RETURNS by Joshua Casteel
A Play in One Act
CHARACTERS
james (early to mid-20s)
jonathan (early-20s)
mark (mid-20s)
dhahur (Arab boy)
ahmed (30s)
sergeant patrick (30s)
NOTE FROM THE PLAYWRIGHT
Returns is a play, first and foremost, about young men – about the violation of youth – much more than it is about interrogation, torture, or the Iraq War. It is a story about rural boys from Cedar Rapids, Iowa to Corvallis, Oregon to Baghdad, Iraq. Returns is also a story of post-trauma, which is to say: the very search for a story after one has returned; after the movement and the noise and the lights have all become still.
Having the courage to be still, to remember, to comprehend a story, is the battle of post-trauma – to find a narrative that allows characters to become persons and events to become lives.
All action in the play is relative to the post-traumatic memory of the central character, James. At times, other characters speak as James recalls encounters with them or as he imagines them. Other times, characters speak for James himself, invading his recollected space. This solipsism is the primary violence of post-trauma: the manner in which individuals return and return to a recollected violence which holds them hostage. Moving beyond this solipsism, this compulsive return to trauma, is what stands in the way of one’s ability to return from trauma.
There is no “chronology” of events as James navigates his memories, for post-traumatic stress has held him captive to the eternal present. Narrative emerges only as James is forced to encounter the individuality of his companions’ stories, which in turn forces James to see them in their own right – as human persons fully distinct from recollection. This encounter with stories exceeding his own recollective capacity is what ultimately allows James himself to have a story and to dare encountering it in the dangerous worlds of others.
The setting is minimal – a table, six chairs, a freestanding iron lamp, an empty footlocker, a laptop computer. Pictures and military paraphernalia adorn the table.
James, Mark, Jonathan and Ahmed/Dhahur enter and stand around the table behind their respective chairs. A brown interrogation hood is folded over the chair in front of Ahmed. James plays the call to prayer from the laptop computer. All chant along.
all:
Allahu al-akbar. Allahu al-akbar. Allahu al-akbar. Allahu al-akbar. Ashadua la illah illa’Alluh. Ashahadua la illah illa’Alluh. Ashahaduan Mohammed rasool Alluh. Ashahaduan Mohammed rasool Alluh.
James stops the call to prayer and begins a film showing the Iraqi countryside on the laptop as SGT Patrick places the interrogation hood over Ahmed, moves Ahmed into the interrogation space, takes off his hood. James and Mark interrogate Ahmed, Jonathan is interpreting (repeating in English everything James and Mark ask Ahmed), SGT Patrick stands guard.
james:
What was it like?
Ahmed is silent.
mark:
What was it like?!!
Ahmed stoops his head.
james:
Keep your hands at your side, and your eyes on that darkness on the wall. That darkness is all you are permitted.
Ahmed follows James’ instructions. James paces circles around Ahmed.
james:
What was it like when your name was taken from you? We have given you a new name. But you cannot keep it. Only I call you this name. It is the only name which matters for you now.
mark:
(Softly)
What. Was. It. Like.
mark:
You see. This is all that matters now. This wood. This air. That darkness on the wall. Feel this closeness.
James is inches away from Ahmed, running his hand just above Ahmed’s torso, breathing upon him.
james:
What was it like!!!
James disintegrates, hands over his head in shame, Mark and Jonathan look to each other. James walks to the table, followed by Mark, then Jonathan, then SGT Patrick, then Ahmed. They all sit.
james:
You . . .
James looks to Jonathan, moves his hand toward Jonathan’s mouth.
jonathan:
You.
James looks to Ahmed, moves his hand toward Ahmed’s mouth.
ahmed:
Anta. (“You.”)
James looks to SGT Patrick, moves his hand toward SGT Patrick’s mouth.
sgt patrick:
You.
James looks to Mark, pauses slightly, then moves his hand toward Mark’s mouth.
mark:
You.
james:
. . . can’t really ask things like –
jonathan:
What was it like?
james:
. . . Doesn’t matter. From the moment you hear ’em say –
sgt patrick:
Lock and load!!
james:
. . . you’re in a totally different world. And the present tense doesn’t matter anymore. You start experiencing things in hand-me-down phrases. People and places come at you, and it’s almost like on TV. Your heart goes numb because you’re trying to feel with things like your hands, your lungs and your eyes. So you bring a lot of those hand-me-downs with you. Those times when. Those people who. Guess it’s how you try to make sense of it all. When things get crazy, it helps to have something to hold onto. But you can’t really ask things like, “What was it like?” It still is. (Looks to Mark) As it was.
mark:
You don’t really come back. It comes back with you. Who you seen. Who seen you. It’s the things you can’t quite see, though, that return worst. Because you can’t really return to –
jonathan:
– who you were.
Pause.
mark:
They say that salvation is living in eternity. I heard though that eternity might also be like living fully present. Fighting for that present is the battle of the return. Sometimes you go forward, and sometimes behind. So, I don’t mean to dodge the question.
Jonathan rings a small bell with an M16 round in a slow melodic pulse.
james:
A reading of the Holy –
Dhahur stands, walks to James, bends, speaks into James’ ear. James bows his head lip-synching Dhahur’s words.
dhahur:
– Gospel, according to John. (Pause) In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. (Pause) And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us.
Mark has become visibly agitated. Jonathan rings the bell again.
james:
You can’t really ask things like –
jonathan:
What was it like?
James chuckles, turns toward Mark.
james:
I can’t, Mark. I can’t.
mark:
Why not?
james:
It’s not that simple. These things are done in ways. By people.
mark:
And I want you . . . Priest! (Giving James the finger)
james:
You don’t know what you want.
Mark stands, rushes toward James.
mark:
I want to be baptized. Forgiven!
James stands to evade Mark.
james:
No. You want me to baptize you.
mark:
Yes. I want you to baptize me.
James pushes Mark away.
james:
I can’t.
mark:
Fuck you, you won’t?!
Short pause. James’ back is turned to Mark.
mark:
Hear my confession, Priest! I want to make a confession!
Mark kneels.
mark:
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have never confessed.
james:
I’m not even a –
mark:
– The fuck else am I going to do, if you don’t?
Pause.
james:
Tell.
James will not look at Mark. James motions his hand as if to bless Mark, but cannot complete the task.
james:
In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spir . . . (In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.)
James returns to the table, turns to Jonathan. Mark is still knelt to the floor.
james:
You can’t really ask things like –
jonathan:
What was it like?
james:
(Looking to Mark)
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have never confessed.
Mark stands, moves downstage.
mark:
It was never really the music. I always enjoyed it loud. We first would strip them to skin, blindfolds over the eyes. I never really thought about the water, but keeping it cold was a trick. I never had to see his eyes. Any of them. But I always saw their lips. Heard the chattering of teeth. The groaning of body temperature taken in that way. But the music helped me through.
SGT Patrick plays “Pyramid Song” by Radiohead on the computer.
mark:
A drowning of the electric cold, the machines. And I could turn it off. But instead I turned it up. Up, up, up. (Music becomes louder) Don’t listen to the machines, or the eyes. Dim the lights so you can’t see the blued skin, the rising falling chest, the chattering of teeth. Turn the music up. (Music becomes louder) Turn the music up.
Music begins to fade. Ahmed opens a prayer mat. James, Mark and Ahmed pray simultaneously.
james:
Introibo ad altare Dei. Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.
mark/jonathan:
(I will go into the altar of God. To God Who giveth joy to my youth.)
ahmed:
(Ayaak naa’abdoo wa ayaak nustaa’aeenoo – Surah 1:5)
James stands, faces table.
james:
Judica me, Deus, et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta: ab homine iniquo et doloso erue me.
mark/jonathan:
(Judge me, O God, and distinguish my cause from the nation that is not holy; deliver me from the unjust and deceitful man.)
ahmed:
(Sihrattah al-latheena anaa’mtah alayhoom gher al-mooghdhoob alayhoom wa la al-dhaa laeenah – Surah 1:7)
Pause.
james:
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
mark/jonathan:
(My fault, my fault, my most grievous fault.)
ahmed:
(Melek yohm al-deen – Surah 1:4)
Pause.
james:
Quia tu es Deus, fortitudo mea: quare me repulisti, et quare tristis incedo, dum affligit me inimicus?
mark/jonathan:
(For Thou, O God, art my strength: why hast Thou cast me off, and why do I go sorrowful whilst the enemy afflicteth me?)
ahmed:
(Wa itha qeela lahoom la nuqsudoo fee al-aa’rdd qaa’loo in’nama na’hnu muslahoon – Surah 2:11)
James looks into the audience, moves downstage center.
james:
Et quare tristis incedo, dum affligit me inimicus? (Beat) Priest is what they called me. Holy Father. Because I prayed more than I drank or cursed. But not now. Judica me, Deus. (Beat) James. I gave myself this name. But don’t ask too many questions. Hoc est enim corpus meum. (For this is my body) (Wa oonzilah alaynah – Surah 2:136)
James walks back to the table, still standing, looks to Ahmed, then begins singing the call to prayer.
all:
Allahu al-akbar. Allahu al-akbar. Allahu al-akbar. Allahu al-akbar. Ushahadua la illah illa’Alluh. Ushahadua la illah illa’Alluh. Ushahaduan Mohammed rasool Alluh. Ushahaduan Mohammed rasool Alluh.
James stands, walks downstage center, takes a pack of cigarettes from SGT Patrick, takes out a cigarette, lights.
james:
Questions. Now, of course, questions must be asked. We’re going to have to talk about a great many things.
James returns the pack of cigarettes to SGT Patrick, walks toward seated Ahmed, stops briefly to look at Jonathan, then continues to Ahmed, bends, speaks into Ahmed’s ear.
james:
I want –
Ahmed puts his hand over James’ mouth, stands, sits James in the chair to be interrogated.
ahmed:
I WANT you to know that I’m here for the long haul. I’m not backing down. I’ll keep on asking until there’s simply nothing left to ask. So, where to begin? Begin again, shall we? Why don’t you tell me what it was you were doing before we arrested you? No? Don’t like that idea? Don’t want to tell me that? (Pause) If you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve nothing to fear. Nothing to hide. But, you do have something to fear, don’t you? Don’t you?
James stands, clutches Ahmed by the arms, forces him back into the chair.
james:
I want you to know that I’m here for the long haul. I’m not backing down. I’ll keep on asking until there’s simply nothing left to ask. So, where to begin? Begin again, shall we? Why don’t you tell me what it was you were doing before we arrested you? No? Don’t like that idea? Don’t want to tell me that? (Pause) If you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve nothing to fear. Nothing to hide. But, you do have something to fear, don’t you? Don’t you?
James exhales from his cigarette. Sound of wind. James walks back to the table, stands on top of it.
james:
It’s hard to find things to say. So much constantly the same. (Pause) The parched desert air wraps around your face and hands like a stale blanket. Foot and vehicle prints can almost never be traced from one day to the next, the wind cascading yesterday’s treads into the air. This is the path I just took. That is where I just stepped. The gash in the earth that yesterday laid open, tomorrow has been filled by dirt and shovels erasing the land’s memory with a newness of cables and wires, stone and steel. Walking through the many courtyards, Arabic numbers tattoo the walls; sayings, drawings and proverbs on the inner perimeter.
ahmed:
Al mustuqbal li’nah, wa layisa li’eaudah’unah.
Jonathan walks downstage. James sits on the edge of the table.
jonathan:
“The future is for us, and not for our enemies.” A patchwork of punctured brick backdrops the ascension of one to ten written on a courtyard wall, the other side of which prisoners once lived in barred cells. I wonder what events there, too, the winds and workmen’s hands now seek to erase from memory.
mark:
Their voices are not heard, but I feel as if they walk beneath my treads, and linger on beneath me as I walk daily upon the dirt, which I breathe into my lungs.
jonathan:
At the prison’s edge is a teetering skyline – minaret, palm trees, the mosaic dome of a mosque, rooftops. At sunset I can hear the calls to prayer from South and East. At times it may even appear as if in a round, like choirs of a cathedral, one folded atop the other. But, always a few hours after the sun has fallen there is the intermittent echo of small-arms fire, the howling of dogs. I try to remember what things were like before this.
James has picked up the M16 from the table, looking cautiously to SGT Patrick. SGT Patrick stands, faces downstage.
sgt patrick:
Today the earth is carved by the claws of 210mm artillery rounds hidden in the back of a stolen vehicle, parked on the road near an American checkpoint.
SGT Patrick sits. James stands from the table, walks downstage aimlessly.
jonathan:
Tomorrow, buildings and roads, pipes and electrical wires, bandaging and suturing what’s already been forgotten.
Pause.
jonathan:
James! Priest! You got my lane, man! Stay with us now!!
mark:
Just scan your lane, James.
james:
Questions.
jonathan:
You gotta be my eyes, Priest. You got my lane.
James closes his eyes, then looks to Jonathan, who walks back to the table.
james:
Now, of course, questions must be asked. We’re going to have to talk about a great many things. So, where to begin? Begin again, shall we?
James follows slowly behind Jonathan, sneaking occasional glances at Ahmed.
jonathan:
The rainy season’s begun. Yesterday’s mud under today’s chair. You can’t go anywhere without constantly being reminded of the mud and sand you trudged through the day before. It tracks everywhere. Follows everywhere. It remembers your difficulties for you. Yesterday’s difficulty, and yesterday’s yesterday. Seventy pounds of body armor, boots and bullets will give you a good sink downwards.
James and Jonathan sit at the table. James’ attention goes to each person who speaks, as they are speaking for him.
jonathan:
I’m sitting now in front of a computer screen, writing reports about this morning’s interrogation. Ahmed. Got four brothers. I see them all quite regularly.
mark:
We must have sat there for over two hours. Words every few minutes. Mostly silence.
jonathan:
For weeks we’d been talking about his neighborhood and the Imam of the mosque closest to his family’s home. Reports from somewhere indicated he and his brothers had spent some time at a training camp in Afghanistan and had connections with a man called Ubaydi. Quranic texts in the house. The raid brought back lots of property to sift through. So, between the reports and stuff seized from the house, we plowed through a lot of questions. (Jonathan stands, walks toward Ahmed) Plowing and re-plowing. Like forging each day through all this mud. How many times did we circle these topics? Forge a path. Then nowhere. Forge again. Nowhere.
Jonathan and James look at each other.
james/jonathan:
But you do have something to fear, don’t you?
Pause.
james/jonathan:
Don’t you?
All turn rapidly to Ahmed.
all:
DON’T YOU!!!
jonathan:
You think this is going to be a procedure. You think this won’t matter. You think so many things from that seat, from that chair. Have you ever thought THIS, though? Have you ever thought that you are utterly inconsequential? Utterly beside the point? Of no concern? Have you ever thought THAT from that seat, from that chair? (Ahmed walks downstage, Jonathan speaks to the empty chair) Well, then let me assist you in comprehending that reality.
jonathan:
Had a dream.
ahmed:
A little boy standing alone in an attic. Mirrors all along the walls. Mirrors and photos. Some are familiar. There’s that sound – that wind. Like memory creeping through the dark. His face is dark and beautiful. It feels like familiarity but looks like something else. I touch my own face while tiny little fingertips touch the glassed walls. And I finally see him, like a prisoner. Alone with me. Wa dhahara fujatn amami. And suddenly he appeared before me. Dhahara. He appeared. Dhahur. An appearance. I called him Dhahur. Dhahur. Kul’esh yedh’huru b’wasatuhu: Dhahur. Everything appears through him: Dhahur. Dhahur.
Simultaneously.
james:
Et verbum caro factum est.
mark/sgt patrick:
(And the word was made flesh.)
SGT Patrick jumps from his chair.
sgt patrick:
Lock and load!!
James pulls back the charging handle, locking and loading his M16, moves quickly toward and aims it at Dhahur, who is startled.
dhahur:
Ma uheb eslihat. (“I don’t like guns.”)
James begins to lower his M16.
james:
I don’t like guns either. I’m sorry. What are you doing here, little boy?
Dhahur has taken off running about on stage like he is an airplane, not concerned with James.
james:
Do you understand me, little boy? Ma tefta-hemani? (“Don’t you understand me?”)
dhahur:
I understand you fine. You can just speak our language.
Dhahur continues running like an airplane, sits in the interrogation cell. James turns to Mark at the table, walks toward him.
james:
You know, I was thinking about you the other day. I don’t know what brought it up. Just happened, I guess. Sometimes I’m here, sometimes there. Everyone goes through it, I suppose. Forget where you are. Or maybe when or why you are. It was never really the “who” that bothered me. Guess I’ve taken it in stride. For granted. All the who’s are me. But, it’s hard to keep them straight. Each one, at each place, at each time. But you. I was thinking about you, and I wanted you to know that.
James faces Ahmed, walks to the interrogation cell.
james:
You don’t seem very appreciative. I’m being quite forthright with you. Most people don’t offer the courtesy and erudition of telling you in advance they believe you are of no consequence. Well, I HAVE told you. So, you should be thankful I’m not coyly attempting to subvert your sensibilities. We’ve made a contract now. A bilateral collaborative pact. Like a business venture. You should be glad to be conducting commerce. Especially from where you sit. (Beat) Not to worry. It was a bit of a shock when I first discovered commodification. People, places, desires even. Just make an agreement, sign a contract. Anything can be commodified.
James returns to the table, addresses Mark again. Mark and James reach hands briefly toward each other then retract.
james:
I wanted to call, but I didn’t. We’d just come back from convoy. Weapons qualification at BIAP. Back sore as always, the body armor and combat load of rounds. When we came back, I went straight for my bed. To sit. To take everything off and lie down. (Closes the laptop and then takes the magazine out of the M16) But then I decided to empty out my rifle rounds and let the springs of my magazines relax. Take inventory. I wanted to remind myself that I had not fired any rounds. Wanted to make sure I still had 210 of them. 210. Saw something through my sites this time. Something terrible. (Looks to Dhahur) Beautiful. I wish I could tell you about it. I wish I could tell you everything.
SGT Patrick stands, moves to James. James puts the magazine of rounds clumsily back in the M16.
sgt patrick:
Specialist Roberts! Are you with me? Specialist Roberts, do you follow?
james:
I’m sorry, Sergeant?
sgt patrick:
Do you remember how this works? We’re third in the convoy. Just like the ride here. Don’t lock your weapon till we clear the perimeter. You’re on driver’s side, so you’ll have to cover Jonathan’s window, too. Get a good position so you can fully scan the lane.
james:
Roger, Sergeant.
sgt patrick:
Don’t fire until you have to defend yourself or the convoy, but if anyone or anything gets close, be ready. Keep your eyes out for anything irregular, too.
SGT Patrick sits.
james:
Roger, Sergeant.
mark:
Relax, man. Just a 20 minute ride. Hyde Park to Wrigley Field – but no cars, and a 50 cal.!
Pause.
james:
The parched desert air wraps around your face and hands like a stale blanket. You can’t quite let it cover you entirely. You mustn’t let names appear. Where, my friends, are words between walls of stone and steel? The distance between you and me seems lost.
SGT Patrick moves downstage.
sgt patrick:
Exploit the greatest amount of intelligence in the least amount of time. That is the textbook definition of interrogation.
SGT Patrick sits again. James looks to Ahmed, then resumes interrogating him.
james:
Exploit the greatest amount of intelligence in the least amount of time. That’s a clever word – exploit. I’m not supposed to tell you these kinds of things. Not supposed to tell you you’re being interrogated, for that matter, let alone the government’s definition for what it is! But, in the spirit of candor and bilateralism, I thought you might find the information useful. Perhaps you’d like to give me the most amount of intelligence in the least amount of time. Get back to your home, your family. (Pause)
Jonathan stands, walks toward James, who is walking back to the table. Jonathan and James meet halfway, exchange an embrace. Jonathan takes over the interrogation.
jonathan:
Exploit. I never cared much for that “least amount of time” bullshit. Never really paid it mind. You have to be an artist in this profession. Exterior constraints create exterior results. Quality not quantity, though! Not like when the generals would give us quotas to meet weekly. “10 reports per week!” they’d bellow. (Picking up pace again) So you can stand before the House Appropriations Committee with “statistics” to get more gadgets we don’t need? Hey, fuck you! Get your own damn reports, and keep the fucking jumbo screens. We have a job to do! We’re after things that matter, not your damned statistics! Where are the explosives? Who are the key figures of Islamic Jihad and Al Qaida? Doctrines don’t get results. You have to be pliable, shifty, go where the spirit leads.
SGT Patrick stands.
sgt patrick:
Attention to orders!
James stands to attention.
sgt patrick:
By authority of AR 600‑8‑19, Private First Class Jameson J. Roberts is hereby promoted to the rank of Specialist. Effective date. 29 May 2002. Robert M. Harris. Captain. M.I. Commanding.
Jonathan pins Specialist rank on James, pounds his fists lightly on the rank. James looks to Ahmed.
sgt patrick:
You are hereby reassigned to the Joint Interrogation and Debriefing Center, Abu Ghraib, Iraq. 14 June 2004. Not to exceed 365 days, unless so directed by commander of operations, Operation Iraqi Freedom.
Jonathan pins a medal on James, then sits again.
sgt patrick:
Specialist James J. Roberts is awarded The Joint Services Award Medal, for the loyalty and valor of actions above and beyond the call of duty.
Jonathan sits, James remains briefly at the position of attention, then sits at the table. Mark passes beers to the others at the table.
jonathan:
Sing along, James! We’re home, man. Unwind! We’re a fucking ocean away from Iraq!
james:
There’s only so much I can handle singing songs that mock my upbringing, Jonathan.
mark:
C’mon, Priest!
jonathan:
Thaaaaaa . . . Lord said to Noah, there’s gonna be a floody floody . . .
Mark and SGT Patrick join in.
mark/jonathan:
The Lord said to Noah, there’s gonna be a floody floody . . .
Mark and Jonathan continue singing this Sunday school song a moment.
mark:
Hey, James! Where’s that Joint Services Award Medal? Captain didn’t pin me!
jonathan:
What a sham!
james:
It’s right here. You want it? I can’t bear to look at it.
James tosses the medal across the table to Mark.
jonathan:
You melodram!
mark:
I wouldn’t want it either, man. Hey, let’s pin it on Mr. President! I’ll go get him.
Mark and Jonathan run to Ahmed, drag him downstage center. James grabs the M16.
jonathan:
At-tehhhhn-tion!!
All move to the position of attention, rendering salutes to the President. SGT Patrick starts walking upstage.
mark:
For sending us to a land they can’t pronounce in Crawford. For making us do shit you wouldn’t make your Mexican gardener do. For giving us awards as meaningless as your National Guard tour! Mr. President, we give you this worthless scrap of metal. A medal. James!! Speech!!
jonathan:
C’mon, Priest!! Speech, Holy Father!!
SGT Patrick smashes a trash bin to the ground. Mark, Jonathan and James dive to the ground. Then they all get up, dust themselves off, begin sitting again at the table.
jonathan:
God. When is that going to stop happening? How long have we been back?
mark:
We’re in Georgia for crying out loud! Someone tell the trash guys to stop crashing down the bins when we’re drinking!
Mark staggers across stage to the table, picks up an orange “restricted personnel” hat and bottle of vodka.
james:
Mark, what are you doing?
mark:
Reclaiming my property.
james:
You know I’m not going to let you walk out with that.
mark:
You know, James, you can be a real asshole sometimes.
Drinks the vodka.
james:
It’s your ass on the line, showing up to formation in your state. Can smell it through your skin. It’s YOUR dishonorable discharge.
mark:
Yeah, but I’ll be outta this damn place.
james:
(Turning away from Mark)
Will you?
Drinks the vodka again.
james:
Hey! What’d I tell you!!?
mark:
Relax.
James is turned away from Mark again. Mark pours the vodka over James.
james:
HEY!!
James pushes Mark away, tackles him. Mark drops the vodka, James pulls Mark downstage, straddled over him.
mark:
What the fuck is wrong with you, man?!
james:
I’m just trying to help you! I don’t want them to screw you over . . . over this (Motions to the bottle). I want you to get out, get your medical discharge.
Mark throws his hat at James, which falls to the floor. They begin to get up.
mark:
Oh, my medical discharge. That’s why you’ve taken such an interest. (Pause) Why didn’t you baptize me? The other day.
james:
What?
mark:
Why didn’t you baptize me? That day in the bathroom.
james:
I don’t have the authority to baptize.
mark:
Really. I don’t think that’s the reason.
james:
Really.
mark:
Don’t have the authority? I think you don’t believe it would do me any good. To be baptized.
james:
You have to mean it!
mark:
I DO mean it!
james:
No you don’t!
mark:
I DO MEAN IT. (Beat) Do it now.
james:
What?
mark:
Do it now! With the vodka! Baptize me!! Baptize me and absolve me of my sins, Holy Father!
Mark runs after the bottle, then back to James, kneels before him as a penitent in confession. Reluctantly, James takes the bottle of vodka.
mark:
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have never confessed.
james:
Goddamn it, I can’t do this, Mark!
mark:
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have never confessed.
James hands the bottle to SGT Patrick, who places it back on the table.
Simultaneously.
james:
Munda cor meum ac labia mea. Judica me, Deus, et clamor meus ad te veniat.
jonathan:
(Cleanse my heart and my lips. Judge me, O God, and let my cry come unto thee.)
ahmed:
(Uaa’bdu rbkoom . . . li’aal’lkoom tataqoon – Surah 2:21)
James walks center stage, picks up Mark’s hat, places it on the table, then walks back again to center stage, as Dhahur stands, walks to the table and exchanges looks with Jonathan and Mark. James peers offstage as if seeing a ghost.
james:
Who’s there?
Dhahur walks to James, stands directly in front of him. James does not see him.
dhahur:
Do you believe that people who kill themselves go to Heaven?
james:
What are you doing here?
dhahur:
I heard that suicide is unforgivable.
james:
What are you doing here?
dhahur:
Can’t be forgiven.
james:
Where did you hear that?
dhahur:
Mosque.
james:
I heard that, too.
dhahur:
So, it’s true?
james:
I don’t know.
dhahur:
Someone told me that really bad people can say they’re sorry right before they die and still go to Heaven.
james:
I heard that, too.
dhahur:
So, it’s true.
james:
I don’t know.
dhahur:
What do you know?
james:
That you were never to be here. We were not to be meeting like this.
dhahur:
You can’t have everything you want.
Dhahur sits again in the interrogation cell.
james:
Hail, Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Pause.
james:
My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God, my Savior. For He hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden. For, behold, from henceforth, all generations shall call me blessed. (Pause) I can’t hear the explosions any longer. I can’t smell the fumes, the constant humming of machines. (Turns toward Mark) Holy, Mary, Mother of God. Pray for us, sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
James sits downstage center, Jonathan crosses downstage, sits next to James.
jonathan:
James.
james:
Why didn’t he wait for . . . ?
jonathan:
You know, he had quite a party planned for when we came back. Never decided on the time or place, but he’d tell me about it. He’d tell me stories of fishing on the Columbia. The first time his dad declared he’d become a man. Some, like, ten plus pound fish he’d caught. I can’t quite remember, exactly. Mark left the fish in the sink, and when his dad came home, saw the fish and started yelling throughout the house, “The boy’s become a man!! The boy’s become a man!!” He’d tell me about the turning of the leaves, and visiting our cliff. Oregon between my fingers, wood smoke in my teeth. I wanted to be there with him again. I thought that I was the one alone.
james:
We were so proud, he and I. So many ideas. You know, sometimes he’d start off his letters to me . . .
mark:
(Singing, as to the Bob Dylan song, “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”)
My blue-eyed son.
james:
At first I found it condescending. But, he could see things about me I couldn’t. I wanted him to find me a way.
Mark moves downstage between Jonathan and James. James, Jonathan and SGT Patrick assume stances of shame, heads in their laps.
mark:
The water was just above freezing. Most don’t know the desert at night. The sun is all there is. When the sun goes down . . . the machines pushed further. Body temperature falling. Falling. I was there to see them go down. Down. We made them float in that cold. Then the instruments would penetrate. Precisely in the way they feared. Like the violence of the winter Pacific. Carving away at the rocks. Carving into the body. The land. Always the groans. Then bleeding. But the instruments made it okay. The doctors said it was okay. I said it was okay. Then the water. Pour again the water.
jonathan:
I allowed him to fall. I showed him the edge.
mark:
I knew the answer but I asked anyway. His skin rigid. Recoiling into itself. His tongue already bleeding from teeth gone epileptic. “Pour again!” they’d yell. “Ever swim in the winter Pacific?” Hypothermia keeps you alive. The body’s instinct to increase respiration alters. 95 degrees F. Everything slows. The heart. The kidneys. The liver. You only think you’re dying because of the daggers . . . Pour again!! . . . Turn down the dial!! . . . The daggers tearing your nerves from your flesh. Then nothing. The pain reminding you you’re still alive . . . gone. 91.4 degrees F. Fuck him again! Pour again! We won’t let you die. The pain won’t remind you. I will. You won’t pass 86 degrees. Feel this! Fuck him again!! Make sure he’s above 86. Over six breaths per minute? Fuck him again!! Make sure!! Gotta make sure you’re still alive. President says the organs can’t fail. No involuntary defecation. We gotta make sure. Fuck him again!! Ever swim in the winter Pacific? Wake him back up! You feel that? Your nerves beginning to tear through your skin and flesh again? Lungs trying to suck in more oxygen than your slowed heart can handle? I’ll bring you down, then raise you up. Make sure you always feel. Fuck him again! Feel that? You don’t get to go numb. Not like in the winter Pacific. Let him rise. Let his nerves once again stab through his skin. You don’t need knives and needles when you’ve a manufactured freeze. Fuck him again!! Like a baby. FUCK. HIM. AGAIN. AGAIN!!!
jonathan:
I took him to the hospital. Hallucinations. Voices. The VA stripped him. Put him in a gown. The kind that leaves you exposed. I left him there. He was alone in a room for five hours waiting. No one came. He gathered his clothes and left. No one even noticed he’d gone. I found him outside sitting fetal on the curb. Five hours. Five hours. The doctors didn’t leave him. I left him.
SGT Patrick jumps to his feet.
sgt patrick:
Mount up!!
Jonathan, James, Mark and SGT Patrick all move into firing positions.
james:
You shoot to kill. (Beat) My first armored convoy ride was the most vigilant twenty minutes of my life. Pain crouching your joints into positions unfamiliar. You stay at the ready, barrel pointed outward. Finger at the ready, eyes fixed on the horizon. On rooftops. On roadside. You don’t dare adjust positions, for fear you’ll forget your field of vision. It hurts and you let it. Sweat fills your uniform, bleeds through your body armor, but you don’t dare skip a stare. For twenty minutes. (Pause) You don’t remember out there. You don’t think. And it’s not like foolishness or even forgetfulness. It’s complete void.
Jonathan, James, Mark and SGT Patrick lower weapons, they are now in Oregon approaching a cliff.
sgt patrick:
James! Slow down! We can’t keep up!
James looks across stage to Mark.
james:
We never finished our conversation. And now the topic’s changed. You were right over here. The tree stump from the overpass fell right there. Do you remember trying to use it as firewood? (Jonathan walks to James, they embrace) We tried for so long that the tide caught us off guard. We turned it into a card table. So many times we could have died, and you . . . our cliff. So many times we could have. I should have.
Mark indicates the edge of the cliff, which is a ways off yet. They all run to the cliff, tossing a football to each other.
mark:
This way!
jonathan:
C’mon, James, don’t slow down now, you’re supposed to be the fit one!
mark:
Out to that point. Out there.
james:
Once the sun’s down, we’ll have to retrace our steps in the dark.
mark:
You won’t believe the waters out there. Drop-off’s a good hundred feet, but we’ll all be feeling the spray.
james:
Is it safe? The Pacific this time of year?
mark:
Come find out!
Mark runs away, stops at the stage’s edge. James turns to Jonathan.
james:
He’s down there, isn’t he?
James collapses to all fours, peers over the edge. Jonathan sits at the table.
james:
You’re down there, aren’t you Mark?! You got your baptism at last. (Looks to Mark) Your peace. Your final opus. (Beat) Your first. I couldn’t, Mark! You, above all, saw that. You saw that! Who I was. (Beat) Who was there for you? Who was there, Mark? You wouldn’t wait. I’ll hear you now, Mark. I’ll hear you! But, it should have been me! I got it wrong! (Stands, yells to the back row) I want to make a confession, Mark. And I want you to hear me!
Jonathan stands, walks downstage. Mark walks toward Ahmed, takes off his shirt and kneels. Ahmed pours water into a bowl and begins to wash Mark with a washcloth. James turns his back on both Mark and Jonathan.
jonathan:
You know, soldiers were once required to refrain from the Eucharist after returning from war. To digest their sins. Sometimes an entire year. The church still saw something requiring of penance. It wasn’t condemnation. But restoration.
mark:
And the monks helped them pray.
James turns, walks down to Jonathan.
james:
Pray for what? For absolution! Forgiveness! I went to a confessional. Where did Mark go? Who helped him pray?!
James takes off his shirt and Army top and rosary. Lays prostrate cruciform, as a priest receiving Holy Orders. Mark puts his shirt back on and sits at the table. Ahmed washes James.
jonathan:
When I crossed the border, an 18‑year-old from Corvallis checked me through. We’d gone to the same high school. Worked summers in the same fields. It took me a moment to realize I was actually crossing into a combat zone. I don’t remember his name, but I was mesmerized. Watching him. Staring at him. Hair, skin and voice like mine. Then it was roads and untilled fields. Like the ones we’d worked back home. But dry, desolate. I wanted to push my hands down into the soil. Breathe life back into the land. But then I was serving coffee to generals. Talking to prisoners. The land and that boy on the other side of compound walls and concertina wire. All I can remember now are his eyes. Not his hair. Not his skin. His voice like mine. Just his eyes, looking to me like home. I searched for him when we left. We crossed exactly the same place on the border, but he wasn’t there. Flew through Shannon. My first time to Ireland. My family comes from Galway. The sky through glass, melancholy, but warm. I wanted to feel the earth. Feel the soil. Everything outside, green. But I was on the inside, looking out. Almost like I wasn’t there. It was always like a film, like a silent film waiting for words. For music. Something to bring life to the land. Break the glass and stand in the sunlight. Whenever I remember, that’s what I try to remember. (Taps James on the back) When do you dare remember?
James picks up to his knees, puts his shirt and rosary back on, holds his Army top in his hands.
james:
When I’m tired of distraction. (Beat) An Army psychiatrist asked if I take shots, vodka or something, to get up in the morning. After I replied “No,” I guess he concluded I wasn’t disturbed. Asked me what symptoms of psychological disorders I’ve been experiencing. Like someone with a disorder is supposed to know their own symptoms! Isn’t that his job? I guess I passed his test. Army can’t break up with me first.
James walks back to the table, places his Army top on his chair. Mark stands.
mark:
The first day of the rainy season, eight Marines died. I was writing a letter and I heard an explosion not far outside the prison. I felt the air inside my ears shake. And my fingers, the rumble of my desk. I could feel the explosion throughout my entire body. You simply know when someone has died. I had to stop writing. Wasn’t able to see any of the explosion, but my concentration was lost. That’s how I feel now. Something invisible is still dying, killing or being killed.
Ahmed moves the interrogation cell downstage, resetting his prayer mat and beads next to his chair. Mark sits.
ahmed:
159295. I wasn’t supposed to know things like that. Secret information. The names they gave us, which only they called us. I had four other brothers arrested with me. Five bread winners from one home. All accused of the same crimes. My wife and children, living in the same house as my brothers, their wives, their children. All of us. (Beat) I saw him on a regular basis. I remember everything about him. His face, his smell, his voice. Nothing has left me. I remember it all. When I looked at him, I knew he saw himself. It was in his eyes. His wavering eyes, looking for something to believe. Something to find. They were all so young. Almost as young as my children. Never seen life’s violence. Not until they saw me. I wasn’t the only one he remembered . . . I have a brother, Khalil. They were the same age, both loved poetry and films. Khalil answered him with the only demeanor we could tolerate . . . Khalil told him about being held up in traffic one day because a US tank drove over a car, three in front of his. Khalil had told me also. The people inside. He told me he could see them while it . . . Khalil said the soldier had tried to teach him how to lie. Just so he could write something in a report. A report to release Khalil. But Khalil wouldn’t do it. Khalil would never have done it. Not for them. Not even for himself. He had nothing to lie about. Nothing.
Ahmed sits. James begins walking center stage.
james:
I’d lay in bed sometimes with my prayer book on my chest, wishing the desire to open it would come. Wishing for some sort of prayer. The muezzins called men to piety. The priests prayed absolution. I couldn’t recognize my own voice. Now I don’t know if the comfort I feel from prayer is something I have to confess also. (To Ahmed) Won’t you sit with me, at least a little?
Ahmed sits at the table, opposite James.
jonathan:
When I heard about Mark, I was driving alone along the Interstate. I’d just seen him. Stopped at the first motel I came across, and just sat in my truck the rest of the day. Didn’t want to drive, because I didn’t want to be in control. I wanted someone else to take over for a while. Couldn’t decide if I was sad or irate. And I simply froze. I didn’t even get a room, I just sat there in the parking lot. Half of me wanted the sun to go down, so that no one would have to see me there. The other half wanted to be found.
james:
You feel guilty for surviving him.
Jonathan shrugs.
james:
Now that I’m back, I feel so petty. The guys still try to make it make sense. They go on somehow. Find new meaning. I was afraid to come home. Now I’m afraid to be at home.
James picks up the cigarettes, motions to Ahmed.
james:
Cigarette? No, of course you don’t. How easily I forget things like months.
Jonathan walks to the perimeter of the stage, motions as if shutting off the lights. Ahmed turns his chair around to face the audience. Blackout. James plugs in the standing interrogation lamp, approaches Ahmed with the light just above the ground.
james:
Holy months even. You really lose track of time out here, though. Or, “in here” (Thrusts the lamp upwardly in front of Ahmed, as if taking the rectal temperature of the darkened space, then runs the lamp along the contour of Ahmed’s body), as it is for you – or I, for that matter. If it wasn’t for the regularly scheduled briefings and such – where we discuss things like the art of exploitation – I’d forget things like “today” entirely. Forget there are things like a “today.” How much longer till you can have one? Till dusk. Few hours? All of you smoke, so don’t play pious with me. Holy month or no holy month, times like these are simply here to make us believe we have a spiritual constitution other than what we drink, smoke and screw the other 48 weeks of the year! Am I right? (Silence) It’s what I thought. (Waves the lamp across, in front of, the audience) Everybody’s gotta feel pious, feel connected to God. Even out here. Raise my hands, thank God for my safety. Walk my happy little ass into Catholic Mass, (Stands cruciform with the lamp outstretched in one hand) take the body and blood of Christ into my mouth, then come back here and spend all my waking hours using that same mouth with you. (Silence) Peace and justice. Peace and justice. Purity and piety. For one fucking month out of a year! Is life really so (Slowly lowering the lamp just above Ahmed’s genitals) fragile and ridiculous that we need an entire month to convince ourselves we’re anything other than what we are? Isn’t that what vodka is for?
James turns, sets the lamp upstage center, stands with his back to the audience. Ahmed stands, moves downstage.
ahmed:
I had learned of war before he had learned to speak. The war with Iran began September 22nd 1980. He was still on his mother’s breast. I oversaw the installation of cameras on aircraft. I was an officer. A graduate of the military institute. My family was proud. I was an honorable man. An honorable man. No one knew of chemical weapons. What came upon the Kurds. I did my job with honor. (Pause) I was sent to prison for failing to report a man who spoke badly of Saddam Hussein. I did not fail. I refused. Words were overheard. But I looked after my men. For this, I went to prison. Eight months. I was tortured. Kept in solitary confinement. Deprived of sunlight. For eight months. When released, I was stripped of rank, stripped of my men. After the war I was discharged dishonorably. I returned to my family, forced to begin again. Three years later the first war with America began. Our factories, dams, communications and electrical plants were destroyed. We were left with four percent of our electricity production. Four percent. I began to use my car as a taxi, as did many. A taxi! A specialist trained to lead men. A taxi! My brother Jalal’s house was destroyed also. By a precision-guided bomb. This is when my family came to live with me. We stayed together. All of us. 23 of us. I cared for my father, helped my youngest brothers, Khalil and Ibrahim, go to school. To university. Khalil was a very gifted student. Far more gifted than myself. Despite my ruined reputation, Khalil earned a scholarship. To go to England. To study literature. Literature of all things! I was never this gifted. Not like Khalil. But the second war began. Khalil was not allowed out of the country. He had never even left Baghdad. The Americans accused all of us for having been to a camp, a training camp, in Afghanistan. I had only ever been to Jordan. Once only for a wedding. Never to Afghanistan. Never Syria. Never Yemen. To these camps. A wedding in Jordan. I had never seen such beauty. The trees. Like in Lebanon, I am told. Khalil was found with poetry. Poetry! A poet from Fallujah writing of freedom for Iraq. Freedom from occupation. Freedom from borders. The soldiers came at night. Explosions upon the rooftop, then men through the doors and windows. Jalal’s leg was broken. The women and children kept in the house, guns pointed at them. My wife was in her sleeping gown. She was uncovered. My brothers and me, brought outside. And my father. Who could not walk. Forced outside. Hoods were placed over our heads. It was not until much later, I discovered my father had not been taken. I have not seen my wife for five months. I know of no man named Ubaydi. I am of the Jumaili tribe.
James turns, continues interrogating.
james:
Exploit intelligence. Exploit intelligence. Enough diatribe. (Calm, but rapid) You. I’ve read plenty about you. Where you’re from. Family and profession. Four brothers. Hassan, Ibrahim, Jalal, and Khalil. I talk to each of them at least weekly. Going on, what, five months now? Five months talking about you, your four brothers, the cameras you used to install on reconnaissance planes during the Iranian War, and . . . uh . . . Mohammed Hasan al Ubaydi! His name has come up plenty. What he’s doing. How you and your brothers know him. No – I know you say you don’t know him. Nobody seems to know Mr. Ubaydi, even ex‑professionals such as yourself who used to be Majors or Colonels in the military, but now are simply working as taxi drivers but haven’t thought about using your skills to elevate your estate during a time of war. (Beat) Nope. Nobody seems to know Mr. Ubaydi. Nobody knows. I don’t know him!
Jonathan takes over interrogation, James is taken off-guard, stands silently listening to Jonathan harass Ahmed.
jonathan:
Even asked you on the polygraph (Beat) which didn’t seem to matter much. But, boy do the generals love their polygraphs. Like a word from God, to them. “Don’t pass your polygraph, well then you’re gonna spend a nice long stay in camp Abu Ghraib!” is what we were told to tell people like you. Hassan and Ibrahim passed theirs. But not Major Ahmed. Nor his little brother, Khalil. I told you, as I’ve told you, I am here for the long haul. This is not a procedure. Hathahe laysat la’uba. I am a tactical exploiter and I will have my report. I will meet my quota.
Mark joins Jonathan. James continues to sink into himself, hearing his words spoken by his friends.
mark:
You know, though – I can’t believe I’m telling you this – but the human source, the source that took the photos and told us all about you, your brothers’ little ring, and Mr. Ubaydi. I found out yesterday that we don’t even know if he’s alive any longer. No, honestly, in another one of those general’s briefings, I asked: “Hey, General so‑and-so, what’s being done about tracking our human sources, so that we can test their reliability and ask further questions during the interrogation process?” You won’t believe it – well, maybe you will, oh well – but anyway, he told me about some electronic database I guess he and the entire Pentagon thinks exists, and that I have access to. So, I go to my OIC and ask him if the general understood my question and Chief tells me that the Pentagon somehow believes I have access to all this information stored up in some database that, honest to God, simply doesn’t exist. It doesn’t exist, Major.
jonathan:
Chief said he’s looked into it so many times only to hear generals talk about something that maybe the Mad Hatter uses down in Alice’s Wonderland, that he just gave up trying. So, yeah, for all I know, the dude we paid to collect info on you and your brothers coulda taken his cash and ran for the Syrian border. Or, maybe, like you said a few months ago, he came back to your house – which now doesn’t have any male breadwinners – and decided to blackmail your family, offering your early release in exchange for more cash.
mark:
Now THAT is an interesting – since we’re on the topic of markets and bilateralism – one hell of an interesting take on the notion of exchange! Put some guys IN jail, get paid for it, then go right back and blackmail the family for more cash, telling ’em you’ll get their loved ones back OUT of jail. (Leaning on table) C’mon, Major, even you can’t deny that! (Sits) Imagination has done quite a bit for US intelligence collection and Iraq’s burgeoning market economy. Imaginary reports and databases. Imaginary people. General’s briefings with the Cheshire Cat.
James raises his hands gently to stop Mark and Jonathan. Mark and Jonathan become still, James slowly reaches for a chair, tenuously moving toward Ahmed.
james:
You know I never even asked you how you were. After yesterday’s attack and all. Less than a football field away from where I slept. I was shaving at the time, then gunfire erupts from all the guard towers exactly adjacent to where I was standing. I ran back to my room and hear bullets streak down a corridor – or, outside, but within our compound even. Then, the fourth of July explodes just outside the prison walls on a dirt service road. Somebody’d driven a truck around the perimeter fence, loaded it full of explosives trying to ram a hole in the wall. ‘Bout same time as the mortars dropped. Probably not far from your tent. (Pause) Well, the Marines took him out with machine guns and automatic grenade launchers in what was barely even minutes. Probably’d been a well-orchestrated plan of attack, months in the making. The call to prayer had even seemed a little late that morning. Well, I’m probably making that part up, but it did seem out of place, a signal perhaps. But, the Marines . . . (Shaking head) Interlocking fire and automatically launched grenades at a cyclic rate of 325 to 375 rounds – grenades – per minute. Kaput. Khalus. I finished shaving, and came to work. Interrogated Khalil, actually. Don’t remember what we talked about. (Sits) We sit so close, you and me. Me and the Major. Me and the Major. And we’ll just go round and round. Round and round. Smoke and joke and play and pray. Tell ourselves we’ll win the day. Don’t you love, Major, the songs we can sing? How we can make ourselves believe in rabbit holes and wonderlands and all sorts of great, big ideas that never make us change.
Pause.
mark:
And the word was made flesh.
James turns to Mark, stands and moves to touch his face. Looks then to Jonathan, walks to him and touches his face and arm. Ahmed becomes Dhahur, sitting like a child in the interrogation chair.
dhahur:
Change.
james:
What are you doing here? I was talking to Major Ahmed Sulayman al Jumaili. 159295. What are you doing here, and where did 295 go?!!
Dhahur is silent, waiting.
dhahur:
James.
james:
(Stepping away from Dhahur)
The desert air wraps around your . . . (Moving toward Mark) And everyone must have a face and a . . . (Moving toward Jonathan) Everyone must have a face and a name.
dhahur:
You see my face. What is my name? (Pause) What is my name, James? James, What is my name?
james:
Your face.
james:
Transparent like . . . (Moving toward Dhahur) And you sat . . .
dhahur:
I remember how I sat.
james:
Yes, of course you do. But . . . (Moving toward Mark) And I remember your eyes. (Touching Mark’s eyes and face) Soft and malleable. You wanted to tell me a secret.
dhahur:
James.
james:
A secret about myself. Something I could only hear from you. It had to be from without . . . (Holding Mark’s hands)
dhahur:
James.
james:
. . . Without my hands. My words, they were mine. But it had to be like a gift. (Returning Mark’s hands to him) Something I could not control. My prisoner.
dhahur:
Speak as you wish, the words they are yours.
James walks back toward Dhahur, speaking to him, to Mark, to the audience, to himself.
james:
I could speak as I wished, but the words they were yours! I don’t understand. Please, tell me why you are here.
dhahur:
I’m here to speak.
james:
No. Why?
dhahur:
To answer your questions.
james:
(Hitting his fists to his head) I DON’T WANT TO ASK QUESTIONS ANYMORE!
Silence. Mark taps James on the shoulder.
mark:
I’m here to show you my face, James. Let you see it from within.
james:
No!
James shoves Mark away, runs to the table, grabs the vodka bottle, begins pouring the vodka over his hands, wiping his hands on his shirt and trousers.
james:
Not here, not now. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I’m not ready to see you like this.
Moves downstage, disintegrating.
james:
There has to be a way. Just let me wash my hands. Let me wash my hands!!
James begins speaking rapidly, mostly to himself while Mark and Ahmed speak over him simultaneously.
james:
Lavabo inter innocents manus meas: et circumdabo altare tuum, Domine.
mark:
(I will wash my hands among the innocent: and will compass Thine altar, O Lord.)
dhahur:
The parched desert air wraps around your face and hands like a stale blanket, James.
james:
Lavabo inter innocents manus meas: et circumdabo altare tuum, Domine.
mark:
(I will wash my hands among the innocent: and will compass Thine altar, O Lord.)
dhahur:
It’s in the desert where he lives. James, take off your shoes. Let the wind into your lungs. Simply breathe it in.
James lunges toward Dhahur, yet still at the table, his hands upon the M16.
james:
You were at the end of a gun. In my handcuffs. Across my table. All of this. From the very beginning.
ahmed:
And when you’re ready, begin again. Ask me your questions till they’re done. Till there’s nothing left to ask.
james:
But, I didn’t have any questions! Not those questions. Isn’t that obvious? I was doing a job. Just doing a job.
James starts fumbling through the contents of the table, looking for rifle rounds, counting them, putting them into their cases. Dhahur moves toward James.
dhahur:
What are you doing, James?
james:
(Evading Dhahur) Of course questions must be asked.
dhahur:
James? James, what are you doing?
james:
If you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve nothing to fear.
dhahur:
James?
james:
Nothing to hide.
dhahur:
James?
James grabs Dhahur by the shoulders, forces him to stand center stage.
james:
STOP!!!
Everyone freezes.
james:
Now tell. (Snatches Dhahur’s hat from his head, shoves it in Dhahur’s pocket, forcing him to become Ahmed again) Tell!!
Jonathan walks toward the interrogation cell, eventually sitting in Ahmed’s chair.
ahmed:
Khalil. They took him into a metal shipping container. No tables or chairs. Just a metal loop in the center on the floor. With ankle and hand cuffs chained to the metal ring. Two air conditioning units, one on each side of the chains. Everything dark. They stripped him to skin, chained him to the floor. One poured the water over his body. Another controlled the music. Another the machines. Then his temperature taken. Rectal temperature. Like newborns. First the water. Then the air. Then the lights. From every corner. Ricocheting from every corner. His backside, raised in the air. Hands cuffed to the floor. Body temperature taken from behind. Repeatedly. Repeatedly. Have to, they say. Medical precaution, they say. For his good, they say. Water poured every ten minutes. Invasion every ten mintues. The temperature dropping. Music pulsating. I knew all of this. Not only from Khalil. Nothing they used was new. Everything learned from those who came before. Saddam. English in Northern Ireland. French in Algeria. Can’t leave marks. Others had gone before them. Each with a mentor.
james:
Nothing to hide. You!
James points at Jonathan, rushes toward him.
james:
Tell!
jonathan:
I had barely been back weeks –
james:
– No, where?!! Where were you?! Just like him! Tell just like him!
James is standing frozen center stage, shivering, weeping.
jonathan:
They asked for my pictures, my patches. At home. Corvallis. Said they wanted to honor me. What I’d done. It was just like in the Army. Like the awards ceremonies where we’d get pinned with new medals. By colonels and generals we’d never heard of. Medals for serving coffee and harassing taxi drivers. Said we were the best, led the way on the war on terror. I just wanted to shut everything out. They wanted us drunk on shiny medals on the rocks. We just wanted to be left alone. We can get drunk on our own. My family didn’t understand. Didn’t know how much an insult it was constantly to be congratulated. Forcing us to be proud. We had to be proud so that they could be proud of us. So they could wear their yellow ribbons. All those little . . . When Mark walked out of the awards ceremony, the last one, he said for us what none of us could. Didn’t know how to. When I finally made it home, all I wanted was to go back to the fields. But people. They wanted to know what it was like. What was it like? Imagine your best friend freezing in the winter Pacific. Remembering all he’d done, which he’d never fully tell you about. That’s what it’s like.
James has collapsed to the floor, wheezing, hands wrapped across his stomach, sitting fetal upon his knees. Dhahur approaches James, places a hand upon his shoulder.
dhahur:
James.
james:
Shut up! I’m not talking to you anymore!
dhahur:
But . . .
james:
Shut up!! You follow when you’re not invited. You talk to me like you speak my language. But you don’t! None of them did! They, you, were all one. Someone at the end of a gun. And duty put the gun in my hand. So don’t come after me talking like you know me. You don’t! It was a job. A function. I went where I was told. I asked what was asked of me. They weren’t MY questions. It wasn’t MY anger.
dhahur:
But they’re your feelings now, James.
james:
What’d I tell you?!
dhahur:
James, you can’t do this. It’s impossible.
James stands, pushes Dhahur backward.
james:
Shut up!! YOU are what’s impossible. What are you doing here? You aren’t even real.
dhahur:
You needed a face, James.
james:
I needed an alternative. These people you . . . Ahmed, my friends, the awards ceremony, the interrogation. They didn’t even happen that way.
dhahur:
Then why do you relive them so?
Pause.
james:
Because I happened that way!
Dhahur approaches James, kneels before him folding his hands as if to pray.
dhahur:
(mockingly)
In nominee Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.
james:
NO!! Those aren’t your words!!
James confusedly, aimlessly, walks to the table, picks up the M16.
dhahur:
Judica me, Deus, et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta: ab homine iniquo et doloso erue me.
james:
NO!!
James is backing away from Dhahur and the rest, to the farthest corner of the stage.
dhahur:
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have never confessed.
James’ eyes widen, then he starts again to weep.
dhahur:
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned! Bless me, Father, for I have sinned!
james:
You don’t know that!! You weren’t even there!! He was my friend. It was only his job. It was his DUTY!!
dhahur:
You don’t confess your duties, James. You confess your sins.
james:
Then why did he look to me for absolution? Why did he want to confess?
dhahur:
Why do YOU want to confess, James? It was just a duty.
james:
Because it was ME, damn it! These are my hands! My eyes! My lips! I still have carbon on my finger tips and dust in my clothing!!
dhahur:
Then what are you going to do about it?
James is huddled to the wall, back turned to everyone.
mark:
What are you going to do about it, James? You have to take charge of yourself, yourself.
dhahur:
James!
James bursts back toward Dhahur with an M16 held to his forehead.
james:
I’ll do as I please! But YOU! I told you to shut up!!
Dhahur walks on his knees downstage, James holds the M16 to his head.
james:
I remember you now. I remember you from the airport. Weapons qualification at BIAP. We were driving slowly outside the perimeter.
SGT Patrick jumps to his feet.
sgt patrick:
Specialist Roberts!!
james:
Yes, Sergeant!
sgt patrick:
Are you with me?
james:
Roger, Sergeant!
sgt patrick:
Don’t fire until you have to defend yourself or the convoy, but if anyone or anything gets close, be ready. Keep your eyes out for anything irregular, too.
james:
Keep your eyes out for anything irregular, too, he said. What the hell were you doing?
dhahur:
James –
james:
– Shut UP!! You couldn’t have been more than eight years old. And there were three of you. Dressed like Jesus. I saw you through the sites of my weapon. Little eyes. What were you doing? On the side of the road like that! 210 rounds. Not 209. 210! They were all there. ALL THERE! What were you . . . DON’T answer that! We NEVER wanted answers to questions. So SHUT UP!!! Just information for our needs. Not answers. Information. So, who the fuck are you to me?!! You’re a fucking kid that doctrine tells me I can run over if you get in the way of my convoy! It lets me. It’s the law. The LAW, you see! I don’t have to confess what the law tells me is okay. It’s not ME! It’s the law. A body of legislators. It’s THEIR hands that pointed steel at eight-year-olds. It’s THEIR command. But it’s MY memory. (Backing away, weeping) STOP LOOKING AT ME. STOP FOLLOWING ME. LET ME FORGET. LET ME FORGET. LET ME FORGET!!!!!
James can barely hold the weapon upright, his composure is completely lost.
dhahur:
Don’t forget, James. Let it hurt.
james:
(Stiffening his posture) Then YOU do it!
James stands Dhahur upright, turns the barrel upon himself.
james:
Do it. C’mon, do it! DO IT!!! (Kneels) Hoc est enim corpus meum!
Dhahur places his hands upon the weapon, takes it from James. Aims it at his forehead.
dhahur:
Is this what you want?
james:
Yes. Mark understood. If I can’t make it right, then I want it to end. I want to make amends, but I can’t. I don’t know how. Not when they’re still in prison. Can’t just be for me. But, with them! With you. You have to leave my mind and I have to gain back the power of my hands. I have to have ME back. And if that’s not possible, then simply annihilate me. What’s the point? I’m just a tool of duty. Of law. Exploited to exploit.
dhahur:
Is this what you want?
Mark walks to Dhahur, takes the rifle, presses it to James’ forehead.
mark:
Is this what you want?
james:
What?
mark:
Is this what you want?!
james:
I don’t understand. I don’t know how . . .
mark:
This is not what you want, James!!
james:
Then why did . . . ?
Mark pulls back the charging handle, one round flies out of the chamber, and he ejects the magazine from the weapon, which is now empty of rounds. James runs after the round, but cannot find it. Mark speaks as James simultaneously looks for the rifle round and Dhahur asks for a blessing.
mark:
I knelt upon the edge, looking over. I saw you behind me. Standing. Silent. Your mouth was quivering, and all I wanted was to hear you. Give me the same kindness you gave them. Hear you tell me it was okay. Tell me I was okay. The winds were so cold I thought my tears would freeze. And you simply stood there. Frozen. Jonathan would listen. But, you. I wanted you to say it was okay!!
james:
NO!! Not 209. 210.
dhahur:
(Softly) Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
james:
200, 201, 202, 203 . . . 209 . . .
dhahur:
(Softly) Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Mark walks back to James.
mark:
James. What are you looking for!
Mark runs to James, turns him on his back, restrains him, grabbing him by the shirt, exactly as James did to Mark when wrestling over the bottle of vodka.
james:
What?! What do you want?! What do you want from me?!
mark:
STOP!!
Mark and James both relax.
mark:
I want you to stop. Stop and listen. Just listen. Listen to us.
james:
Tell.
ahmed:
Hassan and Ibrahim were released shortly after their lie-detector tests. Khalil and I were kept for months. I don’t know why I was spared Khalil’s treatment. My father died. Ibrahim’s wife became pregnant. Our camps at the prison became overly crowded. Eventually I was released, despite the rule about failing polygraphs. Khalil has not been released. We don’t know if he is still at Abu Ghraib. Perhaps Bucca. Perhaps Guantanamo. No one knows for certain. For the first time in my life, yesterday, I met a man named Ubaydi. In my taxi. I had to apologize, for when I burst into laughter, he must have thought me quite rude. But my face quickly became pale. I did not tell him why. My wife, Yasmin, teaches our children now. Every day another bomb. Another raid. But the man who tried to blackmail my grandfather has not returned. Other men are disappearing, though. From other families. It continues. I stay close to mine now. My family, you see. Khalil will not return. I know this now. I returned to my family. My family is my country now.
jonathan:
Sarah was the only one to listen. She let me be quiet. As long as I needed. It must have been terrible for her. But she waited. That is all. It’s all I really needed. After I returned I knew I had to be still. For a long time. Just stand in the sunlight. Feel the earth. I didn’t need much, James. Just this much. We’re waiting now for you. Mark didn’t return, but we’ll wait for you.
mark:
When I crossed the edge, I left you behind. All of you. And I didn’t see them when the waters closed in around me. Not like I had thought. Their lips. Their teeth. It’s what I deserved. But. I didn’t see them. I’ve gone where you can’t follow. You can’t come this way. You can’t follow, but you can –
james:
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry . . .
Mark, Jonathan, SGT Patrick and Dhahur/Ahmed move slowly away from James. They begin putting the pictures and war paraphernalia into a footlocker. James helps them pack the footlocker, James locks the final latch. All move downstage into a line, addressing the audience.
dhahur:
You can’t really ask things like, “What was it like?”
sgt patrick:
Doesn’t matter.
jonathan:
You can’t come back to who you were.
mark:
You try to use what is familiar, what you can hold on to.
james:
But all must come to an end.
dhahur:
What was done.
sgt patrick:
Memories of what was done.
jonathan:
And everyone must have a face and a name.
mark:
The ground shakes in every land and love is a stranger in every town.
james:
The hours provide a space in which memories can have life.
dhahur:
And also sleep.
Blackout.
Joshua Casteel recently completed MFA degrees in playwriting and nonfiction from the University of Iowa. An eight-year veteran of the US Army, he served as an Army interrogator and Arabic linguist at Abu Ghraib prison from June 2004 to January 2005. Shortly thereafter, he was honorably discharged as a Conscientious Objector. On June 19, 2006 Casteel appeared on the stage of the Royal Court Theatre performing his solo-play The Interrogation Room for the Human Rights Watch Cries from the Heart, a bill which included Vaclav Havel, Harold Pinter, Tom Stoppard, and Jeremy Irons. The Interrogation Room was a 2007 MFA Theatre Masters National Finalist and was produced in May 2007 at the Atlantic Theatre in New York. Returns was first produced at the University of Iowa in February 2007 (directed by David Gothard of the Abbey Theatre, Dublin) and immediately thereafter at Columbia College (Chicago) and De Balie (Amsterdam). Returns was also produced at Princeton University in December 2007 as part of a “Politics and Theatre” forum at the Lewis Center for the Arts by Emily Mann of the McCarter Theatre, with the help of Paul Muldoon. Casteel was formerly a board member of Iraq Veterans Against the War. He lectures frequently on religious and political affairs, was commissioned by the British Council to contribute to the Council’s landmark diplomatic initiative, The Transatlantic Network 2020, and in March 2007 was invited to the Vatican to discuss Iraq, the Just War theory, and US defense policy with church officials, including Pope Benedict XVI.