Читать книгу Letters from Abu Ghraib, Second Edition - Joshua Casteel - Страница 10

FROM JOSHUA

SENT 06/20/2004 9:29 A.M.

TO HOME

SUBJECT RE: GLAD YOU MADE IT SAFELY

Hey, Mom. Yep, I live and work at the prison, both. The prison itself is quite huge, broken up into about eight sub-compounds, all about the size of medieval castles. There’s actually more dust than sand, and dust covers everything. Palm trees peek up over the perimeter wall, and a few minarets. My “castle” has air conditioning and trailer homes set up with showers and sinks. All onesies and twosies are done in portajohns. I work in a compound about three football fields away, and eat and attend Mass at a compound about five football fields away. No Anglican chaplains, so I’ve been given another pastoral exception to attend Catholic Mass. There is an Internet/telephone center and entertainment “shed” put on by Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR) about two football fields away. Needless to say, getting around this place in 120-plus degree heat with 70 pounds of body armor and weaponry can be a bit taxing. I guess it helps me earn my meals, since the majority of my job here as an interrogator is intellectual (i.e., on my rear).

Today was my first day at the interrogation center, and my first impression was: I hate this job. But I worked through it and stayed on to get accustomed to my surroundings. I met the chaplain as well, he’s Assemblies of God, and seems like a really great man. I told him I could sing, so I’m thinking he may have me do a special music sometime.

love,

joshua

FROM JOSHUA

SENT 06/25/2004 9:34 A.M.

TO HOME

SUBJECT RE: GLAD YOU MADE IT SAFELY

I guess now it’s been about a week since I arrived to the Fertile Crescent, but for some reason it feels like it’s been months. I left Fort Gordon, Georgia, at about 10 a.m. eastern time, driving by charter bus to Atlanta.

Atlanta being our first “layover,” although we had yet to fly anywhere, most of us were all anxiously looking forward to the traditional “two beers in transit” before taking off. But our Movement NCOIC (Noncommissioned Officer in Charge) SFC Smith spent three years as a basic-training drill sergeant, and he had no problem nixing our creature comforts. I, being pretty bent on having my beer, and making a little drama out of our “deprivation,” ordered a St. Pauli’s Girl nonalcoholic, and then invited SFC Smith to sit next to me. He gasped, thinking I’d simply ignored his order, but then laughed once he saw I’d ordered an NA.

After a two-hour layover in Germany, we re-boarded the plane and headed to Kuwait. I read my evening office of prayer from my newly received 1928 Book of Common Prayer/KJV Bible (thanks, Hannah!) and then continued in some reading of Hans Küng on the history of the Catholic Church. But that academic philosophical world of mine seemed to fade by the time I heard the captain state that we were flying over Baghdad. I looked out my window to see a patchwork of lights below, scattered loosely throughout the desert. And I forgot Professor Küng and his Church. One hour later we touched down in Kuwait.

The door to the plane opened to a pleasant warmth outside, which was surprising because I expected to be overtaken by blankets of heat. The short bus ride to Doha was littered with sporadic fires of oil fields in the distance, white-clad wedding parties along roadsides, and sands that extended in all directions.

Once our names were finally called off on the flight manifest to head to Ali Al Saleem Airfield, we loaded another bus and headed toward the gate . . . then the bus slowed to a halt. I heard a rather confused bus driver say, “Mu aref, mu aref al tariq.” Someone asked for a translator so I stepped to the front to figure out what had happened. As it turned out, our bus driver was one week on the job, just in from Turkey. And between the Arabic and Turkish I was able to make out, he knew just about nothing about just about everything in the area, not to mention that our US Army escort had been told just to show up to the bus, bring his weapon and ammo, and not to worry, “the drivers know where they are going.”

So, with map in hand, I had to play navigator and interpreter all at once. “Well, let’s get to it, you didn’t learn Arabic for nothing,” I told myself. And, after a rather bumpy “oh, we were supposed to take that exit” kind of ride, we finally arrived at Ali Al Saleem Airfield out in the Kuwaiti boonies. By this time I was pretty accustomed to the Middle Eastern heat, but when I realized that the 89 degree (F) tent we waited in felt completely frigid, I knew I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

We arrived to the Baghdad International Airport just shortly after sunrise and waited until early afternoon for the convoy that would take us to the Abu Ghraib prison, about ten miles west of Baghdad. We were met by a three-vehicle convoy: one truck and two “gunships” (Humvees with .50 cal machine guns mounted on top). We suited up in our body armor, Kevlar helmets, extra ammunition, etc., locked and loaded our M16 rifles and received a briefing from the Army captain, who told us of the current threat level, the history of past convoy ambushes, and that if we ever moved our M16 selector levers from “safe” to “semi” automatic, we were to shoot to kill. My eyes were wide open on that drive, to say the least, and Toto and Auntie Em were nowhere to be found. Thanks be to God, we all made it safely to the prison, where I have begun my new existence.

I have been on the job at the interrogation center now for about five days, and I really love my work. I am not at liberty to discuss many details, but what I can say is that there are plenty of detainees here who are simply no joke. Some of the most unsavory of individuals committing indiscriminate acts (even against fellow Muslims) have passed through these walls. We released many detainees over the past three months (approx. three to four thousand), and with the ones remaining I play an integral role in getting to the bottom of incredibly heinous acts. And for those who are being held unjustly, I play an active role in their release, and can quite often form congenial relations with them (although actual friendships are obviously a little past the line of what is proper, or safe for the detainee).

Much has changed since the controversy, some for good and some for ill. Apart from the much-needed changes regarding detainee abuse, of which my colleagues know next to nothing, the knee-jerk reaction to ensure the world knows we obey the law has made things slightly difficult. There is a lot of discouragement on the part of interrogators, especially when known terrorists or criminals are across the table from us, and we are nearly impotent as to the level of surveillance authorized, authority to segregate/isolate, etc. There are those on Capitol Hill who, on the one hand, desire “victory” in the “war on terror” and then, on the other hand, would have us just offer the terrorists tea and cigarettes to tell us where bin Laden and Zarqawi are. This of course is absurd, being that al-Qaida operatives are trained to resist interrogation and to expect torture. Our “prison” probably seems like a resort. I’m not sure what is being reported in the US currently about Abu Ghraib, but conditions are pretty cush for our detainees.

I see my job much more as a father confessor than an interrogator. As a confessor you cannot coerce a person to reveal that which they wish to hide. A confessor’s aim is to help the one confessing to be sincere, to arrive at the kind of contrition that actually desires self-disclosure—and to that end, empathy and understanding go a long way. No one actually wants secrecy, to carry the memory of shameful actions alone. A confessor provides the opportunity for a safe disclosure, offers a way out of secrecy. Interrogation is like a chess match, a battle of wits. But it is also a relationship of understanding, where I try to use a person’s internal belief scheme to encourage them to narrate dishonorable actions with their own words. This tactic takes far more time and patience, but is far more effective in the long run and far more unsettling to the extremist Muslim who has been trained to prepare for torture. The aggressive approach reinforces their preconception that America is Satan and that the coalition is a Zionist conspiracy bent on their destruction. Empathy, if it is authentic itself, is incredibly unsettling, and forces a person to question the legitimacy of their training and indoctrination.

In many ways, I have no other recourse but to identify with these people. We spread democracy, and they are spreading the Islamic State. And while we say that we are spreading the freedom of democracy, to so many of the Muslims in our wake, true freedom can only exist under the “rightful rule” of an Islamic Caliphate—much like the Jewish conception of the Messiah, or the millennial rule of Christ for Evangelicals. Our democratic freedom seems like nonsense (“grasping after the wind”) to much of the Muslim world.

So, last night we were expecting a “planned attack” upon the prison . . . but, thanks be to God, I slept like a baby. Actually, I sleep more here than I have in a long, long time. By the time my workday ends, I’m simply beat. I rise at about 5 a.m., work out and do the morning office of daily prayer, and then head to work. At lunch I’ve made a habit of eating with the local Iraqi workers, who are incredibly hospitable. There are always one or two 19- or 18-year-old uneducated Iraqis who are simply wide-eyed at my use of the Arabic language . . . “wait a minute, but you’re white!” I come to the chapel at lunch and dinner to eat and pray, and I talk for a few minutes every lunch with Iraqis.

The Book of Common Prayer has become my blood and breath. I’ve also written a special rosary for personal concerns, which I pray about three times every day. There is morning and evening prayer with Scripture passages, and without this grounding I think I would have much more difficulty here. The scenery is incredibly desolate, the climate stifling, and the separation much more deep and compelling than when simply at a base in a state other than my home. A feeling of purpose and pride is real and aiding during my workday, but when I return to my room, sit on a bed and see my books and personal things, it’s hard not to continue longing for the rest of my books and, most importantly, for those close to me that I talk about these books with. Today was the first day I attended Mass, and thank God for that. The common prayers are somewhat depressing when I pray “we” and “our” alone in an empty chapel room.

On my first day on the job during initial training I had a severe sense of hopelessness and dread, not wanting to get into the interrogation process at all, wondering why I was not in school writing papers on philosophy and theology and preparing for the priesthood. But at the conclusion of training I read an article about Arab-American comparative psychology and I turned an about-face in a moment. Before I’d finished reading the introduction to the article, I’d become fascinated with my job, and authentically so. By the time I was given my leave to return to my room I had asked my supervisor if I could stay on after hours to read dossiers and more articles to get further acquainted with my surroundings. I can only attribute this instantaneous change to Grace and being lifted up in prayer, so thank you.

I continue on in my duties here, both to interrogate for the concerns of Iraqi-American security, and also for the mysterious purposes that have specifically brought me to this foreign land. And, as father confessor, I prayerfully continue forward. Pray for my comrades, who have quite clearly labeled me “the Chaplain,” and for those for whom I will be their inquisitor. God grant me wisdom, compassion, and a genuine desire for Truth that knows no national patronage.

FROM JOSHUA

SENT 07/02/2004 9:22 A.M.

TO HOME

SUBJECT RE: GLAD YOU MADE IT SAFELY

Another week at Abu Ghraib. Today is Friday. I woke about 9 a.m. and readied for Mass, walked across the compound and arrived to the chapel just past 10 a.m. But, due to increased restrictions on convoys (more attacks recently), the priest was not able to come to the prison for Mass. It was pretty depressing. We have Protestant services on Sundays, both morning and evening, which I will be able to attend this week since I have Sunday off for the 4th of July. Thank God for that, but keeping the liturgy with others and taking the Eucharist—Communion—is the most important part of the week for me. So, I found a candle, lit it upon the altar, prayed my Rosary and then proceeded to do the liturgy and Scripture readings by myself. I was glad to be able to offer this service in the absence of the priest, as the prayers and readings still needed to be said with or without the priest, but the absence of the Eucharist was difficult. I sat in the chapel, reading and praying, for about forty-five minutes and when I reached the end, I simply sat with my Bible and prayer book in hand, pressed to my forehead, not wanting to leave—wanting to stay in the comfort of a Church, even if only constructed impromptu, and congregated only by myself and the Holy Spirit.

Last Sunday I attended evening Protestant services and lost my voice singing. I stayed to pray, mostly on account of my duties as an interrogator. The weight of the job sometimes is more painfully present to me than other times. Sometimes the lies I hear from detainees are easily distinguishable from the truth, but at other times they are not so easy to discern. And, while I understand quite clearly the role of judgment and wielding authority for the punishment/prevention of crime in society, this is a duty I assume with no joy. I do so because it is what has been asked of me, and I continue to do so with the greatest amount of integrity I can muster. But how I would much rather speak of Grace with those across my table, and tell them of the alternative to their chosen path. And, for as long as I sit in my current seat of authority, with a weapon strapped across my back, the moral high ground seems somewhat clouded.

While praying that Sunday, I pleaded for a reason or insight into my current role that would help me see more clearly. The very next thing I saw in my mind was the turning of the tables of the moneylenders in the temple—Christ calling them a den of robbers, a brood of vipers. I am quite sure that Christ sympathized with their circumstances, the Israelite and Palestinian country tradesmen in Roman-occupied Jerusalem. But understanding and sympathy themselves do not equate to moral tolerance: action and accountability were still required of the tradesmen who were turning the temple into a strip mall. Similarly might I sympathize with the disenfranchised of this country being taken advantage of by the foreigners flocking to Baghdad, Fallujah, and Mosul. But something must be done to show the grave consequences of these choices. I most commonly do this by attempting to speak with them on their level—get to know them, understand where they come from, their families, and show them the futility of their violent choices. But every time I kneel before the cross, praying both for them and more so for me, I ask God to give me the time when I might put down my own sword, put down this seat of authority, and pick up the Eucharist. How much I would rather be a priest to these men than their accuser.

Monday or Tuesday we received mortars at about 9 p.m. I was helping my roommate sling his weapon when a big crash rumbled somewhere in the compound. I asked him if he heard it, and he replied coolly, “yeah, we’re being attacked.” And then we continued about our business. The casualness of it all was pretty humorous. I was just getting ready to go to the shower trailers to get ready for bed when the mortars came in, so I had to nix that for the evening. Minor inconvenience, I guess, in exchange for my safety.

Yesterday, more mortars came down on other bases in the Baghdad area. At lunch, a troop of Marine engineers came to clear a minefield outside the interrogation facility, and once we were given the “all-clear” sign to go outside, I ran posthaste to a portajohn, being that we’d been locked down for about two hours! While in the john I heard another boom, which I later learned had been an improvised explosive device (IED) that had gone off on one of our convoys 160 meters from the prison . . . but was still powerful enough to shake the building (and my porta). I haven’t heard anything about the convoy, injuries or other. We basically take no news as good news. But, due to things like this, we haven’t received any mail convoys or priests.

Today I sat down in the dining hall with two of my Iraqi friends and discussed the current state of Iraq in Arabic. My ears are still pretty shoddy after a rifle qualification course back at Fort Gordon—I forgot to use hearing protection on a timed qual-course and twenty rounds of M16 fire went off inches from my ears. It makes hearing in crowded places kind of difficult. But we were still able to have a pretty good conversation. The everyday Iraqi, in the opinion of these men, simply doesn’t care about politics, democracy, Islamic caliphates, pan-Arabism or other idealistic concepts. They want electricity, running water and food on their tables for their children. They want whatever can provide for their basic necessities, and if America and the coalition can bring that to them, great. If not, “who can?” is their basic question. Pretty reasonable, I think.