<p><strong><em>Are online threats to <a href="https://esme.com/resources/c/military" target="_blank" class="wordlink">military</a> spouses by supposed ISIS groups real?</em></strong></p><p>Last week as I sat in the waiting room of a doctor’s office, I decided to kill some time scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed. I fully admit that I only truly know about a third of the people on my supposed-friends list, but as I scrolled I noticed something new. And weird. Names suddenly looked unfamiliar. Then I realized I couldn’t find a few of my army wife friends. <em>What the hell?</em> I thought. <em>Did she unfriend me? The nerve. </em>After writing what some folks in the military considered a tell-all book that exposed the inner working of our tightly knit infantry culture, I’ve been unfriended a time or two. <br></p><p>Then I realized. Many of my military spouse friends had changed their profile names from typical first and last names to nearly unrecognizable monikers like Bobandanne FamilyForever. I had to look at the profile picture to realize that was my old friend Anne. There’s only one reason for this: fear of ISIS. Even the word ISIS sounds like the hiss of a snake. </p><p>The paranoia about cyber-threats aimed at a handful of military spouses has grown leaps and bounds over the past six months. These “cyber caliphate” groups claim to be ISIS affiliates. Some friends have gone so far as to spend days trying to erase their online footprint. Others have deactivated social media altogether.</p><p>Recently at a parade held in celebration of the national ruling in support of gay marriage, a reporter from a major news outlet reported that an ISIS flag waved in the crowd. It stood out like a sore thumb in the sea of rainbow flags. The utter horror. It turned out instead to be a flag full of a gamut of sex toy outlines, which appeared to be Arabic writing. Hard not to snicker at our readiness to jump to the conclusion that ISIS had infiltrated a gay pride parade. Blaming ISIS for everything has become oh so easy. Not long ago the wheel on my grocery cart rattled and faltered and I wanted to blame it on ISIS. For days after the dildo-outline blunder, I watched the backpedaling and embarrassed apologies of the reporters involved. It looked like an <em>Saturday Night Live</em> skit. </p><p>Why are we giving these online threateners the attention that they probably want? It’s likely that these individuals aren’t even associated with the real Islamic State terrorist group at all, but instead launch these threats from their mother’s dank and musty basement in some random small town right here in the United States. Maybe these forlorn characters hope that ISIS is impressed and recruits them into far away camps, finally giving them a sense of belonging. Who knows, but I do know that crazy people do crazy things. </p><p>Sometime in the past six months, ISIS issued supposed threats to military spouses, including my own family. These threats said things like “We are coming for you” and “We are in your PC.” <em>Ahh!</em> The terror and bedlam initiated the deactivations of accounts and the name changes. But I thought to myself, <em>I use a Mac not a PC. Hmm. </em>It all smelled fishy to me. </p><p>I find it impossible to not wonder who is really behind these threats. Doesn’t ISIS have bigger fish to fry than an army wife who wrote a book about drama, the sisterhood, and struggles between army wives? I wish I could say that our national officials had an answer to that question, but they don’t. The threats are difficult to trace (seems hard to fathom in today’s era of big brother watching over our shoulders) and are erased within minutes of being launched. <em>Poof.</em> Gone as quickly as they arrived. </p><p>ISIS has embraced and spread themselves on social media like a thirteen-year-old girl with her first smartphone. They campaign worldwide for cyber jihadists to unite. The supposed–ISIS affiliates—whether they’re sympathizers or actual ISIS members (does this come with an annual membership dues?)—have hacked into personal accounts and even a high level, high profile joint military command public affairs account. These guys know their way around the Internet and computers. </p><p>No one is more alternatively unflappable and alarmist than a battle-hardened military spouse. Don’t screw with us! However, we also make ourselves easy targets because we overly embrace social media as a way to stay connected to our military sisters around the globe. Damn you, ISIS, for spoiling our Facebook bunco group with your threats of Sharia law. </p><p>Who better to ask for an opinion on how to handle this than one of my own kids, my teenage son? He thought for a few minutes and then said, “It’s probably a hoax, but maybe not. Why take a chance?” That’s a simple and yet common sense answer. The bottom line: If it makes some of us feel better to tighten our online privacy settings and change our names to FlowerArmy Gurl on Facebook, then fine. But I don’t think we should allow it to take up too much space in our already hectic lives. Let’s not allow them to frighten us, which is what these online trolls ultimately want: fear.</p><hr><p><span style="font-size: 11px;">Image via Shutterstock.com</span></p>
<p><strong><em>The reality of deployment and reintegration for the one left behind</em></strong></p><p>After surviving eight deployments, ranging from six to fifteen months each, I’ve grown familiar with the not-so-peachy reality of welcoming my fella back into our home—a home that feels far more like mine than ours. The first month of a deployment and the last month are the longest. The days pass agonizingly slowly, especially in that last week. The date and time of arrival changes many times for each redeployment, causing me in those final days to check my phone like an obsessed gambler checking his bets. But deployments do come to an eventual end.</p><p>This deployment that felt like it would never end is, in fact, ending. We spend the days leading up to the return of our warrior cleaning the house, filling the fridge and pantry with his favorite foods (what the hell kind of cereal does he like, again?), getting our hair and nails done, that oh-so-painful Brazilian wax is almost a must for the homecoming. Having our pubes torn from our lady bits is a rite of passage that marks the end of deployment. We spend hours cleaning and organizing the garage to erase the disaster his sacred garage became. We obsess over what to wear. Of course there’s always that one lady who everyone knows is buck naked under her trench coat. Something sexy but demure and patriotic is a safe bet. Some of us lose weight during deployment and others pack on the pounds. During one extra-stressful deployment, I gained a solid twenty pounds. I had to buy new jeans and forgot to remove that pesky size sticker from the leg. My leg advertised my weight gain for all: “12, 12, 12.” Luckily a sympathetic soul pointed out my error moments before my husband’s return.</p><p>Isn’t all of this romantic? No, it isn’t. But somehow we romanticize redeployment, or “reintegration,” the sanitized buzzword coined by the <a href="https://esme.com/resources/c/military" target="_blank" class="wordlink">military</a>. A big word that does not capture the spectrum of extreme emotions experienced in the upcoming weeks and months. A year has passed. People change. It’s similar to being reunited with a long lost bestie, only to realize that person is not exactly as remembered. Our soldier has missed a chunk of life on this side. While we struggle to stay connected, the truth is that picking up where we left off is futile. He will feel in ways like a stranger. A stranger or guest who never leaves and takes up half of the bed. A stranger who might be critical of the way a son’s hair has grown long or how we ignored soccer practice or changed the brand of toothpaste. As an added bonus, this stranger will want to grab boobs at will during the folding of his mountain of rancid deployment laundry.</p><p>Those things described above happen somewhere after the “Magical Three Days.” In most cases those first 72 hours after redeployment are bliss. Everyone is on their best behavior and life is perfect with a new guest in the home. But our masks of perfection do eventually slip. A tantrum on someone’s part is inevitable within the first week. And that tantrum is a welcome and cathartic relief. It signals the beginning of a new battle rhythm. Another new normal.</p><p>I’ve saved the best for last. It’s that moment. That moment before the explosion of boots come marching into the auditorium and stomachs lurch while scanning the sea of digi-camo for the familiar shape of husband’s head. Height and head shape are the two distinguishers in a crowd of camouflage. We stand shaking through the ten minute ceremony and the obligatory singing of the national anthem and the Army song. Those last minutes are a blur of deployment memories racing by as if it had been the blink of one day instead of a year. The ups, the downs, the long days, and the friendships that take a new place in the pecking order after deployment. Tears will roll. Waterproof mascara and Kleenex to catch the snot are essentials. Suddenly the miserable-seeming challenge has meaning and was worth it, for this feeling and this moment.</p><p>The first hug is never awkward, though we worry it might be. That hug, those arms, that familiar scent of him beneath the smell of war, it all feels like . . . home. He made it home. Somewhere in that hug in the back of my mind I always faintly hear Axl Rose belting out “Welcome to the Jungle” and I am reminded to soak up that moment. Because the real rollercoaster lies ahead.</p><hr><p><span style="font-size: 11px;">Photo Credit: Angela Ricketts</span><span style="font-size: 11px;"></span><br></p>