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Aswad -> The real cost of war, continued. (1/29/2012 1:44:40 PM)
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Continuing the translation of the article series about the real cost of war, here is the second article in the series, out of three (if memory serves). The same caveats apply as for the first article, to which I've made this a reply (as well as linking the word 'continuing') for those who haven't read the first, or who aren't clear on the caveats. Repeated here for moderator convenience is that this constitutes fair use, and that I will be happy to arrange for a faxed permission from the local newspaper if such is deemed necessary.
The Dark Time
The Norwegian UN-troops about the 17 years since their assignment in Iraq:
In febuary of 2005, a distressed man places a call to the government building in Oslo, threatening to set fire to the military camp in Bjerkvik. This is T.M.'s call for help, 13 years after his UN assignment in Iraq.
MAY 1992. T.M. is finally home in Bjerkvik, Nordland. But he's tired and worn down after almost 15 months of continuous service in the Gulf War region. He still wakes up with nose bleeds, the way he did at the end of his tour in the Iraq area. Now, the skin in his mouth has also started peeling. He gets severe rashes. And the flashbacks stay with him, those that started with the quiet time that followed the end of the mine incidents.
He has to do something. His remedy is to be twelve hour days at a local concrete renovation business. For over a year, he keeps the unwelcome thoughts at bay by immersing himself in work. Then comes the summer holidays of 1993. [ All of Norway goes on vacation in June and July, called the 'common holiday'. Accordingly, businesses stay closed at this time, since everyone is on vacation, leaving T.M. no opportunity to work during the holiday. -aswad ] The days grow longer and harder to bear. Back in Iraq, he at least had the bond to his fellow servicemen. Friends that understood. He starts sinking into a depression. Until he gets a phone call. It's the head radiographer and buddy from a Gulf War assignment in Saudi-Arabia on the line. The head radiographer, 'Dag', is headed out for a new Norwegian UN assignment in Bosnia. He wants a skilled radiology assistant, and informs T.M. of the opportunity to ship out to Bosnia. This call from his Gulf War buddy has T.M. signing up for yet another deployment.
Young T.M. has learned the way of things from the veterans during his tours in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Iraq. The culture of it. When out on an international assignment, and after returning, one does not speak of illness. And certainly not mental health issues. Not if you ever plan to deploy again.
During his service, he had appeared well adjusted on the surface. The northerner isn't picked up by any of the screenings. In September of 1993, T.M. gets on the plane to Tuzla. He isn't the only one from the NorMed unit / Unikom 1 to be back on the move. Also headed out to Bosnia- a region with tensions running high- is his buddy from the mine chaos in the desert, J.O.G., as well as the communications officer L.S. and the logistics man G.R.J.
Artillery barrages, grenades and bullets take their toll on TM's nerves. He experiences his time in Bosnia as very dangerous and stressful. Mentally, he is fraying badly, if not hanging on by a thread. [ idiomatic expression untranslatable; play on a car with a flat tyre that is driving on the rim of the wheel. -aswad ]
Christmas 1992. The career soldier T.B. has been back home in Oslo for a while. He's tired, starting to feel the wear and tear from several years of international assignments. He's having a party, and the whole family has been invited. His flatmate [ girlfriend; moving together is a common prelude to marriage. ] is receiving the guests, handling the greetings and such; the mood is good. Then something happens. The big guy starts sweating, trembling and eventually passes out.
- I panicked. My flatmate called the medical ward, which sent a doctor right away. It was terrible.
One year later, T.B. is moved to Aker Hospital. They draw more blood and do biopsies on his lungs. There he is, «Still Waters» [ lit. ], as his buddies call him, the strong, hardened soldier. And he's starting to get frightened.
31. MARCH 1993. J.O.G. is sitting at the kitchen table in his home in Finnmark [ furthest north. ] and is reading Dagbladet [ 'the daily' ]. On getting to the letters section, he stops quite suddenly on discovering a poem, under the heading of "50 suicides among UN soldiers". He reads it. [ translation makes no attempt at meter etc.; the original is quite well done. -aswad ]
Then did they take away our helmets, our flak suits and also our rifles;
took away our brothers, the burning sun and the ruddy sands;
took away the bar, the numbing drink staving off our solitude.
They replaced our uniforms with medals and gilded papers;
put us on a plane back to Norway, and told us;
civilians you are, regular citizens again.
"Your country and the UN are grateful," they said, and left us.
We were now they:
the civilians, the others.
But some things they couldn't take away:
our ruddy dreams and solitude, the longing and memories.
They could not change what we had now become:
strangers in our own land.
The poem was written by a UN-veteran from Sandefjord, and it makes a profound impression on him. JOG cuts it out of the paper, and hangs it on his fridge.
AROUND THE SAME TIME, the armed forces medical branch has started to worry. International media are starting to cover the illnesses after the Gulf War quite extensively.
On the 10th of August 1993, the head of the office of environmental medicine, Capt. Cmdr. [ NATO OF4; the US/UK Navy equivalent is Commander ] R.M., Dr.Med., sends a warning letter under the heading of «To all veterans of the Gulf War». In his letter, he notes:
«Of late, a curious syndrome has appeared, given the designation of Gulf War Syndrome. The symptoms are diffuse, including headaces, exhaustion, extensive loss of hair, depression, bleeding gums, anemia, pulmonary problems, and so forth. The reason for these symptoms and findings are unknown at this time, but there has been speculation as to whether one of the causes may be the massive exposure to various chemicals. Substantial amounts of smoke and gases that were released by the burning oil wells, side effects from the vaccines, drugs, and other chemical substances that were used as preventatives against the potential threat of biological and chemical warfare may have contributed to the development of the illness.», he writes.
Mundal wants to investigate whether Norwegians have fallen ill with symptoms similar to the Americans serving in the Gulf War. So he turns to the people who were in the service in the medical detachment in Saudi-Arabia during the war back in 1991. But what of the men and women from the NorMed unit of UNIKOM? The small medical detachment that went through the mine nightmare when deployed in Iraq after the war?
TB, GRJ and the others that were deployed both in Saudi-Arabia and Iraq remember taking unfamiliar drugs; being deployed in a war zone, they never questioned it. One example was intended to protect against the nerve gas sarin, called pyridostigmine bromide, which had been used by military personell in war zones several times before, but about which there were still several questions as to safety.
THE DAYS CRAWL BY. T.B. is having trouble with his health, most notably his heart. In 1995, he applies for another position; he wants to deploy to Bosnia. Yet after a medical exam, he is turned down.
For T.B., it's a huge defeat: this is the first Norwegian UN assignment he isn't going to be a part of. The reason is the diagnosis made by the doctor examining him. A diagnosis that remains unknown to him for a long time, classified.
Around the same time, his buddy GRJ returns from his own Bosnian deployment. He paints houses, takes minor jobs here and there, drives a cab; lives his life mostly by night, and takes to drinking to numb the anxiety and nightmares.
«People like us are hell to live with», relates GRJ.
The communications officer L.S. also returns from such a deployment in Bosnia, one that didn't go very well. He becomes withdrawn. Works at a kennel deep in the woods, mostly all by himself. Complete isolation.
«That simply wasn't right. I should never have been there.», notes L.S.
«SNIPERS!»
T.M. is scanning the area. He's convinced there are snipers hidden outside the geriatric nursing home in the sleepy little town of Bjerkvik, a nursing home where he's been working since he came back from Bosnia in April of 1994.
The military is also starting to suspect that not everything is as it should after T.M.'s last mission. They give him a call, ask him if he has any problems. He informs them he is in poor shape, physically and mentally. There's no use speaking to other people about these things. At home, this lonely man pulls his curtains shut so he won't have to see the glinting of scopes through the trees. The potatoes on his plate have clearly been poisoned.
Moving in with his grandparents doesn't help, either. Reality has gone haywire. T.M. numbs down his anxiety with alcohol, then moves on to drugs like cannabis and amphetamines. This doesn't exactly improve his condition. The years pass by in a big, empty blackness. In 1997, he is admitted to Lofoten Psychiatric Hospital, and is diagnosed with acute paranoid schizophrenia. His world collapses, and he is pumped full of potent medicines; a year later, T.M. is placed on early disability pension.
DR. M. A. is upset. It is 1998, and he has just seen a documentary [it is not entirely clear in the source text if it's an American production, or just a production about the American arsenal -aswad] which mentions a large amount of dust from depleted uranium ammunition being dispersed when an ammunition depot exploded in the American military base Doha on the 11th of July in 1991.
Depleted uranium was used in ammunition at the time because it has a substantial penetration power against armored vehicles, among other things. [It is also an incendiary when used against armored vehicles, causing burning metal flak to enter the compartment. -aswad] In parts of the border zone where their unit was stationed, there were great quantities of dust from depleted uranium shells. The Gulf War was the first major deployment of this type of ammunition, and since then, there have been debates as to whether depleted uranium dust can pose a health risk.
M.A. was a doctor in the NorMed unit, and both he and four others were in Doha on the day of the explosion. It is only now, seven years later, that he learns about the controversial ammunition stored at the depot.
«It was quite unexpected. I felt a bit of a shiver down my spine when thinking about how I had been right in the middle of it. Even from the first day, we had the impression there was a big hush about this. If anyone in our armed forces knew of this earlier and failed to inform us, that's very unfortunate,» comments MA. He has long wondered whether his health problems might be related to his exposure in Doha.
ELSEWHERE in the country, something good comes out of it: in 1999, nurse RKS from Vågå marries her colleague EL from Nes. The two of them hit it off during their deployment in Iraq, where they developed a strong personal relationship that grew stronger during their six month stay there.
Back then, in October of 1991, they had gone home with no promises. EL was married, RKS returned to her job in Oslo alone. They write each other Christmas cards, have some sporadic contact, but not much else.
«The worst thing for me after the assignment, wasn't anxiety and nightmares. It was a broken heart.», RKS recounts.
But three years after the tour in Iraq, EL ends up divorced. RKS isn't about to let the opportunity pass her by; she travels to Sandnes, and soon the two nurses get together again.
After the wedding in 1999, they talk a lot about the assignment which brought them together. It's been almost ten years at this point, and EL thinks they should mark the occasion somehow. EL and RKS decide to make a reunion party for the whole unit in 2001.
They expect it will be nice to see their old colleagues from the desert again.
In June of 2001, the armed forces have a major investigation going on. A few thousand veterans of international operations between 1990 and 2001 are given medical examinations, and some 17.000 or so are selected to participate in a survey. They find it hard to gain the trust of their former employees. In the reminder they send to the veterans, dated the 25th of June, 2001, the medical branch makes a note to the defense force supreme command:
«Some have inquired as to whether it is 'safe' to provide an honest answer. There are concerns that they might become ineligible for future redeployment, or that their careers in the armed forces might be impacted by participating in this survey.»
By the end of the investigation, they have managed to obtain answers from some 12.500 veterans.
The military concludes that veterans have «somewhat more health issues than the control group», and the debate about the potential risks of depleted uranium dust is halted by the chief of the medical branch.
«We conclude that there is no reason to suspect that depleted uranium can result in leukemia or other types of cancer», states Gen. Maj. L.R., the chief of staff for the medical branch, in 2002.
Head doctor JIB, who is the one with the statistical source data that was collected in the 2001 investigation, concludes that Gulf War Syndrome is merely an expression of general health issues and not particularly related to service in the Gulf War.
THERE THEY ARE. It is August of 2001, and about 30 veterans of the NorMed unit are gathered at the Bæreia facility of the Association of Veterans with Disabilities. They're there to eat, drink and reminisce about everything that transpired back then. It's mostly a pleasant event overall. But there are several missing. Some haven't been heard from for years. Like the chef, TS, which has disappeared completely. Some wonder if he's still alive. Or TM, the conscientious, hard working man from Bjerkvik. How's he doing?
T.B., on the other hand, is present. But the «Still Waters» aren't so still anymore. He seems uncomfortable and weathered. It's too much for him, and he has to leave the party early.
Earlier that summer, the participants in the NorMed unit / Unikom have received a reminder from the military: around June, they had a letter prodding them to reply to the veterans' health investigation. But many haven't answered; the questions are seen as poorly chosen and irrelevant. It doesn't seem to concern them at all.
«It seemed as if they had picked the questions to get the answers they wanted», notes GH from Voss.
NEW YEAR's EVE 2002. GRJ is now a taxi driver in Tønsberg, mostly at night. It's a job he knows like the back of his hands, and he spent most of his upbringing a few miles out of town.
Lately, though, he's been having difficulties. Things slip suddenly. He forgets the main street names while he's out driving.
This New Year's Eve is particularly bad. As midnight approaches, the fireworks start going off. GRJ is scared to death. He stops the car and covers his ears, then gets out of the car to hide. This is too much of a reminder of Saudi-Arabia, of Iraq, of Bosnia.
FEBUARY 2003. Over in the USA, the armed forces are in a hurry. They're preparing the invasion of Iraq, and Saddam Hussein is to be eliminated. The planned war is highly controversial, and leads to big demonstrations throughout Europe.
For the Unikom veterans, this stirs up memories. But one of the less publicized of the controversial decisions is one they don't hear about: this is the month when the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA) finally issues their approval for pyridostigmine bromide for use as a protective measure against the nerve gas Sarin.
The US directorate of health [ I'm not sure what the backtranslation is. It may have been a cultural translation, rather than a reference, and in that case probably refers to the FDA. -aswad ] thus approves this drug of controversy, some 12 years after UN troops were required to use them in Saudi-Arabia, including TB, GRJ, ?S and TM. This in spite of the fact that several of the side effects have not yet been charted. But the FDA emphasizes that the approval is solely for military use.
On the 18th of March, 2003, Iraq is yet again invaded. Back here at home, the Unikom veterans are left with no fewer questions than before.
THE HOUSE OF PARLIAMENT in Oslo receives a threat. It is delivered by phone to the H-Block on Saturday the 12th of Febuary, 2005, at 8:55am, local time. According to the police report, the man placing the call claims to have depleted uranium explosive shells and that he intends to use them. Further, he states that if someone doesn't help him, he'll burn the houses around him to the ground. This is seen as credible enough to be cause for concern.
The desperate man on the line is T.M. He has just been watching a program about the delayed onset effects of inhaling the dust from depleted uranium shells. He knows all too well that many of these were used in the area where he served a 15 month tour, among other things inspecting a destroyed tank, virtually wading in the white dust. [ uranium oxide. -aswad ]
Much of his life is ruined. He feels that the armed forces have failed to provide the necessary follow-up, and been withholding answers. He ruminates over the things he's experienced in the Gulf, the things he's been exposed to; what they've done to his body and soul.
T.M. is arrested, the police confiscate the portion of a cluster bomb he's got stored at home, and he is also fined some USD 1.000 [current exchange rates. -aswad].
«I remember threatening to set fire to the Elvegårdsmoen base. It was a cry for help,» says T.M., «a damn loud one.»
FINANCIALLY, T.M. isn't doing too well. The beurocracy involved in getting compensation for the problems he's been left with is so complex and convoluted that he needs professional help navigating it. In January of 2006, this veteran- now living off an early disabilities pension- gets in touch with a lawyer from Stavanger.
The lawyer determines that TM's psychiatric condition, and its root cause, entitle him to compensation. But this requires another battery of medical examinations. TM is referred to the Norwegian Clinic of Military Medicine in April of 2007. Yet again, serious diagnoses are confirmed, including delusional disorders and posttraumatic stress disorder. Part of the specialist statement reads:
«The patient is deemed to have had good life function prior to the tours in the Gulf, Southern Iraq and Bosnia. The evaluation concludes that current set of afflictions is a direct consequence of events during his extended term of service.»
He is compensated some USD 56.000 from the state pensions and compensations fund [current exchange rates; for reference, minimum wage is USD 40.000/yr, barely enough to cover living in a 10sq.m. (100sq.ft.) apartment in his town. -aswad], according to the «directive on psychiatric injuries following international deployment». He is also awarded an injury compensation of some USD 30.000 from the public retirement and welfare fund.
This leaves him with USD 86.000 [about average income for a middle class family for 1 year. -aswad]. His lawyer proceeds with the paper mill to apply for "profession related injuries compensation" [no direct equivalent; yes, it's common for the different aspects of a claim to be processed by different sub-departments, each requiring a seperate claim to be filed. -aswad].
In 2006, GRJ has his own breakthrough. After many years of nagging doubts and cursory health inspections, he has gotten an appointment with a psychiatrist in Drammen. [that can take a while, particularly for veterans. -aswad] For him, this is a great leap forward.
«I had to start over, just talk my way through everything. All of it, from the beginning. That's the only way I can remember it,» says GRJ.
Other veterans of Unikom eventually hear about this psychiatrist, who has had an affiliation with the armed forces since 1986, and is one of the most familiar with UN veteran issues in Norway. He opines that NorMed was a very different assignment, and is critical of how the veterans have been treated.
«The assignment bore the character of being sufficiently difficult that some of the participants could reasonably be assumed to be traumatized by it. Yet there was no systematic assay of their mental and physical health», he comments. At the moment, he is treating five of the Unikom members. He also notes they have complaints that are consistent with Gulf War syndrome.
THIS IS THE YEAR when GRJ and various other veterans form a buddy support network, where colleagues from international assignments can meet others of a similar background. The response is so overwhelming that they turn it into a formal organization, SIOPS, in the fall of 2006. [ acronym: casualties of international ops. -aswad ] They are not content with the efforts of the UN Veterans' Association, and hope to lobby for change and public awareness. The web permits them to reach out to even more people, and the number of inquiries are substantial.
Back in Stokke, GRJ prints out information about posttraumatic stress disorder and why those afflicted by it are prone to asocial, aggressive and curious behavior. Then he distributes this among the neighbours. In Oslo, TB makes a similar leaflet, and hands it out to his extended family at the next gathering.
They're finally starting to be able to explain some of the difficulties of the past several years.
JANUARY 2007. TB decides to apply for 'work directed medical rehabilitation', to see if he can get back into a normal career, or failing that, qualify for a disability pension [ evaluation and attempted work directed rehabilitation are prerequisites for that. -aswad ].
Old papers are dug up, and his journal is reexamined.
There's the bombshell [sorry]: already back in 1995, when TB was found unfit to deploy on another UN assignment, the examining physician had written that by all appearances he was suffering from PTSD. Thus it is, some 16 years after his initial deployment in the Gulf War, that he finally finds some validation. Later, he would also get confirmation of what he had suspected a long time: that he has GWS. The worst is never knowing what his time in the service has done to him; what's happened.
«I never know how I'll be when I wake up,» he relates.
In August of 2007, a report on the financial rights of the UN veterans is delivered to the Department of Defense. In this report, it says: «A rigorous program of thorough, clinical examinations, with adequate duration, has not been carried out on personell in high risk international operations. ... The military, as of the 1st of June 2007, is processing about 50 compensation claims on the basis of mental health injuries subsequent to participation in international operations. Three diagnoses are most prominent: posttraumatic stress disorder, depression and anxiety; frequently with more than one of these per patient.»
The report notes that it there is a need for improving the rights of the veteran population, and points out several shortcomings in the practices regarding compensation for mental health injuries.
OCTOBER 11TH, 2007. UK war veterans are thrilled. After a protracted and difficult debate, the department of defense approves GWS as a legitimate condition, after denying the existence of such a condition for 16 years. Owing to significant pressure from the various veterans' organizations and members of the House of Commons, they have changed position on the issue.
Then-minister of defense, Lord Drayson, notes with regret that the matter has been handled poorly from the beginning, and makes an apology. This decision is an important one for the thousands who were stationed in Iraq in 1991, many of which returned with substantial problems.
In Norway, the decision is hardly accorded a footnote in the media. [ we usually cover UK politics and other current topics in the news and papers. -aswad ]
OSLO, LATE NOVEMBER, 2007. Another of our soldiers has been killed in Afghanistan. [ISAF-grenadier KSJ, age 22, roadside bomb in Meymaneh. -aswad] 48 year old TB sits on his couch in Sofiesgate, relating how strongly it affected him to see the casket arriving at Gardermoen. Again, he tears up.
«I know all too well how that kid's fellow soldiers are feeling right now,» he says.
At this point, TB is on 40% disability, and still struggling with the posttraumatic stress.
Getting on a tram remains a hell. Trains are fine, though, as long as he can be seated so that he can retain a full overview of the interior and other passengers. The air ambulance route to Ullevaal hospital passes over Sofiesgate, and every time a helicopter passes, he is right back in Iraq, reliving the transport of mine injuries.
«I have to work all this out. I have to crawl my way back to society and civilization.»
STOKKE, SAME TIMEFRAME. In a little, yellow house, a stout fellow of some 51 years is getting up from a chair. He's going to fetch some photographs, he has told us. He stands still a little while, thinking.
«What was I going to do now?» asks GRJ [ he's forgotten; not sure if that carries well enough. ]
GRJ is bitter. Not with the military, at least not primarily, but rather with the politicians. «What hypocrites. When you go out on an assignment, they bask in the glory. When you return, they give you a boot in the ass,» he comments.
In the shelf next to the couch is his collection of war movies. There are days when he can spend the night watching 'Band of Brothers'.
«I don't watch war movies for the blood and guts. I watch them to relive the feeling of unity, of being together. I can lose myself in the frame, hear the sounds, smell the scents. It's quite extraordinary.»
NITTEDAL, SAME TIMEFRAME. The stock market data are flickering across the TV in the dark living room. This is how LS makes a living now. As a small time trader, working out of his home.
45 year old LS relates his experiences in Iraq, occasionally pausing to clench his eyes shut a while before continuing. He says he has had problems with nightmares since then. Several times, he has tried to pull himself together, but he notices that he's very much withdrawn.
«I prefer peace and quiet,» he says, «it's just how it's turned out.»
DECEMBER 2007. The Christmas spirit is descending over Stavanger. 50 year old JOG is sitting in a bar, nursing a pint as he relates his experiences from NorMed. It's the first time he tells the story.
He pulls out the poem from '93. The paper is yellowed now, but it's still easy to read: «"Your country and the UN are grateful," they said, and left us. We were now they: the civilians, the others. But some things they couldn't take away: our ruddy dreams and solitude, the longing and memories. They could not change what we had now become: strangers in our own land.»
«That pretty much sums it up,» says JOG. There's a lot that has slipped from his mind over the years, but that poem is still with him.
Every time he drives to see his mother in Egersund, he keeps scanning the area around the highway, looking for snipers. «It's automatic. That's hardwired back here,» he says, pointing to the back of his head.
And JOG remembers his buddies, especially the one from the section tent in the desert.
«How's TM doing these days?» he asks.
IT'S DARK back at TM's home in Bjerkvik on the 26th of November, 2007. In the middle of the living room, an old heater provides the only light. From his house, he can just barely make out camp Elvegårdsmoen. The camp bothers him.
«You should hear them when they're at it,» he says. At its worst, he has found himself standing in the bed as he starts awake from the sounds of the volleys fired at the camp.
On a cabinet is a picture of then 22 years old TM in his UN service uniform. He looks young, healthy and innocent. After dropping out of college to enlist, he joined the medical corps. Later, he worked as a radiology assistant at Narvik hospital. Then, one day, he got a new opportunity: the military needed people for a medical corps assignment in the Gulf.
He's 39 years old now. He gets through the day tolerably well with just the right dose of medication. That's not the only thing in him, though. At a recent test, some 16 years after his deployment, his uranium levels were around the upper 'acceptable' limit.
«I want to know the facts. About the various things I've been exposed to, the tests, the vaccines, all of it.» says TM.
He's embittered with the military.
«They've been giving me a call about once every three years, so five times in total, I think. Probably just checking to see if I'm even alive anymore. Compensation? I want a life, not compensation. If I had known then what I know now, that I might as well have been stationed in Chernobyl, I would never have gone.» he says.
HE IS RESTLESS. Can't stay put. Jumps over to the CD-player. He puts on a recording from the Gulf War, something he calls «Desert storm radio». He fumbles around, and heavy breathing is heard. TM is putting on the protective gear to illustrate.
The cat jumps into his lap, scared, as the sound of the gas alarm from Saudi-Arabia fills the home, making our hairs stand on end. Sounds from the war.
Regarding some of the personell:
AH (41), Stryn. Car mechanic and driver in Unikom, currently an offshore maintainance worker in the North Sea. «I feel fine. No mental health problems. I think what saved me, was that I didn't understand what the mine injured Iraqi were saying, what pain and fear they expressed. But I'm not about to claim this was something that was easy to deal with. It could well be my turn to lose it one day.»
TS (43), Asker. Chef in Unikom, working on setting up a business. «I left society for several years. Moved to Sweden. People thought I was dead. The hardest thing was returning home after deploying. Experiencing how nobody cared. I get about 3-4 hours of sleep at night. Have headaches every day. My short term memory is shot. I don't function socially. But I didn't want to admit to it. It's only a few months ago that I even spoke to anyone about the problems.»
LU (46), Lillehammer. Dentist in Unikom, now in civilian practice. «I'm glad I survived the explosion in Doha. The terror was with me for a long time. When I returned, there was a wall of silence from the military. I had expected them to do some follow-up, but they had no interest in determining what we were exposed to.»
GH (48), Voss. Driver in Unikom, currently a janitor and EMT. «My short term memory is gone, and my joints ache. I've got diabetes. There's been an air of secrecy around everything about this assignment. I think it's odd that so many of us are having trouble with our memory. My trust in the military is gone. People don't get what we've been through, think it's just another UN mission, like, not war, almost a vacation.»
ØB (71), Steinkjer. Doctor and surgeon in Unikom, retired. «When I returned from Iraq, it took me two years to overcome the anxiety about mines. But it still rears its head now and then. Even today, I'll find myself on a quiet forest walk, suddenly freezing up, terrified to step on a mine.»
DR (65), Trondheim. Field priest in Unikom, working at NTNU. «This was an exhausting deployment. And most of those that have had trouble with it, have been deployed several times. Which raises the question: how many times should they be allowed to redeploy? So far, the military has been exploiting personell that sign up for international operations. Many don't know any other life. And I think it's fair to ask: what is it we've been part of?»
HB (46), Oslo. Bioengineer in Unikom. Currently working in GE Healthcare. «I've two sons of my own, 21 and 23 years old. One of them considered deploying to Afghanistan. As a mother, I found that difficult. I don't want them to experience that sort of thing. We can't override them, either; it's their decision. But we can explain that this isn't a game, that this can turn them into killers, that they may find themselves with people dying in their arms. That's the kind of thing the military doesn't like to talk about.»
[ As before, the source to credit is the local newspaper, BT. ]
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