The Story of Steve-O

One thing that I think is crucial for maintaining a healthy mental well-being is this: coming to understand that your pain probably isn’t sacred. Personally, I am a believer that any trauma can be equal to another person’s trauma even if the situations are different. I can’t enter someone else’s head and decide how they should feel as a reaction to something that has happened to them, and they can’t do the same to me.

Yes, I got shot at. And for me, that was probably the most intense thing I’ve ever had to endure. But what about someone who has been raped? If they’ve never experienced war, that’s probably the most intense thing that they’ve ever endured so whose pain is worse? I would guess that they’re equal; really, it would just depend on the individual’s perception. I’m pretty confident that if there were a way to measure someone’s brain activity while they were enduring significant mental conflict, both situations would elicit the same sort of readings.

Simply put, trauma is trauma is trauma, and when I am feeling sad or helpless for myself, cursing the world and getting frustrated at God, I remember the story of the young Iraqi boy who lived with us, whom we nicknamed Steve-O to protect his true identity.

Steve-O’s father had been an officer in Saddam’s Army. After the U.S. had brought down the regime, Steve-O’s dad became an insurgent leader, commandeering a 40 man team, including Steve-O, who was given a rifle and told to shoot at Americans. Steve-O didn’t want to fight, however. He protested and his papa beat him; his body still bears the scars.

Finally, too overwhelmed with his predicament, Steve-O turned himself into the Americans – he also turned in his father, telling the Americans where he could be found. And, while riding in humvees in future patrols with the Coalition Forces, he pointed out the other 40 fighters when he saw them. That was an act of courage I can’t even fathom or ever truly appreciate because it just seems too insane: a 13-year-old boy (we didn’t really know Steve-O’s age; we gave him an arbitrary age and birthday, July 4^th) with the mental courage to stand up for what he believed in against the very real possibility of murderous revenge (now that he was considered a traitor)!

When he went to visit his mother a few weeks later, she said her life had been threatened also, if she didn’t turn him into the insurgents. She didn’t turn him in; she told Steve-O that he should return to the Americans. The threats became reality, unfortunately. His mother was killed. The whereabouts of the rest of his family and their fates remain unknown.

Steve-O rose above all that drama with a courage and determination that still seems unbelievable to me. He integrated with the Americans and won everyone’s utmost affection. He took to wearing military uniforms to perfect standards and he learned proficient English in just a few months. He’d never stop smiling; practical jokes were his favorite. I can’t tell you how many times I saw Steve-O run out of the building with a column of Marines chasing him after the antics he pulled. They’d tackle him playfully and rub their knuckles on the top of his head.

And his empathy for others, despite all his hardships, still humbles me and makes me feel like less of a human being. Through his resourcefulness and the networks he created for himself, Steve-O would do whatever he could for others.

On one particularly hot day, about 125 degrees according to a thermometer, Steve-O once asked me if I wanted a coke. “Hell ya, I want a coke – where on earth are you going to get that!?” I responded, outstandingly. We were on the border with Syria, and the closest other base to us, took almost four hours to travel to. Resupplies only came once every two weeks and we didn’t even get our mail often, let alone unnecessary amenities like candy or dehydrating soda. We lived in an abandoned railroad station, and there were only two refrigerators that I knew of, and one of those was broken.

Five minutes later, after rushing away, Steve-O came back with a cold Pepsi (“Coke” was just the blanket term the Arabs used for any soda). “You my saddiqi (SA-DEE-KEE),” Steve-O said to me, grinning.

“You’re my friend, too,” I replied.

I miss that boy. So much. He’s in the U.S. now, a political refugee, living with one of the Soldiers who looked after him before the Marines took over responsibility of that area of operations, and responsibility of Steve-O. His story still inspires me, and helps keep me motivated to staying well, and away from the dark place.

(It turns out by the way, that while we were watching over Steve-O in Iraq, he was becoming a national celebrity in the states. Here’s his clip from Oprah. And here’s the book that’s been written about him.)

Don’t give up, people.

~ Semper Fi ~

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