Moni Basu

Basu and some of her high school classmates. Photography courtesy of Moni Basu. In 2020, at the height of the pandemic, I bought a townhouse in Tallahassee, sight unseen. At the time, I was teaching at the University of Florida in Gainesville and spotted the house on Zillow: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a fireplace and a courtyard nestled under the shade of oversized crape myrtles. My friends called me crazy, and I admit the decision was impulsive—but it wasn’t entirely surprising.

Words by Moni Basu | Photos by Mallory Cash On my drive east from suburban Charlotte, the cacophony of strip malls and traffic faded to an undulating, lush landscape that sometimes melded with the murky skies ahead. I was traveling to the Carolina Piedmont, to Anson County, through which the Great Pee Dee River snakes its way from the Appalachians to the Atlantic. To Tom Lim’s farm, not far from the river’s banks.

The U.S. mission in Iraq ended Dec. 18, 2011, as the last American soldiers climbed into trucks and headed south through the desert towards Kuwait. Nearly 4,500 American troops died in the Iraq war. More than 30,000 others were physically wounded. Countless others live with scars that can't be seen. While medics and doctors heal the physical scars of the wounded, the military employs a select few to heal the hearts, minds, and souls of soldiers--all of whom are changed forever by war.