Her eyes were among the most beautiful I’d ever seen. They were a deep, penetrating blue, the color of a crystal clear sky on a summer day – pure and innocent – a beauty exacerbated by the innocence in her face. Her left eye was playing peek-a-boo behind a strand of auburn hair that had escaped her headscarf. In contrast, her dress was plain; nothing remotely remarkable about it, as if it knew it had little chance of competing with the eyes for attention. The dress fell about her ankles, gently swaying with the summer breeze. She had no shoes – only dust covering her feet. She was staring at me, her bottom lip slightly pursed into a pout, her left hand griping a homemade bracelet. “Please mister,” she begged, “Buy something from me.” I knew better than to buy something because a single purchase would cause every kid within eye-shot to come out of the woodwork, surrounding me like a school of sharks in the hopes I would dispense more American cash. She was extremely persistent and was, I think, quite accustomed to getting what she wants from the males with whom she came into contact. A sweet voice, auburn hair, and a pouty face were powerful weapons at her disposal, but it was the eyes that got me. That, and she appeared to be the same age as my little girl.
I haven’t seen this little girl since that day, but I think of her on occasion – mostly when I become involved in discussions of whether American involvement here should continue. It is at these moments that realism clashes with moral reality. It is one thing to sit in my living room in America and contemplate the fate of a country dependent upon the graces of American foreign policy. It is quite another to stare into the eyes of a beautiful little girl and realize the inevitable results of placing her country on the back burner of American foreign policy. The fickleness of the American attention span will inevitably determine her fate although little thought is often given to such issues when the topic of withdrawal enters into discussions 8000 miles away. The clue, however, as to her future in the event of American withdrawal from Afghanistan is right there on the same street that I first saw her, if one cares to look.
The street runs from the Kabul International Airport in the north through Massoud Circle, past the American Embassy to another roundabout just in front of the Presidential Palace. Massoud Circle is named for Ahmad Shah Massoud, a hero of modern day Afghanistan known as “the Lion of Panjshir” (his province) for his role in driving out Soviet invaders. He was the charismatic leader of the northern alliance, the ally of the Americans in the opening days of this war. Having fought the
Taliban tenaciously for nearly five years before Afghanistan once again caught American attention, he made them pay dearly for every inch of ground as he fought a delaying action to cover his troops’ movement to the safety of the mountainous north, hoping someone would come to their aid. Massoud was never to see this aid because he was killed just two days prior to 9/11 in an elaborate Al Qaeda plot ordered by Osama bin Laden, who was smart enough to recognize the military brilliance Massoud could offer the Americans. Photographs of him are ubiquitous here, a political statement to what might have been.
South of Massoud Circle, the street upon which the little girl plied her trinkets is a fortress. From the Circle, past the American Embassy, to the point at which Afghan governmental ministries begin is a maze of armed men, bomb-sniffing dogs, concrete barriers (called Jersey or Texas barriers according to their size), mountain-size speed bumps, and armored vehicles. Moving by vehicle from the Embassy to where the Afghan ministries begin is impossible to do quickly as one must stop repeatedly for identification checks and to let the dogs sniff around. Only after this has been accomplished will each station raise the long red and white painted steel arm that crosses the road to let you pass. On the opposite side of the Afghan ministries, there are similar security measures. These outposts of security form a set of dragon’s teeth protecting valuable institutions of Afghan and American government. They also serve as an illustration of the past as prologue for this beautiful little girl.
The latent hostility and potential for armed aggression that is represented by this security matrix demonstrates the history of war this country has faced since long before this little girl was even born. To be sure, she knows of it; she lives it daily. She enters this surreal world of violence in stasis every day. As she looks north, past the American portion of the security matrix, to the American portion of the street near the Embassy, she notices that it is cleaner, more orderly than where she spends her days. She likely watches as American civilians in clothes that cost more than the average Afghan makes in a year cross the street from one compound to another. Perhaps she’s been told that within those compounds are things she cannot yet have, but are within her grasp as long as the Americans and their allies stay: potable water, three meals a day, 24 hour electricity, an education, a viable future. But if she could see past the American embassy from her side of the street, she’d see Kabul as it really is. Crumbling buildings surrounded by trash, a mostly uneducated population easily manipulated by the Afghan power structure that appears only to be in it for themselves. Yes, the very existence of these security measures demonstrates Afghanistan’s future once the Americans leave. The little girl will move from war, through hope, to despair. It’s as inevitable as the beauty in her eyes.
Along the wall that parallels the little girl’s daily domain are men. They squat down, leaning against the wall, watching everything. They seem to have no purpose, but I instinctively know they are unarmed because they have been permitted entry to this area. I, however, am armed as I walk down the street with the little girl in tow, her legs moving at light speed, desperately trying to keep up with me in the hopes that I’ll change my mind and buy something. The Afghan soldiers interspersed along the street barely take notice of us, but the men are fixated on us. But it is not me they are watching; they watch the little girl like predatory animals contemplating the kill. One of them is her handler, a father, brother, or perhaps a cousin. They are watching to see if she makes a sale because it is one of them who will benefit. Once a purchase is made and the purchaser is out of sight, the little girl will immediately turn over the money to her handler. The whole transaction has a sickening similarity to prostitution. The girl will do all the work, but reap very little of the benefit. Maybe she’ll get something out of it, but as sure as I’m walking down the street, I know one of those men will extract the most benefit from any purchase I make.
But the manipulation of this little girl will not stop there. At some point after the Americans leave, the security situation will deteriorate to a point that permits an opening for the Taliban and their ilk. Once this foothold gains, it will then only be a matter of time before they take over again, for it is within the Afghan culture to await the winning side before deciding with whom to throw in your lot. This is why the effort here is so difficult today. But this little girl will not see these political developments; she will only see the world through the prison that is called the burka. She will likely be forced to deprive the world of the benefit of seeing her beautiful eyes as an ugly blue screen that permits the girl to see only a sliver of the world at a time covers them. She will see the hope offered by international presence slowly choked to death by the misogyny that accompanies the local fundamentalist interpretation of religion.
This is the reality of realism in Afghanistan. In a nutshell, realism calls for nation-states to make calculated decisions based solely on their own security interests. Today, it is argued, America faces such a choice. It is contended that the death of bin Laden demonstrates that the security threat no longer emanates from Al Qaeda in Afghanistan but from the mounting debt in America that is exacerbated by the billions spent here. It is one thing to spend billions in a successful effort, it is quite another to throw away billions in pursuit of the unattainable. More and more Americans, polls show, now believe we cannot build Afghanistan into a functioning democracy. From my vantage point, there is some truth to this line of reasoning.
From a realist perspective, this is a valid argument. America cannot continue to pour money into a mission with little chance of success, particularly if, as is argued, the threat to America is no longer present. Realism, however, does not account for morality. It does not ask what the moral responsibility is because within realism, the highest form of morality is preservation of the State and its power. Now, this is a perfectly acceptable method of viewing international relations (indeed I believe that most States subscribe to some form of this model), but not factoring morality into the question doesn’t mean we can simply ignore it. Sure, we can choose to abandon Afghanistan because it makes sense for the health, security, and continued viability of our own country, but we cannot fool ourselves into thinking that no one will be hurt by this. We cannot wish away the reality of the consequences of our choices. It may be that leaving is indeed the right choice and the point of this piece is not to advocate a particular position. I just ask that before you make an informed choice what the proper course of action in Afghanistan should be, you consider what that choice means. I have.
I think next time, despite her handler, I’ll buy something from that little girl for the sheer possibility that she will derive some brief benefit from my purchase for I know, more than she, that her future doesn’t look bright.
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