This worked much better than I expected. It allowed me to cut through all the perceptions Iraqis had of Americans, and I was one step closer to being inside the Iraqi army. The jundi loved seeing pictures of my family and of me doing things similar to things they did. Coupling my top-secret weapon with my growing ability to speak Arabic, I felt I was forming quality relationships with the jundi.
One night, armed with my album, I made my nightly visit to the jundi hooches (living area) to learn some language and learn about Iraq. I sat down with an Iraqi named Sermen. He was Sunni, his mother was Shia, and his grandmother was Catholic—go figure.
Sermen had an almost frightening amount of knowledge of the insurgency. He claimed he got his information from his friends who were insurgents, but I was not convinced. According to Sermen the going rate for firing an RPG at Americans was five hundred dollars, the going rate for emplacing IEDs was three hundred dollars, and for actually killing an American you received a thousand bucks. Sermen described a sniper in Baghdad who had killed over a hundred troops from the coalition forces. Apparently this insurgent had a garage full of BMWs and stacks of cash. It sounded like being an insurgent made economic sense.
The jundi in our battalion made roughly $350 a month. The highest paid Iraqi in our battalion was Colonel Abass, who cleared about $900 a month. Put simply, being a jundi was bad business. The alternative to serving in the Iraqi army was to commit one insurgent attack per month (make five hundred dollars for an IED) and watch television for the other twenty-nine days of the month.
After chatting with Sermen I passed by the scout’s swahut on my way back to the MiTT camp. Kareem greeted me. “Lieutenant,” he said, “take a seat, stay a while, drink some tea, let’s talk about your family.” One of the Iraqis, Ali, asked for my name in broken English. I replied in Arabic with a wide smile, “Ismee Mulazim Gray, sadeeki” (My name is Lieutenant Gray, my friend). The Iraqis repeated together, “Mulazim Gay?” I looked at them and said, “La [no], Mulazim Guurray.” The Iraqis tried again. “Mulazim Gaaay?”
I knew that I could not have the Iraqis calling me “Lieutenant Gay” or it would be a never-ending joke with the Marines for the remainder of my deployment. I needed to rectify the situation. I struggled with the Iraqis to help them pronounce my name correctly. Luckily, Ali came up with a better solution. “Let’s give him an Arabic name,” he said. The swahut erupted with applause. The scouts thought this was the greatest idea since the Arabic numeral system. Everyone started shouting suggestions. Ali said, “Mohammed or Khalis?” Another fired, “No, I like Jaffer, or Ali.” Kareem butted in. “No way. Let’s call him Riath or Rasheed.” Finally, Hyder, the most respected scout, proclaimed, “Inta warda, inta tkoon Jamal, Mulazim Jamal!” (You are a flower, you will be Jamal, Lieutenant Jamal!) Before I could even respond and tell the Iraqis that I thought being called a “flower” in a room full of twenty Iraqi soldiers was awkward, it had already caught on. The swahut shouted in unison, “Mulazim Jamal, Mulazim Jamal, Mulazim Jamal.” Oh well, I thought, Mulazim Jamal it is.
The History of Iraq . . . and Everyone’s Desire to Take Their Oil
It seemed that every day I went to the Iraqi swahut area I learned something about Iraqis. One day the terps gave me lessons on the history of Iraq and how Iraqis perceive altruistic people. I cracked the door on the terp swahut and was promptly greeted by Martin. “Is that Mulazim Jamal at the door?” he asked. Somehow word had already traveled throughout the camp that the Iraqis had named me Jamal.
Martin invited me in and gave me his “history of Iraq that Americans need to understand” lecture. With a title like that, I was all ears. Martin mentioned how Americans, Brits, Turks, and the Persians have all come into his country with the thought they would pacify the people. Their basic strategies have been similar: kill everyone who resists in the beginning, see where the dust settles, and then rely on selected Iraqi leaders to show initiative and tie the society together in a peaceful society where people let bygones be bygones and everyone respects the rule of law. But, he said, that does not apply to Iraq. In two thousand years of documented history, there had been a few constants: tribal infighting, sectarian violence, and war with outsiders.
Martin continued. “Jamal, two people have controlled Iraq in our history. One was our good friend Saddam Hussein, and the other was a man named Al Hajaj, who ruled Iraq over a thousand years ago. They controlled Iraq because they had key characteristics that Americans and outsiders need to understand. Saddam and Al Hajaj were brutal tyrants who ruled with fists of steel and hammers of iron to crush all those who wanted to oppose them.”
I looked at Martin. “And this is a good thing?” I asked. He laughed and said, “Yes, that is the key point to understand here. Let me give you an example. Currently the Marines try to get information from the locals about IEDs. As you know, placing an IED takes a long time to dig, set the wiring, and so forth. Thus if an IED is in the middle of a neighborhood, everyone knows about it. Yet when Marines go in to ask, ‘Who did it?’ after having their Humvee blown in half, they get blank stares.”
Martin paused before continuing. “You want to know how this situation would be solved using proven Iraqi methods? First, the Iraqi army would tell the people that unless the people who did the terrorist act were turned in during the next twenty-four hours, a single residence would be demolished. If after that first day nobody had spoken, the army would demolish an entire street of homes. Within hours of this engagement, I can promise you that you will have names, addresses, and the family members of the insurgents. The Iraqi army will then take this information and execute the insurgents. This is how Saddam did things, and this is how things work in Iraq. Period.”
I sat speechless for a moment and told him I would have to think about my response and get back to him. Martin smiled. “Think long and hard,” he said, “and when you figure it out, become the president of Iraq.”
If Martin is correct, it will be difficult to accomplish our strategic mission in Iraq of creating a peaceful, stable, and democratic-based government that serves the people, especially if we let them decide how to do things. Paradoxically, if we let Iraqis do things the way they want to do them, it means Iraq will end up as a tyrannical military dictatorship again. This would bring us full circle. And if we confine the Iraqis to using our methods, they will end up in the same situation our troops find themselves in: asking the locals where the IED makers are and getting blank stares.
As Martin and I chatted, Moody woke up. Moody inquired, “What are we talking about today?” I smirked and said, “The history of Iraq.” Moody laughed. “You mean the history of America trying to take our oil and claim they are helping us become democratic?” I said, “Yep, exactly. You think I came to this place for my own health?” Moody replied, “You Americans are way too naïve. I truly believe your president might be stupid enough to think he can get Iraqis to trust him.” Confused, I asked Moody what he meant, and he explained altruism to me. “Jamal, to Iraqis, the concept that somebody would actually want to help another person without some material benefit is ridiculous. Attempts at altruism are a strong signal for one thing—the person you’re dealing with is an Ali Babba!”
Moody’s description helped clarify why Iraqis have such a deep suspicion of America’s proclaimed desires to help the Iraqi people. He outlined it best when he said, “Americans may think Iraqis are towel-head idiots who are still living in the ice age, but we are not naïve; we know we sit on more oil than all of Saudi Arabia.” He continued. “How can any Iraqi believe Americans have come to our country just so they can improve the lives of Iraqis? Your country has spent billions of dollars and countless lives fighting here—all of that for nothing? You must think we are crazy. Plus, why hasn’t America gone to the countries in Africa who are ten times as poor and actually need your help? Do you see what I am saying?”
Moody and his fellow terps agreed. I tried to convince them that American policy in Iraq was genuine. The terps simply laug
hed and said, “Jamal, you are crazy.” Maybe they were right.
Babysitting Iraqis
Being the only one to learn Arabic on the team became a curse. The boss designated me “leader of all Iraqi babysitting operations.” Not a great job, but somebody had to do it, and I was the most qualified. I figured it would give me more time to learn Iraqi Arabic and Iraqi culture.
When I pulled my first duty as an Iraqi babysitter, I was fortunate enough to be babysitting the leadership of the newly restarted Haditha Police Department—Colonel Farooq and his three captains, Arkon, Yunis, and Harat. Colonel Farooq was in and out, speaking with sheiks in Haditha, but Arkon, Yunis, and Harat were with me all day.
After ten minutes of small talk, Arkon realized there was no need to feed me the standard lines he gives Americans. He loosened up. “Jamal, let me show you what the insurgents have done to my family.” He pulled out his cell phone and showed me the pictures and video eulogies of fifteen close family members who have been killed in the past few months by insurgents in the Triad. He growled, “I want to kill every one of these bastards!” Yunis and Harat nodded in agreement. Yunis spoke next. “We are in this business not because we want to help the Americans,” he said, “but because we want to get revenge.”
I thought to myself, I have a hard time when one of my family members dies. I can’t imagine how I would feel if fifteen of my close family members died within a few months. Imagine if three of your brothers were shot in the head, your mother was shot in the stomach, two sisters were stabbed to death, five cousins were killed, an uncle was decapitated, and three aunts were murdered. Hell, I wanted to get revenge for these guys and I did not even know them.
In true Iraqi fashion our conversation went from hysterically emotional to completely normal within one minute. I asked my new friends, “Can I get you guys anything? A drink? Some food?” Yunis responded with a smile then said, “Hey Jamal, you guys have sexy magazines, right?” I paused for a moment, trying to remember if nudie mags were taboo or going to offend Islam and cause Iraqis to commit jihad on me. Finally, my common sense hit me: every man loves to look at beautiful naked women.
I rushed to get my guests some chick magazines to ease their minds. I returned, and when I barged into the room, Harat was on his prayer rug facing Mecca. He mumbled under his breath, “Allah Akbhar, Allah Akbhar. La illah il Allah.” (God is great, God is great. There is no God but Allah.) I gave him a puzzled look and muttered, “This is really weird.” I stood speechless with a Penthouse magazine, a Buttman magazine, and a Club magazine in my hand as the Iraqis conducted their prayers. Allah is definitely sending me to hell for this one.
Yunis blurted, “Jamal, throw me those magazines, man. What are you waiting for?” After finishing his prayer session, Harat snapped to his feet and ripped the magazines from Yunis. “Hey, share those,” he said. I chuckled to myself. This was definitely not in the cultural classes I got in the States.
Not surprisingly, Iraqi men are addicted to hot women. Yunis flipped through the various photographs, saying, “Man, I would drop my wife this instant and move to America if I could get one of these women.” I responded in jest, “Dude, you know not all women are like that in America, right? Only in South Florida do they all come like that.” Somehow my Arabic did not convey my intended humor; Yunis, Atron, and Harat all want to move to Florida now.
Iraqi Shenanigans
Everyday with the jundi was an adventure. Lieutenant Le Gette, the adviser team’s artillery officer, and I walked to the motor transportation area of the camp to inquire about the Iraqis’ pressure washer that was rumored to be destroyed. We approached the motor transport area, stumbling over random Humvee parts, tools, lubricants, and inoperable tactical vehicles along the way. We approached Amir and Hussein, who were washing one of their Humvees with the pressure washer, and I explained the situation. “Have you guys had any problems with your pressure washer? We were told it was busted.” Both men gave us a blank stare. What a stupid question; we were sitting there watching them use the pressure washer, which was obviously functional. The Iraqis laughed. “Jamal, as you can see, the pressure washer is fine. Who told you it was broken?”
Le Gette and I immediately knew what had happened. Captain Hasen, a decent guy most of the time, had tried to pull a fast one on us. Hasen had a functional pressure washer; however, what he really wanted was a fleet of pressure washers. His method to attain this was to tell the MiTT his old pressure washer was broken. He assumed he could simply sit back and wait until we bought him a new one. That might have worked in the past, but this time we actually followed up on his claim. Le Gette and I had learned our lesson: Iraqis will milk a sugar daddy as long as you let them.
“Gray,” Le Gette said, “I’m going to tell Adams that the jundi don’t need a pressure washer.” I replied, “Roger, dude, I’m going to go see what Qatan is up to. Major Gaines, Staff Sergeant Haislip, and I are supposed to meet him. He’s taking us fishing.”
I rolled over to Qatan’s swahut to meet Gaines and Haislip. Qatan answered. “You guys ready to go fishing?” he asked. I translated for Gaines and Haislip. Gaines responded, “Na’am [Yes], Let’s catch some fish.” I looked at Gaines and said, “Sir, I have no clue what we are about to get ourselves into.” He smirked and replied, “Well, I guess we’ll find out.” Qatan grabbed his fishing nets and the remainder of his gear and signaled for us to follow him to where the eastern edge of Camp Ali snuggled up next to the Euphrates River.
We approached the wire fencing that surrounded the boundary of Camp Ali. A man-sized path had been cut through it. Haislip looked at Gaines and me. “Isn’t that the wire that is supposed to deter insurgents from sneaking on Camp Ali and killing us in our sleep?” he asked. Before I could respond, Qatan, who had already walked through the hole in the fence, hollered, “Come on, you guys are slow!”
We passed through the cleared section of the protective wire and moved to the shores of the Euphrates. Ten feet off the shore was a blanket of thick reeds, six to seven feet above the water’s edge. We quickly realized Qatan’s concept of fishing was different from our own. We thought fishing involved fishing poles, hooks, and worms. We were not thinking like Iraqi fishermen; they use nets.
I asked Qatan, “How are you going to get past the reeds?” Qatan replied, “You see that long board that leads to the reeds? Crawl along that board to the reed line. There you will see a flat piece of tin from a swahut roof. Stand on that—it’s our boat.” I looked at Qatan. “Our boat?” I asked. “It’s a piece of tin resting on some crushed reeds.” Qatan said, “Yes, Jamal, exactly.” He hopped on the five-inch-wide board, ran across it, and effortlessly moved to the reeds, where he stationed himself on the makeshift boat he had positioned in the reed line. I looked at Major Gaines. “Shit Sir, that looks pretty easy.” I followed. But my adventure to the reeds was not as graceful as Qatan’s; I ended up swimming. After doggy paddling my way to the reed line, I crawled my way onto the flat piece of tin.
Haislip, being the only sane one of the bunch, decided to stay on shore and take pictures of the scene. Once Gaines, Qatan, and I were stationed on the boat, Qatan threw his net into the river. We had a stunning view of the Euphrates. I felt like Huckleberry Finn. This was the ultimate adventure (see photo 11).
When we returned to the MiTT camp, Doc quickly scolded us. “You guys were in the Euphrates?” he said. “You know that thing is crawling with E. coli and parasites, right?” We had no response. Doc was right—as usual. Then the boss followed up with his concerns. “You guys could have been taken prisoner by the insurgents,” he said. Unlike Doc, the boss was undeniably wrong. It would take a brass-balled insurgent to try to swim up the Euphrates and somehow take us prisoner. Plus, seven months without a little fun would lead to insanity. All business and no play is a recipe for a mental breakdown.
The Other Secret Weapon
Later that evening I stopped by the Iraqi S-1 (administration section) shop in the Iraqi COC. My stop at the S
-1 earned me some wasta, an extremely important concept in Iraqi culture. Wasta is a mysterious combination of your pull, connections, subject-matter knowledge, and charisma, all of which allows you to get favors and respect from others.
After meeting with the various Iraqis working in the S-1, they pointed me to their copier and asked if I could fix it. Captain Chin, the Marine previously in my position, was unable to get them a new one or fix this old one. Thankfully, in a lifetime before the Marines, I had worked with computers and office equipment for a living.
I confidently opened the case of the copier and was greeted with copious amounts of dust and debris. I am no rocket scientist, but a layer of superfine sand dust is not good for a copier. Sure enough, after cleaning the machine, it worked like new. The Iraqis were amazed. I was a hero. I had saved them hours of having to handwrite copies of everything.
Fixing their copier was not a long-term solution, however. I had given the man a fish, but I had not taught him how to catch them. I gathered the group of S-1 personnel around me and explained the importance of weekly and daily maintenance on electronics and office equipment. I explained that maintenance would extend the life of their equipment anywhere from three to five years. They all nodded in agreement and asked me the most effective way to clean the copier, what places needed the most attention, and how to open the various panels. Sadly, I knew they were simply asking me what I wanted to be asked. Captain Chin had warned me of this. If his experiences held true, the copier would be broken again in a matter of weeks and the jundi would be begging me to buy them a new one.
Chapter 8
Simple Things Made Difficult
August–September 2006
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