It was all very devious, I know. Using children to identify suspects? Was it ethical? Was it moral?
Given the circumstances, yes on both counts. I almost never knew why the person was wanted, or what charges may have been lodged against him, but if the SEALs were being sent to apprehend him, it was a very good bet that he was suspected of having killed people. The SEALs didn’t deal with low-level criminals; they were assigned to apprehend very dangerous men, bomb makers and leaders of bomb makers, snipers, mujahideen fighters: people who thought nothing of killing innocent women and children if it could advance their cause.
The phony talk about religion and morals I heard from them sometimes got to me. On one mission a man began spouting to me about how he and I were brother Muslims, and how I should protect him from the infidels.
I guess I’d been hearing this speech a lot, for finally I cut it off with a sharp retort:
“I’m not a Muslim,” I told him. “I’m a Jew. And I am here for one purpose—to take you to Guantánamo. And now you’ve said enough so that I can do that job.”
He got quiet real fast. I offered him a deal—if he told us who he was working with, rather than sending him to Guantánamo, I would have him brought to the Iraqi detention center. There he could expect to stay maybe fifteen days at the most—a short time for a terrorist who planted bombs that killed women and children, you’d have to agree.
But the only way I would do that, I said, was if he explained who he worked for.
He did so quickly. So perhaps in this case my anger was not only justified but useful.
BACK IN MOSUL, the pressure increased incredibly on civilians, especially Soheila. Bodies lay in the streets, family members and friends too petrified to move them for fear they would be targeted next. Barely more than a prisoner in our home, Soheila thought constantly of plans to escape. She had fantasies of moving to Kurdistan or Syria. She thought of Baghdad, which was in no way safer. She might have thought of the moon, for all the good the plans she concocted would do.
We’d talk about these ideas sometimes when she called, if she was in the mood to share and I had the time to listen. We both knew the plans were impractical and impossible. We knew no one in either place, and even imagining a future there was difficult.
The optimism we’d both shared about the future had melted away. What I saw in Baghdad every night was utterly depressing—corruption on every level, killing for the sake of killing. For Soheila, things must have been even worse: our children were easy, vulnerable targets, without bulletproof vests or SEALs nearby to protect them. No matter how upbeat and happy she tried to sound for my benefit, desperation crept into her voice every time we spoke.
I know it was much harder for her to cope than it was for me. I was surrounded by friends, and I had much more physical freedom than Soheila. My bonds with the SEALs had grown incredibly strong, and though it was dangerous, I could leave the base whenever I wanted as long as I wasn’t needed on a mission. Even the fact that I went on missions made things easier for me than for my wife—I could concentrate on my job rather than the unspecified but nonetheless real danger my family faced every day. I’m sure that Soheila wasn’t worried about the danger to herself so much as the danger to our children.
And me. Somehow, you always worry more about the ones you love than yourself.
I don’t know if it was that worry specifically that made me decide to come to America. I don’t know if it was exactly my concern for my children and their future. I don’t know what role my worries that Soheila would be taken from me played. I don’t know how much it was my disillusionment with Iraq and the new government.
I do know that, from working with the SEALs, my interest in America grew greatly. I do know that I had always admired the country, but now that feeling was something more. I do know that I had always liked the ideal of freedom, but that working with the SEALs had taught me how much deeper, and much better, that ideal really was.
All of these things contributed to an idea that now became a new dream: I wanted to be an American citizen.
I wanted my family to experience real democracy, real freedom, real justice, real opportunity.
I wanted us all to be Americans. I wanted us all to have a future.
In books and movies, there’s always one special moment when the sky seems to brighten. Things happen. A person’s mind changes. The clouds that have been blocking the sun part, and glorious music swirls from the heavens. The moment is highlighted in a thousand ways. It seems as if everything that has happened has led to that specific point, that great moment.
It’s the moment that the great decision is made, that the final plunge of the plot is determined. It’s the climactic point teachers taught you about in literature class, the crucial development that leads to Act III and the final triumph of the story.
Maybe that does happen sometimes in real life. Maybe it happens often. In any case, it didn’t happen to me. I saw no burst of sunlight, heard no music. I can’t pinpoint the moment, but I do know that it happened—that one day the seed planted by Chief Tatt blossomed into a dream.
Could he get me out of Iraq?
We were still in touch occasionally by phone and e-mail; I decided to ask him the next time we talked.
I’m not a shy person, but asking for help is not an easy thing, and this seemed like the most difficult request in the world.
But it was necessary.
“Do you think it might be possible to come to America?” I asked. “The way you suggested—”
“I’ll get working on it right away,” he told me. His voice was deep with emotion.
What I didn’t realize was that he had gotten a phone call from the commander of SEAL Team 1 not long before, asking him to start working on getting me out. The commander had called Tatt at home and explained that things were really bad. The commander also arranged to send a copy of the paperwork that had been used to get another interpreter out of Iraq. That made things a lot easier for Tatt, giving him a template to copy.
I told Soheila not long afterward. “America is going to be our new home. We’ll be safe.”
“What?”
“Tatt is going to get us out.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not a dream?”
“It is a dream. But it will be real. It will be real very soon.”
Having seen what could happen in war, having lived a nightmare rather than a dream for so long, I should have known to be much more cautious, if not with my hopes, at least with my wife’s emotions. But hope is water to a man dying in a desert, and at that moment we were both in grave need of something to live for.
10
Fatal Friendlies
HOPE WAXED AND WANED, but life pushed us forward, some days faster than others.
With different SEAL units rotating into Baghdad for new assignments, it was only a matter of time before I started meeting old friends.
Sleepy Boy was one.
He came back to Iraq in 2006. Like most of the other SEALs who’d seen combat before, he returned to Iraq a little sharper, a little stronger.
Some things, though, hadn’t changed. He was still fun.
Not too long after he arrived, the unit was assigned to a night mission in Baghdad to raid a suspected terror cell. It was a big mission, with U.S. and Iraqi soldiers involved as well as SEALs; eight vehicles were needed to take all of the people involved in the operation. I went into the lead vehicle, a Humvee with an open back. I chose my favorite seat: the rear truck bed.
I disliked Humvees. They felt claustrophobic, especially at night. The only way to lessen that feeling was to sit in the back. That way, if I saw trouble, I’d have time to react. Being inside the cab I always felt I had less of a chance of seeing anything and less time to react if I did.
Sleepy Boy, as it happened, was at the wheel. Altogether there were seven of us in the truck, a full load. Three of us went into the back of the truck: me, the gunner, and anot
her Iraqi.
We began flying through the Baghdad night, headed toward our destination. We’d learned from experience that driving fast was one of the best defenses against IEDs and ambushes; you didn’t want to give the enemy a chance to spot you and then react. I watched from the back of the truck as the city passed by, more stage set than a place where people lived and worked. Buildings were replaced by dark shapes and shadows, random lines that loomed suddenly and then disappeared. The air was warm with the smell of garbage and the faint odor of burnt metal.
I thought briefly about the mission, briefly about the danger my family was in. I looked behind me at the convoy. I tried to push the anxious anticipation away, tried to relax as Bry had told me that afternoon a year before—it seemed like centuries ago now.
It would be an easy night, I told myself. Nothing to worry about. Fate is in God’s hands, and God is merciful and just . . .
Suddenly the vehicle swerved and I was thrown against the side of the rear bed. My head went light, and I realized I was flying.
Unknown to us, cement barriers had been placed in the middle of the road where we were traveling. The blocks, meant as a security measure to control traffic, were almost invisible, even with night gear.
Sleepy Boy saw the barrier at the very last moment. He jerked the wheel and hit the brakes, trying desperately to veer out of the way. But it was too late. The Humvee’s momentum took it right into the barrier. I flew forward, and then everything went blank.
I WOKE UP a few minutes later, lying in a ditch. My mouth, my face, my head, my shoulder—nearly every part of my body hurt.
Someone was standing over me. It was a soldier from the army unit we were working with. He said something, but I couldn’t hear.
“My night vision,” I muttered. “I lost my gear.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Help me up. The mission—”
“The mission is off. You were in a car accident.”
“Yes.” I struggled to get up, not exactly understanding what he was saying.
“Some of the Iraqis with us were hurt. Can you help them?”
“Where’s my night vision?” I asked.
“We have it. Don’t worry about it.”
My head in a fog and my body thumping with pain, I made my way through the rock-studded field where I’d landed to a triage area. The two men who’d been with me in the back of the Hummer were hurt, as were several of the Iraqis in the armored vehicle behind us. I did my best to make sense of what was going on, translating for the men who were helping the Iraqis. After a few minutes, a helicopter appeared; as we began medevacing people, someone pushed me aboard the chopper. I was too exhausted and confused to resist.
We landed at a Baghdad hospital a short time later. My face was pretty battered, but I didn’t realize how badly I’d been hit until I lit a cigarette to smoke.
Something is odd with this cigarette, I thought to myself as I put the cigarette in my lips.
Something was missing—my two front teeth. To this day, I haven’t had them replaced.
My right shoulder was torn severely and three of my ribs were broken. But none of the injuries were life threatening, and I was starting to feel more like myself as they wheeled me into the emergency room, threw a blanket over me and then started pulling off my clothes to clean my wounds.
A nurse came and began cleaning me, sorting through the cuts and bruises on my upper body. She was gentle and soft. It had been quite a while since a woman had caressed me so carefully. I guess I wasn’t too wounded at all, because one key body part sprang to action, much to my embarrassment. I grabbed at the blanket to make sure it provided maximum protection.
“Leave me for a few minutes,” I told her, trying to hide my embarrassment. “Give me a minute.”
“You need to get cleaned up,” she insisted. If she’d noticed the problem, she didn’t let on.
“Just leave me alone for a minute,” I said. “Please get out.”
“But—”
“Just get out!” I told her.
She left. The master chief and the XO came rushing in.
“What’s wrong?” they asked. “What did she do?”
“Nothing,” I said, not wanting to explain.
“You have to tell us.”
“No.”
“Johnny, that’s an order,” said the master chief. My guess is that they thought she had been cruel to me because I was an Iraqi.
“But—”
“Tell us.”
I pointed at the tented blanket. They smirked and left me alone.
The nurse came back at a calmer moment. I was out for about a month with rest—the most boring time ever—before the doctors cleared me to return.
The next time I saw Sleepy Boy, he apologized profusely. I decided to joke with him the way he joked with me.
“You owe me two blondes,” I told him. It was my way of telling him it wasn’t his fault.
“Two?”
“My teeth are worth two.”
“I’m so sorry, Johnny.”
“Deal?”
I believe he agreed. But so far he hasn’t paid.
THE VIOLENCE MY FAMILY and I were witnessing every day finally attracted the attention of the policy makers in America. What was reported in the media was just a small portion of what was happening on the streets of Iraq, but the stories and video made enough of an impact that people began pushing for change, saying that something had to be done.
The question was what. Some Americans wanted to pull the armed forces completely out of harm’s way. I can’t blame them for being concerned about their sons and daughters, their brothers and sisters, their parents. And given what I had come to feel about Iraq and the situation there, I wouldn’t have been surprised if America had completely given up.
Yet, I knew America was better than that.
After debating for months, the Bush administration decided to institute a buildup that became known as the “surge.” Some twenty thousand additional American troops were sent into Iraq to help defeat the insurgency. Baghdad and al-Anbar—the region that has Ramadi as its capital—received most of the media attention and a great many of the troops, but the surge was aimed throughout Iraq. The idea was to engage the insurgency and defeat it, making the rest of the country safe for Iraq’s new institutions to take hold.
These weren’t new ideas. The Americans had been trying to get Iraqi institutions on their feet practically since the first hour of the invasion. But the surge brought more forces into the country, and it focused their efforts and American policy.
In the meantime, more Iraq police and army officers were recruited and trained. The idea was that they would take over when the Americans left. The year 2007 became a kind of make-or-break year for Iraq. Either the surge succeeded and things got better so the troops could go home, or the surge didn’t work and Americans would be so disillusioned the troops would go home anyway.
Today the general consensus is that the strategy worked. After several months of intense warfare, the number of killings, both of Americans and Iraqis, began to decline. The years 2007 and 2008 were deadly years, but they were also years when things started to get better for average Iraqis. Granted, things had been so terrible that they almost had to get better, and life for people like me who were known to be working with the United States remained utterly hazardous. But Iraqi institutions did start to revive, and daily existence became somewhat easier.
I’m not sure how much long-term impact the surge had on Iraq itself. It didn’t, and couldn’t, address the corruption that infected institutions from the local police forces to the highest levels of government. It couldn’t make people think differently about their religious beliefs. It certainly couldn’t make them think more kindly toward others, or make them realize that to have a future, you have to build, not destroy.
None of that is America’s fault. Nor is it an argument that there shouldn’t have been a tr
oop surge, or that America should have given up on Iraq. Americans did their best to help the country. That’s an admirable thing, a good thing.
But just because a thing is good doesn’t mean it’s guaranteed to be a success.
SINCE I’D STARTED working with the SEALs, my relationship with other Iraqi soldiers had often been strained. Different units had different personalities, and it’s unfair to make a blanket statement based on what each unit did, let alone what one or two members of it did. Having said that, I’d be lying if I said I ever 100 percent trusted any Iraqi unit. I know most SEALs rarely trusted them either. It wasn’t just because of incidents like the bombing in the mess tent at Mosul. Even “normal” interactions could turn sour—or worse.
My experiences in Tal Afar were typical. Tal Afar is located in northwestern Iraq, about forty miles due west of Mosul, and was an important city during the Ottoman Empire. The modern city has spread out around the ruins of an old Ottoman castle. The old fortress is a majestic structure, built partly into the hillside, with curving walls and impressive towers that command a view of the entire countryside beyond the brown, sand-colored buildings of the city. Standing on the stone floor of the tower lookout post, it is not hard to imagine that you are in a long-ago time.
But when I was there, Tal Afar wasn’t a place for daydreams. Even though it was far north, it had a history of trouble practically since the arrival of American troops. A Sunni stronghold, it had had a population of about eighty thousand before the war; a good number had Turkish ancestors or family connections, a holdover from the days of the Ottoman Empire. There was often friction between them and Iraqis with Arab backgrounds.
While American forces had launched a major campaign against insurgents there in 2004, the terrorists were never completely vanquished. Unrest continued in 2005, when a second operation was launched by both Iraqi and U.S. forces. Initially lauded as a successful venture and an example of cooperation between the two countries, in reality the Tal Afar operations only showed how difficult it was to permanently stamp out the violence. Toward the end of 2006, a series of bombings wracked the city; the bombing campaign escalated in 2007, taking dozens of lives. Meanwhile, rocket and mortar attacks killed and wounded many Iraqi police and civilians while adding to the general chaos.
Code Name: Johnny Walker: The Extraordinary Story of the Iraqi Who Risked Everything to Fight with the U.S. Navy SEALs Page 19