October 16, 2003, 8:37 a.m.
The Translator
Iraqis making Coalition work possible.

By Steven Vincent

BAGHDAD, IRAQ — Drop into Baghdad's popular Shabandar teahouse and you may discover, among the crowds of men drinking chai and smoking aromatic water pipes, an imperious figure whose thick black hair and beard resemble a Sumerian king come to life. He is Esam Pasha Azizawy, a 29-year-old painter, linguist, and devout Muslim whose fluent English, Spanish, and French make him a favorite of foreign journalists seeking insights into postwar Iraq. But more than just another teahouse intellectual, Pasha — he prefers his grandfather's title for his last name — is part of a new generation of young Baghdadis willing to place their faith in the U.S. and their future in a reconstructed nation.

"I keep telling journalists how grateful we are that the Coalition removed Saddam, but the media — especially European media — only wants anti-American views," says Pasha, whose grandfather, Nuri al-Said, was prime minister of Iraq until he was deposed and murdered in 1958. Like many of Baghdad's English-speaking artists, Pasha is often confused by the animosity shown by much of the world toward Iraqi's liberation. "Don't they understand what freedom means to us? Don't they see many of us cooperating with the Americans to rebuild our country?"

That last question has particular significance for Pasha. Despite his air of bohemianism — and his religious views — the young man is engaged in one of present-day Iraq's most crucial tasks: translating for the U.S. military. Working at night, Pasha accompanies American soldiers on an array of missions — from standard patrols to raids on fedayeen hideouts. Over the months he has developed a close relationship with GIs, whom he tends to call "my guys." (The soldiers, in turn, have chided Pasha for being "too perfect" and jokingly call him their "Wahhabi spy.") Part of this bond is Pasha's belief that America is bringing democracy to Iraq; part is the nature of the GIs themselves. "At first I was amazed when soldiers called me 'sir,'" he recalls. "Having lived for years in a police state, I couldn't imagine someone in uniform treating me with respect."

This respect, however, is well deserved. With his nimble, nearly colloquial English, Pasha plays an important role in America's efforts to win Iraqi hearts and minds. "I've eased explosive situations at checkpoints when we've stopped cars containing men's sisters and wives," he relates. "When we search neighborhoods for weapons, I've helped keep tensions low between my guys and local residents."

Pasha's experiences are not unique, of course. Translators (or "linguists," as they're also called) have participated in nearly every major incident in the war — from the initial battles to the rescue of Jessica Lynch to the shootouts with Uday and Qusay. Today, with Americans occupying Iraq, linguists spend much of their time insuring that they don't violate cultural taboos. "GIs are nice, but naïve," says 25-year-old translator Ahmed Altaie. "I've had to tell them not to chat up girls or to play loud music near a mosque." And with the Muslim holiday of Ramadan beginning October 25, "the Americans are going to have to be even more sensitive," cautions linguist Omar Alrahmani, 33. "People's tempers get very short because of fasting."

Translating is dangerous work. Of the 2,500 native Iraqis employed in this task, 25 have been killed since the fall of Saddam — eight by assassination. Five or six have fallen prey to extortion rackets run by corrupt policemen who threatened to reveal their occupation. And fedayeen have hurled grenades at the homes of at least three others, killing their families. "After the war, Saddam announced that guerillas should kill Iraqis working with the Americans before targeting the troops," comments Pasha, who, like most translators, receives $15 a day for his work. So far, he adds, he has not been threatened — although his father urges him to quit his job, or at least wear a flak jacket and helmet. (Most translators in Baghdad forgo the army's offers of such protective gear.)

So what motivates these linguists? Some seek to hone their English skills for future employment. Others, like Altaei and Alrahmani, see themselves as serving the Iraqi people. In Pasha's case, he combines these reasons with a third interest: personal risk. "I like danger and I fear only two things: failing my guys — and Allah." He has certainly experienced hazard: From 2000 to 2001, he served in the Iraqi army as a sniper in the violence-prone Kurdish regions — and last August was nearly hacked to death by a mob in Najaf, infuriated by the presence of an American journalist he was accompanying as a translator.

Still, despite the youthful bravado, the possibility of death or injury has begun to wear on the young man. Seated in his small apartment, his Kandinsky-like paintings leaning against the walls, he lights a cigarette and exhales slowly. "I think soon I may just concentrate on my artwork and perfect my Russian and German" — and possibly, should Uncle Sam see fit to reward his translating services with a visa, travel to America. "But who knows about the future?" he adds, adopting the stoicism so characteristic among the Iraqi people. "Right now, it's enough to think about the present." Glancing at his watch, he stubs out the cigarette and stands up. Time to go, he nods. Night shift with the U.S. army is about to begin.

— Steven Vincent is a freelance writer currently in Iraq.

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