was too poor to afford a set, and too crunched for time. It was in college, when I was first living day-to-day with T.V. junkies, that it really hit me how much of a huge waste of time it is. Just do the math. The average American lives to be about 70. Let’s be generous and say we make it to 80 (just to make the math simple). That means that if we were to watch T.V. for three hours a day – one eighth of our life – it would add up to a total of 10 years. Add that to the one-third of our lives (26 years) we spend sleeping, and boom – nearly half your life is gone.

Certainly, T.V. isn’t completely without merit. It’s relaxing. It entertains you. But that’s about it. And there are tons of other ways to relax or entertain yourself that aren’t so insanely mind-wasting.

In contrast, I’ve always been a big reader of books. It was something I kept to myself when I was younger, as if it were something to be ashamed of. But now, I generally don’t care if people want to label me as a nerd or whatever. Because ultimately, I judge my own worth based on my standards, not those of others.

I don’t even fit that mold, truth be told. I’m a strong believer in the ethos of balance, and I’ve tried to engage in lots of physical activity to go along with my intellectual pursuits: hiking, kayaking, running, biking, carpentry and working out at the gym. All brains and no brawn is just as useless as its opposite. To me, the idea of having to be one or the other is a false choice. Not that I’m perfect in either field, but since I graduated from college, I’ve tripled my bench press weight and – in the same period of time – read just under 400 books.

Both activities are actually very similar. Ultimately, the mind is like a muscle, and the more you use it, the more flexible and more strong it becomes. You can also learn techniques to improve your retention and your speed. I initially developed some speed reading techniques in college in order to improve the efficiency of my cram sessions. But after school, I ditched those techniques. Only in the last couple of years did I revive them and implement them on a wider scale. Much like in the gym when you find a new workout for a particular muscle group which is more efficient, good reading techniques can be learned.

(Oddly enough, the best reader I've ever met is my brother. He's never graduated from college and is the world's biggest redneck, but he can somehow read a 300 page novel in about 2 hours. I only wish I was so good.)

* * *

This year has been a record-breaking year for me on the book front, as I successfully knocked down 54. Twelve were in January alone, when I was under-employed and, due to a lot of bad weather, indoors most of the time. I averaged about four a month in the summer, and then saw my reading plummet during my army training and my first month or so in Iraq. As you can tell, I keep a running list of what I read. It serves both as a kind of trophy case and also as a mental refresher. Just reading the name of the book I read a few months reminds me suddenly of all sorts of things I experienced and learned when I read it.

My biggest passion is History, and the vast majority of my reads have been historical or biographical. I read two biographies of Winston Churchill this year, one of Hitler, and one of George Washington. The latter I read as part of my traditional Fourth of July book, which is always dedicated to a biography of a founding father. Over the years I’ve done three bios of George, two of Thomas Jefferson, one of Franklin and one of Alexander Hamilton. The John Adams one was on my list for 2008, but it was a little too big to lug over here.

Similarly, since March 2 is Texas Independence Day, I read at least one but usually two books on Texas History during that month. This year, I read “A Successful Failure,” by Odie Faulk, which is a history of the Spanish colonization of Texas. Wanting to study that period more closely, I also read "Spanish Texas, 1519-1821," by Donald E. Chipman.

When I decide I want to know something about a particular subject, I find it very informative to read multiple books like that during a short period of time. It’s like taking a mini college course. You gain impressions or insights from the first book, which are then challenged or enforced by the next book, and the entire process imbeds the essential information deeper into your subconscious. This year, I did three books on the German Luftwaffe in World War II. One was a general history, another was the memoirs of a dive-bomber pilot, and the third was the memoirs of a fighter pilot.

Another period I took a special interest in was World War II in the Pacific. A good general summary was "Triumph in the Pacific by" E.B. Potter and Chester W. Nimitz. A fun and compelling book on the little known battle for the Aleutian Islands was “The Thousand Mile War” by Brian Garfield. I then moved on to a book on Pearl Harbor, and then segued in to a series of books on 9/11. The similarities between the two events – and the tragic errors and unpreparedness that led to them – are fascinating.

Since my normal job is politics, I try to keep up on current affairs. I try to mix it up a little. I read a book on early 20th Century diplomacy, a book or two on gambling in America, and Bill O'Reilley's “Culture Warrior.” As part of my general reading to improve my understanding of terrorism for my Navy career, I read “Intelligence in War” by John Keegan, which details the history of my profession. I also read a great book on tactics and historical reflections on fighting modern insurgencies called “Modern Warfare” by Roger Trinquier, a fascinating study of the Algerian conflict that France faced in the 1950s. Many of the lessons Trinquier suggests – it was written in the middle of the Vietnam War and ignored – are actually being implemented here in Iraq now. I also read a couple of War on Terror books, including “Holy War, Inc.” by Peter Bergen, and “Terror and Liberalism,” a fascinating view of terrorism from a liberal named Paul Berman who laments how many of his political viewpoint ignore the real danger from militant Islam. I read a couple of books on the Muslim world in general, including “The Middle East” by Bernard Lewis. Actually, I listened to that one – and a half dozen others – on audio tape.

I also found time for a little fiction here and there. I love fiction, and I like to write short stories on the side, but the number of books I want to read to improve my knowledge base usually crowds them out. Among the fiction books I did read this year: “People of Darkness” by Tony Hillerman, “The Time Machine” by H.G. Wells, “Nights in Rodanthe” by Nicholas Sparks, “Man and Superman” (a play) by Bernard Shaw, "Next" by Michael Crichton, and “Fire Ice” and “Blue Gold” by Clive Cussler.

Cussler's probably my favorite novelist, though it's a love/hate relationship. Much like when I read the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche, I find myself enjoying it immensely, and then coming to a part so damn annoying and illogical that I want to throw the book in the trash.

As important a part of my life that books are, I do have to say I've been disappointed in how little time I have to read. I was hoping that reading would be the one major hobby that I could bring with me over here, and even thought I might be able to read more than I was reading back home. Unfortunately, work hours are so long, and I'm reading so much stuff there that I am usually so mentally exhausted when I get back home. I've read seven books in the three months I've been in Baghdad, and frankly, I don't know how I was able to do that much.

Still, it helps to keep me sane and to escape from the rigors of work, which is both repetitive and at times quite emotionally stressful.

I know all this sounds kind of self-absorbed (reading it back to myself, that's how it reads to me), but (a.) this is a blog, and I can do that kind of stuff, and (b.) I just want to give folks a sense of who I am and who - by extension - we are over here. We're not just a bunch of high school drop-outs as say...John Kerry...would have you believe. Every day, I run into tons of really bright guys, like my friend Velko from the Bulgarian Army or my friend Stephen, a Southern U. grad and lawyer who works in the JAG corps. They run the gamut from the young guy in my section, Sgt. A., who is working his way through college in his off hours and is never anywhere without a book on history or literature, to the top two generals in the entire country, who I've seen in action and can attest are both incredibly smart.

After all, this is not the kind of war that can be won by a bunch of dolts. It takes folks who can think outside the box, innovate on the fly and constantly learn. When it comes to military knowledge, for all my reading I'm a dozen years behind most of these guys. But if there's one thing I discovered over the course of my intellectual development over the last 12 years, it's that it's never too late to start loving knowledge, and it's never out of reach to improve yourself.

Christmas

The weather here has grown surprisingly cold. Maybe not for some of the soldiers, but certainly for me, a Texas native for whom 65 degrees is chilly. Actually, the weather here now is fairly close to typical Texas Chrismas - bitter chill at night followed by mild, rather pleasant afternoons.

Walking to work at night or to breakfast in the morning, the chill can bite right through your clothes. I have a jacket and a fleece coat, but somedays when it's too hot to wear them on my afternoon commute, I have to leave them in my locker. And the next morning, I really freeze.

I had actually laughed when they gave me this stuff. "I'm going to the desert, right?" I said. I even turned down a second Gore-Tex jacket that they were going to give me. I didn't think I'd need two. Now I wish I hadn't.

The cold is bad enough, and fortunately, it's not too windy most days, but when the wind comes, it can really blow. There's also the "rainy season" coming up, a time when our sea of sand transforms into a sea of mud. Or so I'm told. So far we've only had a light drizzle - perhaps two times in the nearly four months I've been here. Just enough to give the sand a crunchy feel.

It didn't last long, but for a moment, I could almost close my eyes and imagine it was snow. Trudging to chow one morning, I amused myself by singing, "I'm dreaming of a taaaannn Christmas..."

Of course, "White Christmas" has a huge relevance to soldiers, and I thought about that a lot this week. But more about that later...

* * *

There aren't too many outward signs that Christmas is here. There are no malls, no crowds, no pushy parents and screaming kids. Just a bleak landscape with sparse trees and bitter cold nights.

Of course, the first Christmas - the one that this whole season's about - happened in a land not too far distant from this place - say the distance from San Antonio to El Paso. I'm sure the three wise men, heading to Bethlehem must have passed through Baghdad. It's really the only way "Eastern Kings" could have come.

There are a few signs though, and in this dreary place, which seems more and more like a prison every day, you get the ocasional spalshes of color. On the route between work and home, for example, is the headquarters for the U.S. Army chaplains. There they have a few blow-up Christmas decorations, which look dramatically out of place:

(Note the Humvees in the background.)

It's easy to think sometimes that the troops have been forgotten here. And perhaps if you listened to the elite, and listened to the media - which is strangely silent now that things are going so well - you might get that impression.

But there are a lot of Great Americans every day who remind us that we are not forgotten, and not unappreciated. All throughout the year, they're sending gifts, sending cards and sending prayers, and let me tell you, the troops over here know it.

One of the many signs of support from companies,

unions and schools that are hung in chow halls,

recreation centers and anywhere else soldiers gather.

Another message of support.

Not only that, but they send us stuff. Tons and tons of stuff.

I'm pretty fortunate. I've got lots of great friends and they're sending me a lot of stuff. In fact, it's probably too much. That which I can't use, of course, I give away to other soldiers.

There's a lot of that going on here, and because of it, almost nothing goes to waste. If you send some cookies to a soldier, whatever non-crumbs make it over, they typically get eaten by somebody. It may not be your cousin from Dallas who you sent it to. It may be one of his platoon buddies. Or a Brit or Austrialian. Or it may be a soldier from Armenia, for whom Christmas might bring back memories of his parents celebrating quietly behind curtains - to avoid the eyes of the KGB.

In my unit, the Multi-National Corps Iraq, the stuff we don't use goes out in the hallway of the palace on a table we refer to as the "Wal-Mart" table. Food, toiletries, books, magazines, flip-flops - you name it. Someone sent three large boxes of popcorn. The donors are often regular Americans, not rich, who want to do something to help. But they're also people who have been successful, who have not forgotten the troops either. Some record company sent a ton of CDs. That Tae-Bo guy from all the infomercials sent dozens of backpacks crammed with all sorts of goodies - obviously at great expense.

Some of these people come to visit. The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders were here a few months back. So were the Washington Redskins Cheerleaders. And even comedian Carlos Mencia, with his dimminuative sidekick.

A close-up of the Wal-Mart table.

In the picture, you see the table after it's been cleaned off by a wave of soldiers.

Soldiers rush in to pick up backpacks filled with goodies from the Tae-Bo guy.

All these generic gifts are great, but it's something even more special to a soldier to get something with his name on it. Sure, it's great that people haven't forgotten the troops, but it's also good to know every now and then that they haven't forgotten you.

A lot of people have sent me stuff, and I'm grateful to all of them.

To the office of my old boss, State Rep. Dianne Delisi - who sent me her old Texas Parks and Wildlife Magazines. Passing them out after I've read them to a bunch of soldiers from Fort Hood, you'd have thought I was handing them bars of gold.

To my sister who sent me tons of goodies, none of which was quite as special as the hand-written notes from my neice and the "good-luck" bracelet she made me. To my Aunt from Floresville, Texas, who sent me molasses cookies made just the way that my great-aunt made when I was a kid. To my friends Keith and Linda who sent a box so big I practically had to fill out an Army Risk Management form to be allowed to carry it home.

Even people I've never met have sent me stuff. Folks who are friends of a friend. Folks who read this blog. One family in College Station packed up four boxes of goodies, including home-made cookies - along with photographs of their small children having fun making those exact cookies. They also sent a photo of their kids watching the Texas Aggie Band marching in a parade.

These little touches of home are great, and if I feel overwhelmed by all the stuff, I have no hesitation to put some of it out on the table. Not everybody here has people back home sending them stuff, and if I can help those folks, so much the better.

It's Christmas eve right now, but you wouldn't quite notice. There's some gunfire off in the distance, but I'm not sure if that's a battle, or some Iraqis still celebrating over their soccer team's recent win. Hopefully the latter. Either way, I plan to go home and celebrate a little in my trailer, which is strung with lights by my neighbor. My celebration, of course, will be solitary and simple, but that's how it goes. It will likely consist of an hour or so of guitar playing, followed by the watching of the DVD of the old stop-motion "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Raindeer" movie, which my sister sent me.

* * *

One last note. I mentioned "White Christmas." For those who don't know, Bing Crosby wrote and recorded that one back during another time of war. In World War II, thousands of Americans were deployed in Africa, Europe, and spread throughout the many distant and lonely islands of the South Pacific. When "White Christmas" came out, no one ever dreamed that it would become the biggest musical hit of all time.

But for thousands of Americans, far from home, who listened to it over crackling radios and found themselves "dreaming of a white Christmas" it hit home. It did because it brought back to them the nostalgia of Christmas past, and the bitter-sweet pangs of the Christmas they were missing. But more importantly, it's a song of hope. For those Americans across the world, it reminded them that Christmas - and all it stands for - goes on. That the one thing that most unites our country - Christians and non-Christians alike - remains the same.

So tonight, as I struggle out of bed and trudge to work in the cold Baghdad night, I'll be dreaming of a white Christmas too. Not that I've ever had a white Christmas in Texas, but that's not the point. What I'll be dreaming of is Christmas as I knew it. Christmas as it was when I was a child. Christmas as it will be when I go home. Christmas in all its gaudy sparkle, but also Christmas in its most pure - most holy essence. Christmas in the heart, the redemption and promise that it represents.

White, tan, whatever. Christmas will always be Christmas, and that's good enough for me.

Merry Christmas, Folks!

Prayer

I want to talk today about prayer.

War tends to make believers out of anybody, because when it comes down to it, faith makes you stronger. It puts courage in your heart, determination in your mind, strength in your limbs. It empties you of cares and worries, and pours in peace and solemnity. The arrows and slings may come at you, and yes, they may take yout body down – but around your spirit, faith builds a bulwark that they can never penetrate.

Faith however, is just a word, if not moved by the reflection of prayer, and it is often prayer which sets our hearts at ease and stirs our blood to action.

Like most Americans, I was born a Christian – a Catholic, specifically. But while a man might inherit his religion, he cannot inherit his faith. It is something he must discover on his own, and all the priests and all the evangelists will avail him nothing if his heart does not reach out and find the pathway to God of its own free will.

As a young man, I didn’t realize this, and found in time that I was speaking the prayers and pronouncements in church as a pantomime might act out a character. Originally ascribing this to the rote memorization of Catholic doctrine and creed, I soon came to see that it was something more, and that mere muscle-memory prayer was, in fact, no prayer at all.

Although I never left my faith, I began to question it. Not in a negative, destructive way, but in a probing way, seeking for a greater understanding. That God exists, I never had any doubt. His nature, his goals for man, and questions like that, however, I wanted to understand fully. College introduced me to philosophy and after I graduated, I began to study it extensively. I found a lot of arguments about man, eternity and the nature of the universe. Those arguing against God I found lacking, intellectually. Athiests are the world's greatest liars. They deny faith exists, and then claim that they know for absolute certainty that God does not exist. Yet how can one believe what one cannot empirically prove - unless one accepts it on faith?

Agnostics at least - those who don't know if God exists, but refuse to rule Him out - are intellectually honest. But even then, as one philosopher said, "If you believe and God does not exist, you have lost nothing. If you disbelieve and he does exist, you have lost everything."

The more I learned intellectually through my brain, and the more I perceived the world with my heart, I only grew stronger in my faith. And when things are going bad, I always turned to it. In time, I discovered that faith in God - together with faith in myself - can make anything possible.

I know not everybody is as strong a believer these days, but it would be a vain, vacuous existence to live life based on the whim of random events. Whether you believe in God or not, we all need prayer. A life in which we don’t reflect, in which we don’t put aside all our problems and turn to a single point in the universe on which to focus our dreams, hopes and aspirations – is not a life worth bearing. The proof of that is best shown when a group of soldiers goes into a firefight or is hit with a mortar attack. Though there may be athiests among the eventual survivors when the attack begins, there is almost never one left when it's over.

* * *

A lot of folks tell me they're praying for me. People I've known for years and those I hardly know. At my dad's funeral, a lady approached me and gave me a small cross to take with me. The woman was familiar, but I couldn't place her and probably hadn't seen her in 20 years. Nonetheless, she took the time, the effort - and the compassion - to pray and to think of me. Many others have done the same. Some who have read my writings here, but who have never met me in person have prayed for me.

First off, I must say how much I appreciate and am humbled by that. And though I am grateful for those words and thoughts, it would be wrong for me to ask them to do no more.

Because the truth is, there are a lot more folks here who need those prayers much more than I do, and it would be a shame to forget them.

My life is one of vague dangers - things that can come out of the blue. The rocket that hit my trailer while I wasn't there. The random bullets raining down from an attack a mile away, which killed two people in the last week on base. These are dangers, to be sure, and it is when I think of these that I am grateful for the prayers.

But there are hundreds of Americans - brave men all - who daily strap on their body armor, climb into a Humvee - and venture out into the unknown, to battle the enemy. The soldier in the patrol, who walks warily down the streets of Baghdad, Samarra, Mosul or Fallujah, moving steadily in a zig-zag pattern to disrupt enemy snipers. The young female soldier delivering school books or candy to kids, who never knows whether or not a vehicle-borne IED is coming around the corner. The men kicking in the doors when they know a terrorist is on the other side. The men in the Explosive Ordinance Detail, defusing an IED remotely, hoping that another isn't hidden right next to their highly-exposed vehicle.

And not only Americans, but our brave allies, who are fighting alongside us to bring peace and freedom to this land. These soldiers are not mere window-dressing for political purposes, as many would suggest. They are fighting and dying. Poles who patrol in troubled Diwaniyah province, Brits who face danger in Basra. Koreans who protect the minority Kurds from sectarian warfare. Georgians, Romanians, El Salvadorans...and yes, Iraqis too, in great numbers and growing every day.

These are the people who need your prayers, and a lot of them need those prayers far, far more than I. They all have families, friends and dreams and want nothing more than to return safely to them.

If there is one thing I can ask of those who know me, and those who pray for me, is that you take a little extra time to remember these people too. As you pray for me, pray again for the thousands who have no one to pray for them. Pray for those who see the greatest danger. Pray for those who have families back home, and who have so very much to lose.

Pray for them all. And pray they return safe.

Immigration Book Published

For those who don't know, the reason I write is because I have an existance other than that over here. Since a good number of my readers are folks who do not know me personally, I'll briefly explain. For the full story you can check out my first post:
http://aalan94.blogspot.com/2007/08/word-about-myself.html

I studied journalism at Texas A&M and after graduating became a newspaper reporter. From there, I got into politics, mostly on the Texas state level. I've bounced around a number of jobs, but one of the more fulfilling was working for a conservative insider newsletter for the Texas political crowd. In that job, I researched a lot of issues related to public policy. In 2005, I started a research project on the costs of illegal immigration. I pitched it to our foundation's president and he got the ball rolling to do a book.

At long last, the publishing date has arrived for "Immigration and the American Future" the latest, most comprehensive study of immigration and the costs to the U.S. Economy. Among the chapters in this wide-ranging study is one on the costs of illegal immigration to Texas, and yes, you guessed it, it was written by none other than me.

The chapter I wrote was the result of a six-month study I led while working at the Lone Star Report - Texas' most well-respected conservative newsletter. It was a project that I absolutely could not have done without the efforts of Will Lutz and Christine DeLoma, who contributed greatly. Although I've been published in many formats over the years - over 3,000 articles over the course of my career in journalism - this is the first time I've ever been published in a book.

The book is available at Amazon.com:
http://www.amazon.com/Immigration-American-Future-David-Hartman/dp/0972061665

But since the book was written under the auspices of Chronicles Magazine, I recommend anyone who wants it to go to their site:
http://www.chroniclesmagazine.org/?page_id=387

Here's a great immigration-related blog that mentions the book. And they even provide a link to this blog:

http://www.vdare.com/sailer/071112_caplan.htm

I haven't had the chance to read any of the other chapters in the book, but because this is a product of Chronicles Magazine and the writers are the experts in their field, I imagine it's going to add significantly to the debate over immigration in America. As for my article, you can get a preview by going here:

http://www.lonestarfoundation.org/The%20Cost%20of%20Illegal%20Immigration%20to%20Texas%20-%20Exec%20Summary.doc

Mosque Study

Today, I post a photographic study of a mosque here on Camp Victory. This mosque once served Saddam Hussein's Ba'ath Party leadership. Today, it sits empty and silent in a corner of the Abu Guhraib Palace Complex.

Thanksgiving in Iraq

The holidays can really sneak up on you over here. There are none of the traditional warnings that you get back home. Halloween had a few: trinkets and such in the base exchange, and a ghost hanging from a pole by the abandoned mosque. But when you get as engrossed in your work as I have, you kind of tune it out.

It was my upcoming birthday that reminded me Thanksgiving was around the corner, since they frequently coincide. So I told my mother to expect a phone call on the big day, and on Friday morning (my time), I sat down at a phone and dialed up Lackland Air Force Base. They patched me through to home...

Now, everybody has their own special way of celebrating Thanksgiving, and each one is unique for reasons that we can never really put into words. When you're not there, you realize even more sharply what it is you're missing. It's not the turkey or the brightly-colored tablecloths, it's the little things.

We cook our turkey in oil in a pot over a gas burner. It's a complex, precise process conducted by men - which means that there are a thousand disasters just waiting to happen. The cook is usually my Uncle Ralph. The assistant cooks, whose job it is to tell him how he should 'a done it, consist of four or five brothers and cousins who stand around holding cans of beer, which in South Texas is a liquid which apparently generates wisdom and experience to all who imbibe it, since they are never short on volunteering their turkey-cooking suggestions.

It would probably be easier to cook the turkey indoors. Since my sister married a professional chef 10 years ago, it would also probably make more sense to get him to do it. But tradition is tradition. So the big silver pot is it. In goes the turkey with a chorus of fizzles, pops and crackles. Dogs stand wide-eyed at the big bird and cautiously approach the pot before a splash of hot oil or a human hand deters them from investigating any further.

There is usually a big crowd at the farm, as both my mom's side of the family and my dad's shows up, turning a normally empty field into a parking lot. Kids trapped in the cities year-round have enormous fun running around the farm, riding along on the tractor, or playing on the hay bales, where they jump from bale to bale along long rows along the fenceline. Occasionally, a football game springs up, which usually involves stationary adults not too excited about running tossing the ball to a crowd of kids, who seem to have passion for nothing but. Other adults toss horse shoes, and the clank and ring of the shoes on iron posts is one of my fondest memories.

Inside, we have a large open room in our 94-year-old farmhouse. Setting a table the length of the room, there is usually seating for up to 30 people. The kitchen table is jammed with an assortment of stuffing, corn, fruits, vegetables, ham, turkey and numerous pies. The pecan pies are often made from the harvest of the nearly 90 pecan trees growing right here on our farm.

For each face that sits around the table, I could tell a dozen stories. One uncle, who grew up in inner-city Houston, tells hilarious jokes, taking on a voice that sounds kind of like Dallas Mavericks coach Avery Johnson. His brother tells only scatalogical and sexual jokes and finds a way to take any thing you say out of context by saying, "I knew a girl like that." My cousins on the other side, who are a walking "You know you're a redneck if" jokes, add in their repertoir of humor.

These are the memories I have of Thanksgiving back home, but of course, I'm not home now, and it's sometimes hard to imagine it all. Although the temperature falls down to the 40s during the night time now, it's still fairly warm out during the day. There's dust and blowing sand everywhere, and pollution on top of it. Sometimes you can't even make out the towers of the grand mosque downtown, or even the ones a mile away for that matter.

Nonetheless, on Thanksgiving Day my boss surprised me by letting me off early - only an eight hour shift instead of the usual 12. After making a run back to my trailer, I returned to the palace in time for the 11 a.m. Thanksgiving Day service in the rotunda. About 200 servicemembers attended. Most of the crowd was a sea of Army digital green cammo, and I stuck out, along with a few other Navy and Air Force guys, in my tan DCU uniform. After an invocation by the chaplain, we had some music by a civilian woman who sang "America the Beautiful" and some original songs. The highlight was the speech of a Vietnam vet who recovered from a near fatal injury to become a motivational speaker.

In the chow hall, they pulled out all of the stops. The line out of the building was long, but the food was worth the wait. There was turkey, dressing, and all the traditional favorites. The food was actually prepared and served by American officers, mostly chaplains, though the mix of Kuwaitis, Indians and Pakistanis who run the chow hall did everything else. They seemed a bit confused on their American holidays, though and served egg nog.

The room was filled with mostly Americans, but not entirely. I actually saw a soldier from Turkey eating turkey. There were Bulgarians, Lithuanians, Koreans, El Salvadorans, Tongans, Australians and Brits. Thanksgiving to them may not have nearly as much meaning, but the massive feast was a welcome change, I'm sure. The Ghanaians, particularly, seemed stunned by the outlay of food.

With the rest of the day off, I enjoyed myself. I went to the gym to exercise for a while, and then back home to read. But it was getting near 5 p.m. and my bed time, so I took it easy. After all, Thanksgiving may be finished in Iraq, but it was only just dawning back home, and I had an early morning appointment with the telephone.

...So as the operator at Lackland patched me through, I listened to the old familiar ring. After only a moment, my mother answered the phone. After some work, she put me through on speaker phone.

The table was set, and all the family was around. I said my general greeting to everybody, and my mom called off the roll call of who all was present. Cousins and their kids, some able to speak now, and others just crying infants. Aunts and uncles. Brothers and a sister. As each one was named, they would call out a greeting. When my sister was called out, I made a comment about the upcoming A&M/Texas football game, since we both went to A&M. She gave a "whoop" in response. When her daughter spoke up, I thanked her for the little good-luck bracelet she made for me and sent me with their last package. One aunt said she was worried because she heard about an attack. I told her not to worry, this place is as big as Houston, and that base was ten miles away or more.

Finally, when all that was done, everyone on the other end of the line grew silent. I wasn't sure what was going on until I heard my mom speak:

Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive. From your bounty, through Christ Our Lord, Amen.

On the other end of the phone, no one could see the tears welling up in my eyes. I don't get emotional too often. Before dad died, the last time I cried was Sep. 11, and the last time before that was when the A&M bonfire fell in 1999. But for some reason, hearing my mom say the blessing of the meal nearly broke me up.

That's when I realized that no amount of turkey, no amount of dressing or rolls or pie can really make the fourth Thursday in November a day of Thanksgiving. It is those special people, and those special moments, that make the day. That image in my mind of all those I know gathered around, praying over their food did more to make me homesick - but more to raise my spirts as well - than anything the Army could do to raise morale.

The reasons we fight over here burn up a lot of ink back home, but when it comes down to it, they're fairly simple. We fight the larger war on terror so that people back home can have things to be thankful for. We fight this war in particular, so that these people here can know a life of freedom and not live a nightmare of terror. On this Thanksgiving Day, I am thankful that I've shared so many great experiences in the past, which comfort and sustain me in the long days over here. I look forward to the end of my time here, when I can go back, and once again be among friends and family, and taste the companionship, as well as the food.