Quick Recap

The First 3 Weeks:

I was deported to Oklahoma on July 22, 2009. Upon arriving at the so-called Will Rogers "World" Airport (with zero international flights), I thought perhaps a plague had recently swept the area, as at 8:00 p.m. on a Tuesday there wasn't a single taxi outside the arrivals terminal, and not one employee could be found. Why was I searching for an employee? The basic survival essentials I had been permitted to bring along had mysteriously vanished over the course of my harrowing journey from the civilization of the East Coast to the barren, desolate wasteland that is Oklahoma. I could only wonder about the type of torture--physical and mental--that might await me if I were to arrive without these few items. I frantically tracked down a lone airline employee. He seems dazed and disoriented, unsure of his surroundings. After explaining my situation to him in slower and slower sentences, I tracked down my luggage. Four hours later, I was on my way to Lawton, OK, and the prison camp that lay just outside its "city" limits: Fort Sill.

Like the cattle that roam free across the plains of its surroundings, we were herded into the gates of Ft. Sill. Craning my head to look back at the last vestiges of civilization, I pondered my fate as we headed into the waiting devilish den. The first few days of my captivity are a blur, as I have tried to block them from my memory. From what I can remember, our captors continually tormented us with menial tasks, long hours in the sun, and endless days of standing in lines which lead only to more lines, with no purpose, endstate, or goal in sight. Though this prison camp is specially set up for officers, there appears to be no regard for our rank--though Article 44 of the third Geneva Convention would dictate otherwise. Enlisted personnel of all rank treat us with the utmost disrespect, sneering at us as we walk by; though the younger, less influenced ones give us a begrudging salute. The gold bars on our chests marking us as prisoners are reminiscent of yellow Magen Davids worn by Jews in European ghettos.

And so we wait. The days stretch into weeks, time seems illusory. Every day is filled with new ways to brutalize our humanity. Rumors fly, as they always do in prison camps. I can still vividly remember how quickly a rumor would spread in my last penitentiary. Those four years seem like aeons ago now. The idea of salvation seems incredulous, but I still hope someone will liberate us before its too late. Our captors are ill-prepared for a contingent of prisoners numbering so many, and revolt almost seems afoot. In truth, though, our spirits are already broken.

Our first few days are endless hours of monotony. At one point we are forced into a large briefing room and told the following:

"This briefing will not apply to you. The few who it does apply to will move to the front of the room. Everyone else will listen quietly."

And so we are forced to listen to the intricacies of something called the Montgomery GI Bill for hours on end, ad nauseum, all the while fully cognizant that nothing the incoherent speaker is saying is relevant to us. The mind games continue.

Long Live the Free Officer Corps!