Into harm’s way
THE desert in Kuwait seemed such a wasteland. Goose farms near the Iraqi border yielded huge quantities of shit, which gathered along the sides of the roads and in the yard of the house where we were squatting.
When the sandstorms blew, so did the shit, smearing the world with its stench. That patch of desert already felt abandoned to the war. There was no question that it would slide in of its own weight; it was just a question of when. The border — the constant pounding of tanks, the hovering helicopters, and the military police patrolling — was a trembling faultline.
