In the Coop

A dispatch: "...the cravenness out there among americans is really pandemic here. i know it sounds paradoxical, but this place draws chickenshits. they come here... well i don't know why they come here."

This is from a back message from a friend in Iraq. One wonders about the chickenshits. Ever since he wrote this to me, the word "chickenshit" rattles around my brain sometimes, as does the image of arrogant, pissy Americans in a country that hates them.

Is it a military thing? A follow-orders thing that makes men chickenshits? Or is it complete naivete? Wantonness? A desire to be in charge, but not knowing, truly, what that means?

I've also been thinking back to the war zone we lived in here a few years ago, or at least to the feeling that as reporters, we were in the place we were supposed to be as observers and interpreters. So now I wonder where in the world that place is now. Besides Iraq, it is Darfur, and so many other violent places; it is Mobile, Ala., for the hurricane, or Boston for the DNC, but I hope it is also a cubicle in New York where I can write about the assault weapons ban expiring or about a family of eight that cannot subsist on welfare and one salary. I'm beginning to know that where we are supposed to be is everywhere, which is pleasant news to anyone who ever forbid me from becoming a correspondent in a dangerous place.

It is vaguely invigorating to know that in this field there will never be dry land to try to draw water from, but instead, the wells will always be damp.

The danger seems to be mistaking a mirage for an actual oasis.