Code Name: Johnny Walker: The Extraordinary Story of the Iraqi Who Risked Everything to Fight with the U.S. Navy SEALs

by Walker, Johnny

  We stumbled when we had to figure out what to do with Shero, our dog. It was too complicated to take him with us, but giving him up was hard for the kids. We spent a lot of time trying to figure out who we would give him to, without coming to a conclusion. In the end, I decided the best thing to do was bring him back to the store we had purchased him from. It was a sad day for the dog, for the kids, and for me.

  But we were going to America, escaping to live our dream.

  Where, though? America was a big place, bigger than I could even imagine. Tatt and everyone else wanted to know what city we would settle in.

  I’d told him and others Virginia—which of course is a state, not a city. I’d been working with Team 10, an East Coast team. They filled my ears with stories about Virginia and the rest of the East Coast, telling me how wonderful it was. With the time getting closer and our departure now real, we had to make genuine plans: we needed a city or town to head to.

  My friends with Team 10 volunteered to look for a job for me as well as a place to live. They started putting out feelers. But as we were getting ready, Tatt suggested we might be more comfortable in southern California.

  It was a much more temperate area, similar to Iraq in many ways. There was also a large Iraqi and Middle Eastern community, much larger it seemed than anywhere in Virginia. This meant that my family would have an easier time settling in. And the government and military had many installations and related businesses; there’d be plenty of opportunity for jobs.

  Somewhere along the way, someone mentioned snow.

  Snow?

  “You can get snow in Virginia,” said an Iraqi who’d moved to the States some years before. “It’s not often, but it does happen.”

  I had seen snow in my travels during my younger days, but I didn’t like it. The presence of the Iraqi community was really the decider, but if there had been any doubt, snow would have sealed it.

  We managed to sell some of our furniture and gave the rest to relatives. But we kept the news that we were moving to America as quiet as we could. I thought it would be dangerous, even in the better sections of Baghdad, to admit you were close to Americans. The news might reach kidnappers, or even the mujahideen. To openly voice a dream—my dream—of someday living free in the United States would be the same as inviting death.

  JULY 7, 2009: Neither Soheila nor I slept the entire night. At six o’clock, we looked at each other, hopeful and yet not daring to hope, then got out of bed and went to get the children.

  Inside, I had mixed feelings. I wanted my family safe. I wanted a better life. I wanted freedom.

  I wanted to live the dream. And I would do it. There was no going back—I burned my old papers, everything I had, every connection to the Americans, every trace of my life here: I was afraid that if I were caught with them now, on the way to the airport or in the plane, they would betray me. The Iraqi government—or worse, terrorists—would know I was trying to escape, and kill me and my family. My past was now dead. My only hope was the future.

  But leaving Iraq meant that there was a good chance I would never see my mother again. Leaving Iraq meant that my sister-in-law, who had helped us so much, would be left behind. Leaving meant that my brother and sisters, our entire family, many of my Iraqi friends, the people I knew of my tribe—at best they would be very distant now. Most if not all of them would find it safer not to acknowledge my existence. Others would have to denounce me, as I had once had to denounce my American brothers, to keep from being killed.

  Leaving was something I had to do. It was not simply that I had to follow my dream, or even that I had to protect my wife and give my children a better life. It was that I had to breathe, and in order to breathe, I had to walk into the future.

  The future was America. Iraq was the past.

  The Mosul I knew, the city I had grown up in, was gone. It had died, just as my father had died, and my grandfather, my great-grandfather, and all my ancestors. I held the city as I held them, in the shards of my memories, in the odd remembrances and the strong feelings evoked by old photographs and nostalgic songs.

  Iraq itself was fading, melting into the shimmering fog of the past, its outlines fading with each moment.

  I had to move forward. I had to become an immigrant.

  Finally, after an interminable wait, a car pulled up outside. Soheila and I pushed each of the children out quickly, getting them in as if we were back in Mosul at the height of the war, escaping the mujahideen.

  It took only a few minutes to get to the airport, though it seemed like hours. IEDs, ambushes, checkpoints—all of the fears I’d lived with for so many years haunted me now, looming at the edges of my vision, rising one last time to taunt me. I was watchful and restless, lips tight, breath shallow.

  We were as safe as we could possibly be, and yet as fragile and vulnerable as a wisp of smoke in a windstorm. We were all quiet. Saying anything would have broken whatever spell protected us.

  Two SEALs were waiting for us at the airport. They were all smiles. I was having trouble breathing.

  As we made our way to the airplane, my mind raced in many different directions. I tried to dismiss the fears and the paranoia about all the bad things that might happen. I tried to welcome the newness of America, and anticipate what freedom might bring. The concerns of my kids, their immediate needs for food and the restrooms, were a welcome distraction—it was easier to comfort and assure them than deal with my own uncertainties.

  Then we were aboard, finding our seats. We settled in together, our own little cluster in the aircraft.

  Then the plane door closed.

  I looked at Soheila. We shared a moment of doubt: Were we dreaming? Was this becoming real?

  All I could think of was the mission months before when we’d pulled the militia leader off the Jordanian plane. Was that going to happen now?

  The passengers were in but the door was still open. What were they waiting for?

  I sat in the seat, trying to remain calm—I didn’t want my wife or children to know how nervous I was. They had no idea: they knew nothing of the mission, and as far as they were concerned, nothing could stop them now.

  Finally, the door was closed. And yet I still could hardly breathe. It was not until the plane started to roll that I let myself believe.

  We’re going to make it!

  I became weightless as the wheels left the runway. In that moment my fears fell away. Finally, reality and dream merged: we were on our way to America, on our way to safety and freedom, to the future.

  WHAT HAPPENED NEXT will sound anticlimactic to an American; it will seem like nothing. Often it seems that way to me as well—nothing and everything. But that is the best part of being an immigrant: even things other people think of as being trivial are special.

  None of us had ever been on a commercial airliner before. We didn’t know what to expect, really. That may have helped keep the kids calm.

  We flew into Jordan, stayed the night there, then took a flight to Chicago. A friend met us; we went straight to a hotel, exhausted by the trip and everything that had led to it.

  The next morning, I found a computer in the hotel lobby and used Google to find a map of the area. I saw that there was a shopping center not far away. I gathered up my youngest son and together we set off in that direction, curious about what an American shopping center looked like.

  It was strange and wonderful to be on the street with my little boy and not be thinking about IEDs or being followed or being shot, not looking over my shoulder or wondering whether I might be caught in some accidental crossfire.

  I was living my dream. It had taken the better part of a decade and several thousand miles, but I was a human being again.

  Son on my shoulders, I walked through the streets until we came to a Target department store. Inside, we went down the aisles filled with clothes and household goods. I hadn’t seen so many things for sale under one roof ever in all my life.

  I had to buy something. It was as i
f I needed to prove myself that this was really happening: if it was just a dream, the cash register would explode; I would wake back in my old reality.

  Hearing the amount of the bill, counting out the dollars, getting change back—these were all things I had done thousands of times in Iraq, but here it was new. It was a strange triumph, an assertion of who I was and who I would become.

  I wasn’t dreaming. I was wide awake, and I was in America.

  We landed in California the next day. Four or five SEALs met us at the airport in full uniform. They’d already found us a house to rent. One of their wives took my wife shopping for groceries and household staples, all with money they had pooled among themselves. Their kindness and friendship was unbelievable. It was as if they had adopted us.

  Tears were in Tatt’s eyes when I brought my family to his home for a barbecue a few days later. I’m sure they were in my eyes as well.

  “If I were to die tomorrow, I’d die a happy man,” he told me. “Because I did one good thing in my life—I got you to safety.”

  Chief Tatt has done many good things in his life; his courage and bravery in Iraq made him a hero by any measure you care to use. But I am honored and humbled that he thought so highly of me to think that. And I am surely grateful for the three years and countless hours he spent getting me home to America.

  A few days later, I found the beach. I remember walking out to the pier and simply being amazed.

  “These people know how to live!” I said aloud, so surprised and happy to see a place that looked as if it came from the pages of a fairy tale. I walked around almost dumbfounded, enjoying the sun and the easy breeze. Since that day, I’ve seen many fancier things and been to many elaborate parks and luxurious settings. But the beach remains a special place for me; five minutes from work, and I can remind myself of the great dream I am privileged to live.

  We found schools for the kids. I won’t say that it has been easy for them to adjust to their new lives, even if they all seem content and with new friends. Transitions are difficult, even when you are going from a nightmare to a dream. But they are becoming very American—my boys play the latest video games, and their English is better than mine. The girls know more about fashion than I could learn in a lifetime. I would not be surprised if you couldn’t tell where they were born without quite a bit of questioning.

  My accent, of course, marks me as an immigrant. And my background and religion are different from the majority. But while Muslims are sometimes regarded with suspicion in America, religion hasn’t been an issue for us. Partly this is because we live in an area where there are others from the Middle East, and so while we may be a minority in the broad United States, here we are normal. But I think also that most Americans are tolerant about religion when they know a person or interact with them personally. Many simply never ask.

  I haven’t often felt that I have to defend Islam. Still, the defense is easy: Islam, as a religion, is not involved with killing. Extremists are the problem, not the religion. Christianity went through a period when people were burned at the stake for their beliefs. Was that because of Jesus’s teachings? Or because of people who misused the religion as an excuse for themselves, their own lust for power or whatever satisfaction they got from killing?

  The latter, I think. It is hard to argue otherwise.

  I don’t feel the need to go to the mosque very often. God is everywhere; He hears me pray wherever He is and needs no special notice. Prayer itself is not even as important as how you behave—you do as you believe, observing God’s will, fulfilling it. The way you act is the way you understand religion; if you act like a killer, then you do not understand God.

  But I am not a religious teacher or anything like an expert. The bottom line for me is that religion is something that comes from the heart. You can’t fake God out, so don’t be so foolish as to try to fake yourself out.

  WE’VE HAD MANY joys since we came to America. Most of them are simple. Friends come over for dinner; we barbecue chicken and sometimes steak on our small propane grill. We plant flowers in the small flowerbed in front of our house. We get a new dog, and friends help us make a doghouse.

  When we lived in Iraq, even before the war, Soheila and I tended not to celebrate personal dates like birthdays and wedding anniversaries. It wasn’t because we didn’t think they were important; I think every human being knows that those days are special. But with the difficult economy and the struggle just to stay alive, to find work, to eat, there was very little reason or means to celebrate. When you are struggling for water, you do not think too much about champagne, to borrow a saying from an American friend.

  Now, though, things are different. I may not be the richest man when it comes to money, but my life here has given me much to celebrate, and I take the time with my wife and family to commemorate every personal holiday we have.

  The celebrations are simple. For my most recent birthday, we went to a shopping mall and department stores—a funny way to spend a special day, you might think, until you remember the poverty we escaped from. The array of clothes, the tools, the furniture, books, toys—walking the aisles is like walking through a dreamland. Being able to buy simple necessities when you need them is a luxury I may never get used to.

  And I can never eat enough birthday cake, even though I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.

  Soheila gave up her idea of becoming a doctor well before we got married, but she has continued to learn, and lately has been talking about going to college to study political science. She has been following elections and studying up on them. She likes to write and read—and still she writes poetry, now in English as well as Arabic.

  In the meantime, she has found a job teaching Arabic.

  As have I. With help from my SEAL friends, I have found a job supervising language instruction for active-duty servicemen. While language instruction is our task, our goal is not simply to give our students a few words or phrases they might use in the course of their day. We try to teach them as much as we can about the different cultures they are likely to encounter. Words are only one aspect of understanding. It is all about context—you have to know where the words are coming from if you are to truly understand them.

  Though most of what I do now involves supervising others, I still work directly with students from time to time. It’s a job that suits me. My experiences have taught me how important it is to share knowledge. I’ve learned firsthand the value of hope and the importance of passing it on, whether you are doing that with encouragement or a vision of the future.

  Teaching is much more difficult than the translating I did during the war. In Iraq, the most immediate translations were of very simple concepts—go here, go there, have you seen this person, etc. Now I have to communicate technical terms, detail sentence structure, and encourage people to have long conversations. I have to talk about customs. I have come to think in English rather than Arabic. It sometimes feels as if a new room has been built in my head.

  But it’s a good room.

  I am still getting to know the United States. There is much about the country to learn, and many places to see—Washington, New York, the Midwest. I would love to go to Iowa and see the corn growing in the vast fields, and someday I will hunt in Utah.

  This has become our country. We are hungry to learn as much as we can about our new history, from the Revolution to the moon launch. But it is not because of the past that I have come to America. It is because of the future. It is because here it is possible not just to be free, but to be free with a purpose—to be free to build things, whether they are houses or buildings or companies or new lives. That should be every human being’s goal: to be creative and productive, not a destroyer, not a person who tears others down or punishes the innocent for his own evil thoughts.

  LIVING THE DREAM does not mean that you are completely protected from the past. I can’t completely forget the habits I learned in war, the precautions that made me safe. If I see a car in my rearview mirro
r for too long, I often turn off the road I’m on and look for a different route. If a friend sneaks up on me from behind, I have been known to pull a knife from my pocket.

  There were good times in Iraq, even during the war, and I try to think of them. We helped a lot of people. But sometimes when I sleep, my mind wanders back into the dark places and the fears return, unbidden.

  Living the dream does not mean that you are protected always from sorrow. I miss those I’ve left behind, some very deeply.

  I WOKE UP one morning in 2012 and saw Soheila standing near the bed, her eyes red. She looked as if she hadn’t slept.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She shook her head, as if she might keep it secret.

  “What?” I said again, this time more gently.

  “Your mother.”

  My mother had died the night before. Soheila had gotten the phone call while I slept; she spent the entire night in our bathroom, tears flowing. She muffled her sighs so she wouldn’t wake me.

  My mom was in her seventies. She was my last link to my older relatives, to the old Iraq before Saddam, before these times. Her death severed my connections to that time. Losing her was like losing my security system and a large part of my history. It’s a sorrow deep within, something that follows from a distance but never leaves, even as I turn toward a hopeful future.

  That future is definitely an American one. Every day there are reminders for me. Some are simple pleasures in America, where even being stopped by a policeman for a traffic ticket can remind me how much better off I am here than in Iraq.

  Other reminders are tragic: as we worked on this book, an uncle and his son were both killed in an attack in Mosul. Their deaths pained me greatly. And it didn’t help to know that I myself couldn’t go to comfort the family, much less attend their funerals. My presence in Iraq would put many people at risk; anyone who helped me would be a marked man.