Abu Ghraib
Abu Ghraib was a strange place. Eerie in a way that didn’t need words.
By the time we got there, the scandal had already burned out. The headlines were gone, but the ghosts stayed. The buildings looked the same—sand-colored, cracked, quiet. As MPs, we weren’t there to guard prisoners. We escorted the MIs—the interrogators—who handled the Iraqi prisoners.
It was overcast that day. Gray sky over brown ground. Nothing but sand and a few broken towers standing like forgotten sentries. The air felt thick, like it carried too much memory. You couldn’t tell if it was heat or guilt.
I remember feeling hollow, like someone had scraped everything out of me and left the shell. It wasn’t fear or sadness. Just nothing. In war, you learn not to think too much. Thinking messes with your conscience.
So I stood there, quiet. Just watching the wind move dust across the empty road.
Someone cracked a joke behind me—something about the chow hall or the weather, I can’t remember—but it broke the silence just enough. Everyone laughed, the kind of laugh that ends too fast.
That’s the thing about Abu Ghraib. You don’t walk away with a story. You walk away with a sound—the kind that fills your head long after you’ve left.
