At the Iraqi Military College, the first day of learning did not begin with introductions. It began with humiliation. Thirst became a tool of discipline. Insults were part of the curriculum. Beatings were a daily routine. Below s the testimony of a young officer about a training program that did not teach discipline. It tested how far a person could be pushed before breaking.

Our first day at the military college began with humiliation. They told us to leave our dignity at the door. 

It was 5:30 in the morning. We stood in a single line, like prisoners. We were ordered to raise our heads keep our gaze fixed until 7:30. Anyone who disobeyed was met with harsh words and unbearable insults. I still remember phrases from that day:  

“You’re a donkey, and so is the one next to you,”  

“Get up, you animal, before I ruin you,”  

“I’ll shove my boot in your mouth,” and 

 “I don’t want to see your ugly faces. Damn you all.” 

When any sign of tiredness showed on our faces, we were met with:  

“Don’t act like women,” and  

“Put on a hijab, you coward.” 

The first day is known as Reception Day, but it was anything but ordinary. Cadets at the military college called it “Flip-and-Crawl Day” – a grim nickname for when we were forced to roll in the dirt and crawl across the ground. 

I felt like I was in another world, one I did not recognise. A world made up of heat, hunger, thirst and alienation. No one knew anyone. The cadets came from all over Iraq and were crammed into overcrowded rooms. They were always on edge, fearing the threat of officers barging in. Everyone was exhausted, and many were already thinking of quitting. 

The first three days were called the Guest Days, but we were not hosted. Instead, we endured unfamiliar harshness, training under a scorching sun. 

On the third day of the so-called Guest Days, one of the students died from the heat and the brutality of the training. He disappeared, and no one spoke of him – neither the officers nor us. The first two days had already trained us to accept cruelty and death. We did not even dwell on the rumour that was spreading among the cadets about someone who had attempted suicide due to the pressure and humiliation. All we could think about was the star that would one day rest on our shoulder. We had to survive; nothing else mattered. 

After the Guest Days, we were granted a short leave. We then returned to the military college for a full month – our first official enlistment and the true beginning of our path to becoming officers and rising through the ranks. 

It was at this point that cruelty and humiliation intensified, and our separation from the outside world became complete. 

Every day felt like a fight for survival, and one of the fiercest parts of that struggle was securing drinking water. Whoever had a bottle of water held the world in his hands – he became a king.  

Thirst during training became a longing for the one break at 10 a.m., when we were finally allowed water. But by then, the thirst was so overwhelming that we drank so much, and eating became impossible. We drank, but did not eat. Then we returned to training until 3 p.m., when lunch was finally served and we were given some time to rest, only to be sent back once more to train in the parade yard. 

The training routine 

As cadets at the military college, we had to wake up at 4 a.m. There were no alarms, just an officer counting from one to ten. Within those ten counts, we had to be fully dressed in our military uniform, and our chins had to be clean-shaven. 

From one to ten, no more. By the end of the count, we had to be dressed and assembled outside the barracks, making way for officers to inspect the inside. Those moments felt like we were in the middle of an actual war. 

Anyone who failed to make it out on time was punished. The consequence? Being pulled out at 10 p.m., during what was supposed to be rest time, to undergo additional training. In other words, the penalty was the removal of a cadet’s only rest period – replaced instead with extra drills carried out under a barrage of insults and harsh treatment. 

But even sleep offered no comfort. Just as we would drift into deep sleep from the exhaustion of training, officers would sometimes storm in, armed with tawwāthī, sticks, and belts. We had to react quickly, dodging blows and trying to escape the marks they left on our bodies. 

After the dawn inspection of the barracks, we were allowed back inside briefly to fix our uniforms, then immediately ordered to assemble in the parade yard. That was when physical training began, which required us to keep our heads up and run 2,400 meters in ten minutes. 

Anyone who failed to meet the time limit was punished. They had to rerun the same distance under the same time limit – on their rest day. 

Thirst and thoughts of quitting 

The training was brutal, and the thirst never left us. Sometimes we would collapse from exhaustion and dehydration, and some seriously considered quitting. But all of us thought about our families – about the look in their eyes if we ever told them we had given up. What would people say? How would they mock us for the rest of our lives? 

They would say I could not handle military training. The word “coward” would follow me everywhere. 

I, like many others, kept seeing those eyes and their expectations – and in their reflection, the glint of the star that would one day sit on my shoulder. I pushed my body harder and convinced myself I could endure the training. 

I denied the exhaustion, the pressure, the pain. Denial became a daily ritual. 

But it was not just pride or hope that kept me going through physical, emotional, and mental collapse. The fear of failure also meant facing a storm of humiliation, an onslaught of insults, and beatings from the training officers. 

And the words stung worse than the blows. 

The food looked like something my mother might cook, and I missed her terribly. But it tasted a thousand times worse. Rice and stew with no spices, no flavour. 

There were rumours that the college kitchen laced the food and tea with camphor to suppress our sexual drive. But honestly, what desire could survive in this kind of deprivation? Our bodies were too worn out to even remember what pleasure was. 

Return to the barracks. 

Training officially ended at 10 p.m., but not for those who had been punished. They remained outside, serving their penalties. 

Lights out meant everyone had to be in bed. Anyone caught out of place would face repercussions. 

But was the day over? 

No. 

At that hour, my thoughts were on my uniform. It had to be ironed pristinely and ready for the next day. Many of us were in the same situation. We slept for just one hour – from ten to eleven – then woke up to iron our uniforms. If they were not perfect, we would be punished. 

I remember a fellow cadet who was denied leave to visit his sick mother because his shirt was stained when his pen exploded from the heat. 

After ironing, we would return to bed, hoping the officers would not storm in again. Then, at 4:30 a.m., a new day would begin: the ten-second countdown, the barracks inspection, and a cycle that slowly made you feel like you were losing parts of yourself. 

Every day, I lost a little more of who I was, until I began to rationalise the psychological torment by calling it training. 

New cadet 

In the first phase of training, I barely had time to pray. The first 45 days passed in a blur of strict routines, entirely cut off from the outside world. No communication, no news, just a cycle of harsh training, humiliation, and constant thirst. These days were known as the Preparatory Course. 

After completing it, I was granted a three-day leave. When I returned to military college, I did so under a new title: new cadet. We all carried the same label. It became a pretext for officers to unleash the harshest insults and strictest punishments. Everyone ranked above us exercised their authority over us. 

After our return, wake-up time was pushed to 5 a.m. The day began with us standing in the training yard, heads raised to the blazing sky, forbidden from lowering or turning our gaze in any direction. 

We held that position for two hours. At 7 a.m., physical training began again, now with increased speed and distance. The difficulty mounted, the thirst became unbearable, and the insults grew more frequent. The psychological pressure intensified. 

After 10 a.m., theoretical classes began. We were finally allowed to sit in chairs. But we were utterly worn out from standing, running, and thirst. Even so, we had to remain focused and alert until 3 p.m. 

Anyone who closed their eyes was punished and denied Thursday leave, which had become a rare reward. We had to fix our gaze and listen attentively, even as our bodies demanded rest. 

At 4 p.m., we returned to the parade yard. This was called non-curricular training time, but in truth, it was just another brutal session: running, thirst, and senseless discipline. We were not even allowed to blink when ordered to remain still. If someone made a wrong move or even smiled, they would face detention. 

The thunderbolt course 

After the standard training phases came the Thunderbolt Course – the harshest and most grueling stage known to cadets at the military college. It consisted mainly of long-distance running, where a single mistake could result in being beaten with electrical cables. 

Nothing was more brutal than the Thunderbolt. The day began at 4 a.m. and ended at 10 p.m. The schedule was open, and so were the insults, the beatings, and the thirst. There were no limits, no discussions, and no explanations. 

“Execute first, then question,” we were told. But in practice, we only executed. There was no room for questions. 

After the Thunderbolt came the Simulation Phase, which lasted for ten days in a trench – in truth, it was nothing more than a hole in the open desert. We were surrounded by scorpions and snakes, with no antivenom and no medical teams available if someone was bitten. Amidst all this, we collapsed from thirst. 

I recall one day during Thunderbolt training, which started at 4 a.m. and continued uninterrupted until midnight. We were being punished and only allowed one hour of sleep. Suddenly, they stormed in, firing stun grenades and gunshots in the air. They began beating us with cables. We had to change clothes and run outside immediately. My friend was shoved to the ground, broke a rib, and was still not spared from training. 

Despite the freezing cold, they took us to Al-Mukhāḍah – a giant pit filled with stagnant, foul water that even dogs would avoid. They forced us to jump in, beat us with cables, and crawl across the rough ground until our skin was torn and bled. 

We returned to the barracks at 3:30 a.m., with barely enough time to change clothes before training resumed at 4:00 a.m. During those two punishing days, I slept for only an hour and ran 15 kilometres in 60 minutes, carrying a 25-kilogramme backpack. 

The Thunderbolt Course ends with what they called the “leap of faith” – a jump from Baghdad’s 14 Ramadan Bridge in the freezing cold of December. The Tigris, at that time, didn’t feel like water; it felt like knives made of ice. 

In position, hands touching our thighs, we threw our bodies into the river. 

Finally, graduation 

Today, I look back and remember everything I went through. I think of the one who collapsed in his first days of training, and of the two young men who fell from exhaustion and thirst. All of them, like me, dreamed of earning the star. 

Now, the star rests on my shoulder, and I ask myself: How did I endure it? How did I survive? 

And more importantly, should anyone be expected to endure all this just to become an officer? 

I think about how much I have changed. I am no longer the young man who entered the military college at dawn, willing to leave his dignity at the door.