Guarding Abu Ghraib

One Soldier's difficult journey from Hofstra to Iraq

by: Colby Itkowitz

He stands guard inside Iraq ’s most infamous prison. Self-taught in Arabic, he understands the Iraqi prisoners when they plead and sob innocence. As he escorts them, one by one, to use the bathroom, he must ignore even their most antagonizing insults and physical threats. The only restraints allowed are handcuffs or straight jackets.

In his first two months living and working inside Abu Ghraib overseeing the maximum-security detainees, he has witnessed an insurgent storm the gates to attempt a suicide car bomb at his base, and on many occasions he has survived fired rockets and mortar attacks. Some sound merely like a deafening firecracker, but others—ones that have rocked him from a sound sleep—rattle the entire building from the inside out.

But even in such deadly situations, this former Hofstra student said he can not afford to be afraid.

“It has crossed my mind that one day I might be at the wrong place at the wrong time,” Sgt. Patrick Venetek said. “But I don’t fear it. You can’t live in fear.”

A Brooklyn native, Venetek, 21, said his positive demeanor provides an example for the younger soldiers who depend on him for encouragement. As soon as he wavers, those beneath him, he said, could concede to their deep-seated doubts and insecurities. 

Venetek had always supported the eventual overthrow of Saddam Hussein, but he wasn’t convinced the war had served its purpose until he arrived in Iraq in early January.

“There are still a lot of hostilities,” he said. “But we’re giving their people a democracy, we’re giving them freedom. And they want it.”

On Jan. 30, as the world paused to watch the outcome of Iraq ’s first national election, Venetek heard firsthand accounts of people who were shot while waiting in line to vote. The Iraqi voters—some of whom walked more than 15 miles to the nearest voting station—remained steadfast and unmoved even after witnessing a man killed a few people ahead in line. Hearing this, Venetek gained the affirmation he needed. To him, it was symbolic of a country determined to start anew.

“I don’t know about you,” Venetek said, “but if I watch someone die on elections, I’ll wait four years till the next one [to vote]. Once I saw that, I knew these people wanted freedom.” 

NO FREE RIDE

Venetek always wanted to become a fighter pilot. Even as a baby, he would point at passing airplanes overhead. Today, he finds himself staring longingly at the stars, wishing he could be among them.

But when Venetek joined the Army immediately after graduating high school, he really just wanted a free ride through college.

Nine weeks into basic training, the World Trade Center was attacked.

“There was a lot of fear from everyone that we would just go to war,” Venetek said. “But we just continued training.”

Venetek completed one semester at Hofstra in February 2002. One month into his fall term, his unit, the 800^th military police brigade, deployed to Maryland to protect an underground military base. After a year there, he returned for another semester at Hofstra in fall 2003.

But the following spring, rather than return to Hofstra, Venetek stayed in Brooklyn to help deal with growing family problems. His sister was committed to a hospital for undisclosed mental health reasons. While she remained institutionalized, Venetek arrived home one afternoon to find his father lying lifeless on the living room floor, a victim of a massive heart attack or stroke. Venetek attempted CPR, but ultimately he could not save his father.

The next weekend his unit received a warning: they were leaving for Iraq .

RESTRAINTS FOR BOTH SIDES

Venetek waited three months after his father’s death before he felt ready to join his unit overseas. He left a few weeks after Christmas and arrived in Baghdad at the end of January.

He keeps a photo of his family in his wallet; a reminder that his father would have been proud of him. 

He now lives in an old prison cell—a neighbor to detainees suspected of withholding intelligence or guilty of inciting riots. It’s a holding cell used mainly for isolation.

“It’s nothing you would want to live in, but it’s better than a tent,” Venetek said. “At least I have a ceiling over my head.”

Venetek acts essentially as a babysitter for the prisoners—not allowing them to speak unless spoken to, and escorting them to use the bathroom and the recreational area.

One detainee from the Iraqi army spits and violently resists whenever Venetek moves him. He’ll harass the Americans, taunting them with the Iraqi insult, “donkey.”  Venetek, who weighs only 150 pounds, he calls “baby donkey.”

Due to the high-profile nature of Abu Ghraib after the recent abuse scandals, a strict shadow hangs over Venetek and his unit’s activities.  There are very specific rules of conduct when dealing with an unruly detainee. They must not retaliate against rebellious prisoners, and the maximum restraint allowed is a holding chair designed like a straight jacket, so the detainee is incapable of moving.  Venetek said shooting is only allowed if an unruly detainee is threatening the life of a fellow soldier or prisoner.

Sometimes, Venetek said, soldiers are afraid to do their jobs, because the line between what is authorized and what is criminal can be blurred.

FLIRTING WITH DEATH

Venetek maintains that he’s not afraid of dying in Iraq , but is still haunted by vivid images of desperately and fruitlessly trying to save his father.

“I’m not scared for myself,” Venetek said. “I’m more scared of losing someone here. Someone who has been a part of my life.”

Although some bombs detonate less than a football field from Venetek’s base, he said he is relatively safe at work.  On his days off, he’ll volunteer to travel with convoys throughout Iraq to see the country. During those trips through the heart of Baghdad , he is most vulnerable to attacks.

There is no way to prepare for a homemade bomb planted inside an innocent coffee cup or roadside animal remains. There is always the chance of an unexpected ambush or car bomb. In a terrorist war, nothing is absolute.

“In full aspect I’m flirting with death,” Venetek said. “If it’s your time, then it’s your time. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

Strapped to every convoy vehicle is a sign in both English and Arabic stating that if another motorist comes within 50 meters it will be shot. The army will shoot three times on the ground then three times at the car’s hood and if the motorist continues to approach Venetek said he can place three shots in the driver’s head.

Venetek wouldn’t comment on whether he’d been in any similar confrontations.

Despite all the uncertainty and violence, Venetek chastised American media for only reporting what he calls “the negatives of war.”

“When you do something good everyone’s blind and when you screw up once, everyone has 20/20 vision all of a sudden,” he said. “There are a lot of good things happening here, but no one in the states really knows it.”

NO REGRETS

Venetek foresees a time in the near future when the people of Iraq will be safe using their own protection. He often engages in political debates with Iraqi citizens. Many elder Iraqis remain skeptical of Americans and feel strongly about retaining religion throughout their government. Younger Iraqis are more inclined to understand what Venetek said is the need for an impartial government. In speaking with the next generation of Iraqis, Venetek is hopeful for the country’s future.

And while he desperately misses Brooklyn food and partying on the 10^th floor of Vander Poel Hall, he is prepared to stay until the new Iraqi government is deemed stable.

Venetek has no regrets about America ’s involvement in this ongoing war, but does not think the U.S. should attempt to remove dictators suspected of similar crimes.

“I think there has been enough death and destruction,” Venetek said. “I think this war should end with Iraq . As much as I am a soldier, I still pray for peace.”

When he left on his last two missions, Venetek had to break up with two girlfriends. His friends constantly tell him life at home isn’t the same without him. He misses flushing toilets and American cuisine.

But if he could go back to high school, knowing what his future would hold, he would still enlist.

“It’s made me stronger and forced me into maturity,” he said. “Things I do, my friends will never see in their entire lives.”

He probably won’t return to Hofstra, but he will pursue flight school when he is deactivated. He’ll eventually seek a college degree because it is an accomplishment his father always dreamed for him.

“I don’t regret the things I’ve done,” Venetek said, “but those I did not do.”