39. THE VISIT

ALI looked tan and extremely fit on his visit home, after being away for eight months—and somehow bigger than before, sitting in his living room in Utica, near the large portrait of himself.

But he looked shell-shocked.

Heidi knows that switching worlds is not easy.

There was a previous visit home, months ago—for just a few days: At the airport, they kept checking each other’s faces, delighted, then they would look away.

But the visit was taken up by mundane things: Ali gave his old car to Bob. Had a doctor check his knee. He bought a virtual reality headset, and a pair of military pants at the army/navy store. Afterward, they said to each other, “Did that even happen?”

This visit would last two weeks.

Heidi looked radiant and a bit nervous. She was wearing makeup—rare for her—and a pretty, low-cut blouse. Recently she had decided to quit her job; she was now working in the office of a social services agency that worked with foster kids, and she loved it.

She shot a look at Julia, sitting in Ali’s recliner. “Julia—that’s Ali’s!” she said.

But Julia—laughing and chatting with Kurrine, who was in Heidi’s chair—ignored her. They were in a giddy state: They had just gotten acceptance letters from colleges. Julia would be going to SUNY Delhi, Kurrine to SUNY Buffalo.

Ali, sitting on the couch, did not seem to mind. He smoked his hookah, waiting for Bob and Dana to arrive.

Heidi sat next to him, quietly, then went to check on dinner.

Ali came over to me and started talking about his work, interpreting for high-ranking coalition officers advising the Iraqi forces.

“It’s 12 hours a day, and we’re on call 24/7,” he said. “It’s exciting, addictive.”

He is finally allowed to say where he is based: “I’m in the middle of Baghdad,” he said, grinning.

His team is within a small area of the Green Zone, which was the governmental seat of Saddam Hussein’s Baath Party before the invasion.

“We’re not free to come and go,” he explained. “But everything is close to us: the chow hall, gym, movie theater. There’s an Iraqi rock band and a fire pit.”

“But I’m 10 minutes from my house,” he said, quietly. “And I can’t go home.”

Initially, Ali did not tell his family he was in Baghdad; he worried about their safety. But his team manager said he needed to inform them: “We don’t want them going to the embassy asking for you.”

The manager said he would arrange for Ali’s family to visit. It would be highly secret. Nobody would see them leaving their house.

“I told him no,” Ali said. “I can’t see my mom and sisters for a day, and then say goodbye. And I can’t guarantee their security. I can’t risk it.”

“So, I’m home—and I’m not home.”

Yet his mother is happy he is nearby, he added, smiling. “She told me, ‘We feel like you never left.’ ”

Karen arrived and gave Ali a big hug. “KK!” he said, affectionately. She had driven Heidi to the Syracuse airport to pick him up.

“Dana just called,” Heidi said, coming out of the bedroom. “She, Bob, and the kids all have the flu—they can’t come.”

Ali looked devastated.

“Do they need help?” he asked. “I can drive them to the hospital.” “They’re just in bed,” Heidi said. “We’ll see them next week when they’re better.”

“Ask them if they need anything.” For a few minutes, he was quiet.

What has eased his time away is his friendship with a new roommate. “He’s a character, very funny,” Ali said.

The room they share is tiny, and when Ali first entered, he brought along a curtain, thinking they would divide the room for privacy.

“My roommate said, ‘You don’t need that. I won’t look at your bra and underwear!’ ” Ali laughed.

Two big men, they manage to coexist: Both use the middle of the room for prayer. They like Arabic TV on, even when they sleep. They like drones, soccer, hookah.

“After work, I put on my headphones,” Ali said, “go on YouTube, and play stand-up comedy in Arabic. I fall asleep in five seconds.”

Looking around his living room, he drew a circle in the air: “I miss all this,” he said. “Heidi and home. Julia. Bob and Dana, their kids. KK. And the lakes.”

“Shopping,” he added, smiling. “Ollie’s, Best Buy, Walmart. I miss looking—and the possibility of buying.”

And yet, he was signing up for a second year in Iraq.

“I just did the medical exam yesterday,” he said. He is waiting to be cleared.

After completing a second year, he would have enough money to buy a house without taking out a mortgage. “I don’t like payments,” he said. “Even if I buy a car, I pay outright.”

For $70,000–80,000 cash he and Heidi could get a three-bedroom house. “I like this section of East Utica, close to Proctor Park.” He would also consider New Hartford. “It’s cleaner, greener.”

But there is another reason he is signing up again: The work is riveting to him.

“When we’re making plans to do something, and it happens, it makes me very happy,” he said. “Every word I say or translate—if it helps capture or kill a terrorist, I’m glad.”

“We are brothers,” he added about his team. “Even before I left Iraq, they called to say they missed me.”

Ali’s team is based near the courthouse—set in the old Baath Party headquarters—where Saddam was tried and convicted.

For years, Ali has been fascinated by the courthouse. “They turned it into a museum,” he said. But he never got to see it. “They had tours, but then stopped giving them. I wanted to see the court so bad.”

Saddam’s trial was a turning point in Ali’s life.

Saddam was being tried, along with seven others, for the torture and killing of 148 Shiite men and teenage boys from the town of Dujail, 35 miles north of Baghdad, after an assassination attempt against him there in 1982.

The trial itself seemed like a miracle to Ali. “If anybody had told us we’d be in charge . . .” he said, shaking his head. “We suffered so much under Saddam.”

Ali was a public affairs officer, organizing Arab media during the trial. He and his team spent six months preparing for it, making sure every Arab household had free access.

“I’d worked so hard, I thought I’d be the first person in court,” he said. And on the morning of October 19, 2005, the first day of the trial, he dressed carefully, in his best suit.

When his supervisor told him to stay in the office to monitor the coverage, he was crushed. “I took off my suit and tie,” he said, “and lay down.”

During that first session—which lasted only three hours—Saddam remained defiant. He made fun of the American military occupation. He refused to recognize the court’s authority.

The trial was adjourned until November 28 to allow Saddam’s lawyers to prepare.

The night of the 27th, a friend from the American Embassy called Ali: “Are you ready for tomorrow? You’re going.”

This time, Ali dressed differently: “I put on Italian black boots, black pants, a black shirt, and a long, black leather coat,” he said. “I had a little hair then,” he added, touching his bald head, “and I put it back with gel.”

“My friends called me the Angel of Death.”

In the courtroom, journalists and high-ranking officials of the new Iraqi government sat behind bulletproof glass.

Ali was behind glass, too. Right by the exit door.

“I was standing and waiting. I was like, ‘Please God.’ Then the door opened.”

“He’s a tall man; his skin was yellow-white,” Ali said, describing Saddam.

In his manacled hands, he held a green-backed Koran. “Saddam walked like he was tired, until he was in front of me,” Ali said.

“Then he stopped and looked at me from my black boots to my black shirt.”

Ali jumped up from the living room couch—and crossing his arms across his broad chest, showed me how he had stood, glaring at the former dictator of Iraq.

For Ali, this encounter was real—and personal. As a child, he was terrified his Iranian mother would be taken away by the police. As a young man, he lost his brother and nephews to Sunni insurgents. He blamed Saddam for Iraq’s fall.

“Iraq was the number one country in the Mideast,” Ali said. “A rich country. With one job, you could support a family. People were happy. Through Saddam’s stupid strategy—surrounding himself with people of his tribe, who were loyal killers—he got us into the eight-year war with Iran.”

“Half of Iraqi young men were killed,” he added. “It was hard to find a piece of bread or cooking oil. People forget that.”

There was laughter coming from the dining room table: Two old friends of Heidi’s had arrived. Heidi was telling a story about a surprise 22nd-birthday party she threw for Karen.

“I brought in this beautiful chocolate cake,” Heidi recalled. “Karen kept saying, ‘Oh, I’m so surprised!’ ”

“I said, ‘No, you’re not! You’ve known about it for weeks. You told me everything you wanted!’ ”

A massive cake fight started: Heidi pushed the cake into Karen’s face. And Karen—small but strong—lunged at Heidi, toppling her.

“Everybody jumped in,” Karen said, laughing.

Later, “we all went up to the bathroom, took off our clothes, and washed ourselves,” Heidi said.

Just as the story was ending, Ali came over. Sitting down next to Heidi, he smiled. He helped himself to some salad and orzo with olives and almonds, and began eating.