Muslims in America’s Military

For Recruiter, Saying Go Army’ Is a Hard Job
by Andrea Elliott

Left, Sgt. Cameron Murad, facing camera, with a potential recruit in El Cajon, Calif. The man wears a T-shirt Sergeant Murad gave him that day; the Arabic texts on it says, “If you can read this.”

EL CAJON, Calif. Sgt. Cameron Murad wanders the strip malls and parking lots of this Iraqi immigrant enclave in the arid foothills beyond San Diego. Wherever he goes, a hush seems to follow.

He stands by the entrance of a Middle Eastern grocery in khakis and a baseball cap, trying to blend in. He smiles gently. He offers the occasional Arabic greeting.

Quietly, he searches the aisles for a version of himself: an Iraqi expatriate with greater ambition than prospects, a Muslim immigrant willing to fight an American war.

There are countless hard jobs for American soldiers supporting the occupation of Iraq. Few seem more impossible than the one assigned to Sergeant Murad. As the conflict grows increasingly violent and unpopular, the sergeant must persuade native Arabic speakers to enlist and serve with front-line troops…

I feel like a nomad in the middle of the desert, looking for green pastures, said Sergeant Murad, 34, who is from the Kurdish region of Iraq.

Linguists have emerged as critical figures in the occupation. They interpret for commanders in meetings with mayors and sheiks. They translate during the interrogation of Iraqi prisoners. They shadow troops on risky missions.

In the pressing search for Arabic speakers, the military has turned to Middle Eastern immigrants in the United States. Sergeant Murad is a rising star in this effort. He has recruited 10 men to the program in little more than a year, a record unrivaled in the Army National Guard.

Still, he is an unlikely foot soldier in the campaign. His own evolution from a teenage immigrant who landed in North Dakota after the first gulf war to a spit-and-polish sergeant has been marked with private suffering.

In boot camp, he was called a raghead. Comrades have questioned his patriotism. Last year a staff sergeant greeted him by calling out, Here comes the Taliban!

He remembers a day in 2002 when the comedian Drew Carey visited a base in Saudi Arabia where he was working. During a skit, Sergeant Murad recalled, Mr. Carey dropped to the ground to mimic the Muslim prayer. As the troops roared with laughter, Sergeant Murad walked out.

I thought about my mom when she prays, how humble she is, he said.

Yet, day after day, Sergeant Murad sets out to sell other immigrants on the life he has lived. He believes that Muslims need the military more than ever, he said: At a time when many feel alienated, it offers them a path to assimilation, a way to become undeniably American.

It has proved, for him and others, the ultimate rite of passage.

It’s almost like Superman wearing his cape, said Gunnery Sgt. Jamal Baadani, 42, an Egyptian immigrant with the United States Marine Corps. I’ve got my uniform on, and you can’t take that away from me because I’ve earned it.

Sergeant Murad has earned it, but with a price. He has changed his name. He has drifted from Islam. He often finds himself at odds with the immigrants he is trying to enlist.

To many of them, he is a mystery. He sees himself as a man of unavoidable contradictions: an American patriot and a loyal Kurd; a champion of the military to outsiders, a survivor within its ranks.

Feeling Like an Outcast

The sergeant is six feet tall, but often stands shrunken, his hands politely clasped. He has a long, distinguished nose and wears glasses that darken in the sun but never fully fade, lending him a distant aura.

He plies the streets of El Cajon in a rumbling, black Toyota Tacoma pickup. In the back, he carries stacks of fliers advertising what the Army calls the 09-Lima program.

Through the program, speakers of Arabic, Farsi, Dari, Pashto and Kurdish are sent to boot camp like other soldiers. They later receive specialized training as linguists, and a majority are deployed to Iraq.

Of the thousands of interpreters working for the military in Iraq, most are civilians under contract, some of whom earn as much as $170,000 a year. But military commanders prefer uniformed linguists because they cannot refuse combat missions and are subjected to more thorough security checks.

They are offered a fraction of what many civilian linguists earn, with salaries starting at roughly $28,000, including allowances. The program’s perks, such as expedited citizenship, a starting bonus and medical coverage, are a major draw, military officials said.

Since the Army created the program in 2003, more than 800 people have signed up. But nearly 40 percent of them have either dropped out or failed language tests or boot camp. Enlistment in the program has improved with the help of civilian Arabic speakers contracted by the Army to recruit.

In California, the Army National Guard is trying the same approach, but with troops. Capt. Hatem Abdine assembled a team of soldiers of mostly Middle Eastern descent to help recruit full time, and brought Sergeant Murad on board last year.

In April, the sergeant arrived in El Cajon. Before his first week was up, he felt like an outcast.

Stacks of fliers and business cards that he had left in grocery stores had vanished. Cashiers who welcomed him on his first visits were suddenly too busy to talk. One manager fled the store. The owner of another shop turned his back and flipped kebobs over a high-licking flame.

They’re so agitated when I approach them, Sergeant Murad said. Is it because I’m ugly? I don’t think I’m that ugly.

Nestled in a parched valley, El Cajon drew its first Iraqi settlers half a century ago because of the resemblance it bore to their homeland. The population boomed in the 1990’s when thousands of refugees primarily Kurds and Shiites joined what had long been the domain of whites and Hispanics.

Sergeant Murad makes his rounds with a truck full of Army promotional items, including a box of T-shirts that state, in Arabic, If you can read this and then in English the National Guard needs you. He cannot bring himself to wear one.

To put on that shirt and keep a face free of blush it’s just an impossible thing for me to do, he said

He favors a more subdued approach. He strolls into restaurants and barber shops, as though he were just passing through. He offers a smooth, Assalamu alaikum, or peace be upon you.

A conversation begins. Soon, Sergeant Murad is reminiscing about his hometown, Kirkuk. Then, almost as an afterthought, he mentions his job. Call if you know anyone, he says, offering a card.

But the calls rarely come. When they do, recruitment is hard won. In the fall of 2005, Sergeant Murad signed up his first two recruits. Over the next 12 months, he found about 20 other men. Half of them changed their minds.

Most often, recruits do not follow through because of objections from a parent or spouse. Others learn of more lucrative opportunities. Store windows in El Cajon are plastered with fliers advertising the six-figure salaries offered to civilian interpreters.

Some of the sergeant’s candidates are overcome by fear. A 33-year-old Egyptian man from Hemet, Calif., withdrew from the program in June after watching news from the region on Arabic television channels.

I know what’s happening over there, said the man, who would not give his name. My kids need me more than the money.

From late 2002 to May 2006, 172 civilian contract linguists were killed in Afghanistan and Iraq, representing 2.6 percent of the roughly 6,500 linguists who worked for United States coalition forces, a Department of Defense official said.

None of the 152 interpreters who have served in Iraq for the 09-Lima program have been killed. But that fact carries little weight in El Cajon, where memories of violence linger.

They came here to live in peace and now you’re asking them to go to war, said the owner of a bakery on Main Street who had fought against Iran with Saddam Hussein’s army. We are full up of the war.

In the pursuit of trust, it does not help that Sergeant Murad is Kurdish. The Kurds, like the Shiites, are often seen to have an interest in promoting the American occupation of Iraq because of the repression they suffered under Mr. Hussein.

The sergeant, who refers to the occupation as the liberation, does not hide his impassioned support of the war, or the fact that he is Kurdish.

Sometimes, this backfires. When he told an Iraqi woman at a Laundromat that he was Kurdish, she snapped, Saddam was a wonderful president.

One afternoon last April, Sergeant Murad dropped by the Main Street bakery, bought a box of chocolates and left another stack of pamphlets behind. He was sure they would be tossed, but seemed not to care. He was feeling giddy.

For the first time in weeks, he had a candidate.

The Sting of 9/11

Sergeant Murad’s path to the United States military began 15 years ago, on a lush meadow in Kurdistan.

American helicopters hovered overhead, dropping packets of dehydrated food to thousands of refugees, including Sergeant Murad, his three brothers and their parents.

The next day, they reached a refugee camp run by the United States military in Zakho. There, a group of marines was standing guard, hefty, tattooed and smiling. Sergeant Murad, then 18 and rail-thin, thought the men looked like warriors.

Soon after, in September 1991, the family arrived in Minot, N.D., as political refugees. A year later, Sergeant Murad got his green card and enlisted in the Army.

If a person like me isn’t obligated to serve this country, who is? he said. I had to make a decision that this is my country, that this side is my side.

He entered the military as Kamaran Taha Muhammad. When he got to boot camp at Fort Jackson, S.C., he spoke choppy English.

He was, and remains, a shy man. If a fly looks at me, I turn red, Sergeant Murad said.

But the first time a fellow soldier insulted him, he threw a punch. He fought often enough that he was relegated to kitchen patrol.

In time, Sergeant Murad made friends. When he graduated as a light-wheel mechanic, his fellow soldiers cheered.

The first few years of his military life went smoothly. He was stationed at a base in Germany. After his tour of duty ended, he found work as the head civilian linguist at an Air Force base in Riyadh.

But on Sept. 11, 2001, as Sergeant Murad watched the attacks on television in Riyadh, he felt a searing angst. The next day, he walked into the dining hall holding a tray, and stopped at a table of officers he knew.

He told them he was sorry. No one responded.

He didn’t know where he fit in, said Fernando Muzquiz, 42, now a retired master sergeant with the Air Force.

Sergeant Murad experienced a shift after Sept. 11, both in his relationship to Islam and to America. It was as if a fault line crept through him.

As a Muslim, he felt ashamed.

I was crushed theologically, he said. He pored through the Koran, looking for proof that it condemned terrorism. But from the loud speakers of mosques in Riyadh, he heard sheiks praying for the mujahedeen.

From Americans, he felt the sting of suspicion.

On trips home to Minnesota, where his parents had moved, Sergeant Murad noticed the new attention he got at airports. In Atlanta, a security officer saw his last name, which was still Muhammad, and called out, We got one.

Sergeant Murad wanted to prove his loyalty. He got his chance when the United States invaded Iraq.

By then, he was working in Bahrain as a civilian linguist with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. (He had lost his job in Riyadh after taking an unauthorized trip off base, which he attributed to a lapse of judgment.)

In Bahrain, he was elated to learn that he would be sent to southern Iraq on a top-secret mission with the Navy Seals. But several days into the voyage, he heard a sailor on his ship whisper, Cam is one of them.

Sergeant Murad stopped working for the Navy in March, with his mission in Iraq successfully completed.

That month, he changed his name.

In a way, it was my reaction to say, No, I am not the same as this criminal, this coward,’ said Sergeant Murad, referring to Osama bin Laden. I am an American, I am Cam, I am a naturalized citizen.

Kamaran became Cameron. Muhammad was dropped for another, less conspicuous family name, Murad.

The middle name he chose was perhaps most surprising: Fargo.

I always wanted a connection to North Dakota, he said.

Even with a new name, Sergeant Murad felt ill at ease back in the United States. He has stopped going to mosques. He no longer considers himself a practicing Muslim. He has few Middle Eastern friends.

If somebody’s name is on a list, and that person has my name or contact number, I will get harassed, he said.

The Army, he decided, was the most comfortable place to be. In 2005, he joined the National Guard full time.

He is careful to tell potential recruits about the military’s zero tolerance policy on discrimination, and urges them to file complaints should harassment occur.

Still, Sergeant Murad has never filed a complaint of his own. During several interviews, he was reluctant to talk about his negative experiences, saying that he did not want to whine and that all immigrants endure hardship before they are accepted.

Last year, when an instructor at an Army base referred to Sergeant Murad as the Taliban, he laughed along.

I laughed not to cause trouble, he said. I laughed because I am really getting tired of this. I laughed because I know it’s a hopeless situation. What do you do? You just have to laugh.

It doesn’t matter what you think of me, he said. Like it or not, I’m your brother in arms.

Closing the Deal

The new candidate’s name was Khaled. Sergeant Murad jotted down his number, passed on by the captain. The Iraqi immigrant had called after spotting a brochure about the program, the captain explained. And there was one more thing: the man was on the fence.

Sergeant Murad’s job is often one of delicate persuasion. He began by talking to Khaled, who lived near El Cajon, on the phone. (To protect his identity, the military requested that his last name not be published.)

By the time they agreed to meet, Sergeant Murad felt uneasy. Not only was Khaled a Sunni; he was from Mr. Hussein’s home province.

A stout man with a mustache answered the door. He seemed overweight for the rigors of boot camp, thought the sergeant, and his age 39 was just short of the cutoff.

They stiffly shook hands, and then sat and sipped tea in a tidy, candle-scented apartment. A framed picture showed Khaled, his wife and three children waving from Disney World. Since arriving in the United States in 1999, Khaled had hopped from one low-wage job to another, pumping gas, stocking groceries.

Now, he told Sergeant Murad, he had made up his mind. He needed the educational loans the military offered.

Still, he was nervous.

I’m expecting a shock, said Khaled. I’ve been hearing good things, bad things.

As he does with all recruits, Sergeant Murad warned Khaled that he might be hazed at boot camp, and distrusted by other soldiers. But over time, the sergeant promised, he would make friends.

The two men sat talking until the afternoon turned to dusk. The sergeant gave Khaled tips on how to lose weight, and promised to help prepare him for the English tests. Before parting, they embraced.

As Sergeant Murad drove off, he smiled and shook his head. This is an Arab from the Sunni Triangle trusting a Kurd with his life, he said.

Khaled entered boot camp in July and is now in advanced training.

Often, finding recruits is only the beginning of Sergeant Murad’s job. He spends time with their families after they have joined up, reassuring mothers that their sons will eat properly, and helping wives fill out insurance forms.

Last April, Sergeant Murad drove to a boxy stucco house to visit the pregnant wife of a 22-year-old Shiite recruit. The woman was worried about her husband’s safety in Iraq.

The fact that he’s an Iraqi it’s unfathomable to these nationals that he would be with the United States military, she said in Arabic, perched on a couch next to her mother-in-law.

He is Muslim and in the military it doesn’t look right.

The older woman frowned.

If it were up to me, I would make you join the military because they freed you from Saddam, she told her daughter-in-law.

Boot camp had been effective, the mother said. Her son seemed newly disciplined, more mature. There was only one thing she disliked: his limited vacation.

Just two weeks! she said. Even in the army of Saddam Hussein, this wasn’t the case.

On a sunny afternoon in August, Sergeant Murad was back in his truck, cruising El Cajon with a fresh stack of business cards.

He was learning to avoid certain shops. He waved mockingly at the kebab store as his truck rolled by, no longer concerned about who might be watching.

He had come to the conclusion that first impressions counted little.

Plenty of Iraqis had misjudged him. Eventually, though, they grew to like him.

It was the same with soldiers, Sergeant Murad said. He looked back on his time in boot camp as the ultimate proof that hardship can be overcome, and wary comrades, won over.

In the end, when somebody gets to know Cam the soldier, Cam the citizen, they always take my side, he said. That’s where my triumph is. The hurt goes away.