Just Beat It
My discussion with Moody on tribalism somehow shifted to the topic of beatings. After learning about tribalism’s peculiarities, I was not sure Moody could shock me any further. I was wrong. Moody began his lecture on beating people. “Jamal, there is a beating chain of command in Iraqi society. The oldest males sit at the top of the chain of command and the youngest sit at the bottom.” Puzzled, I asked, “A beating chain of command?” Moody said, “Yes, a beating chain of command. Here is how it works. Say you are around the dinner table and the youngest son calls the oldest son a ‘weakling.’ The eldest son, the middle son, and the father, whose honor and respect have been violated, are obligated to beat the offender. And the instigator is obligated to let the beatings happen without a struggle.” I asked, “The older brother, middle brother, and father are obligated to beat the youngest brother? Are you kidding?” Moody responded, “Yes, obligated. One time I had to beat my brother for three hours in the shower until my father said I had gone too far. My heart was broken for beating him, but we both knew it was necessary.”
I had to ask Moody another question. “Wait a second. Why exactly was it necessary for you to beat your brother for three hours? That seems excessive.” Moody explained his logic. “Jamal, this is very difficult for Americans to understand, but I will explain it to you anyway. Let’s say I did not beat my brother. Let’s also assume the word gets out to the rest of the community that my youngest brother disrespected me and was not punished. This would effectively show the community that the males of my household can’t even take care of our own internal affairs.” He paused before continuing his lecture. “Not only does my youngest brother lose his honor in the community, but I lose my honor, my father loses his honor, my grandfather loses his honor, and the entire lineage of males related to my brother lose their honor. Because of this, the family must be sure the youngest brother is beaten. Likewise, the youngest brother will be more than willing to take his beatings, because he understands the consequences of his actions.”
I thought about Moody’s beating story. I think I understand the logic. Effectively, if individuals know they will get harsh punishments for doing something wrong, this acts as a strong deterrence. The logic of this system helps explains why Arab nations are more apt to do public beheadings, public beatings, and public limb amputation. The government wants the community to know that if they do not respect society, they will be punished severely.
Iraqi culture is fascinating and very different from our own.
Chapter 11
Death Operations
We got a call one afternoon from the brigade MiTT. The news was terrible: a jundi from the Iraqi brigade had been melted by a mortar shell that landed on the Barwana FOB. When an Iraqi soldier becomes an “angel” (what the U.S. military calls a dead jundi) a lot of work is involved. One of our jobs as a MiTT is to coordinate for transportation of the deceased angel from the location of his death to Baghdad. We are also in charge of ensuring there is a MiTT member and an Iraqi soldier with the body at all times until it reaches Baghdad. Once the body reaches Baghdad, the family takes custody and the situation is no longer in the U.S. military’s hands.
After some discussion, Major Pyle determined that SSgt. Daniel Valle, or “V” as he was called, would be the Marine escort. With V as the designated hitter for the escort mission, it was time to conscript a jundi to be the Iraqi escort. I was sent to ask the Iraqis who they wanted to send. I sprinted to the Iraqi swahut area and rounded up any jundi who had a relationship with the angel or knew his family. Luckily, I was able to find Hussein Ali, who was a distant relative. I waited for Hussein to get his gear together and we hurried to the MiTT camp. The helo was leaving in fifteen minutes and we still needed to drive to the helipad, which was located on top of the dam. If we were going to make it, we would need a miracle.
Hussein and I rushed back to the camp. I had both his duffle bags of clothes and Hussein had his body armor and Kevlar in one arm and his AK-47 swinging in the other. We reached the MiTT camp completely exhausted. Lieutenant Adams gave us the latest news. “Gents, it looks like air is red [pilots cannot fly], so this dead body escort mission will be rolled to the next day.”
Once my heart rate had settled, I asked an obvious question. “Where is the angel’s body?” Major Gaines replied, “Hrmm, Jamal, that’s a good question.” He turned toward Adams and yelled, “Figure out where the hell that body is.” Throughout the evening Adams called the 2/3 Marines living in the dam and asked everyone he knew if they had seen an angel come in recently. Nobody knew anything about it. The situation appeared hopeless until a Humvee came flying into our camp.
A young Marine lance corporal jumped out of the driver’s seat and said, “Lieutenant Adams, Sir, we were told to bring this to you.” We opened the back hatch of the Humvee. Body bags full of the angel’s main corpse, smaller pieces of the angel’s body, and blood-soaked combat gear were strewn about. Adams was pissed. “Devil Dog, who the hell told you to drop this body at the MiTT camp? We do not have a large refrigeration capability and we aren’t escorting the body until tomorrow!” The stunned lance corporal replied, “Uh, Sir, I have no idea. I’m just doing what I’m told. My boss is the 2/3 S-4 logistics officer.” Adams sneered and said, “Roger, thanks. I’ll talk to your boss this evening. Bring this back to the dam and tell them they need to refrigerate the body.”
As the lance corporal left our camp, the team burst into laughter. Nuts, in his trademark sarcastic tone, said, “So let me get this straight. When I get blown up by an IED, 2/3 is going to throw me in the back of a Humvee. I will then sit there for a day or two until they figure out what to do with me, and at some point they will send me to my family half rotten. Friggin’ awesome.”
It was 1415. I called the air officer before we departed for the top of the dam. The helo would be inbound at about 1530, plenty of time to reach the helipad. The air officer told me, “Roger, Lieutenant Gray, bird is inbound at 1530.” With the air officer’s confirmation we loaded up the Waz, a Russian made pile-of-crap jeep, and pulled out of the MiTT camp.
Captain McShane came sprinting to us. “I just got a call from the air officer,” he said, “and he tells me the bird will be here in ten minutes. You’d better hurry!” I gasped. “What the heck? Are you serious?” I turned to V. “V, it takes fifteen minutes to get to the dam. You think we can get there in ten?” V replied using one of the few Arabic phrases he knew: “Insha’allah.”
I put the Waz into high gear and slammed the gas. We somehow made it to the top of the dam in time. I asked the air-control Marine on duty, “Is the bird still inbound?” He responded, “Roger, Sir, should be inbound in five minutes.” I further asked, “Where is the angel’s body?” He responded, “Uh, I’m not sure. The S-4 said you guys would have it with you.” My jaw hit the deck. I could not believe this was happening again.
I rushed into a nearby office on top of the dam to borrow a phone. I called the Marine S-4 shop and asked them to explain what was going on. The S-4 Marine on duty explained the situation. “Sir, we are tracking on the body and there was a miscommunication between us. However, that said, we don’t have anyone able to bring the body to the top deck right now, you will have to get it out of the freezer on the seventh deck if you want it there in fifteen minutes.” I hung up and sprinted to the Waz.