I’m troubled by recent news of increased anti-Semitism around the world. Of all the senseless hatreds, this sort, with its unfathomably evil history, is of particular concern.
Surprisingly, I first encountered it in the U.S. Army while deployed to Afghanistan.
With no chaplain, we soldiers arranged our own worship services. The first of these was in a mud-brick stable used for storage. Four of us sat on ammo cans, sweating in the Afghan heat as I explained our worship was for everyone.
“So Catholics can just mumble while the rest of us finish the Lord’s Prayer,” I joked.
“What about Jews?” asked Staff Sgt. Smith.
“I don’t think there are any Jewish people serving here.”
“Good,” Smith said. “You know, ‘cause with the whole Christ killer thing.”
I was stunned. I’d never encountered someone who had expressed hatred for Jewish people, certainly not in the Army.
He missed a major point of the Bible, I thought. After all, Jesus himself was Jewish.
I said nothing, for he outranked me.
Later, a magazine, ostensibly about military history, showed up, featuring ads for Nazi action figures and SS marching music.
Smith never came to another service. Working with communications, he didn’t often leave the command center. Months later, I sat at breakfast with Smith and my team leader, Sgt. Peterson. I don’t eat eggs. Peterson doesn’t eat pork. I silently gave him my eggs and took his ham.
“Why doesn’t Peterson eat ham?” Smith asked.
“Because he’s Jewish!” I lied, locking eyes with Peterson in hopes he’d pick up on the joke’s cue.
“Shalom,” Peterson said.
Smith looked uncomfortable and left quickly. How was it possible, I asked Peterson after explaining Smith’s hatred of Jewish people, to be deployed, dependent on one’s fellow soldiers, and still harboring hate over the way they prayed?
“You abandoned your old prejudice against Afghans and Muslims,” Peterson said. “There’s still hope for Smith.”
Troubled by Smith’s attitude, but outranked, we messed with him whenever we could. Sometimes I had to ensure my squad relieved the previous shift on the guard towers. Since his duty included monitoring radios, we knew he would hear our transmissions.
“All towers,” I radioed. “Sitrep. Over.”
Peterson answered, keeping up his fiction to annoy Smith: “The Jewish guy in tower five is up.”
Once, a mob of Afghans protested outside our perimeter, upset about highway robbers. They were good people, enjoying free speech and assembly. We harbored concern that the Taliban might exploit the situation and attack. Smith harbored terror and panic.
He was assigned to the radios, safe in the center of our compound, but he instead donned armor and helmet, rushing with his weapon to a guard tower where my specialist and our captain observed the distant crowd. After a few minutes of Smith’s frightened speculation, questions, and suggestions, the captain ordered him to return to his duty station.
I don’t like to insult a man’s service. I’ll honestly say Smith knew communications and did his duty.
His hatred shocked me. But discussing his protest-day panic with Peterson, it finally hit me. I’d been a hypocrite, for I’d once foolishly harbored hatred toward Afghans and Muslims over the 9/11 attacks. It’s no excuse, but the hate felt safer than fear. Getting to know Afghans, I could let go of my fear and hate.
Maybe that was the heart of the matter with Smith, a great radio man, deployed to a forward area, using hate in an unfortunate attempt to gain power over fear. I’ve heard nothing from him in 14 years, but I’d like to think he’s revised his ideas and found peace. I pray others the world over can do the same.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
