In the fading light of an Iraqi evening, under a sky vast and indifferent to the small dramas of men, we sat, a group of American soldiers, “jokin’ and smokin’.” There was a camaraderie in the air, a shared exhale of relief at the end of another day in a land far from home. On this particular evening, we were joined by a man we knew only as Spider-Man. He wasn’t the superhero of comic books and blockbuster movies, but a young Iraqi man who had become an indispensable part of our lives in this dusty theater of war. Like a phantom, he had accompanied countless young Americans, boys barely men, from places with names like Baton Rouge and Memphis, on the often perilous journeys to and from the myriad bases scattered across the Iraqi desert, what we’d grimly nicknamed “mini-Americas.” This night, however, the accents swirling around him were different, a drawl he hadn’t quite deciphered. We were Virginians, and our “y’alls” and slow cadences seemed to require constant translation for our friend. Or perhaps, I mused later, it was less about linguistic misunderstanding and more about my own need to etch this moment into memory, to repeat the words so that one day, I could recount this story.
Spider-Man was, as we learned, a Shia Muslim. Where was Spider-Man from originally? He hailed from An-Nasiriyah, a city in southern Iraq, a place that also housed Contingency Operating Base ADDER, our shared home with the Louisiana Tigers. Our conversations, surprisingly, steered clear of the usual soldierly topics. There were no boasts of conquests, no crude jokes about beer or guns. Instead, this unlikely trio – a Christian from the Piedmont region of Virginia, a Jewish guy from the foothills of Lynchburg, and our new Iraqi friend – found themselves in the unexpected territory of religious discussion. Spider-Man, it seemed, craved our trust, a simple yet profound desire to feel like he belonged, like he was a participant in the “global war on terrorism” that we represented. He longed to be part of our group, and by the time the embers of our cigarettes faded into the night, the thought of him not being present felt like a fundamental absence.
Alt: Spider-Man, an Iraqi interpreter, sharing a light moment with American soldiers in the desert, highlighting cross-cultural camaraderie.
In the measured pauses between drags on our cigarettes, we each took turns articulating the tenets of our respective faiths. There was no aggression, no challenge, yet instinctively, we found ourselves gently defending what we held sacred. But as the conversation unfolded, a quiet understanding dawned. We began to laugh, a shared amusement at the realization that beneath the surface of different doctrines and backgrounds, we weren’t so dissimilar after all. In the stark and often brutal landscape of Iraq, this mundane yet deeply meaningful exchange stood out. It was an island of human connection in a sea of conflict.
Beneath the layers of bravado and the carefully constructed persona he presented, the real reason for Spider-Man’s presence among us eventually surfaced. It wasn’t some abstract ideal of honor or loyalty that motivated him, but a far more tangible and relatable desire: to buy his mother an air conditioner. This wasn’t immediately apparent. There was a hesitation in his voice, a hint of trepidation as he confessed that his choice to work with the Americans might have been, in retrospect, unwise. We came to understand the gravity of his decision. By offering his help, by providing even a small measure of security and reassurance to us, these “country boys from Virginia,” he had inadvertently placed himself and his family in the crosshairs of whatever militant factions opposed us. All for the simple wish to bring a little comfort to his mother in the sweltering Iraqi heat.
Alt: Aerial view of Contingency Operating Base ADDER in An-Nasiriyah, Iraq, illustrating the environment where Spider-Man worked with American forces.
However, his motivations weren’t solely rooted in necessity. As the night deepened, another, more whimsical desire emerged. Spider-Man possessed an almost encyclopedic knowledge of roller coasters, a near-fanatical fascination with these towering metal beasts. Yes, alongside his wish to support his family, Spider-Man harbored a dream that working with the Americans might one day afford him the opportunity to experience the adrenaline rush of an all-American roller coaster, to feel the wind whip through his hair during a 60-mph drop. He spoke of them with the same longing and excitement I reserved for recounting a carefree Saturday night away from the rigid discipline of VMI. After countless sleepless nights spent pondering his words, I’ve concluded that Spider-Man simply wanted to be like us. He yearned for the privilege of calling himself an American, a privilege I, and perhaps many of my countrymen, had too often taken for granted as an inherent right.
Spider-Man became a constant presence in our lives, accompanying us on countless missions, sharing meals at the same spartan chow hall tables, sleeping in the same cramped quarters, riding in the same armored vehicles. We looked out for him, because in our eyes, he was one of us. This wasn’t just lip service; it was a bond forged over miles of perilous, mine-strewn highways and the soul-crushing monotony of war. He called us his brothers, and his warm smile when we reciprocated that sentiment was genuine and earned through sweat, loyalty, and unwavering dedication. We loved the kid, and we would have shielded him from harm in any way we could. To this day, I know, with absolute certainty, that he would have done the same for us.
Years later, my path took an unexpected turn, leading me to a position as a staff assistant in the United States Senate. My initial posting landed me in Northern Virginia, a region we, with a touch of Southern disdain, referred to as a “cultural cesspool.” In the whirlwind of bureaucratic life, Spider-Man and his simple dream of a roller coaster faded into the recesses of my memory. That is, until I began encountering families, their eyes swollen with grief and etched with a weariness that spoke of countless disappointments, arriving at our offices on missions as seemingly hopeless as any we faced in Iraq.
On several occasions, I was granted the somber “privilege” of meeting the families of brave men and women, local interpreters who, like Spider-Man, had chosen to stand with the Americans in our efforts to bring stability and democracy to their homelands. These were families who now felt the sharp sting of betrayal, a uniquely American bureaucratic cruelty that could crush hope with mountains of paperwork and endless delays.
Alt: A quiet US Senate office reception area, symbolizing the bureaucratic processes that impacted families of interpreters like Spider-Man seeking refuge.
Men like Spider-Man had embarked on their service with the hope, the implicit promise, that their dedication, their sacrifices, even their willingness to risk their lives, might one day earn them a place among us, as fellow Americans. For some, this dream eventually materialized, often after navigating a labyrinthine immigration system and relying on the compassion of officers who personally championed their cause. But I also met the families of those who were running out of time, running out of safe havens, as they languished in agonizing limbo, awaiting immigrant visas that seemed perpetually out of reach.
I grew to dread these encounters. I developed an uncanny ability to recognize these families as they shuffled through our office door, their faces etched with a mixture of grief and resignation. They carried the weight of countless closed doors, each one mirroring ours, each one offering a flicker of hope that this might be the government official who would finally honor the promises made. As they stepped into the doorway, a familiar physical reaction would grip me. My chest tightened, my throat constricted. A cold sweat would prickle my forehead. More often than not, I would find myself retreating to the sanctuary of the bathroom, seeking refuge from the inevitable wave of sorrowful stories. I would leave them to the well-meaning but ultimately powerless interns who cycled through our offices with predictable regularity. I, who had once faced down the very real terrors of IEDs, snipers, and rocket-propelled grenades on the most dangerous highways in the world, found myself a coward in the face of these families’ quiet despair.
I grew to loathe these encounters. Even now, years removed from those Senate office hallways, unsettling dreams occasionally pull me from sleep, dreams filled with the echoes of those conversations I desperately tried to avoid. In these nocturnal visions, I am profoundly alone, despite the warmth of my fiancée beside me, the comforting weight of my mutt at my feet, and the soft snores of another dog on the pillow beside mine.
I often find myself wondering about Spider-Man. Did he ever get to ride that roller coaster he described with such fervent, broken English? More importantly, did he ever receive the recognition, the gratitude, of the nation he so earnestly sought to serve? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But one truth remains etched in my heart: he is as much a red-blooded American as I am, and I would fiercely defend that assertion to anyone who dared question it.
Now, as similar stories of betrayal and abandonment unfold across the national airwaves, a different emotion has taken root within me. It’s no longer fear that constricts my chest, but anger. A hot, relentless, furious anger. And I suspect it will remain my unwelcome companion for many nights to come.
