THE LATEST CONCERNS at the Guantanamo Bay prison camp is a sharp reminder that America can’t take security for granted–even at its most remote outposts. The capture of Ahmed Fathy Mehalba is even more unsettling because it involved a former Army soldier and naturalized U.S. citizen (by way of Egypt) who was employed as a civilian contractor by the military. The war on terror has presented the Pentagon with a dilemma: In order to fight an enemy, you have to first understand them–literally. With few Arabic speakers in its ranks, the Pentagon has resorted to contracting American citizens to act as translators. While the incident with Mehalba exposes the risks of hiring translators for sensitive intelligence work, others who operate in far more risky and austere environments have displayed a courage and patriotism seldom matched.
WHILE I WAS ON ASSIGNMENT in Iraq this summer, I met several interpreters hired by the Pentagon. They came from different professional backgrounds: Some were business owners, others restaurateurs, and even engineers. They all spoke Arabic fluently and, at least for a time, worked for the U.S. military.
Some of the 700 or so translators in Iraq came for the adventure, others came out of a sense of patriotic duty. No matter the reason, each was living in the torrid summer heat alongside the troops, following soldiers on late-night raids, walking amongst the crowded throngs during foot patrols, and playing a vital role in the search for Saddam Hussein’s final holdouts.
Take Hannah Covarrubias, for example. She’s a skin therapist from Modesto, California, a mother of two, and wife of a former Marine. At the age of 46, she decided she wanted to give something back to her adopted home.
Born in a Middle Eastern country with dual citizenship between that country and France, Covarrubias didn’t see the need to get a third citizenship in the United States. After all, she was married to an American citizen and had lived here for years.
But it took one of America’s greatest catastrophes to change her mind, forfeit her French citizenship, and apply to be one of Uncle Sam’s own.
“The turning point for me was September 11,” Covarrubias said while chatting on the grounds of a former Iraqi military youth camp used as a U.S. military base in Iraq. “I thought it would be important for someone with my background to get my citizenship.”
When the war with Iraq kicked off, Covarrubias received a letter from the Defense Department asking if she’d be willing to work as an interpreter for U.S. forces in Iraq during reconstruction and peacekeeping. The Pentagon had received her name from a list of people who had applied for citizenship with the INS from Middle Eastern countries.
She accepted and became an employee of Titan Corp., a civilian contractor to the Pentagon. After a security clearance check, language tests, and a 10-day basic military course in Fort Bliss, Texas, Covarrubias and her compatriots were off to Iraq.
Each of the interpreters is paid a healthy sum–upwards of $87,000 per year–for a one year contract. Every three months, the translators are given a two-week vacation, and they’re supposed to get at least one day off per week.
But that depends on the pace of operations and the willingness of the interpreters to work long hours. Military intelligence officers and unit commanders lean heavily on the interpreters–dubbed “terps” by the soldiers–for conducting raids outside the compound, interrogating prisoners, and gathering intelligence on patrols.
As civilians, however, they are allowed to refuse missions if they don’t feel safe.
ADAIL KAKISH, a divorced, 40-something restaurant owner, did just that one evening in the town of Dujael, about 120 kilometers north of Baghdad. As troops from 3rd Battalion, 7th Armored Cavalry Regimen were loading up to depart on a night raid, Kakish refused to stay in the M2 Bradley fighting vehicle for the ride into town.
“I don’t care if they fire me,” the Jordanian-born Kakish said. “I am not going in that tank.”
Kakish still refused, even after commanders tried to coax her into a Humvee instead.
“Life here is really bad,” she later admitted, referring to the sleepless nights spent in the hot, mosquito-ridden base.
Without Kakish, the patrol had to rely on a soldier with a limited command of Arabic. Each encounter with locals on that patrol ended with a shrug of the shoulders and a polite “thank you,” neither party understanding what the other had said.
Other terps, however, seem to confront the danger with a sleepy nonchalance.
Soft-spoken Joseph Bishabue, originally from Damascus, Syria, walked so casually amongst the battle-hardened soldiers during one predawn raid he seemed almost bored. The camouflage flak jacket, helmet, and 9mm pistol gripped loosely in the Chicago resident’s hand seemed out of place during an operation officers said would be hot.
“Are you ever scared?” I asked.
“No, never,” Bishabue said quietly with a shrug. “Why should I be?”
The Bradley fighting vehicles and Humvees bristling with .50 caliber machine guns and fierce-looking troops did lend a sense of invincibility. But the ill-lit alleyways and ramshackle houses of the Iraqi village bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the warrens of Mogadishu.
On another mission that night, Covarrubias, a slightly-built woman who works as a skin therapist back home, projected a sense of strength as she questioned Iraqi suspects for her U.S. protectors.
Covarrubias was confident, but not above fear. “I’m not so afraid of dying,” she said. “But what I’m really afraid of is being captured. These people here are capable of very nasty things.”
Still, she’s gung-ho on her job as a terp with the U.S. forces in Iraq.
“You know, I’ve got pictures of my husband and my son on the wall of our living room in their Marine uniforms,” Covarrubias recalled with pride. “When I get home, I’m going to put a picture of myself above them in my uniform too.”
Christian Lowe is a staff writer for Army Times Publishing Company and a contributing writer to The Daily Standard. He spent six weeks on assignment in Iraq this summer.
