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.