Home, sweet home?

Last year I came home from Iraq. The anticipation leading up to my departure was almost too much to handle. I was excited; excited to see my family, to eat real food, and to just sit around my house. But, I was also scared. I didn’t know if everything with my wife would be the same, or if my old friends would treat me differently. My worst fear, though, was of the people that were not only against the way, but also against the soldiers. I understood the need for peace in our world, trust me, I was in Iraq and I know how badly we need it. Yet, I didn’t understand why people hated me. Yes, I fought and killed people in a war over a pointless cause, but I didn’t ask to go into this war. Being a soldier means you want to protect your country, when necessary.

Despite my worries, when I got on the plane in Kuwait all I felt was happiness.I arrived in New York, but since it wasn’t my final destination no one was waiting for me. I got on my next plane for Philadelphia with palms sweating. It was almost time to see my family live in flesh. I could soon hug my son, and kiss my mother. I could soon hold my wife's hand for as long as I felt like.

As I sat down in my seat the guy next to me turned and stared at my uniform. He asked me where I was coming from.

“Iraq, I just came back.” He looked away and then pushed the call button above his head.

I was confused. No response? Of course I didn’t expect him to hug me, but from all those books I read on World War II as a child, I expected a little something. In those books the people would hug the men coming back from war. There would be parades and parties. Everyone would cheer and laugh and cry. This, though, just felt tense.

"Excuse me, did one of you two call for me?” asked the flight attendant.

“Yeah. I did. Is there any way you could move my seat? I cannot sit next to a murderer.”I looked up at the man in shock. A murderer? I didn’t even know how to respond.

“Um, well I could check,” the flight attendant said in a hurried voice. She looked stunned, and confused. Just the way I felt.The man next to me wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Not out of embarrassment, but out of disgust. I could tell he felt grossed out and really mad just being in my presence. I didn’t even feel like making an effort with him. All I felt was a ruined homecoming. I felt like this day, the one that I had been looking forward to since I left home, was being soiled. Soiled by an un grateful man. How typical that I would meet one of these people on my way home.

So, the flight attendant returned to our seats and told the man that the captain said he would not be able to switch seats unless he found someone who was willing.

“Of course,” she added, “You’ll have to do that without disturbing the people around you.”

Well, he’s already done that. He disturbed me into thinking that only bad things will happen on my return. So, now instead of feeling the excitement, I felt nauseous.

As we pulled into the gate my nausea increased. What if the people waiting were booing me? What if my family felt ashamed? I hoped my son didn’t get ridiculed in school.

The fasten seat belt sign turned off and everyone stood up. The man next to me practically ran out of his seat. Slowly, I walked towards the exit and up the ramp. As I turned the corner into the air port I saw signs. Tons of signs. There were also balloons and smiling faces. There were tears. There was laughter. When my wife saw me she dropped the welcome home sign she was holding and ran straight into my arms. At that point in time I realized that war isn’t about putting people down, but raising people up. Even if many in our country don't understand that, it is true. We shouldn’t be protesting people who cannot help what they are doing. Instead we should praise them because they have risked their lives for trying to make this world a better place. Even if it is not working. So, in the end I got my World War II homecoming, and a new life lesson to go with it.