Embedded

  After continuing along his laundry list of absurd requests, he blurted out, “Can I have your socks?” I stopped in my tracks. “Are you asking me for the socks I have on my feet right now?” The guy smiled, thinking I had finally caved to his requests. “Yes. Can I have them? Please give them to me.” Angry, I replied, “Listen, I am not here to give you things. And no, you can’t have the socks I’m wearing, you idiot. What the hell is your problem? You’ll have to excuse me, I must go to work.”

  Later I experienced a begging incident that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I invited Sa’ed, a young, hardworking jundi, to my hooch so I could give him some things people from America had sent me that I did not need. Of course, Abdulrachman, the leader of the admin shop, ordered Sa’ed to tell him where he was going when he set out to visit me. Abdulrachman, and some of his jundi buddies, sensing they weren’t going to get their fair share of whatever Sa’ed might be receiving, followed him to my hooch.

  Sa’ed knocked on the door and I heard him say, “Jamal, shlonek? Anii Sa’ed.” (Jamal, how are you? This is Sa’ed.) He sounded like something was wrong. I quickly opened the door, and immediately the uninvited Abdulrachman greeted me. “As salam aleikum, sadeeki. Shlonek? Shlon sahtek?” (Hello, my friend. How are you? How is your health?)

  I was disgusted. Sa’ed looked at me, shrugged, and defended himself in terrible English. “Sorry, Jamal. He come, Jamal. Me no stop.” Abdulrachman said, “Can I call my family? Can I have some of your food?” I shot him a nasty look but showed him Arab hospitality nonetheless, saying, “Abdulrachman, sit down, please. Unfortunately, the satellite phone is not working so you will not be able to call your family [a total lie]. If you want some food you can have whatever you would like on my shelf.”

  As soon as Abdulrachman sat his ass on the corner of my bed, he started eyeing my food supplies. He dug into everything I owned like a starved raccoon. I stopped him. “Abdulrachman,” I asked, “what’s up man? Are you going to take everything I own?” He responded, “Sorry, Jamal. I will only take a few.” Before the last words could leave his lips, he had dipped his paw into my can of cashews and grabbed a massive handful, spilling half of them on the floor. Corporal Salazar, my roommate, said to him, “Hey, Iraqi dude, get the hell out of here. You are causing too many problems!”

  My proposed meeting with Sa’ed, which was my attempt to award a jundi who did good work, ended up as a disaster. I pushed everyone out of the room. Everyone slowly left the hooch, grabbing at various articles of clothing and food like professional pickpockets. Everyone except Abdulrachman, who was still loading up on supplies of food. I peered at him. “Abdulrachman, what are you doing? Get out of my stuff! Are you a thief? What is your problem?” He said, “Oh, sorry, Jamal. I am leaving.”

  I turned around, expecting Abdulrachman to exit. He didn’t. I turned back around to witness him grabbing one last massive handful of cashews and stuffing his mouth full of jerky. I raised my voice. “Abdulrachman. Out—now!” He sprinted for the exit, flipped a 180, and turned toward me. “Jamal, I want to talk to my family. Give me the satellite phone, okay?” I contemplated grabbing my M-4 and shooting him in the head, but instead I maintained my cool. “Abdulrachman, you will have to speak with Major Pyle about this or ask Colonel Abass.”

  Sa’ed realized my frustration with the situation and, risking a beating later on, yelled at Abdulrachman, “Seyidi, Jamal ma yreedna hinah. Yalla, rooh!” (Sir, Jamal doesn’t want us here. Let’s go!) Abdulrachman replied, “Sa’ed, leysh tiHchi illi? Rah arooh shwakit areed. Iskut. . . . Yalla!” (Sa’ed, why do you talk to me? I will go when I want. Shut up. . . . Let’s go!)

  Abdulrachman was not an aberration. I’d seen similar behavior in the local kids, the local adults, the Sunni Iraqi contractors on our base, and the Shia jundi throughout our battalion. Everyone wanted handouts from the Americans, but nobody wanted to do anything for the handout. Iraqis are survivors. If they can get something for nothing they will latch onto the opportunity. My fear was that on a micro-scale, and probably on a macro-scale, we had become Iraq’s “sugar daddy.”

  The begging problem became such an issue for the team as a whole that I began turning away the generosity of Americans back home who had been sending boxes upon boxes of toys, candy, and clothes for the Iraqis. While their gestures were sincere, if they knew how little the Iraqis appreciated their generosity, they would cringe.

  Tribalism Strikes Again

  “Jamal, help me. Ayad need you help. Ayad need you help, bad. Tigder tisai’edni? “[Can you help me?]” Ayad, a soldier in our battalion, blurted in a mix of English and Arabic. Ayad was in a cold sweat upon his arrival. Floored by the chaos, I replied, “Ayad, calm down, brother. I’ll take care of you.”

  I sorted out the situation. Ayad needed to contact his family immediately because a jundi in the battalion heard that Ayad’s family was in serious trouble. Ayad pleaded with me to let him use the satellite phone so he could call his family. At first I thought this might be another Iraqi trick to get something out of me for free; however, Ayad was a good Iraqi and had never begged from me before. I had to help. I grabbed the phone from the MiTT COC and handed it to him.

  The story that unfolded was shocking. I understood chunks of the conversation Ayad had with his grandfather, but couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. I had Ahmed (who escorted Ayad to my living space) fill me in on the details after the conversation was finished.

  Ahmed recapped, “Jamal, essentially, every male in Ayad’s family is in jail. Ayad’s eleven-year-old brother, Abdullah, was playing soccer in Najaf against some other kids on the neighborhood soccer field. At some point in the game Abdullah got in a huge argument with a kid on the other team, who happened to be from another tribe. During the game the kid on the other team did something to infuriate Abdullah. Abdullah took matters into his own hands, went home, grabbed the family’s AK-47, and sprinted back to the soccer field. Upon his arrival he unloaded a magazine of 7.62-mm lead into the kid who offended him, killing him in cold blood.”

  Astonished, I looked at Ayad and asked, “Akhuek iktelit il waled?” (Your brother killed the boy?) Ahmed interrupted, “Jamal, let me finish the story here.” I said, “Okay, sorry, Ahmed, continue.” Ahmed went on. “So after the killing, the kids all scattered and the local police showed up immediately. When the local police arrived, they immediately apprehended Abdullah and marched directly to his home. The police arrested all of the male relatives at the home and brought them directly to jail.”

  I interrupted, “They sent everyone to jail?” Ahmed said, “Yes, Jamal, in Iraq the standard procedure is to put not only the perpetrator in jail, but to put all male relatives of the perpetrator in jail until the situation is solved among the tribal sheikhs. While the males were in jail, the tribal sheikhs representing Abdullah and the kid that was murdered got together to figure out the appropriate blood money to ensure continued peace and harmony between the two tribes.”

  I looked at Ahmed, bewildered. He paused a moment then continued. “If no amount is agreed on, the tribe that had the member killed is obligated to conduct a revenge killing against a member of Ayad’s tribe or their honor would be disgraced.” I asked, “What happened?” Ahmed replied, “Thankfully, the tribes came to an agreement—seven million dinar [forty-five hundred dollars]. Ayad’s family will pay four million, and the tribe will pick up the three-million-dinar tab, using the funds received from the tribal taxes. The tribal sheiks have also agreed that once payment is complete, the males in Ayad’s family will be allowed to walk free from jail and the tribes will never talk of the incident again. Great news, isn’t it?”

  I wasn’t really sure how to respond and simply replied to appease my Arab friends. “Sure, that sounds . . . awesome,” I said. “I’m so happy for your family.”

  Great news? Were these guys serious? This was the most insane story I’d ever heard in my life. I was still trying to get a grasp on it. At the most basic level, I was convin
ced that a baby born in America and a baby born in Iraq were the same people, but Iraqis, who live in a complex and demanding environment alien to our own, have developed perspectives on life and society that bear no resemblance to those of Americans. I had learned many things from my experiences to date, but there was one overarching theme: Iraqi culture is not Western culture and never will be. My Uncle Richard, a retired Navy man, sent me an e-mail that says it all:

  People ain’t people the world over after all, are they? They sure ain’t like us, and for any ignorant person here to even suggest using an American style of problem solving is ridiculous to say the least. The people of the Middle East or Southwest Asia are more of a feudal society than anything else. Yes or no? In other words, their allegiance goes to the path of least resistance or harm and that knows no government. Honestly, I believe individual courage is a rarity in their society unless you are a religious zealot. They fear being out of the mainstream, which is essentially forced upon them by thugs, warlords, and religious fanatics. There is no overarching rule of law such as we have in the United States, even though Iraq is where the rule of law actually started with Hammurabi. But trying to change their minds under that premise, is just plain ill informed and incompetent.

  The smile of a child is a wonderful thing in any civilization. It is as if they have something in common with us after all. That is until they have been tainted by the idealism of their supposed adults. I hope you have spent more time with some of the elders there rather than passing candy or toys out to children. You must win the hearts and minds of the elders in order to help change the future lives of those children you encounter. Not to burst your bubble or anything, but even the cutest of puppies can grow up to be a raged dog if not properly raised by a competent trainer. Hopefully that is what you will take home with you.

  Stay alert, be smart, and learn every day. You are in the best college available. My dad told me, “There is a lesson to be learned from everyone, thing, or situation. The goal of the truly intelligent is be able to see what that lesson is.” I am proud of you, Wes. As proud of you as if you were my own blood.

  Chapter 20

  Violence Spikes

  November–December 2006

  “They cut their heads off and mailed them to the families?” I asked Corporal Shlessinger, a member of the Police Training Team (PTT) working with Colonel Farooq, the Iraqi Police leader in Haditha. He replied, “Yes, it’s completely fucked up. Ten of our Iraqi police members were going on leave just north of Barwana to a town called Beiji. The insurgents caught them in a vehicle check point, chopped off their heads, and sent the heads to each of the respective families with a note telling the families to never cooperate with American or Iraqi government security forces.”

  I asked, “What did Colonel Farooq do about this?” Shlessinger replied, “Well, he actually collected all the heads from the families and gave them a proper burial during a ceremony held the other day. I mean, what can he say? All he cares about is getting revenge.” Taken aback, I replied, “Yeah, sheesh. This country is warped.”

  After hearing about the bad news for the Iraqi police, I was in no mood to hear about more chaos. Nobody listened. Captain McShane came sprinting onto the MiTT COC patio with the bad news. “The leave convoy returning from Najaf was just attacked with a massive IED,” he said. “Captain Hasen is missing half his torso and is presumably dead. Lieutenant Leif cannot even be found. Lieutenant Ahmed and Lieutenant Abass are both seriously wounded—it isn’t looking good. I’m still trying to get details from brigade.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Captain Hasen was dead? He was one of my best Iraqi friends and the best officer in the battalion. Hasen was a family man with two young daughters and a beautiful wife. He was not supposed to die. Losing Hasen would be a huge blow to the morale of the battalion and the country of Iraq. He was one of the few true Iraqi patriots in the country. Tragic. Doc said, “Dude, we are fucked.” I responded, “Yeah, that is some seriously bad news, man. I can’t believe we were sitting on this same patio a week ago eating popcorn with Hasen. Things aren’t looking up these days.”

  War was indeed hell. Just a few weeks earlier we had lost some of our top Iraqi officers to an IED attack near Fallujah. A few days earlier Capt. Rob Secher, a fellow MiTT member in Hit, had been killed by a sniper bullet. During Captain Secher’s memorial service 122-mm mortars came crashing into the ceremony with pinpoint precision. Someone within their Iraqi battalion had likely snitched to the insurgents. The initial estimates were five jundi killed, thirty-two seriously wounded, and one Marine adviser seriously injured. The insurgents didn’t even have the decency to allow us to mourn our dead.

  Baghdad on Fire

  There was huge news out of Baghdad in late November. A massive attack on Sadr City, a primarily Shia area of the city dominated by the Mahdi army, had caused over 160 dead and anywhere from 200 to 300 wounded, with perhaps many more dead. At first glance a massive attack in Baghdad shouldn’t have had an effect on our operations in Al Anbar Province. Unfortunately, we were feeling the effects.

  The attacks prompted a countrywide vehicle curfew, which meant that the leave runs from Najaf had to be delayed yet again. And that meant that we would lose our fresh soldiers coming back to the battalion. The other consequence was that all the jundi were extremely concerned about their families and knew that they would not be going home anytime soon. Morale, already low, was sure to plummet.

  To get further insight on how the recent violence in the country was affecting the jundi, I went directly to the source. I made my way to Sermen’s swahut to get the inside scoop. Sermen, who had just returned from vacation in Baghdad, greeted me at his door. “Wasup, Jamal? Come on in, let’s drink tea.” I obliged and followed him into the rustic swahut. “Jamal, Baghdad is pure chaos,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe it. There are no longer rooms in the hospital to care for the wounded and people are being left in the streets to rot and die. Shit is disgusting.” I urged Sermen and his mates to tell me more.

  Sermen went on to describe a harrowing incident he had experienced at one of the sectarian checkpoints set up all around the country by various Sunni, Shia, and tribal militia groups. “Jamal, it’s crazy. Just last week on my vacation, my buddy and I, who are both Sunnis, were actually stopped at a checkpoint on my motorcycle. We tried to divert our path, but their cars barricaded the road so fast we couldn’t run away. Before Mohammed and I could figure out a getaway plan, the militiamen approached us.” Sermen paused briefly then continued. “Mohammed, the dumbass he was, thought the men were Shia, so he pulled out his Shia version of identification [many jundi carry a Shia version of their identification and a Sunni version of their identification so they can present the appropriate version at militia checkpoints, which are scattered throughout Iraq]. I knew they were Sunni, so I pulled out my Sunni ID. In the end I was right. They were part of a local Sunni militia.”

  I asked, “What did they do to you guys?” He replied, “Well, for the next ten minutes I had to beg for Mohammed’s life and try to convince the men that he was trying to cover as a Shia because he believed they were Shia. These guys were not having any of it. They gave me a proposal and said I had to accept it. The lead man told me, ‘Kill your friend—now. If you do not, we will shoot him in the head and then shoot you in the head.’”

  Taken aback, I said, “Whoa, fuck. Are you serious?” He answered, “Dead serious. I was in shock at the moment. I couldn’t figure out what to do next, but by the grace of God a U.S. Army convoy started heading to the checkpoint. I thought for sure I was saved. Of course, the stupid Army guys just kept on driving and didn’t notice that a militia checkpoint was underway and we were about to die. My heart sank again.”

  “Wait, the Army dudes didn’t stop? Why not?” I asked. “Man, Jamal,” he replied, “I have no idea, but I will hate the U.S. Army for the rest of my life. Anyway, so I had to think fast. I told the lead man, ‘I will shoot my friend.’ I then grabbed Mohammed—who yell
ed, ‘Sermen, are you fucking crazy?’—and quickly drug him over to my motorcycle so I could grab my pistol. I winked to Mohammed and whispered, ‘one, two . . .’ I cranked my motorcycle, slammed the accelerator and we peeled out of the scene. Bullets were flying everywhere past us, but none hit us.”

  Gasping, I said, “Good God, man. Were you afraid or what?” Sermen peered downward, grasped his Jack Daniels cowboy belt buckle in both hands, and proclaimed, “Naw, it was cool, man!”

  After hearing Sermen’s amazing story of survival, he told me more about the situation in Baghdad. “Jamal, I’ll tell you what I think the biggest difference is in Baghdad these days. It is not the Iraqis hatred for each other—this has been around forever and always will. It’s the newfound hatred for Americans. Everyone hates you guys these days: old, young, Sunni, Shia, male, female—everybody. Hell, I have even heard of kids in Baghdad shooting RPGs and AKs at Americans because of the mess you have created.”

  I said, “Wait a sec, this is all our fault?” Sermen, a remarkably sensible Iraqi, replied, “You and I both know this is everyone’s fault; however, one thing is true: if America wants to win Iraqis hearts and minds, they need to kill every Iraqi in the country. Then, they need to transplant new people in the area, because I doubt the current society will ever forget the pain and anguish America has put them through. Personally, if I was America, I would just bring in nuclear bombs and kill everyone.”

  Typically I took Sermen’s assessments with a grain of salt. I also tried to get other Iraqi opinions on the matter and I talked to the terps to get the update on the sense of the Iraqi people. Unfortunately everyone I’d talked to was singing the same tune. I was even seeing reports in the Triad that validated some of the crazy comments made by Sermen. Recently I’d seen multiple human intelligence reports of little kids carrying guns and helping insurgents conduct attacks in Haqliniyah and Haditha.