A Ray of Hope

Our footsteps echo down the long, cold hallway.  The beige walls hold no heat and the cold lingers as if the walls had never known warmth.  Windows interspaced along the hall reflect the gray sky.  Turning the corner, we come to a young man armed with an Ak-47.  He looks at us pensively, and then seeing a member of our party he recognizes, waives us through the metal detector – somewhat of a luxury in Afghan governmental buildings.  We walk down another long hallway, our footsteps creating an echo chamber from the absence of furnishings.   

Another guard opens a non-distinct, dark brown, wooden door and we step from the cold into the warmth of Maria Bashir’s office.  Just off center is a wood–burning stove providing a bit of heat in this cold, barren building.  Large, black, leather chairs adorned the side walls, glass tables in front with small trays of nuts and dried fruits – a testament to Afghan hospitality in spite of meager surroundings.  The warmth of the stove was, perhaps, symbolic of the warmth radiating from this brave woman.

Maria Bashir is the only female prosecutor in Afghanistan and she fights corruption and protects the rights of women in one of its largest cities.  However, her battle is a bit more difficult than that of other prosecutors; she fights not just injustice, but a misogynistic culture – one that almost demonizes the female.  By all accounts she is different, untouched by the corruption that is endemic in this country.   In a nation lacking truly admirable statesmen, it is a woman that stands out.  She is indeed fighting the good fight. That she continues her struggle in the face of continual threats and multiple attempts on her life is a testament to her courage.  If the men who purport to run this country had any sense, they would harness the righteousness and international acclaim that follows this woman.  That they do not is quite telling.              

I watched her as she met with my boss.  She seemed at war with herself.  Almost reflexively she continually pushed her hair back into her headscarf and readjusted its position.  I saw her do this numerous times at an earlier event and also during television interviews.  Perhaps it was her strong will causing her to instinctively chafe under a metaphorical yoke, as if the headscarf served as a symbol of all that stood in the way of equality and her desired accomplishments.  She spoke in an almost demure manner, not always maintaining eye contact and held a reserved posture.  However, when the topic came to her efforts to rid Herat of corruption, she changed.  Her voice lifted slightly, eye contact was constant and the firmness in her voice hinted at the rigidity of her convictions.  At that moment, there was no doubt who held control of the room; her presence filled it.

As I watched her I couldn’t help but think about her future.  What will happen to her when the international coalition leaves, when the money for her private security dries up?  She does not seem to be of the type to leave for she stayed even during the Taliban years and secretly educated women in her home.  Former mujahidin commander Ismail Khan controls Herat, the city in which she lives and works.  Given his power, one would think she operates at his pleasure, even now.  Afghanistan can only hope he will continue to support her efforts.  But, I wonder….   

Snow

Fresh snow, it seems, makes anything beautiful.  And so it is with Kabul.  The giant, silver dollar sized flakes fell down in greeting as I stepped from the back of a C-130 (out of Pope AFB, NC).  Returning from an R&R more than nine months in waiting, the flakes were a gentle reminder that it would not be nearly as long until I was in Colorado again.  Seventy more days, to be exact, and I would again leave this place for the splendor of the Rockies and, much more importantly, to the family I cherish.  Yes, the snow was a fitting welcome; a frozen smile designed to begin the last leg of a long deployment on a positive note.  Things will be good.

Nine and a half continuous months is a long sentence in a deployed location.  Despite the dynamic nature of the job and all the travel, it becomes monotonous.  One Forward Operating Base begins to look like any other, the food is bland everywhere, and you’ve exchanged all the stories you can with your comrades.  Nothing really changes until you go on R&R – 15 glorious days in a location of your choice.  Time enough to recharge the batteries.

On leaving Afghanistan for R&R, one must go through Bagram Air Base, an industrial hellhole that makes one want to get to wherever one is headed whether it is Kabul or Colorado.  For those transiting through Bagram, it seems as if a concerted effort was made to ensure the complete absence of comfort.  From the metal seats in the passenger terminal to the dirty, flimsy, spring-enhanced mattresses in the transient tents, Bagram is a place one wants to leave as quickly as possible by any means possible (one guy caught a convoy rather than wait for a flight the next day). 

When leaving Bagram for Kuwait, it is crucial to know the type of aircraft you’ll use.  A C-17 is quicker, but the seating is problematic.  Most of the seating is of the type used in commercial aircraft, but due to aircraft configuration, the seating is crammed together so that legroom is severely limited, especially for anyone near or over six feet tall.  There are also seats along each wall that have no seats in front, so they are obviously at a premium.  Aside from high-ranking individuals that sit at the front, seating is dependent upon when one enters the aircraft.  Passengers must enter the aircraft, proceed to the front and fill in every seat from front to rear.  However, the seats along the wall fill first, so it is imperative that you are among the first 20 or so to enter (and doing so on the side furthest from the drop-off point also helps).

A C-130, though, is different.  It takes roughly 30 percent longer to get to Kuwait, but the seating is better.  The seats are made similar to camping chairs but are benches instead.  Many folks hate these seats, but I have no issue with them.  There are four rows of seats running fore to aft, with the center rows facing outboard toward the other rows.  Passengers are supposed to enter from the rear of the aircraft and fill in seats from front to rear.  Thus, entering last dictates that you get an end seat (going first does as well, but the wall makes seating somewhat constricted).  Moreover, should seats run out for some reason, the last one or two passengers may be asked to sit up in the additional cockpit seats (happened to me twice).  Of course, if you see me waiting for the same plane that you are waiting for, ignore all of this!

For some reason unknown to me, flights in Kuwait land at the international airport rather than at the air base (probably something to do with money, I’m sure).  You must take a bus ride of approximately 1 ½ hours to get to the base.  Procedure requires that you enter the bus and proceed to the rear, filling in every available seat, keeping your gear in your lap.  Expect to hear me yelling at you if you fail to do this, it is a pet peeve of mine.  Bus rides aren’t that long folks, and filling from the front requires others to maneuver around you with all their gear.  It’s a pain in the ass solely attributable to your laziness.

Ali al Salem is actually a pretty nice set up, although its clearly temporary nature makes you want to get out quickly.  The folks that run the place have the system down pat.  You almost feel like you’re on an assembly line; of course, folks on the way out for R&R are much more compliant which probably lends to the efficiency of the process.  Like most folks, as soon as I finished my initial in-processing, I headed to the McDonalds they have there.  Although they were out of the Big Mac special sauce (isn’t really isn’t a Big Mac without that sauce, right?), the two cheeseburgers I ate were heavenly.  I ended up spending only about 18 hours there before boarding a plane for “the land of the big BX,” “the world,” or home sweet home.  I was positively giddy.

The long, mostly boring flight from Kuwait to Dallas, Texas is a small price to pay after more than nine months without seeing your family.  As the plane touched down, my only thought was getting an earlier flight home.  You could sense the excitement as more than 200 uniformed military members walked from the plane to the customs area.  As we entered the room, a long line of civilians spontaneously burst into applause for us.  We were stunned and a bit embarrassed, but it was quite gratifying.  However, that was not the only display of gratitude I witnessed that day.  Apparently, there is a group of folks in the Dallas area that meet every R&R plane that comes in.  They line the exit hallway from the customs area and applaud, high-five, and shake hands with all of us.  Being deployed puts you in your own little world; a part of you actually forgets the States a bit.  You just assume everyone is going on with their lives, oblivious to the fact that you’re out here.  But these folks understand and they took time out of their day to say thanks to us.  It is definitely appreciated.  If anyone that participates in that welcome home process is reading this, thank you from the bottom of my heart.  Thanks for making me feel good about being over here. 

I thought about that welcome again as I watched the snow gently falling from the sky.  It added to the warmth I actually felt at seeing the snow.  Yes, the snow gave me a sense of Colorado, a sense of home and family.  It won’t be long now . . . .