I was long overdue to meet one of my neighbors. In the States, especially in the cities, it is not uncommon to live for years next to someone and not know them well (or at all) but in the DR the reverse is true, especially in the campo. In addition to being good for confianza there's a pragmatic fatalism to knowing your neighbors in a small pueblo. People will know your business whether you like it or not, so you might as well pull up a plastic chair, accept a cup of coffee, and make the most of it. I wasn't exactly avoiding the neighbor in question - I said hola when I saw him - I has just been too busy to really talk.
But not too busy to be conscious of the oversight. I was very appreciative when he introduced a subject of real conversation, though I was surprised by the topic.
"My son is a colonel in el ejercito," he said to me over our shared fence, apropos of nothing.
I shouldn't have been surprised. There was a new-ish 4x4 parked in front of the house. Here in the pueblo vehículos are thin on the ground and visitors that arrive in them are usually pretty well off. He added: "He just got back from Iraq."
I was confused. "¿En el ejercito Americano?" I asked. Some Dominicans become Americans and go on to serve. His son wouldn't be the first Dominican American soldier I had here.
"No," he said, "de aquí.¨ From here.
Like many of my generation I spent the early 2000s opposing the war in Iraq: it's announcement, execution and failure. And like them I quickly forgot about it after the majority of the troops came home. One of my most embarrassing gaffes during my courtship with Cat was using the war as a preterite reference point.
"Back when the war was going on. . ." I said.
"It's still going on," she corrected me. This was 2008. It's 2016 now and it still is.
Before I knew it the son had been produced from the house. He looked exactly as one expects of an army colonel: late 20s, closely cropped hair, and imposingly fit.
I see Dominican soldiers all the time. The frontera is littered with checkpoints where las guardias stop vehicles to check for undocumented Haitian migrants. In a small country it makes sense to combine the army and the border patrol. I was mistaken in believing that this was their only occupation.
In my group of volunteers there is a man about my age who is a combat veteran. He served four tours. I am impressed by him even if, as he says, he was "just doing what he was told." He served alongside soldiers from a much ballyhooed international coalition that supported my patria's foreign misadventure. I remember being very skeptical of the smaller constituent nations of the coalition - really, what could a small country like the Dominican Republic contribute? - but never would I have imaged that I would one day meet a member of that coalition and see the smile on his face after he returned. Nor in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that his service would be 13(!) years after the initial invasion.
I shook the colonel's hand and told him that I was glad to see him home safe. He told me that it had been hard to be there and see how the people suffered but vale la pena. It had been worth it. I told him there is a refran (saying) that Americans say to soldiers: "Gracias para su servicio." Thank you for your service.
These were the same words that an aunt of mine used when she first learned that Cat and I had joined the Peace Corps. This was a woman whose step-son had seen active duty in Afghanistan. I remember being surprised at the phrase; normally Americans speak it to warriors, not to peacemakers. I accepted the compliment but was inwardly uncomfortable. Surely my sacrifice paled next to that of my cousin, who had been shot at.
As I write this now I think of a Dominican professor who is deeply grateful for the presence of Peace Corps in her country. She was tremendously impressed by the generosity of the volunteers. "They do such good work and they give two whole years of their lives." She did not use the refran. I was less uncomfortable this time.
Another volunteer in our group is a self-described military brat. Her parents recognize her work here as a service to their country not dissimilar to their own. Another volunteer has a brother in the army. She says they are proud of each other. I am glad for them and grateful for their example. If they can accept a little praise, so can I.
But this kind of appreciation does not make me think that I serve at the same level as a soldier. I chose to serve but I got to chose where I serve and what I would do here. Peace Corp volunteers do get hurt and die during service but the odds of something truly bad happening to me are vanishingly small. If I return home, which I am free to do at any time, there is no penalty or shame associated with the decision.
And respecting these soldiers does not make me believe any less in the cause of peace. Even if, like many comfortable Americans, I have been able to forget a war is being fought because I wasn't asked to fight it.
All of this, though, makes me take my work here very seriously, regardless of the name of this blog.
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