They wrote in the old days that it is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country. But in modern war, there is nothing sweet nor fitting in your dying. You will die like a dog for no good reason.
-Ernest Hemingway
curry chicken is much better when people who are not in the armed services are the ones preparing it. i can't complain though, i mean how am i supposed to expect the army to be proficient at any meal besides pre-made chicken cordonblue and meatballs. their food generally makes me suspect the entire armed forces community as a group of half wits and underachievers. however, on second thought the fact that i am in the middle of nowhere, a place so off the grid that the locals cook their food using animal feces - my comrades being able to cook anything is kind of amazing. the simple fact that i'm on the internet is amazing as well. what a weird world.
this place is very strange and somewhat eerie. outside my barriers this world looks like a post-apocalyptic waste land, where lawlessness is the law of the land. mad max would have a field day here. tigers once to roamed these parts, they were called caspian tigers; they were beautiful and mystical looking. they had magnificently full faces and broad, thick bodies. they are gone now. we destroy everything with more outward beauty than ourselves. nothing beautiful strolls around these parts anymore. the only thing that moves around these parts is gaunt and void of any elegance. i find it fascinating how many stray dogs and stray men wander around the couple mile radius of the village. many of the men were born here and will never leave the six or seven blocks of the bazaar; at least the dogs have the good sense to roam freely. what a peculiar existence these men must live. most of them have absolutely no concept of time or all that it holds. if you were to ask a man how old he is, he will most likely stare at you for a second with a simpleminded grin, and then proceed to tell you he doesn't know, but he thinks around twenty-two. this would be good and well for you, if he wasn't obviously in his early-to-mid forties. their hands are so dirty and calloused with dirt, shit, and blood it's hard not dry-heave when you shake their hands.
it's nice to watch when the children are playing soccer or cricket. however, i find that it's hard to look at them in the eyes nowadays. they are so little and so unaware of the predators that are always looming overhead. i know that if they make it to the age of maturity, most of them will grow to be the same shit handed, weathered, gloomy, individuals that roam around the same six block district with their daft expressions and cowardice ethics. like their fathers, they won't stand up for themselves even if you tied their enemies to a chair and handed them the AK-47 with a full magazine. there is no pride here, only fear masked by an overabundance of hospitality and courtesy. that's fine though, they can go on prowling the devastated dirt streets with their canine companions for the rest of eternity for all i care. i'll be out of here in six to seven months, and they will be here with their shitty, dirty, calloused hands and their dopey expressions on their gloomy faces waiting waiting for allah to save them from the hands of an evil that they could defeat if they only had an ounce of courage and the smallest amount of self respect.
a caspian tiger in captivity, berlin zoo 1899
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