Grateful for my help, Mack gave me advice on how to find a job. He told me that the army was looking for translators and that the best way to get a position was to apply at the U.S. base at the airfield outside the city. The airport—the same one I’d seen bombed—had been turned into a large American complex, and units from all different service branches were locating there.
Mack went further than just giving me advice. He managed to get me an appointment for an interview at eight o’clock one morning. I’m still grateful for his help.
THE AIRPORT WAS six or seven kilometers from my house—roughly four and a half miles away. The only way to get there early in the morning was to walk. And so I did.
When I got there, I saw there was already a crowd of other men outside the fence. We waited awhile, maybe a half hour, maybe an hour, until finally an American soldier came and shouted to the small crowd.
“Nothing today!” he yelled from the other side of the fence. “Nothing. No interviews.”
That was the extent of the explanation. I hung around as the others left, and spoke to the man, asking for more information. He was vague. I persisted.
“Tell you what,” he told me finally. “Come back next week. We’ll give you a test, and maybe an interview. Then we’ll see.”
Maybe he was just trying to get rid of me, but I interpreted it as a promise of success. I went home, practiced my English, and waited every day for my chance to go back.
“I am going to get a job with the Americans,” I told my family.
They were overjoyed. We would have money, food—everything we needed.
I practiced harder, as much as I could. I got up early the day of the appointment and walked back to the airport. The guard at the first gate recognized my name, and I was sent to a second spot on the base to wait for my interview.
Ten others were already there, standing against a chain-link fence, waiting. I heard them talking as I walked over, each practicing English. Every one of them spoke better English than I did.
Oh my God, I thought. I have no chance.
I waited, dreading and yet hoping at the same time. A Kurdish civilian came out and began calling names. I soon realized that he was in charge of getting people in and out; he might have been a translator himself. Whatever he was, it was clear that he didn’t come from Mosul. His accent was pretty heavily Kurdish; his Arabic seemed spotty.
It didn’t take long to see that he was favoring the Kurds who were waiting, rather than the Arab Iraqis. Just in case there was any doubt, a few men came out and were ushered inside without having to wait. As if to underline the reason for the favoritism, they joked with the man in Kurdish on the way in.
After waiting for an hour or maybe more, I finally went over and asked what was going on.
“We have been waiting a long time,” I told the Kurd as politely as I could. “What is going on?”
“Oh, nothing. You just have to wait.”
“What about these other people you are letting in? Why are they cutting in line?”
“Oh, no, no, they have appointments.”
“I have an appointment, too,” I told him. I doubt I concealed my anger.
“You will be let in soon. I promise.”
I went back to the others. Another hour passed. I asked again when we would be seen. My Kurdish “friend” gave me the same sort of blow-off. Once more I sat with the others. Finally, I could take it no longer.
“Listen,” I told him, “this isn’t fair. All of us have families. You have to give us all a chance. We want to work.”
“I know what I am doing,” he insisted. “Just be quiet or I’m kicking you out of here.”
“Hey, I’m being respectful. Don’t tell me that you’re kicking me out.”
I could feel my anger rising inside. The man was a petty dictator, a punk with a tiny bit of power, which he was using to favor his friends. It was all I could do not to punch him through the fence.
By one o’clock, I was out of cigarettes—and had no money to buy any others. We still hadn’t been seen.
I felt my chance slipping away. I walked over to the fence and called to the Kurd.
“Hey. Give me my chance. Let me in. I’ll take the test. If I fail, then I fail, but at least let me have my chance.”
“You talk a lot,” said the Kurd, no longer even pretending to be polite. “I will tell you—you are not going to get a job with us.”
“Okay. So I have nothing to lose!”
I grabbed hold of the fence and pulled myself over in a flash. Jumping to the ground before he could react, I raced over and grabbed him. He tried to jerk away. I spun him back and gave him a head butt.
I was a wild man, as angry as I’d ever been in my life. My entire chance for a job—survival even—had been completely destroyed by this petty bastard. All my frustration went into my fists.
Blood spurted from his nose. He fell to the ground. The American guards began moving in my direction. I jumped back over the fence. I’m guessing they didn’t like the Kurd too much either, because they let me go without any trouble.
Still, in my mind, my big chance, my plum American job, had just vanished.
I sank to the bottom of a black ocean, devastated, as I went home.
HAVE YOU EVER played old-fashioned pinball? You might get five balls for your quarter. You play the first, then the second, the third . . . finally you are on the very last chance, the very last ball, and the machine tilts.
You’re out of chances, out of money, out of luck. Done.
That is how I felt.
I spent a few days making the rounds in Mosul, visiting places and people I’d visited before, looking for work. Of course there was none. I kept asking—not for charity, not for a handout, just for a chance to work.
With no luck, I found myself one night at my cousin’s house. We talked, drank tea, smoked; finally, it got very late, time to go home. His house was far from mine. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have called a taxi to get home. But when I stuck my hand in my pocket, I realized I had only a few coins left to my name.
I took them out and counted. I had enough for a taxi.
Or lunch money for my kids.
Or cigarettes.
Not all three, or even two.
I felt incredibly poor. I was incredibly poor. I considered my choices. The Americans patrolled at night. No one really knew what they might do if they saw a lone Iraqi walking on the streets. It was said by many that they would they think he was a terrorist and shoot him.
I wasn’t sure whether I would look like a terrorist to them or not. I didn’t have a long beard and wore Western-style clothing, but at night these things might not be distinctive. And they couldn’t see in my heart. From a distance all I would look like was a shadow, a dark and potentially ominous shadow.
“Screw it,” I said aloud, to no one in particular. “I’ll take my chances and walk. I’ll buy half a pack of cigarettes and give the rest of the money to my kids.”
I got the cigarettes and started on my way. I was surprised to find people out here and there. I walked at a nonchalant pace; too fast might be dangerous.
I hadn’t gone all that far when I spotted some American vehicles parked on the street ahead, in front of a government building I had to pass to get home. I slowed my pace a little more, keeping my body erect and my hands at my side—I didn’t want even my shadow to cast any suspicion.
Up ahead on the street, some women were talking loudly and complaining in Arabic. They were saying bad things about the American troops, calling them occupiers and worse. I’m sure the Americans didn’t understand most of what they were saying, but the women’s voices had an angry tone, so the general gist of their displeasure was surely evident.
Just what I need, I thought. Trouble.
The Americans started moving toward the women. I couldn’t let them beat the women—no Iraqi man could allow that, not and retain his honor.
Interfering might easily be a death sentence. Bu
t to live without honor would be worse.
I crossed the street and hurried to the women. I hardly said anything before they started to complain to me.
“The Americans are kicking out all the families,” said one, excited. “They are cruel bastards!”
I gathered from what they were saying that the American troops were evicting squatters from the government building. People had taken up residence in the offices after the invasion, most because they had no other place to live. It may not have been the best place for them, and perhaps they had no legal right to live there, but for them it was a practical solution to a difficult problem.
The Americans didn’t really understand. All they knew was that the government didn’t want the people there, and they were to get them out. Certainly these troops, who would have been given orders with little real explanation of the situation, had no way of knowing how needy the residents of Mosul were.
I talked to the women for a few minutes. One or two of them recognized me from my days as a high school sports hero. They also knew my family, still deeply respected in Mosul.
“Tell me and explain the problem,” I said. “One at a time.”
“The soldiers won’t let us in, the bastards,” they complained. “If they don’t, we will force our way in. What will they do? Shoot us? Beat us? Let them!”
I put my hand in my pocket, feeling the coins I’d left for my kids. Would I even have a chance to see them in the morning?
“Let me talk to the soldiers,” I told the women. “Calm down and stay here.”
“But—”
“Don’t say anything. Let me handle this.”
“They are bastards!”
“Hey guys, let me help you,” I pleaded. “Just be calm. I will help you. I will talk to them in English.”
I took a deep breath, then went to the soldiers and found the man in charge, a Sergeant Byrd. The women gathered up close behind me.
“Sergeant, you have a problem here,” I told him. “With these women.”
The sergeant had apparently already dealt with them, and knew their anger well.
“They need to calm down and move away,” said the sergeant, who was with the 108th Military Police Company, a storied U.S. Army airborne unit. “We can’t let them in.”
“Do you speak Arabic?” I asked him.
“No.”
“Then let me talk to them and see if I can help you,” I said.
I turned to the women and started talking to them, making them explain the entire story as I translated as best I could. From their point of view, they had just been kicked out of their homes: they’d been living in the building since the invasion.
The sergeant gave his side of the situation—he had orders not to let anyone in without permission from the government.
“You know that the building is not your house,” I told the women. “It’s the government building. And these soldiers—they have no idea what the conflict is. They don’t know about the government or the orders.”
The women grumbled, but of course I was telling them the truth.
“What you have to do is go to the government,” I told them. “You have to go in the morning and get a house. Tell them that the Americans took the house. They will have to find you a new one.”
“The government will do this?” one of the women asked.
“They will have to.”
“Okay.”
It was like a miracle—they turned and left. There was no further trouble.
Sergeant Byrd was impressed.
“Do you want to work with us?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“Come Saturday to the police station.”
I showed up that Saturday, talked for a few minutes with some officers and others connected with the MP unit, and I was in. Without a plan, without an idea—I suddenly had the job I’d been dreaming of.
THIS TIME, I WAITED until I officially had the job to brag about it. When I was finally positive that I had been hired, I rushed home to Soheila, feeling as dizzy as a school kid in love.
“This is going to change our lives,” I told her. “This is going to make it possible for us to live again.”
She didn’t understand at first, or maybe she was just skeptical.
“I got a job with the Americans,” I told her. “Real work. Money.”
Soheila smiled. It is the sort of smile she gives me a lot—an indulgent wife smile. It is sometimes hard for husbands to interpret what wives are thinking—a good thing, probably!—but I can guess what this one means easily: Johnny is being Johnny, and that is one reason I love him.
Wives.
In the context of everything that has happened since, it may seem odd to people when I say that everyone I knew congratulated me when they heard I had gotten the job. But at that point, America and Americans in general were largely still popular in Mosul. The city was not a dangerous place for anyone, not even Americans. The incidents like the one with the nut and his grenade were few. People were hopeful that the Americans would bring genuine and positive change.
Many of my friends, in fact, were jealous. The job paid well by Iraqi standards and was something to be bragged about, not hidden. On my first day at work, the Americans drove me home to my apartment. I walked through the street like a conquering hero—everyone who knew me respected me even more than they had before. Associating with the Americans was considered an honor and matter of prestige.
That was something that would soon change.
UDAY HUSSEIN AND his brother Qusay were cornered by American forces as they hid in Mosul in July 2003, right around the time that I got my first job. They resisted and were killed in a gunfight.
Our house was on the other side of the city, far from where they were killed. Their deaths had no effect on us, and if it meant something to the majority of residents in Mosul I never noticed. I would guess that the main concerns of most Iraqis that summer, inside Mosul and out, had to do with supporting their families. Jobs were scarce. The economy, thoroughly battered by Saddam and sanctions, had been nearly obliterated by the war. Civil order was only being fitfully restored. Americans were helping the Iraqi government and police reconstitute themselves, but even by prewar standards the society was badly broken.
Sergeant Byrd’s company was primarily responsible for training the local police and helping them when needed. They undertook two patrols a night and went on operations with the locals. My main job was to act as a translator and liaison, helping the Americans and Iraqis understand each other.
As a rule, the American patrols were peaceful, and we quickly settled into a routine. I worked the night shift, from about 8 P.M. to 6 A.M. We would meet with the Iraqi officer in charge at the main police station where we were assigned. We’d check on the prisoners and get an idea of what was going on, asking the Iraqi police about rumors and criminal activity. Then we’d leave for a patrol, usually around 8:30 or 9 P.M. We’d make the rounds of the city. By midnight we would head over to the airport and the American base for food and a break.
That was a special bonus—American chow.
We’d go back to the station, handle whatever business had come up, then do another patrol in the early-morning hours.
It was very easy work. The MPs were especially concerned about the status of the Iraqi prisoners, making sure they weren’t abused. Iraqi standards for dealing with accused criminals were much different than American standards, and the Americans kept emphasizing that the prisoners could not be physically harmed or bullied.
They’d have me translate for them as they questioned the prisoners about how they were being treated. The Americans kept asking if the prisoners were being beaten or otherwise mistreated, which as far as I know wasn’t happening. Admittedly, Iraqi methods of arrest and interrogation were far harsher than the Americans were used to, but it seemed that the police had throttled back under the direction of the MPs.
As I became more comfortable with the job and the Americans, I sta
rted to trust them more. They told me they were trying to rebuild Iraq, trying to help common people by bringing justice to their lives. Everything I saw them do reinforced this, and finally I decided not just to take them at their word, but to help them do just that.
“You should cut down on the corruption,” I told Sergeant Byrd. “The criminals who are stealing the people’s bread—if you want to go after thugs and bring justice, that’s what you should do.”
The problem was well known to Iraqis in town. The government had a large storehouse of wheat and flour at the edge of the city. The grain was supposed to go to the residents. Instead, thieves were taking it and selling it or the bread they made from it on the black market.
The Iraqi police were too scared to do anything about the thieves. I’m sure they felt that they had nothing to gain but grief—even if they arrested the black marketeers, the bastards would soon bribe their way out of trouble. And then undoubtedly they’d come back and revenge themselves.
Byrd and the other Americans seemed interested in doing something, though it was hard really to tell. My English was still a little weak.
One night not long after I’d told them about the black market operation, one of the American officers asked if I was interested in seeing some action.
“Sure. Okay,” I told him, not really knowing what to expect. “It’s good for me.”
The MPs got ready to roll. I soon realized we were headed for the grain warehouse.
Even during Saddam’s time, the storage facility had been a prime target for thieves. Large bins were buried in the ground, storing wheat until it could be ground into flour and distributed. The bins looked like large graves in the center of the complex. Thieves would drive in at night, pull off the bin covers, and take the grain.
Code Name: Johnny Walker: The Extraordinary Story of the Iraqi Who Risked Everything to Fight with the U.S. Navy SEALs Page 7