'We're here to help you'
Nuha and "Zak" sat on a concrete block smoking in the dark.
From this little perch on a rise in the camp, you can look down on the tents and SWA huts below. You see the desert bluffs outlined in the dark set off by a chandelier of stars in the sky. A low rumble from two huge generators and a steady deep thump from a .50 caliber machine gun being test fired in the distance drive off any quiet.
Both of them are Jordanians and had put in a long day working with the Marines in western Iraq.
Jordanians, they'd come to Iraq to work as interpreters, or Terps as the military called them.
Most Terps have nicknames, because using their real name can end up being deadly for them and their families.
In Jordan, Nuha had run an Internet café, while Zak taught high school math in high school.
"I'm here for my family, my mother, my father and my son," said Nuha.
The money she makes keeps them afloat.
Out on a remote base, the interpreters must stay at least three months and often can't get vacation. They work as subcontractors. An American company with the government contract, subcontracts to foreign firms who go out and find Arabic speakers. Everyone takes a cut of the money on the way.
They're here for the money, but would never be rich. They're paid about $1,500 a month for risking their lives every day.
If they had Green Cards or were American citizens with higher security clearances, their pay would be more than ten times that amount.
"They make $200,000," said Zak. "I'm not saying I should make $200,000 but that's not fair."
His job is one of the riskiest in Iraq.
The danger is even greater for Iraqis who have worked with coalition forces. If identified they or their families are at risk of kidnapping or assassination and the list of those who have been killed is long.
Zak isn't really worried about dying.
"In my culture we believe it is already written what will happen," he said.
He'd like to go to America, where he has two brothers. One working for Google, the other an engineer, but he can't get a visa to visit.
Nuha too isn't worried about the dangers.
"I love this work," she said. "I just love this kind of work. I love going out and helping people 'cause my job is just communication between civilians and Marines in a good way."
She likes the officers she works with, and admires their efforts at getting to know the locals. One captain has started smoking because he is so often offered cigarettes when he visits and he doesn't want to be impolite.
If she's sitting around too long, she goes and asks if she can go out on patrol with a squad. She's taken to teaching a handful of Marines Arabic. They're a bit obsessive about learning swear words and putdowns.
For a time her 23 year-old son was here working too, probably the only mother-son interpreting team in the country. He went back to Jordan to finish his studies. Now she wants to go back for a vacation, but hasn't been allowed to.
"Seven months I've been here and I haven't had a vacation," she said.
Her own mastery of English curse words emerges when she talks how she's been treated by the company that has the interpreter contract. They've imposed new rules on how she behaves and her training. It's little rules, like not being allowed to wear shorts while off work, and taking morning classes in military-speak and being asked to pick up trash around camp.
"I didn't leave my family and my kid just ot come pick up trash," she said.
And she's disturbed by how she's treated by the U.S. authorities here. At one point she had to go to the dentist at the big military base at Al Asaad. It turned into a 12 day ordeal, where because of security issues with third country nationals -- and there are a lot employed by the U.S. here -- she was kept in a room and could only leave with an escort.
"We feel like we live in jail here," she said. "It's like, 'guys, we're here to help you.'"