Reflections

Technology
Thanks to technology and its ability to shrink our planet through the reach of the Internet, cellular telephones and all the tools that come with them, I never felt alone. As long as there was a signal I was always connected to family and friends. The Web 2.0 technology of blogs, Twitters and Facebook meant that I could share my thoughts and pictures whenever I had access. The cell phone, with Internet capability, kept me in touch by voice, emails and text messages. At a time when I could have felt isolated, alone and so far away, I felt the love and care of people back home across the USA via voice, emails and comments on my blog. I am grateful for technology! It is what keeps so many soldiers and civilians sane throughout their extended time here in a war. They have connections to their family and loved ones back home provided by the military or the agency that is sponsoring them. Access to the Internet and being able to utilize video conferencing, voice over IP (Internet telephone), Facebook, My Space, emails and the old telephone, makes a world of difference to these brave souls. And let’s not forget, they do keep up with the news through the computer along with that ancient of technologies, television. Unfortunately this same technology is a tool of the Taliban, used to monitor and spy, to infiltrate and investigate as well as detonate explosives using cell signals or digital camera flashes.

Safety
There was never a day I went out with the military that I felt unsafe. The preparation, training and new ultra armored vehicles that are now being used in this war was a constant reminder to me that I was in the company of the best military in the world. The young men were just that, young, funny, sad, sometimes irascible but always cordial and respectful. They reminded me of my son in so many ways. But come time to mount up and go out of the wire, they were professional, alert, in tune to the surrounding dangers, fully capable of taking on the bad guys and more than willing to do so. Not knowing who your enemy is, not being able to discern good from bad, and using the idea that if kids are around and playful that all was good meant that they were always alert and could never let their guard down. Any difference in the road ahead, an abandoned car, motorcycle or pile of rocks could be the next IED triggered by a cell phone. I always felt safe, I always felt secure – as long as I was surrounded by the best the USA could produce.

Fear
Feeling safe and knowing the value of the soldiers and bodyguards that surround you still does not remove the fear from your mind. Whether racing through the crowded streets of Kabul and feeling some anxiety the first time you are trapped in a traffic jam or surrounded by faces in a crowd gathered to sort out a traffic accident or walking through the dirt paths of a village in a hostile district, you will feel fear. After all, regardless of the lack of bombs bursting in air, rockets or bullets being fired in your direction, you are still in a war zone. The hard part about this war is you have to constantly ask yourself – who is my enemy? Is it the young man smiling at me, the elders denying that the Taliban is in their village or the widow who has lost her husband to one side or the other of this war and wants revenge? Yes, there is the constant of the unknown, and therefore, there is fear.


Human Spirit and Character
How else could a germaphobe, a picky eater, a loner and a boy spoiled by his grandmother so many years ago, endure the things I have endured over the past 4 weeks? The ability of the human mind, body and spirit to adapt to circumstances is an amazing truth. Having to live with a coworker in the closest quarters imaginable for several weeks has been a challenge. Yet my colleague and I have survived and endured with not one miniscule disagreement or disruption to our routine. I have slept on a hard office floor choosing to do so rather than live in deplorable almost inhumane accommodations that some of our finest young soldiers find themselves. I have welcomed a small, hard bed after those nights on the floor never imagining that just having a mattress means so much more than bed size or its comfort. I am thankful for a sleeping bag to keep me warm when I had little control over the temperature or the place I lay my head. I have had to share showers and toilets with an international array of men – Poles, Afghans, Italians, Romanians, Australian, British and of course Americans. Some of these facilities I am certain are in worse shape than many prisons in the United States. I have endured the cramped quarters of several military transport vehicles, thumping and bumping over some of the worst terrain in the world wanting to pee so bad with every jerk of my bladder. I have been thankful to hear the call – “525 – Safety Stop” knowing that was the code for a pit stop where all men being equal, wet down the soil in unison around our heavily armed vehicle including the turret gunner who also gets relief to get a bladder break instead of using a water bottle. I have learned to live with loaded weapons always at the ready, heavily armed men on constant alert and even had training on the use of very large as well as small arms…yes me, the person with the aversion to any and all artillery.

Trust
How do you trust strangers? Why do others trust you? How does the local Afghan learn to trust the American soldier or civilian who promises to help not hurt the people? You engender trust by example. By showing that you truly care and giving of yourself and the resources at your disposal, you can make the populace learn to trust that your word is your bond. You trust sometimes through faith. Faith in knowing that the soldier has been trained to recognize danger and to react appropriately; Faith in yourself that you have prepared yourself over time to do what’s right and true for the betterment of mankind; Faith in a higher power that will protect and keep you whatever the circumstance. You have to trust the intelligence gatherers who risk their lives each and every day to get the word out on the latest threats that are real in this deadly, dangerous environment. You must trust your instincts – that whatever you are feeling at the time, the presence of danger, the unsaid word, or the imperceptible nod or signal of one local to the next – we trust that we are alert to the place and events that surround us.

Love
I am so thankful for the love of family and friends who think so much of you that they pray for you, think about you always and reach out to you in such a real way. I’m touched by the love of country shown by each and every soldier, Foreign Service officer, government and non-government civilians who volunteer to serve and give back to a war torn country and its people. I am impressed by the genuine love that is shared between citizens of this country and those from around the world who choose to share in their lives so they can live free of fear, be more educated and ultimately be safer. I trust in the love of the people of Afghanistan for their country, enough to risk their very lives and those of their families by defying the evil of the Taliban and other religious zealots who would impose their brutality upon their own people especially the women and girls of their country. The good are determined to overcome the bad. They continue to teach young girls with the threat of beatings and the burning of their village. They are good, hardworking souls who only want to better themselves and their society in order to survive in a world that obviously needs more tolerance, trust, and LOVE!

I’m coming home….

A Reminder of Sacrifices Made…

During our stay at our final Provincial Reconstruction Team (PRT) compound it was my distinct pleasure to meet a very brave and humble young man. I cannot say his name and I will not reveal his occupation. Needless to say we spent some time together and what started out as an awkward introduction on my first day ended with a solemn, sad goodbye as our transport helicopter landed to take us to Kabul.

When I was introduced to him as we arrived and got the tour of our prison like complex, this young man seemed shy, introverted and even embarrassed to be in our company. He had a very limited English vocabulary but understood the language better than he spoke it. I realized quickly that he was like a sponge. He soaked up any new words or information and wanted to be part of our discussions so he could gain increased knowledge of what our purpose and project was all about. However, we were told that under no circumstances can we photograph or film this person – if we did his life would be in grave danger!

Here is his story:
He is a well educated, university graduate in an agriculture discipline. He is the oldest of seven children. His mother died several months ago and that caused his father to insist that he get married. He has since been engaged to a young woman and is in the months-long process of getting married. Financially, he is very fortunate to have landed a job working for the PRT. As a young man of about 24, he is now the bread winner for his family and his soon to be wife will become the homemaker and 'mother' to his siblings back home. This might seem like a typical story and a normal life of a young man in a developing country. But this is where the normalcy ends. You see, this young man works covertly for the PRT. His comings and goings are undercover and only his father knows his real job. His family and friends think he is studying computers. The money he earns is hidden and he must dress like a poor villager when he is outside the compound. His real home is in another province and he moves his local residence monthly. He cannot keep any evidence of his work for the USA on his person in case he is stopped and searched. He is in constant fear for his life.

For some unexplained reason he and I connected and each day I saw him we greeted each other enthusiastically and went through our work day. He taught me some words in Dari and Pashtu as well as how to properly greet people in his culture. He explained to me that he learned his English through a course he took, not at the Universty he attended. He continues to learn as much as he can. For example when we read his most recent reports the phrasing, grammer and sentence structure was not the best. But he insisted that we tell him what was wrong and how he could improve.

Today as we prepared to leave there was a bittersweet feeling. I wanted to leave this awful place that was in constant danger and surrounded by people with bad intentions. But my new friend seemed so subdued, sad and even melancholy. As we prepared to leave, packing up our gear, checking and re-checking our temporary housing and the office we worked out of, the young man hovered over me, smiling every time I looked his way. He offered to help several times and each time I told him we had everything under control. He walked with us and our host to the HLZ where we had to wait over an hour for our delayed ride “home”. During that time, the shy young Afghan, shuffled over to me in his usual, eyes to the ground, stooped shouldered, shy way. He then started to ask some final questions of me. He was always asking questions. “Did our host like the work he was doing?” he asked, to which I answered a confident, “Yes.” “Why did he get so angry sometimes?” I told him I thought it was the language barrier but he really appreciated all that he was doing. “Would I return to Afghanistan and would I come back to visit?” he asked with his head bowed. I sadly said I didn’t think so and explained to him that most of the time my job kept me in Washington sitting at a desk. He quickly responded, “Inshala – if it is God’s will – you will return.” I smiled and reached out for his shoulder. “Inshala,” I repeated. He again told me that he was so proud to be working for the PRT and that his purpose was a good one for his country, for his people. But he repeated what he had told me once before, “If they catch me,” he paused, then made the awful gesture of drawing his thumb across his throat, “they wouldn’t wait a day,” he went on, “they would do it immediately without hesitation!” I told him he was very brave and I personally thanked him on behalf of the PRT and America that he was making such a sacrifice. I also said that Afghanistan would be a better place due to his efforts. He smiled a smile of pure humility reached out for my hand and said, “Manana – thank you.” “Tash Akor,” I replied, which meant both ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’. He then placed something in my hand, a small metallic object. On further inspection it was a tiny nail clipper on a small key chain. I looked at it quizzically and he could tell I was confused. In his broken English he said, “I have nothing to give you but I must give you something. Please take this as my gift to you.” I began to refuse but he was emphatic in his wish to give it to me. I reluctantly accepted it and hung it on my camera bag. He had a big smile of satisfaction. He then proceeded to give me a hand written business card with his name, email address and telephone number. “Please email me,” He said, “and send me agricultural articles in English so I can learn.” I smiled and promised him I would. Then he slowly turned over the card and showed me a code number. It was 1-4-3. This he told me stood for ‘I – love – you’. He then said, “You are my friend, and I love you.” I told him as his friend I loved him also. I told him he needed to stay safe and gave him my own business card. This he took and read it carefully, repeating all the information that was on it out loud – as if practicing his English. Then the sound of our helicopter could be heard in the distance as it came over the horizon. The young man then gave my card to our host for safe keeping – remember he could not keep the card on his person when he left the compound. He then turned to me, shook my hand pulled me into him and said goodbye the way he had taught me over the past few days. We touched cheeks, released our handshake and placed our right palms on our hearts. Once again I repeated to him, “Stay safe!” “Inshala,” was his reply – ‘if it is God’s will’…Our bags were loaded up as soon as the large Russian Mi8 touched down. I thanked our host profusely for all his help and preparation for our visit and also told him to stay safe. We were hustled on to the big bird by our body guard gunners and we were off the ground in seconds. As I looked out the window I waved at my friend and he waved back. Behind my sunglasses the tears rolled down my cheeks. How long would he survive and what would happen to his family if something bad were to happen to him. Was he doing this life threatening job for the money, for his family or for a better Afghanistan? As the helicopter raced across the barren landscape below, I said my usual prayer, “Thanks for a safe mission, protect these brave soldiers and civilians and may we have a safe journey back to the embassy.” This time however, I said a special prayer for a shy, humble and very brave young man.

Be thankful for the life you have…

Final Mission...

I must admit, it feels like a year ago not three weeks, when I mounted up for my first convoy operation. I was indoctrinated into the dangerous world of mission outings by getting acquainted with big guns and being taught what to do if we came under fire. Being handed my own personal tourniquet, told that it was mine to keep and hopefully, I wouldn’t have to learn how to use it was very sobering. Now, eighteen days later and a lifetime of experiences behind me, I am heading out on my last mission here in Afghanistan.

In preparation for what was going to be a long morning, I headed off to breakfast only to find that everything they offered this morning was a pork product. So once again I cracked two eggs on the skillet and made myself some well done scrambled eggs – not the way I would have them back home but not trusting the eggs I make sure they are well cooked. I hurried and had breakfast so I could try and get a turn in the Internet room. Last night I tried in vain to get a turn but the evenings are the busiest periods. I also felt guilty trying to get a turn when these young men have family and girlfriends who haven’t seen them in so many months and this was their only time to communicate. I found the room relatively empty this morning and got a chance to read and send some emails and transfer my blog that I had written the night before on my laptop. It is so cathartic and therapeutic for me to write. It is the therapy that will keep me from seeing a shrink on my return home. To all my family and friends, thank you for sharing in my experiences and reading along as I try to share the nuances of life here in this strange place.

This morning I will be riding in a COUGAR – the third and last type of military transport vehicle being used in theater. It is very similar to the MWRAP with a few configuration differences. The objective today is to go into a village close by that is not considered a “friendly”. The ag advisor and an extension agent from the district ministry for agriculture will be doing a site visit to see how they can assist the farmers and families to improve their situation and livelihood. Before we even get started we have our first dilemma. Instead of meeting us at the village, the elderly, white bearded extension agent shows up at the compound saying he refused to go into the village on his own and he would only go under the protection of the military. He admits that he is afraid of being “taken” or kidnapped! After some discussion with our SECFOR (security force) lead, he is allowed to get into one of our convoy vehicles for the ride up to the village.

Mercifully, it doesn’t take long to get to our destination and as we dismount from the vehicles I can see that a recon team had preceded us, securing the area before our arrival. The security perimeter is set up and the obligatory greetings and salutations take place. As the greetings are taking place, a very unusual sight takes place in front of us. Even to the delight of the hardened military, a small group of nomadic Kuchies passing through come over the rise of a hill leading their donkeys laden with their possessions. The lead animal in the group is a large camel with a high stack of sacks strapped to his back. The Kuchies are as surprised and curious as the soldiers and villagers and they quickly continue along their journey to what looks like a day of selling in the market.

We again turn our attention back to the villagers who want to give us a tour and express their problems, needs and the solutions they desire. Despite the suspicions about this place, the usual three ring circus takes place. Young children greet us with wide grins and sparkling eyes. They surround us and look us up and down not with suspicion but with curiosity. They are fascinated by the cameras and all the attention they get when the lens is pointed at them. The older males seem more suspicious and whisper in the background, while the elders do all the talking and seem to be genuinely hospitable. As usual our welcoming committee is all male, from toddlers all the way up to the wizened old elder – the leader of this tiny village. He is a small man, slightly bent at the waste but he has a confident stride. As is the custom he leans into his guests for a kiss on the cheek, shakes hands and touches his right palm to his heart. Our interpreters are unidentifiable with their sunglasses and ski masks. They too are afraid and do not want to be recognized since they are working for the Americans. They translate rapidly as the elders are anxious to share their stories and do so with great excitement. There are 20 families that live here, all farmers. They grow wheat, grapes, apricots and almonds. They lack water for irrigation and their only supply of water comes from an ancient spring in the middle of the village and a smaller spring up on a nearby hill. The water is enough for daily use but not for all the irrigation they need. They are trying for the third time to dig a well but at 225 meters down they are only getting a trickle – another failure they think.

As we slowly make our way through the village via a well used footpath, the soldiers are amped up. There are vehicles and lookouts on every high ground surrounding us. Surprisingly, I feel a great sense of calm as I have come to trust these guys implicitly. As I walk in the midst of these young men with their instincts and senses on high alert, I walk directly in their path, not deviating from the footprints they leave behind. They go ahead of us and search behind walls, down small alley ways and check any and all nooks and crannies. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed one of the soldiers suddenly take a knee and put his sniper rifle scope up to his eye. He trains the gun on a vehicle way up on a hill overlooking the village. He calmly reports that the occupants of the vehicle are not looking in our direction and don’t seem to be hostiles trying to observe our operation as first thought. The gunner in one of the turrets continues to keep an eye on the vehicle as we make our way deeper into the village. It is such a paradox to see this mighty military presence in this truly medieval setting. The elder shows us the natural spring that is hidden inside a cave. It is probably this spring that caused the ancestors of this village to make this their home. It is a grotto where the residents, bathe, do laundry and get their water for cooking. Yes, all of this takes place at this one location! We slowly make our way forward pass the middle of the village when from a small, dry, dusty backyard one of the soldiers yells out to our interpreter. He has come upon an old tractor that looks like a museum piece. He is curious as to the age of the relic and if it still works. The answer is, yes, it still works and it is over 50 years old. So just when you think these are ancient uneducated people, you realize they are wise enough to somehow keep a 50 year old tractor running. We finally get to their vineyards where as is typical of Afghanistan the thick thirty year old grape vines are grown as bushes and the grapes grow on the ground. Our ag advisor is trying to teach the farmers in the area about trellises and growing grapes off the ground. He thinks their yield would increase five fold and they would be able to get much more raisins which is their finished product.

After the village tour we do a couple interviews in the middle of an apricot orchard. It is a beautiful day with a cool breeze rustling through the tree tops ever so often, breaking up the monotony of the heat. The sun is high in the sky and filters through the branches and leaves to form shadowy patterns under the rows of trees. It is a rustic rural setting, an oasis outside a chaotic busy town which we can see below us at the end of the rugged unpaved road that brought us here. I would probably enjoy the setting more if I wasn’t wearing 30 pounds of armor around my body and a heavy black helmet that seemed to draw the heat from the sun overhead. It is also an unnatural sight to see heavily armed soldiers in every direction within my line of sight as I follow the low mud walls that encircle us. Dave K uses every last second of our allotted time to get as many visuals as he can. Then the order is given for us to move out. We have to get going as the soldiers are aware that the more time that goes by with us in one place the more vulnerable we are. We have to make our way back the way we came following the narrow footpath through the village back to the vehicles parked on the edge of the tiny rural community. As we pass by the grotto there is a man sitting on a rock waiting to take his turn bathing. On further scrutiny there is another man inside the cave in the small pool of water washing himself. Before we depart, a large box of gifts for the children is removed from one of the vehicles. In order to prevent total chaos, the box is given to the elder who has everyone sit obediently by the side of the road and as we rumble away in the long convoy of armored vehicles I see through my window that the candy, books, pens and other treats from the USA are being distributed to some very excited children and young adults. Of course I can’t help thinking about the little girls back inside the mud walls of their houses who do not get to share in this activity…

Once we are back in the security and safety of our compound I make sure to thank all the soldiers; the foot patrols, the gunners, the drivers and our lead NCO for taking us out and bringing us back safely. “I would expect no less,” says the NCO as one of his cohorts yells, “This ain’t our first rodeo, you know.” I give them all the thumbs up like one of the many children who chase beside their vehicles every day. As I remove the bulky body armor to reveal a soaking wet shirt underneath, I bow my head and say a silent prayer of thanks. Four provinces, multiple missions, successful filming, and no hostile incidents – I am grateful for every positive thought, every intercessory prayer and the safety and good health of all the wonderful, well-trained soldiers I encountered who took such good care of Dave and me.

Now it’s on to Kabul and one more week till I’m homeward bound!

Burkas Abound...

I was up early this morning having hit the rack at a decent time last night. As I headed out to breakfast I was greeted by Tina, the resident doggie…it seems that all FOB’s have a dog. Tina doesn’t get much attention but when she wants some she is persistent. She will keep nuzzling your leg until she gets an ear scratch or a pat. Usually she is curled up in the coolest spot she can find taking a nap. Oh, by the way, we got a report last night that ecoli was in our water - so no singing in the shower! At breakfast I had to cook my own eggs after attempting to try the breakfast burrito that was the morning meal. When I almost broke my plastic fork and knife trying to cut through it, I made what I thought was a wise decision and cooked some scrambled eggs. That’s how it works here in this DFAC (dining facility). If you choose to have eggs instead of what’s offered you line up at the griddle and throw your own eggs on and cook them yourself. After breakfast we got our gear out to the vehicles and we were assigned our MWRAP. Yes, we are back in the WRAP! With “battle gear” on and gear stowed, we mounted up for our first visit outside the wire. We had flown in by helo and our only view of our surroundings was from the guard towers which we toured last evening. Since I was now familiar with the workings of the 700 lb. rear door, I volunteered to sit by the door with DK, while the two other civilians with us, TP the PRT coordinator from the Embassy and CG, the USDA ag advisor here, sat in the two remaining seats. All the military personnel were up front, the gunner in the turret, the driver and the Sgt. riding shotgun (or M4) – literally!

We slowly made our way out of the compound and wound our way through the small dusty streets of the surrounding town. Even with the tension of this area being a hostile environment, the children are still excited to see the military vehicles and they give the thumbs up or run next to the HUMVEES and wave at the gunners. At this time of the morning the town is abuzz with the hustle and bustle of the morning commute that would rival bigger cities. The modes of transportation are varied but all are very colorful. The “jingle” bus or motorcycle, the tractor that doubles as the morning bus and the ever popular bicycle. This is the poorest town we have seen since we started our tour 3 weeks ago. Garbage is strewn everywhere and in many places it is stacked as high as the buildings. We passed what perhaps was the busiest corner of the town where livestock was being sold. The nomadic “kuchies” were busy selling their sheep and goats in this livestock market. We wished we could exit our vehicles and get in the midst of the chaos but we knew that would be impossible here. Our military escorts would laugh in our faces if we were stupid enough to ask. The traffic was heavy on the well paved main road but this was Highway 1 after all, the “Ring Road” that encircles all of Afghanistan. It is the lifeblood of commerce and transportation throughout the country. Thus the importance of small towns that are directly on this route. Towns like this are very important to those who want to utilize the infrastructure but it is also important to those who want to compromise and disrupt the infrastructure.

Our first stop is at the Citadel of Alexander the Great. It sits high atop a strategic hill from which all the surrounding territory can be seen. It is very obvious why he would have chosen this site. This was Alexander’s home on the eastern side of the country. We were fortunate to have seen his western citadel at our second base visit. I am sure this is a very rare opportunity. It is said that he married a local girl and that’s why some of the Pashtun in the east have light eyes - they are supposedly from his lineage. This Citadel has been occupied by every invading army since Alexander. It has had over two thousand years of military occupants including the Soviets in the 1980’s. While waiting for us to complete our filming, one of the soldiers actually found some relics of the Soviets’ stay – an old, rusted, broken gun and helmet left behind. Today the site is held by the Afghan National Army.

Our main mission of the day was to visit a demonstration plant nursery donated and built by USAID where seedlings of non-fruit trees are being cultivated, grafted apricot and almonds fruit trees are planted and small cuttings are being budded. The facility is a training center for the Agriculture Department of this province. The caretakers of this nursery, the ladies who do the plantings, make the seedling sacks and water the plants are all vulnerable, very poor women. Some are widowed, others are homeless and some are even thought to be prostitutes who have to be extremely desperate because that line of work is punishable by death. Today the military brought humanitarian aide for 18 of these women who were asked to show up for our cameras. Unfortunately the word got out and more than 30 women showed up for us. This caused quite a commotion and a near riot as the extra women demanded some hand outs as well. Thanks to our interpreters and the Director of Agriculture and his staff things calmed down enough to get our filming done. The women who were not getting any packages today would all be given handouts on Friday at a larger event. This seemed to satisfy them enough to stop their wailing and high pitched cries for attention. The shade houses where the seedlings were being watered by the 18 women in their blue burkas were marvels of ingenuity. The main frame of these substitute greenhouses were long thin sticks that were intricately woven together by wire and string. They formed perfect oval roofs which held plastic over them in the winter time and were bare in the spring and summer. The light patterns caused by the shadows and beams of sunlight through the twigs caused the inside of the shade houses to look surreal. Even more so was the images of these blue burka’d women gliding through the paths of tiny seedling pots as they watered. They looked like blue ghosts drifting through the shadows. A few days ago I said I had never seen any women up close but that all changed today. It was evident that these women were not beholding to any males other than to take orders from the interpreters or the male assistants that encircled us. This is why we could actually take pictures and shoot video of these covered women, because there were no men who took “ownership” of them and thus would have beaten or chastised them for being so close to strangers and “showing” themselves to the cameras. Being this close to them I could see the dyed fingers, the henna tattoos, and the aged hands and feet, aged not by time but from hard manual labor. When the filming was over the women immediately went to receive their “gifts”. They are so desperate that they don’t mind me being next to them taking pictures of the soldiers distributing the blankets filled with female products, books for the children, and the most treasured article, oil for cooking. They grasped at the goods tied up in blanket bundles. “Tash akor, tash akor!” they mumble, “Thank you, thank you.” The younger children cling to their mothers and the not much older ones help to carry articles taken out of the bundle. These children are most likely fatherless and therefore also shunned in the society. This was the best part of my day. I had been part of the packing and loading of the humanitarian aide the day before and to see the distribution to what the Bible called “the least of these” was heart warming. Seeing the joy on the face of the soldier giving the packages out and knowing how appreciated it was by these most vulnerable made me think back to my serving the homeless back home. As I’ve said so many times before – so much in this world is relative. As bad as you think it can be, there is always worse in some other part of the world. The needs of the less fortunate is so great, there is so much injustice in the world – it overwhelms me. Today we helped 18. How much more can we do – here in Afghanistan and across our ever shrinking planet? Our mission today is a complete success and we returned to the base safe and with an empty trailer that held 18 blanket bundles when we left this morning.

PS – As evening fell we went for a post dinner walk to the guard tower overlooking a part of our small surrounding town. DK wanted to record any evening activities that might occur on the streets below. It was here I observed one of the most disturbing sights of this culture. Walking down the tiny street below us was a village elder and behind him at the required distance was what I can only assume was his wife. She wore a dark grey burka and shuffled at a slow pace with drooped shoulders and her head at an angle that indicated her eyes were looking at her feet. The elder stopped at a blue gate with a design drawn on the outside and knocked. He was greeted at the gate by an unseen figure and ushered in. Before entering he turned to the woman, nodded his head and she immediately squatted at the base of the gate post, with head bowed and she proceeded to wait there while the man entered and conducted his business inside the now closed gate. I cannot describe the multitude of emotions that raced through my body. Anger, frustration, pity, a deep sadness and even more anger swept over me like a raging river. I couldn’t then and I can’t now, put my feelings into words. I just have to share this with whoever reads it and pray for hope, forgiveness and understanding of what makes this tolerable in any culture!

Last Stop!!

Day 20 and it’s on to our fourth and last visit. Eleven days to go for me to be with my family and friends again. Not that I’m counting or anything…

We were up at dawn, packed and ready to head out after a bite to eat. TP the USDA PRT coordinator in Afghanistan would be joining us on this trip. The three of us took the requisite SUV ride to the USAID Air Terminal and said hello to the local flight assistants who had just seen us arrive the day before. Yesterday, as we returned to Kabul and sorted our luggage, one young lady had asked me the meaning of my name since it seemed so common to be named David. I told her it meant “beloved”. This morning I asked her if she remembered the meaning. “It means very loved,” she said with a proud almost boastful smile. I congratulated her for remembering and told her the David’s would be returning in 5 days.

This morning we would be boarding a Russian Mi8 AMT Hind helicopter for our 2 hour trip south. A 30 year old relic, that 25 plus years ago would have been the target of stinger missiles as it flew over the Afghan terrain…stinger missiles provided by the US and Charlie Wilson’s war, to defeat the Russians as they tried to occupy this country. Oh, the irony – a leased Russian helicopter, with its old Russian crew, run by a South African contractor, paid by USAID to transport US civilians and a multinational list of passengers, to help the very people the Soviets tried to destroy – the weird circle of life in politics and politics in life. The aircraft could fit 20 passengers but with our buddy the South African gunner along with a Gerka up front and an additional rear gunner, their were 14 souls on board not counting the 3 man Russian crew. I must admit it was a little disconcerting to look up and see “GREW ONLY” on the cockpit door – I guess they ran out of C’s. The passengers were a mix of some Afghan locals, an Australian, a couple US military officers in flight suits, a British national and the three of us.

Forty minutes into our flight, scattered amongst the usual desolate environment below, we spotted small pockets of tents with large flocks of animals surrounding them. These were “Kuchies”, nomadic wonderers who move from place to place with the changing seasons, living in their small tent encampments all over Afghanistan. A few minutes later we were obviously getting close to our first stop as we lost altitude rapidly and a large town came into view. Dave K and I immediately recognized the FOB we were landing in. It was the first base we had visited over 2 weeks ago - the Polish encampment where I was indoctrinated into the military life style. It didn’t seem that long ago that we had said goodbye to RT at this very LZ. We lost a few passengers and gained one. Once airborne, with the smell of oil and fuel permeating the cabin, we headed further south toward our final destination. Not long after take-off I noticed the ground below had what looked like giant anthills dotting the valley floor. The holes went on for long stretches in rowed patterns that seemed geometrically designed. These it turned out were ancient water systems, “karezes”, underground tunnels that brought water from the hills and mountains. I am not sure how they worked but for man to have done this hundreds of years ago, in this topography, developing this ingenious engineering marvel, with tools I couldn’t even imagine, it was all very fascinating.

We arrived at our new location which we will call home for the next 5 days. The moment I stepped on to the helipad, I felt a very different vibe than I have throughout my stay in country. There was confusion when our host met us and had to take care of some Afghan civilians who arrived with us and no one knew about them coming. Ignoring us and taking care of these strangers was not a good sign. When we did finally get acquainted and he showed us our quarters I was pleasantly surprised. It was another metal container but it was well appointed with 2 beds and quite a bit of space. We were told to bring a sleeping bag because we might be on cots, so the beds were a bonus. There were even clean sheets and a pillow provided. What luxury! However, the hospitality ended there. A visit to the bathroom/shower facility revealed Russian style showers. The shower was in the same stall as the toilet. The conditions of most of these stalls were deplorable. It turns out that this compound was built by the Russians while they occupied this area. The construction was poor and so were all the facilities. This small “annex” of the FOB is just that. It is a small compound that houses some soldiers, all the civilians and is an afterthought of the two larger FOB’s a couple kilometers on either side of this site. The commander here calls it Smart FOB like the tiny Smart car (actually it's named after a young soldier who was KIA in 2004). The dining facility is equal to the rest of this place, mediocre to bad. The office of our advisor has a corrupt computer with little or no access to the Internet. This has frustrated DK to no end. He lives for the Internet. Our host is quite the character. I tried all afternoon to pin him down on our plans while we’re in the province but he is unfocused and his mind wanders off topic frequently. I am worried but I am determined to get through this last leg of our long journey. Later in the afternoon I managed to sit down with our host and finally got him to understand our goals and how we could achieve them in the 3 days we have to film.

I now understand why I felt the way I did upon landing here. There is great danger around this area and the local population is rife with the enemy. It is said that 9 out of 10 residents are bad guys and they are aggressively trying to control the districts and villages. Of the over 200 schools in the province only approximately 28 are still active. Teachers are threatened and beaten while girls cannot attend any schools. As infrastructure is put in there are attempts to dismantle whatever was done. There is an illiteracy rate exceeding 90 percent. And that is how the enemy gets the upper hand. Keep the population unlearned and ignorant and you wrest control of their lives from them. Fear and intimidation on top of an uneducated populace makes for domination of a people. It is in this atmosphere and culture that this Provincial Reconstruction Team, military, State Department, USAID and USDA are trying to bring some sustainable capacity to the agrarian society that abounds in this province. They are trying to show them better methods of cultivation with improved seeds, introduce new fruits and spices that will thrive in this region, provide better health care and education, improved roads and, militarily, keep the local villagers secure via the Afghan National Police and the Afghan National Army. There is real fear in the eyes of the local civilians who dare to work with the PRT. It will be a challenge getting people to appear on camera but we will make sure we do it without endangering the lives of those brave enough to speak out about the good that emanates from this facility through the team of dedicated and motivated soldiers and civilians.

Hard to Say Goodbye

Yesterday we were on lock down so all missions outside the FOB were cancelled. So my morning was spent catching up on emails and working on the stories we’ve been able to capture so far. Up to this point our trip has been a complete success. The stories in each province we’ve visited have been captivating. The diversity in landscapes, people and PRT life has been eye-opening. Each character, with their unique personality and experiences, has been captured on tape and will make for an interesting, in-depth look into the human spirit, the care and concern for a people and their land, and the incredible work that is taking place at the ground level here in Afghanistan.

My afternoon was spent interviewing the PRT military commander, our USDA ag advisor and Sgt. Kelley of the PRT Civilian Affairs Team. He was our mission organizer and planned our daily activities each evening. Along with the USDA ag advisor, he was instrumental in us getting everything we needed and more. Thanks to the commander’s decision to allow us to walk off the base over to the bank of the Panjshir River, across from the FOB, our closing interviews were done in a beautiful location as the sun slowly settled over the western mountains. With our mujahedeen guards standing guard over us on the rolling hills near the river, we were able to close out our story of Panjshir province in the most appropriate, idyllic way. Hanging out by the water, on a perfect afternoon with wispy clouds scattered throughout the azure blue sky. I was going to miss this place. I was going to miss the bucolic scenery, the relaxed atmosphere, the friendly outgoing soldiers and civilians as well as the braying donkeys that would let us know they were there several times during the day (and during our interviews). I will miss the snow capped mountains, the Panjshir River as it rushed through the valley filled with glacial run-off, and I will miss the intimacy of being able to deal with the locals as a person not a presence. I will miss Panjshir, the Lion’s Den.

Today we were welcomed by another perfect morning as the wind rushed through the valley out of the north. The air was crisp and clear and I had no problem seeing the surrounding mountains in all their glory. The landscape looked even greener this morning and I’m not sure if it really was or my mind was just making an imprint of what lay before me in a more intense hue so I would never forget this place. I said goodbye to my comfortable little B Hut and the donkey across the river bid me adieu with one last bray that echoed of the walls of the FOB. Dave and I said our goodbyes to all the great people we met and thanked the leadership of the FOB for their hospitality, coordination and complete cooperation with everything we needed. I informed them that with the release of the documentary their wonderful little secret of Panjshir would be revealed. With a twinkle of pride in their eyes they smiled and said they welcomed the telling of their story to the world.

We convoyed to the HLZ (helicopter landing zone) which was the same soccer field where we had arrived 5 days earlier. It was interesting to watch the set up of a remote LZ. As the vehicles took their positions around the perimeter of the field, “flags” were placed on the goalposts as wind socks, a marker was placed on one vehicle so it could be spotted from the air and as the chopper approached, flying very low through the valley, smoke was released to signal the pilots as to our exact location. The wind blew the yellow smoke across the field and into the southern valley. As the helicopter hovered before landing, the spinning rotors kicked up clouds of dust and sent dirt and any loose objects flying in our direction. We ducked behind the lone vehicle on the field and waited for a signal to go. As soon as the skids settled on the dusty pitch, the gunners ran out collected our bags, rushed us onto the bird and we were up and away – no time wasted on the ground. The pilot dipped the nose of the helicopter and raced to the northern end of the open field then banked hard to the right swooped over the still smoky field and we were off to the city of Kabul with a wave out the window to our new friends from FOB Lion.

We flew over some of the most fertile land in all of Afghanistan, lush green fields of farmland stretching from the base of the mountains all the way to the horizon ahead. Before too long, Bagram Air Base was on our left side and as we passed, a giant C130 lifted off from one of the runways. Soon the landscape changed dramatically. It was drier and the mountains became more rocky and rugged with large canyons. Walled villages looking like medieval castled cities began to appear more frequently and this meant we were approaching the city. The gunners on both sides of the aircraft scanned the ground below. I wasn’t sure what they were trained to look for but I was glad their eyes were in constant motion. In a little over 30 minutes we were touching down in Kabul with its pollution and orange brown sky blocking out the views of the surrounding mountains. Boy, am I glad I have the memories of the past few days - paradise in Panjshir!

We have one night in Kabul and then it’s on to our final Forward Operating Base (FOB). I am curious as to what lies ahead - the new characters, a new landscape, a new FOB and another PRT. Three down, one to go…

Just Another Day at Work…

Our first visit of the day was to the Governor’s complex where we would meet with the Agriculture Director of Panjshir province. We arrived, as usual, with a two vehicle convoy including the requisite PRT military Civil Affairs Team (CAT), our USDA Ag Advisor and our “mujh” guards. The guards stayed with the vehicles and we were escorted to the Director’s office on the second floor of the large, well built concrete structure. The window of the office looked out onto a picturesque snow capped mountain but a peek at the ceiling revealed a bad case of mold. The team sat around a conference table and we were all offered “chie” (tea) with some wrapped candy. Soon after, the Director walked in, a gregarious man, small in stature, dressed in casual khaki, with a uniquely shaved goatee and a wide grin. He shook everyone’s’ hands vigorously and was outwardly excited to have the camera pointing in his direction. Then it was business as usual. The group discussed on-going projects in the area, success stories and where resources were needed. At the conclusion of the meeting we thanked the Director for his hospitality and he informed us he was going to personally escort us to some successful projects in the district.

First up was the master bee keeper who was introduced to bee keeping by the PRT a year before. He was trained and given two hives to learn the art. He was so successful that he became the distributer and trainer for the 400 other families in the province who were chosen to become bee keepers. This enterprise would be instrumental in giving families a new business model where they would be able to provide bees for pollination of fruit trees and sell the honey produced by the hives. We were ushered into the mud walled family compound where we were greeted by children of all ages. The bee keeper escorted the entourage through his house, up some stairs in the cramped mud brick house, up onto his roof. As we stepped out onto the roof there was a distinct noise – a constant buzzing that was obviously hundreds of excited bees. The master bee keeper was proud to show us his hives, now up to four, and he even opened some up to show us a queen. He did this without any protective gear or smoker with bees encircling him and us! Fortunately no one was stung and the visuals were outstanding. We interviewed the bee keeper and then it was off to the next project. Before we could re-enter the house to go back downstairs, the interpreter asked us to wait a minute until we were given the all clear to enter. You see, the man had to make sure the lady of the house was hidden from the view of strangers before we could walk through his home. It has almost become normal for me to not see women up close in this place. There are so many children who are excited to see us and curious men everywhere – but I have never seen a woman up close even in her burka. While we are in the villages they will stay a far distance away, walk on the opposite side of the street or just avoid being seen all together. We said our goodbyes after refusing an offer of “chie” and a moment to sit at his table explaining that we had a tight schedule and we were not being rude. He understood and bid us good day with a handshake and a touch of his right palm to his heart.

The next project was one we had tried to film a day before but because women were working in the field we couldn’t do any filming. Today with the Director’s help and a cooperative villager we were able to get into the field and get the visuals we needed. The story here was another capacity building enterprise that was aimed at increasing income for the farmers. Fruit trees had been planted throughout these wheat fields and there was “double cropping” taking place. The idea was that while these apricot and cherry trees were growing the fields could still be used for the low income wheat crop. As the wheat was watered and fertilized so too would the trees. But when the trees matured the farmer would have high value crops of fruit and his income would increase significantly. This too would be an opportunity for the bee keepers to offer their bees for pollination as the valley has been void of bees for many years. I took the opportunity of the surroundings and the story to interview the Director on the spot. With the help of our interpreter the interview was a success. As I finished the interview I realized that we had attracted quite a crowd out in the middle of these fields. Of course, it was a crowd of children, all boys (the girls were probably in school as school hours are split for boys and girls) and many of the elders of the village. It was quite an event to have the Director of Agriculture here in their fields.

After we had lunch back at the base we headed out for our last project of the day. A few miles from the base was a woodlot that had just been planted with donated cuttings of a fast growing poplar tree. The idea here was that landowners with at least a “jer1b” (1/2 of an acre) near a water source could start private woodlot establishments that would help to produce over time, more trees for planting and firewood. Due to the many years of war the area has been devastated by the denuding of trees. This in turn has led to a lot of erosion and runoff along the rivers and streams. In addition because of the lack of trees the residents of the valley have used cow dung as a source of fire and heat which is not healthy. The owners of these wood lots also promised that after a year they would take cuttings from every third tree and sell them to others who wanted to participate. This way more woodlots would be established and business and trees would flourish. It would take up to seven years for this and other lots to have full grown trees but it is this long term benefit that the PRT’s are striving for.

Finally as we were getting ready to return to the base our ag advisor told us about this beautiful valley just up the road from where we were and offered to take us there to have a look. We drove not even a mile up the side of a mountain just past the village of Obdara when before me was what I imagine Shangri La to look like. Below us and stretching across the lush green, terraced valley was a scene I would never expect to have seen in Afghanistan. Right below us was a flowing river that carved its way through the valley. In the distance were rolling hills that framed snow covered mountains beyond them and in between the mountains and the river were ribbons of green in different shades. The terraced hills of wheat glistened in the late evening sun. As we looked in wonderment at the scene in front of us, small rocks came rolling of the hills behind us and we turned to see a small heard of mountain goats far above us on the hillside. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed two little boys giggling at these outsiders looking on in amazement at what they saw everyday of their young lives. They hovered around us, conversing with our “mujh” guards and I couldn’t help be drawn to them. I asked them to take a picture with me and with the encouragement of the guards they obliged. As I took in my surroundings and thought of the future of the two boys I just hugged, I hoped beyond hope that this valley could be seen by other visitors in peaceful times. I could actually see this area having ski resorts in the winter, with hiking, kayaking and fishing taking place in the spring and summer. But would it ever be? Well, I guess I can dream, can’t I?

We returned to the base as clouds started to role in for our usual evening rain storm. I got one last interview in with the State Department PRT Commander. The only civilian PRT commander in all of Afghanistan - due to the secure nature of this FOB.

And then we got the news...it was just another day at work - in Afghanistan. We would be on lock down tomorrow due to a security issue up north of the valley. Yes, even here at our safest FOB we are reminded that we are still in Afghanistan, still in a war zone...