So while on the face of it the tribal system of revenge may seem primitive, it actually is quite civilized and relies on money as the diplomat. The U.S. military has even embraced the blood money concept. Many times the U.S. military will pay off sheikhs or families for accidental deaths. The idea of paying off Iraqi families for their pain and anguish may seem very crass to Americans, but the payment suffices as blood money and serves to prevent any retaliatory attacks from the tribe affected.
While money solves nearly all tribal conflicts, it is not foolproof. Moody told me about a famous sheikh who lived about sixteen hundred years ago in Iraq. “Jamal, this sheikh was the only sheikhh in history who would not accept blood money—and it led to disaster. As the story goes, a member of an opposing tribe killed the sheikh’s brother. As is customary, the opposing sheikh came to negotiate with the affected sheikhh for the blood money amount he would need in order to restore his honor. The affected sheikhh’s response was ‘I do not want your money—I want my brother!’” I stopped Moody. “Wait, why didn’t he accept the money? Doesn’t that mean there will be a war?” Moody replied, “Yep, the sheikh called for war. Eventually, one revenge killing led to another. The downward cycle of death decimated both tribes in the end. Here is the moral of the story Jamal: accept blood money payments.” I concurred with Moody’s assessment. Moody responded in jest, “Jamal, you want to know what is even more remarkable about this story? This is the only time in the history of Iraq it was not about the money.”
Moody expanded his discussion of Iraqi tribalism. “Jamal, do you know who understood the tribes better than anyone? Saddam Hussein. He was a master.” Moody followed his praise for Saddam with an example. “Not long ago, two tribes were in a bitter feud because the tribal sheikhs could not agree on the appropriate blood money amount one tribe owed to the other,” he said. “After two days of fighting, there were thirty-eight dead on one side, and forty-five dead on the other, with no resolution in sight. This situation looked like it would end in the destruction of the two tribes.”
Moody paused to catch his breath. “The next day, when the two tribes were standing toe to toe with guns, mortars, artillery, and RPGs ready to destroy each other, Saddam Hussein came to the rescue.” I replied, “Did he fly to the scene in his Superman costume?” Moody laughed. “No, Jamal, there were no Superman costumes involved, but he did send an MOD official from Baghdad to help mediate the issues within the tribes. He asked each sheikhh how much blood money would be required to compensate for the mounting losses on their side. Once the two amounts were negotiated, the official paid the sheikhhs on the spot and told them it was courtesy of Saddam Hussein. The groups quit fighting and went back to a peaceful existence and a high appreciation for Saddam.” I said, “So Saddam became the peacemaker and hero at the same time?” Moody sneered. “Exactly. And now you Americans want to kill the guy who finally got the tribes to agree on something—you’re crazy!”
Our tribal discussion continued. All these new ideas infiltrating my mind were creating new questions I needed Moody to answer. I gave him the best “what-if” scenario I could muster. “Moody, what would happen if some poor man in a tribe accidentally rams his car into someone in another tribe. He will obviously not have the cash to cover the blood money and this simple event could effectively lead to tribal warfare. How do the tribes control these situations?”
“The tribes have a solution to this situation and many like it,” Moody replied. “Effectively, all the tribes in Iraq collect a tax from their members. Personally, I pay around a thousand dinar a month, which is roughly one American dollar. This money goes into what I’ll call a blood money fund. When the poor tribal members run into problems with rival tribes and cannot afford to pay the blood money on behalf of the tribe, the fund is used to ensure the money is paid and no further violence takes place. It’s like an insurance policy.”
I had more questions for Moody. “This sounds like a welfare policy. Do you have any freeloaders who look at the blood money fund and say, ‘this is a great opportunity to kill someone from the other tribe that I really hate with the added benefit that I won’t even have to pay for it?’” Moody answered, “The tribes have this one figured out as well. Before the tribe will use the blood money pot to pay off a member’s blood money debt, the sheikhs make certain you are a good member of the tribe and investigate the circumstances of the death. If the tribal sheikhh senses a member was freeloading on the system he would simply hand them over to the other tribe who would subsequently kill the individual responsible for their member’s death.” I said, “Wow. Sounds like you have it figured out.”
Just Beat It
My discussion with Moody on tribalism somehow shifted to the topic of beatings. After learning about tribalism’s peculiarities, I was not sure Moody could shock me any further. I was wrong. Moody began his lecture on beating people. “Jamal, there is a beating chain of command in Iraqi society. The oldest males sit at the top of the chain of command and the youngest sit at the bottom.” Puzzled, I asked, “A beating chain of command?” Moody said, “Yes, a beating chain of command. Here is how it works. Say you are around the dinner table and the youngest son calls the oldest son a ‘weakling.’ The eldest son, the middle son, and the father, whose honor and respect have been violated, are obligated to beat the offender. And the instigator is obligated to let the beatings happen without a struggle.” I asked, “The older brother, middle brother, and father are obligated to beat the youngest brother? Are you kidding?” Moody responded, “Yes, obligated. One time I had to beat my brother for three hours in the shower until my father said I had gone too far. My heart was broken for beating him, but we both knew it was necessary.”
I had to ask Moody another question. “Wait a second. Why exactly was it necessary for you to beat your brother for three hours? That seems excessive.” Moody explained his logic. “Jamal, this is very difficult for Americans to understand, but I will explain it to you anyway. Let’s say I did not beat my brother. Let’s also assume the word gets out to the rest of the community that my youngest brother disrespected me and was not punished. This would effectively show the community that the males of my household can’t even take care of our own internal affairs.” He paused before continuing his lecture. “Not only does my youngest brother lose his honor in the community, but I lose my honor, my father loses his honor, my grandfather loses his honor, and the entire lineage of males related to my brother lose their honor. Because of this, the family must be sure the youngest brother is beaten. Likewise, the youngest brother will be more than willing to take his beatings, because he understands the consequences of his actions.”
I thought about Moody’s beating story. I think I understand the logic. Effectively, if individuals know they will get harsh punishments for doing something wrong, this acts as a strong deterrence. The logic of this system helps explains why Arab nations are more apt to do public beheadings, public beatings, and public limb amputation. The government wants the community to know that if they do not respect society, they will be punished severely.
Iraqi culture is fascinating and very different from our own.
Chapter 11
Death Operations
September 2006
We got a call one afternoon from the brigade MiTT. The news was terrible: a jundi from the Iraqi brigade had been melted by a mortar shell that landed on the Barwana FOB. When an Iraqi soldier becomes an “angel” (what the U.S. military calls a dead jundi) a lot of work is involved. One of our jobs as a MiTT is to coordinate for transportation of the deceased angel from the location of his death to Baghdad. We are also in charge of ensuring there is a MiTT member and an Iraqi soldier with the body at all times until it reaches Baghdad. Once the body reaches Baghdad, the family takes custody and the situation is no longer in the U.S. military’s hands.
After some discussion, Major Pyle determined that SSgt. Daniel Valle, or “V” as he was called, would be the Marine escort. With V as the designated hitter f
or the escort mission, it was time to conscript a jundi to be the Iraqi escort. I was sent to ask the Iraqis who they wanted to send. I sprinted to the Iraqi swahut area and rounded up any jundi who had a relationship with the angel or knew his family. Luckily, I was able to find Hussein Ali, who was a distant relative. I waited for Hussein to get his gear together and we hurried to the MiTT camp. The helo was leaving in fifteen minutes and we still needed to drive to the helipad, which was located on top of the dam. If we were going to make it, we would need a miracle.
Hussein and I rushed back to the camp. I had both his duffle bags of clothes and Hussein had his body armor and Kevlar in one arm and his AK-47 swinging in the other. We reached the MiTT camp completely exhausted. Lieutenant Adams gave us the latest news. “Gents, it looks like air is red [pilots cannot fly], so this dead body escort mission will be rolled to the next day.”
Once my heart rate had settled, I asked an obvious question. “Where is the angel’s body?” Major Gaines replied, “Hrmm, Jamal, that’s a good question.” He turned toward Adams and yelled, “Figure out where the hell that body is.” Throughout the evening Adams called the 2/3 Marines living in the dam and asked everyone he knew if they had seen an angel come in recently. Nobody knew anything about it. The situation appeared hopeless until a Humvee came flying into our camp.
A young Marine lance corporal jumped out of the driver’s seat and said, “Lieutenant Adams, Sir, we were told to bring this to you.” We opened the back hatch of the Humvee. Body bags full of the angel’s main corpse, smaller pieces of the angel’s body, and blood-soaked combat gear were strewn about. Adams was pissed. “Devil Dog, who the hell told you to drop this body at the MiTT camp? We do not have a large refrigeration capability and we aren’t escorting the body until tomorrow!” The stunned lance corporal replied, “Uh, Sir, I have no idea. I’m just doing what I’m told. My boss is the 2/3 S-4 logistics officer.” Adams sneered and said, “Roger, thanks. I’ll talk to your boss this evening. Bring this back to the dam and tell them they need to refrigerate the body.”
As the lance corporal left our camp, the team burst into laughter. Nuts, in his trademark sarcastic tone, said, “So let me get this straight. When I get blown up by an IED, 2/3 is going to throw me in the back of a Humvee. I will then sit there for a day or two until they figure out what to do with me, and at some point they will send me to my family half rotten. Friggin’ awesome.”
It was 1415. I called the air officer before we departed for the top of the dam. The helo would be inbound at about 1530, plenty of time to reach the helipad. The air officer told me, “Roger, Lieutenant Gray, bird is inbound at 1530.” With the air officer’s confirmation we loaded up the Waz, a Russian made pile-of-crap jeep, and pulled out of the MiTT camp.
Captain McShane came sprinting to us. “I just got a call from the air officer,” he said, “and he tells me the bird will be here in ten minutes. You’d better hurry!” I gasped. “What the heck? Are you serious?” I turned to V. “V, it takes fifteen minutes to get to the dam. You think we can get there in ten?” V replied using one of the few Arabic phrases he knew: “Insha’allah.”
I put the Waz into high gear and slammed the gas. We somehow made it to the top of the dam in time. I asked the air-control Marine on duty, “Is the bird still inbound?” He responded, “Roger, Sir, should be inbound in five minutes.” I further asked, “Where is the angel’s body?” He responded, “Uh, I’m not sure. The S-4 said you guys would have it with you.” My jaw hit the deck. I could not believe this was happening again.
I rushed into a nearby office on top of the dam to borrow a phone. I called the Marine S-4 shop and asked them to explain what was going on. The S-4 Marine on duty explained the situation. “Sir, we are tracking on the body and there was a miscommunication between us. However, that said, we don’t have anyone able to bring the body to the top deck right now, you will have to get it out of the freezer on the seventh deck if you want it there in fifteen minutes.” I hung up and sprinted to the Waz.
I said to the air-control Marine, “Hey, can you have the bird wait twenty minutes while we go get the body?” He replied, “Sir, I can give you fifteen, at most.” Irked, I said, “Shit, well, we’ll take what we can get.” We remounted the Waz and raced to the seventh deck of the dam to retrieve the body. Unfortunately, to reach another level of the dam you have to drive nearly a mile along the dam where there is access to drive to the lower levels. The dam levels are similar to terraced agricultural fields, with minimal crossing points with which to move from one level to the other.
With the Waz in high gear we went flying through one of the Azerbaijani security checkpoints. Amazingly, they did not open fire on us and understood we were experiencing an emergency. We made it to the seventh level in record time, eight minutes and forty-five seconds.
Our next mission was to find the freezers. V, being the designated chow Marine for the MiTT, knew of only one set of freezers on the seventh deck—the chow freezers. “Dude,” I asked him, “you think they would be sick enough to store the body with all the meat, milk, and other perishables?” I was hoping to get a negative response. “Sir,” V said, “to be honest, those freezers are the only freezers on this level, they must have done that.” I screeched on the brakes as we approached the row of four large shipping container sized walk-in freezers.
V searched the first two freezers and I searched the second two. We both came out empty-handed. I asked V, “Shoot man, where the hell could they have stored that body?” At that moment, a Marine corporal wandered over to us, wondering why a Marine first lieutenant and a staff sergeant were rummaging through 2/3’s chow supply with sweat pouring down their faces. V took the lead. “Devil Dog, we are looking for a dead body. Seen one?” I thought for sure the Marine interrogating us was going to tell us to visit a psychiatrist, but he responded, “Actually, I heard the S-4 moved a body down here last night. Let me check real quick in the meat locker.”
The Marine plowed to the rear of the meat locker, smashing boxes out of his way. Sure enough, in the corner of the meat locker sat a bloody body bag and some bloody combat gear buried next to a stack of hamburger patties. V and I immediately needed to figure out the best way to get the angel’s body into the Waz. I established a plan. “V, you go to the Waz and figure out how we are gonna stuff this guy in the back. Corporal, you stay here with me and help me put all the pieces together so we can easily carry this body to the Waz.”
The corporal and I slowly moved the various parts within the body bag—arms, feet, and others—into the form of a human and propped it onto a stretcher. Once we loaded the body bag, we stacked the angel’s bloody flak and Kevlar on top of the stretcher and gingerly evacuated him from the freezer and into the Waz. V had a clearing in the middle of the Waz and had dropped the tailgate. “Shit, Sir, he ain’t gonna fit,” V proclaimed. I responded, “V, we don’t have much choice, hang on to this guy with your life. I’ll try and keep the ride smooth.”
The scene that followed was straight out of the movie Weekend at Bernie’s, in which a couple of young executives have to manipulate their boss’s corpse through precarious situations without being discovered. I put the pedal to the metal in the Waz, and V held the body with outstretched arms. We made it to the intersection in the dam where we could move to the top deck. It was going to be a steep drive uphill. To V’s horror I floored the Waz. “Sir,” he shouted, “I think I’m going to drop him. My forearm is ’bout to burst!” I encouraged V, saying, “Just a few more seconds till we get to the tenth deck. Hold on buddy!”
“V, we made it,” I said. “Il hamdu Allah.” V and I were now on the tenth deck and needed to race to the helipad before the bird left. We screamed along the top of the dam and arrived a few minutes later to the helipad. Hussein came running to us, “Shaku maku? Aku mushkila?” (What’s up? Are there any problems?) I replied, “La. Maku mushkila. Kullshi kullish zien wa sahel.” (No. No problems. Everything is very good and was easy.) Hussein looked at us with su
spicion. V and I were dripping in sweat and obviously stressed. Even so, Hussein shrugged his shoulders, grabbed his gear, and sprinted to the bird, while V and I loaded the corpse.
I wished V and Hussein safe travels and bid them farewell. As I exited the rear of the helicopter, Hussein looked at his dead cousin. He was disgusted, shaking his head in sorrow. “Jamal,” he said, “last month my only brother was killed in a suicide car bomb attack in Al Qaim. I cannot deal with more death in my country.” I tried to console him. “Hussein, Allah wiyak wa ahelek. Rah ykoon maku mushkila bil mustekbel.” (Hussein, God is with you and your family. There will be no problems in the future.) I paused, shook his hand with a firm grip, and said, “Insha’allah.”
I felt extremely sorry for Hussein. The state of life in Iraq is treacherous. It is almost standard operating procedure that Iraqis bury a loved one every month in this country. Meanwhile, in America we are worried about unemployment rising from 4.5 percent to 5.5 percent. Who cares? Imagine if the tables were turned and we had to worry if we had four and a half days or five and a half days to live. The Iraqi people are faced with challenges that dwarf the typical American sob story.
Chapter 12
The Iraqi Officer and Enlisted Relationship
October–November 2006
Outlaws
On the return trip from Haqliniyah, Maj. Travis Gaines and I stopped a bit short of Camp Ali along South Dam Road. Gaines turned to me and said, “Jamal, do you know why the Iraqis decided to stop”—he raised his voice—“in the middle of the road?” I replied, “Sir, I have no clue.”
Thirty seconds after we had stopped, Sermen, an Iraqi soldier, came jogging past our Humvee and approached the rear Iraqi Humvee. At the same time Ayad sprinted past the side of our Humvee and headed to the Iraqi Humvee in the front of the convoy. Gaines said over the radio, “Does anyone have a clue why the hell Sermen is coming to the rear of the convoy and Ayad is moving to the front of the convoy while we’re still outside the wire?” The radio was silent. Nobody on the MiTT knew what was happening.
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