Ghosts

Some say the ghosts of soldiers of empires past lurk among the mountains and plains of this desolate country.  These ghosts roam past battlefields, preserving their secrets within the “graveyard of empires.”  Of course, the graveyard epithet is a misnomer.  Empires did not die here; they simply became tired and resigned to the fact that the effort was not worth the reward.  This is what makes Afghanistan a dismal, hopeless place; it isn’t the terrain or the continuous war, it is the simple fact that, ultimately, all who come here realize it isn’t worth the trouble.  Thus, would-be saviors leave and only the whispers of ghosts remain.

But the ghosts of the mountain shadows are not the only ghosts that haunt this insufferable land.  To be sure, these ghosts hide from plain sight as well, but they skulk amongst the shadows of government, hidden by a labyrinthine system designed to bleed empires before they depart.  These ghosts suckle at the teat of the foreign money trough like a leech gorging on the blood, the life, of its host despite the fact that the leech needs the host to survive.  At some point, the host will be drained of its life-support and die; the leech will die too, but yet it continues as if it cannot help itself.  But these parasitic ghosts either do not care or do not realize their long-term mistake.  All that matters is satisfying their insatiable appetite, even at the expense of their countrymen and in the face of their country’s demise.

Ghosts permit an appearance of success while slowly strangling the life from it.  Ghosts make a PowerPoint slide look fantastic; they provide coalition leaders with positive sound bites, and generally make the KoolAid go down smoother.  However, ghosts merely perpetuate a façade.  Ghosts represent the pretender that occupies the throne of COIN success in Afghanistan.  They silently send a message to the coalition that it is being fooled, that the powerbrokers in Afghanistan will smile and make promises as they take coalition money, only to pad an individual empire in expectation of the inevitable withdrawal of foreigners.  It is as it has always been in Afghanistan.  Foreigners come and go, leaving money and blood in their wake.  The savvy Afghan uses the summer of plenty to build a nest for the winter that will surely come.

So how does the system work?  The Afghan government works from a document called a Tashkil.  The tashkil is a document that outlines the number of personnel and equipment a particular office is assigned.  Every year, the various Ministries go through a process whereby manning and equipment needs are determined in accordance with budgetary concerns.  For example, the Ministry of Interior (which handles police forces among other things) might be allotted 10,000 positions based on its budget.  The tashkil process seeks to apportion those positions according to need.  Equipment is assigned in similar fashion.  Routinely, a budget may be increased by coalition government contributions in an effort to satisfy a need that aligns with coalition strategy.  In such cases, one of these coalition partners, the US Government for example, will agree to fund a certain number of new positions if those positions are allotted to a particular unit or office.  Here is where ghosts sometimes come into being.

Assume that an additional 100 positions, to be spread throughout the provinces, will be funded in this manner.  A tashkil is built; positions are assigned, and then filled with particular individuals, although not all positions are filled.  Rather than fill 100, only 80 might be filled with the difference in money going to some Afghan official(s) in Kabul.  By engaging in a shell game of sorts and moving folks around as needed, it can appear that all 100 positions are filled when in fact, 20 of them are ghosts.  Those in power pocket the monthly salary of these ghosts.

Another way this works is that an individual is actually assigned to a position, but he never shows up for work.  This happens quite a bit in kinetic provinces as the individual has valid safety concerns.  If an individual is appointed as a judge or Huquq Director in a province like Paktika or Helmand, he dutifully attends his training and collects his monthly check, but he never shows up for work – or, he leaves the province shortly after making an appearance, perhaps making intermittent appearances as needed to maintain his cover.  He becomes a ghost.  Most of the time, these guys are still living in Kabul.  On the surface it can seem like this sort of ghost has no support from the Kabul government, as if he’s cheating them as well.  However, sometimes an individual who doesn’t even speak Pashtu is appointed to an area wherein Pashto is the predominant, if not only, language spoken by the average Afghan and never shows up for work.  Is this an oversight by the Kabul elite or planned?  You decide.

It works the same way with equipment.  As I type this, I know of a place that currently stores a number of armored SUVs that were turned over to the Afghan government.  They have been sitting there for nearly four months, unused.  Yet, there are agencies within the Afghan government that are constantly requesting such vehicles from us, and getting them.  These unused SUVs are ghost vehicles.  What is their purpose?  Are they being held for someone’s own use rather than for governmental use?  Is some official simply trying to accumulate as many as possible realizing that the tortuous coordination process among coalition members (and even within individual coalition governments) means he’ll likely get away with it?

Why does this happen?  It happens because ghosts can get away with it.  It happens because politicians, the supposed stewards of American taxpayer money cannot possibly learn about such things when their tour in this warzone consists of a two-week trip through the Kabul social circuit.  Recognizing the negative influence of ghosts requires spending some time on the ground with the folks that toil in that environment daily.  It requires critical thinking about our desired end state and the strategy that needs to be employed to get there.  It requires powerbrokers to care more about doing what is right than what is expeditious or will sell on the evening news.  Sadly, too many are more inclined to think about the next election or promotion board.  Are they ghosts too?  

Liberty

As the sun pierced through the morning darkness, the chill in the air began to subside – white clouds dissipating into the beams of sunlight.  The yellow, red glow creeping over the mountains slowly illuminated the surrounding terrain.  The snow-capped mountains stood majestically around Kabul, the city's centuries-old guardians – they had watched armies come and go for centuries and now they watched mine.  Staring deeply into the mountains, blocking out all else, one could almost get a sense of the Rocky Mountains in beautiful Colorado.  Almost.  As the light revealed more of this sad place, one could make out the ubiquitous brown soil; the absence of any significant vegetation a reminder that nothing grows here without a fight whether it be crops, good governance or rule of law.  The opportunity of renewal, beauty, and inner-peace that those Colorado mountains seem to offer cannot be found in great supply here.  Kabul offers only a degree, indeed a small degree, of safety.  The mountains provide only that.  Such is not the case in other parts of the country.  Indeed, in many parts of this war-torn country, the government’s hold is tenuous at best.  Coalition and government forces own the day, but the night is still being contested in some provinces, including the one we’re going to today.  The open land of the South provides no safety.

The smell of jet fuel pungently stains the air as we stand on the flight line awaiting the Beechcraft airplane.  We’ll fly it to Kandahar airfield before switching to a helicopter for our ride to Lashkar Gah, Helmand Province.  The night’s slumber is still evident in most of the passengers as we board the plane.  However, two of the passengers are clearly nervous about our destination.  A slight shakiness in their voices as they ask pointed questions reveals their apprehension.  I try to calm them by telling them that we’re only going to the city center and that a company of British soldiers is on call as a Quick Reaction Force if things go wrong.  Moreover, given that we have three VIPs on board, we wouldn’t be going if the threat level were high.  As the plane begins its taxi, news from the cockpit punctuates the air.  Our landing spot in Kandahar is under attack.  We'll take off and head that way, knowing that we'll turn around and head back to Kabul if the attack is still occurring when we arrive over the skies of Kandahar.  About half way there, news again from the cockpit is that a rocket has hit our runway, but we can still land and catch our helo.

Helmand province, the site of many battles between a fiercely xenophobic Pashtun tribe on one side and American Marines and British troops on the other, is still being contested.  Much American and British blood has been shed here.  However, unlike the fields of Flanders in World War I, the blood here does not mythically mix with the soil to produce brilliantly red poppies as both tribute to sacrifice and symbol of renewal, a time in which such sacrifice becomes unnecessary.  Here, American and British blood mixes with that of the Pashtun to bleach the soil dry of nutrients so that it resembles the dried bones of a land worn out by fighting.  Its symbolism is not of floral beauty but rather of death.  Death reigns here the bleached boned landscape of Helmand screams, and it will always reign here.

Staring up at our white MI-8 helicopter as we gently hover down onto the landing zone is the British personal security detail that will accompany us and the security detail we brought along; no chances are taken here.  The grit of sand permeates the air as the rotary wings continue twirling in the air as we head toward our armored Toyotas.  Through the maze of stacked Hesco barriers, armed British soldiers, and reinforced steel beams that block the entry/exit, we take a left and head into the city.  Speed is a safety mechanism here and our drivers use it to our advantage.  Barreling through city streets we zig and zag along the road like a running back trying not to be tackled.  Here it is other vehicles, donkey carts, and pedestrians we are seeking to avoid.  Children roam the streets, a good sign indicating that the threat of Improvised Explosive Devices along our route is low.  One or two of the children give us the "thumbs up," but most stare silently just like all of the adults do.  The stare conveys neither hatred nor curiosity, mind you -- it is merely an acknowledgement of seeing something different.  The passenger with me, an Ambassador to a long-time American ally, says she's pleased to see the shops opened because just two years ago this same road was bleak and barren, exemplifying the lack of hope at that time.  Hope is here now, she says, as many shops line the streets.  This too is a good sign as it signifies that the Taliban doesn’t control this place, at least during the day.  One wonders if hope, of whatever measure here, is fading along with the coalition presence.  Will hope remain when the Americans and British leave?  Or will it be replaced by desperation and despotism?

A few miles down the road, we begin to see Afghan soldiers in various positions along the street.  Some stand in the open, weapons at the ready.  Others position themselves amongst the brown rubble of half existing buildings.  Many carry the AK47, the standard rifle for the Afghan Army.  A few carry Rocket Propelled Grenade launchers or RPGs.  This causes me to pause as I recall the number of times Afghan soldiers, or someone posing as one, have killed Americans.  Our armored SUVs will stop AK47 rounds, but an RPG will turn them into twisted hunks of metal and flesh.  I do not like RPGs; they make me very nervous.  Once I see one, I continually watch the guy carrying it until I can no longer see him.  Paranoia?  Maybe, but little of that can be good in Afghanistan where the enemy usually wears no uniform but occasionally wears the uniform of our supposed allies.  As the RPG guy disappears from the growing distance between us, we make another left onto a gravel street.

The road is pockmarked with holes and large rocks causing us to bounce up and down erratically.  The driver is forced to navigate around them as if on an obstacle course of some sort.  This severely decreases our speed and we're able to maintain eye contact with several of the onlookers.  Mostly we encounter the stare.  A few of the soldiers attempt a salute of sorts while some of the younger children wave.  The absence of women, however, is prominent.  Most women here are forced to remain in their home or compound, only going out for quick shopping trips or perhaps directly to another family member's compound.  They travel in burkas.  No woman is seen on the street without one. 

A quick right and we're just outside the Lashkar Gah prison, thought to be the best run Afghan prison.  The prison wall towers into the air, concertina and razor wire strewn across its precipice.  Heavily armed Afghan guards, watching our every move as they peer through the parapets, man the evenly spaced towers.  With the flags fluttering in the gentle breeze, the prison looks much like an English castle – a fitting look given the king-like role played by the general in charge. 

On stepping through the gate to the prison, I accomplished a first: I had never before entered a prison or jail armed.  I had expected to be required to hand my M9 pistol over to one of our Personal Security Detail members, but the Afghan guards neither asked nor checked for weapons – travelling with ambassadors has its perks I guess.  The General meets us at the gate and escorts us to his office.  Walking along open-air, white washed corridors we immediately notice the blue painted cell doors.  The blue on white motif presents an aura of efficiency, an appearance worthy of Afghanistan’s best prison.  Above the door of each communal cell is an identifying letter along with the title “cell block” both in English and Pashto.  Unlike the exterior of the prison and the town that lies beyond, there is no dirt or refuse here.  This prison appears to be a model of cleanliness.  Thus, its first impression was indeed striking.

The General’s office is rectangular in shape, approximately twelve feet wide and maybe 40 feet long.  Faux leather couches hug the walls, each with a wood and glass table in front.  The wall to the left has a flat screen television affixed to the wall near the ceiling.  At the right far wall is the General’s desk.  He beckons his British advisor to sit at the desk while he takes a simple office chair next to it.  Between the desk and where the General choose to sit, is the gaudiest clock I’ve ever seen.  It stands about four feet high and is composed of mostly glass and silver-polished aluminum.  The clock itself is stuck on 2:15, but the pink lights inside the support columns and at every number on the clock face work just fine.  More cheaply ornate artifacts sit on the desk – artificial flowers, windmills, and the like crafted from beads and adorned with lights.  They look like the sort of crafts sold in kits on late night cable television channels in the US.  I could almost hear Billy Mays telling me that these things are the best products on the market and are guaranteed fun for my kids and me for years to come (Act Now!  Operators are standing by!).  It turns out that the prisoners built these crafts as part of their rehabilitation program.

On leaving the General’s office for a brief tour of the prison, the Ambassadors decide to split into two groups with one going to the male side and the other touring the female side.  The Ambassador I am escorting elects to view the female side.  An Afghan Colonel escorts us through a gate and into a very large concrete courtyard.  It looks large enough for a basketball court with seating along the sides.  On the left is Cell Block A, which houses national security prisoners (read Taliban) while the building on the right is an infirmary.  At the other end we walk through yet another gate.  It is a chain link fence and gate and has green sniper screen attached.  Taking a right through the gate we walk along a narrow corridor bound on one side by the chain link fence and a white wall on the other.  Suddenly, we come to a gate with razor wire surrounding it along the sides and top.  The sign is in Pashto, but presumably indicates that we have arrived at the female side of the facility.  A few feet past the gate and we arrive at the gate to one of the female compounds.

The compound itself is square-shaped consisting of three walls and a chain link fence with sniper screen.  The entire compound is perhaps three times the size of the General’s office.  On stepping through the gate, the Colonel barks out orders.  A few women immediately approach him and kiss his hand in a most subservient manner.  The first thing that catches my eye is a small child.  I ask the female guard if I can take the child’s picture.  The guard agreed but the little girl obviously doesn’t like it because she begins crying as I squat down and lift up my camera.  I feel bad and immediately wish I had brought a bit of candy but I had no idea that the female prisoners would have their children here.

Standing up to recover from my bit of guilt, I survey the small compound.  Five beige aluminum CHUs or Container Housing Units line the walls, two along each side and one at the far end.  Beside the CHU closest to me on the right is a white CHU reconfigured to house bathrooms and showers.  Inside each of the others CHUs are two bunk beds along each end.  In the center of the room lies a red rug.  Blankets lie folded on each bottom bunk.  This is a simple, Spartan way of living.  The center of the “courtyard” formed by the placement of the CHUs contains playground equipment – a slide, swing, and teeter-totter.  This compound is not nearly as clean as the corridors and office I saw on entering the facility.  Flies are everywhere.  A blanket lying under the swing set is covered with them – it appears as if a hundred or more have found a place to land.  The lady sitting on the ground seems to neither notice nor care, even when they land on her face. 

The women gather on blankets in the far right corner of the “courtyard,” covering their faces with their Hijab, the traditional head covering worn by Muslim women.  I suddenly feel like an intruder.  Although this is a prison, it is also their home – with the simple act of covering their faces, these women teach me a lesson.  Everyone deserves a degree of privacy.  I have no real reason to be here. I am not inspecting their living conditions, only accompanying the ambassador.  I slide my camera into my pocket and listen to their responses to questions from the two ambassadors (who really are conducting an inspection of sorts). 

“I don’t know,” the women said through our interpreter, “someone died, I was accused and here I am.”  The cynic in me realizes that no prisoner is ever guilty, no matter the evidence.  But here, it is different.  I’ve learned that western notions of justice are not always compatible with the facts on the ground here.  The justice system may be functioning, but it is not entirely fair.  False accusations, made by the right people, can stick.  Some of the “crimes” here are not crimes in any sense of the word in the justice system with which I am accustomed.  To wit: another woman said her “crime” was running away from her abusive husband.  As I write these words, a story on the international news relates the tale of a woman in Afghanistan that just had her sentence reduced from 12 to three years.  Her crime?  She was raped.  I’m told that since the man was married, she was charged with adultery.  I’m not sure of this, but it wouldn’t surprise me.  What crime could she possibly have committed in relation to her rape?

More than three centuries ago, John Locke wrote of a social contract among the people that gave government certain powers in exchange for the protection of individual rights.  These individual rights he called natural rights, so called because they emanate from nature, from man merely existing; or, as I would argue, from God.  Among these rights are those of life, liberty, and property (sound familiar?).  Thus, rather than infringe upon these rights, it is government’s job to preserve these rights for its citizens.  As these rights are “natural,” they transcend government, state, and even culture.  Too bad there is not an Afghan equivalent to Mr. Locke – the lives of women here might be much different and their liberty more precious in the eyes of their government.

Saving Afghanistan?

“We must help them,” she said as she added a second spoonful of caramel to her ice cream.  “But we’ll do that tomorrow,” she said smiling, “because we have a party to go to tonight.”  “A party?,” he thought.  “Really?”  “Here?”  “Come on,” she said as she threw a tray still half filled with food into the trash, “I’ll bring this with me.  We can save Afghanistan beginning tomorrow.” 

Billy was new to Kabul, fresh from training and on his first assignment.  Indeed, it was the first time he had even left the United States.  He was off on adventure, he told himself – an adventure to help those less fortunate than himself.   Barely a week into his tour, however, and he was thoroughly confused.  He had worked with the poor in his hometown.  He dutifully collected winter coats during the Fall, served food at the town’s annual Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless, and even repaired old bicycles to donate to poor neighborhoods because “every kid deserved a bike.”

But nothing prepared him for what he saw in Kabul.  He knew Afghanistan was poor, but thought that Kabul, as a capital city would reflect a degree of wealth.   He thought about this poverty as he walked with his sponsor to the Duck and Cover, an aluminum building converted to a bar and, perhaps betraying the feeling of overall security within the compound, named after the concrete bunkers one is to use when attacked.  The first thing he had noticed on arrival in Kabul was the smell as he climbed into the armored SUV.  “Wow, what is that disgusting smell?” he asked his driver.  “It’s burning garbage,” he was told.  “Everything is burned here – tires, trash, whatever people can get their hands on – to stay warm in the winter.”  “That’s not very healthy,” he answered.  “Neither is dying from the cold,” his driver retorted, “We do what we have to in order to survive here.”  He suddenly felt ashamed again, just as he had during the drive.

He continued thinking of this as he sat in the Duck and Cover watching his fellow co-workers, seemingly oblivious to the war and poverty just outside the walls, have fun drinking. Someone brought pizzas from the newly opened Pizza Hut and he helped himself to a slice.  He briefly thought of the child he saw out in town picking through the trash for food and put down the second slice.  The shame he had felt remembering his conversation with the Afghan driver on his arrival returned.  He stepped outside, telling his sponsor he needed some air, but really he just wanted to get away.  As he stepped outside, he saw another man smoking.  “Had enough partying?, the guy asked.  “No, it’s not that,” he replied, “I just can’t do this after seeing the situation out there,” he said.  “Oh, you’re new. Look, I’m here to help the Afghans too, but there’s no reason we have to suffer,” the guy said with a slight grin.

The next day, Billy went to work resolved to spend his time helping Afghans rather than pretending he could do nothing and party his way through his tour.  For his first project, he latched onto something small, building a school and playground in a remote village near the Pakistani border.  He spent his days working things such as this; bringing a bit of comfort to the rural poor he believed, blissfully sleeping each night under the impression that he was indeed making a difference – even if he didn’t actually get outside the wire to see it.  After about six months, his job began to change.  Rather than simply facilitate the contracting process and work with local contractors, he was told he was needed in a watchdog role.  Apparently, Congress was up in arms over misspent American dollars.  Although he could not understand why they would think that since, from his work, he knew the money was building things like schools, courthouses, and playgrounds, he was excited to be able to see the fruits of his labor.  For his first trip he decided he would visit that village near the Pakistani border since his first project – the school and playground – had been completed two months earlier.

On arrival at the local Forwarding Operating Base or FOB, he immediately found his field counterpart.  “Hey,” he said, “I’m Billy and I’m here to check on the school that was built out here about two months ago.”  “You came out here for that,” the field rep said, “I could’ve saved you some time.  That village has no electricity, so that school is probably not being used.”  “Well, I need to check it anyway,” said Billy.  “Do you know what that requires?” the field guy asked.  “We have to clear it through the local commander, he clears it through the regional commander and once that is done, we get ten soldiers in three MRAP vehicles to drive us out there.  This area has an IED (improvised explosive device) problem; do we really need that risk?”

Billy was sorely disappointed on arriving at the remote village.  It was just as the field guy said.  The “school” was gutted.  There were no students, no teachers, not even electricity.  Several rooms were being used to house goats, others were stocked with various equipment.  The playground didn’t even look like a playground – just shells of what was once playing equipment.  He noticed a set of steps jutting up into the sky; apparently once attached to a slide.  “Why would they take the slide?” he wonder aloud.  “The Taliban took it to use for launching rockets at our base,” a soldier said matter-of-factly.  Depressed, but still undeterred, he returned to the base.     

The next morning, he awoke to an awful ruckus outside.  He tried to cover his head with a pillow to drown out the sound, but it was to no avail.  Groggily, he sat up in bed, wondering what the heck was going on.  Slowly, he made his way to the door and looked outside.  Two soldiers were laughing at two dogs fighting over some scrap of food.  As he watched the two dogs, it suddenly hit him.  While this country may seem relatively worthless to an outsider and not worth fighting over, the two dogs were a symbol of the Taliban; the fight may not be over much in the scheme of things, but when it is all there is, the fight really is for everything. 

He suddenly became angry with the soldiers.  There they were, probably just coming from breakfast with a full stomach, delighted at the likely “life-or-death” struggle occurring before them.  “You shouldn’t laugh at that,” Billy yelled at them.  “Why the hell not?” asked one.  “Don’t you understand,” he explained, “this is a symbol of what is happening here.  The Afghans here are simply trying to survive.  They have nothing and we have to help them.  They need to be saved from this war and poverty.  How can you be so callous?”       

“We’re not here to save Afghanistan,” the soldier said, “We’re here to save America.”

Beer and Law

Anyone who knows me knows I am a big fan of liquid hops, otherwise known as beer.  India pale ale, Belgian Saison, German Weissbier, or a Colorado microbrew, I love them all.  I’m a firm believer in the quote attributed to Benjamin Franklin that “beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”  Such is not the case in Afghanistan, however.

A recent report from the Institute for War and Peace Reporting, a human rights organization, indicates that alcohol consumption can result in draconian punishment in Afghanistan.  To little fanfare, or notice from the international community, Hamid Karzai signed a bill in June of this year authorizing corporal punishment for alcohol consumption.  In Nangarhar province (East Afghanistan, along the Pakistani border), this has resulted in punishments of up to 80 lashes.  The Chief prosecutor says that lashing offenders has results in fewer cases.  I have no doubt he is right; many of us have had those moments where we swore we’d never drink again, but I think I’d mean it after 80 lashes!

While the thought of state-sanctioned lashing as punishment may cause some to recoil, it doesn’t seem, on its face, to really be that big of a deal when considering rule of law in Afghanistan.  Or does it?  This issue is a perfect example of how and why rule of law is not easy.  It clearly demonstrates the dichotomy between western notions of law and the view of law within the Islamic community (at least in Afghanistan, I can’t speak for other places).

There is currently a legal conflict within Afghanistan between those who desire adherence to a particular interpretation of Sharia law and those who want a more western approach.  The government-appointed Head of Religious Affairs in Nangarhar (a former Taliban judge by the way) clearly establishes where he stands on the issue: “Westerners want to impose their democracy – which includes obscene acts, drinking alcohol and other immoral things – on Afghanistan,” he said. “These things are contrary to Islamic law. There are also individuals in the [administrative] system that grew up in the West and are loyal to it. They are not properly informed about Islamic laws.”

Fair enough one might think.  Afghanistan is free, or should be free, to choose its own method of governance and law.  However, this right is not unlimited.  It is at this point that many westerners will point to notions of natural law, which is premised on a philosophy of individualism.  These notions may or may not be reflected in Afghan cultural or religious foundations, so is it really fair to judge Afghan law by these western concepts?  Maybe.  Some of these notions have become customary international law and, thus, binding on all nations. 

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights specifically prohibits “cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment.”  Afghanistan is a signatory to this document and states, in its Constitution, that the document must be respected.  The Head of the Human Rights Commission for the eastern region of Afghanistan acknowledges this provision but says this Declaration “is just an international document on ethics, not a binding document.”  He continues by saying that the Declaration “allows national governments to envisage punishments for crimes in accordance with religious, national and cultural principles.”  He is correct in a sense; there is a provision that allows people, either individually or as a community, to manifest his or her religious beliefs in teaching, practice, worship, and observance.  Typically, however, one provision of a legal document cannot be read to obviate another provision.  In other words, the assumption is that both are meant to apply so the provisions must be read in such a way as to ensure they both do.  But should this be read as a cultural or religious exception? 

Some rule of law folks I run into here profess a desire to bring Afghanistan into the western legal mindset.  They latch onto situations like this and attempt to change the Afghan legal system.  They want to make it like the one they are most familiar with regardless of whether it fits within Afghan culture or Sharia law.  Is this the right approach?  I have certainly been taught in the western approach to law and see it as based in natural law and rights.  I view the building block of society as the individual, but other societies do not.  Which is right?  Can those that wish to recreate a western-style legal system here succeed?  Perhaps the words of a political expert and legal advisor for the Afghan Civil Society Association can answer this question: “The government incorporated Sharia into this [anti-alcohol] legislation so as to weaken this negative perception (of undue western influence),” he added. “The government cannot apply Sharia penalties for other offences because the foreign forces are still present here. The government doesn’t dare do so as long as they are here. They have a profound influence on our judicial system.”

So for all the effort of those attempting to build western-style rule of law here, what happens after we leave?  Are we being placated as long as we provide money for new courthouses, forensic evidence centers, law schools, etc.?  While ten years and billions of dollars seem like a lot of time and money, is it really enough to change culture and religion?  Perhaps I’ll contemplate these questions over a few pints when I get back to the US.

Ramp Ceremony

I am often struck by the thanks that I receive from many civilians when wearing my uniform in the States.  Although I admit to a bit of embarrassment, I am truly thankful that someone has taken the time to thank me, and through me all military members, for serving our country.  No matter the job being performed, it is a job needed for the accomplishment of the military mission and one that requires some level of sacrifice for all of us.  Like our families at home, most of us simply sacrifice time away from our loved ones.  It is tough, but if I’ve learned anything from 16 years of military service, things can always be worse.

As many of you know by now, we lost 13 people in a vehicle borne IED attack in Kabul this past week.  Those 13 people included military and civilian contractors and, at last report, American, British and Canadian citizens.  Everyone serving, military and civilian, make sacrifices, but some sacrifice more than others.  Some give all. 

When American military members are killed in action, a ramp ceremony is conducted to honor them before their final flight home.  It is, as you might imagine, a somber event – one that you desperately do not want to attend, but also one that you cannot help but want to attend.  The number of participants is always limited, so I was unable to attend the recent ceremony.  Many of you, fortunately, will never attend one but you should know what it feels like.  What follows are thoughts from my first ramp ceremony, penned in the immediately aftermath of my attendance.  The ceremony occurred in Kirkuk, Iraq in January of 2006.  The Soldiers were members of the famed 101^st Airborne Division out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky.  The words remain unchanged since I wrote them just after the ceremony:

            Like many other servicemembers that haven’t yet deployed to a combat zone, I eagerly anticipated my deployment.  I had volunteered numerous times only to be told that I was either needed at my home station or too junior to go at that time.  I bit my lip and waited my turn.  Finally, it came.  I knew that I would miss my family terribly, but had to contain my glee when discussing the deployment with them.  I was going to Iraq.  Like my father before me, I was finally going to a war zone.  I would play my part, however small, in the war on terrorism.

            Arriving at Kirkuk, I found a tight-knit family of Air Force personnel.  The absence of family and the day-to-day issues that arise at a home station meant that we could relax and enjoy each other’s company.  The AEF rotations prior to us had really set the place up nice.  We had a tent on the roof for socializing and on the second night in country, we lit up the fire pit and had a really good time.  We were living the good life, nearly oblivious to the fact that people just outside the wire wanted to kill us.

            But reality is never far away.  It started with an email.  Show time was 0200 so we met at 0130 to drive to the flight line.  As I walked to the assembly area, I remember thinking about the cold and wishing I had brought my parka liner.  I didn’t realize it then, but I would soon forget about the bitter cold.

            As I lined up with my fellow airmen, I looked over at the soldiers doing the same thing.  They moved with precision, masking the pain they must have felt.  As the formations began to take shape, the sky opened and the rain fell.  It was as if God himself was crying for our loss.  We were here to send four soldiers home on their final journey.

            Earlier, as I sat in my office wondering what the dining facility was serving for lunch, an Army patrol hit an IED.  Four young soldiers were killed.  As I stood in the rain that night, I wondered if I had met these soldiers.  Did I sit next to them in the dining facility?  Did I make small talk with one of them in the base exchange?  Was one of the dead the young kid that cheerfully shouted his unit’s motto as he rendered a crisp salute to me at the bus stop?  I was ashamed at how I had previously lamented the time I would be away from my family.  They gave all; I was only giving some time.

            Then I thought about my kids.  My wife.  My mother.  And I thought about their families.  Did they have children?  Were they married?  Who would tell their mothers or wives?  I looked at my watch.  It was 6:00 p.m. on the east coast.  Their families were probably sitting down to dinner, perhaps offering a prayer for their son’s safety as they said grace.  They were oblivious to the fact that their lives were forever changed by events more than 7000 miles away. 

            We formed up in four rows along the route the caskets would take to the awaiting C130.  I looked over and saw it sitting there, ramp down, ready for its sorrowful mission.  The Army was on one side, the Air Force on the other.  I looked at them.  Most of them young, too young it seemed.  They had just lost a friend.  Their faces carried a look of determination, only partially hiding the sorrow.  Despite their loss, they knew they had to continue the mission.  They knew they would soon go outside the wire again.

            “Detachment, Ten-Hut!” came the order.  Instantly, I was no longer cold.  I couldn’t feel anything.  My mind was blank.  I watched the ceremony unfold.  Slowly the ambulance brought the casket forward and the soldiers gently removed their fallen comrade.  With the chaplain and commander in the lead, the soldiers slowly carried their friend toward the plane.  “Present, Arms!”  I consciously rendered the most precise salute of my military career.  These fallen soldiers deserved more, but this final gesture of respect was all I had to give.  As I watched the casket move slowly by, I began to choke back tears and I was thankful that the rain was there to mask any tears that might fall.  I was overcome with emotion.  I knew where I was going when I deployed and I knew of the dangers and the casualties.  But the network news only captures the statistics, not the emotions.  Nothing prepares you for this.  All at once I felt sadness and anger.  Why did he have to die?  Why him?  Who did this?  They need to pay!  But I knew no one would pay.  The enemy here is faceless and cowardly.  “Order arms!”  As the casket was positioned into the plane, I again thought of this fallen soldiers’ family at home.  They constantly occupied my thoughts.

Soon, it came again.  “Present arms!”  Again, I rendered the most precise salute I could muster as the casket slowly passed by.  As I looked at the flag draped over it, my eyes rose to the faces of the soldiers carrying this burden.  I saw the tears in their eyes as their sorrow overcame their masks of determination.  Despite the pain, they pressed forward with their mission.  I remember a sickening feeling rising in my stomach as I thought that we still had two more to go.

As the third casket was moved before us, I again looked toward the soldiers across from our formation.  They would be going outside the wire again, I thought.  They would face danger again.  They would drive along the same street that claimed their friends.  As if to emphasize these thoughts, I heard the test firing of another patrol mounting up.  Even as their fallen comrades were being honored, they were setting out into the unknown again to face the same danger.

As the fourth casket made its way to the planes, the rain let up.  It seemed as if God had taken his cue from those soldiers and recovered to now focus on the task at hand, as we all had to do as well.  Mercifully, the procession ended with the fourth casket and we were left to continue with the mission. 

I had eagerly anticipated my deployment and perhaps romanticized it.  I walked into this deployment willingly, wanting to share the experience.  Painfully, reality reared its head.  Despite the creature comforts provided and the laughter heard in the dining facility, there is an undercurrent of fear and hope.  Fear that another could die.  Hope that it doesn’t happen again.  We’ll mourn together for a time and then, just as the rain always clears, we’ll recover and press on with the mission.  But right now our thoughts are only occupied by those four soldiers.  They surely deserve that.  Is there a lesson here?  I don’t know.  But I do know that four soldiers died today and nothing else seems to matter right now.

K.I.S.S.

One of the great things about America is that people can be who they are (well, for the most part – every society has their close-minded yahoos).  This struck me the other day as I sat in a briefing about a particular, large-scale program being run by the US over here.  When we Americans go to another country, we take pains to adapt our own actions to local culture.  Here for example, our women wear a hijab when dealing with locals, almost everyone uses the salaam alikum greeting, and we drink lots of tea.  We do these, and other, things to show respect for the local culture.  However, when foreign people come to our country, we also take pains (for the most part) to allow them to continue practicing their culture, although we typically don't join in.  This may emanate from some deep-seated American desire to be liked, but that is another story.  The bottom line is that, as a whole, Americans tend toward facilitating the practice of other cultures.  However, when it comes to Americans teaching or helping others, this practice seems to be cast aside and notions of "we know best" and "our way is better" come into play.  This is painfully obvious here when it comes to the implementation of rule of law.

At a recent conference on rule of law, a well-respected and knowledgeable woman stood before everyone and proclaimed, “I have done this type of work in more than a dozen countries and this is the largest and most complex operation I’ve ever seen.”  She then paused for effect, as if to emphasize the reverence the statement should hold – as if this is a good thing.  Like most folks devoting their time to building (no, we are not rebuilding) Afghanistan, I know she means well.  But is complexity beneficial here?

Less than half of Afghans are literate and this cannot be changed overnight.  Due to the reality of politics here, many illiterate Afghans hold positions of power.  This lack of education combines with an egocentrism that borders on xenophobia leading many Afghans to reject much of what Western civilization has to offer.  Additionally, the national income cannot support everything we are building.  Yet we build using a "large and complex" model?  This is the problem with our effort here.  We build organizations and institutions with a western, developed country mindset.  However, Afghanistan is neither western nor developed.  Afghanistan is aspiring to be a functional third world country and we're instituting practices designed for first world countries.  As I’ve said here before, we’re trying to give them a Cadillac when a Corolla will not only do, but it is what they want. 

This misguided methodology of bringing rule of law in the midst of war, leads to success being measured not by efficiency or effectiveness but solely on volume.  We measure the number of police officers trained, the number of judges trained, and the number of courthouses built with no real thought to the effectiveness of these institutions.  Are the police paid enough so that they will not extract bribes from citizens?  Have they bought into the notion of rule of law so that they will stand in the face of Taliban threats after we leave?  Are judges following law or Pashtun custom that may or may not conflict with law?  Are judges even working within their districts or are they simply collecting a check while residing in the relative safety of Kabul (this happens more than you might think)?  Do the fancy courthouses we build even have electricity?    

Our hubris doesn’t stop here, however.  In addition to seeking to supplant traditional modes of justice with formal, western-style ones, we are also attempting to restructure their governmental agencies.  This was explained via a PowerPoint slide that would make any PowerPoint Jedi proud.  It was composed of sweeping lines replicating lines of control connecting boxes representing various agencies.  Change the boxes to circles, add some color, and it might have looked like a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.  One wonders what Afghans think when they see this?  Would they support it in the absence of American dollars?  Will they do so when those dollars disappear?

Yes, complexity is the name of the game here.  Within international circles, complexity sells.  It has become the default answer.  Why?  In the aftermath of the Cold War, where notions of conventional warfare ruled, unconventional warfare has become the norm. This has led to much consternation in the power elite because their lack of familiarity with this style of warfare has led them to believe it is new (it is not).  Academics and pseudo-academics have sought to capitalize on this by inventing new terms, presenting Venn diagrams, and generally speaking in platitudes to such a degree that the power elite succumbs.  After all, this elite cannot admit ignorance can they?  This taps into an innate human frailty, a desire not to look stupid.  “Wow,” someone thinks when receiving this type of briefing, “this is very complicated, but everyone else seems to be getting it so I’ll go along.”  Never mind that everyone else is thinking the same thing.  Thus, we all move along in the same direction like lemmings, guided by those who seemingly know better. 

But why must it be complicated?  You probably wouldn’t realize this from looking at the Afghanistan operation, but counterinsurgency (not a big fan by the way) is actually rather simple.  It’s simplicity is captured in the “clear, hold, build” mantra set forth by its proponents.  First, you clear the area of insurgents.  Then, you establish a hold or defensive position to keep them out.  Once this is accomplished, you build.  Here, however, we are attempting to do all of these at once.  So, while we try to sell the rule of law to the locals, the Taliban pays them night visits.  Nothing demonstrates the failure of rule of law, like a Talib stopping by to remind you that he’ll still be here when the Americans leave.  Say what you must about the Taliban, they have a very simple and effective method of achieving their objective.      

The US effort here would benefit from an understanding of a principle known as Occam’s razor.  Okay, I know what you must be thinking: “wait a minute, this guy is telling us complexity is not a favored approach and now he’s pulling out some philosophical/scientific crap?”  Until about a year or so ago, I had never heard of this principle either.  I first heard it mentioned on a television sit-com and looked it up (how is that for simplistic?).  Occam’s razor, in essence, suggests that one should tend toward the simplest explanation.  Or in the words of Albert Einstein: “Everything should be kept as simple as possible, but no simpler.”  Who knew Einstein came up with the K.I.S.S. (keep it simple, stupid) rule?  If it’s good enough for him, couldn’t it work in Afghanistan?

Prison Life

The helicopter shook and shuddered under the strain of the two massive sets of blades spinning around above.  Earplugs only barely blocked the high-pitched whining of the motors – the smell of JP-4, a kerosene-gasoline mix, permeated the air.  As the gray bird lifted off the ground, rain water entered through the open portal-style windows, adding the smell of rain-soaked air to that of the fuel burning.  As the helo lifted over the end of the runway, it immediately banked to the starboard or right side, seemingly headed straight for the mountains that surround Kabul.

On that day, the mountains looked more imposing than normal; the rain created a mist that bubbled over the top like a sort of witch’s brew.  The mist, however, seemed to retreat in the face of the beating by the powerful rotors.  Below, the stench and dirt of Kabul recoiled in the face of the cleansing rain.  From my perch high above, Kabul had a vintage look to it, like a Hollywood recreation that doesn’t quite capture the authenticity that grime, decay, and the panoply of odors do.  As the pseudo quaintness of Kabul shrunk from view, the ubiquitous brown landscape of Afghanistan was all that could be seen as we headed north, out of the rain, to Parwan.

It sits on the edge of the largest military base in Afghanistan.  The sun reflects off strands of concertina wire and white roofs.  Fencing, with green sniper screen material affixed, creates a maze in and around the buildings that house some of the most virulently ethnocentric and violent fighters in the world.  We are landing at the Detention Facility in Parwan (DFIP or “Dee-fip”), arguably the most inspected and toured prison facility in the world.   Within these fences and walls are members of the insurgency, largely of the Pashtun tribe of Afghanistan and Pakistan. 

Within approximately two weeks of being captured on the battlefield, typically in Kandahar or Helmand provinces down south, suspected insurgents are brought here.  They are transported from a world resembling that of their grandfather’s grandfather, to an antiseptic, modern detention facility that is like nothing they could have imagined.  Soldiers state that at initial medical screening, most of the detainees are in a state of shock – everything is different, almost surreal – resulting in near complete compliance. 

On arrival, detainees are taken through the processing line.  As they step into the facility, the must first have their fingerprints registered and a photo taken.  The next station is a private room with a shower and toilet.  Here, they must disrobe and trade their clothes for color-coded (corresponding to the housing area in which they are assigned) hospital-style scrubs.  To prevent lice, their heads are shorn of hair (for cultural/religious reasons beards are not touched).  Next comes medical screening.  The medical facility here is like any you might find on a stateside military base.  Detainees are given a complete physical (probably their first), dental check up and even a psychological screening.  The medical staff is fully prepared to provide any medical service needed and provide any medication required. 

Housing assignment is based on the detainee’s potential for violence and history of compliance with facility rules.  If memory serves, every detainee is initially kept in solitary confinement for a period of time for health and safety reasons.  However, once this period is complete, they are eligible to go into the general population. 

As we gathered in the small room adjacent to the much larger room containing the cells, one of the guards handed out protective glasses.  Seeing the quizzical look on my face, she said “you’ll need these if one of them decides to throw you a present.”  Another guard explained that, occasionally, the detainees like to rebel and lash out in the only way they can – using their own feces and urine to construct a “turd-bomb.”  Given the bars, the projectiles launched often break apart into turd shrapnel small enough to get in your eyes.  I made a mental note to keep my mouth shut as well when facing them.  Normally, I’m all for an experience that will generate a good story, but I was happy that no one obliged in that respect – there was no turd launching that day. 

 The guard opened the door to one of the housing units and I saw that everything was painted beige, probably for the color’s potential to generate a calming affect.  To the left is the walkway, lined with a desk or two and Afghan Army guards.  The cells are to the right, four if I recall correctly.  The first, third, and last cells are filled with detainees; the second empty of people but littered with sleeping mats and assorted clothing.  As we walk in for what feels like a perp-walk to the far side of the building, many of the detainees are drawn to us and line the cell wall nearest us.  Most silently stare (or glare in some instances).  One repeats the same Pashto phrase over and over.  I do not understand.  “What is he saying,” I ask.  “He says ‘Shit, Go,” the interpreter translates.  Basically, the guy wants this American piece of shit to go away.  You have to admire the fact that his fervor has not dissipated even in his present circumstance.  I made eye contact and simply smiled.

As we walked through the back door, we saw the occupants of the second cell.  They were in “the yard” for their one-hour exercise period that every detainee receives (assuming compliance with the rules of course).  Again, as the detainees saw us, they gathered at the fence closest to us.  I asked if there was ever an issue with inmates fighting each other and was told that it was rare.  Efforts were made to keep persons of the same tribe together so as to not to open any old tribal wounds.  I nodded to the guy closest to me and he touched his hand to his chest in an Afghan gesture of respect and politeness; I returned the gesture. 

On leaving the general housing area, we went to the “shoe” or SHU (I don’t remember what it stands for – Solitary Housing Unit maybe?).  This is where the solitary cells are located.  Inside was an empty cell set up with the same materials provided to detainees.  I was permitted time to stand in the cell to get a feel for it.  Along the right wall was a thin, padded sleeping mat on top of which was placed a blanket, pillow, and Holy Quran.  In the center of the room was a prayer rug placed in front of a painted arrow indicating the direction of Mecca.  I was told that a call to prayer was broadcast throughout the facility five times per day so the detainees would know when it was time to pray.  In the far-left corner was the toilet.  The entire cell was approximately six feet by six feet with a plexiglass top, about twenty feet up, allowing guards to see inside.  The top, far right corner also contained a camera. 

The legal briefing we received indicated that, within 60 days of arrival, every detainee goes through a detainee review process to determine whether there is cause under international law to maintain his detention.  Each detainee is assigned a personal representative to assist him with the process.  These personal representatives are not attorneys, which seems problematic to me and is a primary objection by many human rights organizations.  The detainee is provided all unclassified information relevant to his detention, while his representative is permitted to view the classified material as well.  Argument is made before a detainee review board composed of three non-attorney officers, advised by an attorney.  If the evidence fails to support continued detention (happens in about four percent of cases), the detainee is released.  If the evidence supports continued detention, he is held.  A detainee review board is conducted for every detainee every six months. 

Lest one think the detainees are simply housed, the facility also provides agricultural and vocational training.  The theory is that if detainees are provided a skill set to permit a job that enhances the livelihood for themselves and their families, they are less likely to rejoin the insurgency when they are released.  The agricultural training is the most popular.  It is open to any and all detainees that abide by facility rules.  They are taught such things as the benefits of drip irrigation over the Afghan preferred method of flood irrigation and proper growing techniques that result in higher crop yield.  Detainees are allowed to eat some of what they grow and may even give some of it to family when they come to visit. 

Although I surely only saw a small part of the operations at the DFIP, I was left with the impression that it is a well-run facility.  I surely know that it isn’t perfect, but most likely better than most prison facilities.  I do worry, however, about sustainability.  Will the Afghan Army be able to maintain the same standards?  Will they be able to ensure some measure of respect for human rights given recent report from Afghan prisons by human rights organizations?  I, of course, do not know the answer to these questions, but there is a bizarre aspect of the facility that may (although I hope not) be an omen of things to come.  The electricity for the entire facility, I’m told, is 110V.  Afghanistan runs on 220V.  Its just another example of us not recognizing that what may be good for us may not be good for Afghanistan.