An Awakening in Uniform
The Marine Security Guard Program
It was 1998. I was serving as an enlisted Marine at the American Embassy in Lisbon, Portugal. Before that, I had been a HAWK Missile Systems Operator with the 1st Light Anti-Aircraft Missile Battalion at Marine Corps Air Station Yuma in Arizona. I had recently applied for a special assignment — a billet as a Marine Security Guard (MSG).
The MSG is the polished, well-disciplined Marine assigned to one of many U.S. diplomatic missions around the world. Our job was to protect classified material, government property, and embassy personnel — all while serving in a highly visible role, accountable to both the Diplomatic Security Service and the Marine Corps chain of command.
Before arriving in Lisbon, I had spent the previous 14 months posted at the American Embassy in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia — a posting I had not expected. My original orders were for Rome, Italy, but due to another Marine’s unexpected illness, I was reassigned. I had just come off a long stretch in the deserts of Yuma and, before that, Fort Bliss in El Paso. The idea of yet another desert was the last thing I wanted.
I had only two requests of myself before taking on MSG duty: Please, Marine Corps, don’t send me to another desert. And Commandant, sir, in all your infinite wisdom, please don’t assign me to a terrorist haven. Yet somehow, I ended up in Saudi Arabia — a place that, at the time, seemed like both. While Marines stationed in East Africa were under far greater duress than any of us could imagine, Saudi Arabia was always near the top of the list when Middle Eastern threats were discussed.
If you grew up in the 1980s, you might remember the scene from Back to the Future — the one with terrorists in a VW bus, chasing a time-traveling DeLorean. That was the mental picture I had at the time — a young kid from Ohio with a cinematic imagination and a growing sense that something deeper was stirring beneath the surface of it all.
The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
Little did I know, Saudi Arabia was something of a hidden gem for Marines posted to the Kingdom — including those stationed at the consulate in Jeddah. Diplomatic missions had shifted significantly since the end of the Gulf War and Operation Desert Storm. By the mid-1990s, Marines in Riyadh were living relatively well. We had access to a driver, a personal cook, a private gym, an on-site swimming pool, tennis courts, and even a fully stocked cash bar that occasionally opened to the diplomatic and expatriate communities.
That bar, by the way, mattered more than you’d think — especially in a country where alcohol was strictly banned under Islamic law. Having access to it on embassy grounds created a surreal kind of contrast: a carefully contained version of freedom, nestled inside a culture that strictly forbade it.
Of course, that lifestyle came with its trade-offs. Social life outside the embassy compound was almost non-existent. There was no mingling between unmarried men and women. The mutawa, the religious police, operated alongside the civil authorities, and without diplomatic protections, a misstep could turn fatal. The threat of radical Islam was rising by the day, and the summer heat regularly soared beyond 120 degrees Fahrenheit — oppressive and relentless.
At the time, one of our greatest concerns was the growing presence of al-Qaida — a largely unknown but rapidly expanding force led by an embittered Osama bin Laden. He had begun publicly calling for the violent removal of American troops from the Arabian Peninsula. Our presence — there by agreement between the U.S. and Saudi governments — was to help modernize and train the Saudi Arabian National Guard. But with bin Laden’s rhetoric intensifying, that agreement became more volatile by the day.
Saudi Arabia itself is a paradox. Revered by Muslims worldwide as the home of the two holiest mosques — Mecca and Medina — it was also a landscape of religious extremism, human rights violations, extreme poverty, immense wealth, and vast natural resources. Overlay that with an influx of Western expatriates — needed to support a rapidly modernizing infrastructure — and the picture becomes even more complex.
Nearly all specialized industries in the Kingdom were staffed by English-speaking professionals from Canada, the U.S., Britain, France, Germany, Australia, and New Zealand. These were nurses, engineers, telecom experts, oil workers, and private security teams, drawn by high wages and the lure of tax-free income. For many, it was a way to erase student loan debt while living in a high-stakes, high-reward environment. Nursing, in particular, was a common profession among those in our broader diplomatic and expat networks.
Geographically, Saudi Arabia also served as a hub for regional travel. Expats frequently shared stories of weekend scuba trips in the Red Sea, holidays on the Mediterranean, and excursions into Africa. For those who could navigate the restrictions, the Kingdom offered both cultural confinement and unexpected access to the wider world.
Exploring the Egyptian Mysteries
One of my earliest dreams was to visit the ancient Nile Valley — the sacred lands of Upper and Lower Egypt. While serving as a Marine in Riyadh, that dream became a reality.
Although we rarely left the compound for more than a few hours — usually for official business or trusted overnight stays — we were occasionally granted permission to leave the country for a few days. When one of my peers was preparing to rotate out to his next post in Central America, we saw an opportunity. With some convincing of our chain of command, and despite escalating security concerns in Egypt at the time, we secured permission for a brief weekend in Cairo. It was a perfect example of how to make the most of government-funded travel.
Upon arrival, we were greeted by a local tourism guide who offered, for the low price of $50, to drive us anywhere we wanted to go in Egypt. We were hesitant — concerned about safety, about being taken advantage of — but the offer was hard to beat. He spoke decent English, promised to help us navigate the language barrier, and offered a rare sense of hospitality. After settling into our hotel that afternoon, we planned our first stop: Saqqara — home to the Step Pyramid of Djoser, near the ruins of the ancient capital, Memphis.
My first impression of Cairo was how dense and chaotic it was. Tourism brochures don’t prepare you for the reality. The city was massive, choked in dust, and likely the busiest — and dirtiest — place I had ever been. The traffic moved at dizzying speeds, sometimes 60 or 70 miles per hour, bumper to bumper in a rhythm that felt more like an Indiana Jones chase scene than modern infrastructure.
But what truly struck me was the stark contrast between the ancient and the mundane. Here we were — standing on sacred ground, in a land steeped in timeless mystery — and it was covered in trash. Tomb entrances were littered with garbage. The pathway to a pyramid was sealed off behind a rusted, forgotten gate. There was a sense of neglect, as if the majesty of the past had been buried not just in sand, but in indifference.
And yet, even through the pollution, even as the Pyramids of Giza sat wrapped in grey haze on the horizon, something stirred. The mystique remained. The energy was still there. Egypt’s history is unmatched in the human record, and the sun still casts that golden light that seems to carry the memory of all who have walked there.
Like many who visit for the first time, I felt something familiar — something ancient stirring in me. It was a realization that caught me off guard:
I have been here before.
But when? And where? Who was I remembering?