The Great Divide

They've been friends since St. Joe's Prep. One became a gung-ho Marine, the other a skeptical journalist. Eventually they met up in Iraq's Wild West, where the journalist finally understood why the Marine still believes in this war

That morning, Cordone was meeting with four of the top sheikhs in the province, hoping to persuade them to preach democracy from their mosques. We went to an old classroom in a building next to the barracks. Inside the room, the walls were lined with shelves of dusty books; above a long, rectangular conference table, a lone ceiling fan slowly churned the 117-degree air. At 10:30 a.m., the entourage arrived.   

First into the room were three sheikhs, all in their late 30s to early 40s, bearded and clad in traditional tunics and headdresses. They shook hands with Cordone, his civilian interpreter, and me. “Salaam aleichem” — peace be with you — each Arab said. They sat together on the same side of the table. Last through the door was a small, much older sheikh. His face was creased with wrinkles; his skin was as dry and brown and ancient as the Anbar desert. His beard was gray, and his brown eyes conveyed a deep sadness, as if he once thought he had seen the worst a man could see, only to realize he’d been wrong. He was Sheikh Yaseen, the head imam in Hit, and clearly the elder in charge. He sat next to his fellow sheikhs, closest to Cordone, at the head of the table.

The captain didn’t identify me as a journalist. “Please tell them,” he said to the interpreter, Noal, “that I would like to talk about the elections and the role of the people, why they need to vote, but I’d like to begin by asking what is on their minds.” The younger sheikhs all turned to Yaseen. The old man’s gravelly voice spilled out slowly and softly, filtered through the translator: Yaseen wanted to know why the Marines were stopping so many citizens; he said he’d given the Marines a chart of who is to be stopped; the rest are good people; no one in Hit shoots at Marines. Uninterrupted, he continued while Cordone took notes. Yaseen said the two men who were killed at a checkpoint last week were innocent men. The other sheikhs nodded adamantly. Yaseen said one of the men shot wasn’t right in the head; the other was a student at university. He said that the men were unarmed, that the Marines at the checkpoint put an AK-47 in the hands of one of the dead men. People saw this happen. Good people told him this.

One of the younger sheikhs, Amar Mohammed, pushed away from the table. He was a big man, the only one of the four not wearing white, but a bright-purple tunic trimmed in gold. Clearly agitated, he walked around the table, yanked out a chair, and sat alone, on the opposite side of Yaseen and the other two. The room fell silent. The ceiling fan turned. Mohammed pumped his left leg under the table, cocked his head, and stared at Cordone. One of the CAG Marines walked into the room and stood just off to the side of his captain. The Marine was wearing dark sunglasses, and an M16 was slung over his shoulder.

Cordone looked at his notes and calmly addressed Yaseen’s points. “Sheikh Yaseen,” Cordone said, nodding respectfully, “you say that no one in Hit shoots at Marines, but last week we took 30 bullets, and every day we are finding bombs.” Cordone looked at the translator. “Please tell the sheikh that we understand he represents good people, but Marines have no reason to lie. When Marines make mistakes, and we have, we apologize, and we compensate. There is an investigation.” Cordone explained the rules for escalation of force at checkpoints: First the Marine waves for the vehicle to stop; next the Marine throws a noise grenade, then fires a warning shot. If the car continues, the Marine will shoot to kill. Cordone explained that the two men who were killed were speeding toward the checkpoint, and shots were heard coming from the car.

“No. No,” Sheikh Mohammed said, furiously pumping his leg. Everyone now looked to him as he talked loudly and rapidly. He asked about a young boy shot in the town market. He said the boy ran when he saw Marines because he was scared, and the Marines shot the boy in the side. People in the market tried to help, but the Marines said no, they would take care of him after they searched the boy and the area. Mohammed said the boy lay there and died. Mohammed dramatically extended his arms — as if about to lose control — then slowly lowered his palms onto the table and said, “And now is the time we are to ask people to vote?” One of the two sheikhs who had not yet spoken said, “What good is an investigation to a family who has lost its son?” From around the table, a litany of grievances was presented to Cordone: Why are there so many patrols through the city? Why are there barriers in front of businesses and the youth center? Why aren’t there warning signs as cars approach checkpoints? Why can’t we have ambulance services 24 hours? More than 30 people have been killed since June 23rd, and none were terrorists; all had family and friends and people who loved them. Why is this?