Letter from Iraq

[Wilma]

Carl:  shouldn't the date in the next to last paragraph be 1863?  I don't seem to remember anything like that in 1963.

[Diane Amberg]

I wondered about that too.  There were plenty of terrible happenings that year, but Gettysburg wasn't one of them.

[Jo McDonald]

I hate to be tacky...but can't you ladies overlook one typo?

[Wilma]

I am just thinking about posterity.  At the rate things are going, they won't know the difference.  We old folks need to keep it straight for our younger ones.

[Janet Harrington]

Carl,

Once again LTC Green has showed me how remarkable of a writer he is.  I love his reports.  I haven't told him that Rudy did print that one letter.  I know of one person who remarked to me about the letter.  Shirley Black, a retired LTC from the Air Force, loved reading about the war as seen from the eyes of LTC Green.

(Shirley, if I got your rank wrong, please correct me.)

[Carl Harrod]

I made the correction for you.

[Wilma]

Thank you, Carl. 

[Carl Harrod]

UPDATE #25 – 23 SEP 07

We made the left hand turn down by the cemetery and started winding our way into the back roads.  As we turned we could see a large crowd forming several hundred meters past the Iraqi Army checkpoint at the corner.  The sun was down, and what might have given us cause for concern in the spring seemed natural in the fall and even more so during Ramadan, where the community gathers in the evening to break their fast and celebrate.  Back in the neighborhood we stop to investigate a set of parked fuel tankers, one empty one full.  The owner provides some fishy paperwork, and the truck does not have government markings, so we detain the man for questioning and confiscate the truck.  An hour later we approach the crowd again, this time coming from the north.  I am not surprised to see BG Bahaa's brake lights glow read.  We dismount.

            The gathering of males of all ages is festive, and greets us warmly, with some chanting.  Bahaa in full politician mode grins from ear to ear and wades into the mix, man kissing the elders.  I catch up and get sucked into the crowd.  Several days before the general had told me about a traditional game called Mahebes or "rings" that is played during Ramadan.  We had apparently just stumbled upon a match of rings, and he was eager to show it to me in action.

            Rings is a team game, with each family or neighborhood fielding a group of about twenty lead buy a team leader.  Each team gathers on either side of the pack, standing, or sitting on low benches or plastic chairs in no particular order.  Age apparently is no factor.  The leader of the team is armed with a blanket and a ring.  He goes to each member of the group, placing the blanket over their heads and engages in a conversation and motions that may or may not result in that individual receiving the ring to be hidden in either of their two fists.  Once every member has been visited, the team is ready to defend, twenty poker faces all ready to fool the opposing team's leader.  The opposing team, having watched patiently now puts forward their guesser who makes an elaborate show of strolling through the other team observing their behavior –tapping out those he believes does not have the ring.  Culling the crowd takes minutes on this night, but apparently it is not uncommon for staring matches to last for half an hour or more in some of the more ancient rivalries.

            Finally, there are just two remaining - the guesser, almost always an old and wizened veteran of the game, and whomever it is he has singled out as the guilty owner of the ring.  All that is left is to pick the hand.  Over the last few days I have had several conversations with Iraqis who have mentioned the ring game and invariably the name of a man called Jasim Al Aswad or "The Black Jasim" comes up.  He lives in a neighborhood to our north.  Apparently this guy's power of observation is legendary and he has led his neighborhood to multiple championships.  Tonight, age and wisdom overcame youth, and the guesser has correctly picked the owner but failed to pick the correct hand.  His team scores one point, but not the extra.  The teams switch sides and start again as we head back to the trucks to mount up.  Back on our intercoms we decide rings would make a great drinking game, an idea certainly not in line with the notions of Ramadan.

            Much like the meaning of Christmas is often lost in the trappings of the season, I can't help but think that Ramadan suffers from much the same in its observance.  In a nutshell, Muslims should refrain from doing anything sinful (which apparently translates as fun) while the sun is above the horizon.  So no eating, smoking, swearing, sex, water etc.  The notable exception to the exclusion list is sleep, which is about the only saving grace of the whole month in my opinion.  Having spent the day in misery, the evenings become festive and in general are a time of increased communion with the neighborhood.  For those that practice, it is a pretty good excuse to slow the pace of work down during the day.  Kind of like a month long company picnic.  Apparently a few extra prayers are added each day.  At the risk of sounding cynical, I can't help but wonder if those are largely spent asking for the day to be over quicker so they can quench their thirst in the ridiculous heat.  Fortunately the weather is cooling off now and Ramadan, which is on a lunar calendar, didn't happen to fall in the height of summer this year.

            I have a new favorite Iraqi food, a dish called Moqloba or"Upside-down".  BG Bahaa's wife cooked it for me a few months back, and I suspect that because of my  positive reaction, it has found its way more frequently into the rotation.  I a medium size pot, a layer of pulled chicken is spread in the bottom, probably with some cooking oil.  Over that, a layer of sliced eggplant, and then a layer of sliced potatoes about a quarter of an inch thick.  The rest of the pot is filled with rice seasoned with some sort of tomato based flavoring that makes it red like Mexican rice.  At any rate, the whole thing is baked and when ready to serve, is brought out and the pan is turned upside-down onto a large silver tray.  Having molded to the shape of the pot, the entire dish looks like a large free standing rice cake with chicken icing.   Mercifully this is eaten with a spoon and not the goat grab style free for all common for some dishes.

            Several blocks further south, we stop again.  We are back at a familiar corner and I take a moment to speak with a shop owner –the man who angrily showed me the food can pierced by a sniper's bullet back in February.  I asked if he remembered that conversation.  He did.  "You don't seem as angry as you did back then?"  He smiled, "no, I can sleep at night now and not worry."  Another elder approached and told us about the power lines that have been going up all over the neighborhood.  The work is nearly complete with all but the final connection back into the national grid done.  He mentioned that this neighborhood had lost its power just before Ramadan last year and they had all hoped to have it back before then end of Ramadan this year.  That was a promise I couldn't make, but again his tone had none of the anger of the spring, but rather the excitement of someone about to achieve a long awaited goal. I desperately hope to see the project complete before the end of my watch.

            Further south, amongst the high rise apartments, we stop again.  Lately, BG Bahaa has been confiscating jerry cans of fuel from black marketers and redistributing the illegal product to mosques and needy families in a modern day Robin Hood campaign.  This coupled with pressure on the sector's gas stations to end corruption and coalition efforts to improve the traffic patterns around the gas stations has dramatically dropped wait time for legal fuel and dropped the price of black market fuel.  The mood on Haifa street is light.  It is starting to get late, so many of the families have gone inside, but the young men are still out.  Six months ago you didn't see young men at all.  Bahaa decides to make a game of distributing fuel.  Approaching one gaggle of about fifteen high school age kid, he proclaims that whoever can answer some Ramadan Trivia correctly can have a can.  The first question, how many verses are in the first book of the Koran stumps the crowd.  Finally the youngest of the lot ventures a guess and wins the prize.  We move on to an older group, university age guys.  After three or four religious questions, they give up.  Bahaa gives them a second chance and asks a soccer question.  To my surprise they miss that as well.  One of their friends approached to see what is going on.  Dressed in a Metalica T-shirt and armed with a beat up six string, he could have been plucked from any street in America.  He begins to make a credible attempt at the opening bars of "Hotel California".  Bahaa looks at me for approval.  I figure I would much rather have the kid memorizing the Eagles than being brainwashed in some Wahabi Madrasa.  Fuel for all my friends.

            Back into the night we head into our most dangerous sector.  For the last few months, The 1-1-6 battalion of the Iraqi Army and Warhorse, now replaced by the 4th Squadron 2nd ACR from Germany have been busy trying to end the tyranny of a local Jeash Al Mahdi  affiliated gang leader that has dominated the area.  A series of raids and arrests has decimated his gang, but the gang's Prince has continued to avoid capture and has moved to another district.  As we patrol, locals approach us openly with information.  Much of it we already know, but their willingness to talk publicly in front of neighbors is a good indication that the fear he exerted may finally be broken.  One more chapter I hope to see closed before I return.

            Every success is marred by a setback.  A few weeks ago I read an article buried on the back page of the news and deep in the internet about Yarmook Hospital, one of the three main hospitals in our sector.  Essentially the article talked about how the morgue, which was filled past capacity last winter is now largely empty, and the Doctors are no longer flooded with violence based emergency room cases.  This barometer of success was largely overshadowed by the Blackwater fiasco which happened just up the street and whose victims ended up in Yarmook.

            The Blackwater firefight took place on our western boundary, in the traffic circle I talked about many months back where a car bomb had collapsed an underground tunnel screwing up the traffic patterns in the area – the same corner that the crazy lady calls home.  The city officials have done great work over the intervening months and have completely rebuilt the tunnel and used the opportunity to overhaul the median and adjacent parks with brick sidewalks and refurbished gardens.  The tunnel was set to open again in a few days, but construction equipment still snarled up traffic.

            I was not at the scene of the event, but BG Bahaa arrived shortly after, and the video footage his guys shot of the aftermath and the testimony from people I have come to know provided me pretty much everything I needed to know.  That coupled with my own observations of the Blackwater arrogance and their outdated convoy practices leave me very little doubt that the incident in question certainly involved excessive force, and was almost certainly avoidable.

            I have always held a low regard for mercenaries, and have found it more than a bit distasteful that we have resorted to their use in Iraq.  I have nothing against the huge variety of contractors providing a wide range of support activities.  But the realm of violence is one that should solely be reserved to the state. Subcontracting the use of deadly force to those whose motivation is corporate profits and the adrenaline junkies they hire is a slippery slope regardless of the previous pedigree of the employees.  A security firm has no vested interest in the war being over, and no incentive for its employees to take any risks at deescalating rules of engagement based on changing conditions on the field.  Blackwater is not responsible for interacting with the populace they disrupt and has no need to take risks when they interact with them in order to accomplish their mission.  My team, and thousands of soldiers still serving at wages far below our skills and far lower than the mercenaries of Blackwater have all learned better.  There are times that assuming a bit of risk brings an overall higher level of security and the economic and political benefits that flow from it. 

            The single greatest tragedy of the Blackwater incident will be the same as the Abu Gharib scandal.  It will take the focus away from what the Iraq government should be doing to fix itself and allow them to point a finger of righteous indignation on Americans – with much of their population joining the band wagon.  This distraction will absorb a huge amount of organizational energy from the Iraqi government in a time where we should be ruthlessly holding them to standards and cutting out the corruption that stifles the growth that is a precursor to our success and eventual withdrawal.  I hope I am wrong.


As always I hope this finds you and yours doing well.  I look forward to seeing some of you over the next few weeks as I am now just five days away from finally getting some leave.

[Carl Harrod]

UPDATE #26

22 OCT 07



From the cove on the far right bank, an early morning mist rolled, discharging small clouds which drifted across my front in a seemingly endless armada.  The first tenuous glow of dawn illuminated their sails as they marched victorious - as if on parade.  The lake, almost perfectly calm, reflected the autumn colors of the trees on the far bank. Below me, the gentle creaking of the dock on its moorings provided the mornings only sound.

To the left, hugging the friendly shore, a much smaller squadron of ducks rounded the cape, a pair of fast frigates out front scouting for danger in the van of another dozen trailing in their gentle wake.  Low calls signaled a change of course, and these new comers put out to sea, choosing a tack which would take them headlong into the foggy flotilla and away from whatever danger they sensed in me.

A thunderous crash broke the morning calm as a fish broke the surface and splashed back underneath.  Neither duck nor cloud seemed alarmed by the submariner.  I jumped.  A blue heron swooped in low over the deck, nature's radar alerting him to the aquatic prey.  He was silent, but his allies in the trees behind me were beginning their morning pre-flight rituals, and the day was soon filled with the strains of nature's song.

The sun, having finally gained some altitude poured forth an army of rays over the far ridgeline and through the forest leaves.  They beat back the shadows in a relentless assault, and drove the morning mist back into port.  Sun and lake conspired and illuminated a path unerringly to my footstep, reflecting all of Gods glory.  I was home, safe at my parent's house, and in that moment, everything seemed possible.

By nightfall, that illusion had vanished and the struggle between good an evil, joy and pain, sickness and health had reasserted itself and crashed in around me.  Having earned a few weeks reprieve from a war now far away, I would face a more personal one at home.  My marriage of nearly seventeen years had been failing for many months, and now the tenuous truce, had failed.  News that my wife had petitioned the court for a temporary restraining order arrived, and my plans to return home and visit with my daughters and salvage what I could were shattered.  I bled.

So I traveled and found respite in the homes and company of friends and relatives across the nation.  Quiet conversations, over a dizzying array of food, and more than a few handcrafted ales.  Inevitably the question would arise.  Are we winning?  Is it worth the cost?  I told many stories, and am not sure if the answers I gave satisfied anyone, let alone myself.

In a headquarters back at Fort Lewis, I mingled with brothers in arms.  Troopers of the Warhorse Squadron, now several months removed from the trials on Haifa street, sorting out their futures but eager for news from a conflict in which they gave and achieved so much. Later that night I took much comfort watching these warriors, now reunited with their families.  Husbands and wives both enjoying hard won victories over years of separation.

In the quiet suburban home of a friend in Olympia, I met the most charming, fairy like child I could imagine.  Her face lit up as we met, and she chatted away a mile a minute, as if we had been friends forever.  She has prayed for me every night for the last ten months.  I can't imagine a more powerful force in the world.

In a law office in Tacoma, my lawyer, her paralegal, and her assistant worked diligently on my behalf.  It was was completely unremarkable that I was the only male visible in the bustling office.  And the fact that it was unremarkable lies in stark contrast to the much of the rest of the world that still languishes in the darkness and intolerance of cultures and religions that fail to embrace all of humanities vast potential.  I talk much comfort in knowing that my daughters will know no such constraints.

In a fast food restaurant in the Salt Lake City Airport, a teenage girl asked innocently "are we still fighting over there?" I could not help but laugh.  "Yes dear, we are.  And I would most definitely like fries with that!"

At a High School Football game in Leavenworth I sat with friends watching their son perform in the middle school band.  Last time I blinked he was a baby.  Around me young men and women put the finishing touches on their early education and were blissfully unaware of how carefree they are, and how their peers in foreign lands are often locked in struggles and violence that are all too real.

At an Irish festival in a small town in Missouri, six friends reunited over a few beers, for the first time in almost ten years.  All of our lives have changed, but we are all exactly the same.

In a sports bar a young college kid took a seat next to me.  Thinking he has found a receptive ear, he launched into a bigoted tirade filled with grand proclamations about "bombing them all" and "no ten of them are worth one of us."  I took a deep breath.  "Son, I have spent a lifetime defending your right to say that, but I don't intend to send another minute listening to it.  Should I leave or are you going to?"  He moved to the other end of the bar and watched the game silently.  I don't ever recall calling anyone "son" before.  I am getting old.

On a sprawling farm in Gregory South Dakota, my father and I spent a few days in the rain hunting Pheasant.  The owners, Eddie and Alice shared their American dream with us.  Hard work, home cooking, and American generosity - a much needed respite from far away troubles.

Over pheasant and wine, the other hunter's, businessmen from all over the country, talk about their latest projects and dreams.  Never, in a dozen conversations did the war impinge upon their plans.  No factories needed retooling to churn out tanks or planes.  No luxury lines needed to be shut down for want of precious resources diverted elsewhere.  No shortage of investment capital, or real estate.  No workers being diverted to support a draft.  No sign whatsoever of a nation at war. 

At a real estate office in Weston Missouri I placed a bid on a great little place, looking forward to a new year and a new start.  At no point during the process was I questioned about my race, religion or beliefs.  It simply did not matter what neighborhood I chose.  I was American and belonged.

At a church retreat in Kansas City, I sat with my Mom at a chili cook off and pie auction  organized to raise funds to support a variety of charitable causes.  One more reminder of our nation's desire to do good for those in need, and the importance of our faith based values.  Mom bid on a pie, to be baked at a date to be named later by a local woman with quite a culinary reputation.  She will have to struggle to do better than mom.

In countless conversations I have been thanked for my service by individual Americans that understand and are thankful. In airports it is almost impossible for a serviceman to pay for their own meal.  Their support and appreciation is heartfelt, earnest, and genuine.   But I am left with a distinct impression that while our individual citizens may understand, America does not.  The war is not real here.  It touches the county only trough a perilously thin connection to a generation of men and women who have chosen to insulate our country from the darkness that presses relentlessly at our borders. 

So if I were to be asked again the question "are we winning? I would have to say yes.  War has not descended upon America and almost everything I value is safe.  Are the Iraqis winning?  I will have to go back and see, there is absolutely no way to know given the abject failure of our news media.  I pray that they are, I have too many friends there now to wish anything else.  Which brings us to the most important question, "Is it worth the cost?"  For the nation –absolutely.  For several hundred thousand brothers in arms?  I won't be so bold as to speak for them, each will have to decide for themselves.  For me?  I will not know until I win custody of my girls.

Until then, I have a plane to board, more friends to see, and a team to bring home.



I hope this finds you and yours well.  A special thanks to all of those who provided shelter in the storm.

[Janet Harrington]

Oh, I am so sad for our friend, LTC Green, who sends us those lovely letters about the war in Iraq.  Carl, I have visited Weston, Missouri, once, and it is a lovely little town.  Please tell LTC Green that I hope he gets that place there.  I think he will enjoy living there.