![]()
A Soldier's Story
by MAJOR BILL EDMONDS
[posted online on November 29, 2006]
For just a minute or two, step into my life. I am an American
soldier in the Army Special Forces. I have just returned from a
one-year tour of duty in Iraq, where I lived, shared meals, slept
and fought beside my Iraqi counterpart as we battled insurgents in
the center of a thousand-year-old city. I am a conflicted man, and
I want you to read the story of that experience as I lived it. In
the interest of security, I have omitted some identifying details,
but every word is true.
Routine and Ritual
I wake in the cold and dark of each morning to the sound of a
hundred different muezzins calling Muslim men and women to
prayer. These calls reverberate five times per day throughout a
city the size of San Francisco. Above this sound I also hear two
American helicopters making their steady patrol over the rooftops
of the city and the blaring horns of armored vehicles as they
swerve through dense city traffic. As a combat adviser and
interrogator, I find these contrasts very appropriate for the life
that I now lead.
This morning, on the Iraqi base in which I live, I walk 100
feet from my bedroom to work and back again. These are the same
100 feet I will travel month after month for one year. During
every trip I smile, put a hand to my heart, sometimes a hand to my
head, and say to every passing Iraqi the religious and cultural
words that are expected from a fellow human being. In Iraq, one
cannot separate Islamic culture from the individual. They are
intrinsically woven into the fabric of daily life, but for most
Westerners, they seem abnormal. I sit in smoke-filled rooms and
drink sugar-laden tea in small crystal glasses. I spray
tobacco-scented air freshener, kiss cheeks three times or more,
allow the Iraqi on the right to pass through the doorway first. I
know never to inquire on the health of a wife or elder daughter. I
even hold hands with other men.
I proclaim my submission to God and my relationship to reality
by saying "God willing" when referring to any future event. I say
"God bless you" every time someone takes a seat. I eat with my
hands, standing up, taking food from communal bowls. I attend work
meetings where socializing is always the first priority. I hear
the expressions "upon my mustache" or "by my eyes" or "over my
head"--signifying the most binding and heartfelt of oaths. One
day, I ask an Iraqi friend how many relatives he has and he
answers, "In the city, maybe a thousand." I have slowly come to
realize that in Islam, and in Iraq, every action is worship. Every
single thing that a person does--not just prayer or the time spent
in a mosque but every action--is in fact an act of veneration. So
yes, many things are different here. Yet we all have become
friends--good friends--in part because I am here; I honor them and
their religion by going out of my way to show them respect. Not
all Americans act this way.
Many Americans assume that if a person does not speak English,
it implies a lack of intelligence or some mental simplicity. We
usually speak up only when spoken to. We attend meetings to pass
information in the most efficient ways possible; our goal is
always to decrease time while not losing content. For most
Americans, God is intensely personal and religious utterances are
not considered appropriate in a group of strangers. Our society is
established on the principle of separating religion from state. In
America, tobacco is quickly becoming a social taboo, and most men
do not hold hands. If we are the first to arrive at a door, we
enter first. We go on dates to meet future spouses--this is a
cultural activity that I try again and again to explain. Also,
Americans are a pragmatic people. We calculate the merit of an
action first by its utility. In Islam, such a philosophy is
immoral, and this truth is clearly manifest in the current clash
between the Muslim and the postmodern worlds. So yes, we are very
different. Yet if I look closely, with eyes wide open, I see that
we are in some ways very much alike.
I jogged this morning around the small Iraqi base where I live.
It was 6:00 a.m. and mildly warm. I wore very revealing blue Nike
running shorts with ankle socks while listening to Limp Bizkit on
my iPod. I slowly passed a small group of Iraqis and they all just
stared, unsmiling. As I came closer, with a huge smile spread
across my face, I put my hand to my heart and said, "Peace be upon
you all," (in Arabic of course) while gasping for air. They all,
in unison, completely changed and beamed smiles, waved, talked,
gave me a thumbs-up and replied, "Peace be upon you."
Insurgents
On this small plot of land where I live, next to the Tigris
River, in the very center of an Islamic metropolis, I help find
and then interrogate terrorists alongside the Iraqi officer whom I
advise and with whom I also live. We interrogate hundreds of
suspected terrorists over many, many months. One of my
responsibilities is to insure that prisoners are not abused. This
I have done.
But for a year I have also been an observer of an immensely
complicated situation. I am a soldier who fights alongside Iraqis,
and I interact daily with and hear the words of Iraqi soldiers,
civilians and insurgents alike. Through their eyes I see the
strengths, foibles and faults of my military and culture.
Sometimes I wish for the return of my ignorance. If no one else
can understand my distress, I hope other Americans who fought
shoulder to shoulder with other cultures--the French, Filipino,
the Nungs and Yards and tribesmen of Vietnam, Laos, Thailand and
Cambodia--will understand.
From my seat in a dark basement room I understand that many of
those who terrorize have always hated the Americans. But being
Muslim is definitely not a predisposition for violence; quite the
opposite for most Iraqis. Why is it that many have slowly
transformed over three years from happily liberated American
supporters, to passive supporters of the insurgency, to active
fighters of the American "occupation"? "I love Americans but hate
your military," says a college professor turned insurgent.
"Americans have come here because you want our oil and because of
your support of Israel. You bring democracy, but the Iraqi pays
the price." These were the first words I heard from a man I will
call Ibrahim. The Iraqi Army had captured him. He was angry, and
for the first time he was sitting face to face with the American
soldier whom he hates beyond reason. That was two weeks ago.
Yesterday, I put two red plastic chairs outside in the sun and
spoke with him again. This time, I believe I am not the American
soldier he has come to hate. This time I am "Mr. Bill," and it is
now hard for him to hate me. I can see and sense his inner
turmoil. For Ibrahim and for me, it is hard to hold on to the hate
when the once-indistinct face becomes a real person. Later, he
admits to having been deceived about the evil that is the American
soldier. For two weeks I have spoken Arabic with him, started and
ended every interaction with the required cultural and religious
sayings, and demonstrated knowledge of his religion. For two weeks
I have shown Ibrahim that I respect him as both an Iraqi and as a
Muslim.
"It is how you act," he says, "and how we are treated that
makes me fight. For many Iraqis this anger at you is just an
excuse to kill for money or greed. But for most others, they truly
feel they are doing what is right. But you give them this excuse;
the American military gives them the excuse." So now terrorist
leaders pretending to be pious Iraqis target this very common base
anger, Iraqis fight and civilians raise their fists to salute the
Holy Fighter.
"Two years ago I saw Abu Ghraib and what Americans did to
women. I became an insurgent," whispers a man I call Kareem,
another civilian turned insurgent. "You come into our homes
without separating the women and children, or asking the men
politely if you may enter. Almost every hour of my life I hear
some noise or see some sight of the American military. Soldiers
talk with Iraqis only from behind a gun, from a position of power
and not respect. Last week American soldiers got on a school bus
and talked with all of the teenage girls. You had them take off
their hijab so you could see their faces. You do not respect our
women. This is the biggest of all problems of yours. You do not
respect our women. How can we believe that Americans want to help
when you do not even respect us or our faith?"
I later tell Kareem that these soldiers thought a person hiding
a bomb was on the bus. This was obviously too little and too late.
Perceptions are what count and word of American soldiers demanding
to see the faces of Muslim women streamed from cellphone to
cellphone across an entire city. Perhaps different from other past
insurgencies fighting in different societies, within Iraq and over
years, negative perceptions are what transform a citizen into an
insurgency supporter and then into an insurgent. Now I drive
throughout the crowded city alternating between shooting a machine
gun and throwing Beanie-Babies to waving children. I think that at
least the children are out in the streets and most are still
waving. But even this hopeful sight is disappearing.
Last night the Iraqi Army captured Ibrahim's cell leader and
brought the two together in the same small room. For Ibrahim, this
was a very traumatic moment, for he saw that the pious Muslim man,
whom he followed but had not met, was in fact a 27-year-old
tattooed common criminal. Ibrahim began to weep when he realized
he had been deceived. A greedy and immoral man who killed for
money while pretending to be religious had skillfully manipulated
Ibrahim's anger at Americans. Before Ibrahim was turned over to
the Iraqi authorities, I saw him teaching soldiers to use their
new office computer. He was helping them to type up his own
written confession. But Ibrahim's transformation is an anomaly.
Such a confluence of peaceful events does not often turn an
insurgent away from the insurgency. Most insurgents continue to
fight the hated American soldier whom they have never met. Their
hope is that the American soldier will just go away.
Bursting Bubbles
I have slowly come to understand that if we are to succeed in
Iraq, we must either change the way we perceive and treat those we
want to help or we must disengage the great percentage of our
military from the population. The Iraqi base where I now live was
once a small American base. The anxiety and distress of American
soldiers in years past are scratched in the ceiling over my bed.
"The mind is a terrible thing...," "keep a sharp look-out during
your descent," "happiness is a temporary state of mind," "control
is just an illusion" and "nothing is as it seems." Across the
room, on another wall, next to another bed, are other words from
another soldier. They read, "My score in this War: Arabs=10,
cars=10, houses=3."
American soldiers are angry and frustrated with Iraqis. Iraqis
are angry and frustrated with Americans. Many Iraqis just want
American soldiers to go away, and I struggle within myself not to
agree. Day after day I observe the interactions of Americans with
Iraqis and am often ashamed. I see that required classes given to
all American soldiers on cultural sensitivity do not work; 100,000
or more American soldiers daily interacting, engaging and fighting
Iraqis within their own society for more than three years will
inevitably create a wellspring of citizen hostility. In this war,
none of us can change who we fundamentally are.
American military culture interacts with Iraqi Islamic culture
like a head-on collision. And massive deployments of American
soldiers fighting a counterinsurgency now hurts more than it
helps. When we focus on the military solution to resolve a social
problem, we inevitably create more insurgents than we can capture
or kill. As a consequence, real "Islamic terrorists" subverting
their own tolerant religion will use this popular anger and sense
of resentment to their advantage. As much as they hate and fear
us, they also say that we cannot just leave the mess that we have
made.
"I know the American military cannot now leave Iraq," says
another captured insurgent whom I will call Muhammad. "If you did,
we would all start fighting each other until one person killed
enough enemies to come out on top. When I stop seeing your
military shooting at civilians on our streets and I stop seeing
Iraqi soldiers and policemen as your puppets, then I will stop
fighting."
Muhammad may be naïve and living in a bubble of projected
motivations and false perceptions. But his bubble burst when he
was captured and plucked from an insular society. My own bubble
burst when I was taken out of my society and put into Muhammad's.
Military leaders tell us to "focus on training the Iraqi soldiers
and policemen to fight, and do not fight the insurgency yourself."
Yet if the citizen is angry with us, won't this anger just
transfer to the very people we train and fight with? What if we
are unintentionally assuring that the Iraqi soldiers and policemen
will have someone to fight against if we leave?
The Iraqi civilian I speak with says that is so. In the eyes of
many, there is now no difference between the American on patrol
and the Iraqi policeman or soldier who is with the American on
patrol. If the citizen believes that the American military is an
"occupying power," won't he now perceive the Iraqi policeman or
soldier as this occupier's puppet?
American soldiers do live within self-imposed bubbles of
isolation. These are called American bases and are where the
greatest percentage of soldiers live and never leave. These
bubbles are far different from the universe of Muhammad and his
colleagues. We know that Muhammad's beliefs about who we are and
what motivates us are mostly false. His first perceptions are
defined by culture and religion, careful words of terrorist
leaders, and a thousand channels of satellite television beamed
into the homes of almost every Iraqi. It is then our behavior that
contributes to these negative perceptions. Our self-imposed
isolation and the citizens' perceptions may be all that the
insurgency needs to continue and be successful.
I have come to realize that we isolate our soldiers from the
societies in which we operate. We airlift and sealift
vacuum-sealed replicas of America to remote corners of the world;
once there, we isolate ourselves from the very people we are
trying to protect or win over. An Iraqi once told me, "How you
treat us must be like how African-Americans felt." If you're an
American soldier in Iraq working as an adviser, ask yourself this:
Is the Iraqi I live and fight with not allowed to enter any
American facility? If you are a military adviser or training to be
an adviser, look around where you eat: Are the Americans on one
side of the room and the Iraqis on the other? Do you even eat with
Iraqis? Do you go out of your way to avoid eye contact and thus
not greet the Iraqis you walk by? Do you try to learn their
language or follow their customs? Do you habitually expect Iraqis
to share intelligence and then not respond in kind? Do you
distrust them?
Last week I read an article in an American newspaper that
described a very common scene. Getting ready to go on a mission
with an Iraqi policeman, a young American soldier snaps at an
Iraqi officer and says, "Get off the cellphone." Then this same
soldier turns to another American soldier and says, "He is
probably warning a terrorist that we are coming." It may not be
racism, only ignorance combined with frustration and paranoia, but
to the Iraqi, it sure does feel like racism.
To play the role of a combat adviser--something American
military personnel are increasingly asked to do--is to live within
a foreign culture and to train and fight with a foreign military.
Many American soldiers are not capable of such an important role
or mission. The job is long, very difficult, and set within a very
austere, hostile and unfamiliar environment. The adviser becomes
culturally isolated and so requires a unique personality combined
with extensive training; but most lack this expertise and
inclination. It's a sink-or-swim job, and most candidates sink
after only a few months. They then retreat inside the shells of
themselves and soon become combat advisers who do not interact or
even advise. They thus form adviser teams that are dysfunctional
and counterproductive. They exist until the day arrives when they
can return home to a place that is familiar, where they are not
hated.
The Tightrope
American soldiers now patrol the streets with extreme caution
and quick reflexes. They have come to think that every Iraqi who
runs a red light or does not yield is a terrorist. They shoot at
or accidentally kill civilians, which then creates one more
insurgent and three more insurgency supporters. I know this
cause-and-effect explanation is simplistic for an immensely
complicated situation, but you get the picture. I will never fault
American soldiers for their actions and reactions; it really is
dangerous out there, and no other nation could ever ask for such
service and sacrifice from its citizens. Yet I also try not to
fault Iraqi civilians, for their truth is just as valid to them as
is mine to me.
I have seen firsthand why I cannot create stability by force
within an Islamic society and why many say democracy cannot be
brought by force but must evolve.
To be a moral person in a protracted counterinsurgency is my
daily struggle, one in which I am asked to instill social morality
on a culture that is not my own.
So what is the balance between taking charge in Iraq and/or
abandoning the country? Our best response is to pull the American
soldiers back and push the Iraqi soldiers/policemen forward as
quickly as possible. I feel the urgency of this mandate as I type
these very words on this small Iraqi base among Iraqi soldiers. As
I told Ibrahim, the captured insurgent, "I want to leave your
country. The only reason I stay here is because Iraqis are dying
and you insist on fighting. All we want to do is to help."
I naturally assumed he understood this. Well, he had not, and
most do not. This message is one that is lacking and one that
Iraqis surely need. So I find myself balanced on a tightrope
bridging a deathly height. As Iraqi intelligence officers once
explained to me over hot tea, "It is a race to see which of many
possibilities comes first; the competency of an Iraqi Security
Force with a stable and competent government, or the formation of
a monolithic and deadly insurgency or civil war, both of which
would prevent the latter."
In Iraq, I wish to survive and to succeed. Yet as the days
pass, my hopes increasingly become mutually exclusive: The
insurgency gets more effective; the citizen anger at us and the
Iraqi Security Force becomes greater; the fractions in the society
grow deeper and more violent; the American public becomes more
impatient as the war is perceived as less legitimate and the
conditions to form a stable Iraqi government become more elusive.
So I run along this rope as if in a race to get away. I run
knowing full well that my speed comes only at the sacrifice of my
balance. I long for the tranquility of normalcy, the comfortable,
the understandable, and so I want to run from Iraq. So what then
can I do besides serve admirably and hope for the best while
fearing the worst?
The Iraqi officer I advise once said after months of
frantically working to capture terrorists, "You need to just
relax. You are here, so there will always be another terrorist to
capture. Sit and drink some tea with me."
I doubt he was intentionally being prophetic. As a soldier who
lives with an Iraqi, I do hope to one day just sit and drink some
tea with him. To sit and talk of family without a worry in the
world. But to do so, I must do more than just train, advise and
fight with my Iraqi friend. I must go out of my way every single
day to disprove the "Ugly American" label that is attached to me.
I must approach every personal interaction as a singular
opportunity to battle the insurgency and then realize that my
interactions with each and every Iraqi do have very lasting and
very strategic consequences.
