I wait for emails from my former Iraqi translator to appear in my Inbox—too long a wait, and I assume he’s dead. I fear mentioning any part of his name that might identify him to the wrong people.

Sitting on the steps of my platoon’s HQ in southern Iraq some time in 2003, I asked our translator what he had done while his city was being bombed by Americans during the invasion. 

He started into an impassioned 5-minute monologue. A 20-year-old student, he told of how Saddam’s Fedayeen guerrillas tried to recruit his university’s English class to defend the city as Marines closed in. He described days of remaining in his home as the fighting began, the fervent praying in a cramped room with his sister’s annoying children.

In subsequent conversations he would speak of life under Saddam’s regime, the murder of his anti-government uncle and the torture of a friend whose fingernails had been ripped out after emailing the United States.  

He still tells stories.

In November 2003 he wrote to my unit (then recently returned from Iraq) about the bombing of our former HQ, where he was working Italian soldiers.

"im okky my friend god help me from this explosion i was in petrol with my friend italian it was every thing horrible thanks for god because he saved me"

He wrote that he feared being killed and how he hated Iraq and wanted to leave it.

"just tell me what ican do if when i walk in the street one day terrerist man will kill me in front of all people in the markit or in any where."

Another email, sent on April 10, 2004: