Danger in Afghanistan, or at least the perception of it, is relative. When I left for Kunar province awhile back, a few folks expressed concern for my safety because Kunar is kinetic (i.e. some people there are trying to kill Americans). I didn’t feel in any danger, but a platoon from the Massachusetts Army National Guard certainly did as they were in a 16 hours firefight not far from where I was that night.
People who rarely leave the Embassy compound, or stay within Kabul when they do, are more inclined to over-think danger. They have nothing to compare it to, so it’s only natural. As an example: I sat next to a lady who spoke derisively of those that never “go outside the wire” (as if they really had a choice in the matter). Her venomous tone peaked my curiosity so I asked what she did. Apparently, she is embedded in one of the ministries of the Afghan government. “I work about two hundred yards from where an IED killed a couple of Americans,” she bragged. “When did that happen,” I asked. “Two years ago,” she answered. I thought briefly of setting her straight with a story of my drive to Parwan, the Customs Depot I went to with no military backup, or even the stroll in downtown Asadabad (where the Army commander said we showed the Taliban “who fuckin’ owns these streets”), but decided to let her have her sense of danger. After all, there are a great number of folks here that would rightly scoff at the suggestion that I’ve done anything dangerous.
That said, there is always a possibility of something happening so precautions are taken. This is particularly the case in Kabul where those making the rules have most likely never really been in a dangerous place. For example, when driving out in town, one must have an armed partner. I was asked to accompany a driver just the other day. Body armor and a weapon are mandatory, even though we use up-armored Toyota Landcruisers. I usually accept any opportunity to leave the embassy (because this place sucks), so I agreed. It was to be a short drive to a place just near the airport. I’ve made this drive many times and it’s usually uneventful. This was the case on the way to our destination, but the return trip provided some humor in an otherwise dreary drive.
As we exit the building to retrieve our vehicles, I notice that they’ve been washed. “Great,” I think, “just what we need a clean vehicle to set us apart from the locals – as if the giant, white Landcruiser isn’t sufficient to do that.” Unhooking my M-4 from the sling attached to my armor, I insert a magazine and chamber a round. I then align the rifle along the inside portion of the floorboard for easy access. I put my helmet on the center console before climbing in. This is necessary because getting in with the helmet on is a bit more cumbersome and often involves unique body contortions and a few expletives. Stepping on the running board and grabbing the handle just inside the top of the passenger window, I go in headfirst. Going in rear first, as most folks would, causes you to hit your head on the top of the doorframe because the armor doesn’t allow you to bend your neck all the way. Once inside, major adjustment is needed to center yourself on the seat and get your armor situated so that you can actually have a bit of freedom of movement. Only then do you put your helmet on. It has occurred to me that if I ever have to get out of this thing quickly, I’m simply going to open the door and fall out onto the ground.
The guy with me turns on our jammer (interferes with electronically controlled IEDs) and gets in using the same method. We then turn on our blue force tracker (GPS device that our operations center uses to track our movements) and we’re set to go. Once we leave the compound, you do have to maintain a sense of vigilance. IEDs aren’t really an issue in Kabul, but magnet bombs are a potential threat. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, it is common for people here to walk in and out of traffic. Magnetically affixing a bomb to the side of an SUV while walking by would be quite easy. Of course, there is also the fact that our route takes us right by the scene of a recent car-jacking (done AK-47 style, ‘cause that’s how they roll in Afghanistan) in which several folks were killed.
Now if you’ve ever seen a movie about Iraq that shows American military tooling down the road yelling at folks to get out of the way, throwing water bottled at cars to help them along, and generally being a’holes (Hurt Locker comes to mind), this isn’t Iraq. For one thing, crap like that pisses people off and makes them want to hurt you. I generally like to avoid creating such feeling in people I meet. Also, if the goal is to get the locals to support your efforts, crap like that seems a bit counter-productive, right?
We adhere to traffic flow and obey traffic laws (to the extent they exist here) in every respect but one. Police check points are ubiquitous here and, except for the international community, no one here uses armored SUVs except criminals. This means that the police at these checkpoints want to stop us and conduct an inspection as a big bust could lead to a promotion or the collection of a bribe. However, we have these fantastic things called diplomatic plates (or dip plates if you’re savvy to the lingo). We flash that plate (assuming they don’t recognize the fact that we’re American military from the uniform, armor, and weapons) and we sail right through (note to self: get dip plates for commuting to work in the States). Stopping isn’t an option. Constant movement decreases the chances that you’ll become a target of opportunity.
That being said, stopping due to the mass of traffic is sometimes unavoidable. Rolling down one of the main streets here, we approach Massoud circle and hang a right. We instantly come to a full stop as traffic is backed up like the connector in Atlanta during Freaknik (basically a parking lot for the uninitiated). As this was the area of the car-jacking, my partner and I began looking out for anything. Up ahead, a policeman was lifting a metal arm to allow a truck to enter a compound. The Afghan National Police in the Toyota Hilux guntruck in front of us were climbing out to investigate. The guy in the corolla beside us was fiddling with his radio. The fourteen or so people crammed into the minivan two lanes over were watching us intently, one of them unabashedly picking his nose. Three kids just ahead were trying to get money by cleaning windshields and a number of people were sitting along the road on both sides.
As we inched toward the three kids, one of them noticed us and came over. He immediately jumped on the running board, hooked his arm over the side view mirror and began spreading dirt from his filthy rag on our just cleaned windshield. He had a constant smile and asked for money in return for the obvious favor he just did for us. While he was doing this, one of his friends moved to the side of our vehicle hear the driver-side rear door. Now, no matter how cute and funny the kid was, we just don’t open our doors. Even a crack can allow something to be thrown in – bad news given the difficulty in getting out quickly. After making faces with him for a minute or so, we motioned for him to get off so we could catch up with the slow moving traffic. He refused to get off, so we slowly moved forward with him latched onto our vehicle. As he laughed, I thought about how kids are the same everywhere. I know my son would jump at the chance to hang on the side of my truck if I would let him – most boys are little adrenaline junkies, I think. After his brief ride, he took off in search of paying customers.
About this time, I noticed a guy in black pajama-looking clothes, with a small child hanging on his back moving toward us. He has an intent look on his face, his eyes focused on us rather than the general mayhem around us. Most folks generally ignore us, so this is different to me somehow. I watch him closely as he approaches, instinctively putting my hand on my weapon, as the look on his face doesn’t seem right somehow. He steps to the jersey barrier (small, triangular shaped concrete block), he swings the kids off his back and onto the barrier. He then pulls the kid’s pants down to show us the kid’s penis. Although I recognize what he’s doing, the rationale behind the act doesn’t register. Since we did nothing, he slung the boy back over his back and took off. After that, traffic cleared up and we headed back to the embassy.
I’ve often written of the surreal nature of things here because I just don’t think the danger is as prevalent for me as for some folks here. Besides, how does one prepare for getting flashed in downtown Kabul?
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