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Once at the questioning area I addressed Natham. “You guys will treat these detainees fairly, right?” Natham smiled. “Of course, Jamal,” he said. “We will take care of them.” I usually trust Natham, but this was one case where I was not convinced. I left the questioning area for a few minutes, planning to return to see what had transpired between the
jundi
and the detainees.

I returned to see the young boys with two by fours resting across their backs and the
jundi
yelling at them to give them information. At the beginning of my deployment I would have gone crazy and done something useless, like tell the
jundi
to stop what they were doing. Instead I simply spoke with Riath, one of the
jundi
involved in the questioning, to see how he was doing. My intent was not to actually have a conversation but to let the
jundi
in the area know that I was watching them and that they would need to refrain from being violent.

After the angels were transported to Al Asad, emotions died down. The detainees (who had no information) were released and received full apologies
from Natham. Everyone was back to being friends. It was as if a light switch had turned off. Uncontrolled emotions can be dangerous.

Religious Matters

I've told the Marines on the MiTT that regardless of their true beliefs, while they are in Iraq they will appear to be Christians who believe in God. Period. Apparently 2/3's Fox Company Marines were never sent this memo. While in Barwana today a group of
jundi
approached me, obviously distraught, and asked me why the Marines don't believe in God—truly the ultimate sin in the eyes of Iraqis.

I was caught off guard. “Uh, minu gilitek hatha?” (Uh, who told you this?) Ali, one of the
jundi
in the concerned group, answered, “Huwaya Marines gilitna hatha” (Many Marines have told us this). The hamster wheel started spinning in my head. I needed to think of an excuse, and fast.

Then it came to me. Deny, deny, deny. I told the
jundi
that they were having translation issues with the Marines and what the Marines were really saying was that they believed in God, but that they were having a difficult time figuring out how He fits into their lives. None of the Iraqis seemed to understand my fabricated explanation. Instead they asked me another question: “Jamal, where do you think children come from?” I refrained from telling them they came from a sperm and an egg meeting in the womb and then cells dividing multiple times until it formed into a functioning organism. Instead I told them, “From God, obviously.” Ali replied, “See Jamal, you understand. Why do the Marines not understand?”

I couldn't think of what to say next. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I wanted to be honest and tell them that not everyone in the world believes in God, but I also didn't want to destroy any relationships or positive feelings the
jundi
had toward the Marines or the West in general. I decided to go the Arab route—I lied. “Well, I think a lot of the religious beliefs get lost in the translation,” I said. “I know all Marines believe in God. Sometimes, it just doesn't translate perfectly when they are speaking with you and it appears that Marines have doubts in God. I would not hold it against them, because they are all believers.”

The Iraqis seemed to like my explanation. As long as the Marines believed in God, they were decent people. I left the scene quickly and immediately wrote in my notebook: “For commanders: before you come to Iraq, you need to have a plan for how you will communicate your religious beliefs. The trick is to not tell these people the truth, but, rather,
tell them what they want and expect to hear so it doesn't take away from your ability to accomplish your mission. Iraqis lie all the time to ensure relationships run smoothly. Do the same. One of the ways you fight fire is with fire itself.”

T. E. Lawrence, a British military officer famous for rallying the Arab tribes against the Ottoman Empire in the early twentieth century, summed up this lesson nicely in article eleven of his “Twenty-Seven Articles” (Arab Bulletin, August 20, 1917): “The foreigner and Christian is not a popular person in Arabia. However friendly and informal the treatment of yourself may be, remember always that your foundations are very sandy ones. . . . Hide your own mind and person. If you succeed, you will have hundreds of miles of country and thousands of men under your orders, and for this it is worth bartering the outward show.”

Beggars Everywhere

There is one English phrase that every Iraqi knows by heart: “Give me.” The MiTT and I have come to realize that living on Camp Ali is a lot like being stranded on an island where two hundred beggars surround you and demand your only coconut on a daily basis. During training the culture classes always mentioned that Iraqis are into gift giving and are generous people. The instructors told us that if an Iraqi gives you a gift, you should give him something in return as a sign of respect. Likewise, if you give an Iraqi a gift as a friendly gesture, he will give you a gift in return. News-flash to future advisers: the gift-giving classes are complete bullshit. Iraqi soldiers want everything you own and have zero intention of ever giving anything to you in return. They are glorified beggars. For some reason the begging problem kept getting worse as we got closer to leaving. People only seemed to demand things; they never wanted to give anything up.

One experience exemplified begging in Iraq. I was on my way to the Iraqi COC for duty when one of the civilian cooks came galloping to me. Somehow the guy knew my name, and he addressed me as if we were life longbuddies. “Jamal, how are you doing, my brother? How's life?” Before I could respond he butted in and asked, “Can I have your camera?” I laughed at the audacity of his request. “No, you can't have my camera. I need it. Sorry, I have to go to work.” The begging didn't stop: “Can I have your hat?” I told him no. “Can I have your computer?” Again I said no. He asked, “Can I have the t-shirt you are wearing?” Flabbergasted, I replied firmly, “La! Iimshee!” (No! Get out of here!)

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?”