Tafteesh

           Our Iraqi partners have their annual inspection this week by order of the Ministry of Defense.  As their advisor, it’s nice to see them actually care about something for a change.  The Saddam years really took a toll on the entire concept of initiative at the middle management levels.  No surprises there.  Innovation was often the fast track to execution.  Equally unsurprising is their preoccupation with inspections, reviews and judgment.  So our friends are busy cleaning up anything that moves, and painting white everything that doesn’t.

          In what is fast becoming a weekly tradition, my advisor team has a new favorite Arabic word: tafteesh.  It means inspection; also search, check, etc.  It can be a verb and a noun.  Arabic lacks the variety we’re used to hearing in English (although they do have 4 words for tomorrow, because that’s when the Iraqi Army usually plans on getting around to anything).

          We were discussing the term today.  “Tafteesh, it sounds like some sort of delicious breakfast pastry.”            

          I mentioned, “You know, that’s a pretty important word.  It’s probably in my top ten Arabic military survival phrases.”

With this I transition into my vignette:          

          Believe it or not, I was a pretty arrogant Second Lieutenant at one point in my career.  This is not surprising to anyone who knows me today as an arrogant Captain.  Anyway, I took over a platoon of thirty guys a month into my first deployment.  We spent every day on the road.  There were some intense moments, and some really dull ones.  Our mission was looking for roadside bombs but we stopped a lot of traffic as well.  When I first began conducting missions, I really enjoyed every chance I got to get out of my truck and do something or talk to someone.  First of all, I was really bored just driving around and staring out the window, but I also enjoyed the feeling of being on the ground and giving orders, making decisions, and “actively engaging the populace”.               

          I stopped an old man in his car once.  He was with his whole family and had been acting suspiciously in some way or another; I honestly can’t remember what I was upset about at the time.  It likely had something to do with explosions or bullets.  My driver cut his vehicle off and I had a security element box him in on the other side.  We backed up our rear end to the hood of his vehicle.  I chambered a round and descended out the back door of my RG31.  This vehicle looks like a Range Rover on steroids and it dwarfed the little four-door this guy was driving.  It didn’t matter what was going on, setting foot onto an Iraqi street always sent a shot of adrenaline through me.          

           Now, I don’t want to dramatize my appearance; I’m a goofball.  My head falls in between helmet sizes and the big Kevlar dome rests a little uneasy making my face seem to bounce around like a dash ornament on top of my unnecessarily long neck.  My pants always ride a little low due to my complete lack of an ass, and I drag my feet when I walk.  So it wasn’t John Wayne approaching this car full of people.  But I was carrying a loaded weapon. I was wearing dark sunglasses on my face as well as an expression unique to cocky, motivated young Second Lieutenants.           

          I got the driver out of the car and left its occupants huddled together inside, the women working hard to remain covered and to watch the situation without having to make eye contact with any of the soldiers.  The old man moved slowly and was a little confused by all the attention.  I can’t remember what I was saying or what my goals were in this session of tactical questioning.  I remember a lot of agitation on my part and a lot of staring on his.          

          As I mentioned, the circumstances were forgettable, but the look this man gave me is as clear today as it was at that moment three years ago.  His face was worn like so many I’ve seen in this country.  His eyes looked out from behind their sunken, wrinkled sockets.  He refused to answer my interpreter’s questions and instead, chose to look at me with the type of patient intensity only old men are capable of.  There was no need for him to speak through the linguist.  His message was clear. I had failed to greet him formally, I was showing none of the respect he was due simply by being my elder, and I was embarrassing him in front of his family.  I was acting like a complete asshole.          

          As the message registered, my mind retreated briefly and I stood motionless for an uncomfortable second.  I thought of how ridiculous I must look.  I thought of my own grandfather and the anger I would have felt watching him be treated in this fashion.  One of my squad leaders snapped me out of my temporary contemplative trance.  I remember hearing his gentle inquiry, “What the fuck are we doing, LT?  Are we gonna search this shit or what?

          I came back to earth and words from my college Arabic classes jumped into the front of my brain: the first I ever uttered to anyone outside a classroom, “Ekhtaj tafteesh hatha. (I need to search this).”  I tapped the hood of the car as I said it, and then added, “min fadlek (the most formal way I know to ask permission).”          

          To say that everything changed from that moment on is probably not an overstatement.  The man replied “ahlan wa sahlan (you are welcome)” and my fellow soldiers checked his trunk and glove box, found nothing, and headed back to their trucks.  I left the man and his family to their day and the rest of their lives in a country where life is nothing to take for granted.  I changed that day.  I got over my war hero fantasies.  I just went back to being a goofball.  And I decided that I would devote the rest of my time in Iraq to truly communicating with the people of this country whenever I was given the chance.    

          

          I’ve had a lot of chances since then.           

     

          To think how far this war and this country and this Army have come is really amazing in a lot of ways.  It’s amazing it got as bad as it did.  It’s amazing it ever got any better.  I’m amazed that I’ve been involved so intimately in it and that it has shaped so much of my life and the life of my family.             

          Today, I’m finishing my second tour of service and I know I’m not the same. Three years ago I felt the excitement of combat and civil conflict and the adventure interested me more than my task.  It took some hard lessons to change me from just another motivated lieutenant into the jaded, sarcastic and hypercritical staff officer that I’ve become.  But those lessons and similar ones shared by thousands of soldiers all over this country have given us the group of warriors that the Army is lucky to have and struggles to keep.            

          To be concerned about the opinion of random locals in 2006 made me unique.  I took some flak for being a starry-eyed cherry LT from those who claimed to know better than me and probably did.  Three years later, I’m proud to sit in a room full of combat veterans discussing the Tafteesh.  We’ll smile about the silly rituals of our counterparts but we’ll approach them with respect and receive nothing less in return.  It’s second nature to us because we know better than to try any other method.           

          Colonel Latiff was waiting for me this morning as I made my final rounds before the big visit from the Ministry of Defense.  “Tafteesh Sayeeda!” I said.  It means: Happy Inspection!  He gave me his usual look of complete confusion and obvious disapproval at my decision to treat this unwelcome event as some sort of holiday.           

          “This inspection makes me tired.  Too much going on, too much work!  I do not like inspections.”           

          I grew serious and touched the palm of my hand to my heart,  “I am only joking, sir.  No one likes a tafteesh.  Trust me.”