Hello all. I guess now it’s been about a week since I arrived to the Fertile Crescent, but for some reason it feels like it’s been months. I left Fort Gordon, Georgia at about 10am eastern time, driving by charter bus to Atlanta. The eight of us who were all in transit to the Middle East from my unit loaded our considerable entourage of baggage and weapons into the airport to be checked by Air Mobile Command, a subgroup of Air Tran Airways. As we walked through the airport, quite easily identifiable GIs, eyes widened to see desert camouflage luggage and crew cuts move to the check-in.
Atlanta being our first “layover,” although we had yet to fly anywhere, most of us were all anxiously looking forward to the traditional “two beers in transit” before taking off. But, being that our Movement NCOIC (Non Commissioned Officer In Charge) SFC Smith had spent three years as a basic training drill sergeant, he had no problem nixing our creature comforts. But, me, being pretty bent on having my beer, and making a little drama out of our “deprivation” ordered a St. Pauli’s Girl non-alcoholic, and then invited SFC Smith to sit next to me. He gasped, thinking I’d simply ignored his order, and then laughed once he saw I’d ordered a NA. Oh well, probably for the best anyhow.
The flight to Baltimore was pretty non descript. And from Baltimore to Frankfurt, Germany I slept absolutely the entire way. So, after not having slept the night before leaving Fort Gordon and sleeping all the way to Germany, I was pretty much time adjusted once we landed on the other side of the Atlantic. After a two hour layover in Germany, we re-boarded the plane and headed to Kuwait. I read my evening office of prayer from my newly received 1928 Book of Common Prayer/KJV Bible (thanks, Hannah!) and then continued in some reading of Hans Kung on the history of the Catholic Church. But, that academic philosophical world of mine seemed to fade to gray by the time I heard the captain state that we were flying over Baghdad. I looked out my window to see a patchwork of lights below, scattered loosely throughout the desert. A stale feeling of timelessness swept over me, and I forgot Professor Kung and his Church. One hour later we touched down in Kuwait.
The door to the plane opened to a pleasant warmth outside, unbefitting my expectation to be overtaken by blankets of heat. I walked down the stair and then almost instinctively knelt to the ground and prayed a Latin solemnization of the earth: In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. After we unloaded the plane, we boarded a bus, which would take us to Camp Doha. The short bus ride to Doha was littered by sporadic fires of oil fields in the distance, white clad wedding parties along roadside, and the sands which extended in all directions and crept up like stray fingers beneath our vehicles.
For two days we remained at Camp Doha, where I received additional equipment, enjoyed my first phone contact home since leaving the states, and rested lightly before starting the trek north. I made what I called the first ever “Ranger Rosary,” which I constructed out of the ranger beads infantry soldiers use to count their pace while on patrol. As my main company of soldiers on the trip to Iraq consisted of a bunch of baptized Catholics somewhat amnesiac to their spiritual roots, I told them I had constructed the rosaries to facilitate any Catholics I may encounter who may just wish to rediscover their faith. They all took it personal. Well done, them. I don’t have to wear the insignia to be a Chaplain.
Once our names were finally called off on the flight manifest to head to Ali Al Saleem Airfield we loaded another bus and headed toward the gate…then the bus slowed to a halt. I heard a rather confused bus driver say “Mu aref, mu aref al tariq” as equally confused soldiers wondered a.) why their driver had stopped the bus and b.) what in the world he was saying in the first place. Someone asked for a translator so I stepped to the front to figure out what had happened. And, as it turned out, our bus driver was one week on the job, just in from Turkey. And between the Arabic and Turkish I was able to make out he knew just about nothing of just about everything in the area, not to mention the fact that our US Army escort had been told to just show up to the bus, bring his weapon and ammo, and not to worry, “the drivers know where they are going.” Or, at least, that’s the idea.
So, with map in hand, I had to all of a sudden play navigator and interpreter all at once. “Well, lets get to it, you didn’t learn Arabic for nothing,” I told myself. And, after a rather bumpy “oh, we were supposed to take that exit” kind of ride, we finally arrived to Ali Al Saleem Airfield out in the Kuwaiti boonies. By this time I was pretty accustomed to the Middle Eastern heat, but when I realized that the 89 degree (F) tent we waited in felt completely frigid, I knew I was no longer in Iowa (or Kansas, for that matter).
We waited for another eight or so hours until boarding our C-130 at 4am the next day. A short one and a half hour flight north, most of the flight was not that much different than plenty of commercial flights I had been on in the past…except we were in full combat gear with web netting as our chair backs. Upon arrival to Baghdad International Airport (BIAP) our pilot conducted a few evasive maneuvers to ensure our safe landing. We banked hard right, then to the left, dove our nose and then repeated these in somewhat random order. At one point I looked out the window directly opposite me to see the earth in plain view (i.e., the plane was completely banked on it’s side!). A Staff Sergeant from the Infantry who I had believed to be the stoic war veteran of the bunch, due to his rather emotionless demeanor and patchwork of accomplishments on his uniform, at this point, was all a smile, grinning big white teeth at me just enjoying this little roller coaster ride.
We arrived just shortly after sunrise and waited until early afternoon for the convoy which would take us to the Abu Ghraib prison, about 10 miles west of Baghdad. This is when I first truly started lessons in “No Longer in Kansas 101.” We were met by a three vehicle convoy: one truck and two “gunships” (Hum-V’s with 50cal machine guns mounted on top). We suited up in our body armor, Kevlar helmets, extra ammunition, etc., and locked and loaded our M-16 rifles and received a briefing from the Army Captain who told us of the current threat level, the history of past convoy ambushes, and that if we ever move our M-16 selector levels from “safe” to “semi” automatic, that we were to shoot to kill. My eyes were wide open on that drive, to say the least, and Toto and Auntie M. were nowhere to be found. Thanks be to God, we all made it safely to the prison, where I have begun my new existence.
I met my new command, at the end of this convoy ride, a puddle of Sumerian sweat. Still slightly winded from the nervously alert convoy, I paused to gather my breath. I unloaded my belongings, slightly more extensive (by poundage) than others’ due to my mini-library. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, eh. Tolstoy, Thomas Merton, JP II, John Donne and Pope Shenouda III go everywhere I go!
My first day at Abu Ghraib consisted of settling in, a tour, and quite vigorously sought after sleep. I toured my living quarters compound and the other many compounds that relate to my daily activities. The prison itself is quite huge, broken up into about eight sub-compounds, all about the size of medieval castles. My castle has air conditioning and trailor-homes set up with showers and sinks. All onesies and twosies are done in porta-jons. I work in a compound about three football fields away, and eat and attend mass at a compound about five football fields away. And, there is a internet/telephone center and entertainment “shed” put on by Moral Welfare and Recreation (MWR) about two football fields away. Needless to say, transporting oneself around this place, in 120 degree heat, can be a bit taxing. I guess it helps me earn my meals, since the majority of my job here as an interrogator is intellectual (i.e., on my rear).
I have been on the job at the interrogation center (IC) now for about five days, and I really love my work. I am not at liberty to discuss many details, but what I can say is that there are plenty of detainees here who are simply “no joke.” Watch the news (either American or Arab) and the most unsavory of individuals committing indiscriminate acts (and even against fellow Muslims) have passed through these walls. We released many detainees over the past three months (approx. 3-4000), and with the ones remaining I play an integral role in getting to the bottom of incredibly heinous acts. Those that truly do deserve a response of justice, I bring those circumstances into the daylight. And, for those who are being held unjustly, I play an active role in their release, and can quite often form congenial relations with them (although actual friendships are obviously a little past the line of what is proper, or safe for the detainee).
Much has changed since the controversy, some for good and some for ill. Apart from the eminently needed changes regarding detainee abuse, of which my colleagues know next to nothing, the knee jerk reaction has made things slightly difficult. There is a lot of discouragement on the part of interrogators, especially when quite known terrorists or criminals are across the table from you, and you are nearly impotent as to the level of surveillance authorized, authority to segregate/isolate, etc., and the level control an interrogator has over his or her detainee. There are those on Capital Hill who on the one hand desire “victory” on the “war on terror” and then on the other would have us just offer the terrorists tea and cigarettes to tell us where Bin Laden and Zarqawi are. This of course is absurd, being that the degree of resistance these men have been trained to makes our “prison” seem like a resort. I’m not sure what is being reported in the US currently about Abu Ghraib, but conditions are pretty cush for our detainees. But, all of this is more support of the classic American myth: all image, no substance; we can show up to our economic equality conference driving Volvos and wearing clothes made by sweat shop labor, and preach the dignity of all humans from Sunday pulpits while funding the Israeli settler movements that leave thousands of Palestinians homeless without rights.
All that being said, I am far more glad for the changes rather than discouraged. I understand the discouragement which my fellow interrogators feel (with much demanded of us currently), because what I think is most misunderstood about war in a media age, is that for the entirety of human existence war has known no media. What is foreign is war itself, and seeing war on 24 hour news reports is unsettling to a people who get up in arms when their investment returns drop 1.3%. Economic security is maintained by weapons and won by the aggressive. But, my allegiance is not with the parties of war, nor with economic security, but with the eventual and continual redemption of humanity. So, if for the time being, my job is made harder to ascertain information about global terrorism and threats to coalition forces…good. I follow the directives given to me from above, and I will conduct my business with loyalty and integrity. But, at the end of the day, blessed are the peacemakers and those who suffer, not those who are told they are above the law when enough of society says the cause is “worth it.” Thy Kingdom, not my kingdom.
I see my job much more as a Father Confessor. As a Confessor you cannot coerce a person to reveal that which they wish to hide. A Confessor’s aim is authenticity for those being confessed, for an individual to desire disclosure of his own free will; and to that end, empathy and understanding go a long way. Interrogation is like a chess game on the one hand, a battle of wits. But, it is also a relationship of understanding, where I must utilize a person’s internal belief scheme to encourage them to narrate dishonorable actions with their own words. This tactic takes far more time and patience, but is far more effective in the long run and far more unsettling to the extremist Muslim who has been trained to prepare for torture. The aggressive approach reinforces their preconceptions that America is Satan and that the coalition is a Zionist conspiracy bent on their destruction. Empathy, if it is authentic itself, is incredibly unsettling, and forces a person to question the legitimacy of their previous training and indoctrination.
In many ways, I have no other recourse but to identify with these people. We spread democracy, and they are spreading the Islamic State. If tables were reversed, and “coalition” Islamic armies marched through South Boston, every Sean, Charlie and Patrick O’Malley would head out, gun in hand. They would probably also feel like God would be their protector. I would not encourage this kind of use of arms, but I could in no way condemn a person seeking to defend their homeland; it’s what, by extension, I am doing here present. And, while we say that we are spreading the freedom of democracy…to so many of the Muslims in our wake, true freedom can only exist under the “rightful rule” of an Islamic Caliphate - much like the Jewish conception of the Messiah, or the Millennial rule of Christ for evangelicals. There is no such thing as Islamic separation of Church and State. Church is State. Our democratic freedom seems like nonsense (“grasping after the wind“) to much of the Muslim world. To them, democracy is anarchy, and submission to the Islamic Law is more perfect freedom.
So, last night (Thursday, 24 June), we were expecting a “planned attack” upon the prison…but, thanks be to God, I slept like a baby (like always). Actually, I sleep more here than I have in a long long time. By the time my work day ends, I’m simply beat. I rise at about 5am, work out and do the morning office of daily prayer, and then head to work. At lunch I’ve made a habit of eating with the local Iraqi workers, who are incredibly hospitable. There is always one or two 19 or 18 year old uneducated Iraqis who are simply wide eyed at my use of the Arabic language… “wait a minute, but you’re white!” I come to the chapel at lunch and at dinner to eat and pray, and I talk for a few minutes every lunch with Iraqis. My dialect is becoming better, and I love the opportunity to get a sense of the local pulse.
The Book of Common Prayer has simply become my blood and breath. I’ve also written a special Rosary for personal concerns, which I pray about three times every day. There is morning and evening prayer in the Book, with Scripture passages, and without this grounding I think I would have much more difficulty here. The scenery is incredibly desolate, the climate stifling, and the separation much more deep and compelling than when simply at a base in a state other than my home. A feeling of purpose and pride is real and aiding during my work day, but when I return to my room, sit on a bed and see my books and personal things, it is hard not to continue longing for the rest of my books, and, most importantly, those close to me that I talk about these books with.
Today was the first day I attended mass, and thank God for that. The common prayers are somewhat depressing when I solely pray “we” and “our” in an empty chapel room. Praying commonly and taking the eucharist with others was a great resolution to the week. Friday is our day off as well, so I get to actually observe a Sabbath as well.
Thank you, all, so very much for your prayers and emails. Your prayers, especially, as they are very felt. My first day on the job during initial training I had a severe sense of hopelessness and dread, not wanting to get into the interrogation process at all, wondering why I was not in school writing papers on philosophy and theology and preparing for the priesthood. But, at the conclusion of training I read an article about Arab-American comparative psychology and for some reason my demeanor literally turned an about face in a moment. Before I’d finished reading the introduction to the article, I had become fascinated with my job, and authentically so. By the time I was given my leave to return to my room I had asked my supervisor if I could stay on after hours to read dossiers and more articles to get further acquainted with my surroundings. I can only attribute this instantaneous change to Grace and being lifted up in prayer, so thank you.
I continue on in my duties here, both to interrogate for the concerns of Iraqi-American security, and also for the mysterious purposes which have specifically brought me to this foreign land. And, as Father Confessor, I prayerfully continue forward. Pray for my comrades, who have quite clearly labeled me as “the Chaplain” and for those for whom I will be their inquisitor. God grant me Wisdom, compassion, and a genuine desire for Truth that knows no national patronage.
