Redeployment(36)

The Professor claimed that three years ago a Shi’a death squad had attempted to kidnap Abu Bakr. As they were pulling him to their vehicle, he saw that one of the gunmen had a pistol lodged in his belt. The sheikh pulled it out, shot two of his captors, and sustained two nonfatal gunshots himself. The final gunman was captured by his men. If you wanted to see what happened to that guy, you could apparently buy the torture tape at most kiosks in the area. I never had any interest.

The conversation shifted into a long discussion of the local nahiyas and provincial qada’as. Abu Bakr claimed it would be much easier to give him the money. I maintained they needed to learn how to manage the money themselves. After about an hour, we started talking widows.

“Yes,” said the Professor. “He can get them for you. Sheikh Umer will handle this matter.”

Sheikh Umer was considerably lower in the local hierarchy. No Lexus in his driveway. He was a player in one of the nahiyas.

“The widows will learn to grow bees if you provide the hives and training,” said the Professor, “but they also will need you to pay for their taxis to the training, as the area is very dangerous.”

“Taxis don’t cost a tenth of what he’s asking,” I said. “Tell him this would be a very personal favor.”

The Professor and Abu Bakr talked. I was certain that Abu Bakr spoke English. He always seemed to know what I was saying and would cut the Professor off sometimes before he could fully translate. But Abu Bakr never fully let on.

Eventually the Professor looked at me and said, “There are other fees he may not anticipate, but which may complicate this matter.” He paused and added, “It is as they say. A rug is never fully sold.”

“Tell him,” I said, “we want real widows this time. At the last women’s agricultural meeting, Cindy said she thought they were all married women.”

The Professor nodded, then spoke some more.

“This will not be a problem,” he said. “Iraq is short of many things, but not widows.”





? ? ?


The baseball bats and mitts arrived not long after the Abu Bakr meeting.

“I’ll take care of these, too,” said Major Zima.

“Don’t just dump the bats like you did the uniforms,” I said.

“I would never!” he said.

“Every time I go outside the wire,” I said, “I see different kids in the uniforms, but I have yet to see a baseball game.”

“Of course not,” said Major Zima, “they don’t have bats yet.”

“I don’t want to see U.S.-supplied equipment in a torture video,” I said.

“Too late for that,” said Major Zima. “Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned doing Civil Affairs in Iraq, it’s that it’s hard to come in and change people’s culture.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Right now,” he said, “the Shi’a are pretty set in their ways of drilling people to death. And the Sunnis like to cut off heads. I don’t think we’ll manage to change that with baseball bats.”

“Jesus,” I said. “I don’t want to be a part of it.”

“Too late,” said Major Zima, frowning, “you’re here.”





? ? ?


The next day, I visited the women’s health clinic for what I feared would be the last time. I didn’t look forward to telling Najdah, the social worker there, that I’d failed her again.

“I am Iraqi,” she’d said on my previous visit. “I am used to promises that are good but not real.”

Visiting the women’s clinic was always odd, since I wasn’t allowed inside. I’d meet Najdah in a building across the street, and she’d tell me what was going on.

The clinic was, perhaps, the thing I felt most proud of. That and the farming education program, though the farming stuff was mostly Cindy’s work. Najdah seemed to know what the clinic meant to me, and she’d always push me hard for more help whenever I showed up. She also thought I was somewhat crazy.

“Jobs?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Is there any way we could use this as a platform for starting businesses?”

“Platform?”

“Or maybe we could have a bakery attached to the clinic, and women could…”

She looked so puzzled, I stopped.