I have tried to write here countless times in the last few weeks, each time making my way through only a few sentences before deciding to stop. Maybe words aren't enough. Or maybe I just can't find the right ones. Either way, I feel stuck on a page on which I have so much to say but no way to say it.
I haven't been sleeping well for months, probably since I came back from leave. Something about that quick taste of normalcy and comfort refuses to be suppressed. This must be good, I think. Even when I can sleep, I find myself dreaming slightly modified scenarios of what I usually experience throughout a regular day. These include - walking around on the base, doing work in my office, eating repetitive meals, occasionally going on a patrol, maybe drinking coffee, or some combination of these. Consequently, I often feel as if I haven't slept at all, since my dream reality and real reality are nearly identical (maybe in the dream world I get two cups of coffee!).
It's almost over. My life is about to enter a period of wonderful transition, and yet I can't help but wonder what it's all been worth. At the end, I will have spent almost a full year of my life in this place, and I struggle with the meaning and purpose of it all. When I joined the Army, this is what I wanted. I wanted to come to Afghanistan and experience conflict. I thought it was the right thing to do, the right place to be. But after so many months staring it in the face, I'm struck with the sobering thought that I never found what I was looking for.
For almost a year I have been stuck in time, perhaps relativistically, moving only slowly as the rest of the world continues at a frantic pace forward. I am Gregor Samsa, minus the whole cockroach bits. Everything else transforms and changes its seasons as I walk the same path of rocks and dirt and gaze at the same distant dark mountains. For others - babies have been conceived and born, relationships ended and begun, troubles encountered and forgotten, obstacles overcome, demons exorcised, families reconciled, countries changed, homes lost, redemption found, acceptance, rejection, and life in general doing what it typically does for those who live it.
A year is a long time to wait for life to start again. But start again it will.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Beauty & Sadness
On a small hill overlooking Kabul sit the stoic remains of a castle that once housed the Queen of Afghanistan. Nearly one hundred years ago King Amanullah Khan, attempting to bring his country into the modern era, hired European architects to build a palace for him and one for his wife, intending to use them as a symbolic meeting place for the Afghan government.
Over the next 50 years the palace caught fire a few times, for various reasons, but still it stood. In 1979, the Russians invaded and in the process shot the palace full of holes, some big, some small. It became the headquarters of the Russian army for the next 10 years, commanding a view of the city set against a backdrop of beautifully imposing mountains. When the Russians left, the Taliban used the same area for executing their enemies, staining the ground below with the blood of their opposition.
Recently, I walked up and around this same palace that has been an innocent bystander to decades of war. Feeling more like a tourist than a soldier, I took pictures and marveled the simultaneous beauty and sadness. Afghanistan is like that, a country of paradoxes. The view from the air presents snow-covered mountains standing watch over vast brown plains, cut by riverbeds, dotted by mud huts huddled together to form a thousand isolated villages. Some spots with better soil sprout brilliant dark green patches that stand out in contrast amongst the surrounding barren lands. It’s breathtakingly gorgeous, in its own strange, semi-civilized way.
Yet back on the ground, destroyed palaces tell one of many tales of a country fighting over its own identity for thousands of years. From a distance, the palace looks unharmed, even dignified. But a closer look reveals years of neglect, rotting, and decay. Two images, eternally bonded, of a single theme.
Over the next 50 years the palace caught fire a few times, for various reasons, but still it stood. In 1979, the Russians invaded and in the process shot the palace full of holes, some big, some small. It became the headquarters of the Russian army for the next 10 years, commanding a view of the city set against a backdrop of beautifully imposing mountains. When the Russians left, the Taliban used the same area for executing their enemies, staining the ground below with the blood of their opposition.
Recently, I walked up and around this same palace that has been an innocent bystander to decades of war. Feeling more like a tourist than a soldier, I took pictures and marveled the simultaneous beauty and sadness. Afghanistan is like that, a country of paradoxes. The view from the air presents snow-covered mountains standing watch over vast brown plains, cut by riverbeds, dotted by mud huts huddled together to form a thousand isolated villages. Some spots with better soil sprout brilliant dark green patches that stand out in contrast amongst the surrounding barren lands. It’s breathtakingly gorgeous, in its own strange, semi-civilized way.
Yet back on the ground, destroyed palaces tell one of many tales of a country fighting over its own identity for thousands of years. From a distance, the palace looks unharmed, even dignified. But a closer look reveals years of neglect, rotting, and decay. Two images, eternally bonded, of a single theme.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Economy
For such a rainy, dark day, the Qalat bazaar was surprisingly crowded. Then again, I thought to myself, what else would these people be doing? It's not like they can go home and relax on a comfortable couch while watching TV or wasting time on the internet. The bazaar is their livelihood, and their lives, and our presence for a few short hours is basically the most interesting thing they will see all day. In a way, we are their entertainment, which is probably why it's fun for them to throw rocks or shoot at people sometimes. It's not necessarily in anger, but more like extreme sport. Especially because we shoot back.
For months we kept hearing about The Rainy Season that was always "just a few weeks away." That was November. Now, we've seen rain for a few days in a row and it's like OH MY GOD WHAT IS THIS FALLING FROM THE SKY? IS GOD CRYING!?!
Well, that's not entirely true - we did attempt to cover the entire base in gravel, which means taking big rocks and smashing them into smaller rocks and spreading them over the ground. This process - getting rocks and making them tiny - cost something like $1.4 million. So yeah, that's awesome. And of course there are still vast areas without gravel, so it's just one big mud pool anyway.
But I don't mind the rain, I really don't. The farmers, which is what most Afghans are (except for the warlords, drug dealers, weapons traffickers, bombmakers, Taliban tax collectors, or, um, various other things), need the rain to have a chance at a legitimate harvest in the spring. Without it, they will be unable to raise any crops, and have a much higher chance of turning to the insurgency. So if it means tracking a little mud on my boots as I walk around, so what? At the end of the day, I can take a shower. And as far as I'm concerned, that's a mark of any great civilization - the ability to wash away the day's dirt.
For months we kept hearing about The Rainy Season that was always "just a few weeks away." That was November. Now, we've seen rain for a few days in a row and it's like OH MY GOD WHAT IS THIS FALLING FROM THE SKY? IS GOD CRYING!?!
Well, that's not entirely true - we did attempt to cover the entire base in gravel, which means taking big rocks and smashing them into smaller rocks and spreading them over the ground. This process - getting rocks and making them tiny - cost something like $1.4 million. So yeah, that's awesome. And of course there are still vast areas without gravel, so it's just one big mud pool anyway.
But I don't mind the rain, I really don't. The farmers, which is what most Afghans are (except for the warlords, drug dealers, weapons traffickers, bombmakers, Taliban tax collectors, or, um, various other things), need the rain to have a chance at a legitimate harvest in the spring. Without it, they will be unable to raise any crops, and have a much higher chance of turning to the insurgency. So if it means tracking a little mud on my boots as I walk around, so what? At the end of the day, I can take a shower. And as far as I'm concerned, that's a mark of any great civilization - the ability to wash away the day's dirt.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Lessons
Having spent nearly eight months in this wonderful little country called Afghanistan, I think it's now safe to assume that this has not been what I expected. Unfortunately, I'm not entirely sure what I did expect, so it's difficult to compare that version with reality.
The last time I wrote here was three months ago, so allow me to briefly summarize the last 90 days with a few sentence fragments - birthday, Australia, Bärchen!, Kandahar, Christmas, New Year's, illumination fireworks, back to work, some other stuff, patrols, tearing a huge gaping hole in my pants, snow, Star Wars, mud, and boom, here we are.
Looking at that list, I realize some of it might need some explanation, but I'm only going to explain one part - the hole in my pants. For those keeping score at home, I've been a staff officer this deployment, which means spending the vast majority of my time sitting in a crappy office and going to ridiculous meetings, many of which include clueless Romanian dudes. Although I've managed to find myself on a few random patrols, they are relatively infrequent. On one hand, this keeps me away from most of the danger (good). On the other hand, I sometimes find myself bored out of my freaking mind (bad).
Imagine my surprise last week when I was asked to go on a dismounted foot patrol to a few of the small villages in our area. I was supposed to be an "advisor" regarding economic development and project funding, though I did not feel it was important to mention how little I know about either of these things. Actually, that's not entirely true. I do know some stuff. Like - water is good, irrigation has something to do with water, Afghan dude wants to irrigate some land or something, also wants lots of money to do it, local kids will probably do the work, Afghanistan has no child labor laws, guy will probably keep most of the money = winning the war!
Armed with my clearly extensive expertise and knowledge of project development, I stepped off with the patrol bound for the local village, which was something like 2km away. Although that does not seem far, the terrain here is what you might call "rugged," with rolling hills, rocks, shit streams (seriously), and dirt. Add 40lbs of armor and ammunition, and movement becomes slightly less than graceful. Anyway: we were walking up some farmland which was shaped like terraced steps, each of them probably a meter high. I climbed the first few with relative ease, and feeling confident (and remembering what it feels like to be a soldier), I attempted the next step, which was just a tiny bit higher. Then, I hear a loud RIIIIIPPPPP, instantly realizing that I have just torn the absolute bejesus out of my pants.
Of course, I can't exactly stop the entire patrol just because I ripped my pants. Fortunately for me, I have what is affectionately called a "crotch-protector" attached to my body armor, normally designed to protect a soldier's manhood from uninvited shrapnel, but in my case on this particular patrol, covering my balls from the prying eyes of Afghani children.
When we finally get to the village and meet with the elder, the hole is basically down to the top of my knee. He invites us to sit down with him and enjoy some tea (I would have preferred to stand), which we do. Meanwhile, my crotch-protector is totally saving the day, as is the awkward Indian-style pose I've managed to twist my body into while still attempting to maintain some shred of dignity.
Once we finished our meeting and started walking back to the base, the hole was beyond hiding, despite the valiant efforts of my brave crotch-protector. Several children pointed and laughed and said something in Pashto to the effect of "Dude! Check it out! That guy totally ripped his pants! You can almost see his balls!"
If there is one lesson I've learned in my time in Afghanistan, it's this - respect is difficult to earn when your balls are almost showing.
The last time I wrote here was three months ago, so allow me to briefly summarize the last 90 days with a few sentence fragments - birthday, Australia, Bärchen!, Kandahar, Christmas, New Year's, illumination fireworks, back to work, some other stuff, patrols, tearing a huge gaping hole in my pants, snow, Star Wars, mud, and boom, here we are.
Looking at that list, I realize some of it might need some explanation, but I'm only going to explain one part - the hole in my pants. For those keeping score at home, I've been a staff officer this deployment, which means spending the vast majority of my time sitting in a crappy office and going to ridiculous meetings, many of which include clueless Romanian dudes. Although I've managed to find myself on a few random patrols, they are relatively infrequent. On one hand, this keeps me away from most of the danger (good). On the other hand, I sometimes find myself bored out of my freaking mind (bad).
Imagine my surprise last week when I was asked to go on a dismounted foot patrol to a few of the small villages in our area. I was supposed to be an "advisor" regarding economic development and project funding, though I did not feel it was important to mention how little I know about either of these things. Actually, that's not entirely true. I do know some stuff. Like - water is good, irrigation has something to do with water, Afghan dude wants to irrigate some land or something, also wants lots of money to do it, local kids will probably do the work, Afghanistan has no child labor laws, guy will probably keep most of the money = winning the war!
Armed with my clearly extensive expertise and knowledge of project development, I stepped off with the patrol bound for the local village, which was something like 2km away. Although that does not seem far, the terrain here is what you might call "rugged," with rolling hills, rocks, shit streams (seriously), and dirt. Add 40lbs of armor and ammunition, and movement becomes slightly less than graceful. Anyway: we were walking up some farmland which was shaped like terraced steps, each of them probably a meter high. I climbed the first few with relative ease, and feeling confident (and remembering what it feels like to be a soldier), I attempted the next step, which was just a tiny bit higher. Then, I hear a loud RIIIIIPPPPP, instantly realizing that I have just torn the absolute bejesus out of my pants.
Of course, I can't exactly stop the entire patrol just because I ripped my pants. Fortunately for me, I have what is affectionately called a "crotch-protector" attached to my body armor, normally designed to protect a soldier's manhood from uninvited shrapnel, but in my case on this particular patrol, covering my balls from the prying eyes of Afghani children.
When we finally get to the village and meet with the elder, the hole is basically down to the top of my knee. He invites us to sit down with him and enjoy some tea (I would have preferred to stand), which we do. Meanwhile, my crotch-protector is totally saving the day, as is the awkward Indian-style pose I've managed to twist my body into while still attempting to maintain some shred of dignity.
Once we finished our meeting and started walking back to the base, the hole was beyond hiding, despite the valiant efforts of my brave crotch-protector. Several children pointed and laughed and said something in Pashto to the effect of "Dude! Check it out! That guy totally ripped his pants! You can almost see his balls!"
If there is one lesson I've learned in my time in Afghanistan, it's this - respect is difficult to earn when your balls are almost showing.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Mostly Harmless
I think I’m going crazy. Or maybe I’m the only one left who isn’t. Around here, it’s hard to tell.
Two years ago today I returned to Germany from Iraq. Strangely, the weather that day was remarkably similar to today's in Afghanistan. Rainy, cold, dark. When the dust of the countryside kicks up into the air or the clouds cover the mountains in the distance, everything feels so isolated. My sphere of awareness has become the short distance from my work building to the dining facility and my room in between. One straight line less than 200 meters that has defined my life for the last 5 months. Maybe that’s what upsets me the most, that by this time 2 years ago I had experienced and learned so much, but now every day is exactly the same, and nothing I do ever matters. That’s how it feels sometimes anyway. Frustrating doesn’t begin to describe it.
But I’m still here, making the most of it, learning a lot about what doesn’t work in this kind of war, and how not to manage and influence people. If, when it’s all over, I am only able to take away negative lessons that someday I can apply in a positive way, well, I suppose that’s worth something. It has to be, otherwise I’m REALLY wasting my time.
There is a lot more to say about it all, but it's mostly just angry ranting about how people are idiots. At least the ice cream here is awesome.
Two years ago today I returned to Germany from Iraq. Strangely, the weather that day was remarkably similar to today's in Afghanistan. Rainy, cold, dark. When the dust of the countryside kicks up into the air or the clouds cover the mountains in the distance, everything feels so isolated. My sphere of awareness has become the short distance from my work building to the dining facility and my room in between. One straight line less than 200 meters that has defined my life for the last 5 months. Maybe that’s what upsets me the most, that by this time 2 years ago I had experienced and learned so much, but now every day is exactly the same, and nothing I do ever matters. That’s how it feels sometimes anyway. Frustrating doesn’t begin to describe it.
But I’m still here, making the most of it, learning a lot about what doesn’t work in this kind of war, and how not to manage and influence people. If, when it’s all over, I am only able to take away negative lessons that someday I can apply in a positive way, well, I suppose that’s worth something. It has to be, otherwise I’m REALLY wasting my time.
There is a lot more to say about it all, but it's mostly just angry ranting about how people are idiots. At least the ice cream here is awesome.
Friday, September 24, 2010
American Graffiti
The bathrooms here have surprisingly little written on the walls. Normally, especially on a military installation, people write stuff all over the place. Usually about who is gay or your mom’s phone number. But here, spotless. Well, almost. There is a wooden rack that holds the toilet paper in each stall. On many of them are not insults or pictures of male genitalia, but numbers - 10 31 30 31 and so on. Counting. It is never clear whether they are meant to be counted up or down, i.e., how many days a person has been here versus how many they have left. But counting nonetheless.
I found this curious, mostly because of how common it is. Apparently while taking a crap many people have nothing better to think about than how many days they’ve either been in this shithole or how many they have left. Putting it that way, I guess the connection seems rather obvious.
Also, there is a picture of a stick figure squatting over the toilet with a big X over it, with the caption “Do not stand on toilet sit.” I still don’t know how I’m supposed to read that.
I found this curious, mostly because of how common it is. Apparently while taking a crap many people have nothing better to think about than how many days they’ve either been in this shithole or how many they have left. Putting it that way, I guess the connection seems rather obvious.
Also, there is a picture of a stick figure squatting over the toilet with a big X over it, with the caption “Do not stand on toilet sit.” I still don’t know how I’m supposed to read that.
Friday, September 17, 2010
ISAF
One of the few perks of working with people from other countries is watching two Romanians speaking to each other trying desperately to understand and describe the word "shenanigans."
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