In The Spirit Of Brotherhood

In The Spirit Of Brotherhood

It was dusty hot in the square and Nick Berg’s face lay open to the sunlight and the heat shiverings which lifted off the paving blocks in visible waves. He was twenty-six, strong, and with a natural desire to help others. It was that desire that found him walking the streets of Baghdad alone.

He was in Ghana the year before, teaching villagers how to make bricks. When he returned home, he carried nothing but the clothes on his back and a emaciated smile. His father asked him why he hadn't eaten more and he simply answered with a shrug and said he gave most of his food to starving children. So when the Iraq War boomed to life, Nick honestly felt confident that he was ready to do his part for mankind no matter what the circumstances or danger. Besides, he wasn't a soldier, he was only there to help. The people would see that and welcome him.

After a week in Baghdad, that thought had changed. The Iraqis were suspicious and shunned him where ever he went. His money was all but gone and he needed to find work.

He stopped to read the writing on a small sign, but he couldn’t make heads-or-tails of the language. Up ahead a number of vehicles blocked the roadway. Around the dust-blurred edges it appeared to Nick to be an Iraqi police checkpoint; the third one he had come across today. A small line of Iraqis were already waiting to go through.

As Nick approached, one of the policeman stared angrily at him, and then leveled his AK-47 at Nick's chest. With a big smile, Nick threw up his hands in jest. The guard did not return the smile, but instead, got the attention of another policeman. There was a loud discussion between them, and then both men hurried over to Nick yelling something totally incomprehensible.

Nick unshouldered his pack with a sigh and started to dig out his passport. The two men rushed him, pushing Nick violently against the side of a car and kicking his legs apart. He felt the barrel of the gun against the back of his head.

“Hey, come on guys, lighten up.”

When he tried to turn his head to talk to them, the man behind him smashed his face down into the car, pressed heavily against his neck, and held him there.

He heard the unzipping of his pack; saw some of his belongings thrown into the dirt. “I’m an American! An American god-dammit!”

He was roughly turned around and stared into the face of a angry man with a thick, dark mustache. The policeman kept rattling on about something or other and pointing to the photo on Nick’s passport. He held the picture next to Nick’s face to compare the two.

“Yeah, that’s me! Nicholas Berg, for Christ’s sake.” The photo had been taken a year earlier when Nick had a head full of hair. Before his trip to Iraq, he shaved his head thinking it would be cooler and easier to take care of. Although he couldn’t understand what the policemen were saying, Nick had the distinct impression they were intentionally giving him a hard time. They went through his paperwork, talked more Iraqi gibberish.

Nick was an electronics buff. And even though he came to Iraq with a desire to help others, there were also potential financial inducements for him as well. Back home he attended Cornell University and had learned how to rig electronics equipment and hook up communication towers. It was that interest that set him on the path toward setting up his own business. In the chaos following the defeat of Saddam Hussein's regime Nick saw opportunities for his firm and for himself.

The policeman threw his papers at him. And then they both turned around and walked away. Evidently he wasn’t allowed to pass. As Nick gathered his personal effects, he saw the mustached-man make a call on his cell phone. As the man talked on the phone he kept glancing in Nick’s direction.

“Something’s not right here,” Nick mumbled to himself. He hurriedly put his pack together, and then shouldering it again, turned and started walking back the way he had come. “The ungrateful bastards,” Nick thought.

Nick Berg was the youngest of three children born into a middle-class Jewish family. He grew up in a brick and vinyl split-level house in a comfortable area in Pennsylvania. His father, Michael, was a retired teacher and did not support the war in Iraq. So, it was no surprise to Nick when he and his father argued over his leaving.

“This is just another one of your god-damn humanitarian adventures, Nick!” his father yelled.

“They are paying good money for people with my kind of training. This could be just what I need to get my company going.”

“But this is different. It’s dangerous over there. Don’t you ever listen to the news?”

“Yeah, Dad, sure I do. There’s a major offensive going on right now in a town called Falluja just west of Baghdad. Those guys are over there risking their lives to free this place and I can help.”

“Yeah, and did you read about the four US security contractors killed and mutilated? The place is a hot spot, Nick. It is not safe!”

“Dad, please, listen. I gotta do this. I wanna make a difference.”

Walking the dust-ridden road, he saw a small white car speeding toward him. Nick had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He remembered what the American soldier had told him, how they were seeing a wave of abductions of foreigners since the upsurge of violence in Falluja. He had warned Nick to get out of Bagdad. Right now, Nick wished he would have listened.

As the car approached, he saw three guys inside; he tried not to make eye contact with them. They appeared to be definitely in a balls-out hurry over something. He let out sigh of relief as they shot by kicking up dust and darkening the air.

He heard the squeal of brakes and the chirp of tires confirming the growing fear in Nick’s mind that the car had turned around and was speeding back. He walked faster refusing to look back.

The car came to a screeching stop just behind Nick. He instinctively turned around, saw two men jump from the car and run toward him. They were both carrying a handgun. Nick backed away from them, the look of fear and despair on his face. They charged him and harshly grasped his arms, and then forced him toward the waiting car. Screaming orders and demands, they pushed Nick into the back seat, stripping away his backpack as he entered. One man hurriedly sat in the rear next to him and pointed his weapon at Nick’s belly. The other man jumped into the front seat even as the car was already moving. They sped-off toward Bagdad.

The next ten minutes were filled with harassment and intimidation as Nick was continually slapped and hit about the face and head. The terrorists, for that is what Nick immediately assumed these men were, filled the car with a rapid language foreign even to Iraqi’s. It sounded Egyptian or Arabic to Nick, and he became even more afraid as the car veered down alleyways and deserted streets. Finally they stopped in front of a boarded up building with the second floor collapsed on one side. The men all jumped from the car, opening the side door for Nick and pulling him out by his shirt. Nick saw Iraqi pedestrians hurry by with their heads down, declining to look in his direction. He heard one of them say the word Jew as they pushed him inside the building, kicking and cursing him.

There were two more men waiting inside with automatic weapons. One held open the door to a small closet and Nick’s captors forced him inside the small room slamming the door shut behind him. Nick was left in the dark, gripped in fear, panting and out of breath.

He could hear the men arguing loudly, heard one of them say the word Jew again. There was the sound of scuffing feet and of things being moved around the room. Nick could do nothing but wait. He silently prayed to God and asked that his family not be worried about him or that he should not have to suffer needlessly the evils of these men.

Then the door was opened, and an armed man wearing a ski mask spoke to him in broken English. “Come with me.” He motioned for Nick to step forward. Nick exited the closet, and the bright light made him squint his eyes. Four other men, all dressed in black with ski masks and head-wraps stood by the wall. Nick noticed a camera setup on a tripod. An orange jumpsuit was tossed at him, and he was ordered to put it on. Nick hesitantly began to undress.

His hands were then bound tightly behind him. Nick grimaced as it pinched his wrists. His legs were shaking uncontrollably and his mouth was so dry he couldn’t speak.

“You will tell who you are to camera,” the man said. “Say name of family. You do this and you may still live.”

“Water. I need a drink.”

The man barked an order at one of the other terrorists and a canteen was brought forward. The terrorist opened it and held the rim to Nick’s lips. He was able to get a mouthful before it was taken away again.

The men moved to one side as Nick was ordered to sit in front of the wall facing the camera.

Nick sat upon the floor, tried to relax a little. It was obvious they were not going to kill him just yet. The yelling and screaming had stopped. His captors seemed calmer. They wanted to make a tape; proof that he was their prisoner. Nick began to feel a ray of hope.

The leader stood behind the camera, and then turned it on. “Say your name!”

“My name is Nick Berg. My father’s name is Michael. My mother’s name is Suzanne. I have a brother and sister, David and Sarah.”

More orders were given and all five men stood directly behind Nick. The leader produced some papers and read loudly in Arabic. Nick had no idea what was being said, but he sat there rigidly staring into the camera, waiting for the man to finish.

Then he starts shouting, “Allahu Akbar!” -- then pulls a large knife from under his shirt and pushes Nick to his side. The other four men rush in and hold Nick’s legs and body down. Nick screams as the man puts the blade to the side of his neck and cuts once. He screams again, frantically trying to kick free, but is held securely to the floor. He can feel the cold, biting steel cut deeper and harder into his neck with the second stroke, and Nick tastes his own blood in his mouth. The third stroke severs his larynx and the knife is pressed down hard against his spinal cord. There is a loud sickening pop as the fourth stroke completely decapitates Nick’s head from his body.

The head is then lifted up in front of the camera. Loose flesh dangles from the neck and Nick’s eyes are open and filled with horror.

The man continues his diatribe in Arabic and then the camera is turned off. Nick’s body is loaded into the trunk of the car and later dumped by a highway overpass. Nick honestly felt confident that he was ready for whatever he might find in Iraq. In the spirit of brotherhood, he was only there to help.

On Monday, May 10th, President Bush spoke out against the atrocity: “Their intention is to shake our will. Their intention is to shake our confidence. Yet by their actions they remind us of how desperately parts of the world need free societies and peaceful societies. And we will complete our mission, we will complete our task.”


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