Army Specialist Alyssa Peterson was ordered to interrogate Iraqi prisoners—even torture them apparently—a practice to which she objected. Therefore (as is generally accepted), she shot herself with her own weapon days later. For this, some have hailed her as a hero; others as a coward; still others as a young woman who was simply emotionally overwhelmed and mentally unprepared for the realites of war.
I can’t tell you with any certainty what really happened. Perhaps no one can. But what we can do, is attempt to pool as much information as possible from first-person and media accounts in an effort to recreate what happened in Alyssa’s last days. The intent of this diary is to do something of that sort. My unique knowledge comes from the fact that I know some of the information in this case has been written about, but at the same time overlooked because of a simple name change in an Iraq memoir. I know this because I knew the author, and because I was there—only a few hundreds yards away, in fact—when the events described therein occurred.
My goal here is to try and separate some myths from the facts of the case, and to give you a sense of what I saw and heard in the hours and days after Alyssa’s death. My goal is not to provide some kind of revelation—it is simply to help fill in some of the gaps. I’m also going to try to mesh some of the more disparate pieces of information together into a coherent story. But I’m not a journalist, so bear with me.
At the time, the death of Alyssa Peterson seemed pretty clear-cut to me. However, I learned that a number of questions remained after reading this diary by Erin in Flagstaff last month. That day I also realized how much interest there was in the story on DKos, as the diary itself garnered over 700 recommendations. The next day, another diary followed—this one imploring Kossacks to come forward with any information they had about Alyssa’s death.
On September 17, 2003 the Defense Department released their standard, terse statement:
The Department of Defense announced today that Spc. Alyssa R. Peterson, 27, of Flagstaff, Ariz., died on Sept. 15 in Telafar, Iraq. Peterson died from a non-combat weapons discharge.
Peterson was assigned to C Company, 311th Military Intelligence Battalion, 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault), Fort Campbell, Ky.
The incident is under investigation.
This is military lingo for an accidental gunshot wound or a suicide. And unfortunately, in such a long war, these types of statements aren’t all that uncommon.
From most subsequent written accounts, it seems that Alyssa was distraught over having been ordered to "torture" Iraqi prisoners. She is then reported to have killed herself rather than participate. If you’re not familiar with the account, an excellent article by Greg Mitchell that explains the events can be found here. If you’re not familiar with this story, I recommend it before continuing.
One of the most prevalent misconceptions regarding Alyssa’s death is one regarding perceived secrecy surrounding the events leading up to and including her death. This was a primary concern of the commenters in Erin in Flagstaff’s diary. First I’ll address the prior events, then her death.
In his article, Mitchell relates that Flagstaff, AZ public radio station, KNAU reported:
"Peterson objected to the interrogation techniques used on prisoners. She refused to participate after only two nights working in the unit known as the cage. Army spokespersons for her unit have refused to describe the interrogation techniques Alyssa objected to. They say all records of those techniques have now been destroyed."
It is no surprise that an enigmatic statement like that would give rise to conspiracy theories. It would be reasonable to assume the worst—that Alyssa had seen such horrible forms of torture that either she couldn’t take it anymore, or that she was murdered to keep the lid on it.
The Army speaks in legalisms. Therefore, "all records of those techniques have now been destroyed" can be translated as, "We’re not sure exactly what she saw and what she didn’t see because no one wrote it down when she was there." I contend that this is most likely the case because, in actuality, the techniques used at Tal Afar are not secret, as I noted in this comment in Erin in Flagstaff’s diary:
Torture practices at Tal Afar are not secret. Kayla Williams, another female translator in Alyssa's unit, wrote a book called Love My Rifle More Than You and it depicts her time in and around Tal Afar. In the book she details her aversion to using certain techniques and how she dealt with it.
Along with the book, Kayla has been a guest on NPR, CNN, and other news stations several times. Two of her interviews on NPR can be heard here and here.
Kayla and Alyssa knew each other. They were both in the same company and were both Arabic translators, though Alyssa had only recently joined the unit. As they were assigned to the same set of prisoners, at the same place and time, it is reasonable to assume that Alyssa was exposed to the same techniques as Kayla. And this is what Kayla saw in her own words (as taken from pages 246 – 252 of her book):
I’m familiar with the cages. I know about the interrogations. I know we are playing loud rock music day and night to irritate the prisoners. Anything to keep them awake. I know we make prisoners participate in chants of "I love Bush" or "I love America." Anything to piss them off.
When the interrogator and one or two other HUMINT [human intelligence] guys coach me on my role for these interrogations, it is not what I expect. Once we get down to the cage area...I am told what they will want me to do.
"We are going to bring these guys in. One at a time. Remove their clothes. Strip them naked. Then we will remove the guy’s blindfold. And then we want you to say things to humiliate them. Whatever you want. Things to embarrass them. Whatever you can say to humiliate them."
....
The prisoner enters the room with a blindfold on and his hands tied behind his back. Things happen like they said they would. They remove his clothes. They position him so he is facing me. When they remove the blindfold, I am the first person he sees.
The civilian interpreter and the interrogator (who also speaks Arabic) mock the prisoner. Mock his manhood. Mock his sexual prowess. Ridicule the size of his genitals. Point to me. Remind him that he is being humiliated in the presence of this blond American female.
....
I am prompted to participate. To mock this naked and crying man.
What do I say? What can I say?
"Do you think you can please a woman with that thing?" I ask, gesturing.
I have no aptitude for this work. I prove almost immediately that I am no good at this.
I tell him that he had better tell us what we want to know, or we won’t stop. But I am almost feeling pity.
....
Soldiers flick lit cigarette butts at the prisoner.
It’s one thing to make fun of someone and attempt to humiliate him. With words. That’s one thing. But flicking cigarettes at somebody—like burning him—that’s illegal.
It’s a violation of the Geneva Conventions.
They smack the prisoner across the face.
These actions definitely cross the line.
....
When it’s over after one more prisoner and a couple of hours, I tell the interrogator that I do not want to do this again.
Then I tell him that what we are doing to the prisoners in these cages is a violation of the Geneva Conventions...I tell him it’s illegal to burn prisoners—or smack them.
He does not appear surprised or bothered by what I say.
"Yes," he says. "But you have to know that these people are criminals. This is the only way to deal with them. You know these people only respect strength, power. Under Saddam it was so much worse for them. They’ll never listen to us unless we play rough. Besides, the terrorists don’t follow the Geneva Conventions—so why should we?"
....
At a later time the cage where I witnessed these abuses got investigated. A prisoner died in custody there. Another prisoner had a broken jaw. A third prisoner complained to authorities that he had been burned with cigarettes.
....
I guess I interpret my own refusal to continue to participate in those interrogations as, in fact, the more unusual response.
However, I did not file a complaint.
I did not go higher.
I did not do anything to stop these interrogations. I did not stand up and say: "This is not okay. It must stop."
I did not do anything like that. All I said was: "I am not going to be a part of it." I did not blow the whistle on anybody.
So how morally culpable am I?
So these are the types of things to which Alyssa was exposed. As you can see, what went on at the airfield south of Tal Afar is no secret. It’s for sale on Amazon. Because of these abuses Mitchell points out that KNAU of Flagstaff reported that, upon objecting to the interrogations, Alyssa "was then assigned to the base gate, where she monitored Iraqi guards, and was sent to suicide prevention training."
The personal troubles Alyssa faced in the days leading up to her death were also chronicled in the memoir, though Kayla chose to conceal Alyssa’s real name. Without knowing either of them, Kossack Peter Laesch very perceptively pointed this out in a comment in Erin in Flagstaff’s diary by saying,
Have you read the book "I love my rifle more than you" by Army Sgt Kayla Williams. This story fits in the time frame of a story relayed by Sgt Williams...But it seems to me that maybe this information should be passed on to the KNAU reporter. Because I am pretty damn certain it fits the same time frame.
He was right on with his hunch.
Kayla’s descriptions of her interactions with Alyssa provide a window into what the new translator was going through in the days preceding her death. Kayla refers to Alyssa as "Specialist Berenger" in the book. This is her account from pages 221 – 225 in the memoir:
I didn’t know Specialist Berenger from a hole in the ground. Never knew her at DLI, where she studied Arabic, too. We were there at different times. Never knew her in-country, either—she had only just arrived about three weeks before. This civilian linguist came to me to ask me a question.
"You know Specialist Berenger?" he asked.
"Can’t say that I do."
"She’s having some family problems."
"Yeah," I said, chuckling. "Who hasn’t? Where I come from, having family problems is the universal sign for human."
"No. I mean, yeah," he stuttered. "Sure." He cleared his throat. "I’m just saying if you find a moment, maybe you could speak to her. Draw her out. Talk to her a little. Find out what’s wrong, maybe."
I never asked him why he was asking me. Did I look like a camp counselor for troubled teens? I didn’t agree to do it. I didn’t disagree. To be honest, I didn’t think about it one way or the other.
Until I saw her, that is. In the tent. As it happened, we were alone for the moment.
She was not as young as I expected. Or as crazy. In fact, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what the civilian linguist was all worked up about. Was she depressed? Who wasn’t? Seemed to me a rational response to an irrational situation.
But she was fidgety. I hate it when girls twirl their hair in their fingers, round and round. Nervous habits make me nervous.
I introduced myself. She introduced herself.
We engaged in small talk. She was HUMINT. I’m SIGINT (Signal Intelligence). But we’d had some of the same teachers back in Monterey, and we talked about them for a few minutes. She was a little shy, maybe. A little reserved. But I was thinking about what the civilian linguist said, and so I pursued it.
"My family," I said more or less out of nowhere. "My family is nuts. Just nuts. My mom thinks I’m on vacation here. Sometimes I’m not sure she understands that this is a war. She writes me and asks whether I’m going to get a chance to see the Pyramids. I’m like: Mom, the Pyramids are in Egypt. I’m in Iraq. You know—land of the evil dictator. Weapons of mass destruction. Iraq. I-R-A-Q. Iraq. Remember? And she writes me back hoping I’ll be safe, and asking how’s the food. Am I eating okay and should she send chocolates. Chocolates? Can you believe it?
Berenger fiddled with her hair.
"My folks don’t know I’m here."
I stopped at that.
"How can that be?" I asked.
"I never told them I deployed. I never told them because I wasn’t sure they wanted to know." She paused. "We don’t talk too often."
"Damn," I said. "That’s rough. Maybe you could send them a note. An e-mail. Put yourselves back in touch. That might be a good thing." Pause. "Under the circumstances and all."
"Yeah," she said, not sounding too convinced. "It’s not a good situation, you know?"
"Sure." But I had no idea what she meant. And I didn’t know if I should be asking, either.
"Listen," I said. "Families are tough. But they’re family. I mean, you might want to let your folks know what’s up. That you’re here."
Berenger looked at me a moment.
"You know what you said about your mom? That’s so incredible, you know? Because I never would have guessed it."
"Why’s that?"
"Because you seem so totally together. I wouldn’t imagine you had problems."
I looked at her real close for any indication Berenger was mocking me. But no. Not a shred of that. She meant it. Now that’s scary.
"Yeah," I said. "Sure. But sometimes things aren’t exactly what they seem. You know?"
She smiled a sad smile.
"Roger that," she said, noncommittal.
Right then some guys noisily descended on the tent, throwing things onto their cots, acting all loud and disruptive.
"Hey," I said to Berenger. "I go out on mission again tomorrow, but when I get back—"
"Sure, me too," she said. "I head out soon also."
"Let’s talk again. I mean, anytime. Maybe get some chow together. How’s that sound?"
"Sure. That would be good."
It was awkward, but it felt okay. It felt fine. I rummaged through my brain and thought back to the guy who said talk to her . Okay, done. And if she wanted more, I’d announced that I could be there for her. What more could I do?
That was it, I guess.
Four days later Berenger was dead. Suicide. A single self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. That’s all it took. I don’t know more than that, a suicide not being the sort of thing people wanted to discuss in detail. (This was still more than her family ever learned about the circumstances surrounding her death. When the Army informed Berenger’s parents that their daughter was dead, they never asked how it happened. They never asked how she died. And so the Army never told them.)
I did not see this coming. And I wondered: What the fuck is wrong with this place? And thought: What’s my problem that I did not see this coming? Should I have done more?
This is where the questions begin. First, are we sure that the "Specialist Berenger" in the memoir is really Alyssa Peterson? Second, why are there discrepancies in the account given in Mitchell’s article and Kayla’s memoir concerning Alyssa’s parents? And did she really kill herself? Why did she kill herself? What are the details? Was there a cover-up?
To the first question I can attest without a doubt that "Specialist Berenger" is Alyssa Peterson. Kayla had previously worked with me as a translator and I spoke with her about it after Alyssa’s death.
But I can’t explain the discrepancies. In Mitchell’s article, he states that Peterson's father, Rich Peterson, has said: "Alyssa volunteered to change assignments with someone who did not want to go to Iraq."
This does not correspond to Kayla’s account, in which she makes clear that Alyssa’s parents did not know she was in Iraq. A possible explanation is that perhaps Alyssa heeded Kayla’s advice and talked to her parents in the four days between their talk and her death—and explained her situation. Otherwise, I don’t know.
I cannot say with any certainty that Alyssa did in fact kill herself, though I believe that she did. This is what I saw and heard the next day:
I woke on the morning of the 16th and one of the first things I remember is walking across the road on the airfield, looking at a handful of people standing out in an open field, not three hundred yards from my tent. It was light out, but the sun hadn’t yet crept over the horizon. I didn’t know what they were doing, but it didn’t look good. A few minutes later an officer told me that a female MI (Military Intelligence) soldier had been killed during the night.
I said, "Killed? What the fuck does that mean?" On a secure airfield no one should have been getting killed.
He moved in closer to me and whispered, "They don’t know yet what’s going on. But I heard...." He paused. "I heard someone sliced her throat."
"What the fuck?" I said. "A cut throat?"
"Ear to ear," he said, as he made the motion with his hand. "But nobody’s saying anything about it because they’re trying to figure out who did it. So don’t say anything."
"Well who do they think did it?" I asked. "Is there a crazed lunatic running around the airfield?"
"They’re not sure yet," he said, lowering his voice. "They think it may have been an Iraqi." He was referring to those Iraqis who worked on the base.
I said, "Jesus, that’s freaky."
Fully rattled, I walked back over to my tent where I met my tentmate. I asked him what he’d heard.
"Ear to ear?" he asked. "That’s horseshit. I just got back from talking to the MPs (military police). Some of’em were securing the scene. She shot herself."
Strangely, I felt relieved. "So nobody cut her throat?"
"No. That’s horseshit. The MP Platoon Sergeant told me they heard the shot go off last night. It woke some of’em up." The MPs tent was the closest to where Alyssa was found—less than two hundred yards away. "She just walked out into the middle of that field and did it."
I thought maybe I should have heard it too, but then I realized that, in Iraq, I’d gotten used to sleeping through a lot worse than that.
It became the talk of the base that morning. Rumors swirled (as evidenced above), but by mid-afternoon they had petered out. I completely discount the cut throat scenario because had there been a killer on the loose, the base would have been locked down until the killer was found—especially if it had been an Iraqi. If you’ve ever served in the military you know how the rumor mill operates—efficiently and at full capacity. I only add it here to illustrate what I heard. Instead, business went on as usual—patrols went out, contractors worked on electrical capacity at the airfield, and people went to lunch at the open-air market-type/tent area where Iraqis had been allowed to set up kebab stands and souvenir shops.
I was standing outside one of those kebab stands later that afternoon when a Blackhawk helicopter landed in the same open field where Alyssa had killed herself. I watched from a distance as a field ambulance humvee drove to within a short distance of the helicopter. When it stopped, a group of four or five soldiers offloaded a green bodybag that held within it Alyssa’s body. They carefully placed it inside the helicopter as the crew looked on. Less than a minute later the pitch of the rotors increased and the helicopter took off, carrying Alyssa to Mosul for her flight home.
There was a memorial service for Alyssa held several days later by her unit. I didn’t know her, so I didn’t go. I happened to walk past it at a distance of about fifty yards as it was going on. I was headed into a headquarters building and was too far away to hear the speakers. Kayla however, was present for the service. This is her account from pages 225 – 226:
No one really wants to attend the memorial service—we didn’t really know her and it is depressingly morbid. But we do it. Typical Army. A choice that’s no choice at all.
Basically, though we can’t say it, we’re pissed at Berenger. What gives her the right to do what she did? She’s here less than a month—and pow. She offs herself. We’ve been here—most of us—six months or more. Suffered and felt so damned awful for days and weeks at a time, of course we may have considered it. But we didn’t do it. And here she comes in, and she gets a little down—and pulls the trigger. And that’s the end of that. Why the hell is she getting recognition for this? There’s a war on. Don’t we have anything better to do than memorialize a girl who couldn’t take it?
But we do it. We attend. Sitting on folding chairs under the blazing sun in the dust.
A chaplain speaks.
Her platoon sergeant speaks. The first sergeant speaks. The commander speaks.
A girl reads a Bible quote.
By the time our battalion commander stands to speak, this is getting real old real fast. It’s hot, and we’re tired of sitting in the sun listening to a lot of blah-blah-blah about some poor girl no one really knew.
Of course, I’m feeling responsible. Guilty. Berenger saying that I seemed so together should have been my cue. I should have done more. I should have noticed something. Why else put us through all these suicide-prevention briefs? What’s the point? I should have forced a conversation. I should have asked a question or two more. Gotten her talking about her shit. Talked to the chain of command or something.
Pretty rough stuff. But that’s the way it was.
I suppose there is still room for conspiracy theories, but I don’t think any of them make any more sense than the accepted story that Alyssa took her own life. I think the very fact that Kayla’s memoir exists is testament to the fact that no one in the unit was overly concerned about word of torture being leaked. Harsh treatment—though not necessarily torture—was fairly common knowledge, and I don’t think a soldier’s reluctance to participate would be a threat to her life. Not only did Kayla have no problems after opting out of the sessions, but she also talks about it on CNN from time to time.
From my experience and the written accounts, I see a troubled young woman who felt not only alone, but also cut off from any sense of normality. I see someone who felt she had no one to turn to. Mitchell’s article paints her as sensitive and intelligent. I think maybe the things she saw, coupled with everything else was simply too much for her to bear.
But I don’t see her as a hero either. If anyone is a hero, it’s someone like Kayla—someone who courageously exposed the abuses being committed. Nor do I believe that Alyssa committed suicide solely as a form of protest—though that is just my gut feeling and nothing else. I think the abuses may have figured into her general disillusionment about life, but again, that is just my opinion. Had Alyssa truly wanted to protest the treatment of prisoners, she could have done it in countless other ways. A mass email suicide note sent to her commanders, family, and the media detailing her feelings about the torture could have been but one way. But there was nothing. Just a single, handwritten note, as yet unread by the public.
Like many other stories coming out of Iraq, I think this one too is less of a big deal than it’s been made out to be. While many would love for the heroine to have martyred herself in protest against the evil promulgators of international torture, I think, in reality, this is just another sad story of a sad person ruined in a sad war. Like so much in this war, I don’t find anything at all redeeming in Alyssa’s story. There is no silver lining and there is no happy ending. This is just one more person who has been crushed under the wheel of this war—while everyone else moves on.