What do you think of when you hear the word terp? If you're a Marylander, you're likely to give a yell of support for your local sports team. If you're a pilot, you probably break open your publications bag and dig for the latest set of Terminal Instrument Procedures. But if you've served any time on the ground in Iraq, you probably have very vivid and fond memories of your "terp" -- that is, your interpreter, the Iraqi who, in a very real sense, was your eyes and ears when you went outside the wire.

The best estimate right now is that anywhere from 30,000 to 100,000 Iraqis have worked directly for our forces in Iraq since 2003. These men and women put their lives on the line every day to help U.S. and coalition forces build a safer Iraq. Often with minimal protection and support, many of them are forced to hide their identities from friends and neighbors lest they expose themselves to retribution from sectarian enemies. Consider this anecdote from an outstanding piece written last year by George Packer:

Ahmed took two taxis to the Green Zone, then walked the last few hundred yards, or drove a different route every day. He carried a decoy phone and hid his Embassy phone in his car. He had always loved the idea of wearing a jacket and tie in an official job, but he had to keep them in his office at the Embassy -- it was impossible to drive to work dressed like that. Ahmed and the other Iraqis entered code names for friends and colleagues into their phones, in case they were kidnapped. Whenever they got a call in public from an American contact, they answered in Arabic and immediately hung up. They communicated mostly by text message. They never spoke English in front of their children. One Iraqi employee slept in his car in the Green Zone parking lot for several nights, because it was too dangerous to go home.

Or consider this more recent piece:

For Hamed, a forklift driver at an American military base, life has become a series of disguises. He has been a cabdriver, a man who does not understand English, and most recently, a laundry worker. None of those identities were true, but all were necessary to hide his ties to the United States. So when someone he knew handed him a bag of dirty clothes last month, Hamed, a mild-mannered 33-year-old father of two, had no choice but to wash them. “I said, ‘It’s my job,’ and I took them,” he said. He spoke on condition that his last name not be used out of fear for his and his family’s safety.

So how are we repaying these people? The State Department promised to bring in 12,000 of our Iraqi colleagues to safety in Fiscal Year 2008 (October 2007 to October 2008). Not an easy task, but certainly not impossible. And yet, here we are, 1/4 of the way through the year, and not only have we brought in barely 1000 of that 12,000, the numbers admitted have actually dropped from month to month. It's not that we can't identify people -- thelistproject.org, an effort led by a former USAID worker, has over 1000 Iraqis identified right now with letters of recommendation from American servicemembers, validated contact information, and legal representation waiting to help them. It's that, absent any kind of imperative from the U.S. government to help these people, the bureaucracy drags its heels and our friends remain out there, twisting in the wind.

What about security? What about the possibility that a terrorist could get into the U.S. under the guide of one of these refugees? This isn't our first time handling something like this, folks. In 1999, we processed nearly 20,000 Kosovo refugees through Fort Dix, NJ as they fled the fighting in their country. In 1996, in OPERATION PACIFIC HAVEN, we took in 6600 Kurdish refugees who had been displaced after revolts against Saddam's rule. In the latter case, it took us approximately 90-120 days to conduct a security screening for each family involved, all while they were kept in a secure facility on Guam. If the political will is there, it can be done, and done well.

Make no mistake about it -- these people are our brothers and sisters in arms. If you have any doubts about that, I encourage you to read the stories from people like Paul Rieckhoff , Mike Zacchea, or Zach Iscol. We would never dream of leaving a fellow soldier in the state we've left these people in. But in a larger sense, these people are also a symbol of American resolve. They are a tangible, visible sign of how the United States treats (or fails to treat) those who help us. If these men and women are left hanging, others who might be inclined to help us will take note and remember well how we treat those who put their lives on the line for us.