They tell me I was born without nine fifths of my brain.

I don’t know what percentage that is exactly.

I don’t know how I ended up in the US Army. In Iraq.

One day out behind barracks playing soccer with some old volleyball, the next minute driving down the main drag in Baghdad. Invaders.

Amazing, they said, for someone lacking so much commonsense. My skill with language.  I could pick up any language quickedy split. Unholy God Amazing, they said. They test cased me. Fed over 90 languages into my brain – you know, into the minus four fifths of it or whatever. 97 languages, they stopped me there. Good God Almighty, they shouted. He’s a genius, the idiot – Send him to Baghdad!

And so they did. And here I am. And I tell you what, I ain’t no genius or I wouldn’t've wound up here in Baghdad with palm trees cut in half by mortar fire and some sort of invasion and conquest of all unholy proportions going on.

He can talk to everybody! they tell everybody. He ain’t misfiring on any more than nine fifths of his brain at any one time. They say it like it’s so funny the ten millionth time. The ol’ boy sure can slingo the lingo.

I ain’t resentful though. I ain’t that type. I’m just glad to be alive and warm here in sunny Baghdad. Oh sure you notice the bombs. Who wouldn’t?

Sunnis, Shias, Kurds, Iraqis, Iranians, Syrians, Saudis, Pakistanis, Al Qaedans, Hondurans, Irish, English, Spanglish, Jerseyian, Californian, Texan, Officeran, Enlistedan, Mercenarian (contractors), you bet I can speak all their languages, talk to any and every last one. And so they use me for my brain. We use you for your tongue and your ears, they tell me. You ain’t nothing but tongue and ears to us. So don’t think. Don’t talk. Listen and translate and tell them what we tell you to tell them. Got that? It was sort of implied.

Sir, yes, Sir. (Buck you.)

Take Deep Breath Number One

It all started on a warm sunny day in July when my mother gave birth to me in the Statue of Liberty, on the Fourth – yes, the very day of the USA’s independence (some hundreds of years after the fact of course).

You may want to know the details of such an unusual birth, well it is a bit absurd, I imagine you would hardly believe what happened but anyway you can look it up. Something about earthquakes, tremors, a mob, a scene, very crowded, trapped for a time, my poor mother – she wasn’t even a tourist! It gives me a headache just thinking about it. So let’s move on. In other words, I was very American born. Make no mistake. I was born in the Statue of Liberty. Do you understand? It explains nothing.

Well I was just living there in Baghdad you know on assignment translating 59 odd languages when they kidnapped me. Right there in broad daylight. Excuse me! They were dressed as Iraqi police and one as an American soldier and they strode right into the office room and asked me to get up out of my seat and come with them, if I pleased. Well their guns were large, the rest of us were mainly unarmed and otherwise disarmed and so I granted their wish.

Peace, I said, we shall go in peace. I told everyone. And they nodded, their guns weaving and bobbing and into the Toyota land cruisers we climbed - tinted windows, you see me no more, and goodbye. Kidnapped.

We are no threat to you, they told me first thing in the back seat.

Of course, I said.

We just want to chat.

I asked if they knew I spoke 97 languages or whatever it was, maybe more, maybe a lot more. They laughed, and laughed. He knows languages! Excellent! they said. We had no idea! Did you think we kidnapped you for your brain!

So you see how everyone treats a simple translator? One side mocks me for my brain and uses me for my ears and tongue, and the other side surrounds me with guns and mocks me for my brain and orders me around in Toyota land cruisers.

Now which side was that? Which side are we on?

I will tell you which side I would like to be on. I would like to be on the side that keeps me alive. Which side would that be? I ask you sincerely, speaking in general. Which side is trying to kill me the most? Please tell, I haven’t figured it out yet and my brain is small. So I am told. Which side is trying to kill me the most is not necessarily the side I am on.

Now, I don’t know about you. Which side brought me to Baghdad? Which side kidnapped me? Which side roiled up them mad bombers? Which side bombed? Which side is holding me hostage? Which side will be able to get me back? I’m just asking. I don’t expect you to come up with an answer right away.

I know one thing. I don’t like being an invader, and I don’t like being held hostage. How did I get here? Is it because of you? Did you put me here? I am American. Why am I not in America? The Iraqis pointing their guns at me seem to wonder too.

Oil, one of them says to me now. He even looks like me. There is the color of his skin but that is another matter. (There is also the color of mine. Sometimes it seems entirely shaded, sometimes entirely not.) Oil, the man repeats. Do you really want our oil so badly that you are willing to kill for it by the hundreds of thousands and more, and die for it too, and send millions upon million of refugees running for their lives? How possessed are you? Must you really have our oil so badly you would destroy our land and lives for generations to come?

Well, did you ever see much of what you call your oil? Fill up your cars and heat and cool your house to your heart’s content, and fly about traveling the world?

That is the high life to you, American? That is the ”American Dream”? The reality is we have less and less chance of any version of that every day. We have fewer benefits from our oil than ever before. Our families are slaughtered by your invasion. Every family in Iraq has been hit. Thus the unconquerable measure of our opposition to you. Iraqi opposition. We are hitting you from every side but we are like Davids and you are like super Goliaths. Iraq for Iraqis. Is that not good enough for you, invader? What makes you think the oil is yours?

Me? Look, man, this is just my job. I just work here.

I live here. I have always lived here. My whole -

Well you’re welcome to it. I’m just passing through. Uncle Sam says march, I say how high? I mean far, and where.

You want our oil.

You know we had your oil more than you did, right, could buy it on the open seas like anyone else. Once oil is in the tankers it goes to the highest bidder. We had your oil.

Exactly, soldier. The Iraqi brandished his gun. So why invade? I can see CNN, you know. I can see your gas price has doubled. Fat lot of good the oil did you.

It’s not about the oil.

No? Is it about the cabbages we grow here in Iraq? Americans like the taste of our lettuce so much they have to bomb and invade for it?

It’s about the control of the oil, not the access. Big Oil wants to control the price and the profits and Uncle Sam wants to control the pipelines, where they go, when it flows, when not, and how much. It’s not about the oil. It’s about control.

Of the oil.

Obviously. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.

The Iraqi put the gun back by his side. You are a funny man, Alvin.

How do you know my name?

How do you not know mine? We actually have a use for you. But we are not even bugs in the road to you. Collateral damage means bugs in the road to you, not even. Sometimes you try to minimize the number of bugs you squash. But overall? Have you seen the latest statistics? You couldn’t care less. It was of no basic concern to you when you invaded, and it only matters now if the blowback is too great. So you force us to blowback. You see we have chosen not to surrender, submit, and die. Imagine that, Alvin. Can you imagine it? And so we have learned your name and all about you because we have a use for you, Alvin, as we must.

Do you know in Latin my name means white, light-skinned? In German, friend to all. In English, noble friend. What sort of use? Do you want me to translate something?

That’s quite an ironic name, Alvin. You want our oil. We want your money. You couldn’t just trade for it, could you? Well now you take, we take. It works like that. It works like that now.

So I’m a hostage for ransom.

Something like that. Are you worth much, do you think? Is your job worth it?

No, man, it’s like I said. I just work here.

But you aren’t from around here?

I didn’t used to be.

And did you cross the border legally?

In point of fact -

No. You can look it up. Not at all. Not according to the former head of the United Nations, not according to legal experts across the globe. Not according to Iraq. Not according to Iraqis. Do you not read the polls? The majority continue to want you out. So you’re an illegal alien, isn’t that the phrase? That wouldn’t be so bad if you had merely come to work like anyone. Did you not have a place of employment at home? You came to Iraq because you needed a job that your own rich country could not provide? What kind of country is that? What kind of democracy is it supposed to be?

I speak 97 languages. The world is my home.

Or did you come here to Iraq with an Army, Navy, Air Force, and the Marines?

Personally, I came in peace. For peace.

You’ve cut us to pieces. Invaders have no rights. You can look that up too.

I know the Geneva Conventions. You can’t kill me, you’re not allowed. You can’t even -

And do you honor us with your Geneva Conventions? Have you not heard of your rendition – the ticket to torture and worse – flying us off to secret dungeons of horror? Have you not heard of your declaring us unlawful combatants – the phony pretext for slamming us outside the bounds of the Geneva Conventions? I am Iraqi, fighting for my home. You are an invader. Should you worry whether we have chosen to be hospitable to you, Alvin? Do you suppose we will give your father any assurance?

That’s it, isn’t it.

We know he’s an Admiral in the US Navy. Now here’s the deal. We need money, but will accept weapons. Your father is a resourceful fellow. Let’s put him to the test. You are on good terms with your father? You are no Alexander the Great but you must be some source of pride to the Admiral. You speak -

97 languages.

Of course. So you’re on good terms?

In fact -

It doesn’t matter. We ourselves are resourceful fellows too, Alvin. Now – do you want to know my name?

You would tell me?

Not that you asked, noble friend, but I suppose such is the inhumanity of war, is it not? Call me Habib. Do not forget that. You know what it means of course.

Beloved.

That is correct.

You got the wrong guy. My name is the same name as the Admiral’s son but I am not the Admiral’s son. What happens when you realize you got the wrong guy? Habib, you made a mistake. You got the wrong guy. I’m not Alvin. I mean I am but -

Habib shook the gun in my face. You know what we’re about, I’m sure, Mr. 97 languages. If the Admiral won’t come to us with the money, then we will go to him. Isn’t that the way you do it in your world? You take the bullet to the man with the oil. Well then. We must be pleased to return the favor. So what will save you now, Alvin? Which job skill? Which language? Number 65? Number 83?

You won’t get close to him. He’s a king in the Navy.

The Iraqi laughed. You must shake my hand, no? And we will bet. Would that seal it?

My word is good enough.

It had better be.

What of your word? Why should I think you mean anything by it?

Alvin, you are our guest now. You know our literature is far more ancient than yours. We’ve done hospitality for millenia. Our Epic of Gilgamesh is thousands of years old, much older even than the ancient Iliad and the Odyssey, which dramatizes the practice of Xenia – you know, hospitality, the guest-host relationship – our obligations to one another, if not friendship. The mighty Gilgamesh too became civilized. And he strove to learn of meaning of life. Shall we listen and learn together then? We will extend a form of Xenia to you. And you had best hope it be duly reciprocated, at the least, by your kin and kind. I extend this gesture to you from the craters of bombs - your bombs, and our bombs as a result, but essentially your bombs, in this our home.

I’m a hostage.

The Iraqi nodded and looked through the windshield into the inner city street. He looked past a smashed building, crushed car, broken curbs and concrete. The cityscape appeared to be awaiting the next blow. 

You are an invader, Alvin.

Do you mean that personally or professionally?

Habib looked at me, and in the cornea of his eye I saw reflected the broken car in the street. And Habib behind the broken car.

You have my word. We will get to the Admiral, if need be. This is our bet, yours and mine.

Have we put anything at stake?

The Iraqi looked through me. He did not say anything more.