A Good Hammer.

My boyhood romance with soldiering and guns is long gone, but I love being around soldier. They fascinate me, and I find they’re almost always up for a photo shoot.

They long to be seen.

Soldiers I meet in Iraq and Syria are treated like essential accessories, stage props quietly serving a purpose—like a good set of curtains or a sturdy hammer. They aren’t meant to be seen, they’re meant to serve a purpose. I remember a military commander in the United States telling me soldiers are intentionally dehumanized, depersonalized so they can become a part of a larger unit to serve a greater purpose.
That makes sense. Teams make sense.

But what’s lost when a person’s personal person-ness is diminished? What happens to the soul under conditions like that? Why are suicide rates among soldiers so high? Traumatized, broken hammers. Not so useful. Still unseen, not a nail in sight.

It’s common enough, and it’s universal. I’ve hung with American, Iranian, Syrian, Iraqi soldiers, militias and military, freedom fighters and terrorists— they have this longing in common, as if to say, “Don’t forget I’m here. I matter. My sacrifice and individuality and service matters." 

This is Ahmed, a soldier. When I asked if we could do "a big photoshoot just for you", he was ecstatic. We swiped through his phone, looking at pictures of dead friends and battles he’d fought in—we’d been near the same front line a couple times. He knows those invisible war-scars well. He knows the visible ones ISIS gives out, too, but boy did he giggle like a kid when I pulled out that umbrella and asked him to pose.
If you prefer the simple story, here’s a narcissistic young man who just wants attention.

The wealthier reality is deeper, more complex: a young man who wants you to see him. He is a warrior. He’s more than that. He works to kill and maim. He does more than that. He hates and hurts. He feels more than that. Each day, he arm-wrestles the dark gods in his own blood because he knows the warrior can’t ultimately fix Iraq’s messes, that the gun he holds must be put down someday, and that his soul has to survive this mess until the day comes when he picks up something else.

Maybe a sturdy hammer.