Discharged Navy translator misses vital role

Source: The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Author(s): Moni Basu
Date: July 1, 2007

Before anyone knew his secret, Stephen Benjamin's world was one of conservative Christianity, "Star Trek" books and the Internet.

As a teen, he was a wannabe hacker who spent hours staring at a monitor in his messy basement bedroom, not intending to do damage but curious to see if he could. That's how he dealt with the discomfort of being unable to tell.

Stephen Benjamin watches the Atlanta Pride Parade. Recently, his parents signed a petition to let gays serve openly in the military.

Stephen Benjamin takes in last weekend's Pride parade. He was an Arabic translator in the Navy but was discharged after message traffic showed he was gay.

But in the end, it was a computer that told on him. The Navy honorably discharged Benjamin in March after scrutiny of electronic messages sent on a classified system tipped off inspectors to him.

Benjamin, a petty officer 2nd class, was valuable to the military as an Arabic translator. But he was also gay. In his e-mails to his Fort Gordon roommate, then stationed in Iraq, he referred to himself as gay and discussed going out on a date with a guy. The Navy dismissed him under the "don't ask, don't tell" law, which allows gays to serve in the military only if they keep their sexual orientation private and do not engage in homosexual acts.

Since the policy was adopted in 1993, 11,000 men and women in uniform, the size of an Army light infantry division, have been similarly discharged.

Until he was let go and media attention ensued, no one in Benjamin's family or in his hometown of Bellingham, Mass., knew. Ironically, the few who did know were friends in the military.

Sudden onset of fame

These days, a Google search on Benjamin's name yields a dizzying array of hits, all containing the word gay.

"It's kind of weird to be out on this level," he said, staring at his laptop screen in his Norcross apartment.

At 23, Benjamin's military career was finished. He feared his relationship with his parents would be finished, too. They raised him in the Assemblies of God, a socially conservative Pentecostal church that does not accept homosexuality.

Conversations with his father were always businesslike, he said. But he spent afternoons with his mother at bookstores, sipping coffee. They watched the television home design show "Trading Spaces." They talked about everything except the most personal issue of all. "I felt they would blame themselves," he said.

Suddenly outed, Benjamin craved acceptance. He hasn't found it completely with his parents yet. But he felt it, if just for a day, a week ago in Midtown.

Inspiring company

Benjamin stood at Piedmont Avenue and Peachtree Street, surrounded by thousands of gays and lesbians lining the streets for Atlanta's Pride Festival Parade.

Benjamin stared at banner after banner that sailed by: "Your rights, human rights."

It was his right to remain in his job, he thought, especially when American forces in Iraq are in desperate need of linguists. Here at the festival, everyone would agree.

He struggled to contain his emotions as a contingent of veterans marched by in gray Army shirts and camouflage cargo pants, flags of military branches fluttering alongside the rainbow hues of gay America. Someday, he said, he hoped active-duty service members would be able to march in this parade without the threat of severance.

Benjamin watched church floats roll by, reaching out to Atlanta's gay community. He thought of his own church in Bellingham that was so disapproving of his sexuality.

After graduating in 2001, he worked at a Wal-Mart store. He watched the attacks of Sept. 11 unfold on myriad television screens in the appliance department.

Like so many Americans, Benjamin was moved by the tragedy and felt compelled to serve his country. His grandfather and great-grandfather had served in the Navy. One day, he walked away from angry Wal-Mart customers straight into a Navy recruiting office.

After basic training, he spent 63 weeks studying Arabic eight hours a day at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, Calif.

As in exurban Boston, he kept his sexuality to himself.

Vital role envisioned

He watched the Iraq war spiral into uncontrollable violence and read the names of the dead in newspapers. He knew his role as a linguist would be vital to fending off incidents of terrorism.

He believed the Sept. 11 attacks might have been prevented had the military not suffered from a shortage of translators. Perhaps, he said, some of the cables carrying al-Qaida messages might have been deciphered.

Benjamin excelled in his Arabic course and was assigned for duty at Fort Gordon, on a team of linguists who communicated constantly with deployed troops, sometimes translating information that let them know of looming danger.

"I was making a pretty big difference," Benjamin said. "I saw the results of what we were doing."

The main channel of communication with co-workers and troops was a highly classified computer chat system. Sometimes the chats included comments about the weather. Or "do you want to go grab some food?"

By now, he was comfortable sending messages about his personal life to close friends, many of whom were also gay service members. Things started unraveling for him after a random inspection last October of the Augusta military base, including a perusal of the government chat system. Inspectors identified 70 service members who used the system improperly — from using profanity to sexually explicit discussions.

In comparison to some, Benjamin's statements to his former roommate were unremarkable. He mentioned he was dating someone. He said he thought a guy in his unit was cute. "It was obvious we were gay," Benjamin said.

Of the 70 identified as offenders, he said, only two were discharged in March: he and his roommate.

"I spent so much of my life denying who I was," Benjamin said. "I wasn't about to deny being gay now. I kept thinking they would judge me on my merits."

Benjamin didn't want to leave Georgia. He wanted to be with the "family," a term he said gay members of the armed services use to identify other gays.

A critical moment

Benjamin's computer skills helped him land a job with a software firm in Norcross; he moved there in April. He knew an Associated Press story on the firing of gay linguists soon would be published. That's when he finally sat down to tell his parents. "There's something I need to tell you," he began in an e-mail. It was a letter he had penned a dozen times before but never found the courage to mail.

"The hardest thing I've ever done in my life was to hit the 'send' button," he said.

The response from his mother came two days later. "Is it something we did? God loves you. You can change."

They argued in e-mails. On Mother's Day, Benjamin finally called home.

"We haven't talked about it too much since then," he said Tuesday. "Maybe they are in denial. I love my country. I'm willing to serve. I believe in the [democratic] process, and I think things will get fixed."

Just being gay in the military isn't an attention-grabber anymore, he said. But he felt he could tell a compelling story because of the shortage of linguists.

It certainly caught the attention of U.S. Rep. Martin Meehan (D-Mass.), who is pushing a repeal of the "don't ask, don't tell" law, urging Congress to consider whether the dismissal of 58 Arabic linguists is serving the country well when "our cultural knowledge of the Middle East is dangerously deficient."

Benjamin misses his military job. He rarely converses in Arabic anymore. But he knows he has to move on.

He took a step on Thursday when his parents called to say they watched an online video he made for the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network, a national nonprofit group that helps those affected by "don't ask, don't tell."

Then his parents signed the petition to repeal the ban on gays in the military.