Newer readers may not know that my youngest brother was in Iraq during 2004-5; the posts from that time were on the old blog, which long since crashed and burned, much like our national foreign policy. Phil was very young (he will always be very young to me, as I'm 11 years older, but 21 and in a war zone? He should have been in college, at parties, studying for exams, not dodging IEDs).
It was hellish for him, but from our perspective, it was surreal. I grew up writing letters to my father when he was deployed - about a week out for a letter, about a week back. Or talking on those awful satellite phones, with the long delays. This time, I could be IMing my brother and he'd type something like "TTYL - mortar attack." Every time a story about a death was on the radio, my heart would start to pound and I turned it off before I learned any details. A phone call from either of my parents sent me into a panic, because I was afraid it would be bad news. My sister, I think, said it best: it was impossible to listen to the news, because each one of those dead soldiers "was somebody's Phil."
While on leave in March 2005, he came up to Portland for my birthday and stayed a weekend. I took him to law school one day, which now strikes me as being hugely selfish on my part - he must have been bored to tears (he went to a secured transactions course and a con law II course), but I took him to a day spa the next day.
The stories that filtered through to us, as family members compared notes, were horrible and shocking. I knew some of what was going on, what Americans were doing to Iraqis, but other than with my family and husband, I didn't talk about it much. Once I bit the head off of a classmate (who was on the pompous side) who made some pro war comment, saying, "Until you or your family member is in the damn war zone, I won't talk with you about this." Doesn't that sound awful? But I was living with this awful, all-present level of anxiety, and I was snappish on the subject with anyone who tried to talk to me about it.
He made it through most of the tour unscathed, until the last month, when he made it through two IED attacks in two weeks. He was very, very lucky - only some hearing damage - but naturally, it changed him in other ways. He came back at the end of 2005.
In 2007, the Nation published a story by Chris Hedges and Laila Al-Arian, detailing some of the abuses of the Iraq War, from the perspective of soldiers who served (or were serving). Phil was one of those profiled, and his picture ran in the magazine. (I can't find it on their site now.)
The story turned into a book, and tonight I went to the booksigning event at my local Powell's (lucky for me that they've moved the larger book events out my direction, in Beaverton, because there's more space). It was a crowd of mostly older (my parents' age), with one younger guy who was clearly an Iraq vet. I would wager a guess that he might have been the only veteran there, of any war.
Admittedly, I only went to this because my father badgered me into it. I have a really, really hard time thinking about the war - I abhor it, I will say so, but I don't want to get into the details. But Dad thought Phil should have an autographed copy, so I went.
Before the event, I purchased the book and sat down -- in between two, I think, lesbian couples -- and looked at it. That feeling from 2005 came back, the freaky panic that something had happened to Phil, something was wrong, and I had to keep reminding myself that he was in Finland now and that it was OK.
In the index, I looked him up. They spelled "Philip" as "Phillip" in the index, and I said something about that to my seatmates. Usually if someone's going to screw up our name, it's our last name,"Chrystal," not the first name. I flipped to the Introduction - and there, clear as day, was the picture from the Nation article. I flitted around at the pages listed under his name in the index. There weren't many surprises in the book - I knew these stories - but it was hard to read them in print. (Everything looks so real in black-and-white.)
And then the presentation started. Chris Hedges, by the way, is a great speaker: honest, erudite, and entertaining. But I had a hard time with some of the presentation, because I am so iffy about war news. The fear kept coming back, then abating. And I thought that not only was each dead soldier someone's Phil, but each dead Iraqi was, too. And at that point I had to stop thinking, because I was going to cry and it would be embarrassing.
I made it through the presentation. I made it through the line, and told the woman with the Post-it notes that it should be made out to "P-H-I-L-I-P" and when she stopped writing, I continued, "C-H-R-Y-S-T-A-L." And then it was my time with the author.
I asked Chris Hedges if he would mind breaking with protocol and sign the book on the page where my brother's picture was. He looked up and looked at the Post-It. "How is he doing?" (Not surprising: I know Phil dodged any attempt to follow up with him later.)
"He's in Helsinki. He's going to school, and he flaked on his PTSD exam." Hedges looked up, and I shrugged. "He's dealing with it in his own way. And that seems to involve Finnish women."
"There are worse ways," he commented. He wrote out the inscription, and handed me the book. "Please tell him I said 'hi.'"
I don't want to say I fled afterwards, but that pretty much covers it. It was a long, long day, and I'd kept my emotions in check for about an hour -- it was really getting to me. I waited until I was in the children's section, and then I read the inscription. It said, "To Philip Chrystal, who has great moral courage. With respect, Chris Hedges."
At that point, I was starting to tear up and I closed the book, finally noticing the quote on the back is Phil's (albeit with some of the
language cleaned up, but the verbatim bit is inside the book). It is a horrible quote, but one I know well - it was a story he told to my father, and then to the rest of us, later. To me, it sums up the naked, awful brutality of the Iraq occupation. (The story is contained on this page from the original Nation article; you probably will have no trouble guessing which one I mean.)
I hid in the children's section and cried.
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