This Article is riveting:
Liberating Iraq
From the April 14, 2003 issue: An emotional homecoming for the Free Iraqi Forces.
by Stephen F. Hayes
04/14/2003, Volume 008, Issue 30
Umm Qasr, Iraq
THE WHEELS of the four Humvees in our convoy had not stopped turning when Ali al-Ethari jumped out of the back of the second vehicle and sprinted toward the front of the Port Authority building here in Umm Qasr, Iraq. The 15 others in the convoy--11 American soldiers, two Iraqi Americans, and two reporters--knew where he was headed.
Tributes to Saddam Hussein appear everywhere in this southern port town. A smiling, avuncular Saddam hovers over a corner market on a plastic plug-in sign, like the ones that advertise cheap beer in bars throughout America. A few feet later, Saddam the conqueror, wearing a black-brimmed hat and a Western suit, fires a rifle one-handed in a portrait inside one of the U.N. compounds here. Further on, in the middle of the road, a billboard-sized tile edifice depicts a menacing military Saddam, in green fatigues and a black beret, firing a pistol toward the sky. On the flip side, for vehicles traveling in the other direction, is a grinning Saddam in a white naval uniform with gold trim. Each of these monuments had been defaced--one with red X's over the dictator's mug, another with red paint splashed across his face, others simply torn apart. Only the one in front of the port authority building was still untouched.
Of the anti-Saddam Iraqis I've met over the past several weeks, Ali al-Ethari is the quietest. In that time, we've spoken twice, and on those occasions, only briefly. In group settings, too, he lets others do the talking.
He said nothing before bailing out of the moving vehicle. As Ali ran towards the unmolested canvas, the other two Free Iraqi Forces soldiers called out.
"Wait for us," said Ali al-Mohamidawi, with a chuckle. "We'll help you." Al-Ethari ignored them, unhitched the long knife on his belt, and began shredding the 15-foot painting. By the time the other two Iraqis joined him, most of the work was done. Several American soldiers from the convoy team joined the Iraqis in front of the few remaining scraps of canvas. They laughed about their friend's uncharacteristic outburst. But when al-Ethari turned around, he wasn't laughing.
The other Iraqis understood, withdrew their playful smiles and, for a moment, said nothing. Everyone has a mission. This was part of Ali al-Ethari's.
Al-Ethari is a member of the Free Iraqi Forces, a program that brings together Iraqi exiles with American soldiers to liberate Iraq. The Pentagon began seeking volunteers for the FIF as early as last August, working through opposition groups and running radio ads in areas with a heavy concentration of Iraqi Americans. The program is not nearly as large as originally conceived--there will be fewer than 100 soldiers who wear the Free Iraqi Forces uniform. The orders for the air base in Taszar, Hungary, where these troops were trained, called for accommodations for 3,000 men. The need for extraordinarily careful vetting, coupled with the slow churning of the vast Pentagon bureaucracy, limited participation. But the numbers reflect no lack of enthusiasm. Thousands of Iraqis in the United States applied to join the FIF--some were rejected, others were bogged down in process and simply never made it to review.
That's a shame. The Iraqis who made it back to their native land are spread throughout the country--from Umm Qasr, to Najaf, to An Nasiriyah--and are contributing to the war effort in valuable ways: reassuring a panicked population in the south that food and water are on the way; helping compile a "blacklist" of Baath party members and Saddam sympathizers who will be prosecuted after the war; describing the underground bunkers that protect the regime; educating military police in the ways of Islam to help them better handle prisoners of war; giving the precise location and capacity of a water plant near Basra. Two Free Iraqis Forces soldiers identified a tattoo on the arm of a captured Iraqi as the mark of the fedayeen--Saddam's death squad irregulars. Another was speaking to a relative on the street in Umm Qasr when two would-be suicide bombers heard him describing his duties in Arabic and, comforted by the presence of a fellow Iraqi, surrendered. The list goes on.
The stories of these Iraqis--each of whom fled Saddam's regime, many with a bounty on their head--are extraordinary. Anyone who wonders what Iraqis think of the war of liberation need only listen to these men.
Base camp for the Free Iraqi Forces is a firehouse near the Iraqi border. The U.S. Marines live in the kitchen. The Iraqis are in a conference room, and the 11 Army reservists and 10 members of the Florida National Guard who helped train them live, two to a room, in small offices throughout the building. Most of our time here is spent waiting for word that we will move forward, deeper into Iraqi territory. The Iraqis huddle outside the front door, chain-smoking, drinking Taster's Choice coffee from the MREs, and following war developments on the radio. The most accurate news, they say, comes from Radio Sawa, a U.S. government outlet that broadcasts in Arabic, and from Kuwaiti Radio. They closely monitor the numerous Arabic-language stations critical of coalition efforts here. Their listening habits mirror those inside Iraq, according to the Iraqis we have met in southern towns such as Umm Qasr and Safwan.
When FIF soldiers finally get word of their assignments, they are sent ahead with a trainer or two--men who have been with them since shortly after they arrived in Hungary in mid-January. They are then integrated with other military units, primarily those whose duties are in civil military operations.
At first blush, the firehouse might seem a collision of two worlds with little in common. Of the 50 or so Iraqis in the first cohort from Taszar, only two are Christian. Some of the Muslims are devout, others less so. But one of the first rules established by Lt. Col. Dan Hammack, the commanding officer, is that training will stop for prayers. It is not uncommon to be in the middle of a conversation with an Iraqi who abruptly excuses himself to pray.
In contrast, some of the American soldiers do their best to live up to stereotypes solidified in Hollywood. "So what if I nailed Saddam's daughter right in front of him?" asks one Marine, in the company of two Iraqis and a reservist with two grandchildren back home. He follows up with a story about a fellow soldier's sexual encounter in Korea. The tale, extraordinary if true, gets an uncomfortable reaction from the other three. "If you take f-- and s-- out of the English language," says Saib al-Hamdy, a Free Iraqi soldier, "the Marines wouldn't be able to talk."
"I know," says the Marine. "Your English is better than mine. Most of us guys didn't go to college. You come to Chicago and that's what you hear every other word." After a moment, though, he is contrite. "If it offends you, I won't say it."
Accommodations of that kind are made daily. Major Bret "Huge" Middleton, a banker and former college football player from rural Kansas, keeps an English version of the Koran on the box of water at his bedside. He's made his way through the first several chapters. "It's pretty amazing. It's not much different from the Bible at all."
Hammack, a Special Forces officer now in the reserves, makes the same point at a briefing for 100 U.S. military police officers tasked with handling enemy prisoners of war. "For the Shia, a father and son were martyred in Iraq, in Karbala and Najaf," he says, turning to an Iraqi to double-check his pronunciation. "It's Na-jeff, right?"
"Na-jaaf," says the Iraqi.
"Na-jeff," continues Hammack. "In Christianity, it's the same thing. Some leader was brutally murdered. It's still a very painful event. If you really look at it, and get right down to it, there are many beliefs that are very similar to that. It's key that you respect that."
Major Mark "Evil" Green, a reservist from Oklahoma with "three confirmed kills," offers a useful example. "If you ask men to strip nekkid in front of other men, you will be offending everything they are. Give them that respect and that dignity and it will go a long way."
Some of the Americans living in the firehouse say the mission has caused them to lose their prejudices. "After September 11," says one, speaking of Arabs, "I would walk into the Magic Market and give them a glare. These guys here have ruined my life--but in a good way. They've changed my life. Lots of the things I thought I knew before coming here, I don't believe anymore."
The camaraderie among the Iraqis, the Marines, and the Army reservists is genuine. Most of the Iraqis have been given nicknames. Ahmed is "George Michael," because he looks like the British pop star. Another Iraqi is known simply as "Tupac." Before he introduced himself to any of the Americans he flashed gang signs and asked one of the soldiers whether he listens to rapper Tupac Shakur. His brother and father, "Three-pack" and "Six-pack" respectively, are in Iraq now working with American soldiers. Another goes by "Tim." "His name is Tahib or Tabib or something like that," explains one of the Americans. "But no one could pronounce it, so he's 'Tim.'" There's also "Burt Reynolds" and "Robert De Niro." "I don't even know what his name is," recalls Sergeant First Class Curtis Mancini. "Every once in a while we'd get him to say, 'You tawkin' to me?' He was perfect."
The Americans were hand-picked for this assignment, and some of them were ambivalent when learning about the specifics. "It was intimidating," says Hammack. Now, as stories about FIF successes in the field trickle in, units who were not pre-assigned soldiers from the Free Iraqi Forces are requesting them.
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