Shaku Maku
Image by Midjourney, copyright N. B. Hankes
Shaku Maku is a great way for a Marine to say what's up to an Iraqi police officer. The Shurtah or cop usually replies with a relieved smile. By using this phrase, a Marine is essentially saying, I'm not an uptight asshole, I'll joke around and speak some Arabic with you. The literal translation of Shaku Maku is What is there, nothing? An odd nonsensical phrase much like the wild house of wonders that Ramadi, Iraq was in 2007.
“The literal translation of Shaku Maku is What is there, nothing? An odd nonsensical phrase much like the wild house of wonders that Ramadi, Iraq was in 2007.”
Sergeant Saddam of the Azzizzya neighborhood police force replied to me on this hot July afternoon with "Safia Dafia" meaning business as usual. This was my favorite Arabic exchange. The whole thing reminded me of the Akuna Matata saying from the Disney classic The Lion King.
Saddam then said, " Inte Arabi kulli zee'en." Your Arabic is very good.
I placed my right hand over my heart and said, "Shukran" thank you.
Working the CMOC (civil military operations command) requires more than the ability to carry a weapon and threaten to use it. Much more can be done with words; Arabic words are preferred. In the dead of summer 2007, Ramadi was actually a safe place to be. The Sons of al Anbar formed as a local coalition that allied with US forces and fought a long battle through 2006 and early 2007. Their victory over the insurgency allowed me to joke around with Ramadi's citizens.
Improvised explosive devices (IEDs) had ripped apart the streets. The city was torn up with open sewage and scattered garbage everywhere. My home was now a former school turned to the bullet hole ridden Observation Post (OP) Sabotage. The name was actually Sebah Taj meaning seventeen in Arabic but the Arabic word for seventeen sounds the same as the English word Sabotage. The world is a strange place.
As I stood under the blazing sun in the middle of Seventeenth Street a woman wearing a black gown and white hijab approached from the crowd. "Mistah, Mistah, Mooterjim. Wayin Mooterjim." Translator, where is the translator?
"Maku Mooterjim hinah." Aint no mooterjim here, I replied in my attempt at a Sunni Iraqi accent.
Her shocked look and off kilter smirk were priceless. This woman, along with dozens of other Ramadi citizens waited hours under the sun to meet with a US military legal officer to file their claims against America's mistakes in this embattled city.
"Inteh mooterjim?" You are a translator? She asked looking straight into my eyes.
"I'm only a Marine, there is no translator available. "
Alex, our translator, was far too busy in the makeshift office, dictating the specifics on various claims to the Marine legal officer. This lady didn't want to help me practice Arabic, she wanted a translator and a Marine Officer with a bag of money by his side. She was here to sit across from them and explain how Americans took her husband's life and her son's arm.
"Shlown a Arabi?" How do you know Arabic? She asked. Her speech slowed and she seemed resigned to returning next week.
I had a few back pocket responses to this, all lies of course. My Arabic worked in short phrases and wide smiles. My sweat soaked 21-year-old brain sought any distraction from the fact that I had to tell so many strangers to scram. I couldn't debate politics or consider the nuances of whatever their claims were with the US military. Some folks would get money for family members that were blown apart by stray machine gun fire. Some probably had family killed by Marines I patrolled with back in 2005. With a peaceful city to put back together the US military did what it could to make the citizens of Ramadi whole once more. I didn't really care though. I had to keep order. Along with the Ramadi police, we had to make sure this humanitarian event didn't morph into chaos.
“Some folks would get money for family members that were blown apart by stray machine gun fire. Some probably had family killed by Marines I patrolled with back in 2005.”
As the CMOC closed shop on this hot dry July afternoon, I used my half Lebanese lie.
"Ane noos Lebnani" I'm half Lebanese.
She tilted her head and asked, "And half what else? "
On my friskier days I'd reply with "noos Yahudi" half Jewish. I loved to see the inner anti-Semite rise out of the average Iraqi. Immediate hatred always fascinated me. But this day I didn't. I lied myself into being half-American and half-Lebnani as the sun beat down on my kevlar, flak jacket and flame retardant jump suit. I had no clear motive for my lie. It was fun and that was reason enough. Like any kid learning to use a language, my Arabic was rudimentary at best, so I played with it.
Some folks waved papers in my face. Others stood back unsure of what to make of this odd sounding Marine. Kids ran up laughing asking for things. Anything.
"Mistah, intini, mistah intini floos" Give me something mister, give me money.
"I ain’t got shit. There is no money." All I had was sweat and salt soaked clothing and 180 rounds of ammunition for my M-16.
"Intini floos mistah." The wry looking mother continued demanding as she laid her palm on her son. She shoved him forward telling him to lift his stub of a right arm as proof of her claim. Who knows how it happened, maybe that time I returned fire into an apartment building using an M-240 machine gun. It didn't matter because I had no money to give.
"Mah endi floos. Bess endi talcot, t'reed talcot?" I don't have money. I only have bullets do you want bullets? I asked sarcastically.
"Yis giveh ni" the son replied in his playful English.
I jokingly began to raise my weapon to "give" the child a bullet. Some Iraqi's laughed others scowled. Most of the Shurtah and Jundi's laughed also, they knew me and my dark sarcastic humor. Sergeant Saddam didn't like it though.
"Ben, moo zeyen!" Very bad Ben! Saddam scolded me for my morbid joke. "Inte switches, Ben!" He motioned with his right hand by his ear like he was twisting a dial knob. I think this common Iraqi gesture meant that a crazy man's personality changes as if scanning a dial on a radio. I was switches or crazy right then. We were all switches here at the CMOC. This woman wanted several hundred dollars for her son's arm and I was tasked with shooing them away. The Marine's of OP 17th street had stopped paying for children's arms for today and I was supposed to explain that. What options does a 21-year-old Midwesterner have besides dark humor?
“This woman wanted several hundred dollars for her son’s arm and I was tasked with shooing them away. The Marine’s of OP 17th street had stopped paying for children’s arms for today and I was supposed to explain that.”
The kids laughed and pointed at me, "Inte switches. Marine swtiches!" Some of the adults laughed also.
I played along, pretending to be mad. "Lah, Lah, anee moo majnoon, inte switches wuh inte. Kullhum switches." I'm not crazy you’re the one that is crazy!
The kids laughed more, now everyone laughed, even Saddam. I wasn't a mooterjim but I was a distraction.
Turning the table, I asked them for money instead, "Giveh NEE floos. Mistah Mistah, intini floos. Mah endi floos." I pulled my empty pockets inside out showing the crusted tan fabric. I continued begging for money as I wandered the crowd.
My radio buzzed, "Thurny, what the hell are you doing. Over."
I replied, "Be advised, these Iraqi's want some money and I am showing them the lack of floos at OP Sabatoge. Over." The radio thumped back into my drop pouch.
With enough Ramadi weirdness for today, the crowd dissipated. They returned home empty handed but with a story about a Marine that went switches.
I retreated to my hut and joked around with Corporal Nassim and Sergeant Saddam of the Ramadi Police Force. I asked Nassim for one of his two wives. Saddam laughed and asked for the other. Nassim smiled and said sure, they're both crazy anyways.
The top floor of OP Sabatoge or Markez Sebah Taj was mostly empty. Back in late 2006 mortar rounds were routinely lobbed at this building. Those projectile bombs could penetrate the roof and end up killing anyone on the fourth floor. A hole from one of those bombs served as a vent for a smoke room. Me, Kulonis, Van Winkle, and Rud liked to pass a hookah around up there. I liked to wander the empty old classrooms. The tile floor was strewn about with old homework assignments, artifacts from a world long gone.
The third floor of OP Sabotage is full of Marines crammed into tiny former classrooms. We piss and shit at the south end of the building. We empty our bladders in tubes that lead outside and spill onto the ground. MRAPS leaving for convoys drove over our piles of crystalized piss day and night. We shat in plastic bags and carefully tied them up and placed them in black plastic garbage pales. The unfortunate junior Marines (boot in Marine language) had to lug all of Lima Company's shit down past the second floor. They passed the chowhall and Iraqi barracks, a mix of local Sunni Shurtah and Baghdadi Shiah Jundis. Then down to ground level passed the command post, officers and senior NCO's barracks. Then finally outside to the concrete-barrier-lined burn pit. That boot would look up at the homes and apartment buildings surrounding our compound as they placed plastic bag encapsulated fecal matter into smoldering garbage. Breathe in, lift and dump then breathe out.
After a few hours rest and relaxation, I stepped back on post again at 2am. I sometimes stood watch looking out over the apartment buildings, sewage soaked alleys, and mosque minarets of the Azzizzya neighborhood and other nights I manned the front gate.
“I didn’t like Ali and he didn’t like me. Ali didn’t like any Marine or American...He blatantly watched videos of Humvees getting blown up. We all watched those videos, but he seemed to enjoy them.”
Entrances onto Marine bases like this consist of an armored vehicle that is driven back and forth to act as a barrier for would be suicide car bombs.
It wouldn't however, prevent a would be insurgent from sneaking in. For that reason, I sat on a cheap plastic lawn chair facing the front gate with a sleepy Marine named Smush, a Shurtah that I didn't know, and one Jundi named Ali.
I didn't like Ali and he didn't like me. Ali didn't like any Marine or American. Many Marines didn't like Iraqis and many Iraqis didn't like those types of Marines but I managed to charm most Iraqi's I met, except Ali.
"Turn off your phone", I said as I saw Ali with his droopy nose in his Nextel shitty pixelated screen.
I continued, "Why are you watching this. Are you an insurgent? What the fuck is wrong with you?" I questioned Ali for his loyalty to Iraq. He blatantly watched videos of Humvees getting blown up. We all watched those videos, but he seemed to enjoy them.
Ali replied, "Yeah, I was in the Mehdi Army in Najaf. Muqtada is great." He seemed too proud of his militia past or present. Muqtada was definitely not good. He was a radical cleric that hated Americans and wanted to incite more infighting to keep the Sunni and Shia perpetually at war. Talking shit about Muqtada could easily get things out of hand so I dropped it.
"You're switches, all Marines are switches." Ali made the signature dial knob hand motion by his ear.
"Sure I am switches, I don't care." I paused listening to the diesel generator hum. "We are all crazy. Who wouldn't be crazy here. This place is crazy."
Ali walked away and stepped past the armored vehicle out onto 17th street. He looked up and down the street. Then glanced over at me. Then he racked his AK-47, chambering a round.
There are various conditions that a weapon can be in. Condition four means that there is no magazine inserted no round in chamber, condition three means that there is a magazine inserted but no round in chamber, condition two doesn't apply (I don't know why this condition exists), and condition one means a magazine inserted and a round in the chamber. At condition one a Marine or Jundi, only has to flip off the safety to fire their weapon. Iraqi's generally stay in condition three because they can be negligent and accidently fire their weapons often. While on post, a Marine is always at condition one.
“Ali walked away and stepped past the armored vehicle out onto 17th street. He looked up and down the street. Then glanced over at me. Then he racked his AK-47, chambering a round. ”
It was strange that Ali racked his weapon to condition one but I figured if I'm expected to be in condition one then I should expect a Jundi to be also.
Smush and I sat in our flimsy chairs with our bulky body armor. We had taken our kevlars off to let our hair breathe. We watched Ali pull a cigarette out and fidget with his lighter.
"No smoking in the street!" I yelled. Nobody was supposed to smoke at night but if he was behind the armored vehicle and concrete barrier then I didn't care.
"Shut up." Ali replied.
"Let him get shot by a sniper." Smush said.
"Fuck it, you're right." I leaned back into my chair nearly snapping it.
I looked at the Shurtah and asked his name. We learned that neither of us were married nor had any kids. I told the local Shurtah that Smush and I had fought in Ramadi back in 2005 and 2006 when things were bad. Then Ali came back.
Ali scowled at me as he took his seat immediately to my right. He unslung his AK-47 and as he awkwardly raised it over his head – BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three rounds impacted the concrete around my feet. I jumped up, kicking the chair aside. Ali's cigarette fell from his mouth. He seemed shocked at his own actions. Smush and the Shurtah looked at us wide eyed.
Ali continued holding his weapon up by one hand so I snagged it. After tossing it aside I screamed, "Get the fuck back motherfucker!"
Ali quickly put distance between us; he hollered over his radio.
“I hesitated and took a breath. I knew it would have felt like murder but I really wanted to give Ali two bullets in his chest.”
Aiming my weapon at his chest, my index finger stroked the trigger. I could see the shocked shurtah still sitting down there to my right. I hesitated and took a breath. I knew it would have felt like murder but I really wanted to give Ali two bullets in his chest. The moment I stopped to think about it, that fleeting impulse dissipated into the still Ramadi night. I walked forward and shoved Ali against the wall. Smush backed me up and we zip tied Ali's hands. The Marine Sergeant of the Guard came out along with his Jundi counterpart. Ali was taken away.
I was shaken up. I was truly, switches for a few minutes. My company commander had me debrief him on the situation. He was happy that I hadn't kill Ali. We didn't know how that would have unraveled in the mixed tinderbox that was the OP Sabotage. Captain Mainz asked if I wanted someone else to take the remainder of my shift. I told him no, I didn't want to fuck someone else over tonight.
I returned to the front gate. Ali's spot was already replaced by Haydr, one of the few Sunni Jundis from Ramadi. He looked up at me and asked "Shaku Maku?"
Placing my right hand over my heart, I replied, "Safia Dafia." Business as usual.