The first sound at daylight is not that of pidgeons, roosters, or helicopters. It's not the cacophony of any sort of violence, although in this land those sounds have once bounced from the US grade bomb proof walls that encircle my living quarters. It's the sound of prayer. Ancient prayers that connect man to man and man to infinity and, with some grace, to infinite good.
I imagine these men facing east, but I can't see them, only hear their collective and melodic pleas. I can't see them because if there was not the need for the US grade bomb proof wall which I can't see over, there would not be a need for my ears to be here in the first place.
Meanwhile, I'm not sure which way my head is directed. There is not only a wall to protect me, but an absence of windows in my cubby sized sleeping space. I live in a place where safety is the order of the day. If it's not clear why something is done a certain way, its common thread of explanation is typically safety.
I wind through an older apartment style home that I share with my colleagues to get to my cubby space, and by the time I get here, my direction is impaired. Arguably, I have not been certain which way is south since I last saw the red lights of South Mountain Preserve, but that's another story. And that was last Friday.
This walled compound encircles a few blocks of a town, and whatever was located within before the wall was built is still here now, and in one way or the other, is now utilized by those with security clearances to do current business. For instance, there are the contractors that provide security from the US, and the houses we live in as small groups. We are grouped by our work detail. As the medical provider I don't have a group (more on that work place phenom later). So I live with the intel folks. The communal living concept is a lot like college, but without the alcohol, angst, or poverty.
The walls also encircled small businesses when they were erected, which of course are needed by those of us who live here: there are three restaurants and three tiny markets. Not having the liberty to go through the guarded gates to the greater world outside, this is where all food is found. The markets each have a crushing amount of inventory in a space the size of a motorcycle parking space. ...and what you don't see, the shopkeeper can get for you on the outside. See how easy that was?
In some ways the compound has contrasts and comparisons to a retirement community: Everything you need is in one very convenient and accessible space: a gym, a pool in the summer, a medical clinic. And then, of course, things you don't need in retirement are here too, such as bomb sniffing dogs, an armory, dozens of remarkably fit and trained marksmen, and a tactical command center.
Also, like a retirement community, there are veterans of foreign wars here at every corner. But instead of recalling events of 50 and 60 years ago, these men and women have memories of, say, last July, as well as recent years past. Both sets of veterans do have direct deposit checks arriving on time as well. One set is looking for the next Tea Party Meeting to complain how taxes are spent; these guys are looking for tax shelters.
Living in the compound does not have a cookie-cutter industrial feel, architecturally speaking. It's authentic; this did not come from a US issued blueprint of how to house a company in an unsafe land. Instead, it flows with the original urban landscape...right up until you hit that massive wall.
I imagine these men facing east, but I can't see them, only hear their collective and melodic pleas. I can't see them because if there was not the need for the US grade bomb proof wall which I can't see over, there would not be a need for my ears to be here in the first place.
Meanwhile, I'm not sure which way my head is directed. There is not only a wall to protect me, but an absence of windows in my cubby sized sleeping space. I live in a place where safety is the order of the day. If it's not clear why something is done a certain way, its common thread of explanation is typically safety.
I wind through an older apartment style home that I share with my colleagues to get to my cubby space, and by the time I get here, my direction is impaired. Arguably, I have not been certain which way is south since I last saw the red lights of South Mountain Preserve, but that's another story. And that was last Friday.
This walled compound encircles a few blocks of a town, and whatever was located within before the wall was built is still here now, and in one way or the other, is now utilized by those with security clearances to do current business. For instance, there are the contractors that provide security from the US, and the houses we live in as small groups. We are grouped by our work detail. As the medical provider I don't have a group (more on that work place phenom later). So I live with the intel folks. The communal living concept is a lot like college, but without the alcohol, angst, or poverty.
The walls also encircled small businesses when they were erected, which of course are needed by those of us who live here: there are three restaurants and three tiny markets. Not having the liberty to go through the guarded gates to the greater world outside, this is where all food is found. The markets each have a crushing amount of inventory in a space the size of a motorcycle parking space. ...and what you don't see, the shopkeeper can get for you on the outside. See how easy that was?
In some ways the compound has contrasts and comparisons to a retirement community: Everything you need is in one very convenient and accessible space: a gym, a pool in the summer, a medical clinic. And then, of course, things you don't need in retirement are here too, such as bomb sniffing dogs, an armory, dozens of remarkably fit and trained marksmen, and a tactical command center.
Also, like a retirement community, there are veterans of foreign wars here at every corner. But instead of recalling events of 50 and 60 years ago, these men and women have memories of, say, last July, as well as recent years past. Both sets of veterans do have direct deposit checks arriving on time as well. One set is looking for the next Tea Party Meeting to complain how taxes are spent; these guys are looking for tax shelters.
Living in the compound does not have a cookie-cutter industrial feel, architecturally speaking. It's authentic; this did not come from a US issued blueprint of how to house a company in an unsafe land. Instead, it flows with the original urban landscape...right up until you hit that massive wall.
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