Embedded

  Ali Jaber and his jundi immediately went to work. He ordered the detainees to pull out their identification cards. He made quick work of the situation, approached me, and whispered in my ear, “Jamal, these two men are the Egyptians. It says so on their identification cards.” I replied, “Are you sure?” He snuck a little closer. “Yes, Jamal. What should we do with them?” I pondered, then answered, “Hrmm, tell them we need to take them back to the dam for some questioning. Tell them we do not believe them to be guilty of anything, but believe they may be able to help us find some insurgents and that they will be rewarded for their efforts.” Once we had attained our “prizes,” the next step was to explore the immediate area for suspicious activity. I grabbed a small group of Iraqi scouts and went to search some abandoned tents along the coast.

  A spring from an AK-47 rifle came flying out of a shredded tent and directly into my face. “Ow. Shit, dude, watch out!” I blurted out in English to Mofak, one of the jundi with me. Mofak looked at me puzzled, not understanding what I had said. “Jamal, shaku maku? Inta zien?” (Jamal, what happened? Are you okay?) Still flinching from the pain, I replied, “Anii zien, bess shtisowwi wiya AK?” (I am fine, but what are you doing with the AK?) Mofak would not respond, so I entered the tent.

  Mofak decided to dismantle the AK-47 inside the tent. “Mofak, what are you doing, man?” I asked. “Nothing,” he responded. “I am destroying this AK-47 so they don’t attack us with it when we leave.” Despite my desire to agree with him, I had to explain to Mofak that the Iraqi people were allowed to have one AK-47 per household, even if their household was a shitty tent on some island in the middle of nowhere.

  Mofak understood and begrudingly tossed the rifle on the ground. “Jamal, you know everyone out here is an insurgent, don’t you?” I responded, “Yes, Mofak, that may be true, but we have to respect these people. Here’s a deal. If they fire on us when we leave, we will come back here and take them all back to the Iraqi camp for interrogation. Will that work?” He nodded in agreement. “Okay, that is good. However, I will kill them if they shoot at us so we won’t even have to worry about bringing them back to Camp Ali.”

  At the conclusion of our search efforts, we rallied everyone together, including our two insurgent detainees, and patrolled back to our landing zone for extract. Our mission, despite its chaotic beginnings, had been a complete success. The Marines operating the boat hollered, “Sir, how was it? You got the insurgents?” Excited, I answered, “Oh yeah, we got them. Now let’s get the hell out of here!” They shouted back, “Oohrah, Sir. Roger that.” We loaded onto the speedboats and dashed for Haditha.

  Part 4

  BETWEEN IRAQ AND A HARD PLACE

  Chapter 19

  Contending with Iraq Culture

  November–December 2006

  “Resgar, do you want to run with us?” Adams and I were on a jog and wanted to see if our resident Kurd, who speaks five languages, was interested. “Jamal, I am so sorry,” he replied. “I cannot run with you. I have too many bullet holes in my legs.” Never hearing this excuse before in my life, I asked again for clarification. Resgar elaborated. “Jamal, I have five bullet wounds in my legs from snipers in the Iran and Iraq War. I have shrapnel in my body and hands and I have a bullet wound on my head from a friendly Iraqi aircraft round that ricocheted off my head. I have a hard time moving my body.”

  What can you reasonably say to an excuse like that? I laughed. “Resgar, my brother, no problem. We don’t want you running with us anyway—you will probably make us run too fast!”

  Iraqis operate in an environment unimaginable to outsiders—and it is reflected in their unique culture.

  Iraqi Sex Education (or Lack Thereof)

  Most of the MiTT hates sitting on Iraqi COC duty. I particularly love it because it is a great opportunity to speak with the Iraqis. One day the Iraqis and I discussed everyone’s favorite topic—sex.

  The Iraqis receive little to no sex education and are naturally curious. Our first conversation was on the fabled clitoris: what it was, how to find it, and how it can give a woman pleasure. In what was very awkward conversation, I explained to the jundi the basic concept of the organ. I tried to explain everything to the serious-faced jundi in Arabic without bursting into laughter but had a difficult time. I think the Iraqis understood the gist of what I was trying to tell them, even if they got half of it wrong. I was amazed at how sexually illiterate they were. I felt like I was surrounded by a bunch of teenage boys who were frothing at the mouth for the opportunity to learn the basics of female anatomy. I didn’t claim to be any sort of expert on sexual matters, but even my rudimentary knowledge put me in a class above most Iraqis.

  The conversation lit a fire under the jundi. Lieutenant Colonel Ali asked, “Jamal, how do American men last so long in bed and how do you grow your penises so large?” Baffled, I replied, “What are you talking about, man?” He responded, “On all the movies I see the man humping the woman for over an hour and they always have a penis the size of a baby’s arm! What cream or medicine are you guys taking?”

  I shook my head in disgust, hiding my laughter. “Listen, you understand that in the porno movies they always hire the guys with the biggest dicks, right? You also gotta understand that the reason those movies go on for hours is because they cut scenes and take breaks—none of it is reality!” Ali wasn’t buying it. “Jamal, you are full of shit. I know there is a medicine you can take. I’ve seen these things on the Internet. I have also heard that to increase your penis size you guys inject some sort of jelly substance into your cock.”

  Sometimes I wondered where Iraqis get their information. I continued, “Oh, so you saw it on the Internet and now it must be true? Guys, let me tell you, everything you see on the Internet or on television does not reflect the reality of America.” I paused. “Trust me, my penis is only nine inches long and I usually only last an average of thirty minutes in bed.” The sarcasm in my comment didn’t communicate to the jundi I was joking. They looked at me with a sense of reverence. “Guys, I’m joking. Lighten up.”

  I was tired of being the jundi’s sexual education teacher and instead turned the conversation over to them. I addressed Ahmed and the others. “Ahmed, tell me about sex in Iraq. What do you guys do that I would find surprising?” Ahmed turned to his fellow Arabs and they conversed in Arabic for a moment, then Ahmed turned to me. “Jamal, have you heard of the Shia custom of ‘enjoyable marriage?’” Perplexed, I replied, “Enjoyable marriage? Naw, never heard of it. Explain this one to me.”

  Ahmed explained, “Jamal, the concept is very easy. If you are a widow you are allowed to pay a man to be your temporary husband. The temporary husband’s job is to have sex with the woman, protect her, and take care of her.” I smirked and asked, “What does Allah think of all this?”

  “Well, it’s a tricky situation,” Ahmed replied. “Allah doesn’t really see this as a true marriage because there is no love involved. It is purely a pragmatic solution to a common problem.” I replied, “Uh, you’re going to have to explain a bit more for me, Ahmed.” He obliged, saying, “Sure, I will give you an example of when an enjoyable marriage is legal and not legal in the eyes of Allah.”

  Ahmed began to lecture. “Okay Jamal, let’s say a widow wants to have an enjoyable marriage. She will market herself or other men will come to her to make a proposal. Let’s say they agree to a six-month agreement. The man from that point forward is able to have sex with the woman and is obligated to take care of her.” I asked, “Okay, why doesn’t Allah see that as having sex outside of marriage?” He responded, “Well, here is the catch. At the end of the six-month period, the agreement must end. If the two individuals actually love each other, or want to continue the contract, they have to get married. If they are caught having sex after the agreement, they will be punished as any other sexual offender would be punished.”

  Astonished, I replied, “Isn’t that cheating the system? It almost seems like prostitution.” Ahmed retorted, “Well, J
amal, you need to realize that the woman will be distraught when she is a widow and may be driven to kill herself without a man in her life. This is a solution that allows the woman to maintain some sort of sanity while she gets back into her life.”

  “Tell me this Ahmed,” I asked, “can the woman do this multiple times? Like can she do multiple contracts? Also, how many guys come clamoring for deals like this hoping to get some sex?” Ahmed laughed. “Jamal, I will be honest with you, I think the woman can legally do this multiple times, but I do not know the official religious law for this. And yes, men do come clamoring to sign on for these enjoyable marriage deals.”

  I replied, “The Sunnis hate this idea—right?” Ahmed quickly responded, “Oh yes, they think it is against Allah’s wishes, but we disagree with them on many things so that is natural.”

  After learning about the enjoyable marriage concept, I sparked a flurry of sex-related stories that all the Iraqis wanted to share. My favorite was of this famous man in Fallujah who wanted to have sex fifteen times a day with his wife. The nickname for the man was “Horny Hameed.” For obvious reasons, Horny Hameed’s wife wasn’t so keen on the idea and took her husband to the local equivalent of court, the local sheikh.

  Typically, in an Iraqi marriage the woman has to do what her husband wants; however, because of the absurd nature of her husband’s request, the local sheik was willing to hear her concerns. The final judgment from the sheik was that Horny Hameed would be limited to having sex with his wife only three times a day. And if he broke this rule, his wife would have the legal right to separate from him. The wife, without a real choice, agreed to the ruling. Horny Hameed and his bride left the sheik’s presence to live happily ever after—or so everyone thought.

  A few months passed and Horny Hameed’s wife returned to complain to the sheik. Her husband was once again forcing her to have sex fifteen times a day. Standing by his word, the sheik ruled that this was grounds for a legal divorce and that the woman could part ways from her husband because of his unnatural demands. Thank God, there is some sense of reasonableness in Arab society.

  One evening, during my Iraqi COC duty, Imus, the terp working with me, showed me a talent I never knew he possessed. “I can swoon any women with the stroke of my pen or the sound of my voice,” he told me. I’ve always thought Imus was a blowhard: he is thirty-seven years old and relatively wealthy, yet unmarried. Any male in Iraq with these characteristics has no excuse not to be married. While I had my doubts with regard to Imus’s abilities, this evening Imus proved to me that he is a “ladies’ man.”

  Imus typically set up his computer next to mine on our table in the Iraqi COC. While on duty with me he spent his nights chatting on the Internet, since I only occasionally needed his terp services. This night was no different. Imus booted up his computer and started chatting online. Imus usually spoke with his friends and relatives, but this time he claimed to be chatting with a married American woman who wanted to marry him.

  To call his bluff I sat over his shoulder and watched the conversation between him and whoever was on the other side of the chat session. While the chatter between Imus and the person on the other end seemed to corroborate Imus’s story, I found it hard to believe that a married American woman could be swooned by an Iraqi with no hope, no future, and living a world away. Imus was likely dealing with a pedophile searching for his next victim.

  Imus managed to prove me wrong. He put on his headphones and told the lady to turn on her webcam so he could see and speak with her. I called Imus out. “You are so full of shit,” I said. “I guarantee the person you’re talking to will not show their face.” I returned to my desk to continue my work.

  Within a few minutes I heard a thick West Virginian accent say, “Imus, baby, I love you. I want you to come to America so we can live together. I will leave my kids and my husband.” I sprinted to Imus’s computer screen. I couldn’t believe what I saw.

  I was looking at a woman in her mid-forties sitting in what appeared to be her study. I shook my head in disbelief and went back at my desk. Imus began speaking with the woman through his microphone. The conversation was mundane: They asked each other about their families, the weather, and made general small talk. After my astonishment wore off, I stopped eavesdropping on the conversation and went back on my work.

  “I am putting my tongue on your hard nipples now. I am slowly moving my way down your body so I can lick your beautiful flower.” I popped out of my chair. “Imus, did you just say what I think you said to that lady?” He ignored me and continued spewing graphic sexual speech to the woman on the other side of the computer. I couldn’t handle it. I had to see what was going on. I witnessed the unthinkable. The housewife had her top off, she was caressing her breasts, and was obviously pleasuring herself out of the webcam’s view.

  The absurdity of the situation was too much. From a swahut in Al Anbar Province, in the middle of a war zone, Imus was conducting phone sex with a married woman. Even so, this homemaker, a world away, continued to enjoy what Imus had to offer. I guess this was her release from what I can only assume was a lame duck life she had with her husband. Imus continued his Casanova tactics on the lady. I was still not completely convinced. I told Imus, “I need to talk to this woman and make sure she isn’t some chick from some sort of paid service.”

  Imus wanted to prove to me that this was the real deal. He spoke with his Internet lover. “My friend just came in the room here. He is a U.S. Marine and wants to talk with you to see how you are doing. Would you mind speaking with him for a few moments?” Imus handed me the headset. I introduced myself and started asking the lady basic questions that only an American would know. She responded effortlessly. We spoke about West Virginia, her family, and the weather in the States, and she thanked me for my service in Iraq. This was the real deal. Scared about what I had stumbled upon, I handed the microphone back to Imus. I was in shock. I had witnessed an unshaven, 130-pound weakling, living thousands of miles away from America, have phone sex with a married West Virginian with three children and a steady job. I couldn’t imagine anything more mind-boggling.

  After handing the microphone off to Imus, I went back to my desk to get my head around what had just happened. I then heard the lady crying over the microphone. She moped, “Imus, I love you—so much! How can I get you to America? I want to be with you forever. Just tell me when you come here and I will leave my husband for you. We are meant to be. I pray everyday that you will show up on my doorstep.” Imus smirked in my direction and then redirected his attention to his psycho friend, saying, “I love you too, darling. You are my flower, and my joy in life. Everyday I am without you is another day I wish I were dead.” I simply rolled my eyes at the crap he was spewing.

  The Romeo and Juliet soap opera conversation went on for a good ten minutes. Eventually, the woman’s husband came home and she needed to cease the webcam conversation before she was caught. Imus gave her his best wishes and more words of his undying love for her. After this experience I never questioned any of Imus’s stories. I had witnessed with my own eyes the absurdity that can occur over the Internet. While there was a general lack of sex education throughout Iraq, a few Iraqi men had done their research. ¡Ay, caramba!

  Laziness, Lack of Initiative, and Militias

  Sometimes working within Iraqi culture is fascinating and provides a front-row ticket to a comedy show; however, most of the time it is simply frustrating. One morning it seemed like there needed to be five Mulazim Jamals at one time. Everyone on the adviser team liked to task me to deal with their jundi problems. Now even the boss was getting in on the action.

  Major Pyle grabbed me and said, “Jamal, I need some help with the Iraqis.” I replied, “Sure, Sir. What do you need?” He said, “Jamal, I need you to address Lieutenant Seif and ask him why the hell he didn’t wait for me to attend his convoy brief this morning. We had a deal last night that he would wait for me. I thought you had these guys squared away.” I knew why the Iraqis didn�
�t want him to attend the briefing—they hate him. Even at this late stage in the deployment the boss insisted on controlling everything the Iraqis did. The jundi wanted no part of him.

  We caught up with Lieutenant Seif. He addressed me in Arabic before we were able to utter a word. I interpreted what Seif said to the boss. “Sir, in a nutshell, Seif says he started his brief early so his men could prepare their trucks and be on time for the convoy departure.” Once the boss left the area, I addressed Seif to get the genuine scoop. The reality of the situation was that Seif started the convoy brief ten minutes early, went over the basics, and cut everyone loose. They didn’t want Major Pyle attending because they knew he would drag the meeting out forever and make them do their convoy brief according to the Marine standard I taught them a few months prior.

  Major Pyle, like many U.S. military commanders, always wanted to add complexity and extra bullshit to the Iraqi equation. In the Marines we can accept longer meetings that go over things in more detail. We can accept more attention to detail. We can accept time-consuming measures that lower risk. In summary, Marines are Americans, and Americans are typically risk averse when it comes to life or death situations. We do everything we can to mitigate risk, despite the fact the mitigation efforts will cost us in lost time.

  But the Iraqis are completely different. They are much more willing to accept risk if they can waste less time in meetings and on mission preparation. The Iraqis will never accept the Marine way of doing things as the right way of doing things. Sure Marine methods may save someone’s life every so often, but every second spent pontificating and addressing risk factors is time wasted to Iraqis. The cultural acceptance of death makes the jundi lazy. For Americans being labeled as “lazy” automatically carries negative connotations. Paradoxically Iraqis will think of positive connotations associated with being lazy. In their mind, lazy people are wise people.