Iraqi heroism: Interpreters
By John Koopman
c.2004 San Francisco Chronicle
BAGHDAD, Iraq -- Rwaida's death hit everyone hard.
Partly because she was a buddy they had known for a long time. Mostly, because she was an innocent, brutally slain for the simple reason that she worked for the Americans.
"Rwaida was a pal, she was a running buddy," said Staff Sgt. Tom Kelly of New Orleans. In the Army, a running buddy is the best kind of friend. Someone you run with, hang out with.
Rwaida Al Shemre worked as an interpreter for the 3rd Battalion, 82nd Field Artillery Regiment in central Baghdad. On July 5, an Iraqi driver picked her up at her home and started toward the Army base near the airport. A car drove in front of them and blocked them in. Another pulled up behind. Someone approached the car and fired at Rwaida and the driver.
Rwaida was hit four times. She was shot once in the face. Another in the arm, a defensive wound. She died before she reached the hospital. She was 33.
Capt. Dave Minaschek, of Sierra Vista, Ariz., said soldiers are trying to find out who killed her. It means a lot to them, because Rwaida meant a lot to them.
This is the harsh reality for people who work with U.S. forces in Iraq. Some killings make the headlines, or the Internet. But many more happen on the streets and in the darkness, and almost no one knows about them.
Interpreters are particularly easy targets for insurgents, or anyone with a grudge against the U.S. forces. They are unarmed and often unguarded when they leave base.
The gunmen seem to target the female interpreters. Rwaida was one of four interpreters killed in the central and southern part of the city in the last two weeks.
Soldiers with the Army's Brigade Combat Team 5 said a female interpreter was kidnapped as she left the front gate in mid-July. Her father was killed in the street and she was taken away, only to be found dead later.
"God knows what they did to her," said one soldier who knew of the incident.
Some interpreters live with the soldiers in the Forward Operating Bases. Others live off-base. They all take great care to hide their identities while they translate exchanges between the Americans and Iraqis. Some men wear bandannas over their faces, and the women pull head scarves down low.
Some wear body armor; most don't. They never use their real names at work; the soldiers refer to them by American names like "Doris" or "Eric." Rwaida went by "Sally."
No one seems to know where she learned English. Kelly said Rwaida had a brother in Canada, and often added "eh?" to her sentences.
Rwaida, a hairdresser, first worked for the Army unit that preceded this one at the base. Capt. James Zoizack of the 4th Battalion, 1st Field Artillery, 1st Armored Division, heard her call out a greeting when he was on patrol and talked her into coming to work for the Americans. She made good money at it, by Iraqi standards: about $400 a month.
When she was working with Zoizack's unit, she once saw that a man had pulled a gun and was about to shoot an American. She tried to push the soldier out of the way, Kelly said, and ended up with a flesh wound in her abdomen.
When 3rd Battalion, 82nd Field Artillery came along, she became the interpreter. And she was a good one, Kelly said. She did more than just translate Arabic into English, he said, she explained things to both Iraqis and Americans. If she thought an Iraqi contractor was trying to cheat or lie, or if she heard one Iraqi tell another to cheat or lie in front of the soldiers, she would say so.
The soldiers learned to count on her for more than just language skills.
"She was one of us," Kelly said.
If a soldier was sick, Rwaida would bring a special Iraqi soup, the local version of chicken soup, to make him better.
She was a single mother. Her husband had left her not long after her daughter was born. She had sent her 10-year-old daughter to live in Jordan with a sister while she worked for the Americans. Soldiers would flirt with her, ask her if she would consider marrying an American.
"How much money you got, eh?" she would ask, then laugh.
But working with the Americans, and perhaps because she was an assertive woman in an area where women are supposed to be docile, she caught the attention of various Iraqis. There were veiled threats. Sometimes soldiers would notice a certain body language between her and the Iraqis. Later, Rwaida would tell the soldiers that she had been asked things like, "Why are you working for the Americans?" and "Where do you live?" or "Don't I know you, what's your name?"
At least twice, she was threatened outright: "Don't work with the coalition," Capt. Minaschek said.
She never listened. But she did make plans to leave the country to make a better life for her daughter. She had gotten papers to move to Canada to live with her brother and was preparing to leave at the end of the year, after the battalion returns to the United States.
"She said she liked the battalion and she didn't want to leave while we were still here," Kelly said. "She didn't even want to leave Iraq, really. She said she wanted to come back in a couple of years and live here."
The day of her death, the news stunned the soldiers. At first they heard that she had been wounded, and the driver killed. They rushed to the hospital and found a harried doctor.
Where could they find Al Shemre?
"That one is dead," the doctor said.
The soldiers stood in stunned silence. They asked to see her body and were taken to the morgue.
"She was laid out on the floor," Kelly said. "We told them to put her on a bed. Her family was on their way to see her."
The soldiers put together a memorial ceremony at their compound. Dozens showed up, including 15 members of her family -- her daughter Doa'a; her mother; two sisters; a brother; and various cousins. Off at the side was a table with a photo of Rwaida and some of her belongings.
When a soldier dies in combat, his or her comrades walk past the memorial -- usually a rifle stuck in the ground with helmet on top -- and salute. After Rwaida's ceremony ended, the soldiers walked past the table and saluted.
"Her death hit me harder than anything I've experienced over here," said Capt. Evans Hanson of Houston, who worked closely with her.
"Rwaida went out with troops hundreds of times and faced dangers everywhere she went," Hanson said at her memorial service. "She looked powerful men in the eye and faced them without fear, because she knew they were up to no good. No one could say she wasn't a strong woman."
But she had a soft side, too.
"Near a school in Yarmouk, we found a family living between mud walls with no food or shelter," Hanson said. "Sgt. Kelly asked if we should stop and help. I callously said, "Forget it. We can't help everyone. All we have is toothpaste anyway.'
"Rwaida said, "No, help them a little bit just!' That day, we made some lasting friends just by listening a little. Rwaida taught me how to care."
Two days after Rwaida was killed, a young woman showed up, looking for a job as an interpreter. Kelly interviewed her.
"I felt like I had to explain the situation, and make sure she understood the danger," Kelly said. "I told her that a previous interpreter had just been killed. She just said, "God will protect me."'
The new interpreter, who the soldiers call Nadia, studied English at a local university. She's 22, the oldest of four children, the only girl. She wants to go to the United States someday.
"I am not afraid," she said. "I know this is my duty and that I should do that."
She said she appreciates the money she earns, but the amount is not material. "Morals should be the most important thing for everyone."
"I have great respect for the Christian people," she said. "They respect God and I love God. Too many Muslims hurt each other."
c.2004 San Francisco Chronicle
BAGHDAD, Iraq -- Rwaida's death hit everyone hard.
Partly because she was a buddy they had known for a long time. Mostly, because she was an innocent, brutally slain for the simple reason that she worked for the Americans.
"Rwaida was a pal, she was a running buddy," said Staff Sgt. Tom Kelly of New Orleans. In the Army, a running buddy is the best kind of friend. Someone you run with, hang out with.
Rwaida Al Shemre worked as an interpreter for the 3rd Battalion, 82nd Field Artillery Regiment in central Baghdad. On July 5, an Iraqi driver picked her up at her home and started toward the Army base near the airport. A car drove in front of them and blocked them in. Another pulled up behind. Someone approached the car and fired at Rwaida and the driver.
Rwaida was hit four times. She was shot once in the face. Another in the arm, a defensive wound. She died before she reached the hospital. She was 33.
Capt. Dave Minaschek, of Sierra Vista, Ariz., said soldiers are trying to find out who killed her. It means a lot to them, because Rwaida meant a lot to them.
This is the harsh reality for people who work with U.S. forces in Iraq. Some killings make the headlines, or the Internet. But many more happen on the streets and in the darkness, and almost no one knows about them.
Interpreters are particularly easy targets for insurgents, or anyone with a grudge against the U.S. forces. They are unarmed and often unguarded when they leave base.
The gunmen seem to target the female interpreters. Rwaida was one of four interpreters killed in the central and southern part of the city in the last two weeks.
Soldiers with the Army's Brigade Combat Team 5 said a female interpreter was kidnapped as she left the front gate in mid-July. Her father was killed in the street and she was taken away, only to be found dead later.
"God knows what they did to her," said one soldier who knew of the incident.
Some interpreters live with the soldiers in the Forward Operating Bases. Others live off-base. They all take great care to hide their identities while they translate exchanges between the Americans and Iraqis. Some men wear bandannas over their faces, and the women pull head scarves down low.
Some wear body armor; most don't. They never use their real names at work; the soldiers refer to them by American names like "Doris" or "Eric." Rwaida went by "Sally."
No one seems to know where she learned English. Kelly said Rwaida had a brother in Canada, and often added "eh?" to her sentences.
Rwaida, a hairdresser, first worked for the Army unit that preceded this one at the base. Capt. James Zoizack of the 4th Battalion, 1st Field Artillery, 1st Armored Division, heard her call out a greeting when he was on patrol and talked her into coming to work for the Americans. She made good money at it, by Iraqi standards: about $400 a month.
When she was working with Zoizack's unit, she once saw that a man had pulled a gun and was about to shoot an American. She tried to push the soldier out of the way, Kelly said, and ended up with a flesh wound in her abdomen.
When 3rd Battalion, 82nd Field Artillery came along, she became the interpreter. And she was a good one, Kelly said. She did more than just translate Arabic into English, he said, she explained things to both Iraqis and Americans. If she thought an Iraqi contractor was trying to cheat or lie, or if she heard one Iraqi tell another to cheat or lie in front of the soldiers, she would say so.
The soldiers learned to count on her for more than just language skills.
"She was one of us," Kelly said.
If a soldier was sick, Rwaida would bring a special Iraqi soup, the local version of chicken soup, to make him better.
She was a single mother. Her husband had left her not long after her daughter was born. She had sent her 10-year-old daughter to live in Jordan with a sister while she worked for the Americans. Soldiers would flirt with her, ask her if she would consider marrying an American.
"How much money you got, eh?" she would ask, then laugh.
But working with the Americans, and perhaps because she was an assertive woman in an area where women are supposed to be docile, she caught the attention of various Iraqis. There were veiled threats. Sometimes soldiers would notice a certain body language between her and the Iraqis. Later, Rwaida would tell the soldiers that she had been asked things like, "Why are you working for the Americans?" and "Where do you live?" or "Don't I know you, what's your name?"
At least twice, she was threatened outright: "Don't work with the coalition," Capt. Minaschek said.
She never listened. But she did make plans to leave the country to make a better life for her daughter. She had gotten papers to move to Canada to live with her brother and was preparing to leave at the end of the year, after the battalion returns to the United States.
"She said she liked the battalion and she didn't want to leave while we were still here," Kelly said. "She didn't even want to leave Iraq, really. She said she wanted to come back in a couple of years and live here."
The day of her death, the news stunned the soldiers. At first they heard that she had been wounded, and the driver killed. They rushed to the hospital and found a harried doctor.
Where could they find Al Shemre?
"That one is dead," the doctor said.
The soldiers stood in stunned silence. They asked to see her body and were taken to the morgue.
"She was laid out on the floor," Kelly said. "We told them to put her on a bed. Her family was on their way to see her."
The soldiers put together a memorial ceremony at their compound. Dozens showed up, including 15 members of her family -- her daughter Doa'a; her mother; two sisters; a brother; and various cousins. Off at the side was a table with a photo of Rwaida and some of her belongings.
When a soldier dies in combat, his or her comrades walk past the memorial -- usually a rifle stuck in the ground with helmet on top -- and salute. After Rwaida's ceremony ended, the soldiers walked past the table and saluted.
"Her death hit me harder than anything I've experienced over here," said Capt. Evans Hanson of Houston, who worked closely with her.
"Rwaida went out with troops hundreds of times and faced dangers everywhere she went," Hanson said at her memorial service. "She looked powerful men in the eye and faced them without fear, because she knew they were up to no good. No one could say she wasn't a strong woman."
But she had a soft side, too.
"Near a school in Yarmouk, we found a family living between mud walls with no food or shelter," Hanson said. "Sgt. Kelly asked if we should stop and help. I callously said, "Forget it. We can't help everyone. All we have is toothpaste anyway.'
"Rwaida said, "No, help them a little bit just!' That day, we made some lasting friends just by listening a little. Rwaida taught me how to care."
Two days after Rwaida was killed, a young woman showed up, looking for a job as an interpreter. Kelly interviewed her.
"I felt like I had to explain the situation, and make sure she understood the danger," Kelly said. "I told her that a previous interpreter had just been killed. She just said, "God will protect me."'
The new interpreter, who the soldiers call Nadia, studied English at a local university. She's 22, the oldest of four children, the only girl. She wants to go to the United States someday.
"I am not afraid," she said. "I know this is my duty and that I should do that."
She said she appreciates the money she earns, but the amount is not material. "Morals should be the most important thing for everyone."
"I have great respect for the Christian people," she said. "They respect God and I love God. Too many Muslims hurt each other."
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