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.