In pondering the fate of General Stanley McChrystal, I giggle with the memory of a top-40s song from the early 1970s “On the Cover of the Rolling Stone”. General McChrystal has done certain things that make me shudder like trying to shame allies into sending more troops, falsifying reports of Pat Tillman’s death in 2004 and, drawn from this article, looking the other way on torture.
Any one of these things may have been grounds for dismissal. But this Rolling Stone article? I do not think so. General McChrystal is not breaking orders but indulging an ego fed on sleep deprivation and asceticism. The General’s behavior seems to say, non-verbally, “See I am a hard-guy and, every day, I make the tough decisions – like not eating – that make America the kick-ass nietzschean über-nation that wins wars against all odds.”
This quaint arrogance has enabled General McChrystal to take the heat of pursuing a strategy fraught with risk. Most mere mortals (e.g., me) would never be able to manage this type of awful responsibility. Awful in its intensity. Awful in its relentlessness. Awful in its consequences. So the man deserves some credit for his transparency – even when he appears to be blatantly impolitic.
Instinctively, I felt dread when confronted by colleagues with this fracas in the fishbowl of modern media-made warfare. What drove General McChrystal and his rottweiler retinue to make such remarks? Staff Sgt. Kennith Hicks put my feelings vividly in the article itself: "I get COIN. I get all that. McChrystal comes here, explains it, it makes sense. But then he goes away on his bird [helicopter], and by the time his directives get passed down to us through Big Army, they're all f**ked up – either because somebody is trying to cover their ass, or because they just don't understand it themselves. But we're f**king losing this thing."
And things are not going well among the allies, either. If anything, General McChrystal’s candor, at times ill-advised, has made him a lightning rod for anger boiling over against the United States of America from Afghans and, at least German, allies alike. Sensitivities run very high these days when German officers, proud of their professionalism, uncharacteristically lash out at the arrogance of the U.S. Army in my presence. And many are quite accurate. Behind my impassive manner amid all of this heat-lightning lurks a thought taken from a lesson taught long ago.
First the thought: we may be preparing to exit Afghanistan. President Obama has decided upon yet another strategic review of this war; scheduled in December, a month after the Congressional elections. That sounds to me like the Administration expects a popular repudiation of the Afghan policy in November. This review will simply sanction the popular will. Don’t get me wrong: I support the time-line. Reason has to put limits on open-ended policies. Eighteen months – the timeline identified by President Obama in late 2009 – to get it right or get out still seems reasonable to me.
Which brings this letter to a lesson still alive in my mind from my Choate days. In May of 1975, I had a heated discussion with a Choate History teacher, Tom Generous. Saigon had fallen; punks in Phnom Penh had hijacked the S.S. Mayaguez. At dinner, I asked Mr Generous why so many people disliked the United States when we sought only to bring liberty to downtrodden people around the world.
Well, ‘T.G.’ – a Viet Nam Navy veteran – had a field day over dessert. Mr Generous shot right back, “What do you think of when you see a swastika?” I said, “Why the Nazis of course.” He asked me if that was a positive image. I said of course not.
Mr Generous then instructed me, in effect, “Ned, think about what the stars-and-stripes mean to people who have seen their families burned by napalm from U.S. jet-fighters. Or what about those people who find out their elected leader has been overthrown by the U.S. government? What do these people think of when they see the stars-&-stripes?”
These were, as they remain today, hard questions from a well-intentioned, highly intelligent and deeply patriotic man. Mr Generous got me thinking hard that evening thirty-five years ago, or as hard as my polluted fifth-form brain could at the time. Suddenly, with the quiet cues of defeat beginning to surface here in Afghanistan, they have me thinking again, some thirty-five years later.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Letter #9 to Friends and Family: Palestine after Four Days-Ghosts of Jimmy Past
Thirty years after Israël’s lightning victory in 1967, a good friend repeated heatedly that Israel had herded Palestineans into what he termed history’s largest concentration, not refugee, camps. Seeing Israël, as I still do, as the region’s lone democracy and most vital society, I disagreed with a vigor quite as intense as his.
At that time, I had few Muslim friends, fewer Arab acquaintances and zero respect for countries hostile to Israël. Nevertheless, I could not turn a blind eye towards Thucydides’ analysis of the blood-drunk foreign policy of Attica’s leading democracy during the Peloponnesian War. Democracy does not axiomatically equate to peace; losing a moral rudder often anticipates bloodshed and eventual defeat.
Two State Department tours in Iraq mollified my prejudice toward Arabs. Then Israël lost me with its over-reaction to Hezbollah in 2006 by killing dozens of civilians for every Israeli dead. The subsequent siege and impoverishment of Gaza two years later turned a rump of desert into, as my friend had warned a decade before, the world’s largest concentration camp. The now-threadbare rationale of Hamas being the cause of this indiscriminate killing of innocents belied Israël’s cry of self-defense.
At that time, I had few Muslim friends, fewer Arab acquaintances and zero respect for countries hostile to Israël. Nevertheless, I could not turn a blind eye towards Thucydides’ analysis of the blood-drunk foreign policy of Attica’s leading democracy during the Peloponnesian War. Democracy does not axiomatically equate to peace; losing a moral rudder often anticipates bloodshed and eventual defeat.
Two State Department tours in Iraq mollified my prejudice toward Arabs. Then Israël lost me with its over-reaction to Hezbollah in 2006 by killing dozens of civilians for every Israeli dead. The subsequent siege and impoverishment of Gaza two years later turned a rump of desert into, as my friend had warned a decade before, the world’s largest concentration camp. The now-threadbare rationale of Hamas being the cause of this indiscriminate killing of innocents belied Israël’s cry of self-defense.
The snip-it of exposure I have had of Palestine falls somewhere in between my reflexive support of Israël since 1982 and the disillusionment of the past four years. From my limited vantage point, at least, I see a depressing cohesion of fear on one side of the “wall”; despair on the other; and, sullenness on both. To be sure, I confronted my share of check-points and security personnel which seemed like petty annoyances facing a tourist.
Day after day, however, security detours stretch fifteen minute Palestinean commutes into an hour or more; searches and metal detectors treat innocents like terrorists; and, prohibited entries into sacred sites signal a two-tiered society. This gutting of liberty contrasts sharply with private ‘Israeli’ roads all over the West Bank and force protection of illegal Israeli colonizers populating illegal Israeli settlements atop precious Palestinean aquifers.
Thus ‘petty annoyances’ accumulate into a culture of shame and despair plaguing Palestineans simply seeking their four freedoms in their ancestral lands. The settlements and refugee camps each reek of this joint Jewish and Palestinean stasis of diminishing dreams, unsustainable privilege, and twisted tribalism.
The over-riding impression of my visit to Palestine, however, remains one of frustration and sadness over opportunities foregone. The Palestineans are industrious, inquisitive, educated and intelligent; traits rightly associated with Israelis. On the other hand, imagine one state unified toward a common purpose . . . .
That economy of thirteen million people would put their Mediterranean, Levantine and Arab neighbors to shame on statistics like productivity, inventions, value-added, etc. . . . and with no oil to boot. These two peoples would not trust each other at first but, with explicit safeguards and incentives, they could work together.
Perhaps oppression and outrage have festered for so long that undoing their effects will prove insurmountable; I do not, can not, and will not believe it. So what to do in the light of Gaza just a couple of days ago? Try to build that peace against all odds, but in a single state harnessing the mutual distrust into institutional constraints and accountability.
How can the United States of America support this uncertain mission?
America brings a national experience and publicly witnessed precedent of progressing beyond a painful, racist past. The manifest liking for, and desire to emulate, Americans (if not the U.S. government) displayed by the Palestineans deepens the moral urgency confronting a U.S. Administration long on the rhetoric of reconciliation with Muslims but short on the substance of peace-making.
President Obama would do well to study thoroughly the bumbling Administration of President Jimmy Carter. The Palestinean desire to emulate America – and, in her best aspects, Israël – should come as no shock since the Palestineans relish enterprise, much like their U.S. and Israeli counterparts.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Letter #8 to friends and family: THE UNBEARABLE GREYNESS OF BEING
NOTE: re-telling of an investigation I conducted and unclassified situation report I composed that was elevated to the Ambassadorial level in Kabul, some 400 kliks and quite literally a world away.
To my mind, at least, we are confronting the undoing of Western absolutes by the unbearable “greyness” of being. Usually, the unbearable greyness of being refers to the downward spiral of a life prospect darkening, with the soul eventually going from grey to black to suicide.
In the larger world of politics writ large in Afghanistan, however, the unbearable greyness of being occurs when the lines between the bad and good or between Taliban and counter-insurgent blur, and blur perceptibly. Let’s take one simple example: girls’ schooling in Northern Afghanistan. The Taliban apparently took over a part of Kunduz, long known as a hot-bed for anti-U.S. and NATO sentiment, not to mention the local subversion, as an after-thought of the no-show Afghan government.
The initial reports from private-spooks on the counter-insurgency beat was that the Chahar Dara (southwest part of Kunduz) was ‘owned’ by the Taliban; that the insurgents had closed the girl’s schools, forbade any female education, blah, blah, blah. Not coincidentally, the purveyors of grim tidings were the 'instructors' of a billion dollar police-training contract, the contractor of which is facing uncertainty over the necessity of the extension. Hmmm.
Guess what? The Taliban did not close the girls’ schools. Instead, they ended the practice of Principals pilfering funds from teachers’ pay-checks. Likewise, these talibs set about making sure teachers did their jobs with men teaching in all boys’ schools and women teaching in girls’ environments. Not an alien space-ship proposition for this part of the world.
And guess what? The villages in the ‘contested area’ love the new arrangement! The challenge now remains training women to teach in high-schools to avoid a tenth-grade choke-point. The talibs should toil for this remedy since they were the ones who fired and harassed female educators during their reign of terror in the late 1990s.
Then comes mystery number-2: four alleged incidents of mass-poisonings at girls’ high schools in Kunduz. No one found incontrovertible proof that certain poisonous attacks actually took place. No one bothered to ask the basic questions of why 80-100 high school girls may have suddenly – as if spontaneously – fallen ill, but not seriously so. As thorough lab tests as possible did nothing to resolve the mystery.
Rumours also contributed to a feeling of spreading hysteria -- that the Taliban is out to wreck girls’ schooling. What? After all of the effort to shore-up primary school education in Taliban strongholds? The Taliban has come out, through credible sources, condemning the attacks. Yet nobody seems to ask three basic questions:
- Is there a cheap perfume or cologne popular with teen-age girls that may be poorly made, leaving a residue of insecticide (or something) that induces these symptoms?
- Does one contractor own the right to clean the floors, etc. of these schools but in doing so with a lacquer that may be mixed too strongly?
- Could insecticides seasonally sprayed have been applied on school days when such things, if over-used, might temporarily inhibit one’s breathing?
Latest studies, considered defining and exhaustive, released by NATO, indicate that the third possibility was the problem. The guilty substance was bleach and / or chloroform mixed in with water and sprayed heavily to kill off malarial mosquitoes. The Taliban had nothing to do with the scare, unlike the reports of NBC and others.
So, we face two challenges with this unbearable greyness of being, the ‘transubstantiated‘ Taliban is now fighting a “counter-counter” insurgency by improving substantially upon a critical service the established government is supposed to provide, but has not in Chahar Dara. Far from being the perpetrators of alleged poison-terror attacks, the local Taliban actually supported the protection of people by announcing that it would bring any wrong-doers to justice.
Well, having investigated the incidents and delved into the Taliban’s twisted, twittering mind, I say that NATO and its allies ought to congratulate the Taliban for work well done. Secondly, NATO should urge the Taliban to aid the justice system in providing quicker, firmer disposition of cases. The government's side? To moderate Taliban justice.
And, lastly, use that common interest – the protection of girls – as a pivot point for bringing the locals back into the fold. This reconciliation should start soon before these local Taliban, who have a stake in the tranquillity of their communities, be over-run by infiltrators from Kandahar, Pakistan, Chechnya and beyond. These latter, far uglier insurgents have less concern for the boys and girls, mother and fathers living in these contested villages.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Letter #7 to friends and family: Long hiatus; copied from an email
FROM the GENERALS to ME...downnnnn
My biggest fear has never been as much my own death as that of a twenty year old soldier standing through the roof of an armoured vehicle protecting me. If I were killed, while premature, my death would end a rather complete life. That soldier, however, is at the beginning of his...sobering. From the Chief of Staff of the United States Army through a Major Genral (DIA) a sobering and extraordinary tribut. Please take the time to read this passage; it is worth. When I go to Jordan and Israel over the next few days, I will finally send some letters, filled with criticisms, I am sure. But lest I forget what my younger brothers and sisters in uniform do....
===============================
-----Original Message-----
From: Flynn, Michael T USA MG USA CJ2 ISAF USFOR-A
Sent: Thursday, May 20, 2010 12:51 AM
To: 'FLYNNM321@AOL.COM'; Flynn, Charles A USA COL USA ISAF COMISAF;
Gillian, David C BG CJ2 ISAF HQ; Velez, Rey A Mr USA CIV CJ2 CIV/MIL
Director; 'thomas.e.whittles@navy.mil'; Becker, Paul B RDML USN IJC;
Franz, George J USA COL USA IJC; Thompson, Andrea L USA COL USA USFOR-A
J2; Torrisi, Annette L COL USA IJC; Boothby, Duncan USA MR CIV ISAF
COMISAF; 'FLOWERSFISH@MORRISBB.NET'; 'sally.donnelly@js.pentagon.mil';
Beckman, Steven A COL USA USA RC(S) HQ; 'harry.hurst@js.pentagon.mil'
Subject: Fw: CSA Sends: CPT Kyle Comfort
Importance: High
Why we serve...
From: General Officer Management Office (GOMO)
To: undisclosed-recipients
Sent: Wed May 19 23:36:24 2010
Subject: CSA
Sends: CPT Kyle Comfort
Troops,Wanted to share this with you as an indicator of the spirit that lives
in this force.GEN Casey
-------I wanted to take the opportunity to give you a report from the funeral
for one of our warriors where I was your GO representative. CPT Kyle A.
Comfort was buried on MON, 17 May, in Jacksonville, Alabama. Kyle was
assigned to D CO 3rd/75th Ranger Regiment and was killed approximately
two weeks ago in combat in Afghanistan. He was survived by his wife of 5
years, and their 6 month old daughter.
The turnout/support for his wake and funeral was simply amazing...1000+
folks at the church and lining the approximately 3 mile route through
town to his final resting place (accompanied by 300+ motorcycle riders
from the various support riding groups).
What I wanted to provide for your personal SA is the following BLOG that
was read at his eulogy and was written by him as a young 2LT serving
with 2nd BDE of the 101st in Iraq about two years ago. I found it to be
one of the most profound descriptions of our soldierly bonds that I've
ever heard.
Thanks to you and USASOC for the opportunity to partake in this event as
I come away from an experience like this, as always, with an even more
intense commitment to our nation and our Army.
BG Raymond "Tony" Thomas
-------BLOG of CPT KYLE A. COMFORT:Thursday, January 31, 2008
Distance means nothing
Current mood: grateful
To All,Im not really a blog kind of person but I figured I would give it a
shot. There are a few things that run across my mind regularly while
serving in Iraq, and oddly enough I just happened to have a way to put
it down in "writing".
You can read it in books, you can see it on tv, you can see it in the
newspapers, but unless you have actually been here to watch these few,
these happy few, who day after day put themselves at risk to complete
the mission then you could never truly understand their sacrifices. Some
dont know what the mission is in the grand scheme, some dont even care,
but regardless they will complete it with honor.
Everyday I wake up to
see these men of Bravo company take another step closer towards freedom.
Not just freedom for themselves, for you or for me, but for the peopleof Iraq.
They have left it all behind, some for a 2nd and 3rd time, and they
conduct each day with nothing more than a guarantee that tomorrow is one
day closer to home. They complain not about being here, not about why
we're here, not even about how many times they have been here. Their
complaints are usually that the water they shaved with this morning,
assuming they were given the opportunity.
I can stare any one of these men in the face and read the story of what
it is to serve honorably.
Missing my incredibly supportive wife I can handle but waking up each
day to see these heroes driving on as if this day was the greatest day I
find hard to hold in. They ask nothing of their leaders except the
truth. Listening to encouraging words will no longer be necessary for me
when it gets hard in life for I have the expereinces of Bravo company to
help me drive on. I did not KNOW honor until I served with these
Soldiers. I am truly a blessed man who has been given all that I have
ever asked.
My reward is to have this opportunity to serve along sidethem.
Some of these men are no more then 17-18 years of age but make no
mistake for they are as much a man as any one person you know. Words can
never convey what these men do each day.
I did not know what to expect when I came to Iraq. I did not understand
my place on the battlefield in the current fight and I certainly did not
understand entirely what it would mean to serve along side Americas
finest. I believe I now know my role and it is a role I take very
seriously. I will do whatever it takes to get all these men home safely
and back to their families.
Everytime I leave the wire I know they are
watching out for me. Sometimes I can tell they are watching out for me
more so than they are themselves. At first I thought it was because I
was a Lieutenant, and maybe so at first, but not anymore. Now they do it
because Im one of them...........Bravo Company.
To all who know me, you know that I love my wife, my family, and my
soldiers more than anything. If you have never had the opportunity to
serve alongside them I implore you to speak with them. He is not a robot
anymore than anyone else, but if you attack him, his instincts will seem
almost reflexive in nature.
America, sleep sound tonight. The Soldiers of Bravo Company will tuck
you in with the power of freedom and all that it offers. They will ask
nothing of you and it is likely they never will.
When you see these few, these happy few, tell them you love them for
their sacrifice and that you slept well tonight.
Kyle A. Comfort, 2LT FA Bravo Co
FSO 2-502D IN REGTClassification: UNCLASSIFIEDCaveats: NONE
My biggest fear has never been as much my own death as that of a twenty year old soldier standing through the roof of an armoured vehicle protecting me. If I were killed, while premature, my death would end a rather complete life. That soldier, however, is at the beginning of his...sobering. From the Chief of Staff of the United States Army through a Major Genral (DIA) a sobering and extraordinary tribut. Please take the time to read this passage; it is worth. When I go to Jordan and Israel over the next few days, I will finally send some letters, filled with criticisms, I am sure. But lest I forget what my younger brothers and sisters in uniform do....
===============================
-----Original Message-----
From: Flynn, Michael T USA MG USA CJ2 ISAF USFOR-A
Sent: Thursday, May 20, 2010 12:51 AM
To: 'FLYNNM321@AOL.COM'; Flynn, Charles A USA COL USA ISAF COMISAF;
Gillian, David C BG CJ2 ISAF HQ; Velez, Rey A Mr USA CIV CJ2 CIV/MIL
Director; 'thomas.e.whittles@navy.mil'; Becker, Paul B RDML USN IJC;
Franz, George J USA COL USA IJC; Thompson, Andrea L USA COL USA USFOR-A
J2; Torrisi, Annette L COL USA IJC; Boothby, Duncan USA MR CIV ISAF
COMISAF; 'FLOWERSFISH@MORRISBB.NET'; 'sally.donnelly@js.pentagon.mil';
Beckman, Steven A COL USA USA RC(S) HQ; 'harry.hurst@js.pentagon.mil'
Subject: Fw: CSA Sends: CPT Kyle Comfort
Importance: High
Why we serve...
From: General Officer Management Office (GOMO)
To: undisclosed-recipients
Sent: Wed May 19 23:36:24 2010
Subject: CSA
Sends: CPT Kyle Comfort
Troops,Wanted to share this with you as an indicator of the spirit that lives
in this force.GEN Casey
-------I wanted to take the opportunity to give you a report from the funeral
for one of our warriors where I was your GO representative. CPT Kyle A.
Comfort was buried on MON, 17 May, in Jacksonville, Alabama. Kyle was
assigned to D CO 3rd/75th Ranger Regiment and was killed approximately
two weeks ago in combat in Afghanistan. He was survived by his wife of 5
years, and their 6 month old daughter.
The turnout/support for his wake and funeral was simply amazing...1000+
folks at the church and lining the approximately 3 mile route through
town to his final resting place (accompanied by 300+ motorcycle riders
from the various support riding groups).
What I wanted to provide for your personal SA is the following BLOG that
was read at his eulogy and was written by him as a young 2LT serving
with 2nd BDE of the 101st in Iraq about two years ago. I found it to be
one of the most profound descriptions of our soldierly bonds that I've
ever heard.
Thanks to you and USASOC for the opportunity to partake in this event as
I come away from an experience like this, as always, with an even more
intense commitment to our nation and our Army.
BG Raymond "Tony" Thomas
-------BLOG of CPT KYLE A. COMFORT:Thursday, January 31, 2008
Distance means nothing
Current mood: grateful
To All,Im not really a blog kind of person but I figured I would give it a
shot. There are a few things that run across my mind regularly while
serving in Iraq, and oddly enough I just happened to have a way to put
it down in "writing".
You can read it in books, you can see it on tv, you can see it in the
newspapers, but unless you have actually been here to watch these few,
these happy few, who day after day put themselves at risk to complete
the mission then you could never truly understand their sacrifices. Some
dont know what the mission is in the grand scheme, some dont even care,
but regardless they will complete it with honor.
Everyday I wake up to
see these men of Bravo company take another step closer towards freedom.
Not just freedom for themselves, for you or for me, but for the peopleof Iraq.
They have left it all behind, some for a 2nd and 3rd time, and they
conduct each day with nothing more than a guarantee that tomorrow is one
day closer to home. They complain not about being here, not about why
we're here, not even about how many times they have been here. Their
complaints are usually that the water they shaved with this morning,
assuming they were given the opportunity.
I can stare any one of these men in the face and read the story of what
it is to serve honorably.
Missing my incredibly supportive wife I can handle but waking up each
day to see these heroes driving on as if this day was the greatest day I
find hard to hold in. They ask nothing of their leaders except the
truth. Listening to encouraging words will no longer be necessary for me
when it gets hard in life for I have the expereinces of Bravo company to
help me drive on. I did not KNOW honor until I served with these
Soldiers. I am truly a blessed man who has been given all that I have
ever asked.
My reward is to have this opportunity to serve along sidethem.
Some of these men are no more then 17-18 years of age but make no
mistake for they are as much a man as any one person you know. Words can
never convey what these men do each day.
I did not know what to expect when I came to Iraq. I did not understand
my place on the battlefield in the current fight and I certainly did not
understand entirely what it would mean to serve along side Americas
finest. I believe I now know my role and it is a role I take very
seriously. I will do whatever it takes to get all these men home safely
and back to their families.
Everytime I leave the wire I know they are
watching out for me. Sometimes I can tell they are watching out for me
more so than they are themselves. At first I thought it was because I
was a Lieutenant, and maybe so at first, but not anymore. Now they do it
because Im one of them...........Bravo Company.
To all who know me, you know that I love my wife, my family, and my
soldiers more than anything. If you have never had the opportunity to
serve alongside them I implore you to speak with them. He is not a robot
anymore than anyone else, but if you attack him, his instincts will seem
almost reflexive in nature.
America, sleep sound tonight. The Soldiers of Bravo Company will tuck
you in with the power of freedom and all that it offers. They will ask
nothing of you and it is likely they never will.
When you see these few, these happy few, tell them you love them for
their sacrifice and that you slept well tonight.
Kyle A. Comfort, 2LT FA Bravo Co
FSO 2-502D IN REGTClassification: UNCLASSIFIEDCaveats: NONE
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Letter #6 to Friends and Family: In Defense of Deutschland
This letter will be brief since it is more of a thought-piece than anything else. Additionally, I want to post a sobering passage from a friend of mine in the South. What Andre Smaic went through a few days ago really must give one pause to think.
Here comes the Surge. The ‘surge’ up here in the North is taking shape. Coincidentally, my friends and colleagues from the Georgia National Guard and the German Bundeswehr are “RIPping” out; that is, their relief is in place and my colleagues in uniform are returning to their home bases. On the U.S. side, a new, active duty division is coming into the North, the “Tenth Mountain Division” from New York. The tell-tale signs of impending conflict are readily visible these days:
In defense of the Germans. As the 10th MTN arrives, the word not heard but on everyone’s mind is why the Yanks are coming. Stated bluntly: people believe the Germans have failed and failed miserably in holding this province, once the stronghold in the North for the Taliban. True, security has declined markedly over the past year.
Notwithstanding General McChrystal’s kicking down doors in Berlin for more troops in Afghanistan, however, the Germans have not been cowardly. Theirs has been an approach that seeks to co-opt through co-operation. By cultivating relationships in some of the more troubled areas, the Bundeswehr has worked hard to impress upon ordinary Pashtuns the futility of continued fighting.
Things may not be great under this flawed system, the German reasoning goes, but coming to believe in the possible is less imperfect than continued violence. There are flaws in this rationale, the most evident of which remains that things will change in this country only when Afghans decide change them by overwhelmingly repudiating violence.
But as a senior German diplomat reflected so wisely, "Ned, if you want to change a policy around here, argue with the men. But is want to change the culture [over the next two generations], start by working with the women." Tragically, however, one easily overlooks the day-by-day courage required to bring recalcitrant combatants to reconciliation.
Obscuring this approach are distortions over the September air-strike that allegedly killed many civilians. There are many elements of this story that do not hang together.
The bombing, and the press around it, obscures much of what the Germans have tried to do peaceably. That confusion, together with the U.S. looking for a quick victory up North to regenerate battle-field momentum, leads to the widespread and convenient belief that the Germans have failed. The upcoming surge looks like a fairly logical course after the success of the surge in Iraq.
But this reasoning may prove to be fallacious. The Iraqis made the Iraq surge work as Sunnis took up arms against foreign fighters and rejected the violence of militant Islam. These ‘Sons of Iraq’ provided the fundament of community policing – and that ground-level policing, supplemented by 30,000 U.S. troops mainly in Baghdad, turned the tide.
There is little evidence of such a change in allegiances taking place in Afghanistan. The new militias are simply, like the band KISS from the 1970s, a bunch of old mujaheddin painted up to look new. The civil war during the mid-1990s in Afghanistan was as bad – or worse – than the Taliban; the mujaheddin bloodied their hands odiously. General Ahmed Shah Massoud and his Northern Alliance were, by and large, an exception but he stayed up in the Northeast, unable to stem the violence.
This broken analogy with Operation Iraqi Freedom collapses the premise of this kinetic ‘up-tick’ into what may prove to be a fatal fallacy: that a surge in violence will end all violence. Perhaps the peaceful, less dramatic, way of the Germans may prove, in retrospect, to have been the more constructive, less bloody mode.
With the whispers of gossip and history spiralling together, I am increasingly inclined to think that the rush to push the Germans out of the way in the North reflects a desire for an easy victory. Why such a desire? Because things may not be progressing quite so well in the South and East as one might think from the press accounts. At this point, Sergeant Smaic’s story assumes a delayed paramountcy.
============================================
From: "Andrijan Smaic"
Wednesday, March 17, 2010 1:30 PM
I'm okay,
ALCON-
I’m okay, the bombers were killed just ten feet from where I was standing, after a very intense gunfight amid the screaming and shouting; when the gunfight broke out, I took cover into an office. Situational awareness…the people need to get their act together, security around the perimeter is a joke,, towers not manned (the SVBID) came through the tower and back alley.
The vests, 8KG [18 lbs], didn’t explode, pretty well coordinated 2 prong attack. 9 am in the morning. My clothes still smell like gunpowder…got to move to another place for the night.
There is NO military presence here in Lashkar Gah. I’m supposed to head over to Marjeh, our security team will not travel there b/c it’s unsecure…the Marines got hit hard yesterday and again tonight they are getting hit. I have my work cut out for me.
V/r
Andrijan Smaic
Field Coordinator (Marjeh)
Afghanistan Vouchers for Increased Production in Agriculture AVIPA(+) USAID
International Relief and Development, Inc (IRD)
Marjeh, Helmand Province, Afghanistan
==========================================
--- On Wed, 3/17/10, Andrijan Smaic wrote:
From: Andrijan Smaic
Subject: Emailing: Suicide Bomber Attack on our building 006 (2)
To: "'Dejan Smaic'"; "'Zoran Smaic'" "'Daniel Smock'; "'David E Bailey'"; "'Kops, Kenneth E. LTC'"; "'Matt Speidel'"; "'aleksandar'"; nedmcd@yahoo.com
Date: Wednesday, March 17, 2010, 4:12 PM
I was able to get to a laptop and send a quick one liner that I am okay
before they even woke up. A few details: All the news agencies reported
some very inaccurate information today: Let me set the record straight.
The suicide bombers were dressed as women to disguise the approach to
the corner of the compound to an unmanned guardtower.
Took off the gerkas, got out of the trolley, placed the ladder
against the wall, climbed into the UNMANNED guard tower, made it to the
ground, as they were inserting their mags into the AK-47, one of the global
guys just so happened to see it, ran back about 50m to their
office...yelling "gooks in the wire!!!" grabbed the long rifle, went back to
the corner wall where he first identified the bombers, engaged and wounded
one, the bomber turned back and went down the back ally with the other bad
guy made it around to our door and were once again engaged.
One of security guys only had a pistol, falling back behind one of the cars
as he was shooting, was grazed in the neck. Bullets going in every direction....
bad guys opened the first door towards him, the second door the same, it
wouldn't open, it's the kind of door that needs to be pushed. With
everything going on, and they were hit many times in the vest (body armor)
under the 8kg of explosives, still didn't go down...they were also pretty
drugged up as well, which is typical. After it was all done, one lost most
of his face...emptying a 30 round mag into the head will do that to a guy,
several times over. I can't give out any more details without saying too
much.
The Police didn't engage at all, the gerka guards did well at their posts.
Improvements will be made to the compound. The bad guys were killed
and couldn't detonate the vests or get rid of the 28 grenades. The VBIED
loaded with explosives never made it to the gate for the others to storm
the compound, they didn't get there in time, timing was off. The bombers
also had earpieces for communication, don't take the Taliban lightly, this
is not Iraq! It's the wild west out here.
That's all i can say for OPSEC reasons, I don't want to give the condition
of our building away, let's just say, lots of bullets into the walls and
windows. Don't under estimate the importance of battle drills!!!! Also,
complacency is a very bad thing. My organization has no leadership.I had to
do some yelling and directing, this is my third day on the ground.it took
over 8 hours to clear the bodies with EOD.
It is a weird feeling to NOT HAVE A GUN. I held onto my cell phone b/c I
needed something to hold onto (didn't have a wpn). Anyhow, I was walking
toward the door when it hit the fan and the glass started to shatter next to
me, and then went into a room for cover, barricaded the door. Know body in
my room panicked.
Here comes the Surge. The ‘surge’ up here in the North is taking shape. Coincidentally, my friends and colleagues from the Georgia National Guard and the German Bundeswehr are “RIPping” out; that is, their relief is in place and my colleagues in uniform are returning to their home bases. On the U.S. side, a new, active duty division is coming into the North, the “Tenth Mountain Division” from New York. The tell-tale signs of impending conflict are readily visible these days:
- the appearance of ‘Apache’ attack helicopters;
- a quadrupling of the troop strength in Kunduz;
- more MRAPs by the day; and,
- the arrival of battle-hardened full-time Army personnel.
In defense of the Germans. As the 10th MTN arrives, the word not heard but on everyone’s mind is why the Yanks are coming. Stated bluntly: people believe the Germans have failed and failed miserably in holding this province, once the stronghold in the North for the Taliban. True, security has declined markedly over the past year.
Notwithstanding General McChrystal’s kicking down doors in Berlin for more troops in Afghanistan, however, the Germans have not been cowardly. Theirs has been an approach that seeks to co-opt through co-operation. By cultivating relationships in some of the more troubled areas, the Bundeswehr has worked hard to impress upon ordinary Pashtuns the futility of continued fighting.
Things may not be great under this flawed system, the German reasoning goes, but coming to believe in the possible is less imperfect than continued violence. There are flaws in this rationale, the most evident of which remains that things will change in this country only when Afghans decide change them by overwhelmingly repudiating violence.
But as a senior German diplomat reflected so wisely, "Ned, if you want to change a policy around here, argue with the men. But is want to change the culture [over the next two generations], start by working with the women." Tragically, however, one easily overlooks the day-by-day courage required to bring recalcitrant combatants to reconciliation.
Obscuring this approach are distortions over the September air-strike that allegedly killed many civilians. There are many elements of this story that do not hang together.
- American soldiers with whom I work, and whom I trust, swear up-&-down that few civilians and very few, if any, children died in that attack.
- The Germans merely reported a targeting opportunity to the ISAF tactical center; it was U.S. jets that actually carried out the attack.
- My State Department colleague has been reporting all along that the closer to the village of the bombing site, the less upset people seem to be; they either have no love lost for those who died (i.e., fellow Pashtuns) or believe that those who died took their chances...and lost.
- Had the Germans not ordered the air-strike and the trucks then were detonated as vehicular bombs at bazaars, killing hundreds, what would the world say then? One can only imagine what the headlines would say if two hijacked NATO trucks incinerated hundreds of innocents and the NATO commander responsible had been in a position to prevent it but failed to act.
- In fairness to Lieutenant Colonel Klein of the Bundeswehr, he did not know the trucks were stuck in the river nor could he foresee the fall-out of his decision. Relying upon incomplete information, he acted decisively to protect his troops and Afghan civilians.
- Most of all, the attack itself occurred at two or three o’clock in the morning. Now, you tell me: what parent lets his or her little ones go running around a fuel truck anytime, let alone in the dark of the night?
The bombing, and the press around it, obscures much of what the Germans have tried to do peaceably. That confusion, together with the U.S. looking for a quick victory up North to regenerate battle-field momentum, leads to the widespread and convenient belief that the Germans have failed. The upcoming surge looks like a fairly logical course after the success of the surge in Iraq.
But this reasoning may prove to be fallacious. The Iraqis made the Iraq surge work as Sunnis took up arms against foreign fighters and rejected the violence of militant Islam. These ‘Sons of Iraq’ provided the fundament of community policing – and that ground-level policing, supplemented by 30,000 U.S. troops mainly in Baghdad, turned the tide.
There is little evidence of such a change in allegiances taking place in Afghanistan. The new militias are simply, like the band KISS from the 1970s, a bunch of old mujaheddin painted up to look new. The civil war during the mid-1990s in Afghanistan was as bad – or worse – than the Taliban; the mujaheddin bloodied their hands odiously. General Ahmed Shah Massoud and his Northern Alliance were, by and large, an exception but he stayed up in the Northeast, unable to stem the violence.
This broken analogy with Operation Iraqi Freedom collapses the premise of this kinetic ‘up-tick’ into what may prove to be a fatal fallacy: that a surge in violence will end all violence. Perhaps the peaceful, less dramatic, way of the Germans may prove, in retrospect, to have been the more constructive, less bloody mode.
With the whispers of gossip and history spiralling together, I am increasingly inclined to think that the rush to push the Germans out of the way in the North reflects a desire for an easy victory. Why such a desire? Because things may not be progressing quite so well in the South and East as one might think from the press accounts. At this point, Sergeant Smaic’s story assumes a delayed paramountcy.
============================================
From: "Andrijan Smaic"
Wednesday, March 17, 2010 1:30 PM
I'm okay,
ALCON-
I’m okay, the bombers were killed just ten feet from where I was standing, after a very intense gunfight amid the screaming and shouting; when the gunfight broke out, I took cover into an office. Situational awareness…the people need to get their act together, security around the perimeter is a joke,, towers not manned (the SVBID) came through the tower and back alley.
The vests, 8KG [18 lbs], didn’t explode, pretty well coordinated 2 prong attack. 9 am in the morning. My clothes still smell like gunpowder…got to move to another place for the night.
There is NO military presence here in Lashkar Gah. I’m supposed to head over to Marjeh, our security team will not travel there b/c it’s unsecure…the Marines got hit hard yesterday and again tonight they are getting hit. I have my work cut out for me.
V/r
Andrijan Smaic
Field Coordinator (Marjeh)
Afghanistan Vouchers for Increased Production in Agriculture AVIPA(+) USAID
International Relief and Development, Inc (IRD)
Marjeh, Helmand Province, Afghanistan
==========================================
--- On Wed, 3/17/10, Andrijan Smaic wrote:
From: Andrijan Smaic
Subject: Emailing: Suicide Bomber Attack on our building 006 (2)
To: "'Dejan Smaic'"; "'Zoran Smaic'" "'Daniel Smock'; "'David E Bailey'"; "'Kops, Kenneth E. LTC'"; "'Matt Speidel'"; "'aleksandar'"; nedmcd@yahoo.com
Date: Wednesday, March 17, 2010, 4:12 PM
I was able to get to a laptop and send a quick one liner that I am okay
before they even woke up. A few details: All the news agencies reported
some very inaccurate information today: Let me set the record straight.
The suicide bombers were dressed as women to disguise the approach to
the corner of the compound to an unmanned guardtower.
Took off the gerkas, got out of the trolley, placed the ladder
against the wall, climbed into the UNMANNED guard tower, made it to the
ground, as they were inserting their mags into the AK-47, one of the global
guys just so happened to see it, ran back about 50m to their
office...yelling "gooks in the wire!!!" grabbed the long rifle, went back to
the corner wall where he first identified the bombers, engaged and wounded
one, the bomber turned back and went down the back ally with the other bad
guy made it around to our door and were once again engaged.
One of security guys only had a pistol, falling back behind one of the cars
as he was shooting, was grazed in the neck. Bullets going in every direction....
bad guys opened the first door towards him, the second door the same, it
wouldn't open, it's the kind of door that needs to be pushed. With
everything going on, and they were hit many times in the vest (body armor)
under the 8kg of explosives, still didn't go down...they were also pretty
drugged up as well, which is typical. After it was all done, one lost most
of his face...emptying a 30 round mag into the head will do that to a guy,
several times over. I can't give out any more details without saying too
much.
The Police didn't engage at all, the gerka guards did well at their posts.
Improvements will be made to the compound. The bad guys were killed
and couldn't detonate the vests or get rid of the 28 grenades. The VBIED
loaded with explosives never made it to the gate for the others to storm
the compound, they didn't get there in time, timing was off. The bombers
also had earpieces for communication, don't take the Taliban lightly, this
is not Iraq! It's the wild west out here.
That's all i can say for OPSEC reasons, I don't want to give the condition
of our building away, let's just say, lots of bullets into the walls and
windows. Don't under estimate the importance of battle drills!!!! Also,
complacency is a very bad thing. My organization has no leadership.I had to
do some yelling and directing, this is my third day on the ground.it took
over 8 hours to clear the bodies with EOD.
It is a weird feeling to NOT HAVE A GUN. I held onto my cell phone b/c I
needed something to hold onto (didn't have a wpn). Anyhow, I was walking
toward the door when it hit the fan and the glass started to shatter next to
me, and then went into a room for cover, barricaded the door. Know body in
my room panicked.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Letter #5 to Friends and Family: A second varied month of work and wonder
A February come and gone...gone ground-hog, that is....
PART-1: No Matter Where You Are, February is simply to be gotten through.
Well, February came and went, like it has every year for the past fifty. Outside of Valentine’s Day and, perhaps Presidents’ Day or Groundhog Day, the month means very little because it is cold, icey, grey and rather drab. That is to say: February becomes a time of hibernation, of renewal, as I learned -- but did not realize -- as a tenth grader when I could make out the faintest outline of Steele Hall across the way from the library at 6 p.m. on a Sunday night in 1974; the slight light gave me hope that homework would become less oneroous and more avoidable in the near future. Afghanistan is no different. Though there are fewer trees and less water, Kunduz does remind me an awful lot of dreary Wallingford, Connecticut in the Februaries of the mid-1970s. Instead of a wilting mill-town in the throes of economic change, Kunduz responds over three decades later with security briefings for donors and non-governmental organizations hosted by the United Nations Mission-Afghanistan.
Like the venerable nightly Italia pizza run, after which I got to eat people's crusts for I had little money of my own, such meetings provide very insipid fare for the shrinking grey matter of my much abused brain. Taking my cue from so many precedents – yes getting old means being cluttered (not filled) with memories – I spent this February working as hard as possible, driving myself to the edge of burn-out, ready to hurl my wasted frame into the abyss of yet another failure. But not quite. And so I managed to accomplish a great deal in laying the foundation of my mission here in Northern Afghanistan for the next year or two. Nevertheless, I am the only senior officer in a kinetic (i.e., military lingo for actively contested) province without a deputy and I desperately need one. A fellow had been hired. The day he was ready to report to work, the Embassy security office dinged him and, unintentionally, me. No help for three months; oh good grief.
Part-2: a Sunny Day in a Spontaneous War Zone.
The issues facing the North of Afghanistan pale compared with those in the South or the East. During this groggy, soggy time of year, only a few Taliban or other insurgents stick around; gangsters like good working conditions, too, I suspect. Since this winter was unseasonably cold and then very warm, the Taliban left en masse but will re-infiltrate early. One of the prime entry-ways into Kunduz Province is the District (akin to a county in America) of Chahar Dara. On the 25th of February, after a mid-month foot to eighteen inches of snow had cleared away, my U.S. Department of Agriculture colleague and I joined LT Todd Schwarz – and his ‘Devil’ platoon – to visit Chahar Dara. This trip was to an area that is apparently over-run with Taliban.
We travelled with the Devil platoon for a basic ‘meet-&-greet’ with the District Police Chief (akin to the county sheriff) and the ‘District Manager’ (like a county Lord-Mayor). The latter cancelled at the last minute due to a summons by the Governor. If only we had realized that portent of a routine meet-&-greet spiralling out of control into the ‘shake-n-bake’ that the day soon became! Being the Prophet’s birthday – a national and religious holiday in Afghanistan – we were lucky to meet anyone at all. My USDA colleague, in one of his first such ordeals after arriving just a few days before, performed admirably by raising the idea of farmers’ shura (assembly) to address the agricultural concerns of the area.
Politely put, Chahar Dara remains caught in the cross-fire of the insurgents, gun-runners and drug exporters on the one hand and the German-led International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) on the other. My ‘ag’ colleague has a Ph.D. in the sociology of agricultural subsidies, two tours in the Peace Corps working on small-scale farming challenges in the Philippines and Latin America as well as years of first-hand farming experience. In his head, he is a big-brained Ag-extension subject matter expert, but, in his heart, he loves leading communities in organizing themselves. No sooner had the District Chief finished with his appeal for help on security than we walked out of the office and started hearing pop-pop-pop of small arms fire about “two kliks” (i.e., two kilometers) away; then a boom followed by another BOOM.
Two improvised explosive devices resounded through the courtyard of two neutral looking cement buildings, constructed to the same sub-standard by the Germans or the Americans, depending upon the year. Instead of grass, there are large stones padding the ground as gravel; this uncomfortable surface manages to distribute the weight of MRAP (mine-resistant armor protected) vehicles ranging from twenty to forty tons so that it doesn't trash the lot as a matter of course. These beige monsters look like station-wagons with elephantitus; I like to think of them as the ultimate soccer-mom cars because:
· they look like over-sized sports utility vehicles;
· soccer Moms love V.P. Al Bore; and,
· they, ironically, enrich Republicans who decry welfare benefits to the poor but make
themselves wealthy through a thoroughly corrupted military industrial complex.
Part-3: Life, Death and Unreality.
After the first two IEDs sounded off, gunfire became more intense but sporadic. It was HIGH NOON (literally) in Chahar Dara and U.S. Special Forces were teaming up with freshly trained Afghan National Army (ANA) recruits. Of the two security phalanxes, the ANA outdoes the sorry excuse for law enforcement that is the Afghan National Police (ANP). The ANP boasts a 65-70% annual attrition rate, most of which takes place, one must surmise, when real bullets begin to fly outside of the safe confines of a firing range. Half way between us and the fighting was an ANP check-point. Any action there when obviously something was happening ‘a klik’ away? Nope…at least some things remain constant in such a fluid place as Afghanistan. My USDA colleague and I stood at the edge of the wall and peeked over the top with the U.S. soldiers from the Police Mentoring Team positioned at the ready with their M-4s.
Word came in that one of the IEDs had blown up an Afghan HMMV (‘humvee’; the contemorary jeep) and killed two ANA soldiers, wounding a third. Many of the American soldiers exhibited sadness for their comrades, even if the fallen were not some of their own. Suddenly around one o’clock, the gunfire intensified and seemed to be only a kilometer away. We went to the security wall. It was a terraced series of ‘HESCOs’ filled with sand and / or rocks to ward off enemy fire. As we watched, we noticed two F-16s circling like hawks above the scene, ready to dive in for the kill. Apparently the target was not open or distinguishable enough to permit an airstrike; remember: Chahar Dara was the location of the September 2009 air-strike over which a good country (Germany) and a very good officer, who ordered the strike, continue to agonize. Twice the planes made what looked like a bombing run but dropped flares to say no dice, good-bye. On those runs, the jets descended while taking a wide circle, dipping below the eye’s horizon. Then a terrible, deafening roar – a harbinger of death with no plane in sight. Suddenly, as if leaping from with the tree-line came the jets, perhaps 200-300 feet (or so it seemed) off of the ground and right on by, dropping flares to distract any heat-seeking missiles.
The gunfire renewed more vigorously and back to the HESCOs we went. The security wall was not a wall as we would think of one; it is three stacked rows of ‘HESCOs’ with a second double-stack to support the outer perimeter followed by a single row to firm the base. HESCOs are like gabion walls but are not fixed to one location. Of course, I had no idea what a gabion wall was until a month ago. Gabion walls are the things drivers see on Route-50, going from Annapolis to D.C., about five minutes before hitting the Beltway. They are often used in rivers as flood mitigants if constructed soundly and designed carefully. Gabion walls are the steel mesh that holds big rocks, often packed in sand to lend a touch of stability. On Route-50 and many highways around the U.S., these structures prevent shedding rock from rolling onto the road – at least that is what I think they do. In a river, gabion walls prevent erosion. HESCOs, then, are baskets approximately three feet high and two feet square, lined with a material like burlap and (that day) filled with the same rocks lying on the courtyard.
Suddenly, a shattering BOOM thundered across the fields succeeded by a desolate pillar of smoke, curling up to the sky like a burnt sacrifice in ancient times in this still, in so many respects, ancient land. After a brief, terrible quiet, gunfire rattled away frenetically. Something big was happening. Looking over the HESCO, a ‘vizz-fet’ sound whizzed by me onomatopoetically. I looked to the soldier next to me asked whether I had just heard a bullet. He said, very casually, “Yep. And that one was really close…” with nonchalance too candid to be rehearsed. So, I thought to myself, “Well, Ned, if this sergeant can be cool-headed, then you can, too.” I looked at the young soldier levelly and said even-toned, “So is the latrine a hardened structure?” No, just kidding there. Strangely, however, I really felt no fear; I just kept watching, trying to spot the bad guys.
Part-4: the Reality of Life and Death in AfghanLand.
About one-thirty or so, there was a commotion by the small health-care clinic down the street, followed closely by bedlam in the courtyard as a small station-wagon pulled to a screeching stop in the middle of it followed by half a dozen crying, screaming people. Perhaps these ‘vizz-fets’ were not quite so random after all—a respected teacher, a life-long resident of Nari-Sufi (where all the trouble was that day), had rolled out his mat for mid-day prayer when a stray bullet had pierced his chest, just above the heart. In a desperate hope to keep this man alive, his emerging widow and her neighbor had taken him down the street to the clinic built by the Federal Republic of Germany. Such a facility could offer no help. So they came to the compound in the desperate hope that an American medic might be on hand with the proper equipment. None was around; there was a combat life-saver (CLS, a member of a squad or platoon with enough training to keep somebody alive long enough for proper care). The CLS tried his best; it was simply too late. A teacher, a husband, a father – by all accounts from the police at hand – a very good and decent man died in that courtyard. Soon after that, the word about the third, larger IED came in: it had hit a U.S. special forces vehicle, injuring four Americans, two seriously. The frenetic fire from a few minutes before had been, I guessed, to get the injured off the field.
LT Schwarz agonized for two hours, calling back to the U.S. base with instructions. His men were impatient. The German soldiers had ventured most of the way to the village of Nari-Sufi, only to stop and seemingly close-up shop. The Germans have an undeservedly poor reputation among the Americans as unwilling to fight. The problem lies in the rules-of-engagement (ROEs). Currently, the German government defines Afghanistan as a reconstruction mission. Though the Germans were sitting there with tanks and other heavy artillery that day, they could only fire their weapons when attacked. Guess what? The enemy is as knowledgeable as it is nuanced in its fighting. The Taliban et al. – more of that next letter home since there is now in-fighting amongst the baddies – know that the U.S. has looser ROEs and can fire when there is a ‘reasonable’ threat. So they do not attack the Germans.
So, the enemy did not fire on the heavy artillery and simply waited. LT Schwarz, a very good man, from Lincoln country (i.e., Springfield, Illinois), sat there with his four über-mom cars with only one mounted 50 millimeter gun mounted on top of each and smaller arms inside. (As a point of reference, 50mm ammunition is the size of a grown man’s thumb; enough to smash a head like a pumpkin.) The young non-commissioned officers and infantry of the Devil Platoon began to chafe with the inactivity as the gunfire continued. Where is Schwarz; why is he waiting? I was in LT Schwarz’s MRAP and he was in the courtyard talking back to the American FOB trying get the orders to move. The others in the MRAP, very brave was each one, wondered if the lieutenant was ducking a fight, allowing the twenty special forces men (trapped in the village with the ANA squad) to “get slaughtered while we just sit there…” In vain, I tried to remind the men that while each of us in the car could say, ‘Hey, I am ready to risk my life to rescue these guys’, we were thinking of ourselves alone; LT Schwarz had the sobering responsibility of being accountable for the lives of his men.
Finally, after going back and forth for close to an eon, it was obvious the Germans were not going in for a rescue. CPT Ezequiel Moya – of McAllen Texas – got on the radio, apparently, and ordered, in tart language, LT Schwarz and his men to get over to the village and get our guys the hell out of there. People cheered at the PMT company commander’s ringing order. Now: what to do with the civilians? The safest place for us was in the vehicles, notwithstanding the possibility of battle. LT Schwarz lost no time in getting the hell over there. We pulled up to the moon-crater in the road where the largest IED had exploded; hard to believe anyone was still one piece, let alone alive judging from that pock-mark. The four MRAPs guarded the courtyard where the injured lay until a med-evac helicopter would arrive to ferry them away. There were brief, intermittent skirmishes; still too hot for the helicopter to land. A German unmarked ambulance finally showed up at three-fifteen to pick up the wounded Americans. This armored saltine box was forced to crawl down the side of the road three hundred yards away from, and facing, the Taliban. The unarmed vehicle waited for forty-five minutes while the injured were placed into the truck. The truck left, leaving us with the sinking feeling that so much time – three hours – had elapsed that the two ‘urgent casualties’ were goners for sure.
Part-5: if this is war, my butt hurts!
Not a shot was fired from where we all knew the Taliban (generic term here) had set up their nasty little nest. After the ambulance left the scene, slowly but safely, the insurgents opened up with a terrific volley of gun fire. The American gunners fired back, some with a metal diarrhea soon depleting ammunition. SPC Jonathan Bradley of Georgia, in my MRAP, was judicious with his ammunition. The bullets in his gun jammed up – and SPC Bradley was not frightened as much as frustrated. Where was LT Schwarz? Outside the vehicle with ‘vizz-fets’ dancing in the dust around him, giving orders and positioning his men to protect them. Their lives were his own, now. SPC Bradley heaved the gun, dislodged the aged bullets, while I pulled knife out and cut through the band holding down other boxes of ammunition to open a box and feed more and newer 50mm ammunition. He got his gun to work. Through it all SPC Corey Hickman, also of Georgia, gave SPC Bradley much-needed support, saying things like “That’s the way to go…steady and easy…” SPC Bradley called down to me and asked me to get the saw.
Sometimes, the most incongruous moments take us back to simpler, sunnier times. When I first moved to Sydney as a nine-year old, I dreamed of fighting someday in Viêt Nam, just like my dad’s cousin who was captain of the U.S.S. Oriskany, an aircraft carrier; he saw his fellow Naval Academy alumnus, James Stockdale, shot down in front of him. Well, while I was liberating Hanoi in my head, I was goofing off in the classroom. Miss Tenant, my ‘fourth class’ teacher, said to me rather sternly, “Neddy, you really must pull up your socks”; meaning, idiomatically, “Look, young man, get to work…” So I leaned over and pulled up the knee socks that were part of my school uniform but draped over my ankles, slackly, like the rest of me. Likewise, I was looking for a hacksaw where, SPC Bradley had told me to look. I could not on earth figure out why a guy getting shot at would need a saw; all I could see was a gun that was lighter than the 50mm but bigger and and heavier than an M-4; that is, a gun to be mounted. I had the damnedest time getting that gun out of the way. Somewhere in this hernial exercise, I realized that this stupid gun was the saw. So, to make sure I had it right, I yelled up, “Hey, is the saw this gun?”
Whereupon, I got a sarcastic “Jeez--yes goddammit!” Humans really are social creatures. Up went the gun and SPC Bradley, now armed also with SPC Hickman’s gun, went to smaller fire. It wasn’t long before I heard a “yee-haw!! Got that dirty little f***ker!” SPC Bradley had spotted an isolated Talib, perhaps a spotter for mortars, running across the field and picked him off, first shot – only shot; like the Deer Hunter. SPC Hickman was cheering and yelling, “Good shot, boy! Why can’t I have any fun…ugh!??!” Realizing that a human being had just died, I felt perhaps the least humane of all feelings – nothing. No compassion for the mother without a son or the family losing a father. Also no sense of elation, maybe sadistic, but at least a feeling. Indifference; well, not quite indifference but an inability to feel anything except a sense of urgency in getting the next string of ammunition ready. As I looked out the window, rather alarmed at my lack of fear, or any feeling, I noticed what looked like hundreds of old instamatic light-bulbs popping along the tree-line, like the cameras greeting Hank Aaron when he got up to bat after hitting 714 home runs.
These flashes were the phosphorous-tipped bullets fired by the Americans. The stalemate continued for an hour and fifteen minutes, during which the enemy was firing mortars and rocket-propelled grenades at us. The mortar shells were landing closer and closer to us – it was only a matter of time when…but wait a ‘thoof’ concussionned behind us. Where were the Germans, dammit? Right behind us, firing a tow missile right at the cluster of trees I had reported to SPCs Hickman and Bradley as the origin of a plume of powder smoke rising after a mortar round had fired. Three, four, five…kaboom! The Germans shot on one round of ammunition that day, probably defying ROEs to do so – but the Americans, including me had been pinned down, with no way out since the MRAPs would bog down in the fields off of the road and the crater permitted no forward movement. That missile took out the wall behind which the enemy had hidden; once opened, the hornets flew out of their shattered nest. It was like popping a zit: the wall broke and white puss came streaming out into a hail of American gunfire; the battle was over in fifteen minutes, leaving eight-to-twelve mangled insurgents looking for their virgins.
For the next twelve hours, we sat and waited at that spot, guarding the stranded vehicles while a recovery team came, after repeated delays and indecisions, out to retrieve them. In the still of a cold overcast night, my knees were killing me and the mesh in my desert pants – turned out to be a bad choice – was grating into the skin above my tail-bone. Sitting there, motionless, with no lights on worried me quite a bit. But SPC Corey and three other gunners, with the help of a German missile, had done enough damage to preclude a night-time attack. My only fear registered around one in the morning. Since I had been exercising like a crazy-man recently and running longer distances, I was concerned that – in my fifties – I might develop a blood-clot to clutter and shutter my shrinking brain. I then got out to use the universal urinal – truthfully or otherwise – to get the blood flowing and give my knees some rest. At two in the morning, SPC Bradley barked his congratulations to me for being one of the best ‘civilian’ (read: pussy) ammo-feeders he had come across; an accolade given to my USDA colleague as well in his MRAP.
Whereupon, I stated rather less than gallantly, “If this is war, my butt hurts!” Everybody laughed. We got home at half past-five to powdered eggs and alleged coffee. Looking back, two weeks later (and a seeming eternity since I work insufferably long days), I understand why I defied my characteristically low expectations of me (e.g., assuming I would soil my pants) and felt very little fear that day. The young men in that truck with me never panicked, remained calm and proved their professionalism. Perhaps, I simply took a cue from them not to worry. Perhaps, courage is intrinsic, if sometimes latent, and one finds it when he or she needs it. Perhaps, I have been blathering on for far too long…
One last housekeeping item: the two seriously injured Special Forces soldiers are back in the U.S. and should enjoy a full recovery, at least physically. Thanks be to God.
PART-1: No Matter Where You Are, February is simply to be gotten through.
Well, February came and went, like it has every year for the past fifty. Outside of Valentine’s Day and, perhaps Presidents’ Day or Groundhog Day, the month means very little because it is cold, icey, grey and rather drab. That is to say: February becomes a time of hibernation, of renewal, as I learned -- but did not realize -- as a tenth grader when I could make out the faintest outline of Steele Hall across the way from the library at 6 p.m. on a Sunday night in 1974; the slight light gave me hope that homework would become less oneroous and more avoidable in the near future. Afghanistan is no different. Though there are fewer trees and less water, Kunduz does remind me an awful lot of dreary Wallingford, Connecticut in the Februaries of the mid-1970s. Instead of a wilting mill-town in the throes of economic change, Kunduz responds over three decades later with security briefings for donors and non-governmental organizations hosted by the United Nations Mission-Afghanistan.
Like the venerable nightly Italia pizza run, after which I got to eat people's crusts for I had little money of my own, such meetings provide very insipid fare for the shrinking grey matter of my much abused brain. Taking my cue from so many precedents – yes getting old means being cluttered (not filled) with memories – I spent this February working as hard as possible, driving myself to the edge of burn-out, ready to hurl my wasted frame into the abyss of yet another failure. But not quite. And so I managed to accomplish a great deal in laying the foundation of my mission here in Northern Afghanistan for the next year or two. Nevertheless, I am the only senior officer in a kinetic (i.e., military lingo for actively contested) province without a deputy and I desperately need one. A fellow had been hired. The day he was ready to report to work, the Embassy security office dinged him and, unintentionally, me. No help for three months; oh good grief.
Part-2: a Sunny Day in a Spontaneous War Zone.
The issues facing the North of Afghanistan pale compared with those in the South or the East. During this groggy, soggy time of year, only a few Taliban or other insurgents stick around; gangsters like good working conditions, too, I suspect. Since this winter was unseasonably cold and then very warm, the Taliban left en masse but will re-infiltrate early. One of the prime entry-ways into Kunduz Province is the District (akin to a county in America) of Chahar Dara. On the 25th of February, after a mid-month foot to eighteen inches of snow had cleared away, my U.S. Department of Agriculture colleague and I joined LT Todd Schwarz – and his ‘Devil’ platoon – to visit Chahar Dara. This trip was to an area that is apparently over-run with Taliban.
We travelled with the Devil platoon for a basic ‘meet-&-greet’ with the District Police Chief (akin to the county sheriff) and the ‘District Manager’ (like a county Lord-Mayor). The latter cancelled at the last minute due to a summons by the Governor. If only we had realized that portent of a routine meet-&-greet spiralling out of control into the ‘shake-n-bake’ that the day soon became! Being the Prophet’s birthday – a national and religious holiday in Afghanistan – we were lucky to meet anyone at all. My USDA colleague, in one of his first such ordeals after arriving just a few days before, performed admirably by raising the idea of farmers’ shura (assembly) to address the agricultural concerns of the area.
Politely put, Chahar Dara remains caught in the cross-fire of the insurgents, gun-runners and drug exporters on the one hand and the German-led International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) on the other. My ‘ag’ colleague has a Ph.D. in the sociology of agricultural subsidies, two tours in the Peace Corps working on small-scale farming challenges in the Philippines and Latin America as well as years of first-hand farming experience. In his head, he is a big-brained Ag-extension subject matter expert, but, in his heart, he loves leading communities in organizing themselves. No sooner had the District Chief finished with his appeal for help on security than we walked out of the office and started hearing pop-pop-pop of small arms fire about “two kliks” (i.e., two kilometers) away; then a boom followed by another BOOM.
Two improvised explosive devices resounded through the courtyard of two neutral looking cement buildings, constructed to the same sub-standard by the Germans or the Americans, depending upon the year. Instead of grass, there are large stones padding the ground as gravel; this uncomfortable surface manages to distribute the weight of MRAP (mine-resistant armor protected) vehicles ranging from twenty to forty tons so that it doesn't trash the lot as a matter of course. These beige monsters look like station-wagons with elephantitus; I like to think of them as the ultimate soccer-mom cars because:
· they look like over-sized sports utility vehicles;
· soccer Moms love V.P. Al Bore; and,
· they, ironically, enrich Republicans who decry welfare benefits to the poor but make
themselves wealthy through a thoroughly corrupted military industrial complex.
Part-3: Life, Death and Unreality.
After the first two IEDs sounded off, gunfire became more intense but sporadic. It was HIGH NOON (literally) in Chahar Dara and U.S. Special Forces were teaming up with freshly trained Afghan National Army (ANA) recruits. Of the two security phalanxes, the ANA outdoes the sorry excuse for law enforcement that is the Afghan National Police (ANP). The ANP boasts a 65-70% annual attrition rate, most of which takes place, one must surmise, when real bullets begin to fly outside of the safe confines of a firing range. Half way between us and the fighting was an ANP check-point. Any action there when obviously something was happening ‘a klik’ away? Nope…at least some things remain constant in such a fluid place as Afghanistan. My USDA colleague and I stood at the edge of the wall and peeked over the top with the U.S. soldiers from the Police Mentoring Team positioned at the ready with their M-4s.
Word came in that one of the IEDs had blown up an Afghan HMMV (‘humvee’; the contemorary jeep) and killed two ANA soldiers, wounding a third. Many of the American soldiers exhibited sadness for their comrades, even if the fallen were not some of their own. Suddenly around one o’clock, the gunfire intensified and seemed to be only a kilometer away. We went to the security wall. It was a terraced series of ‘HESCOs’ filled with sand and / or rocks to ward off enemy fire. As we watched, we noticed two F-16s circling like hawks above the scene, ready to dive in for the kill. Apparently the target was not open or distinguishable enough to permit an airstrike; remember: Chahar Dara was the location of the September 2009 air-strike over which a good country (Germany) and a very good officer, who ordered the strike, continue to agonize. Twice the planes made what looked like a bombing run but dropped flares to say no dice, good-bye. On those runs, the jets descended while taking a wide circle, dipping below the eye’s horizon. Then a terrible, deafening roar – a harbinger of death with no plane in sight. Suddenly, as if leaping from with the tree-line came the jets, perhaps 200-300 feet (or so it seemed) off of the ground and right on by, dropping flares to distract any heat-seeking missiles.
The gunfire renewed more vigorously and back to the HESCOs we went. The security wall was not a wall as we would think of one; it is three stacked rows of ‘HESCOs’ with a second double-stack to support the outer perimeter followed by a single row to firm the base. HESCOs are like gabion walls but are not fixed to one location. Of course, I had no idea what a gabion wall was until a month ago. Gabion walls are the things drivers see on Route-50, going from Annapolis to D.C., about five minutes before hitting the Beltway. They are often used in rivers as flood mitigants if constructed soundly and designed carefully. Gabion walls are the steel mesh that holds big rocks, often packed in sand to lend a touch of stability. On Route-50 and many highways around the U.S., these structures prevent shedding rock from rolling onto the road – at least that is what I think they do. In a river, gabion walls prevent erosion. HESCOs, then, are baskets approximately three feet high and two feet square, lined with a material like burlap and (that day) filled with the same rocks lying on the courtyard.
Suddenly, a shattering BOOM thundered across the fields succeeded by a desolate pillar of smoke, curling up to the sky like a burnt sacrifice in ancient times in this still, in so many respects, ancient land. After a brief, terrible quiet, gunfire rattled away frenetically. Something big was happening. Looking over the HESCO, a ‘vizz-fet’ sound whizzed by me onomatopoetically. I looked to the soldier next to me asked whether I had just heard a bullet. He said, very casually, “Yep. And that one was really close…” with nonchalance too candid to be rehearsed. So, I thought to myself, “Well, Ned, if this sergeant can be cool-headed, then you can, too.” I looked at the young soldier levelly and said even-toned, “So is the latrine a hardened structure?” No, just kidding there. Strangely, however, I really felt no fear; I just kept watching, trying to spot the bad guys.
Part-4: the Reality of Life and Death in AfghanLand.
About one-thirty or so, there was a commotion by the small health-care clinic down the street, followed closely by bedlam in the courtyard as a small station-wagon pulled to a screeching stop in the middle of it followed by half a dozen crying, screaming people. Perhaps these ‘vizz-fets’ were not quite so random after all—a respected teacher, a life-long resident of Nari-Sufi (where all the trouble was that day), had rolled out his mat for mid-day prayer when a stray bullet had pierced his chest, just above the heart. In a desperate hope to keep this man alive, his emerging widow and her neighbor had taken him down the street to the clinic built by the Federal Republic of Germany. Such a facility could offer no help. So they came to the compound in the desperate hope that an American medic might be on hand with the proper equipment. None was around; there was a combat life-saver (CLS, a member of a squad or platoon with enough training to keep somebody alive long enough for proper care). The CLS tried his best; it was simply too late. A teacher, a husband, a father – by all accounts from the police at hand – a very good and decent man died in that courtyard. Soon after that, the word about the third, larger IED came in: it had hit a U.S. special forces vehicle, injuring four Americans, two seriously. The frenetic fire from a few minutes before had been, I guessed, to get the injured off the field.
LT Schwarz agonized for two hours, calling back to the U.S. base with instructions. His men were impatient. The German soldiers had ventured most of the way to the village of Nari-Sufi, only to stop and seemingly close-up shop. The Germans have an undeservedly poor reputation among the Americans as unwilling to fight. The problem lies in the rules-of-engagement (ROEs). Currently, the German government defines Afghanistan as a reconstruction mission. Though the Germans were sitting there with tanks and other heavy artillery that day, they could only fire their weapons when attacked. Guess what? The enemy is as knowledgeable as it is nuanced in its fighting. The Taliban et al. – more of that next letter home since there is now in-fighting amongst the baddies – know that the U.S. has looser ROEs and can fire when there is a ‘reasonable’ threat. So they do not attack the Germans.
So, the enemy did not fire on the heavy artillery and simply waited. LT Schwarz, a very good man, from Lincoln country (i.e., Springfield, Illinois), sat there with his four über-mom cars with only one mounted 50 millimeter gun mounted on top of each and smaller arms inside. (As a point of reference, 50mm ammunition is the size of a grown man’s thumb; enough to smash a head like a pumpkin.) The young non-commissioned officers and infantry of the Devil Platoon began to chafe with the inactivity as the gunfire continued. Where is Schwarz; why is he waiting? I was in LT Schwarz’s MRAP and he was in the courtyard talking back to the American FOB trying get the orders to move. The others in the MRAP, very brave was each one, wondered if the lieutenant was ducking a fight, allowing the twenty special forces men (trapped in the village with the ANA squad) to “get slaughtered while we just sit there…” In vain, I tried to remind the men that while each of us in the car could say, ‘Hey, I am ready to risk my life to rescue these guys’, we were thinking of ourselves alone; LT Schwarz had the sobering responsibility of being accountable for the lives of his men.
Finally, after going back and forth for close to an eon, it was obvious the Germans were not going in for a rescue. CPT Ezequiel Moya – of McAllen Texas – got on the radio, apparently, and ordered, in tart language, LT Schwarz and his men to get over to the village and get our guys the hell out of there. People cheered at the PMT company commander’s ringing order. Now: what to do with the civilians? The safest place for us was in the vehicles, notwithstanding the possibility of battle. LT Schwarz lost no time in getting the hell over there. We pulled up to the moon-crater in the road where the largest IED had exploded; hard to believe anyone was still one piece, let alone alive judging from that pock-mark. The four MRAPs guarded the courtyard where the injured lay until a med-evac helicopter would arrive to ferry them away. There were brief, intermittent skirmishes; still too hot for the helicopter to land. A German unmarked ambulance finally showed up at three-fifteen to pick up the wounded Americans. This armored saltine box was forced to crawl down the side of the road three hundred yards away from, and facing, the Taliban. The unarmed vehicle waited for forty-five minutes while the injured were placed into the truck. The truck left, leaving us with the sinking feeling that so much time – three hours – had elapsed that the two ‘urgent casualties’ were goners for sure.
Part-5: if this is war, my butt hurts!
Not a shot was fired from where we all knew the Taliban (generic term here) had set up their nasty little nest. After the ambulance left the scene, slowly but safely, the insurgents opened up with a terrific volley of gun fire. The American gunners fired back, some with a metal diarrhea soon depleting ammunition. SPC Jonathan Bradley of Georgia, in my MRAP, was judicious with his ammunition. The bullets in his gun jammed up – and SPC Bradley was not frightened as much as frustrated. Where was LT Schwarz? Outside the vehicle with ‘vizz-fets’ dancing in the dust around him, giving orders and positioning his men to protect them. Their lives were his own, now. SPC Bradley heaved the gun, dislodged the aged bullets, while I pulled knife out and cut through the band holding down other boxes of ammunition to open a box and feed more and newer 50mm ammunition. He got his gun to work. Through it all SPC Corey Hickman, also of Georgia, gave SPC Bradley much-needed support, saying things like “That’s the way to go…steady and easy…” SPC Bradley called down to me and asked me to get the saw.
Sometimes, the most incongruous moments take us back to simpler, sunnier times. When I first moved to Sydney as a nine-year old, I dreamed of fighting someday in Viêt Nam, just like my dad’s cousin who was captain of the U.S.S. Oriskany, an aircraft carrier; he saw his fellow Naval Academy alumnus, James Stockdale, shot down in front of him. Well, while I was liberating Hanoi in my head, I was goofing off in the classroom. Miss Tenant, my ‘fourth class’ teacher, said to me rather sternly, “Neddy, you really must pull up your socks”; meaning, idiomatically, “Look, young man, get to work…” So I leaned over and pulled up the knee socks that were part of my school uniform but draped over my ankles, slackly, like the rest of me. Likewise, I was looking for a hacksaw where, SPC Bradley had told me to look. I could not on earth figure out why a guy getting shot at would need a saw; all I could see was a gun that was lighter than the 50mm but bigger and and heavier than an M-4; that is, a gun to be mounted. I had the damnedest time getting that gun out of the way. Somewhere in this hernial exercise, I realized that this stupid gun was the saw. So, to make sure I had it right, I yelled up, “Hey, is the saw this gun?”
Whereupon, I got a sarcastic “Jeez--yes goddammit!” Humans really are social creatures. Up went the gun and SPC Bradley, now armed also with SPC Hickman’s gun, went to smaller fire. It wasn’t long before I heard a “yee-haw!! Got that dirty little f***ker!” SPC Bradley had spotted an isolated Talib, perhaps a spotter for mortars, running across the field and picked him off, first shot – only shot; like the Deer Hunter. SPC Hickman was cheering and yelling, “Good shot, boy! Why can’t I have any fun…ugh!??!” Realizing that a human being had just died, I felt perhaps the least humane of all feelings – nothing. No compassion for the mother without a son or the family losing a father. Also no sense of elation, maybe sadistic, but at least a feeling. Indifference; well, not quite indifference but an inability to feel anything except a sense of urgency in getting the next string of ammunition ready. As I looked out the window, rather alarmed at my lack of fear, or any feeling, I noticed what looked like hundreds of old instamatic light-bulbs popping along the tree-line, like the cameras greeting Hank Aaron when he got up to bat after hitting 714 home runs.
These flashes were the phosphorous-tipped bullets fired by the Americans. The stalemate continued for an hour and fifteen minutes, during which the enemy was firing mortars and rocket-propelled grenades at us. The mortar shells were landing closer and closer to us – it was only a matter of time when…but wait a ‘thoof’ concussionned behind us. Where were the Germans, dammit? Right behind us, firing a tow missile right at the cluster of trees I had reported to SPCs Hickman and Bradley as the origin of a plume of powder smoke rising after a mortar round had fired. Three, four, five…kaboom! The Germans shot on one round of ammunition that day, probably defying ROEs to do so – but the Americans, including me had been pinned down, with no way out since the MRAPs would bog down in the fields off of the road and the crater permitted no forward movement. That missile took out the wall behind which the enemy had hidden; once opened, the hornets flew out of their shattered nest. It was like popping a zit: the wall broke and white puss came streaming out into a hail of American gunfire; the battle was over in fifteen minutes, leaving eight-to-twelve mangled insurgents looking for their virgins.
For the next twelve hours, we sat and waited at that spot, guarding the stranded vehicles while a recovery team came, after repeated delays and indecisions, out to retrieve them. In the still of a cold overcast night, my knees were killing me and the mesh in my desert pants – turned out to be a bad choice – was grating into the skin above my tail-bone. Sitting there, motionless, with no lights on worried me quite a bit. But SPC Corey and three other gunners, with the help of a German missile, had done enough damage to preclude a night-time attack. My only fear registered around one in the morning. Since I had been exercising like a crazy-man recently and running longer distances, I was concerned that – in my fifties – I might develop a blood-clot to clutter and shutter my shrinking brain. I then got out to use the universal urinal – truthfully or otherwise – to get the blood flowing and give my knees some rest. At two in the morning, SPC Bradley barked his congratulations to me for being one of the best ‘civilian’ (read: pussy) ammo-feeders he had come across; an accolade given to my USDA colleague as well in his MRAP.
Whereupon, I stated rather less than gallantly, “If this is war, my butt hurts!” Everybody laughed. We got home at half past-five to powdered eggs and alleged coffee. Looking back, two weeks later (and a seeming eternity since I work insufferably long days), I understand why I defied my characteristically low expectations of me (e.g., assuming I would soil my pants) and felt very little fear that day. The young men in that truck with me never panicked, remained calm and proved their professionalism. Perhaps, I simply took a cue from them not to worry. Perhaps, courage is intrinsic, if sometimes latent, and one finds it when he or she needs it. Perhaps, I have been blathering on for far too long…
One last housekeeping item: the two seriously injured Special Forces soldiers are back in the U.S. and should enjoy a full recovery, at least physically. Thanks be to God.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Letter #4 to Friends & Family: Three Arduous Weeks in an Interesting Place
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.
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