Grim Hard Faced Men

     Grim, hard-faced men faced each other across the table in the oven heat of a dark room, deep within a nameless warren in the printing district of Baghdad. All but one carried weapons, most, more than one. Sweating in the heat, they toiled, hoping to hammer out some sort of agreement to ease the constant threat of bombings and violence that so frequently rent the scorching afternoons. Outnumbered and far from support the American soldiers worked with an earnestness springing from the knowledge that they were in over their heads. The Iraqis sought support, physical and monetary, in publishing a newspaper. The Americans sought reassurances from the men; reassurances that they were not the enemy and would not foment violence with this publication. Looking out the window into a stuffy, debris filled airshaft, I wondered about the orders and intelligence that brought me into this dark remote place. Across the worn conference table two Iraqis argued.

     The older, larger heavily bearded man gesticulated wildly at younger man with sullen, hooded eyes. The younger man waited until the speaker wound down and then responded in a low, passionate voice. Seeking to contain himself, he fiddled with his weapon, a well-used, ancient, AK with much of the bluing worn off. Whatever he said displeased the older man who responded by increasing his volume and gesticulating even more wildly. So the side conversation went, in ever increasing volume. As their anger increased so did my concern for our safety. I was not entirely sure that I could recall the route out of the building. Coming in we’d taken numerous twists and turns going up and down several flights of stairs. While I was sure we currently sat on the ground floor the exact route out remained vague in my mind. I looked over at the NCO who’d come with me, and the nervous gunner standing behind him. If things went very badly I knew that we’d give a good account of ourselves. Upon hearing weapons fire the security force waiting outside would rush headlong into the building with guns blazing. The thought of such a disintegration of the situation made me physically ill. The responsibility for the NCO, young soldier, and those outside pressed in with a physical presence as strong as the heat radiating from the sunbaked walls. Plucking at the sleeve of my sweat soaked DCU top, Ali (not his real name), my translator sought my attention.

     “They don’t agree,” he intoned quietly.

     “Thanks,” I replied, though that bit of information was quite obvious. Ali would fill me in on the details later. He was an excellent translator and gatherer of intelligence. He knew how to do his job without intruding, often providing valuable insight on what was going on behind the scenes as it were. Our lengthy conversations over MRE’s at the end of the day illuminated the byzantine workings of Iraqi society. Ali did more than translate meetings and writings. He helped me understand Iraqis and their culture. Frequently centuries old tribal slights planted the seeds of disagreement, this time bearing fruit in the heated argument between two men as I waited. Without warning the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling flared brightly, dimmed, flared again, and then died as the power failed.

     As the grimy fan slowly wound down, the older, larger Iraqi spewed a torrent of angry words at one of the heavily armed men standing in the shadows. He replied over his shoulder, leaving the room at a near sprint. Soon in a distant room we heard the cough and rumble of a large generator and the lights came back on as the fan resumed its slow sweep across the table. Pleased, the large Iraqi gestured across the table, making a short rumbling speech. “He says this is why he needs your help. American bombs destroyed the power system,” intoned Ali.

     “Remind him that Saddam and the Iraqi government failed to maintain the system and that they only gave power to their friends. So if they previously enjoyed power, perhaps they were close friends of Saddam,” I said, looking at the lead Iraqi, making sure I did not look at Ali. “And Ali, make sure you tell him exactly what I said. Ali rattled off a string of Modern Arabic and judging from the narrowing of the big man’s eyes and the open glare of his subordinates Ali had indeed translated accurately. And so the hot afternoon wore on. Eventually we came to an agreement that both of us could live with and the three of us returned to our Humvee’s for the trek back to BIAP (Baghdad International Airport).

     As the evening sun wound down across the city I sat on top of our hooch, looking out over the hazy city munching on an MRE listening to the oddly peaceful evening call to prayer. After a few minutes Ali joined me to discuss the day. The two of us sat there, Ali smoking his particularly pungent brand of cigarettes and me an indiscriminant cigar from Sumatra of all places. We made an incongruous pair; Ali a short slim Iraqi from Baghdad who’d fled during the Iraq-Iran war, and me, a career officer who’d always expected to fight the Soviets in Eastern Europe. We watched as the dark slowly settled across the sprawling city. A few lights gleamed out in the darkness. Off on the edge of the city tracers arced into the sky as belligerents engaged in a small gun-battle. Judging from the color of the tracers one group was American. Almost as frequently the colors indicated Iraqis engaged in fighting each other. Eventually the last few rays of sunlight stole away and Ali and I had to leave our rooftop perch. Previous experience had taught us that angry neighbors would shoot at the gleam of a cigarette or cigar draw. We clambered down, Ali to chat with the other interpreters and me to work a few more hours in the TOC (Tactical Operations Center), another day in Baghdad with 1AD (1^st Armored Division).

     Ali worked with me as interpreter for several months, eventually the G2 (Intelligence Section) dragooned him due to his excellent work and a man named Malik (not his actual name) replaced him. Like Ali, Malik had fled Iraq after serving in the Iraqi Army during the Iraq-Iran war; a war that devastated his country and decimated his generation. Now, he was back in Iraq toiling to help his country recover. Unlike Ali, Malik was large and quite boisterous. Eventually I would work with a crew of over forty different Iraqis, coming to know some of them very well.

     My personal translators shared my hooch, chow, and endured the same hardships and dangers. In every aspect their life was as mine, with one exception. They faced the dangers unarmed. A variety of regulations regarding civilians working with the Army prohibited them from bearing arms during their service. This was during my first tour when we invaded and secured the country. Eventually these rules would change, but during the early months they wore the uniform but went unarmed. They went into all the same dangerous places, ducked behind the same Humvees to avoid fire, and on one particularly grim day dove into the same puddle of feted sewer water while debris from an IED rained down. As Iraqis, working for the American Army, they truly were marked men. And in many ways they were men apart, neither free to roam in Iraqi society nor fully accepted in Army society. They were very brave. I have no way of knowing if they survived the cauldron of hate and violence that spilled across Iraq in the following years. But I often think of them and how they helped me survive those early days when we went into dark, dark places; places I would never go in later tours.

     It grieves me when I hear politicians and civilians giving way to fear and baser impulses, clamoring for some sort of blanket ban against Muslims, or endorsing an escalation of violence which would surely kill countless innocents. Some would lump all people from certain regions into one faceless mass, refusing to help those fleeing violence and oppression. Our nation was founded on the idea that those who were oppressed might find refuge on our shores, might find an opportunity for a new beginning, and might find a place to breath freely. As a soldier, I cannot forget those men, and women, who faced danger by my side, unarmed. We owe them more. I cannot in good conscience turn my back on comrades and support those who would freely close the door on, or build a wall against, them. We are better than this.

     ISIS and their ilk do not present an existential threat to the United States; our fear threatens our way of life. The bearded, glaring men who seek to destroy us cannot invade our shores, they cannot storm our gates. Our paranoia and anxieties can pull down our ideals, making us scurry about furtively glancing over our shoulder all the time wringing our hands about some unseen foe. Of course they may mount some isolated attack. And if you or a loved one perishes in such an incident it is not minor. But on a national scale such events do not threaten us. When we succumb to fear and suspicion we let them win. We hand them victory when we let mistrust guide us into supporting leaders and polices of isolation, bigotry, and prejudice. We give up an integral part of our national and cultural fabric when allow trepidation to urge us to turn our backs on those desperately needing an extended hand of help. In this time, when fear again threatens to overwhelm our better nature, we must, as it were, gird up our loins and do the right thing.

     More than once in our history fear has gibbered into our ears, urging us to suspect each other to round up those who are different, to put the other under the hot lights of public inquisition, and reign in freedom. Now is the time to shake off the shackles of fear, stand up, and breath deeply the clean bracing air of freedom. We must not let inarticulate unease dictate policies. Those who exploit fear as a source of power do not deserve our support. We must seek out leaders who will call us to our better, nobler, impulses. Ali, Malik, and others like them took great risk to help our nation and well as their own. We owe them. We owe them similar treatment.

     As a follower of Jesus, my master reminds me that I should welcome all those who labor and are heavy laden. Those of us who claim the name of Christ must remember that God did not give us a spirit of fear and that growing in love drives out fear. If we desire to somehow wrap ourselves in the mantle of being a “Christian” we must, at some level, attempt to embrace sacrificial love toward those who seek to do us ill. I know that such attitudes and beliefs drive choices which incur risk. I also know that God calls me to trust Him. If I ever hope to reach over to the Islamic community, I must do so with the love of Jesus. Ali, Malik, and all the others who shared hardship and dangers with me in Baghdad deserve such love.