Perspectives, An Intriguing Tale of an American Born Terrorist (21 page)

“I think so.” She caught a glimpse of her father who had pulled himself out of the sand and was standing up looking at us. Islee looked over at me. “Papa!”

“He’s okay,” I said.

She grabbed hold of me and gave me a big hug. We slid down the side of the hole and ran into her father’s arms.

The air was beginning to clear. The house was completely gone. Everything was dust and we stood helpless in the bottom of a big crater.

There was a new commotion above the hole; a group of people who looked like soldiers were looking down at us. “Down there!” one of them yelled. A bright spotlight clicked on blinding all of us, making a tunnel of light from the top to the bottom of the hole. Two of them slid down the bank and ran over to my uncle.

One of them shoved him hard and yelled, “Where is he!” in perfect Yankee English. We were blinded, forced to turn away from the light. When we turned toward their voices, their silhouettes looked ghoulish through the dark and the sand fog as they stood holding their heavy weapons.

Uncle Tariq didn’t answer.

“Where is he!” the other repeated, striking him hard on the face, knocking him to the ground.

I ran directly into him. “Leave him alone, he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. Leave him alone!”

With one hand the soldier threw me to the ground. Meanwhile the other had dragged Uncle Tariq back to his feet. “You are hiding him, where is he?”

Finally my Uncle answered them in a quiet voice, “Where is who?”

“Hussein, he’s here…..he’s in this town. You are hiding him.”

Uncle Tariq laughed out loud. “Do you think he shares his agenda with me? I don’t know what in the hell you are talking about?”

The soldier struck him again. “You fucking raghead, don’t talk to me like that.”

“Leave him alone!” I screamed. “He doesn’t know anything.”

“Arrest all three of them!” screamed the other.

They grabbed Uncle Tariq and tried to drag him but he resisted. “I am not going anywhere with you.”

The soldier pulled out his pistol. “I said, move and move now!”

Islee was clinging to her father and I just stood and stared, stunned at their insensitivity. Uncle Tariq reached out to put his hands on the soldier’s shoulders. “Please,” he entreated, “you need to listen to me. I am a simple man. I just lost my wife and my home and everything I own. I have nothing to tell you.”

The soldier pointed his pistol directly at him. “Get back, I’m warning you.”

Uncle Tariq continued forward, arms extended and then there was a flash and a horrible noise. I couldn’t believe it! He shot my beloved uncle directly in head! An old grieving man and he shot him! Uncle Tariq was unarmed and helpless. An old grieving man, begging to be left alone and he shot him! Islee screamed as my uncle fell backwards into my arms. I tried to catch him, but his dead weight was too heavy and he fell through my arms and hit the ground with a heavy thump.

“He was coming right at me,” said the one soldier explaining to the other. “You saw it, he was coming right at me.”

“He didn’t do anything! You murdered him!” I screamed.

“Shut up! Shut up!” yelled the murderer.

“Clean it up and let’s get out of here,” repeated the other.

With those words, the soldier with the pistol walked directly toward Islee and me. “What are you going to do? What are you going to do? No!”

He raised his gun and all I remember was the redness of his eyes and a loud pop.

I woke up the next day in a hospital room filled with beds and the dank smells of other wounded and sick people. The room was so poorly attended with hospital staff that it was nearly an hour before a nurse realized I was awake.

“Where am I?” I asked in Arabic.

“Baghdad.”

“How bad am I hurt?”

“You were shot.”

I didn’t remember anything.

The nurse continued, “You were very lucky, the bullet didn’t penetrate the brain. It fractured the side of your skull. Your hair will cover the scar. You will be okay.”

Suddenly my memory was jarred.

“A young girl, did they bring a young girl with me?” I asked frantically.

“There are many young girls,” she answered.

I struggled trying to get up, but I was connected to an IV and couldn’t move.

“She was young and beautiful,” I continued.

“There are many young, beautiful girls in Iraq. We all started out that way. Now you need to calm down and get some rest.”

“If I just could look around, I’m sure I could find her.”

“You’re not going anywhere and if you don’t relax I’m going to give you a sedative.”

The next day they removed the IV and let me walk around. Islee was not there.

I was in the hospital for 4 days. Once they determined that I was American, I was interrogated by the Republican Guard. I didn’t have my passport, but admitted freely that I was American. They found a captain that spoke English.

“What are you doing in this country?” asked the middle aged officer neatly dressed in green fatigues with red epaulets, each with two gold stars. He had a thin moustache and a one inch scar on his neck that looked like surgery, but was more likely the result of an injury of war.

I explained that I was visiting my relatives and had done so for years.

I asked about my cousin.

“You were brought here alone,” he answered.

I told him how my uncle was murdered and how they tried to murder me and that I had to find my cousin.

He seemed unimpressed.

“Did you give coordinates to the Americans for the bombs?” he asked.

I looked at him dumbfounded. “Bombs?”

“Yes, your planes bombed Kirkuk.”

“They were not my planes!”

“I will ask you again, did you give them our coordinates?”

“Why would I do that?” I screamed. “Soldiers killed my uncle! They shot me! Where is my cousin? Why would your soldiers do such a thing?”

He backed away.

“You are confused, we didn’t shoot you,” he answered incredulously. “Your own Rangers did. They were an assassination team looking for our leader.”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“It is true, we are not barbarians here. Now, you need to leave this country immediately,” he instructed. “It’s not safe for you here. You need to be gone today.”

“I can’t go. I need to find my cousin.”

“You have no choice. If you don’t go, you will be arrested as a spy.”

“Then arrest me! I’m not leaving my cousin!”

“Stand up!” he screamed.

I stood and he threw me against the wall and handcuffed me and dragged me out of the room. “I need to find my cousin,” I yelled as he dragged me away.

Despite my pleading, the embassy put me on a plane and sent me back to America.

I had no choice but to leave.

I was exhausted on my return flight home and didn’t have the energy to do anything other than to sit and cry and worry about my cousin. I needed to know if she was alive and I wanted to get back to her, but knew that it was impossible. I glanced over at a newspaper that the gentlemen next to me was reading and I was shocked to see that USA Today was reporting that there had been several bombings by terrorists inside the city of Kirkuk. The paper reported the death toll to be 500 people.

When I returned home, all I could think about was calling Jonathan and telling him that I had been injured. But all I could find out was that he was somewhere outside the United States.

Many years later I learned that the five bombs dropped on Kirkuk that night weighed more than a ton each and were designed to pierce through hundreds of feet of earth and several feet of armor and destroy an underground bunker and everyone inside. The US Government believed that Saddam had a bunker under a neighborhood elementary school that was only a block away from my uncle’s house. And just to make sure that they weren’t wrong, they dropped a bomb on the rug factory, the hospital and two more on the surrounding neighborhoods. The first bomb exploded at 2 a.m. and by the time the fifth one hit every home within a mile radius was destroyed. In reality the death toll was in the tens of thousands.

This began a period of deep sadness, depression and confusion in my life and I tried to bury the anguish with my career at Johns Hopkins University. I was unable to find Islee, and after a year of effort, determined that she was dead, buried with her father in the bottom on that crater. I tried therapy, I ignored my Muslim faith and I began to drink and I hated the horrors of life. I could no longer sleep, waking nearly immediately after dozing with my mind turning every sound into the whistling of bombs falling from the sky and the chatter of answering anti-aircraft artillery. It played over and over in my head until I thought I would go insane.

Over the next 3 years I buried myself in my work. My prestigious resume landed me an associate professor’s position with the biochemical engineering program at Johns Hopkins University in Maryland. Teaching provided an outlet for my troubled soul, and research and publishing kept my mind focused away from my grief. I threw myself into my work and because of the tremendous resources at the university, I was able to continue my research with a vast team of professionals. From this research I published 12 papers and wrote one book. My academic career flourished. In 1994, one of my papers entitled
Masking DNA
caught the attention of the National Security Agency and they provided a grant to the university conditional on my assistance. Their objective was to establish a “fool proof” protocol that would help them to mask DNA for covert agents so that they could never be traced back to their original identities. They also needed help with the more traditional DNA tracking protocols to help identify terrorists. Because it involved work in the Middle East, I decided to take a sabbatical from teaching and accept the assignment. With the blessing of the university, I left academia and became a field agent for the National Security Agency.

NSA turned my life upside down. I was technically a Middle East field agent, so they sent me to the same basic training that they sent all agents who were assigned to that part of the world. I was surprised by the harshness and severity of NSA’s training. The first six months I spent with the Israeli Secret Service and the next five years were spent on international assignments. I was amazed at how sophisticated the Israelis were in all areas of intelligence. They taught me how to fire large caliber weapons, create and arm plastic explosives, practice basic self defense and use the art of interrogation. I taught them how to change fingerprints, and counterfeit DNA in blood, phlegm and skin cells.

For my first assignment I was sent to Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan, where we collected DNA samples from arrested insurgents and when they were freed, we used the data to track their paths, with the hope that they would lead us to the center of their terrorist organization.

From 1993 – 1998, my time with NSA, we arrested over 250 known terrorists and stopped countless of thousands from dying from terrorist bombs. Finding purpose in saving innocent lives was healing many of my old wounds and through the changing of administrations, many of our international issues were on the mend. When I returned to teaching, I was received warmly by the President of the University. My emotions were beginning to mend. I rationalized that there would always be political differences between Western and Eastern culture. Also, I felt good that I had served my country during my assignments in the Middle East, and I began to understand that my purpose might be to protect and define the differences between the Muslim people and the extremists. This could best be accomplished by educating the American Government on the heritage of my ancestors.

My thinking was once again challenged when the United States declared war on Iraq in 2003. Six months after Baghdad was occupied by the Americans, I had an unexpected visitor. At 11:30 p.m. on a cold fall night there was a weak knock on my door. When I swung the door open, a young woman fell to the floor like a limp rag doll. Startled, I jumped back. She lay there lifeless in a pair of Calvin Klein jeans, a turtle neck sweater, a wool hat and a pair of leather gloves. At first I didn’t recognize her. But when I gently rolled her over and removed her hat, I realized it was my beloved cousin, Islee. She was alive and somehow she had found me! My joy was overtaken by her dire physical condition. I rolled up her sleeves and checked her vital signs. She seemed to be breathing normally and her pulse was stable. I checked her for other wounds, blood, and any other trauma, but she appeared fine. I picked her up and laid her gently on the couch. She had become so thin that it felt like her clothes weighed more than her body. I pulled off all of her winter wear and knelt beside her, stroking her hair. I had a million questions, but I had no choice but to wait until she awoke.

She was no longer a girl, but a mature woman. She looked worn and tired. There was something about her that I didn’t recognize. There were new expressions in her face that emerged even in her sleep: hard, unhappy expressions that were surfacing from a deeper pain inside. As I stroked her hair, I found long gray strands that had invaded her beautiful jet black hair. And as I studied her near perfect Arabian face, I was surprised to see “pock marks” that looked like the remnants of a serious bout with acne. I sat there for two hours before she stirred.

“Islee,” I gasped.

There was terror in her eyes. She tried to sit up, but was too weak. “I am so happy to see you,” she whispered.

We looked at each other and I nodded and I started to cry. I gave her a big hug and her body felt so fragile that I was afraid of squeezing too hard. She faintly hugged back.

“I missed you, so much,” I said. “What happened?”

She bowed her head as if she was too weak to talk about it.

“Would you like some tea?”

She gave a small smile and answered, “Very much, thank you.”

I helped her sit up and went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea, talking as I was working, scrambling to put together some food, but there was no conversation in return. When I emerged with the tray and 2 teacups, she was asleep, still sitting, slouched over on the couch. Gently I removed her shoes and pulled her legs up on the couch. She was alive but completely lifeless. I began undressing her, getting her ready for bed. When I pulled down her socks, there were scars that looked like burns circling both her ankles. The injuries were healed and appeared to be several years old. I lifted her feet onto the couch and covered her body with a soft flannel blanket. I put a fluffy feather pillow under her head and let her sleep. I sat in a chair next to her for several hours watching her breathe, remembering the days when we were both school kids, growing up together in Kirkuk. The more I studied her face, the more the pock marks looked like burns. She continually twitched and contorted and occasionally blurted out loud words in Arabic. I could sense that there was no peace in her troubled soul. I reached over and grabbed her left hand which dangled from the couch, just to hold on to her. I felt something hard on her palm. I gently flipped it over and saw a large section of scar tissue from another healed wound. There was no question that she had been abused, but when and by whom? I would have to wait until she awoke to ask her.