When those who serve in Iraq leave Iraq, they try to put most of it behind them -- the boredom, the heat, the discomfort, the danger and the death. But it doesn't just go away. It lingers, occasionally rearing up to nip at one's heels.

The other day, I felt the bite yet again. I found out that the interpreter our team had used for almost six months is dead. As I write this, I have no idea how he died. It could have been an IED (improvised explosive device), a sniper or one of the local death squads. I do know, though, that his death is just another in a countless chain of young men passing before their prime, both American and Iraqi.

His real name was Haydar but his nome-de-guerre was Zee. There were many occasions Zee put himself directly in danger to help us gather intelligence or uncover weapons caches, among other things. There is no way to tell how many U.S. lives Zee saved. Note I didn't say "may have saved." Zee's actions saved lives. Period. His payback was to watch our plane taxi down the runway at Baghdad International Airport and lift off bound for the states.

Precocious yet professional, irritating yet ingratiating, Zee went beyond the usual Iraqi interpreter. During the invasion of 2003, Zee, at the ripe age of 17, aligned himself with U.S. forces, hanging around the makeshift outposts and performing American rap songs in fluent English. Eventually, he was offered a job as a translator through the company that manages the translators found throughout allied bases in Iraq.

Zee worked with Marines and soldiers, sailors and airmen. He knew as much about tactics as most of our young troops. He lived through the same dangers as our troops. And he never tired of employing the U.S. vernacular, often referring to the Muslim women wearing the jilbab and hijab as "ninjas" and wondering aloud about the "junk in their trunk."

His goal was to come to the United States and enlist in either the Army or the Marine Corps. He admired our troops and I know it hurt Zee to watch our guys kick in a door or engage the enemy while he had to sit it out. He longed for the action. But more than that, he wanted his country back. So much, in fact, he risked his life by working with us.

Could we have helped him reach his goal? Sure, if a better system had existed. Of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Iraqis who risk death on behalf for our troops, only a handful have the opportunity to come to the United States each year, and our government does nothing to make it easy.

Why? Why aren't we doing more to help those who have helped us? Why do we fly nameless Iraqi citizens to the United States for taxpayer-funded surgery yet show none of the same compassion toward those who have an active role in our combat operations? Somebody somewhere has to recognize this.

There are several million people south of Texas who decide annually to disregard our laws, disrespect our culture and cross into our country illegally solely for their own selfish goals. Our government ignores it. Meanwhile, thousands of Iraqis are willing to stand in line, fill out paperwork and jump through countless hoops to get here and start over. And our government makes every effort to discourage it. Guess common sense is another casualty of war.

My heart was hard prior to serving in Iraq. It is harder still since my return. But there is still room for humanity, a space that allows me to feel for those in need. I'm not a human rights shill nor am I grinding a political ax. I'm just a guy who knows right from wrong, and the way our government treats our Iraqi friends is just wrong. We give them hope, then tear it away. We ask them to give all, then tell them we have little to give in return.

Writing about my buddy Zee won't change the system. It might not change minds. But I had to write about him because I can't make the memories go away. And I had to write about Zee because nobody else will.