Embedded by Wesley R. Gray Page B

have enough income to support his family. Hussein’s second choice was to join the new Iraqi army. In the IA he would start off making about $350 a month and would be able to give his family a much better life. The choice was easy. Providing for one’s family is the foundation of an Iraqi man’s pride and honor. Nothing takes precedence over this sacred duty, even if it means leaving for the chaos of Al Anbar Province, risking one’s life on a daily basis, and returning home to face constant death threats.
    My conversations with Hussein and Muhammad, the other Iraqi medic, eventually led to the topic of conversation that is universal to all military males regardless of culture or creed: beautiful women. Hussein and Muhammad were interested in hearing about women from California. They wanted to know what made them special. A litany of questions came flying at me: “Why are all of the beautiful women in California? What is the magic that moves them to this area?” Clearly these men had watched too many old episodes of Baywatch . I debated whether I should make up an interesting story as to why all the hot women resided in California. I decided to be honest and explained to them that this was a stereotype from television and that beautiful women live throughout America.
    Trying to temper their fantasy, I told Hussein and Muhammad that many Mexican women were moving into the area. I found it hard to translate “Mexican” into Arabic, but it did not matter. Hussein and Muhammad blurted out in almost perfect unison, “Mexicii? Me love Mexicii ma’am!” (Mexican? Me love Mexican women!) Apparently Mexican women hit a hot spot with these Iraqi men. It turns out Mexican women look very similar to Lebanese woman and are thus more in line with the ideal of Arab beauty. I was still confused. I could not think of a classic American television show that would have exposed Iraqi men to Mexican women. I asked my friends where they had seen Mexican women. “Television,” they responded in English. “On the Mexican television.” A light flashed in my head. How many times had I spun through the channels in the UnitedStates and stopped on Telemundo to look at the gorgeous and scantily clad Mexican women dancing around on some game show. The Iraqis had done the same thing.
    After conversing with the medics I made my way to Gunnery Sergeant Horvath’s and Captain Chin’s position in an abandoned school. I took a seat in the corner of a room where they were resting.
    Boom! I felt the earth shake beneath me. My heart sank. “Oh shit, Gunny. What the fuck was that?” Unfazed, Horvath responded, “Not sure, Sir, by the sound I’d guess an IED across the river in Barwana.” My heart was racing. The combat vets continued to snooze and talk about the peculiarities of the jundi while I wondered when I was going to die.
    In the midst of our conversation the sound of Arabic came over one of the Motorola radios. We went to check it out. Civilians were gathering near our position, requesting entrance into the town. At first there were only two civilians, moaning that they needed to get to their homes. The crowd swelled to thirty and we had the Iraqi squad leader dispatch a jundi to calm the scene.
    In our training we were taught to approach Iraqi civilians in a peaceful manner and only elevate the level of force according to the situation. If the civilians are peaceful, we were told, approach them peacefully; if the civilians are firing guns at you, approach them with your machine gun on full automatic. The Iraqis had a different perspective. The dispatched jundi moved forward with his RPK machine gun pointing directly at the crowd. He requested the leader of the jumble come to him and discuss the situation. Talk about negotiating from a position of power.
    Watching the event unfold I thought that this scene would end up on the cover of the New York Times . This jundi was