The last twenty days have raced by and left me rather drained. It has been exciting. As I closed the previous letter, I stated that I had flown over the foot-hills of the Hindu Kush to Kunduz, about forty miles south of the border of Afghanistan and Tajikistan (formerly a Soviet Socialist Republic).
Talk about the Weather! The Tajiks remind me of the Kurds in Iraq as a product of a frontier spirit bred in high mountains. Because the weather was forbidding in the winter, the Tajiks learned how to work hard to survive. Living on the steppes of Central Asia, however, guaranteed summer weather at the other extreme, often peaking past 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Nevertheless, the plateau on which Kunduz is perched remains fertile after thirty years of bombs, terror, Hell. This area, in its day, produced abundant rice, cotton, wheat and melons; not to mention plentiful livestock and poultry. The agricultural sector, at least in this more fortunate part of Afghanistan, is coming back faster than did Northern Iraq’s.
Hot Guns in the Winter-time. Kunduz is known by the Germans, who run the Provincial Reconstruction Team of which I am a small part, as the ‘Kandahar of the North’. That is true and not true. The Pashtuns represent a plurality in, not a majority of, the province. The relatively large, seemingly out-of-place Pashtun population, reflects the forced migration imposed by King Abdurraman in the late nineteenth century. As Saddam Hussein tried to with his ‘Arabization’ of Kirkuk, so did this Pashtun tyrant one hundred years before. Others have tried the same, from the Mongols to the Yugoslavians. Among the many, mostly dismal, cases of forced migrations, perhaps one of the better cases is that of Afghanistan since ethnic hatreds do not seem to have taken root. The Pashtuns have a code of behavior and personal ethics called Pashtun-wali. To this code, these people, dating from the time of Herodotus, remain fiercely devout. Yet, that does NOT mean many, or even most, are sympathetic with Taliban.
Enough Pashtuns do sign on with the Taliban to render Kunduz the least secure province in Northern Iraq, and, apparently getting worse by the day. On several nights during my initial three weeks, one has heard the fire-fights between the Afghan security forces and the insurgents -- the Taliban is not alone in raising Hell -- many of whom are drug-running gangsters. People are very nervous. The camp in which I live is embedded within a larger Afghan Army base. The men manning the check-points are edgey, very edgey. The base and the U.S. camp typically closes down at 6 p.m. Two nights ago, I drove up to the first of two checkpoints through which I proceed when returning to the U.S. base from the German PRT, at about 9 p.m. (i.e., prime werewolf hour).
Wake-up Call. I quickly – and almost painfully learned – how innocent people wind up shot dead at check-points. I was driving a stick and tending to a down-shift in gears as I wheeled around a sharp hairpin turn, built by design to slow the vehicle down. Suddenly, I heard a yell and double bolting-click and looked up to see a teen-age Afghan soldier yelling at me with a cocked AK-47 pointed straight at me. Hmmm. These are moments when God’s gift of reflexes and quick-thinking really pay off, big-time. While a slight undulation of fear rippled through me, I instinctively turned down the headlights (not off), turned on the overhead light inside the car, put on my safety lights and held my empty hands up in plain sight. The soldier looked for a second and realized I was okay; he relaxed, apologized and let me through to the next check point.
Only in the mile-long drive between check-points, on a pitch-black dirt road, was I permitted to shiver with fear of the reality that if I had not been paying attention or reacted the wrong way in the frightened eyes of a young man in the cross-hairs of the Taliban, I would likely be doing time, heavy time, in Purgatory. When I recounted the story, people were appalled at the behavior of the Afghan guard and I really do not see why. The overwhelming numbers of people whom the Taliban (i.e., latter day Khmer Rouge) murder are the police, soldiers, dissenting imams and public officials. These deaths are not quick but slow and protracted due to a brutal calculus of inflicting pain and spreading intimidation. Who wants to be de-capitated over a span of 5-10 minutes? That is often the worst element of the Taliban, corrupted by the easy money of drug-taxes and the warped entertainment of imposing suffering on alleged apostates.
Drugs and the Afghan Version of the West Side Story. Though opium must be ‘haram’ (i.e., against the laws of God and the strictures of the Prophet), the Taliban is financing its destruction of Afghan society, with a tax on poppies and heroin. Though $100 million sounds like a lot of money – and it most assurèdly is – that sum represents 3% of the total industry. This small increment sounds like a toll charge to allow the stuff to pass through. Kunduz, however, remains a poppy-free province. That sounds great until one digs a little deeper and realizes that the province is making a boat-load of money transporting the drugs through to Tajikistan and beyond. The Taliban’s hold over a certain portion of the Pashtun population often correlates more with tribal allegiances and convenient alliances. For example, the southern district of Kunduz province, similar to a county in the United States, has a river that runs right down the middle of it. Aliabad, as this district is known, is ‘contested’ heavily.
Our troops and those of Germany are fired on all of the time. The river, however, hints at what is really going on. The western side of the river, with no bridge to serve it, is isolated, an ideal setting for the Taliban to raid, rape and intimidate with impunity. The East side, while precarious, has aligned with the Afghan government, such as it is, and remains relatively calm. The fighting between the two sides of the river reflects more the historical animosity of these peoples long before the Taliban came along. 0ne side conveniently sides with, perhaps acquiesces to, the gang of the one-eyed bandit while the other hangs with a shakey government propped up by the two of the best Armies in existence. Each side can carry on with traditional strife through alliances of force or convenience. After some exposure to all of this scratch-n-sniff politics, one begins to wonder which party (native or alien) is the proxy of the other.
Initial Impressions of Pashtuns. Underlying all of this duplicity, bred in what my colleague Brennen Searcy of Louisville would describe as a culture of suspicion, is one constant among the Pashtuns: the ethos of the mountain warrior – a man whose education requires guns not grammar; whose sense of honor is finely tuned to the fettered wiles of the beautiful women in his midst; and, who see little need for change, any change whether for good or ill. The Pashtun ethos hearkens back to Rousseau: why should I soften myself and corrupt my manly strength with arts and education? Who needs to read? I haven’t had to learn; why should you? This well-meaning anti-intellectualism damages many a fine mind, especially those of the women. So the ideal of the noble savage, often more like a noble scavenger, haunts a war-worn land.
The Burkas of Ballet. Yet again, in another fretful irony, is the burka worn by women. In Iraq and across Arabia, many women veil themselves in traditional black dress that, at its extreme, covers everything except the eyes, nose and hands. This “hijab dress” is unattractive. The burkas I have seen, however, are usually lapis-coloured blue or white; they are quite sheer and light. Some burkas even cut away the front half way between the navel and the breasts, exposing what one could easily imagine as a rather enticing dress. Further, on the full-length burkas, the feet that emerge in a young mother’s leading stride often has high-heels or becoming sandals adorning them. In Arabia, the women do not wear the tent-like burkas but must swelter in one hundred thirty degree heat in these black, very frumpy habits. The burkas in Afghanistan, while symbolically more oppressive, are far less so physically. In either case, I can not quite get my head around a culture that lets ten year olds run around in sun dresses but then imprison girls when they reach puberty.
When the Forgotten Are Remembered. A week ago, the Police Mentoring Team that has put me up – and, I might wisely add, has put up with me – embarked on a very special mission, the memory of which will last with me for as many days as God allows me on this planet. Task Force Warrior, one hundred fifty American soldiers and twenty-five Afghan support staff and nestled on the Afghan Army base, dispatched a delegation of the company commander, CPT Ezequiel Moya of Austin Texas, and a dozen soldiers to join the Provincial Chief of Police, General Razakh, on a very special mission. CPT Moya, class act that he is, invited a delegation of three senior U.S. government civilians; yes, I was one of them. The other two were the Senior State Department Foreign Service Economic Officer for Northern Afghanistan (and versatile team player), Mark Biedlingmaier, and the Senior Regional Agricultural Advisor, Richard Fite; both originally from Philadelphia…a grudging concession by this Pittsburgher to deem these gentlemen as, well, gentlemen. Richard and Mark were in town to review additional staffing for the U.S. side of the Provincial Reconstruction Team. We went to visit an orphanage.
Chief Razakh handed out back-packs, shoes, candy, toys and other gifts to a hundred boys and girls without parents so much earlier than God had written. These gifts were donated quietly by the American Army company; CPT Moya’s first priority was for General Razakh to enjoy himself and forget about the various death threats he receives. Further, Americans over here are a quiet bunch – we really are a modest and generous people; sometimes the grueling debate over debatable policies obscures that fact. Despite the many failings we exhibit, we can remember the forgotten, comfort the lonely, give solace to the sad ones amongst us. Yes, the world is a far better place with an America in it. I just wish that the CPT Moyas, Richard Fites, Mark Biedlingers – and so many of you, men and women alike whom I like or love – were actually guiding our policies.
Talk about the Weather! The Tajiks remind me of the Kurds in Iraq as a product of a frontier spirit bred in high mountains. Because the weather was forbidding in the winter, the Tajiks learned how to work hard to survive. Living on the steppes of Central Asia, however, guaranteed summer weather at the other extreme, often peaking past 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Nevertheless, the plateau on which Kunduz is perched remains fertile after thirty years of bombs, terror, Hell. This area, in its day, produced abundant rice, cotton, wheat and melons; not to mention plentiful livestock and poultry. The agricultural sector, at least in this more fortunate part of Afghanistan, is coming back faster than did Northern Iraq’s.
Hot Guns in the Winter-time. Kunduz is known by the Germans, who run the Provincial Reconstruction Team of which I am a small part, as the ‘Kandahar of the North’. That is true and not true. The Pashtuns represent a plurality in, not a majority of, the province. The relatively large, seemingly out-of-place Pashtun population, reflects the forced migration imposed by King Abdurraman in the late nineteenth century. As Saddam Hussein tried to with his ‘Arabization’ of Kirkuk, so did this Pashtun tyrant one hundred years before. Others have tried the same, from the Mongols to the Yugoslavians. Among the many, mostly dismal, cases of forced migrations, perhaps one of the better cases is that of Afghanistan since ethnic hatreds do not seem to have taken root. The Pashtuns have a code of behavior and personal ethics called Pashtun-wali. To this code, these people, dating from the time of Herodotus, remain fiercely devout. Yet, that does NOT mean many, or even most, are sympathetic with Taliban.
Enough Pashtuns do sign on with the Taliban to render Kunduz the least secure province in Northern Iraq, and, apparently getting worse by the day. On several nights during my initial three weeks, one has heard the fire-fights between the Afghan security forces and the insurgents -- the Taliban is not alone in raising Hell -- many of whom are drug-running gangsters. People are very nervous. The camp in which I live is embedded within a larger Afghan Army base. The men manning the check-points are edgey, very edgey. The base and the U.S. camp typically closes down at 6 p.m. Two nights ago, I drove up to the first of two checkpoints through which I proceed when returning to the U.S. base from the German PRT, at about 9 p.m. (i.e., prime werewolf hour).
Wake-up Call. I quickly – and almost painfully learned – how innocent people wind up shot dead at check-points. I was driving a stick and tending to a down-shift in gears as I wheeled around a sharp hairpin turn, built by design to slow the vehicle down. Suddenly, I heard a yell and double bolting-click and looked up to see a teen-age Afghan soldier yelling at me with a cocked AK-47 pointed straight at me. Hmmm. These are moments when God’s gift of reflexes and quick-thinking really pay off, big-time. While a slight undulation of fear rippled through me, I instinctively turned down the headlights (not off), turned on the overhead light inside the car, put on my safety lights and held my empty hands up in plain sight. The soldier looked for a second and realized I was okay; he relaxed, apologized and let me through to the next check point.
Only in the mile-long drive between check-points, on a pitch-black dirt road, was I permitted to shiver with fear of the reality that if I had not been paying attention or reacted the wrong way in the frightened eyes of a young man in the cross-hairs of the Taliban, I would likely be doing time, heavy time, in Purgatory. When I recounted the story, people were appalled at the behavior of the Afghan guard and I really do not see why. The overwhelming numbers of people whom the Taliban (i.e., latter day Khmer Rouge) murder are the police, soldiers, dissenting imams and public officials. These deaths are not quick but slow and protracted due to a brutal calculus of inflicting pain and spreading intimidation. Who wants to be de-capitated over a span of 5-10 minutes? That is often the worst element of the Taliban, corrupted by the easy money of drug-taxes and the warped entertainment of imposing suffering on alleged apostates.
Drugs and the Afghan Version of the West Side Story. Though opium must be ‘haram’ (i.e., against the laws of God and the strictures of the Prophet), the Taliban is financing its destruction of Afghan society, with a tax on poppies and heroin. Though $100 million sounds like a lot of money – and it most assurèdly is – that sum represents 3% of the total industry. This small increment sounds like a toll charge to allow the stuff to pass through. Kunduz, however, remains a poppy-free province. That sounds great until one digs a little deeper and realizes that the province is making a boat-load of money transporting the drugs through to Tajikistan and beyond. The Taliban’s hold over a certain portion of the Pashtun population often correlates more with tribal allegiances and convenient alliances. For example, the southern district of Kunduz province, similar to a county in the United States, has a river that runs right down the middle of it. Aliabad, as this district is known, is ‘contested’ heavily.
Our troops and those of Germany are fired on all of the time. The river, however, hints at what is really going on. The western side of the river, with no bridge to serve it, is isolated, an ideal setting for the Taliban to raid, rape and intimidate with impunity. The East side, while precarious, has aligned with the Afghan government, such as it is, and remains relatively calm. The fighting between the two sides of the river reflects more the historical animosity of these peoples long before the Taliban came along. 0ne side conveniently sides with, perhaps acquiesces to, the gang of the one-eyed bandit while the other hangs with a shakey government propped up by the two of the best Armies in existence. Each side can carry on with traditional strife through alliances of force or convenience. After some exposure to all of this scratch-n-sniff politics, one begins to wonder which party (native or alien) is the proxy of the other.
Initial Impressions of Pashtuns. Underlying all of this duplicity, bred in what my colleague Brennen Searcy of Louisville would describe as a culture of suspicion, is one constant among the Pashtuns: the ethos of the mountain warrior – a man whose education requires guns not grammar; whose sense of honor is finely tuned to the fettered wiles of the beautiful women in his midst; and, who see little need for change, any change whether for good or ill. The Pashtun ethos hearkens back to Rousseau: why should I soften myself and corrupt my manly strength with arts and education? Who needs to read? I haven’t had to learn; why should you? This well-meaning anti-intellectualism damages many a fine mind, especially those of the women. So the ideal of the noble savage, often more like a noble scavenger, haunts a war-worn land.
The Burkas of Ballet. Yet again, in another fretful irony, is the burka worn by women. In Iraq and across Arabia, many women veil themselves in traditional black dress that, at its extreme, covers everything except the eyes, nose and hands. This “hijab dress” is unattractive. The burkas I have seen, however, are usually lapis-coloured blue or white; they are quite sheer and light. Some burkas even cut away the front half way between the navel and the breasts, exposing what one could easily imagine as a rather enticing dress. Further, on the full-length burkas, the feet that emerge in a young mother’s leading stride often has high-heels or becoming sandals adorning them. In Arabia, the women do not wear the tent-like burkas but must swelter in one hundred thirty degree heat in these black, very frumpy habits. The burkas in Afghanistan, while symbolically more oppressive, are far less so physically. In either case, I can not quite get my head around a culture that lets ten year olds run around in sun dresses but then imprison girls when they reach puberty.
When the Forgotten Are Remembered. A week ago, the Police Mentoring Team that has put me up – and, I might wisely add, has put up with me – embarked on a very special mission, the memory of which will last with me for as many days as God allows me on this planet. Task Force Warrior, one hundred fifty American soldiers and twenty-five Afghan support staff and nestled on the Afghan Army base, dispatched a delegation of the company commander, CPT Ezequiel Moya of Austin Texas, and a dozen soldiers to join the Provincial Chief of Police, General Razakh, on a very special mission. CPT Moya, class act that he is, invited a delegation of three senior U.S. government civilians; yes, I was one of them. The other two were the Senior State Department Foreign Service Economic Officer for Northern Afghanistan (and versatile team player), Mark Biedlingmaier, and the Senior Regional Agricultural Advisor, Richard Fite; both originally from Philadelphia…a grudging concession by this Pittsburgher to deem these gentlemen as, well, gentlemen. Richard and Mark were in town to review additional staffing for the U.S. side of the Provincial Reconstruction Team. We went to visit an orphanage.
Chief Razakh handed out back-packs, shoes, candy, toys and other gifts to a hundred boys and girls without parents so much earlier than God had written. These gifts were donated quietly by the American Army company; CPT Moya’s first priority was for General Razakh to enjoy himself and forget about the various death threats he receives. Further, Americans over here are a quiet bunch – we really are a modest and generous people; sometimes the grueling debate over debatable policies obscures that fact. Despite the many failings we exhibit, we can remember the forgotten, comfort the lonely, give solace to the sad ones amongst us. Yes, the world is a far better place with an America in it. I just wish that the CPT Moyas, Richard Fites, Mark Biedlingers – and so many of you, men and women alike whom I like or love – were actually guiding our policies.