Chapter 9
Iraqi Payday Operations
September 2006
At their core Iraqi soldiers are not much different from U.S. Marines. If you do not feed or do not pay a Marine, do not expect him to accomplish anything. This same holds for the jundi. Fortunately for Marines, getting chow and pay are rarely problems in a world of computers, laws, and honest people. The situation in Iraq is a lot different.
The Iraqi pay system is broken but improving. As the Marine in charge of overseeing Iraqi pay operations, I wished I’d had the power to fix the whole system. But this wasn’t possible. I couldn’t create a banking system in Iraq, eradicate extortion and violent robbery, and eliminate corruption in Iraqi society. All I really could do was be the focal point for the jundi for all their complaints regarding pay. I also could see to it that their pay processes at the battalion level were fair and just and that I reported all discrepancies to the next higher level unit. What happened beyond battalion level I had no control over.
Payday was approaching and it was obvious. Nearly every jundi in the battalion had confronted me with pay issues. The pay system was counterproductive to the Iraqi army’s future. The more the jundi relied on Marines for solving their problems, the longer Marines had to stay in Iraq. I had told the jundi multiple times that they needed to consolidate all their pay issues and give them to the Iraqi battalion S-1. The battalion S-1 would then send the pay discrepancy report to the Iraqi brigade, which would send it to the Iraqi division, which would eventually send it to the MOD, where all pay issues would be resolved.
Every time I told Iraqis to talk to their Iraqi leadership to solve their problems, they looked at me weirdly. And I got the same general response: “Jamal, Iraqi officers are Ali Babba. Colonel Abass is Ali Babba, General Bassam [Iraqi brigade commander] is Ali Babba, MOD is full of Ali Babba, and everyone else in Iraqi is Ali Babbas. Are you kidding me? You are the only person we can trust!”
I understood the Iraqi perspective. They had lived in a harsh environment with limited resources, had been inculcated by tribal culture, and were used to operating within Saddam Hussein’s corrupt regime. It was no wonder they only trusted people with whom they had a personal relationship.
Payday
Iraqi payday began. A reckless convoy of unfamiliar Iraqis came crashing through Camp Ali. This “convoy of chaos” was the jundi from the Iraqi brigade based in Al Asad. When the dust finally settled, Colonel Abass and the other Iraqi officers greeted the brigade officers as though they had not seen them in many years (it had been less than a week). I waited thirty minutes as the Iraqis hugged, kissed, and reminisced about days of old.
“Tseen, Jamal is the new MiTT pay officer. He is over there.” Colonel Abass directed Captain Tseen, the Iraqi pay officer, in my direction. Tseen, obese and just a few pounds from claiming the title of “fattest Iraqi officer” from Abass, waddled his way to me with open arms and a wide smile. He bear-hugged me, kissed me on both cheeks, and shook my hand. “Jamal, I heard you are a very good man, how are you? How is your family?” I responded with a firm handshake and a firm bear hug. “Tseen,” I said, “I am quite well. I hear you are the best pay officer in Iraq? I am happy to hear you arrived safely.”
Captain Tseen ordered a few of the jundi on guard to grab his gear from the Iraqi Humvee. It took me a minute to realize that the large hay bales the jundi were struggling to take from the Humvee were not Tseen’s luggage, they were 350,243,100 dinar (roughly $250,000). Inflation had not only broken the Iraqi economy but also the backs of these poor jundi carrying the cash. The next step was to count the money. We entered Colonel Abass’s hooch to secure the money in his safe, the only secure environment on Camp Ali. I say “secure” in the sense the safe was fireproof and under lock and key; however, the fact that Colonel Abass had access to this safe was not reassuring.
Tseen grabbed the 100,000-dinar wads of cash from his assistant’s hands and counted them. “100,000 dinar, 200,000 dinar, 300,000 dinar.” I verified with the MOD roster that the amount of money arriving to our camp was the amount we should be receiving. Amazingly, we had exactly 350,243,100 dinar. We locked the safe. Tseen said, “Jamal, it is now time for tea. Come with me.” I obliged and we went to drink tea with a group of Iraqi officers in the battalion swahut.
Our first pay operation was to pay the Headquarters and Service Company (H&S Company) Iraqi soldiers who resided at Camp Ali. We set up shop in Captain Hasen’s swahut, which was in the center of the jundi swahut area. To the untrained eye it seemed as though the jundi payday scene was absolute chaos. The jundi were simultaneously excited and stressed. They yelled and fought with each other to get a favorable position in the line. They relied on the paychecks to survive and to feed their families. No paycheck meant an Iraqi could not take care of his family, a dishonorable position in the Arab world.
There were seven individuals involved in the management of the pay process. Sergeant Major Kasem, the senior enlisted Iraqi in H&S Company, stood at the door to the swahut and asked for three identification (ID) cards at a time; he acted like the bouncer outside a club. He continually yelled at the pay line, which consisted of anywhere from fifty to a hundred Iraqis, all of whom were trying to push their way to the front of the line.
Inside the swahut Tseen and I set up a long table with six chairs behind it. The Iraqis receiving pay started at chair one and moved down the line. The first and second chairs were for me and a terp, usually Imus, Mark, or Moody—the most honest terps. While I rarely used a terp, during pay operations I relied on them heavily to give me the honest scoop. Pay operations were notorious for various kinds of shady business, which my basic Arabic skills might not have caught (for example, officers paying favorite soldiers more money, stealing soldiers’ pay, forging signatures on the pay charts, and so forth). Sadly, I had no real function at the table except to monitor the process and assure the jundi that the Iraqi officers would not engage in nefarious activity. No matter how much Iraqis publicly claimed that Americans are dishonest, stingy, and generally rotten people, in private situations, they relied on us heavily to provide oversight.
The third chair was for Naji, an S-1 warrant officer with over twenty years in the old Iraqi army who is respected throughout the battalion. Naji’s duty was to verify IDs, verify names, and keep a written record of payment for the battalion’s pay records. Iraqis love to keep paper records of everything. Their record-keeping ability is old fashioned and inefficient but functional. Next to Naji sat Tseen. Tseen read names and pay amounts from the official pay rosters from MOD. When the pay recipient verified that his name was correct, he signed on the official MOD pay rosters. Tseen also acted as an impact zone for jundi complaints, bearing the full brunt of every emotional jundi who found out he had a pay issue—a sight women and children should never have to witness.
Once Tseen had read the payee’s name and pay amount from the roster, the payee moved down the line to the money counter. Typically Captain Hasen acted as the money counter. He grabbed a lump of cash and started flipping through it so fast he could have used it as a small fan. He had to be fast since each jundi received about 500,000 dinar. Once the money had been counted, he handed it over to the soldier receiving it, who then stepped out of the line and counted it to verify Captain Hasen’s work. If he had problems with the amount, he told Hasen, who would either recount the money if he thought the jundi was lying or grab a few bills from his cash stacks and hand it to the jundi who was shorted.
The sixth seat in the process was reserved for the pay overseer. In our battalion this was Lieutenant Colonel Ali, the executive officer (XO) of the battalion and the only officer trusted by the jundi. His primary duty was very similar to mine: ensure the pay process is orderly, fair, and honest. His additional duty was to clarify and mediate any issues with pay punishments, a highly contested and passionate affair. Fortunately, my role in the pay punishments was passive. I had to understand the process and ensure it was not leading to further corrupt
ion or creating impediments to the Iraqi army’s future success. Ali actually dealt with the emotional or distressed Iraqis who wanted to argue their case.
Pay punishments are the only method of reprimanding Iraqi soldiers, aside from restricting leave. Because restricting leave usually guarantees a soldier will never return to active duty, restricting pay is the preferred punishment. Pay punishments are necessary because the Iraqi army doesn’t have a functioning or enforceable Uniform Code of Military Justice or similar government construct that allows for a more fair and orderly method of punishing poor soldier behavior.
In the old Iraqi army there were many more ways to impose good order and discipline among the troops: beatings, threatening families, sending soldiers to jail, and so forth. In the new Iraqi army the easiest way to enforce standards is for the battalion commanders to be the judge, jury, and executioner for Iraqi soldier misbehavior. Unfortunately this system is prone to nepotism and corruption, but most of the time it accomplishes its objective of motivating Iraqi soldiers to do the right thing.
Payday Problems
The pay process for H&S Company went relatively smoothly for an Iraqi operation. The same held true for the pay operations we carried out in Barwana, Haqliniyah, and Baghdadi. But the hinges came off the doors when we paid the jundi in Haditha. There we were down to the last group of soldiers to be paid, none of whom had received pay for the past few months because of the bureaucracy and corruption at the MOD. The first jundi approached Tseen, smiled with a mouthful of five teeth, and said, “Sir, have you worked my pay problem out with MOD yet? It has been five months since I have been paid.” Tseen responded, “I am sorry, I am still trying to figure it out. God willing, we get it next payday.”
This was obviously not the answer the jundi wanted to hear. The jundi and his comrades approached the table and verbally attacked Tseen. The situation appeared beyond control. I was getting worried, but my terp said, “Jamal, Arab people are very emotional. I will let you know if something needs to be done.” I sat back in my chair and watched the bedlam as the group continued to confront Tseen, calling him names, calling him a liar, and accusing him of theft. I was amazed at the disrespect the jundi were showing to a senior officer. It is expected that emotions will sometimes run high, but if the jundi had done this in the U.S. military it would have resulted in a court-martial. In the old Iraqi army, it would have ended in a beating.
In my short experience with Iraqis it seemed they chilled out after venting for a few minutes. In this case, however, they didn’t. They did not calm down; they got more furious as Tseen exited his seat and sprinted to Captain Najib’s office to get away from them. Tseen’s exit meant the fury and anger of the jundi would be directed to the next best candidate—me.
“Jamal, you must help us, Tseen is Ali Babba!” the group exclaimed. I was facing a dilemma. I could agree with their sentiments and reinforce their distrust and disrespect for Tseen or I could tell them their pay system was valid, that Tseen was working hard, and that their system simply needed time to work (a blatant lie). I took a compromise position and used a trick I learned from some of our predeployment culture training—blame problems on a higher unit or organization. I told the disgruntled jundi, “Listen, I will help you as best I can. I think Tseen is an honest man and is trying his best, but he has to deal with all of the corruption at the MOD.”
I had detonated a “bitching bomb.” The jundi went on a tirade of complaints, hoping I could fix all the problems in Iraq. “Jamal, we have no pay, no new clothes, no new uniforms, no food, we get shot at every day. How can we continue this way of life?” Qasem, the driver of the Iraqi Humvee I had ridden in during the Kaffijiyah and Bani Dahir operations, approached me and said, “Jamal, look at my socks.” Qasem pulled off a boot and showed me his decrepit sock. I said, “Good God! We just received a new supply of socks, shoes, boots, and uniforms at the battalion. They still have not sent any of this gear to the fighters in 4th Iraqi Company?”
I knew I could not help these men with their pay problems, since those issues were fixed at the highest and most corrupt levels of the MOD; however, I could possibly get these guys supplies by asking Lieutenant Adams to put his boot in the ass of Nihad, the battalion supply officer. Before I gave the jundi an honest assessment, I remembered Mohammed’s key point during his Arab culture brief at Camp Taji: when dealing with an Arab do not be direct in your responses and criticisms; instead, go out of your way to be helpful and accommodating, even if what you are saying is not the complete truth.
I rejected the American culture tendency to be candid and instead gave the jundi my culturally aware response. “Friends, I will try my best to work with the brigade to ensure Tseen is rectifying your pay problems. I think there is hope. I will also ask the battalion where your supplies are located. Please be patient.” I paused before continuing. “Bil mustekbel rah yakoon maku mushkila. Insha’allah.” (In the future, there will be no problems. God willing.) The soldiers appreciated my sincerity. “Jamal, my brother, thank you for caring about us, God willing you can help us, may God be with you.” The Iraqis each gave me a hug and their best wishes. Mohammed’s cultural insights had served me well.
On our way out of the Haditha FOB, Imus mumbled under his breath to me, “Money is the root of all evil. People who want everything are no good. I am sorry you have to deal with those Iraqis.” Imus, in his ideal world where every Iraqi loves one another and praises God, was angry at the jundi for telling me their problems. A very proud Iraqi, Imus was trying to convey to me that greed, poverty, and begging were not the norm with his people. His people were not these problem-ridden Iraqi soldiers; his people were part of the historic Arab kingdoms, which oversaw a glorious Islamic society along the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. To ease his fears I said, “Imus, dude, it’s all good, man. Every society has a group in need. I won’t hold it against you.”
On the convoy home, as I was searching for IEDs, I thought about the supply issues within the Iraqi army and how we could fix them. How could it be that battalion headquarters had recently received a shipment of new supplies and yet the actual fighters at the company level had nothing? How could we help these Iraqi soldiers?
My thoughts on helping the Iraqis solve their supply problems had changed by the end of our thirty-minute convoy. At the end of our trip the jundi started throwing boxes of their meals, ready-to-eat (MREs) onto the side of the road. I could not believe it. How could they bitch to me about not having supplies then throw boxes of chow off their Humvee because it did not appeal to their taste buds? We had just risked our lives in the Barwana markets buying these guys food and now they were throwing away their backup chow? This episode only reinforced what I had seen earlier when we were unloading all the new Iraqi supplies. The Iraqis showed me their bin of used equipment. The bin was filled with used flak jackets, boots, and uniforms from soldiers who had quit or been fired. If these guys were so desperate, why didn’t they use some of this stuff? It was not in poor shape. What’s wrong with these people? I thought.
I think the answer lies in the Iraqi perception that American taxpayers have an infinite supply of money. Guess what, Mr. Jundi? The Marines recycle gear all the time and never throw out boxes of MREs needlessly. At times the Iraqis annoyed me with their sob stories, especially when their whining was followed by a bout of wastefulness and an attitude that Americans “will just buy us new things, as they always do.” But then again—MREs do suck!
Chapter 10
Insights on Iraqi Culture
September 2006
Every day I was in Iraq I learned more about Iraqi culture. The most shocking lesson came from Colonel Abass, who gave Lieutenant Colonel Cooling (the 3/3 commander), a few U.S. Army Special Forces soldiers, Staff Sergeant Haislip, and I a lesson on Arab marital relations at a lunch gathering.
A Dinner Date with Colonel Abass
After the standard thirty minutes of chit-chat over lunch, Cooling said to Abass, “Seyidi [Sir], what do you think ab
out the insurgents in this area?” Abass responded through Martin, the terp, “My honest opinion is they are all faggots and homosexuals and do not follow the Koran. They probably don’t even beat their wives.” We all chuckled at the statement, but we could not believe what we were hearing.
Cooling asked Abass the same question we all wanted to ask: “So you said the insurgents do not beat their wives—is not beating your wife considered a bad thing?” Abass got out of his seat with a wide grin on his face and spoke, “In Iraq, it is mandatory you beat your wife!” We all looked at each other, puzzled but curious to see where this conversation was going. He continued, “To not beat your wife is considered unmanly. Men who do not beat their women allow their women to take advantage of them through their powers of seduction. I think Western pressure to stop wife beating will only lead to a systematic weakness in Iraqi men.”
Cooling asked, “Now, Seyidi, what if your wife is not causing any problems? Would you still beat her?” Abass replied, “Gentlemen, that is a good question. Let me explain. It is important to beat your wife to remind her you are in control. For example, I have two wives. One of my wives is a disaster and I beat her all the time; however, one of my wives is absolutely perfectly behaved, yet despite her good behavior, I still must beat her.”
We all listened intently, trying to decipher the absurdity of this statement. Abass continued, “It is not like I just start beating my good wife for any reason—that is senseless. I make sure she knows why I am beating her.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “One trick I have used in the past has worked quite well. Let me tell you the story. I had just returned from the doctor’s office and the doctor told me that I had very high cholesterol and that I must cease my intake of sodium. I told my wife this bit of news and she responded by ensuring that all of my food was prepared without any salt. Everything was fine for a few weeks. Even so, one evening I knew I needed to beat my wife.”
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