1st Lt Prifogle’s Blog

“You married or single?” Ali asks me bluntly. I am in Iraq wearing a flak jacket and Kevlar helmet and do not feel feminine at all. I am not surprised when I am greeted as “sir” in all my gear so this question takes me off guard. I have just introduced myself to Ali, an Iraqi contractor from Baghdad.

“What?”

“Are you married? With husband? Or single.” He asks pointing at the gold Claddagh ring I wear on my left hand.

“Oh, I’m single,” I reply and immediately add, “I have a boyfriend.” This is a lie. I bought the ring in the Shannon Ireland Airport on our trip, to Al Asad Airbase, Iraq.

“Are all American women as beautiful as you are?” He asks leaning close to me and making me extremely uncomfortable.

“Yeah. I’m pretty average.” I answer and start to walk a little further away.

Ali and three other men from Baghdad have driven across the desert to deliver 6 pick-up trucks, 2 SUV’s and 2 vans for a six month lease. US Military contracts are using Iraqi companies more frequently in accordance with the Iraq First Project, in order to rebuild the Iraq economy. This is my first contract and while I see Iraqi Soldiers around base, my interaction with them is very limited.

“In Iraq the culture is different. The women stay home. Make babies. You make babies after Army, No?”

He’s already asked where I went to school, what for, why I joined the Marines, and how much various items cost in America. We are waiting for the other men to get badges from PMO (Provost Marshal’s Office). After all the questions he’s asked, “you make babies?” takes me off guard.

“No. I don’t make babies,” I tell him.

“But you have boyfriend. You make sex with boyfriend?” He asks looking up to me. He is shorter than I am (at 5’ 11” this is normal), wearing dress slacks and a striped collared dress shirt. He looks like an average businessman. In America this question would be sexual harassment, but I’m not in America and we are both simply learning about one another’s culture.

“Do you have more than one wife?” I boldly ask to divert the question I don’t

want to answer about my sex life (or lack thereof).

“I have one wife and a young friend. Do you marry boyfriend and make babies

and cook? That’s what my wife does. She takes care of the children and house.” He asks, putting the spotlight back on me.

“I don’t want babies. I don’t want to get married either.” I say firmly.

“Why not? You make good wife, no?”

“No, I can’t cook and I don’t want babies. I’d make a terrible wife.” I answer smiling. I feel less threatened by this man and he stands back, respecting my personal space.

In order to be on base these contractors must have a background check. This is done using a retinal scan because many of the contracted workers have worn off their fingertips. They also must haven a military escort. The Major and Sergeant who are also escorting the men are more cautious, walking with their hands on their weapons and watching the men closely. I figure the men have been searched and checked by the military police and the only threat they pose to me is asking questions about making sex with boyfriend.

We climb back in the caravan of vehicles and drive to the flight line in a slow procession. I wonder if I am naïve or if these men really are a threat. This is their country and they are prisoners of this war being treated as though they are all insurgents. These are men trying to put food on the table. Then again over 4000 servicemen and women have died in this war.

We arrive at an area suitable for unloading and pull over. As his men offload the vehicles Ali approaches me again.              “So, if your boyfriend says I love you?” He holds out his hand signaling my response.

“If I love him, I’d say ‘I love you too’,” I say.

“And if he says ‘I want to marry you’?” He asks.

“I’d say no and then leave.” I say, matter of factly.

“What!” Ali looks as shocked as I felt when he asked ‘you make sex with boyfriend.’

“I don’t want to get married so I’m not going to,” I explain bluntly.

“But you love him,” Ali says, trying to figure out why I wouldn’t marry a man I love.
“That doesn’t mean I have to marry him.” I squint in the sun. Even with $160 Oakley sunglasses, it burns my eyes. I wonder how strange this must be to him. A woman in the Marines who refuses to marry and make babies and is signing a $125,000 contract. One of his drivers starts the SUV and inserts a cassette tape. An Arabic song starts blaring.

“This song is about a man who is chasing his lover. ‘Habibi’ do you hear that – it means my love. She is leaving with another man and he is saying ‘come back to me my love.’” I listen to words I don’t comprehend about a culture and a place I don’t identify with. “You really not want to marry?”
I laugh. “No. Really, I don’t want to marry. I’d say no.”

“In my culture if the woman does not answer the question it means yes.”

“So, I’d definitely have to say “No”.” We both laugh as the sun slowly starts to set over the bleak desert landscape.

The Major recruits a couple Marines to test all the cars engines, lights, radios and VINs of the vehicles, as I sign the paperwork and shake his hand to acknowledge the business agreement. I forget that in Iraq they do not shake firm, but barely grasp the hand. I doubt after our conversation that he is offended by my American-ness. This is his country, his culture and I respect that, but Ali also respects that I’m American and my culture is different.

We caravan back to the gate and the contractors prepare to leave. The Major and I get out to say goodbye. Ali shakes the Major’s hand, “nice doing business with you.” Then he takes my hand and winks, “don’t forget me and what I said.” I smile and wave at the drivers, all smiling and staring at me from the cab. I jump back into our truck. How could I forget this man? The Major drives back through the gate and onto base as the setting sun lights up the sky like a plate of melted crayons – orange into yellow into pink into lavender into blue into desert.

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