Closing Thoughts

**As I will redeploy soon, this will be my last post on this blog.  Thank you for reading.**

As I approach the end of a long year, I’ve become a bit introspective regarding my time here and self-absorbed in those thoughts.  What have I done here?  Have I made a difference?  What have I learned?  I am not unique in asking these questions.  We all ask them to ourselves, but I suspect we do have unique answers.  None completely right, none completely wrong, but simply a reflection of individual experiences.   We all endure a snapshot of Afghanistan as very few (perhaps none?) of us have access to all of the information that can build a complete and accurate picture.  Thus, the picture drawn becomes not an accurate representation of how things are in Afghanistan, but rather a picture of how one perceives things to be in Afghanistan.  There is truth there, but amongst the truth one also finds scraps of bias and individual experience that mold the picture as a whole.  As succinctly put by French novelist Gustave Flaubert, “there is no truth.  There is only perception.”  Of course, that is merely his perception of things but, I think, an accurate representation this place.

A recent article, by Lt Col Daniel L. Davis, provocatively titled “Truth, Lies, and Afghanistan,” purports to shine the light of truth on the darkness of lies and distortions of reality.  Davis thus seeks to apply an absolutist view to a relative situation.  Davis’ argument is grounded in moral absolutism in the sense that he proposes that his view of the truth here is the absolute truth, there can be no other.  He uses this as a springboard for accusing our military leadership of lying about the supposed success here.  Although perhaps cliché in some segments of society, honor and integrity have real meaning within military circles and they should not be attacked lightly.  Davis’ mistake is not in his perception of a lack of success here, for my own experience causes me to agree with him on this point, but rather than he has failed to consider that, here, truth is a relative concept having a subjective value dependent upon one’s perception and experience within this highly complex environment. 

To lie implies the conveyance of misleading information with knowledge that the information conveyed is indeed wrong.  I do not believe our leadership is doing this with respect to Afghanistan.  You should not, however, mistake this minimal defense for concurrence.  I believe leadership (both military and civilian) to be wrong in their characterization of the effort here and its ultimate results.  However, I do not believe them to be intentionally so.  American author Upton Sinclair is credited with saying that “It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on his not understanding it.”  This concept is applicable here in that it is difficult to perceive a situation objectively when one’s career or legacy dictates otherwise.  No military leader or politician wants to preside over a withdrawal of troops from conflict, particularly when the withdrawal is in the face of a failure to achieve goals.  Cutting one’s losses is an anathema, even when it does make strategic sense.  But why is this so?

Americans have confused warfare and war.  Warfare is the actual fighting.  It is, in current military vernacular, putting steel on target.  It is death and destruction and, when we want to be, we Americans are quite good at it.  In pure warfare, we use technology, discipline, and overwhelming firepower to impose our will on the enemy.  However, there is no such thing as pure warfare or fighting for fighting’s sake because warfare has a purpose.  This is what we call war – the political tool (much like diplomacy is a tool) for achieving a political objective when other tools are deemed insufficient.  The political will always influence warfare, especially in a democratic government.  The political is why malign actors in Afghanistan have Pakistan as a sanctuary; it is the reason why care, beyond that which is required under international law, is taken to avoid civilian casualties, and it is why we seem to tolerate the corruption within the Afghan government even as it makes success here that much harder to achieve. 

Our mistake is that once the fighting begins, we allow our concept of warfare to override the concept of war in some respects.  We forget that warfare is the tool to achieve not victory, but a political objective.  When that political objective changes (and it often does), we fail to understand that the warfare tool may no longer be sufficient for the job – that we must look to other tools or consider abandoning the project.  There is no shame in this.  It is a political calculation, as it should always be in war – a cost-benefit analysis.  Is the energy we expend, in light of the political objective, worth the expected benefit?  Here it is not.  This is so because we will have to either expend much more energy in the short term (i.e. full on offensive, killing a lot of people) or expend the same amount of energy we’ve been expending for a much longer period of time.  The simple fact is that we cannot afford the former politically nor the latter financially. Thus, the expected benefit must be overwhelming to overcome this.  That is simply not the case when it comes to Afghanistan, something empires and armies have realized about this place for centuries.  Davis touches on this misperception of the cost-benefit analysis and, I think, it is the crux of his frustration.  I see it too, but unlike Davis, I do not believe it to be sustained by lies.  It is perception.

Afghanistan is not a simple endeavor.  Only a fool believes that if we simply do “x” (insert favorite strategy/tactic here), we will achieve our goals.  There are simply too many things in play.  Obviously, there is the Taliban that seek to frustrate our goals through use of violence.  But even that observation is simplistic.  While the term “Taliban” is the phrase preferred by the talking heads in the media, there are many more players here, each with their own agenda.  In addition to the Taliban, there is the Haqqani Network, Hizb-i-Gulbiddin (HIG), Al Qaeda and associates, and many others.  Even the Taliban are divided into Afghan and Pakistani versions.  Some of these groups even have supporters within the Afghan government or have the support of foreign governments.    Add to this the dynamics of having former (and perhaps once again) warlords in prominent positions within the Afghan government and one gets a sense of how complicated just determining the players are here.

However, that isn’t all.  Consider the mosaic of tribes here as well.  A cursory glance at the tribal situation here reveals real and potential divides between Pashtuns, Tajiks, Hazaras, Uzbeks, and other, smaller tribes.  However, each of these tribes is subdivided into smaller units that may or may not have coinciding objectives vis-à-vis the Afghan government or coalition forces.  For example, the Pashtun Tribe is divided into four confederacies composed of approximately 350-400 sub-tribes and clans.  Some will fight for us, some for the Taliban, some for themselves.  Establishing the loyalties of these tribes, sub-tribes, and clans, however, is quite easy.  They are loyal to themselves.  The complexity results in determining when their goals align with ours and when those goals or alignments change.  The Davis article seems to ignore these, sometimes subtle, complexities.

Davis is not, however, completely wrong from my perspective.  His conclusion that the results (real, imagined, or expected) are not worth the effort is accurate from my own perspective.  While Davis toured with combat units, I toured with development folks working in the area of rule of law.  Thus, our views become complimentary in that counterinsurgency doctrine places great importance on the development of rule of law, as it is the glue that allows hard won combat victories to mature into sustainable civil society.  The issues of rule of law are every bit as complicated as the tribal and enemy dynamics described above.  However, some are of our own making.

Americans have a tendency to throw money at problems in the belief that money can fix everything.  Combine this with a myopic view of rule of law and the effort here becomes stagnant.  Afghanistan is a poverty-stricken country with little hope of matching the influx of coalition money in the near future.  Given the history of warfare here, Afghans are more likely to think in the short term than in the long term.  This dictates that Afghan powerbrokers will look to absorb as much money from the coalition as possible before the coalition leaves (having an end date certainly provides incentive for this conduct).  Thus, Afghan officials within the rule of law sector constantly ask for infrastructure and financial support for personnel.  This is accomplished with little thought to sustainability.  In other words, how will this infrastructure and personnel be paid for when the coalitions leaves?  This strategy, however, does lead to a perception of success since supporters can point to the number of courthouses built, judges hired, and bad guys prosecuted without any in-depth thought to the long term sustainability of the effort.  Unlike Davis, I do not see lies here – I see misperception.

Our approach to rule of law is also, generally speaking, too focused on criminal law.  This, I believe, stems from the fact that criminal law is viewed as “sexy” by lawyer and layman alike.  After all, Hollywood doesn’t make television shows about contract law, do they?  However, when one is trying to build a sustainable government, it is necessary to generate revenue to pay for that government’s operations.  Contract law fosters security of business contracts, which increases foreign investment.  Customs regulations assist in the generation of tax revenue.  Transportation law allows the efficient movement of people and cargo so that business can flourish.  Lawyers and judges trained to settle land disputes (a huge issue here) allow for resort to courts rather than to violence.  Sure criminal law is important, but not to the exclusion of civil law or the relegation of it to almost an afterthought. 

The complexities of the situation here, and our seeming inability to address them, lead me to a pessimistic (although I think realistic is a more accurate term, but that’s my perception) view of the sustainability of this effort.  Applying this to the questions I asked in the first paragraph regarding my contribution also results in a cynical outlook.  As I do not think this endeavor to be sustainable (indeed I see civil war on the horizon) I cannot say I’ve made a difference.  The men and women that reduced Al Qaeda to a shadow of its former self made the difference here, which, incidentally, was the original political objective of this war.  Conversely, I have learned a lot, although I’m not sure that what I learned was actually intended.  Unintended learning, though, is sometimes the best kind of learning.  For that knowledge, at least, I am thankful.  

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 . . . . 

Ghosts

Some say the ghosts of soldiers of empires past lurk among the mountains and plains of this desolate country.  These ghosts roam past battlefields, preserving their secrets within the “graveyard of empires.”  Of course, the graveyard epithet is a misnomer.  Empires did not die here; they simply became tired and resigned to the fact that the effort was not worth the reward.  This is what makes Afghanistan a dismal, hopeless place; it isn’t the terrain or the continuous war, it is the simple fact that, ultimately, all who come here realize it isn’t worth the trouble.  Thus, would-be saviors leave and only the whispers of ghosts remain.

But the ghosts of the mountain shadows are not the only ghosts that haunt this insufferable land.  To be sure, these ghosts hide from plain sight as well, but they skulk amongst the shadows of government, hidden by a labyrinthine system designed to bleed empires before they depart.  These ghosts suckle at the teat of the foreign money trough like a leech gorging on the blood, the life, of its host despite the fact that the leech needs the host to survive.  At some point, the host will be drained of its life-support and die; the leech will die too, but yet it continues as if it cannot help itself.  But these parasitic ghosts either do not care or do not realize their long-term mistake.  All that matters is satisfying their insatiable appetite, even at the expense of their countrymen and in the face of their country’s demise.

Ghosts permit an appearance of success while slowly strangling the life from it.  Ghosts make a PowerPoint slide look fantastic; they provide coalition leaders with positive sound bites, and generally make the KoolAid go down smoother.  However, ghosts merely perpetuate a façade.  Ghosts represent the pretender that occupies the throne of COIN success in Afghanistan.  They silently send a message to the coalition that it is being fooled, that the powerbrokers in Afghanistan will smile and make promises as they take coalition money, only to pad an individual empire in expectation of the inevitable withdrawal of foreigners.  It is as it has always been in Afghanistan.  Foreigners come and go, leaving money and blood in their wake.  The savvy Afghan uses the summer of plenty to build a nest for the winter that will surely come.

So how does the system work?  The Afghan government works from a document called a Tashkil.  The tashkil is a document that outlines the number of personnel and equipment a particular office is assigned.  Every year, the various Ministries go through a process whereby manning and equipment needs are determined in accordance with budgetary concerns.  For example, the Ministry of Interior (which handles police forces among other things) might be allotted 10,000 positions based on its budget.  The tashkil process seeks to apportion those positions according to need.  Equipment is assigned in similar fashion.  Routinely, a budget may be increased by coalition government contributions in an effort to satisfy a need that aligns with coalition strategy.  In such cases, one of these coalition partners, the US Government for example, will agree to fund a certain number of new positions if those positions are allotted to a particular unit or office.  Here is where ghosts sometimes come into being.

Assume that an additional 100 positions, to be spread throughout the provinces, will be funded in this manner.  A tashkil is built; positions are assigned, and then filled with particular individuals, although not all positions are filled.  Rather than fill 100, only 80 might be filled with the difference in money going to some Afghan official(s) in Kabul.  By engaging in a shell game of sorts and moving folks around as needed, it can appear that all 100 positions are filled when in fact, 20 of them are ghosts.  Those in power pocket the monthly salary of these ghosts.

Another way this works is that an individual is actually assigned to a position, but he never shows up for work.  This happens quite a bit in kinetic provinces as the individual has valid safety concerns.  If an individual is appointed as a judge or Huquq Director in a province like Paktika or Helmand, he dutifully attends his training and collects his monthly check, but he never shows up for work – or, he leaves the province shortly after making an appearance, perhaps making intermittent appearances as needed to maintain his cover.  He becomes a ghost.  Most of the time, these guys are still living in Kabul.  On the surface it can seem like this sort of ghost has no support from the Kabul government, as if he’s cheating them as well.  However, sometimes an individual who doesn’t even speak Pashtu is appointed to an area wherein Pashto is the predominant, if not only, language spoken by the average Afghan and never shows up for work.  Is this an oversight by the Kabul elite or planned?  You decide.

It works the same way with equipment.  As I type this, I know of a place that currently stores a number of armored SUVs that were turned over to the Afghan government.  They have been sitting there for nearly four months, unused.  Yet, there are agencies within the Afghan government that are constantly requesting such vehicles from us, and getting them.  These unused SUVs are ghost vehicles.  What is their purpose?  Are they being held for someone’s own use rather than for governmental use?  Is some official simply trying to accumulate as many as possible realizing that the tortuous coordination process among coalition members (and even within individual coalition governments) means he’ll likely get away with it?

Why does this happen?  It happens because ghosts can get away with it.  It happens because politicians, the supposed stewards of American taxpayer money cannot possibly learn about such things when their tour in this warzone consists of a two-week trip through the Kabul social circuit.  Recognizing the negative influence of ghosts requires spending some time on the ground with the folks that toil in that environment daily.  It requires critical thinking about our desired end state and the strategy that needs to be employed to get there.  It requires powerbrokers to care more about doing what is right than what is expeditious or will sell on the evening news.  Sadly, too many are more inclined to think about the next election or promotion board.  Are they ghosts too?  

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.

Saving Afghanistan?

“We must help them,” she said as she added a second spoonful of caramel to her ice cream.  “But we’ll do that tomorrow,” she said smiling, “because we have a party to go to tonight.”  “A party?,” he thought.  “Really?”  “Here?”  “Come on,” she said as she threw a tray still half filled with food into the trash, “I’ll bring this with me.  We can save Afghanistan beginning tomorrow.” 

Billy was new to Kabul, fresh from training and on his first assignment.  Indeed, it was the first time he had even left the United States.  He was off on adventure, he told himself – an adventure to help those less fortunate than himself.   Barely a week into his tour, however, and he was thoroughly confused.  He had worked with the poor in his hometown.  He dutifully collected winter coats during the Fall, served food at the town’s annual Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless, and even repaired old bicycles to donate to poor neighborhoods because “every kid deserved a bike.”

But nothing prepared him for what he saw in Kabul.  He knew Afghanistan was poor, but thought that Kabul, as a capital city would reflect a degree of wealth.   He thought about this poverty as he walked with his sponsor to the Duck and Cover, an aluminum building converted to a bar and, perhaps betraying the feeling of overall security within the compound, named after the concrete bunkers one is to use when attacked.  The first thing he had noticed on arrival in Kabul was the smell as he climbed into the armored SUV.  “Wow, what is that disgusting smell?” he asked his driver.  “It’s burning garbage,” he was told.  “Everything is burned here – tires, trash, whatever people can get their hands on – to stay warm in the winter.”  “That’s not very healthy,” he answered.  “Neither is dying from the cold,” his driver retorted, “We do what we have to in order to survive here.”  He suddenly felt ashamed again, just as he had during the drive.

He continued thinking of this as he sat in the Duck and Cover watching his fellow co-workers, seemingly oblivious to the war and poverty just outside the walls, have fun drinking. Someone brought pizzas from the newly opened Pizza Hut and he helped himself to a slice.  He briefly thought of the child he saw out in town picking through the trash for food and put down the second slice.  The shame he had felt remembering his conversation with the Afghan driver on his arrival returned.  He stepped outside, telling his sponsor he needed some air, but really he just wanted to get away.  As he stepped outside, he saw another man smoking.  “Had enough partying?, the guy asked.  “No, it’s not that,” he replied, “I just can’t do this after seeing the situation out there,” he said.  “Oh, you’re new. Look, I’m here to help the Afghans too, but there’s no reason we have to suffer,” the guy said with a slight grin.

The next day, Billy went to work resolved to spend his time helping Afghans rather than pretending he could do nothing and party his way through his tour.  For his first project, he latched onto something small, building a school and playground in a remote village near the Pakistani border.  He spent his days working things such as this; bringing a bit of comfort to the rural poor he believed, blissfully sleeping each night under the impression that he was indeed making a difference – even if he didn’t actually get outside the wire to see it.  After about six months, his job began to change.  Rather than simply facilitate the contracting process and work with local contractors, he was told he was needed in a watchdog role.  Apparently, Congress was up in arms over misspent American dollars.  Although he could not understand why they would think that since, from his work, he knew the money was building things like schools, courthouses, and playgrounds, he was excited to be able to see the fruits of his labor.  For his first trip he decided he would visit that village near the Pakistani border since his first project – the school and playground – had been completed two months earlier.

On arrival at the local Forwarding Operating Base or FOB, he immediately found his field counterpart.  “Hey,” he said, “I’m Billy and I’m here to check on the school that was built out here about two months ago.”  “You came out here for that,” the field rep said, “I could’ve saved you some time.  That village has no electricity, so that school is probably not being used.”  “Well, I need to check it anyway,” said Billy.  “Do you know what that requires?” the field guy asked.  “We have to clear it through the local commander, he clears it through the regional commander and once that is done, we get ten soldiers in three MRAP vehicles to drive us out there.  This area has an IED (improvised explosive device) problem; do we really need that risk?”

Billy was sorely disappointed on arriving at the remote village.  It was just as the field guy said.  The “school” was gutted.  There were no students, no teachers, not even electricity.  Several rooms were being used to house goats, others were stocked with various equipment.  The playground didn’t even look like a playground – just shells of what was once playing equipment.  He noticed a set of steps jutting up into the sky; apparently once attached to a slide.  “Why would they take the slide?” he wonder aloud.  “The Taliban took it to use for launching rockets at our base,” a soldier said matter-of-factly.  Depressed, but still undeterred, he returned to the base.     

The next morning, he awoke to an awful ruckus outside.  He tried to cover his head with a pillow to drown out the sound, but it was to no avail.  Groggily, he sat up in bed, wondering what the heck was going on.  Slowly, he made his way to the door and looked outside.  Two soldiers were laughing at two dogs fighting over some scrap of food.  As he watched the two dogs, it suddenly hit him.  While this country may seem relatively worthless to an outsider and not worth fighting over, the two dogs were a symbol of the Taliban; the fight may not be over much in the scheme of things, but when it is all there is, the fight really is for everything. 

He suddenly became angry with the soldiers.  There they were, probably just coming from breakfast with a full stomach, delighted at the likely “life-or-death” struggle occurring before them.  “You shouldn’t laugh at that,” Billy yelled at them.  “Why the hell not?” asked one.  “Don’t you understand,” he explained, “this is a symbol of what is happening here.  The Afghans here are simply trying to survive.  They have nothing and we have to help them.  They need to be saved from this war and poverty.  How can you be so callous?”       

“We’re not here to save Afghanistan,” the soldier said, “We’re here to save America.”

Beer and Law

Anyone who knows me knows I am a big fan of liquid hops, otherwise known as beer.  India pale ale, Belgian Saison, German Weissbier, or a Colorado microbrew, I love them all.  I’m a firm believer in the quote attributed to Benjamin Franklin that “beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”  Such is not the case in Afghanistan, however.

A recent report from the Institute for War and Peace Reporting, a human rights organization, indicates that alcohol consumption can result in draconian punishment in Afghanistan.  To little fanfare, or notice from the international community, Hamid Karzai signed a bill in June of this year authorizing corporal punishment for alcohol consumption.  In Nangarhar province (East Afghanistan, along the Pakistani border), this has resulted in punishments of up to 80 lashes.  The Chief prosecutor says that lashing offenders has results in fewer cases.  I have no doubt he is right; many of us have had those moments where we swore we’d never drink again, but I think I’d mean it after 80 lashes!

While the thought of state-sanctioned lashing as punishment may cause some to recoil, it doesn’t seem, on its face, to really be that big of a deal when considering rule of law in Afghanistan.  Or does it?  This issue is a perfect example of how and why rule of law is not easy.  It clearly demonstrates the dichotomy between western notions of law and the view of law within the Islamic community (at least in Afghanistan, I can’t speak for other places).

There is currently a legal conflict within Afghanistan between those who desire adherence to a particular interpretation of Sharia law and those who want a more western approach.  The government-appointed Head of Religious Affairs in Nangarhar (a former Taliban judge by the way) clearly establishes where he stands on the issue: “Westerners want to impose their democracy – which includes obscene acts, drinking alcohol and other immoral things – on Afghanistan,” he said. “These things are contrary to Islamic law. There are also individuals in the [administrative] system that grew up in the West and are loyal to it. They are not properly informed about Islamic laws.”

Fair enough one might think.  Afghanistan is free, or should be free, to choose its own method of governance and law.  However, this right is not unlimited.  It is at this point that many westerners will point to notions of natural law, which is premised on a philosophy of individualism.  These notions may or may not be reflected in Afghan cultural or religious foundations, so is it really fair to judge Afghan law by these western concepts?  Maybe.  Some of these notions have become customary international law and, thus, binding on all nations. 

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights specifically prohibits “cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment.”  Afghanistan is a signatory to this document and states, in its Constitution, that the document must be respected.  The Head of the Human Rights Commission for the eastern region of Afghanistan acknowledges this provision but says this Declaration “is just an international document on ethics, not a binding document.”  He continues by saying that the Declaration “allows national governments to envisage punishments for crimes in accordance with religious, national and cultural principles.”  He is correct in a sense; there is a provision that allows people, either individually or as a community, to manifest his or her religious beliefs in teaching, practice, worship, and observance.  Typically, however, one provision of a legal document cannot be read to obviate another provision.  In other words, the assumption is that both are meant to apply so the provisions must be read in such a way as to ensure they both do.  But should this be read as a cultural or religious exception? 

Some rule of law folks I run into here profess a desire to bring Afghanistan into the western legal mindset.  They latch onto situations like this and attempt to change the Afghan legal system.  They want to make it like the one they are most familiar with regardless of whether it fits within Afghan culture or Sharia law.  Is this the right approach?  I have certainly been taught in the western approach to law and see it as based in natural law and rights.  I view the building block of society as the individual, but other societies do not.  Which is right?  Can those that wish to recreate a western-style legal system here succeed?  Perhaps the words of a political expert and legal advisor for the Afghan Civil Society Association can answer this question: “The government incorporated Sharia into this [anti-alcohol] legislation so as to weaken this negative perception (of undue western influence),” he added. “The government cannot apply Sharia penalties for other offences because the foreign forces are still present here. The government doesn’t dare do so as long as they are here. They have a profound influence on our judicial system.”

So for all the effort of those attempting to build western-style rule of law here, what happens after we leave?  Are we being placated as long as we provide money for new courthouses, forensic evidence centers, law schools, etc.?  While ten years and billions of dollars seem like a lot of time and money, is it really enough to change culture and religion?  Perhaps I’ll contemplate these questions over a few pints when I get back to the US.