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 B
Authors: Jim DeFelice, Johnny Walker
Americans, Iraqis like to start their married lives with private time, so they can get to know each other.
Soheila and I got to know each other many times in those three days. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. And then it was back to reality.
WHEN WE RETURNED to Mosul, we went to live with my mother and two brothers, one of whom was married and had two children. It was a medium-sized house by our standards, with six rooms. Soheila and I took one of the rooms downstairs, which gave us a little privacy.
By this time, the country was straining. It was difficult to make a living, and even harder to dream. With both my brother and myself working, our family was one of the luckier ones, able to depend on each other and pull together. Many Iraqis were poorer, without skills or the cleverness one needs to survive in hard times.
My older brother, Hamid, was a car mechanic, and while his work often didn’t pay much, he was generally employed. I continued working for my brother-in-law, though we started to have small squabbles and conflicts. His business was starting to dry up, though by comparison with others he was still doing well.
I soon had every incentive to work as hard and as often as I could. My first daughter was born in May 1994; two years later, my first son was born. Another daughter followed a few years after that, and eventually another son. (I am not naming them, to preserve their privacy as they grow older.)
The problems of the country inevitably strained the family. Then one of my sisters ran into debt; to help her, we decided we had to sell the house. The place we rented was smaller, but the sale gave us breathing room financially.
Things became even more difficult for us when Hamid, my older brother, was jailed because of a dispute with a member of the Fedayeen Saddam, the paramilitary organization headed by Saddam’s son Uday Saddam Hussein and then his younger brother Qusay Saddam.
Years later, after Saddam was pushed out, the Fedayeen Saddam became one of the focal points of the insurgency attacking Iraqis and Americans. Before the war it was more like an informal militia or paramilitary group along the lines of the Black Shirts under Mussolini during the fascist regime in prewar Italy. It was said that the Fedayeen were responsible for smuggling and other crimes; they were also said to threaten and even attack political opponents of the regime. Tangling with its members was like tangling with mobsters. If you went against them, you invited all kinds of problems.
My brother’s difficulties began when a member of the organization tried to take money from him. Like me, my brother didn’t appreciate being pushed around, let alone robbed—so he beat the man up. In revenge, the man and his friends trumped up charges against him and had him put in Badush, the notorious regional prison. He was sentenced to five years.
Not only did we now have one less wage earner in the family, we had the added expense of trying to feed my brother, who would have starved on the rations they gave out at the jail. My mother and his wife visited as often as they could; it was never a pleasant experience. Even in America, I would imagine, prisons are not hospitable places, but those in the States are probably like hotels compared to the desolate, cramped, and filthy places in Iraq. It is one thing to keep common criminals locked up in such hellholes, and another to keep political prisoners and people like my brother, whose only offense was to stand up for himself against bullies. He was kept there for a year and half, until a general amnesty and his own good behavior won his release.
I didn’t help by having a conflict with my brother-in-law. I’d been chafing at some of his directions, disagreeing with the jobs he gave me, and feeling that I could do better on my own. I felt he was taking advantage of me, not paying me what I was worth or what my family needed to survive. Finally one day I had enough and told him,
Soheila and I got to know each other many times in those three days. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. And then it was back to reality.
WHEN WE RETURNED to Mosul, we went to live with my mother and two brothers, one of whom was married and had two children. It was a medium-sized house by our standards, with six rooms. Soheila and I took one of the rooms downstairs, which gave us a little privacy.
By this time, the country was straining. It was difficult to make a living, and even harder to dream. With both my brother and myself working, our family was one of the luckier ones, able to depend on each other and pull together. Many Iraqis were poorer, without skills or the cleverness one needs to survive in hard times.
My older brother, Hamid, was a car mechanic, and while his work often didn’t pay much, he was generally employed. I continued working for my brother-in-law, though we started to have small squabbles and conflicts. His business was starting to dry up, though by comparison with others he was still doing well.
I soon had every incentive to work as hard and as often as I could. My first daughter was born in May 1994; two years later, my first son was born. Another daughter followed a few years after that, and eventually another son. (I am not naming them, to preserve their privacy as they grow older.)
The problems of the country inevitably strained the family. Then one of my sisters ran into debt; to help her, we decided we had to sell the house. The place we rented was smaller, but the sale gave us breathing room financially.
Things became even more difficult for us when Hamid, my older brother, was jailed because of a dispute with a member of the Fedayeen Saddam, the paramilitary organization headed by Saddam’s son Uday Saddam Hussein and then his younger brother Qusay Saddam.
Years later, after Saddam was pushed out, the Fedayeen Saddam became one of the focal points of the insurgency attacking Iraqis and Americans. Before the war it was more like an informal militia or paramilitary group along the lines of the Black Shirts under Mussolini during the fascist regime in prewar Italy. It was said that the Fedayeen were responsible for smuggling and other crimes; they were also said to threaten and even attack political opponents of the regime. Tangling with its members was like tangling with mobsters. If you went against them, you invited all kinds of problems.
My brother’s difficulties began when a member of the organization tried to take money from him. Like me, my brother didn’t appreciate being pushed around, let alone robbed—so he beat the man up. In revenge, the man and his friends trumped up charges against him and had him put in Badush, the notorious regional prison. He was sentenced to five years.
Not only did we now have one less wage earner in the family, we had the added expense of trying to feed my brother, who would have starved on the rations they gave out at the jail. My mother and his wife visited as often as they could; it was never a pleasant experience. Even in America, I would imagine, prisons are not hospitable places, but those in the States are probably like hotels compared to the desolate, cramped, and filthy places in Iraq. It is one thing to keep common criminals locked up in such hellholes, and another to keep political prisoners and people like my brother, whose only offense was to stand up for himself against bullies. He was kept there for a year and half, until a general amnesty and his own good behavior won his release.
I didn’t help by having a conflict with my brother-in-law. I’d been chafing at some of his directions, disagreeing with the jobs he gave me, and feeling that I could do better on my own. I felt he was taking advantage of me, not paying me what I was worth or what my family needed to survive. Finally one day I had enough and told him,
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