Letters from Abu Ghraib, Second Edition. Joshua Casteel

in a state other than my home. A feeling of purpose and pride is real and aiding during my workday, but when I return to my room, sit on a bed and see my books and personal things, it’s hard not to continue longing for the rest of my books and, most importantly, for those close to me that I talk about these books with. Today was the first day I attended Mass, and thank God for that. The common prayers are somewhat depressing when I pray “we” and “our” alone in an empty chapel room.

      On my first day on the job during initial training I had a severe sense of hopelessness and dread, not wanting to get into the interrogation process at all, wondering why I was not in school writing papers on philosophy and theology and preparing for the priesthood. But at the conclusion of training I read an article about Arab-American comparative psychology and I turned an about-face in a moment. Before I’d finished reading the introduction to the article, I’d become fascinated with my job, and authentically so. By the time I was given my leave to return to my room I had asked my supervisor if I could stay on after hours to read dossiers and more articles to get further acquainted with my surroundings. I can only attribute this instantaneous change to Grace and being lifted up in prayer, so thank you.

      I continue on in my duties here, both to interrogate for the concerns of Iraqi-American security, and also for the mysterious purposes that have specifically brought me to this foreign land. And, as father confessor, I prayerfully continue forward. Pray for my comrades, who have quite clearly labeled me “the Chaplain,” and for those for whom I will be their inquisitor. God grant me wisdom, compassion, and a genuine desire for Truth that knows no national patronage.

      FROM JOSHUA

      SENT 07/02/2004 9:22 A.M.

      TO HOME

      SUBJECT RE: GLAD YOU MADE IT SAFELY

      Another week at Abu Ghraib. Today is Friday. I woke about 9 a.m. and readied for Mass, walked across the compound and arrived to the chapel just past 10 a.m. But, due to increased restrictions on convoys (more attacks recently), the priest was not able to come to the prison for Mass. It was pretty depressing. We have Protestant services on Sundays, both morning and evening, which I will be able to attend this week since I have Sunday off for the 4th of July. Thank God for that, but keeping the liturgy with others and taking the Eucharist—Communion—is the most important part of the week for me. So, I found a candle, lit it upon the altar, prayed my Rosary and then proceeded to do the liturgy and Scripture readings by myself. I was glad to be able to offer this service in the absence of the priest, as the prayers and readings still needed to be said with or without the priest, but the absence of the Eucharist was difficult. I sat in the chapel, reading and praying, for about forty-five minutes and when I reached the end, I simply sat with my Bible and prayer book in hand, pressed to my forehead, not wanting to leave—wanting to stay in the comfort of a Church, even if only constructed impromptu, and congregated only by myself and the Holy Spirit.

      Last Sunday I attended evening Protestant services and lost my voice singing. I stayed to pray, mostly on account of my duties as an interrogator. The weight of the job sometimes is more painfully present to me than other times. Sometimes the lies I hear from detainees are easily distinguishable from the truth, but at other times they are not so easy to discern. And, while I understand quite clearly the role of judgment and wielding authority for the punishment/prevention of crime in society, this is a duty I assume with no joy. I do so because it is what has been asked of me, and I continue to do so with the greatest amount of integrity I can muster. But how I would much rather speak of Grace with those across my table, and tell them of the alternative to their chosen path. And, for as long as I sit in my current seat of authority, with a weapon strapped across my back, the moral high ground seems somewhat clouded.

      While praying that Sunday, I pleaded for a reason or insight into my current role that would help me see more clearly. The very next thing I saw in my mind was the turning of the tables of the moneylenders in the temple—Christ calling them a den of robbers, a brood of vipers. I am quite sure that Christ sympathized with their circumstances, the Israelite and Palestinian country tradesmen in Roman-occupied Jerusalem. But understanding and sympathy themselves do not equate to moral tolerance: action and accountability were still required of the tradesmen who were turning the temple into a strip mall. Similarly might I sympathize with the disenfranchised of this country being taken advantage of by the foreigners flocking to Baghdad, Fallujah, and Mosul. But something must be done to show the grave consequences of these choices. I most commonly do this by attempting to speak with them on their level—get to know them, understand where they come from, their families, and show them the futility of their violent choices. But every time I kneel before the cross, praying both for them and more so for me, I ask God to give me the time when I might put down my own sword, put down this seat of authority, and pick up the Eucharist. How much I would rather be a priest to these men than their accuser.

      Monday or Tuesday we received mortars at about 9 p.m. I was helping my roommate sling his weapon when a big crash rumbled somewhere in the compound. I asked him if he heard it, and he replied coolly, “yeah, we’re being attacked.” And then we continued about our business. The casualness of it all was pretty humorous. I was just getting ready to go to the shower trailers to get ready for bed when the mortars came in, so I had to nix that for the evening. Minor inconvenience, I guess, in exchange for my safety.

      Yesterday, more mortars came down on other bases in the Baghdad area. At lunch, a troop of Marine engineers came to clear a minefield outside the interrogation facility, and once we were given the “all-clear” sign to go outside, I ran posthaste to a portajohn, being that we’d been locked down for about two hours! While in the john I heard another boom, which I later learned had been an improvised explosive device (IED) that had gone off on one of our convoys 160 meters from the prison . . . but was still powerful enough to shake the building (and my porta). I haven’t heard anything about the convoy, injuries or other. We basically take no news as good news. But, due to things like this, we haven’t received any mail convoys or priests.

      Today I sat down in the dining hall with two of my Iraqi friends and discussed the current state of Iraq in Arabic. My ears are still pretty shoddy after a rifle qualification course back at Fort Gordon—I forgot to use hearing protection on a timed qual-course and twenty rounds of M16 fire went off inches from my ears. It makes hearing in crowded places kind of difficult. But we were still able to have a pretty good conversation. The everyday Iraqi, in the opinion of these men, simply doesn’t care about politics, democracy, Islamic caliphates, pan-Arabism or other idealistic concepts. They want electricity, running water and food on their tables for their children. They want whatever can provide for their basic necessities, and if America and the coalition can bring that to them, great. If not, “who can?” is their basic question. Pretty reasonable, I think.