11

The Philadelphia Inquirer

SEPTEMBER 7, 2006

There’s a large pool of blood on the floor. I’m aware that it’s part of a dream, but I can’t wake up. The blood slides toward my feet. My legs are sluggish and I can’t get out of the way. The puddle moves as if it’s alive. It nips at my feet as I pull back in fear.

I wake up. I’m afraid to go back to sleep.

That dream came to me almost every night when I returned from Iraq in the summer of 2004. It was just one of a series of nightmares that visited me on a consistent basis. The longer I was home, the less frequent the nightmares became, but they never completely stopped. They return without warning. I’m convinced they’ll never be gone for good.

I was a civilian contractor in Iraq from December 2003 to May 2004. I served as an intelligence specialist in Abu Ghraib, Fallujah and Baghdad. My ability to speak Arabic made me a valuable commodity and allowed me to work directly with Iraqi citizens. A few of them inevitably became my friends. During a rocket attack one afternoon at Camp Victory in Baghdad, two of them were killed.

I retrieved their bodies from the U.S. military morgue the next morning. I was to meet the families at the front gate and notify them of the deaths. The body bags were not labeled, and I was forced to make identifications, but the men were so disfigured, I couldn’t tell the difference between the two. I unzipped the bags and searched the bodies for ID cards. Blood poured out of one of the openings and streamed to the floor. It covered my boots. It’s the same pool of blood that visits me in my nightmare.

This is one of the untold stories of the war in Iraq. It is an example of the scars and the wounds about which no one wants to hear. Instead, we focus on the more than 2,600 deaths and argue about what they mean. Some think of them as a reasonable sacrifice for the greater good, while others consider them a terrible crime. But no one wants to think of the damage that’s been done to those who have returned home. We call those who served heroes and throw them a barbecue. We tell them we’ll take care of them.

I don’t know how many are suffering from their memories of Iraq. Maybe I’m the only one. Common sense tells me otherwise, but I can speak only of my own pain. It is severe, but I usually share it with no one. I’m embarrassed at times, fearing I’m the only one who has been unable to control it. As a man who has served as a soldier and worked as a police officer, I should be immune to such fears. I should be able to control my emotions and move on without complaining. That’s no longer working.

I am quick to anger now, and my temper flares without much reason. I cry without cause, and I struggle to find purpose in everyday tasks. I used to value hard work; now I feel lazy. I’ve found ways to go on with life, hide the symptoms, and pretend nothing is wrong. For now, no one can tell the difference.

I listen as others debate the war in Iraq and talk about what it has cost. They wonder how it will affect elections and gas prices. They compare it with wars of the past and disagree about how much tougher or easier this one has been. They argue about phrases like civil war and accuse one another of making mistakes. In the end, though, they always say they support the troops. It brings consensus and makes them feel as though they’re doing their part. They move on to the next topic.

I can’t find a way to move on. There is no way to change what Iraq has done to me. The scars are permanent, and I’ve grown tired of hiding them. It’s time for the nation to start thinking about what it really means to support those who serve. It’s time to consider the full effects of this war on the nation’s sons and daughters. The experience doesn’t end once you’re home. In many ways, it’s just beginning. While the rest of the nation sleeps soundly tonight, I’ll go back to my nightmare in Iraq.

Eric Fair

The piece is well received. I get emails. Nice ones. Ones that say, “I hope you sleep better,” and “Don’t feel guilty,” and “Anything we can do?”

A professor from Villanova who teaches an introductory writing class asks me to answer her students’ questions about writing and war. One student writes about her father. He died a few years ago. He was a Vietnam veteran. He never spoke about his experiences. She wants to know why I have gone public with mine. Why not get the help I need in private? Why not keep it to myself? Why am I seeking attention?

The professor calls and thanks me for taking the time to respond to these questions. She says the students were impressed that a writer would send personal emails. She says the students were particularly impressed with the way I handled the questions from the student who questioned my motivations. She says every class has one of these students. She says, “The rest of them know you weren’t trying to impress anyone.”

The student who questioned my motivations is right. I was trying to impress everyone. The piece is deceptive. It says nothing about interrogation and nothing about torture. It says nothing about the old Iraqi man I shoved into the wall. It makes it sound as though the two boys were my friends. I alter the story about returning to the same body bag, but only to simplify the narrative. Nothing in the article is meant to be untrue, but the picture it paints is an absolute lie.

I haven’t yet mustered the courage to confess, so I hide behind a story meant to impress.

Still, the piece in the Philadelphia Inquirer sets me in motion. I’m not sure what would have happened if I hadn’t published that first article. I might very well have found a way to bury my experience in Iraq. I might even have found a way to feel good when people thanked me for my service. But in late 2006 I started a process I wasn’t able to stop.

Many of the people who respond to the essay encourage me to publish more articles, and while they can’t possibly know the real story that needs to be written, their voices contribute to a call to start moving forward. So I keep writing.

11.1

At night, in bed, Karin and I talk about starting a family. We’ve had this discussion before, during our engagement, while we were walking around a kettle pond on Cape Cod. We agreed to have children, but not right away. We haven’t talked about it since. For a time, after I was diagnosed with heart failure, Karin wouldn’t sleep with me, afraid that I would suffer cardiac arrest in the middle of sex. That never happened, but we agreed the heart condition changed our views on family. Then there was Iraq. That changed our views as well.

We’ve been married five years. I’m thirty-four. Karin is thirty-two. We’re older than our parents were when we were born. We both agree the time is right. Karin is comfortable in her position as an engineer. We’re both becoming more comfortable with the idea of moving to Princeton for seminary in the coming year. We agree it would be a great place to raise a child. In the meantime, I write more articles for newspapers.

In December 2006, someone sends me a link to an op-ed in the New York Times. The piece, which was published nearly a year earlier, is by Tony Lagouranis, an Army interrogator who served in Iraq in 2004. The piece is called “Tortured Logic.” It details his experiences in Iraq and questions the efficacy of aggressive and abusive interrogation techniques. I’m familiar with most of these techniques. I used many of them and had success with them. In the email, a sentence from the piece is highlighted.

Perhaps, I have thought for a long time, I also deserve to be prosecuted.

The email asks, “Did you know this guy?”

I did not know Tony Lagouranis. But I know his experiences. I know why he questions what he deserves. I know why he questions why some were held accountable and others not. I know why he feels he did something wrong, and I know why he wonders whether he should be prosecuted.

When I read Lagouranis’s essay, I am ashamed.

11.2

On December 11, 2006, I submit an opinion piece to the Washington Post about interrogation. Four days later it is accepted for publication. I tell Karin there will be consequences for making my Iraq experience public. I say, “People aren’t going to be happy.” She says, “As long as you think it’s the right thing to do.”

Karin and I sit in the house on Bonus Hill and have one of the first discussions about Iraq either of us can remember. I admit for the first time that I hung up on her from Abu Ghraib, that hearing her voice was just too painful, that somehow it made me realize I was doing something wrong. So I shut her off. Karin tells me how she felt helpless, how everything she did seemed wrong, how there was nothing she could do for me from home. But she promises to stand behind me now. She doesn’t care what anyone else thinks. It’s the right thing to do.

In late 2006, writing an article about something like sleep deprivation is dangerous. Many Americans are still under the impression that the abuse of Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib was an isolated incident in an otherwise well-run detention program. Two more years will pass before the vice president of the United States tells the world that he ordered waterboarding. Two years will pass before he says, “I thought it was absolutely the right thing to do.” Eight years will pass before the U.S. Senate releases a report on torture and the country learns about the technique called rectal rehydration.

But in 2006, I think I may go to jail for what I am about to say. And I think it is exactly what I deserve.

11.3

The Washington Post piece appears on February 9, 2007. In it, I describe nightmares and screaming, and I make reference to sleep deprivation in Fallujah. I say I witnessed and participated in other abuses as well, and I’m struggling with the consequences of my actions. I say that oppressive prisons create enemies, and that there is more to be learned about what went on at Abu Ghraib.

The piece appears on the Post’s website the night before it goes to print. Karin and I sit in bed with our separate computers and monitor the newspaper’s homepage. My essay appears just before midnight. The first email message appears at 12:20 a.m. It says, “Thank you.”

When we wake up the next morning there are more than two hundred messages in my in-box. One of them asks, “Are You Gay?”

Karin wakes up for work. We have breakfast and laugh about the email questioning my sexuality. We read it over and over again.

Eric,

I just read your sad story. You sound like Richard Simmons. Butch up, Sally.

At noon, I receive a phone call from Army CID. They want to come speak with me in Bethlehem. They’ll be out first thing tomorrow morning. It’s a Saturday. I stop answering emails.

11.4

The next morning, ten minutes before the appointment time, the CID agent calls and asks that we conduct the interview at the local police station. He’s using “change of scenery,” an interrogation tactic. I used it at Abu Ghraib.

I ask which police station. He says, “Bethlehem.” I say, “Township or city?” He doesn’t know. He pauses, tells me to hold on for a minute, and then asks someone where he is. I recognize the voice in the background. It’s the supervisor of the records room at the Bethlehem Police Department. The CID agent asks whether I need directions. I say, “No, I’ve been there before.”

A friend connects me with a lawyer. The lawyer offers to accompany me to the police station. I decline. He says, “Don’t sign anything.” I thank him for the advice. For the first time since losing my job to a heart condition, I return to the City of Bethlehem Police Department.

11.5

At the front desk, I sit and talk to the sergeant on duty. He was one of my training officers, one of the good ones. We talk about the current condition of the police department and the number of new officers who have been hired. We talk about the CID agent. He says, “How much longer should we make the asshole wait?”

I meet the CID agent in one of the interview rooms in the back of the station. Police headquarters is in the basement of city hall, so there are no windows in any of the rooms. He asks me to close the door. I decline. He says it will be easier to conduct the interview with the door closed. I ask him whether I’m under arrest.

The door remains open and the interview proceeds. When it’s over, the agent hands me a pamphlet entitled “Initial Information for Victims and Witnesses of Crime.” He says, “I’m required to give this to you.” I read the first paragraph:

Introduction: We are concerned about the problems often experienced by victims and witnesses of crime. We know that as a victim or witness, you may experience anger, frustration, or fear as a result of your experience. The officer responsible for Victim/Witness Assistance at your installation can help.

11.6

When I get home, I speak with the lawyer again. I tell him I didn’t sign anything in my meeting with CID. I tell the lawyer I intend to cooperate. He says this is the right thing to do, but he also says it makes sense for me to have legal representation. He says, “Rest assured, these guys don’t care what happens to you.”

The CID agent calls again. He wants me to come to Washington, D.C. The Department of Justice wants to talk to me. He says, “This thing goes all the way to the top.” I call the lawyer back.

In Washington, I meet with the lawyer in his office on K Street. The law firm is enormous. It occupies multiple floors. Two lawyers are assigned to my case. They will walk me through the initial stages of the process. If it goes to trial, a new team will be assigned. The head of the law firm stops by to pay a visit. He says I have nothing to worry about and I should listen to his lawyers. He says, “None of our clients have ever gone to jail.”

We take a break. The lawyers order lunch. They sit with the head of the law firm and talk about their families. They talk about a search committee and a new pastor. The head of the law firm and one of the lawyers attend the same church. They are Presbyterians.

The lawyers arrange a meeting with representatives of the Department of Justice. I agree to cooperate with the U.S. attorney’s office for the Eastern District of Virginia.

11.7

I spend the spring of 2007 dealing with the fallout from the Washington Post piece. By May, I’ve received more than three thousand emails. The op-ed appeared on numerous blogs and was reprinted in a number of newspapers and publications throughout the country. Messages from readers continue to flow in. Someone sends me Rolling Stone. There’s a chart called “Threat Assessment.” It’s inserted into an article about the decline of evangelical Christians in politics. The left side of the chart is labeled “With Us.” The right side of the chart is labeled “Against Us.” I’m number two on the “With Us” side, just below the North Dakota Senate, which has voted to repeal a 117-year-old law that made premarital cohabitation a sex crime. Just below me on the “With Us” side is Karl Rove, who endorsed illegal immigration by saying, “I don’t want my seventeen-year-old son to have to pick tomatoes or make beds in Las Vegas.”

An email from the office of former president Bill Clinton arrives, asking for my home address. A week later, Bill Clinton sends me a handwritten note. He uses the word “courage.”

But despite all the praise and attention, I know that the op-ed is not courageous. It is cowardly. Every word, every phrase, and every sentence was crafted to ensure that I did not implicate myself in anything criminal. I provided no names, no specific dates, and no specific locations. The techniques I mentioned were taken straight from the interrogation handbook or from the list of approved “enhanced interrogation techniques.” While I question the morality of my behavior, I do not call for my own prosecution. By my own account in the article, I’ve done nothing wrong.

As email messages lauding my honesty and courage continue to arrive, I delete them. But there is another kind of email I can recognize by the subject line. Instead of phrases using words like “courage,” “honesty,” and “hero,” there are phrases like “I hope you die.” I don’t delete these emails. I read them over and over.

An email arrives that says, “Welcome.”

Welcome to the club brother.

I was in the infantry in Vietnam in 1968. I murdered an NVA soldier who was trying to surrender. I gave the go ahead for two of our artillerymen to gun down these two soldiers. All I had to do was tell them not to but instead said, “Fuck it!” This has been a burden for thirty-nine years and will continue to be so until I die. I don’t believe in any religion, I do believe in an Infinite Intelligence and perhaps our punishment is carrying this guilt to our graves. I just want to let you know you have plenty of company. Welcome.

At First Presbyterian Church in Bethlehem, a pastor preaches a sermon about the importance of legacy. He talks about how God works generationally. The consequences of our actions in life are laid upon our descendants. Some families are rewarded, while others are punished. He tells a story about Al Capone’s lawyer. The lawyer helped keep Capone out of jail. This made him bad. Later, the lawyer had a crisis of conscience and decided to testify against Capone. This made him good. As a reward, God bestowed a heroic legacy upon the lawyer’s son who joined the Navy, became a pilot, and shot down Japanese planes during World War II. Eventually the son was shot down too. He died. They named the airport in Chicago after him.

Karin says, “Is that a punishment or a reward?” I say, “Maybe we shouldn’t have a child after all.”

The good days in Bethlehem were short. They ended when I starting writing articles. I’d stopped drinking for a time, but I’m an alcoholic now. I don’t sleep. I yell a lot. Mostly at Karin. But at other people, too. I have no job, and no interest in finding one. I rarely attend church. When I do, I’m hungover. At night I think about dying. I wonder how much longer my heart will last. I wonder whether I’ll know the time has come or whether I’ll just shut off. I wonder whether Ferdinand felt anything, whether he knew. I think about the mortar attack in Fallujah, when Ferdinand pretended he was trying to catch the incoming rounds. He said his death would be a mercy killing. I wonder whether he was relieved when the time came.

Like the decision to leave the NSA, the decision to finally go to seminary in Princeton is made out of desperation. I am unstable. I’ve made Karin unstable, too. Karin got pregnant during the good days in Bethlehem, but the good days are gone now. We should stay where we are and search for stability. We should focus on our family. We should focus on each other. But we make another mistake and move to Princeton.