Baghdad blues, p.17
Baghdad Blues, page 17
“Yes, he is very strong, very brave.”
“I hope this doesn’t make him angry and resentful toward other Shia children.”
He was quiet for a moment. “My son might not, but there are those who use religion to incite fear and hate, to manipulate our youth. Extremist views are a reference point of balance rather than a source of compromise. It’s an age-old question that has consumed literature for centuries—how do you make someone with a false belief recognize their false belief and in turn accept the belief that is right?”
“Fear often seems to come from ignorance.”
“Yes. I believe it was T. S. Eliot who said all our ignorance brings us closer to death. He understood the effects of war.”
“Extremists have become a boogeyman pitting ‘us’ against ‘them’ and thereby simplifying the world, making it orderly and safe,” Sergeant K said. “America’s entire social premise seems to be becoming based on a misguided sense of fear and suspicion. It’s scapegoating—Jews, Communists, or atheists. Now it’s Muslims and immigrants. But as you said, both sides are trapped in the certainty of their beliefs and that makes compromise not only difficult, but often impossible.”
The professor nodded. “The problem, Sergeant, is that we project—our feelings, intellect, perceptions, judgments—onto others. We play dress up. I wear a suit befitting the role of a university professor and you the uniform of a soldier. We project an image of what we want people to see and to believe. This solidifies our views and makes it easy to identify who is Friend and who is Foe. It is an association with what we have been taught in our schools, churches, mosques, temples, the home, even the playground. It makes us treat intense feelings as proof that our judgments are the truth. But such labels and identities spring from one basic problem—selfishness. You cannot develop such attitudes without creating extremes. Once these projections occur one becomes frightened of a world without them. A cocoon forms—one based on fear, anger, ignorance, and hate—that forces us to choose a side, to defend against a self-created enemy. It is a self-perpetuating mechanism, but the truth is that we are stronger when we have nothing to defend. The cocoon makes us want to hang on to our pain, to loss. We are not punished for our anger, Sergeant, we are punished by our anger. Anger clouds our judgement and prevents us from learning from our mistakes. Our selfishness creates self-centered biases and distorted perspectives that filter out what is real, and we lose the ability to choose between right and wrong. Life offers no fiercer battle than the war we fight within ourselves. May I share a story with you, Sergeant?”
“Of course, sir.”
“I attended a comparative religion conference in Cairo and became friends with a Buddhist scholar from whom I learned much. You may know that the Koran offers few moral stories, mostly instructions on how to be a good Muslim. The Bible has many stories. But the teachings of early Buddhist monks—especially the wandering ones—I find illuminating and appropriate for our current times. One tells of a monk who enters the hut of a hermit who has been meditating for 20 years.
“‘Where are you from?’ The hermit asks. ‘And where are you going?’
“‘I came from behind my back and am going in the direction I am facing.’
“The hermit is confused. ‘Where were you born?’ he asks.
“‘On earth,’ the monk replies.
“‘Which school do you follow?’
“‘The Buddha.’
“The hermit feels toyed with and asks him about the white hat he is wearing. ‘If you are a monk, why are you wearing that hat?’ One school of Buddhists wear a yellow hat while another wear a red one. ‘Because if I wore a yellow hat I would be insulted and put down by those who wear red. If I wore a red hat it would be the same with those who wear yellow. I wear a white one because it saves trouble,’ the monk says. The Sunni and Shia are both Muslims but wear very different hats.”
And you’re the monk with the white one trying to be neutral and objective. But how long will that last? “I love that story. And you’re right. It describes perfectly the conflict of identity between many people and countries.”
After taking a sip of tea the professor’s face hardened with a look of sudden intensity. “I do not usually share stories of a personal nature with strangers, especially an American soldier. But you are different. I feel I can trust you.”
Sergeant K was taken aback by his candidness. “Thank you, sir. I’m honored you feel you can trust me.”
“Every age and culture has its own character—its weaknesses and strengths—its beauty and ugliness. All accept pain and suffering. Human life is often reduced to ugliness and evil when two cultures and religions overlap. And that includes the U.S. military and you too, Sergeant K. And now we have a whole generation—my son’s—that has lost the power to understand itself. No guiding force for right and wrong. Only hatred and division. When I was 12, my older brother and I beat up a young Shia boy. Why? Because I admired my brother. Idolized him. We beat that boy badly. My brother’s hate for the Shia overwhelmed him and I craved his acceptance, so I helped him nearly commit murder. I will never forget the look on the Shia boy’s face, bloodied and bruised, looking up at me for help. My brother stomped on his face again and again until something inside me changed and the blood lust receded. Finally, I stopped him. “If I hadn’t, my brother would have killed the boy.”” He sighed deeply and lowered his head in shame. “He was just a child ….”
Jesus, I can’t believe he just shared that. Damn. He’s full of so much self-blame. And what about me?”
“But you stopped him, sir, and you should be proud of that.”
Shaking his head, he said, “No. I have nothing to be proud of. Pride is a luxury that no longer exists for me. The sins of the father are laid upon the children, Shakespeare said. Myself and my family helped create this world and my children are suffering for it.”
Sergeant K took a long, deep look at the professor’s face. “I’m not sure if this helps, sir, but maybe by discovering the worst aspects of ourselves we can learn to become better human beings. For what it’s worth, Soren Kierkegaard has excellent advice for difficult times—don’t forget to love yourself.”
Chapter Sixteen
World Police
They’d stopped at Nana’s for a break. It was a blazing hot day in August and most of the guys were lounging in and around their vehicles. Even Hemingway and Hadley looked beat; after eating their customary eggrolls they collapsed in the shade to rest. Sergeant K was in his seat napping when a female scream woke him. Another scream forced him to sit up straight. A third got him out of his vehicle. It was coming from the building occupied by the newly arrived Shia family whom he hadn’t had a chance to introduce himself. Schmidt and Private First Class Swank walked up.
“Man, it sounds like someone’s beating his wife or kid,” Schmidt said. “Do you think we should go over and check it out?”
“It’s none of our business,” Sergeant K said, groggily.
Another series of screams.
“It won’t hurt to just check it out,” Swank pleaded.
Shit. I don’t know them or what’s going on, but he might be hurting his wife or kid. Maybe we should do something. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “Let’s go see what’s up.” Ready to “protect and serve,” they strode boldly over to the house with authority. Another scream and then silence. As they approached, Omar exited in a fit of rage. He stopped in his tracks when he ran into them at his doorstep. Swank walked up and grabbed him by the balls, squeezing them tightly, quickly bringing him to his knees.
“You like beating up women and kids, motherfucker!” he asked threateningly. Omar took the pain stoically, but with a look of absolute disdain.
“You guys stay with him,” Sergeant K said. “I’ll check inside.”
Entering a small foyer, a doorway to the right led to a bedroom. Walking in, he stood before a woman in her late thirties. Their eyes locked. Shocked, she quickly turned away facing a corner of the room. She’d moved fast but he saw red bruises on her face and a split lip with a small line of blood running down her chin. Embarrassed, he exited quickly. It had been a marital spat, albeit a violent one, and they’d intervened oblivious to the details. Outside, Omar was still on his knees with Swank firmly clutching his balls.
“Let him go,” Sergeant K said. “There’s no kid in the house. The wife’s a little beat up, but not seriously.”
Swank released the man’s balls. “Leave her alone or we’ll be back,” he threatened.
“Shouldn’t we say something?” Schmidt asked Sergeant K as they walked away.
“Dude. This isn’t America. There’s no abuse hotline or an Iraqi version of Child Protective Services.”
Shaking his head, Schmidt said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Sergeant K looked back at Omar. His utter contempt and hatred toward them were clear. He was glad the battered wife’s injuries weren’t serious, but he felt embarrassed. This was a mistake. Shit, Omar will probably just beat her that much more after we humiliated him. We made things that much worse. Full of a misguided sense of power, they’d marched right in to solve the problem with no concern for the consequences of their actions—and certainly no consideration for the social and cultural norms they stomped under their combat boots.
The incident with Omar dwelled on their minds as they stood by their Humvees the following day after stopping at Nana’s.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have grabbed his balls,” Swank admitted. “The whole incident just struck a nerve. Hearing those screams had a visceral effect I guess.”
“That’s okay. I led us over there,” Sergeant K said.
“It’s just … well … my dad was abusive to my mom,” Swank said. “He was a dick, but she put up with it for me. Nearly 20 years. But when my dad started up the porn magazine with some of his dirtbag friends, it was the last straw. We moved out and went to live with her sister.”
He put his arm on Swank’s shoulder consoling him. “It’s okay man, we’re all at fault.”
Walker came out and over to them. “Hey, Walker,” Sergeant K said smiling. The boy didn’t return it. “What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned.
“My father wanted me to talk to you about yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes. When you went to Omar’s.”
Damn! I overstepped my bounds and put Walker and his father into an uncomfortable situation. I acted like an arrogant American, believing that I could fix the problem without considering the complex and nuanced nature of the situation. He considered going over to Omar’s place and apologizing but was worried he’d just make things worse.
“Omar is embarrassed to be out of work like my father,” Walker said. “He is angry and feels powerless. I know he shouldn’t take his anger out on his wife. My father is going to speak with him about it.”
“I’m sorry, Walker.”
“Please, Sergeant K. You are not our police. I know you meant well, but you cannot solve all our problems. Some we must solve alone.”
“Please apologize to your father for me. I didn’t realize that my actions would put you in a difficult situation.”
“I will. He understands and is not upset with you.”
“Good.”
Walker smiled. “I will see you again soon, my friend,” he said and went back inside.
Jesus, the kid’s right. We sure as hell aren’t the goddamn police—or the World Police, for that matter. Later back at Camp Striker he told Peter what had happened. He needed someone to give him a better perspective on how to deal with the more sensitive cultural issues they faced.
“Yes. Involving yourself in a domestic affair was not a good idea. And as your friend Walker said, you are not the police even though you are often forced to fill that role. The Iraqi police aren’t exactly like those in England or America.”
He recalled the Sunni “Ali Baba” shot by the Iraqi policeman. “No, they certainly are not.”
“You and most Americans want to help, and I appreciate that. Please do not forget that even though there are those who wish you harm and would like you to leave, there are also those that appreciate your help—but the cultural and social dynamics of Iraqi culture can be difficult— especially for a Westerner. I suspect the U.S. Army never gave you classes on how to resolve a dispute between an angry out-of-work Iraqi and his wife?”
He chuckled. “No, they didn’t.”
“You must feel you are in an alien world surrounded by people who don’t worship as you do, speak a different language, who think and act in ways that must seem confusing and often confounding. And on top of that, many want to kill you. I felt much the same way when I arrived in England, except for the fear of being blown up of course. What is important for you to understand—and I hope I am not insulting you because I know you are an educated man—but in Iraq and other Arab countries, Muslims are accustomed to having a father figure as their leader. They admire and respect strength—usually strength through force. It is a paternalistic society that feels comfortable with a leader that is stable and predictable, even if that man is a dictator. When Gamal Abdel Nassar lost the 1967 war with Israel, he stepped down, but it was a charade. Thousands of Egyptians filled the streets supporting him and begged him to continue. And of course, he did. He knew how to relate to the people, how to project himself as a benign and paternalistic figure. He lost the entire Sinai to the Israelis and yet the people supported him. They feared an Egypt without him. For the average Egyptian he was Egypt.
“It was the same with Saddam after the Gulf War. He provided a sense of stability and security, especially with the threat from Iran and Israel. He may have lost Kuwait, but in the minds of many Iraqis—not just the Sunni—he instilled some pride. Like a father, he protected his people and stood up against the enemy. In Egypt, the Yom Kippur War is celebrated as a victory even though it accomplished little. But emotionally it gave the average Egyptian a sense of pride because they did not back down against Israel and won some decisive victories at the beginning, something they’d never done before. For many Arabs it is not about absolute victory, it’s about looking victorious. Saving face. When you confronted Omar, you thought you were helping, but you emasculated him—not just in front of his wife, but as a man, as an Arab, as a Muslim, and as a father figure. For a Muslim man there are two very sensitive areas. One is the primacy of his home, the other his position in the Muslim state. For Omar, he lost both.”
Peter breathed deep, pausing for a moment. “It is easy for Americans to talk about morals—right and wrong—because you have the freedom to do so,” he continued. “Morality comes with wealth and security. It was the same in England. Organizations and groups fighting for human rights—for dignity and an idealistic sense of morality—but here it is about survival. In Iraq, force and mind are opposites, as Ayn Rand wrote. ‘And Morality ends where a gun begins.’ The last hundred years of Iraq’s history is very complicated. Americans talk about freedom and democracy as if it were a natural thing, something many take for granted. In Iraq loyalty begins with family, tribe, then extended tribal ties, and then religion—loyalty to a ‘country’ comes last. And even that is a questionable thing.”
“Britain and France created Iraq after World War I. The borders are arbitrary and do not conform to ethnic and religious lines. There is no clear line of distinction, no Pyrenees to separate a people into clearly defined cultural groups. The only thing ‘Iraqis’ have in common is the flag, and that was designed by Saddam. The Middle East, especially Iraq, must seem enigmatic to Westerners. You are used to thinking in simplistic terms—the rights of the American, British, or French people. There are no ‘Iraqi people’ in that way. President Bush spoke about ‘liberating the Iraqi people’ as if it was World War II. Your invasion did nothing but … how do you say, open a can of worms?”
“Yes. A can of worms. Or released the cover on a pot allowing everything inside to boil over.”
“The Sunni–Shia conflict is an old and bitter one and not likely to be resolved soon. And your invasion has not helped.” Peter paused for a moment. A look of sadness crossed his face. “All the conflict and hate might have been avoided if the prophet had had a son. As a Christian, Sergeant, I have tried to look upon the history between the Sunni and Shia without bias, but here in Iraq that is a near impossibility.” Peter chuckled. “In Iraq, family is not an easily defined unit as it is in the West. In seventh-century Arabia—and as it still is in many parts of the Arab world today—family is a complicated web of relationships involving many tribes and clans. It is not the linear family tree you are probably used to. But in the end, blood is paramount. Without a direct heir the early Muslim community fragmented into two camps. One became the sunna, or Sunni, representing the guidance and practice that Mohammed shared with his followers, the other group supported Ali, Mohammed’s cousin and closest heir. In Arabic they became known as Shiat Ali—or Shia for short. Ali would become the fourth Caliph…following the prophet’s death. Caliph, or leader of the community. He died a martyr, poisoned by fundamentalists—precursors to today’s al-Qaeda. His grandson and heir, Hussein, would be martyred on the plains of Karbala—a solemn event the Shia celebrate as Ashura—that forever severed any bond between the two groups.
“The Shia feel they have been cheated out of their rightful place as the leaders of Islam. War between the two groups was inevitable then as it is now, Sergeant. There is an old saying that ‘To deny this you may as well ask the Euphrates to flow uphill.’ And there is an Iranian scholar, Shariati, who wrote that ‘Martyrdom has a unique radiance. It creates light and heat in the world. It creates movement, vision, and hope. By his death the martyr condemns the oppressor and provides commitment for the oppressed.’
“But for the Shia it is not only about martyrdom and recompense for past wrongs. They have hope. They believe that one day the twelfth Imam—the successor to the prophet in the bloodline of Ali—will return to Karbala ushering in a new era for the Shia. They celebrate his birthday, much like Christians celebrate Christmas, believing he will reappear with the martyred Hussein on one side and Jesus on the other.”
“I hope this doesn’t make him angry and resentful toward other Shia children.”
He was quiet for a moment. “My son might not, but there are those who use religion to incite fear and hate, to manipulate our youth. Extremist views are a reference point of balance rather than a source of compromise. It’s an age-old question that has consumed literature for centuries—how do you make someone with a false belief recognize their false belief and in turn accept the belief that is right?”
“Fear often seems to come from ignorance.”
“Yes. I believe it was T. S. Eliot who said all our ignorance brings us closer to death. He understood the effects of war.”
“Extremists have become a boogeyman pitting ‘us’ against ‘them’ and thereby simplifying the world, making it orderly and safe,” Sergeant K said. “America’s entire social premise seems to be becoming based on a misguided sense of fear and suspicion. It’s scapegoating—Jews, Communists, or atheists. Now it’s Muslims and immigrants. But as you said, both sides are trapped in the certainty of their beliefs and that makes compromise not only difficult, but often impossible.”
The professor nodded. “The problem, Sergeant, is that we project—our feelings, intellect, perceptions, judgments—onto others. We play dress up. I wear a suit befitting the role of a university professor and you the uniform of a soldier. We project an image of what we want people to see and to believe. This solidifies our views and makes it easy to identify who is Friend and who is Foe. It is an association with what we have been taught in our schools, churches, mosques, temples, the home, even the playground. It makes us treat intense feelings as proof that our judgments are the truth. But such labels and identities spring from one basic problem—selfishness. You cannot develop such attitudes without creating extremes. Once these projections occur one becomes frightened of a world without them. A cocoon forms—one based on fear, anger, ignorance, and hate—that forces us to choose a side, to defend against a self-created enemy. It is a self-perpetuating mechanism, but the truth is that we are stronger when we have nothing to defend. The cocoon makes us want to hang on to our pain, to loss. We are not punished for our anger, Sergeant, we are punished by our anger. Anger clouds our judgement and prevents us from learning from our mistakes. Our selfishness creates self-centered biases and distorted perspectives that filter out what is real, and we lose the ability to choose between right and wrong. Life offers no fiercer battle than the war we fight within ourselves. May I share a story with you, Sergeant?”
“Of course, sir.”
“I attended a comparative religion conference in Cairo and became friends with a Buddhist scholar from whom I learned much. You may know that the Koran offers few moral stories, mostly instructions on how to be a good Muslim. The Bible has many stories. But the teachings of early Buddhist monks—especially the wandering ones—I find illuminating and appropriate for our current times. One tells of a monk who enters the hut of a hermit who has been meditating for 20 years.
“‘Where are you from?’ The hermit asks. ‘And where are you going?’
“‘I came from behind my back and am going in the direction I am facing.’
“The hermit is confused. ‘Where were you born?’ he asks.
“‘On earth,’ the monk replies.
“‘Which school do you follow?’
“‘The Buddha.’
“The hermit feels toyed with and asks him about the white hat he is wearing. ‘If you are a monk, why are you wearing that hat?’ One school of Buddhists wear a yellow hat while another wear a red one. ‘Because if I wore a yellow hat I would be insulted and put down by those who wear red. If I wore a red hat it would be the same with those who wear yellow. I wear a white one because it saves trouble,’ the monk says. The Sunni and Shia are both Muslims but wear very different hats.”
And you’re the monk with the white one trying to be neutral and objective. But how long will that last? “I love that story. And you’re right. It describes perfectly the conflict of identity between many people and countries.”
After taking a sip of tea the professor’s face hardened with a look of sudden intensity. “I do not usually share stories of a personal nature with strangers, especially an American soldier. But you are different. I feel I can trust you.”
Sergeant K was taken aback by his candidness. “Thank you, sir. I’m honored you feel you can trust me.”
“Every age and culture has its own character—its weaknesses and strengths—its beauty and ugliness. All accept pain and suffering. Human life is often reduced to ugliness and evil when two cultures and religions overlap. And that includes the U.S. military and you too, Sergeant K. And now we have a whole generation—my son’s—that has lost the power to understand itself. No guiding force for right and wrong. Only hatred and division. When I was 12, my older brother and I beat up a young Shia boy. Why? Because I admired my brother. Idolized him. We beat that boy badly. My brother’s hate for the Shia overwhelmed him and I craved his acceptance, so I helped him nearly commit murder. I will never forget the look on the Shia boy’s face, bloodied and bruised, looking up at me for help. My brother stomped on his face again and again until something inside me changed and the blood lust receded. Finally, I stopped him. “If I hadn’t, my brother would have killed the boy.”” He sighed deeply and lowered his head in shame. “He was just a child ….”
Jesus, I can’t believe he just shared that. Damn. He’s full of so much self-blame. And what about me?”
“But you stopped him, sir, and you should be proud of that.”
Shaking his head, he said, “No. I have nothing to be proud of. Pride is a luxury that no longer exists for me. The sins of the father are laid upon the children, Shakespeare said. Myself and my family helped create this world and my children are suffering for it.”
Sergeant K took a long, deep look at the professor’s face. “I’m not sure if this helps, sir, but maybe by discovering the worst aspects of ourselves we can learn to become better human beings. For what it’s worth, Soren Kierkegaard has excellent advice for difficult times—don’t forget to love yourself.”
Chapter Sixteen
World Police
They’d stopped at Nana’s for a break. It was a blazing hot day in August and most of the guys were lounging in and around their vehicles. Even Hemingway and Hadley looked beat; after eating their customary eggrolls they collapsed in the shade to rest. Sergeant K was in his seat napping when a female scream woke him. Another scream forced him to sit up straight. A third got him out of his vehicle. It was coming from the building occupied by the newly arrived Shia family whom he hadn’t had a chance to introduce himself. Schmidt and Private First Class Swank walked up.
“Man, it sounds like someone’s beating his wife or kid,” Schmidt said. “Do you think we should go over and check it out?”
“It’s none of our business,” Sergeant K said, groggily.
Another series of screams.
“It won’t hurt to just check it out,” Swank pleaded.
Shit. I don’t know them or what’s going on, but he might be hurting his wife or kid. Maybe we should do something. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “Let’s go see what’s up.” Ready to “protect and serve,” they strode boldly over to the house with authority. Another scream and then silence. As they approached, Omar exited in a fit of rage. He stopped in his tracks when he ran into them at his doorstep. Swank walked up and grabbed him by the balls, squeezing them tightly, quickly bringing him to his knees.
“You like beating up women and kids, motherfucker!” he asked threateningly. Omar took the pain stoically, but with a look of absolute disdain.
“You guys stay with him,” Sergeant K said. “I’ll check inside.”
Entering a small foyer, a doorway to the right led to a bedroom. Walking in, he stood before a woman in her late thirties. Their eyes locked. Shocked, she quickly turned away facing a corner of the room. She’d moved fast but he saw red bruises on her face and a split lip with a small line of blood running down her chin. Embarrassed, he exited quickly. It had been a marital spat, albeit a violent one, and they’d intervened oblivious to the details. Outside, Omar was still on his knees with Swank firmly clutching his balls.
“Let him go,” Sergeant K said. “There’s no kid in the house. The wife’s a little beat up, but not seriously.”
Swank released the man’s balls. “Leave her alone or we’ll be back,” he threatened.
“Shouldn’t we say something?” Schmidt asked Sergeant K as they walked away.
“Dude. This isn’t America. There’s no abuse hotline or an Iraqi version of Child Protective Services.”
Shaking his head, Schmidt said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Sergeant K looked back at Omar. His utter contempt and hatred toward them were clear. He was glad the battered wife’s injuries weren’t serious, but he felt embarrassed. This was a mistake. Shit, Omar will probably just beat her that much more after we humiliated him. We made things that much worse. Full of a misguided sense of power, they’d marched right in to solve the problem with no concern for the consequences of their actions—and certainly no consideration for the social and cultural norms they stomped under their combat boots.
The incident with Omar dwelled on their minds as they stood by their Humvees the following day after stopping at Nana’s.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have grabbed his balls,” Swank admitted. “The whole incident just struck a nerve. Hearing those screams had a visceral effect I guess.”
“That’s okay. I led us over there,” Sergeant K said.
“It’s just … well … my dad was abusive to my mom,” Swank said. “He was a dick, but she put up with it for me. Nearly 20 years. But when my dad started up the porn magazine with some of his dirtbag friends, it was the last straw. We moved out and went to live with her sister.”
He put his arm on Swank’s shoulder consoling him. “It’s okay man, we’re all at fault.”
Walker came out and over to them. “Hey, Walker,” Sergeant K said smiling. The boy didn’t return it. “What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned.
“My father wanted me to talk to you about yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes. When you went to Omar’s.”
Damn! I overstepped my bounds and put Walker and his father into an uncomfortable situation. I acted like an arrogant American, believing that I could fix the problem without considering the complex and nuanced nature of the situation. He considered going over to Omar’s place and apologizing but was worried he’d just make things worse.
“Omar is embarrassed to be out of work like my father,” Walker said. “He is angry and feels powerless. I know he shouldn’t take his anger out on his wife. My father is going to speak with him about it.”
“I’m sorry, Walker.”
“Please, Sergeant K. You are not our police. I know you meant well, but you cannot solve all our problems. Some we must solve alone.”
“Please apologize to your father for me. I didn’t realize that my actions would put you in a difficult situation.”
“I will. He understands and is not upset with you.”
“Good.”
Walker smiled. “I will see you again soon, my friend,” he said and went back inside.
Jesus, the kid’s right. We sure as hell aren’t the goddamn police—or the World Police, for that matter. Later back at Camp Striker he told Peter what had happened. He needed someone to give him a better perspective on how to deal with the more sensitive cultural issues they faced.
“Yes. Involving yourself in a domestic affair was not a good idea. And as your friend Walker said, you are not the police even though you are often forced to fill that role. The Iraqi police aren’t exactly like those in England or America.”
He recalled the Sunni “Ali Baba” shot by the Iraqi policeman. “No, they certainly are not.”
“You and most Americans want to help, and I appreciate that. Please do not forget that even though there are those who wish you harm and would like you to leave, there are also those that appreciate your help—but the cultural and social dynamics of Iraqi culture can be difficult— especially for a Westerner. I suspect the U.S. Army never gave you classes on how to resolve a dispute between an angry out-of-work Iraqi and his wife?”
He chuckled. “No, they didn’t.”
“You must feel you are in an alien world surrounded by people who don’t worship as you do, speak a different language, who think and act in ways that must seem confusing and often confounding. And on top of that, many want to kill you. I felt much the same way when I arrived in England, except for the fear of being blown up of course. What is important for you to understand—and I hope I am not insulting you because I know you are an educated man—but in Iraq and other Arab countries, Muslims are accustomed to having a father figure as their leader. They admire and respect strength—usually strength through force. It is a paternalistic society that feels comfortable with a leader that is stable and predictable, even if that man is a dictator. When Gamal Abdel Nassar lost the 1967 war with Israel, he stepped down, but it was a charade. Thousands of Egyptians filled the streets supporting him and begged him to continue. And of course, he did. He knew how to relate to the people, how to project himself as a benign and paternalistic figure. He lost the entire Sinai to the Israelis and yet the people supported him. They feared an Egypt without him. For the average Egyptian he was Egypt.
“It was the same with Saddam after the Gulf War. He provided a sense of stability and security, especially with the threat from Iran and Israel. He may have lost Kuwait, but in the minds of many Iraqis—not just the Sunni—he instilled some pride. Like a father, he protected his people and stood up against the enemy. In Egypt, the Yom Kippur War is celebrated as a victory even though it accomplished little. But emotionally it gave the average Egyptian a sense of pride because they did not back down against Israel and won some decisive victories at the beginning, something they’d never done before. For many Arabs it is not about absolute victory, it’s about looking victorious. Saving face. When you confronted Omar, you thought you were helping, but you emasculated him—not just in front of his wife, but as a man, as an Arab, as a Muslim, and as a father figure. For a Muslim man there are two very sensitive areas. One is the primacy of his home, the other his position in the Muslim state. For Omar, he lost both.”
Peter breathed deep, pausing for a moment. “It is easy for Americans to talk about morals—right and wrong—because you have the freedom to do so,” he continued. “Morality comes with wealth and security. It was the same in England. Organizations and groups fighting for human rights—for dignity and an idealistic sense of morality—but here it is about survival. In Iraq, force and mind are opposites, as Ayn Rand wrote. ‘And Morality ends where a gun begins.’ The last hundred years of Iraq’s history is very complicated. Americans talk about freedom and democracy as if it were a natural thing, something many take for granted. In Iraq loyalty begins with family, tribe, then extended tribal ties, and then religion—loyalty to a ‘country’ comes last. And even that is a questionable thing.”
“Britain and France created Iraq after World War I. The borders are arbitrary and do not conform to ethnic and religious lines. There is no clear line of distinction, no Pyrenees to separate a people into clearly defined cultural groups. The only thing ‘Iraqis’ have in common is the flag, and that was designed by Saddam. The Middle East, especially Iraq, must seem enigmatic to Westerners. You are used to thinking in simplistic terms—the rights of the American, British, or French people. There are no ‘Iraqi people’ in that way. President Bush spoke about ‘liberating the Iraqi people’ as if it was World War II. Your invasion did nothing but … how do you say, open a can of worms?”
“Yes. A can of worms. Or released the cover on a pot allowing everything inside to boil over.”
“The Sunni–Shia conflict is an old and bitter one and not likely to be resolved soon. And your invasion has not helped.” Peter paused for a moment. A look of sadness crossed his face. “All the conflict and hate might have been avoided if the prophet had had a son. As a Christian, Sergeant, I have tried to look upon the history between the Sunni and Shia without bias, but here in Iraq that is a near impossibility.” Peter chuckled. “In Iraq, family is not an easily defined unit as it is in the West. In seventh-century Arabia—and as it still is in many parts of the Arab world today—family is a complicated web of relationships involving many tribes and clans. It is not the linear family tree you are probably used to. But in the end, blood is paramount. Without a direct heir the early Muslim community fragmented into two camps. One became the sunna, or Sunni, representing the guidance and practice that Mohammed shared with his followers, the other group supported Ali, Mohammed’s cousin and closest heir. In Arabic they became known as Shiat Ali—or Shia for short. Ali would become the fourth Caliph…following the prophet’s death. Caliph, or leader of the community. He died a martyr, poisoned by fundamentalists—precursors to today’s al-Qaeda. His grandson and heir, Hussein, would be martyred on the plains of Karbala—a solemn event the Shia celebrate as Ashura—that forever severed any bond between the two groups.
“The Shia feel they have been cheated out of their rightful place as the leaders of Islam. War between the two groups was inevitable then as it is now, Sergeant. There is an old saying that ‘To deny this you may as well ask the Euphrates to flow uphill.’ And there is an Iranian scholar, Shariati, who wrote that ‘Martyrdom has a unique radiance. It creates light and heat in the world. It creates movement, vision, and hope. By his death the martyr condemns the oppressor and provides commitment for the oppressed.’
“But for the Shia it is not only about martyrdom and recompense for past wrongs. They have hope. They believe that one day the twelfth Imam—the successor to the prophet in the bloodline of Ali—will return to Karbala ushering in a new era for the Shia. They celebrate his birthday, much like Christians celebrate Christmas, believing he will reappear with the martyred Hussein on one side and Jesus on the other.”
