Through the dusty haze that settled in on Alahat earlier in the morning I picked out the approaching Iraqi Army convoy who were escorting the detainees. The crowd in front of me all stopped their conversations and swung around to see how far away the convoy was. A banner above the podium had some Arabic writing that my interpreter told me just announced this as the release ceremony. There were several members of the media in the audience and they were getting shots of our soldiers securing the locations, of the several local dignitaries who were going to be giving speeches later in the afternoon, and I'm sure some shots of the audience itself. The audience was made up of all of the local sheiks who were to sign as guarantors of the behavior and conduct of the detainees from their area. Sprinkled into the crowd were a few family members, but these could have been counted on one hand.
Over the loudspeaker an Iraqi man urged the crowd to wait in their seats until the detainee each was signing for was called forward. The sheiks all gathered around the closest of the arriving IA vehicles, jockeying for the best position to get first look. The anticipation in the air was high and the sheiks all shouted greetings into the trucks.
The detainees being released were captured well before my unit arrived, meaning they had all been convicted of criminal activity against Coalition Forces. The atmosphere of the ceremony was one of pride and joy, I felt it most closely resembled a kindergarten graduation. The sheiks were the blushing parents and we were the third grade class snickering from the sidelines, the former gathered to celebrate the significance of this achievement and the latter knowing its insignificance. I watched in surprise as the sheiks--all of whom are in that title due to their responsibility for security in their respective areas, security from the types of attacks the men being released had either planned or participated in--warmly embraced the detainees as they were ushered from the trucks to the seating area.
Once the group was seated, several speeches were given applauding the convicts for their willingness to cooperate with Coalition Forces, I guessed this trait was proven earlier in the day when a piece of paper stating 'I, _________, will not attack Iraqi Security Forces' over the course of three paragraphs was placed in front of them and they were told to get released they must sign and then they snatched the pen off the table and scribbled their names on it, and reminding them they will be held accountable for any criminal activity undertaken from this point forward. I doubt many were listening because I could barely hear the speeches over the din of conversations coming from the giddy group. As the sheiks came forward to sign the documents as guarantors, I realized that perhaps the men working for us and the men working against us were actually on the same team. I wondered to myself how many of the twentytwo being released would wind up back on our wanted list by next month.
After the ceremony was complete and the media had taken their fill of happily reunited sheik/insurgent couple shots the group began filing out for the parking lot. Waiting for them there were three IP trucks. The serenity of the afternoon to this point was now disrupted by the raging debate between policemen and sheiks. Through my interpreter I learned that the IPs had warrants for six of the newly freed men for crimes other than those they were convicted for. Finally, the police slapped the cuffs on the six and threw them in the back of their trucks. As they drove off for jail I couldn't help but smile for the first time since the happy ceremony began.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Prayers for Teyaba
The old man counted his beads as he looked out across his dusty yard into the littered street. With each bead that passed through his grasp he silently chanted a short prayer. After the last bead he fidgeted in his seat and glanced blankly about the empty room. The room was bare save for the cushions lining three of the walls, a single inn table on which tea was served and his plastic chair. It was not common to sit in chairs as opposed to lounging on cushions but the old man preferred his chair. His gaze shifted back onto the dirty street and he began his count anew.
He was very old. None of the strength of his youth remained and this pained him more than any of the other changes that accompanied growing old. His skin was very dark from a lifetime spent under the sun. He had a large nose which dominated the landscape of his face and bright, weary eyes. His beard was close shaven and neat. He wore a tan tunic and a white headdress.
The house was the same one he lived in his entire life. His wife had passed away shortly after delivering their fifth child leaving him with two sons and three daughters. The daughters each left upon marriage to live with the family of their husbands. He was now joined in the house by the families of his sons. His eldest son Abbas had five children. The younger son was killed four years prior by the Shias. He had named that son Ibrahim in hopes of him fathering a large family. He had instead been killed while his wife was pregnant with their first child, a daughter named Teyaba. She was a girl of four years who had all of her mother's physical features except for the large nose of his family. He had fifteen grandchildren but she was his favorite.
As he counted his beads he would sometimes hear his grandchildren playing in the street and let his mind wander to thoughts of when Ibrahim was a child playing in the same streets so many years ago. He had his strength then and his wife. There were plans of taking the Hajj and praying at Mecca but war broke out and his unit was sent to the front. His leg was badly wounded when his platoon assaulted a machine gun position and he stepped out in the face of a volley of fire to instill courage in the younger soldiers and then felt his leg rocked as if by a sledgehammer and spent the next few moments writhing in agony until he lost consciousness. When he awoke he saw he had no right leg and knew his opportunity to make the Hajj was lost along with his leg. His fight was holy and just but he still regretted not making the trip when he had his strength. His leg, like his son, was taken from him by Shias and he hated them for this. Hated them for taking away his Hajj; hated them for taking his strength and mobility; hated them for killing his son. And most of all he hated them for making Teyaba grow up with a crippled old man for a father.
But then his mind was jolted back to his beads and with it the soothing calm brought on by repetitions of prayer. Teyaba presently ran in, jumped on his lap, and nuzzled into his chest. He felt her soft breathing on his tunic. She looked up at him with her dark eyes and smiled. She was a happy child unburdened by the fact that her father died before she was even born. He gave her a squeeze and she hurried off his lap and disappeared into the house with a laugh. In a moment she was back out the front door and into the street where the sound of her laughter was lost in the chorus of shouts of the other children at play. He felt sorrow for Ibrahim never having the chance to play with his daughter. He was all one could ask for in a son and the old man was sure he would have made an exceptional parent. Teyaba would have been the joy of his life.
From the Mosque beside his home the early afternoon prayer sounded and with great effort he worked himself out of the chair and knelt on the ground. He caught a glimpse of a car passing his home just before he started to pray. The car was not one he recognized and the man driving was also unfamiliar. He tried to call for his eldest son but his throat was too dry. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as he began clawing his way up using the chair for support. He cried out as the chair toppled to the ground. His fear drowned out the prayers from the mosque and the sounds from the street. He heard nothing.
The explosion was sharp and sudden. The street was lost in his view and in its place a cloud of dust entered through the gate and billowed towards his home. He began crawling towards the door to get to Teyaba. He longed for his strength back for just long enough to find his granddaughter. The sounds of shouting and wailing were the first he heard. His son rushed from the back rooms and grasped him by the arms and lifted him up onto his chair. He forced out Teyaba's name and pointed towards the front door, his finger trembling. Abbas ran out into the street to find her. The old man fixed his eyes on the street as he rocked steadily in his chair, sifting the beads two at a time in earnest.
He saw his son run towards the front door with Teyaba in his arms. Her clothes were badly torn and covered in blood. She was laid on his lap and to his relief he found her soft pulse. Abbas hurried to the back of the house in search of bandages. The old man took off his white headdress and put pressure on the wounds on her stomach. Her red blood soaked into the cloth and he began frantically tying the other end of it onto her shattered leg to stop the bleeding there. He felt his son's hand firmly on his shoulder. He looked down at his innocent granddaughter and she looked peaceful. He handed Teyaba up to his son. The old man's prayer beads fell to the ground beside his stained white headdress as he buried his head in his hands and started to cry. The sounds of prayer emanating from the mosque filled the room.
He was very old. None of the strength of his youth remained and this pained him more than any of the other changes that accompanied growing old. His skin was very dark from a lifetime spent under the sun. He had a large nose which dominated the landscape of his face and bright, weary eyes. His beard was close shaven and neat. He wore a tan tunic and a white headdress.
The house was the same one he lived in his entire life. His wife had passed away shortly after delivering their fifth child leaving him with two sons and three daughters. The daughters each left upon marriage to live with the family of their husbands. He was now joined in the house by the families of his sons. His eldest son Abbas had five children. The younger son was killed four years prior by the Shias. He had named that son Ibrahim in hopes of him fathering a large family. He had instead been killed while his wife was pregnant with their first child, a daughter named Teyaba. She was a girl of four years who had all of her mother's physical features except for the large nose of his family. He had fifteen grandchildren but she was his favorite.
As he counted his beads he would sometimes hear his grandchildren playing in the street and let his mind wander to thoughts of when Ibrahim was a child playing in the same streets so many years ago. He had his strength then and his wife. There were plans of taking the Hajj and praying at Mecca but war broke out and his unit was sent to the front. His leg was badly wounded when his platoon assaulted a machine gun position and he stepped out in the face of a volley of fire to instill courage in the younger soldiers and then felt his leg rocked as if by a sledgehammer and spent the next few moments writhing in agony until he lost consciousness. When he awoke he saw he had no right leg and knew his opportunity to make the Hajj was lost along with his leg. His fight was holy and just but he still regretted not making the trip when he had his strength. His leg, like his son, was taken from him by Shias and he hated them for this. Hated them for taking away his Hajj; hated them for taking his strength and mobility; hated them for killing his son. And most of all he hated them for making Teyaba grow up with a crippled old man for a father.
But then his mind was jolted back to his beads and with it the soothing calm brought on by repetitions of prayer. Teyaba presently ran in, jumped on his lap, and nuzzled into his chest. He felt her soft breathing on his tunic. She looked up at him with her dark eyes and smiled. She was a happy child unburdened by the fact that her father died before she was even born. He gave her a squeeze and she hurried off his lap and disappeared into the house with a laugh. In a moment she was back out the front door and into the street where the sound of her laughter was lost in the chorus of shouts of the other children at play. He felt sorrow for Ibrahim never having the chance to play with his daughter. He was all one could ask for in a son and the old man was sure he would have made an exceptional parent. Teyaba would have been the joy of his life.
From the Mosque beside his home the early afternoon prayer sounded and with great effort he worked himself out of the chair and knelt on the ground. He caught a glimpse of a car passing his home just before he started to pray. The car was not one he recognized and the man driving was also unfamiliar. He tried to call for his eldest son but his throat was too dry. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as he began clawing his way up using the chair for support. He cried out as the chair toppled to the ground. His fear drowned out the prayers from the mosque and the sounds from the street. He heard nothing.
The explosion was sharp and sudden. The street was lost in his view and in its place a cloud of dust entered through the gate and billowed towards his home. He began crawling towards the door to get to Teyaba. He longed for his strength back for just long enough to find his granddaughter. The sounds of shouting and wailing were the first he heard. His son rushed from the back rooms and grasped him by the arms and lifted him up onto his chair. He forced out Teyaba's name and pointed towards the front door, his finger trembling. Abbas ran out into the street to find her. The old man fixed his eyes on the street as he rocked steadily in his chair, sifting the beads two at a time in earnest.
He saw his son run towards the front door with Teyaba in his arms. Her clothes were badly torn and covered in blood. She was laid on his lap and to his relief he found her soft pulse. Abbas hurried to the back of the house in search of bandages. The old man took off his white headdress and put pressure on the wounds on her stomach. Her red blood soaked into the cloth and he began frantically tying the other end of it onto her shattered leg to stop the bleeding there. He felt his son's hand firmly on his shoulder. He looked down at his innocent granddaughter and she looked peaceful. He handed Teyaba up to his son. The old man's prayer beads fell to the ground beside his stained white headdress as he buried his head in his hands and started to cry. The sounds of prayer emanating from the mosque filled the room.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Dazed and Confused
Some of the funniest quotes from my soldiers thus far have come as we near the end of an all night mission--heads are bobbing, speach is slurred, reports are fuzzy and vague, an altogether regretable state of affairs for a platoon in the throes of combat but one which is inevitable given the schedule of patrols we keep. As an introduction to these quotes I will simply state you are peering out from your vehicle into the town/highway/house/back of your eyelids you are currently overwatching when you turn to say something to a fellow soldier in the vehicle. Sure enough, that soldier is "blindly contemplating", sound asleep. "Hey, John Doe! Wake up!" And much like a dog ate my homework, a classic excuse is immediately offered up. The highlights:
1) "I don't know, sergeant, I just closed my eyes to blink and they wouldn't open."
2) "I'm awake but my neck is tired!"
3) "I'm just trying to...fix...something....down here....Okay, finished, I'm good."
4) "I was just resting my eyes for a little bit, figured I could listen for awhile, I'll go back to looking now."
5) "#$%& we've been out here a long time, Sir!!"
These responses usually have the effect of setting off the rest of the truck in an uproar which if nothing else serves to wake us up for awhile longer. Night after night we are encountered with the biggest enemy in an at most semi-kinetic fight, complacency. Let the enemy see where exactly your soft underbelly is and prepare to get tickled on it. So we wake up, slap ourselves to rush some blood to our face, and focus in on whatever it is we happen to be overwatching.
The latest update I can give you is with the Sadr uprising in Basrah, Najaf, and Sadr City we had some minor unrest in our own town among his supporters which has caused us to again amp up our efforts in a preemptive measure to keep the lid on the situation. At least it seems to be working. Now the latest is Sadr has called off his supporters and is currently kicking back in Iran getting an earful for stirring up the Americans and possibly delaying what otherwise seemed to be the inevitable drawback and transition to financial support that will come post-election '08. I think the larger question in all this is what happens when we leave? Who's going to put the lid on a largely popular fanatic when the police force consists of at least a large contingent of supporters at worst and sympathizers at best? Who is their unifying figure the country will rally around, someone who rises above the religious and ideological squabbles and bloodbaths and unites the tribes and sects and provinces under an Iraqi banner. At some point for them to be a successful democracy there has to emerge at least a nationalist impulse among the people which shuns entangling alliances with Iran and Syria and compels men to work for the greater good of the whole. Right now their interests go as far as our checkbook leads them and when the pen that signs the checks runs out of ink I will be very interested to see who they turn to for sustenance--the government or their religious leaders?
1) "I don't know, sergeant, I just closed my eyes to blink and they wouldn't open."
2) "I'm awake but my neck is tired!"
3) "I'm just trying to...fix...something....down here....Okay, finished, I'm good."
4) "I was just resting my eyes for a little bit, figured I could listen for awhile, I'll go back to looking now."
5) "#$%& we've been out here a long time, Sir!!"
These responses usually have the effect of setting off the rest of the truck in an uproar which if nothing else serves to wake us up for awhile longer. Night after night we are encountered with the biggest enemy in an at most semi-kinetic fight, complacency. Let the enemy see where exactly your soft underbelly is and prepare to get tickled on it. So we wake up, slap ourselves to rush some blood to our face, and focus in on whatever it is we happen to be overwatching.
The latest update I can give you is with the Sadr uprising in Basrah, Najaf, and Sadr City we had some minor unrest in our own town among his supporters which has caused us to again amp up our efforts in a preemptive measure to keep the lid on the situation. At least it seems to be working. Now the latest is Sadr has called off his supporters and is currently kicking back in Iran getting an earful for stirring up the Americans and possibly delaying what otherwise seemed to be the inevitable drawback and transition to financial support that will come post-election '08. I think the larger question in all this is what happens when we leave? Who's going to put the lid on a largely popular fanatic when the police force consists of at least a large contingent of supporters at worst and sympathizers at best? Who is their unifying figure the country will rally around, someone who rises above the religious and ideological squabbles and bloodbaths and unites the tribes and sects and provinces under an Iraqi banner. At some point for them to be a successful democracy there has to emerge at least a nationalist impulse among the people which shuns entangling alliances with Iran and Syria and compels men to work for the greater good of the whole. Right now their interests go as far as our checkbook leads them and when the pen that signs the checks runs out of ink I will be very interested to see who they turn to for sustenance--the government or their religious leaders?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
