A Soldier Speaks: Denver Jones

Editor's Note: This is the second in a series of profiles of some of the tens of thousands of Iraq War veterans who have come home bearing the scars of battle – emotional and physical wounds that may never heal unless the nation pays them the attention and care that they deserve. We at AlterNet believe that in an election defined by a deep and bitter partisan divide, it is the one issue that can and must bring us all together as Americans.

When U.S. Army Reserve Specialist Denver Jones re-enlisted in the military after the 9/11 attacks, little did he realize that he would become one of the invisible. The Gulf War veteran – who was working as a UPS mechanic at the time – was soon deployed to serve in Iraq with a transportation unit.

Disaster struck when a Humvee accident ruptured three disks and fractured two of the vertebrae in his spine. As he described it to Now with Bill Moyers, "My head came up, hit the ceiling, jammed my neck down, I came down and hit on my tail in the seat, and it broke some seat brackets out from under the seat, and I pretty much was, you know, pretty hurt after that."

Although now disabled for life, Denver is not included in the Pentagon's estimate of the casualties of war – the 7,500-plus number of wounded that counts only those who were injured in combat. After a year-long medical review, the Army finally awarded Denver $1,300 a month, along with VA benefits. But it's small compensation for a life permanently shattered by war. It's hard for Denver to perform the simplest tasks: walk, sit, sleep. As he puts it, "I feel like a 90-year-old man trapped in a 35-year-old body."

Yet when Denver spoke to AlterNet on the phone from his home in North Carolina, he talked not of his pain but the suffering of the Iraqi children.

Is there one memory from the war that still stays with you?

One of the things I think about a lot and can't get out of my head is the living conditions of the majority of the children in Iraq.

Some of them have no home whatsoever. Some of them had mud huts, but there was no windows, no roof, or no doors. If it would rain and they would get some water, they would let their camels and sheep drink out of it before they did. And when the water dried, they would scrape the salt up and put it in bags.

I've spoken to several people over here – about how many children are starving over there – and they come back and say, "Well, there's people starving over here too." [laughs] They have no idea of the size of the problem I'm trying to describe. There is just no comparison to someone who lives on the street over here. Over there, it's not about living on the street – it's how you live.

When you look back, how has this war changed you?

As far as my life goes, it's been changed 180 degrees. It's changed in that I'm not able to do anything physically that I want to do anymore. I'm less mentally strong as I was.

I've learnt to respect human life more and appreciate how precious life is. In more – well, my religious word for it would be blessed – wealthier societies we take for granted how well our lives are. We complain about things that we should be ashamed of complaining about. And people don't even realize what we have. I give a little girl [in Iraq] a dime and she has more joy and happiness and laughter than when I give my child a $5,000 motorcycle.

You don't see those things on TV. When you see Iraq on TV, you see the small areas that were run by Saddam or where his friends lived. You don't see where the majority of Iraqis lived.

When they captured Saddam Hussein, they said, "Oh, what a terrible place that [the underground spider hole] was." That was a hundred times better than how 95 percent of his people live.