Code Name: Johnny Walker: The Extraordinary Story of the Iraqi Who Risked Everything to Fight with the U.S. Navy SEALs by Jim DeFelice, Johnny Walker Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jim DeFelice, Johnny Walker
other and should be allowed to marry.
He was a respected man, well off and influential, but even his pleas didn’t move her.
A short time later, Soheila came down with a mysterious illness that kept her in bed for days. Maybe it was the flu; she certainly had all the symptoms. But as Soheila tells the story, it was something else: lovesickness. According to her version, her mother’s refusal to let us marry had caused her illness.
I think I like her version best.
Whatever the cause of her fever, her mother’s sister found her in bed one day and had a long talk with her. Soheila poured out her heart, confessing her deep love for me—which by then was no secret to her aunt.
“I will talk to your mother,” her aunt said finally. “You are getting married. And in the meantime, you will get better.”
Soheila’s aunt and some of her cousins went to her mother. They succeeded where I and an army of my friends had not: her mother finally gave in and gave her approval for us to wed.
It wasn’t the heartiest endorsement: “If it is her choice, I will not block it.”
She added that if Soheila changed her mind, that would be fine with her. But that was all we needed. I knew Soheila wouldn’t change her mind, and I wouldn’t either.
Soheila also had to get the approval from her father, who was down in Basra. That was easy—he told her he only wanted her to be happy, and it didn’t take much for him to see what I meant to her.
We were married in the summer of 1993: August 2, to be exact.
It seemed like we had waited forever, though in Iraq and certainly at that time, a wait of several years was not considered unusual. Our ceremony was traditional and stretched over two days—and then further with our honeymoon.
Traditional Iraqi engagements and weddings consist of several different parts. The first is the Mashaya, where customarily the leader of the groom’s family goes to the bride’s family and discusses things such as what presents will be given to the bride and her family, and what sort of prospects the groom and his family have. This is done completely among the men; our society is extremely male oriented. Assuming that all find the match satisfactory, there are special drinks and rounds of celebration. The day before the ceremony, the bride’s family holds an elaborate party known as Nishan. Tradition calls for the bride to change her dress seven times, with each color she wears signifying something different, from innocence to sophistication, from happiness to mystery.
The actual ceremony is even more elaborate. There is a section where the imam questions the bride about whether she really wants to marry the man. This can be somewhat humorous, as the bride has the option of extending the process as long as she wants—though it’s a bad sign if it goes on too long.
Fortunately, Soheila took pity on me and did not drag this part out.
I’d saved up money from my job to pay for as much food and drink as I could. I bought Soheila many presents—jewelry, clothes, furniture. We rented two large halls and had two different parties: one for men and one for women. Some Iraqi families follow the strict tradition of separation of the genders, and we had to accommodate them and make them feel welcome. Hospitality is important to Iraqis in general, and certainly to me. I want my guests always to feel like they are my guests, honored, and having a good time. If you are in my house, you are the king. There is nothing I cannot do for you.
The halls were quite a distance from each other. Following Iraqi tradition, Soheila stayed with the women and I stayed with the men.
That night—it was probably the next day by then—many of our friends took their cars and escorted us to a tourist spot in the northwestern part of the country, complete with a lake and a private villa. This wasn’t a small procession; Soheila counted thirty-five cars in the line behind us. But they left soon after our arrival: just like
He was a respected man, well off and influential, but even his pleas didn’t move her.
A short time later, Soheila came down with a mysterious illness that kept her in bed for days. Maybe it was the flu; she certainly had all the symptoms. But as Soheila tells the story, it was something else: lovesickness. According to her version, her mother’s refusal to let us marry had caused her illness.
I think I like her version best.
Whatever the cause of her fever, her mother’s sister found her in bed one day and had a long talk with her. Soheila poured out her heart, confessing her deep love for me—which by then was no secret to her aunt.
“I will talk to your mother,” her aunt said finally. “You are getting married. And in the meantime, you will get better.”
Soheila’s aunt and some of her cousins went to her mother. They succeeded where I and an army of my friends had not: her mother finally gave in and gave her approval for us to wed.
It wasn’t the heartiest endorsement: “If it is her choice, I will not block it.”
She added that if Soheila changed her mind, that would be fine with her. But that was all we needed. I knew Soheila wouldn’t change her mind, and I wouldn’t either.
Soheila also had to get the approval from her father, who was down in Basra. That was easy—he told her he only wanted her to be happy, and it didn’t take much for him to see what I meant to her.
We were married in the summer of 1993: August 2, to be exact.
It seemed like we had waited forever, though in Iraq and certainly at that time, a wait of several years was not considered unusual. Our ceremony was traditional and stretched over two days—and then further with our honeymoon.
Traditional Iraqi engagements and weddings consist of several different parts. The first is the Mashaya, where customarily the leader of the groom’s family goes to the bride’s family and discusses things such as what presents will be given to the bride and her family, and what sort of prospects the groom and his family have. This is done completely among the men; our society is extremely male oriented. Assuming that all find the match satisfactory, there are special drinks and rounds of celebration. The day before the ceremony, the bride’s family holds an elaborate party known as Nishan. Tradition calls for the bride to change her dress seven times, with each color she wears signifying something different, from innocence to sophistication, from happiness to mystery.
The actual ceremony is even more elaborate. There is a section where the imam questions the bride about whether she really wants to marry the man. This can be somewhat humorous, as the bride has the option of extending the process as long as she wants—though it’s a bad sign if it goes on too long.
Fortunately, Soheila took pity on me and did not drag this part out.
I’d saved up money from my job to pay for as much food and drink as I could. I bought Soheila many presents—jewelry, clothes, furniture. We rented two large halls and had two different parties: one for men and one for women. Some Iraqi families follow the strict tradition of separation of the genders, and we had to accommodate them and make them feel welcome. Hospitality is important to Iraqis in general, and certainly to me. I want my guests always to feel like they are my guests, honored, and having a good time. If you are in my house, you are the king. There is nothing I cannot do for you.
The halls were quite a distance from each other. Following Iraqi tradition, Soheila stayed with the women and I stayed with the men.
That night—it was probably the next day by then—many of our friends took their cars and escorted us to a tourist spot in the northwestern part of the country, complete with a lake and a private villa. This wasn’t a small procession; Soheila counted thirty-five cars in the line behind us. But they left soon after our arrival: just like
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