Tribute for Ronan

By Pamela Olson

Oklahoma Girl's Adventures, Volume 3. A true love story starring a dashing Irish sailor that spans three years and three continents, from Croatia to Miami to Iraq, full of love and beauty and tragedy, with a twist so shocking, you might not believe it if it hadn't been printed in several newspapers (and one tabloid).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pamela Olson
• Release date: Aug 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465847522

Pamela Olson

Pamela Olson grew up in small-town Oklahoma and studied physics and political science at Stanford University, class of 2002. She lived in Ramallah, Palestine for two years, during which she served as head writer and editor for the Palestine Monitor and as foreign press coordinator for Dr. Mustafa Barghouthi’s 2005 presidential campaign. She's published stories and articles in CounterPunch, Electronic Intifada, Israel’s Occupation Magazine, and The Stanford Magazine among other publications. In January of 2006 she moved to Washington, DC and worked at a Defense Department think tank to try to bring what she had learned to the halls of power. She eventually became disillusioned with the prospect of changing Washington from the inside, and in 2007, she left DC and started writing Fast Times in Palestine. She lives in New York now, and her book was published in May 2011.

Book preview

Tribute for Ronan

Pamela J. Olson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Pamela J. Olson

Other Books by Pamela J. Olson

Fast Times in Palestine

Siberian Travels

The Brimming Void

Camp Golden Shaft

The Fable of Megastan

Visit www.pamolson.org or my

Smashwords profile to learn more

Tribute for Ronan

A UN soldier who died with honor

in the war and occupation of Iraq

Table of Contents

Introduction

The most outstanding SOB I ever met

Croatia

White stone cities, blue waters, and an Irish sailor

Miami

Love and war on Spring Break

Iraq, Jordan, Palestine

Last contact in the Middle East

What I read and wrote on May 1st, 2004

The day Ronan died, although I wouldn’t find out until two weeks later

bad news

An Iraqi Poet

helps me understand life in Iraq these days

Quotes and Stories

about a civilization that has turned its birthplace into an Armageddon

Afterword

After Afterword

Introduction

Ronan’s ship, the L.E. Roisin

A figure walked down the gangplank of the ship and came toward me across the concrete of the jetty, and my heart skipped about fifteen beats. Wearing a dark blue T-shirt and sunglasses, he was taller and slimmer than I remembered, and his stride was cool.

When he got within hearing distance, he asked, Hey, how ya keepin’?

I was too overwhelmed to know how to answer. He walked up and kissed me, and his lips tasted salty.

I heard a noise from behind him. He laughed, embarrassed, and said, Oh, don’t worry about that, just me mates back there. The other sailors were whistling and hollering from the ship…

* * *

Ronan and I met in Croatia in the summer of 2002, and we spent a week together in Miami in the spring of 2003. His larger-than-life stories and funny, thoughtful humility made it effortless to fall in love with him. Talking to him was like stepping into the world in Digital Technicolor when I was used to it in staticky black and white. He taught me more about the world than I realized there was to learn.

When I found out he was killed saving an Iraqi child from sniper fire, I was devastated. My friends knew I was crazy about him, but few knew the extent of it or how much he affected my life. I wanted to write our story anyway, and then Ronan’s partner in the UN contacted me and said it would be nice if I could write a tribute for him. So this is it.

Croatia

Dubrovnik

In the summer of 2002, I visited Croatia on the offhand advice of an Italian girl I’d met in Paris. I caught a ferry from Italy to Split, Croatia, and then a bus south to Dubrovnik.

When I got there I met a group of Europeans and Australians who invited me to join them at a bar called the Billabong. We had too many people at our table, so we found a guy sitting alone and asked him and his extra chairs to join us.

He was wearing a black shirt with white letters that said, too busy to fcuk. I didn’t know ‘fcuk’ were the initials of French Connection UK, a clothing brand, so my first impression was that he was obscene, aloof, and a bad speller.

I noticed a tattoo on his shoulder and asked if it meant anything in particular.

He smiled. Yeah, those are Cherokee symbols.

Are you part Cherokee?

Yeah, one-quarter.

Me too. I mean, not one-quarter, but my grandfather’s grandma was full-blood.

No kiddin’. My granddad met a Cherokee woman when he sailed to America. He fell in love and jumped ship to be with her. They got married and he brought her back to Ireland.

So you’re from Ireland?

Yeah, I’m from County Cork.

What’s your name?

Neo.

We talked for a long time. He bought me drinks, but I didn’t feel like he was trying to pick me up, and I liked that. Sure enough, hours later, when everyone else had left and I was four-sheets-to-the-wind, he caught me a cab, said good-night, and walked away.

It took about half a second for me to get out of the cab and run after him.

He turned around. Something the matter?

Yeah, I said, searching dimly for an excuse. The cab was too expensive.

I couldn’t tell if he was laughing with me or at me, but we found another club, and then another cab, and this time he came with me. We agreed to meet at 7:00 at the Billabong again tomorrow. Before the cab dropped me off, he kissed me on the cheek.

After the cab turned around, Ronan stuck his head out of the window along with seven fingers.

Seven o’clock! he said. See you then!

not Ronan, just his shirt

I showed up at 7:00 the next day… actually, I showed up around 7:20. I was playing it cool. So, apparently, was he. I found a stand outside the bar selling skirts and hats and pretended to be interested in them while I waited.

He came around the corner practically at a run at a quarter ’til eight.

Hey, sorry I’m late, he said. Jesus, that was just about the most stressful hour of my life.

What happened?

Border guards in some fuck-off country phoned and said they were trying to take apart my Harley.

Why?

I don't know, to search for smuggled goods or weapons or something. He sounded like someone was trying to dismember his child. We went back and forth for about forty-five minutes, and finally I said, ‘Look, do you have a large screwdriver handy?’ He said, ‘Yeah.’ I said, ‘Good. Turn it around the insert it directly up your ass, because you are not taking apart my Harley.’

I laughed. Did it work?

Yeah, you know, I had some military connections. I got it cleared through official channels. It’s all right now.

We found a table in the basement, and I ordered a purple Billabong Dream and he got a Guinness. I asked him, Is Neo your real name?

No, he said, my name’s Ronan, but my friends call me Neo. They started calling me that in the Navy.

Why?

’Cause I wear a black trench coat sometimes, and sunglasses, and they said when I turn around I looked like one of those guys from the Matrix.

I asked if he played any sports.

Used to play rugby. You’ve probably never heard of it.

Actually, I played rugby my freshman year in college.

Really? What position?

Inside center.

No kiddin’, me too.

Yeah, I liked it ’cause you get to run a lot, but you also get tackled a lot.

He laughed. Best of both worlds. What did you study in college?

Physics. How ’bout you?

I studied physics, too.

We talked all evening. He put me to shame with how many books he’d read and how many places he’d been, and he was only 24, two years older than me at the time. Within hours I felt like I’d known him all my life.

* * *

We walked around the walls of the white marble Old City together the next day. A fountain near one of the gates had lions’ heads carved all around it, and the sidewalks were worn smooth and shiny with age.

I saw a vegetarian restaurant from the top of the walls, and we found it and had dinner and desserts there and a sweet Croatian brandy called prosek on an outdoor terrace.

We talked a little about our lives, and he said he’d graduated with honors in physics and math from the University of County Cork. During college he’d worked as a bartender and a model, and afterwards he was offered a 98,000 Euro job in a big company.

So why’d you join the Navy?

Well, one day I was smoking pot, watching The Hunt for Red October, and I thought, you know, that would be a fuckin’ cool thing to do, wouldn’t it? So I joined the Navy the next day.

I laughed. But why?

He shrugged. Ah, you know. It’s what my grandfather did, and he was my hero. And I just realized I was the type that wouldn’t be happy without his hair on fire and both guns blazing. The navy board kept asking me all these fuck-off questions, and I was like, ‘Look, I’m three-quarters Celt and one-quarter Cherokee warrior. I can do your fuckin’ job, OK?’

Did they like that?

He laughed. I got the job, didn’t I? I was top of my boot camp class. They gave me a gun during training, first time I ever shot a gun in my life, and I could hit everything they put in front of me. Distance, wind, hot, cold, it didn’t matter. I could hit anything. So they picked me up for a Ranger unit—

Who?

The UN. For special operations. That’s why I get posted to so many fuck-off places around the world. I have a partner, this guy Scott, African-American guy from Arkansas, and we go on all our missions together. He’s my spotter. Excellent guy. First time I met him, swear to God, I fell madly in love with him. He laughed. Platonically, of course.

Scott later wrote to me about their first meeting. He wrote:

I got posted from a nice chilled-out unit in Germany into a Ranger unit.