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Cooling asked, “Now, Seyidi, what if your wife is not causing any problems? Would you still beat her?” Abass replied, “Gentlemen, that is a good question. Let me explain. It is important to beat your wife to remind her you are in control. For example, I have two wives. One of my wives is a disaster and I beat her all the time; however, one of my wives is absolutely perfectly behaved, yet despite her good behavior, I still must beat her.”

We all listened intently, trying to decipher the absurdity of this statement. Abass continued, “It is not like I just start beating my good wife for any reason—that is senseless. I make sure she knows why I am beating her.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “One trick I have used in the past has worked quite well. Let me tell you the story. I had just returned from the doctor's office and the doctor told me that I had very high cholesterol and that I must cease my intake of sodium. I told my wife this bit of news and she responded by ensuring that all of my food was prepared without any salt. Everything was fine for a few weeks. Even so, one evening I knew I needed to beat my wife.”

I halted the conversation. “Seyidi, you felt a need to beat your wife?” Abass replied, “Yes, of course—but let me continue with the story. So my wife brought me a bowl of soup without any salt, just like she was supposed to do. When she looked away, I sprinkled salt on my soup. I ate the soup and after a few bites, I started yelling at her for trying to kill me. She was a bit surprised there was salt in the soup, but assumed she had made the mistake. I proceeded to beat her as punishment and she accepted the beating.”

We sat around the table and watched the Iraqi officers in attendance nod in agreement with Abass's story. This story made perfect sense to them. In contrast none of us could believe what we were hearing. Colonel Abass, aware of our concern, announced, “I understand this must sound cruel to you, but it is just how we operate in Iraq. It is part of our culture and is accepted as the proper way of doing business.”

Cooling followed up with a question. “Seyidi, I understand this is your culture and I want to understand it; however, what if some man pulled these same tricks on your sister or mother? Wouldn't that offend you?” Abass chuckled and rolled his eyes at the lieutenant colonel. “Let me tell you a story about my sister,” he said. “She came to me one day trying to address the issue of her husband beating her. She thought that I would be able to stop it and help her situation. She asked me to talk to her husband so he would stop beating her.” He paused. “You know what I asked her?” We all had blank stares on our faces. Abass continued, “I asked her why she
was getting beaten. She told me she had been complaining a lot because of disagreements she had with her husband and she was refusing to do some of the things he was telling her to do.” Captain Pitts, the Special Forces team leader, inquired, “Did you kick the husband's ass?” Abass, taken aback, responded, “No, of course not. Instead, I beat my sister on the spot and then told her husband that I was sorry she was being disrespectful to him and that if there were any problems he could contact me.”

Colonel Abass's solution was a double whammy for his sister. We were all in disbelief at what we had heard. And yet the Iraqis were all nodding in agreement. In this part of the world, I figured, that's just how things work. It is a man's world over here. Or in Colonel Abass's words, “The only time a woman is allowed on top in Iraq is in the bedroom.”

After hearing Abass's thoughts on the theory of wife beating, we moved on to another topic of interest: Iraqi infantry tactics. “Seyidi,” I asked, “I have another question for you. Can you explain why Iraqi soldiers shoot all of the ammunition in their magazines in the general direction of insurgents when we take fire? It seems like a waste.” All the Americans in the room waited for the explanation to one of the biggest puzzles in Iraq.

Colonel Abass responded, “Jamal, I know this behavior perplexes Marines. They say my soldiers are undisciplined or cowards. Here is the difference, though. Marines have all kinds of fancy scopes on their weapons, more accurate weapons, and much more marksmanship training. Of course they are going to sit back and take well-aimed shots.” Abass paused before continuing. “Here is some advice for the Marines. As opposed to telling me my soldiers are cowards and undisciplined with their fire, Marines should be giving me money to ensure my
jundi
keep fighting the way they do.”

We all wondered what the colonel meant by this. Abass explained, “You remember a few days ago when the Marines shot an insurgent a couple of times, but he didn't die? The Marines ended up evacuating the insurgent to Al Asad for medical care. This is a waste. If my
jundi
were out there, I can assure you the insurgent would have had thirty or forty bullet holes in his body and wouldn't have lived.”

Abass paused for emphasis then continued. “Listen to how much I would have saved your government. First, you had to bring a helicopter to pick this guy up; this costs manpower, gas money, and precious pilot time. Second, you had to bring a QRF [quick reaction force] to the situation so you could have some Marines tend to the casualty; this is wasting your Marines' energy and lowering their defenses at the base because you had
to take the QRF from the base defenses. If we add up all the expenses and the time taken to take care of this insurgent, it is quite expensive. Is this additional cost worth having disciplined fires?”

Colonel Abass switched his focus from the group to Cooling. “Lieutenant Colonel Cooling, next time you send your Marines on patrol, let me be certain my
jundi
are out there with them and I will tell my men to make sure they kill anybody they shoot. We will then split the cost savings. Deal?” Everyone in the room erupted in laughter. This guy broke things down so simply and peppered them with so much common sense, it was hard to argue with his logic.

After a few hours of great conversation and insight from Colonel Abass, we headed back to the MiTT camp. Regardless of what happens on this deployment, I thought, I will never forget Colonel Abass. This guy could talk about beating women with a straight face and convince a room of Marines why undisciplined firepower makes sense. It was nothing short of amazing.

Man-Love Thursdays

Homosexual intimacy has always wigged me out at some level. To me it's a lot like trying to play football with a baseball bat. People are free to engage in the practice, but they are never going to convince me it makes any sense. This same philosophy applies to some of the unique practices Arab men engage in with one another. I really don't care if Iraqi men enjoy holding hands, rubbing each other's bellies, kissing each other's cheeks, or having sex with each other—I just don't want to be involved.

For whatever reason, one day the Iraqis wanted to get especially friendly. Love was in the air, I guess. I am well aware that in Arab culture men have much tighter relationships, they touch each other more, and their bonds run much deeper than in Western cultures. I am willing to learn new cultures, but I could not adjust to this aspect of Iraqi culture. Abit, the Iraqi S-6 communications chief, ran up to me with open arms, hugged me, kissed me multiple times on the cheek, told me he loved me, and then grabbed my hand in the same manner my wife and I would use on a romantic walk through the park. It caught me off guard.

Abit and I walked to the MiTT camp holding hands. The entire time we walked, he relaxed his head on my shoulder and caressed my forearm as if I were his lover. The last time I'd felt this awkward was when I crapped my pants in the fifth grade. Nevertheless I resisted every temptation to
tear my hand away from him for fear I would offend him in some way. Eventually, we parted ways and I hustled back to the MiTT camp to clear my mind.

The man love did not end with Abit. Later a pair of 2/3's Marines from the S-6 (communications section) came to Camp Ali to install the SIPRNET (Internet that is classified Secret) in the Iraqi COC so the MiTT would have better connectivity. Both these Marines were around five feet four inches, eighteen years old, and had no facial hair. They looked like prepubescent boys.

I was on my way to the Iraqi COC in the Chevy Luv (similar to a Toyota Tacoma) when I saw a huge crowd of
jundi
around the two S-6 Marines. I rushed to the scene to see what was going on. I asked the Iraqis for a situation report, saying, “Shaku maku?” (What's happening?) Ayad and Juwad explained the situation in a mix of Arabic and English that only I could understand. “Jamal, those two Marines are wasiim [pretty] and nreed fikki fikki wiyahum bil swahuts. Nreed nshoofhum minu il masool [we want to have sex with them in the swahuts. We want to show them who is boss].” Floored by the comment, I said, “You guys are sick. I don't want any of you ever touching these Marines—nasty bastards.” The Iraqis all laughed. Juwad retorted, “Jamal, you know we are all going to masturbate to the thought of these two guys from now on, right? Just give us one of them for some fun! A few minutes is all we need.” Sadly, I knew Juwad was serious. I smirked and shook my head in disgust.

The two Marines, who had no clue what was happening, asked me, “Sir, what was that all about? What did you tell them, what is going on?” I did not want to break the news to them that they were objects of desire to the
jundi
; nonetheless, I responded, “Gents, the Iraqis think you're cute and want to take you behind a swahut. The sick thing is they are only half joking. I am going to get you guys the hell out of here before this gets out of hand.”

The two Marines' eyes widened. They did not have to say a word; their body language was more than enough to communicate what they were thinking: The
jundi
are warped! We left the area.

After I dropped off the potential rape victims in the Chevy Luv, I returned to address the
jundi
. Fifty
jundi
started yelling, “Jamal, come over and talk. Jamal we love you.” Within thirty seconds forty curious Iraqis had surrounded me. I rushed to lock the doors on the Chevy. Ayad, a goofy-looking Arab and the comedian of the crowd, addressed me: “Jamal, you
like boobs and asses, don't you?” I replied, “Of course.” Ayad continued. “Well you know why you need to try gay sex?” I asked mockingly, “Why, Ayad?” He responded, “The ass is much tighter, feels better, and you don't have to deal with an emotional woman afterward.”

I addressed the crowd from my uneasy, outnumbered position. “Dude, Ayad, I realize you are too ugly to get women and must resort to men. If you need me to help you get some Iraqi women, let me know and I'll make a few phone calls.” The crowd erupted in laughter. Ayad slapped me a high five and gave me a huge hug through the truck window. “Jamal,” he said, “you are an Iraqi. We love you.” I smiled and dissed Ayad one last time to the amusement of the crowd. “Ahebbek Ayad,” I said, “bess ma tshoof ila Marinesee. Inta Faregh!” (I love you Ayad, but don't look at my Marines. You are gay!)

Corruption as a Way of Life

Corruption is a means to an end. I used to think it was a dishonest way of carrying out business; however, I am slowly coming to grips with the fact that corruption is as much a part of Iraqi culture as is greeting friends and guests with
as salamu aleikum
. Moody, our top terp, and Ahmed, my stellar S-1 clerk, who spoke very good English, gave me a crash course in the economics and social dynamics of the corrupt Iraqi pay system. What he taught me can go a long way in Iraq toward helping Americans at all levels—from my level to the strategic level—understand how business gets done.

Our discussion began quite innocently. “Ahmed,” I said, “I am trying to understand why there are so many discrepancies in what Captain Tseen is telling me regarding the pay status and what he is sending to the Ministry of Defense.” Moody looked at Ahmed, giving him the nod that he would explain to the uninformed American how things really worked in Iraq. Moody said, “Jamal, the first thing you have to understand, is that Captain Tseen is looking after his
jundi
and does want them to get paid. You also have to understand that Tseen is a highly connected individual in the MOD. This is a huge asset.” I reluctantly said, “Okay.” Moody continued, “Jamal, let me ask you something. Do you know why our battalion is paid at the highest rates in the brigade and do you also know why all
jundi
in the 1st Division Iraqi Army are paid at higher rates than everyone in our 7th Division?” I shook my head and said, “No, why?” He replied, “We are paid at the highest rates in the brigade because Tseen knows the most
people at MOD from our brigade and is able to cut the most deals. First Division is paid at a higher rate than everyone in our division because their pay officers know even more people than Captain Tseen does at the MOD. Americans like to call this corruption. We call this ‘getting things done.'”

I inquired further. “Moody, I understand that it's all about who you know in this country, not what you know. My only concern is if Tseen is skimming money off the soldiers and lining his own pockets under my watch.” Moody and Ahmed responded as if the answer were completely obvious. “Yes, of course he does. All pay officers skim pay. Why do you think being the pay officer is such a highly regarded position in the Iraqi Army?” I immediately replied, “He is stealing money from the
jundi
? How is that possible? I keep track of everything he does here at the battalion level. Plus, the higher level MiTTs do the same thing all the way up the chain until it reaches MOD.” Moody jumped in. “Jamal, Jamal, before you go any further, let me tell you about my trip to the MOD with Tseen last year.”