Cruisin' Kabul

Danger in Afghanistan, or at least the perception of it, is relative.  When I left for Kunar province awhile back, a few folks expressed concern for my safety because Kunar is kinetic (i.e. some people there are trying to kill Americans).  I didn’t feel in any danger, but a platoon from the Massachusetts Army National Guard certainly did as they were in a 16 hours firefight not far from where I was that night. 

People who rarely leave the Embassy compound, or stay within Kabul when they do, are more inclined to over-think danger.  They have nothing to compare it to, so it’s only natural.  As an example: I sat next to a lady who spoke derisively of those that never “go outside the wire” (as if they really had a choice in the matter).  Her venomous tone peaked my curiosity so I asked what she did.  Apparently, she is embedded in one of the ministries of the Afghan government.  “I work about two hundred yards from where an IED killed a couple of Americans,” she bragged.  “When did that happen,” I asked.  “Two years ago,” she answered.  I thought briefly of setting her straight with a story of my drive to Parwan, the Customs Depot I went to with no military backup, or even the stroll in downtown Asadabad (where the Army commander said we showed the Taliban “who fuckin’ owns these streets”), but decided to let her have her sense of danger.  After all, there are a great number of folks here that would rightly scoff at the suggestion that I’ve done anything dangerous.

That said, there is always a possibility of something happening so precautions are taken.  This is particularly the case in Kabul where those making the rules have most likely never really been in a dangerous place.  For example, when driving out in town, one must have an armed partner.  I was asked to accompany a driver just the other day.  Body armor and a weapon are mandatory, even though we use up-armored Toyota Landcruisers.   I usually accept any opportunity to leave the embassy (because this place sucks), so I agreed.  It was to be a short drive to a place just near the airport.  I’ve made this drive many times and it’s usually uneventful.  This was the case on the way to our destination, but the return trip provided some humor in an otherwise dreary drive.

As we exit the building to retrieve our vehicles, I notice that they’ve been washed.  “Great,” I think, “just what we need a clean vehicle to set us apart from the locals – as if the giant, white Landcruiser isn’t sufficient to do that.”  Unhooking my M-4 from the sling attached to my armor, I insert a magazine and chamber a round.  I then align the rifle along the inside portion of the floorboard for easy access.  I put my helmet on the center console before climbing in.  This is necessary because getting in with the helmet on is a bit more cumbersome and often involves unique body contortions and a few expletives.  Stepping on the running board and grabbing the handle just inside the top of the passenger window, I go in headfirst.  Going in rear first, as most folks would, causes you to hit your head on the top of the doorframe because the armor doesn’t allow you to bend your neck all the way.  Once inside, major adjustment is needed to center yourself on the seat and get your armor situated so that you can actually have a bit of freedom of movement.  Only then do you put your helmet on.  It has occurred to me that if I ever have to get out of this thing quickly, I’m simply going to open the door and fall out onto the ground.

The guy with me turns on our jammer (interferes with electronically controlled IEDs) and gets in using the same method.  We then turn on our blue force tracker (GPS device that our operations center uses to track our movements) and we’re set to go.  Once we leave the compound, you do have to maintain a sense of vigilance.  IEDs aren’t really an issue in Kabul, but magnet bombs are a potential threat.  As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, it is common for people here to walk in and out of traffic.  Magnetically affixing a bomb to the side of an SUV while walking by would be quite easy.  Of course, there is also the fact that our route takes us right by the scene of a recent car-jacking (done AK-47 style, ‘cause that’s how they roll in Afghanistan) in which several folks were killed. 

Now if you’ve ever seen a movie about Iraq that shows American military tooling down the road yelling at folks to get out of the way, throwing water bottled at cars to help them along, and generally being a’holes (Hurt Locker comes to mind), this isn’t Iraq.  For one thing, crap like that pisses people off and makes them want to hurt you.  I generally like to avoid creating such feeling in people I meet.  Also, if the goal is to get the locals to support your efforts, crap like that seems a bit counter-productive, right? 

We adhere to traffic flow and obey traffic laws (to the extent they exist here) in every respect but one.  Police check points are ubiquitous here and, except for the international community, no one here uses armored SUVs except criminals.  This means that the police at these checkpoints want to stop us and conduct an inspection as a big bust could lead to a promotion or the collection of a bribe.  However, we have these fantastic things called diplomatic plates (or dip plates if you’re savvy to the lingo).  We flash that plate (assuming they don’t recognize the fact that we’re American military from the uniform, armor, and weapons) and we sail right through (note to self: get dip plates for commuting to work in the States).  Stopping isn’t an option.  Constant movement decreases the chances that you’ll become a target of opportunity.

That being said, stopping due to the mass of traffic is sometimes unavoidable.  Rolling down one of the main streets here, we approach Massoud circle and hang a right.  We instantly come to a full stop as traffic is backed up like the connector in Atlanta during Freaknik (basically a parking lot for the uninitiated).  As this was the area of the car-jacking, my partner and I began looking out for anything.  Up ahead, a policeman was lifting a metal arm to allow a truck to enter a compound.  The Afghan National Police in the Toyota Hilux guntruck in front of us were climbing out to investigate.  The guy in the corolla beside us was fiddling with his radio.  The fourteen or so people crammed into the minivan two lanes over were watching us intently, one of them unabashedly picking his nose.  Three kids just ahead were trying to get money by cleaning windshields and a number of people were sitting along the road on both sides. 

As we inched toward the three kids, one of them noticed us and came over.  He immediately jumped on the running board, hooked his arm over the side view mirror and began spreading dirt from his filthy rag on our just cleaned windshield.  He had a constant smile and asked for money in return for the obvious favor he just did for us.  While he was doing this, one of his friends moved to the side of our vehicle hear the driver-side rear door.  Now, no matter how cute and funny the kid was, we just don’t open our doors.  Even a crack can allow something to be thrown in – bad news given the difficulty in getting out quickly.  After making faces with him for a minute or so, we motioned for him to get off so we could catch up with the slow moving traffic.  He refused to get off, so we slowly moved forward with him latched onto our vehicle.  As he laughed, I thought about how kids are the same everywhere.  I know my son would jump at the chance to hang on the side of my truck if I would let him – most boys are little adrenaline junkies, I think.  After his brief ride, he took off in search of paying customers.

About this time, I noticed a guy in black pajama-looking clothes, with a small child hanging on his back moving toward us.  He has an intent look on his face, his eyes focused on us rather than the general mayhem around us.  Most folks generally ignore us, so this is different to me somehow.  I watch him closely as he approaches, instinctively putting my hand on my weapon, as the look on his face doesn’t seem right somehow.  He steps to the jersey barrier (small, triangular shaped concrete block), he swings the kids off his back and onto the barrier.  He then pulls the kid’s pants down to show us the kid’s penis.  Although I recognize what he’s doing, the rationale behind the act doesn’t register.  Since we did nothing, he slung the boy back over his back and took off.  After that, traffic cleared up and we headed back to the embassy.

I’ve often written of the surreal nature of things here because I just don’t think the danger is as prevalent for me as for some folks here.  Besides, how does one prepare for getting flashed in downtown Kabul?  

The Trial

The air was thick with humidity and stifling heat that hung with the oppression of a burka.  Although relatively large, the room was packed beyond capacity.  This was a big event for a relatively rural province and villagers had come for miles around to witness it.  Bodies crammed into every nook and cranny of the room; men sharing chairs, sitting on the ground, or standing along the wall for a simple glimpse of the actors on the judicial stage.  Today, a man stood trial for murder – accused of killing another man much hated and feared by most of those in the room.

At the front of the room was a wooden fence of sorts, used to keep the masses separate from the court actors.  To the left and right, chairs for the prosecutor and defense attorney, respectively.  Next to the defense attorney, an elevated platform, enclosed by a waist high wall, was reserved for the nervous-looking defendant.  Further from the masses, centered at the front of the room was the elevated bench for three judges – the Chief Judge’s bench slightly higher than the other two. 

Attached to the fence separating the bench from the gallery were photos of the crime scene.  More photos hung on a placard suspended from the ceiling just behind the defendant.  Included within this collage, were fairly graphic photos of the victim – not a copious amount of blood mind you, but a clearly dead body with a bandage around the neck.  The prosecutor sat confidently on the left side, periodically looking on the crowd as if to appreciate the fact that he would soon perform in front of this audience.  The defense attorney, his beard died in red henna, seemed preoccupied and simply stared into space, oblivious to the commotion as the audience sought to seat themselves.  The defendant, on the other hand, was acutely aware of everything.  His nervousness was evident from his erratic head and eye movement as he desperately attempted to soak in every movement and sound in an attempt to discern some clue that everything would be okay. 

As if on cue the commotion within the courtroom ceased and all eyes looked toward the opening door at the front-left of the room.  As the first judge crossed the threshold all stood in respect of the process of law, the act itself a victory for rule of law in this war-torn country.  Each was bearded and wore a traditional Lulngi hat (a turban-looking hat with part of the scarf hanging down below the shoulders).  The Chief Judge surveyed the room and nodded to each of the attorneys before motioning for the Court Reader to begin.

The court reader, a skinny man wearing traditional Perahan wa Tonban clothes (a white pajama-type outfit that seems to be quite appropriate for the hot weather here) stepped to the microphone and began a recitation from the Holy Quran.  The recitation had a pleasing, melodic cadence to it that seemed to calm the tense atmosphere in the courtroom.  As he finished, the judges brushed their hands over their faces as if to cleanse them.  The reader then began reading the charges and facts of the case.

The Defendant was accused of murder.  It seems that the victim and the defendant’s family had a history.  The victim had allegedly killed the defendant’s father and three uncles about 15-20 years ago and a recent land dispute gave the defendant cause to believe the victim might try to kill him as well.  One day, in downtown (a relative term) Asadabad, the victim and defendant met in the street.  The defendant, fearing for his life, fatally shot the victim in the neck.  The defendant immediately went to the police and surrendered.  As the facts were being recited, hushed murmurs could be heard from the crowd.  I got a sense that the crowd clearly favored the defendant.

Once the recitation of the facts was complete, the prosecutor stood and set forth his case.  He argued that the defendant had no cause to kill the victim as the defendant had no reason to fear for his life at that time.  There seemed to be a question of whether the victim had a weapon at the time.  Once the prosecutor finished, the Chief Judge looked at the defense attorney and asked whether he or “the killer” would speak.  This shocked me and I looked at our interpreter for confirmation that the judge just referred to the defendant as “the killer.”  He did. 

The defense attorney then stood and began to argue self defense.  As part of his defense, he argued that the victim’s prior history with the defendant’s family, combined with the land dispute (a much larger issue here than in the US), gave the defendant sufficient reason to fear for his life.  The defense attorney glossed over the question of whether the victim had a weapon at the time he was killed.  As he sat down, all eyes turned to the defendant.  He would speak.

His manner clearly demonstrated his nervousness.  He shifted his weight back and forth constantly, periodically gripping the railing in front of him as if to steady himself.  Still not yet looking at the judges, he reached down and grabbed a bottled water.  Slowly he unscrewed the cap, as if stalling for time in order to collect his thoughts.  He took a drink, looked to the crowd with sad eyes, perhaps silently asking for support, took a second drink and then looked at the judges.  Softly at first, then a bit louder and more confident he said, “The Holy Quran says he who has killed shall himself be killed.”  All three judges nodded in agreement.  The defendant then began to craft his argument by weaving the self-defense argument of his attorney with his own justifiable homicide argument.  He reached into the Quran to argue that he had to protect himself and his family’s honor by killing this very bad man.  This caused louder murmurs within the courtroom and it was clear that these people were indeed supporting the defendant.  The defendant then went through the entire history of the conflict between his family and the victim.  By the time he was done, I fully understood, within the context of this man’s culture, why he took the other man’s life.

As the defendant finished and took another drink of water, a commotion started in the back of the room – nothing violent, just a lot of movement.  I looked to the interpreter and he explained that it was time for these people to testify.  As approximately 30 people exited the room to stand in the hallway to await their turn to testify, I wondered why witnesses would be permitted to observe the trial prior to their testimony (this isn’t something our system allows as it could taint testimony).  However, I needn’t have worried.  In Afghanistan, witnesses are not subject to direct or cross examination.  They merely enter the room, stand in the well, and address the judges.  Occasionally, a judge will ask a question, but for the most part the witnesses simply make a brief statement and leave.

Most of the witnesses were there to testify that the victim had indeed killed the defendant’s father and uncles.  Some of this testimony was quite solemn as village elders testified from personal experience.  Other testimony was clearly not relevant in the slightest bit.  For example, one middle-aged gentleman walked in, looked at the court, and said that everything the elders before him had said was true (mind you that he hadn’t heard their testimony).  In another case, a very young man (clearly too young to have personally witnessed the victim killed the defendant’s father as he would have been about 5 or so) said he knew it to be true that the victim murdered the defendant’s father.  When asked by a judge how he knew this, he said that he had attended the wake and received a small gift from the family as is customary here.  This drew laughter from the gallery and a smile form the judge. 

I wondered about all this clearly irrelevant testimony and questioned whether it should be allowed.  Our Rule of Law field agent for the province explained that relevance wasn’t really the issue here.  In attempting to bring rule of law to Afghanistan, it was more important for folks to feel like the system is working.  The best way to do this is to give them a voice in the proceedings if they desire.  In this judicial system, judges are provided all evidence and written statements from both sides before the trial even begins.  Thus, the trial is a show; it is for the public.  By letting the public participate, they feel a part of it and are more likely to support it as a result.

After the last witness finished, the prosecutor and defense attorney made their closing arguments.  The defense attorney, predictably, asked for acquittal.  The prosecutor, surprisingly, asked for the death penalty (a clear overreach in my opinion).  The judges then excused themselves to deliberate.  The entire trial, to this point, lasted approximately 1.5 hours.  After eight minutes (yes, I timed it), the judges returned and announced a verdict of guilty and a sentence of six years.  Efficiency is clearly a hallmark of the justice system here.  The crowd in the courtroom was clearly unhappy with this result, but accepted the court’s decision.  This, itself, is a victory for rule of law here.  Acceptance demonstrates buy in; whether one is satisfied with a verdict and sentence is really irrelevant, the question is whether one is satisfied with the process.  The people living in the very province that houses the violent Pech and Korengal Valleys and brought us the movie Restrepo had bought into the process.  While not a perfect example of rule of law in the western sense, it is a workable example and one that can now begin to take root in Kunar.  Here, you have to enjoy the light, what little there is, whenever you can find it.

Afghan Expert

I'm often perplexed by what I hear and read from "experts" about the war in Afghanistan.  Given that most of it fails to comport with my experience here, I have come to appreciate one of Upton Sinclair's purported quotes:  "It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on him not understanding it."

Now, I certainly do not claim to be an expert -- I merely convey what I see and hear.  However, should you wish to get in on the gravy train that is defense contracting, you may want to stroll on over to the Ghosts of Alexander and learn how you too can be an expert on the war over here.

To his list, I would add:

-invent metrics that don't really measure anything significant, but appear to do so.
-employ the term "clear, hold, build" as much as possible.
-envision and explain Kandahar as equivalent to Anbar in Iraq without actually saying it.

While you enjoy these tips, I'm headed east to see a murder trial and talk to some Afghan judges and prosecutors.

Math

Imagine:  It is late at night.  There is very little moonlight and a cold fall wind is blowing in from the north.  You hear a dog bark, and then a scream.  You rise out of bed to look out the window and see what appears to be a home robbery across the street.  You are not in shape to go help due to a recent injury, but your teenage son is fit as a fiddle and can handle a gun.  Should you send him over to help?  Of course, your moral side says you should help a neighbor, but you fear for your son.  The robbers have guns too and your son could die.  Is the risk worth it?

Now imagine you are the leader of a free country.  You’ve inherited a war wherein the original enemy is essentially defeated, but now face decisions of a humanitarian concern.  Indeed, the former head of your CIA and current Secretary of Defense (let’s call him Leon Panetta) recently stated that America’s enemy du jour, Al Qaeda, has a key leadership of less than two dozen people most of which are no longer in Afghanistan.  As Al Qaeda has been consistently beaten down in the past several years, attention has turned to counterinsurgency or COIN.  But is it worth it? 

COIN is method of “fighting” that focuses more on winning over the local population than killing the enemy.  This form of warfare places military members at greater risk while simultaneously placing restrictions on the means of warfare.  The hope, apparently, is that if we give the local population enough stuff, they’ll like us and either point out the bad guys for arrest and prosecution or convince the bad guys that Americans really aren’t that bad.  It’s a sort of Full Metal Jacket approach (paraphrasing the movie: “inside the heart of every Afghan is an American trying to get out”).  It’s the height of ethnocentrism and it apparently guides our war effort.  To know us is to love us, right?

So here we are pursuing a strategy of buying love, affection, and support.  We’ve asked our soldiers and Marines to perform a function not typically considered part of warfighting while placing them in greater danger (I recently saw a story about Marines taking agriculture classes at a southern California university; Marines, for cryin’ out loud, our nation’s shock troops, learning to grow corn!).  This scenario leads to a consideration of “gruesome math.”   

Since Al Qaeda is no longer a real threat (and never really was an existential one) and we are making Afghanistan our own little money pit, we must be here to save Afghans, right?  Some say that if we leave, violence will ensue and many Afghans will die.  I have no doubt about the veracity of this argument.  Many tribes are rearming in the aftermath of President Obama’s drawdown announcement.  If it’s one thing Afghans know for sure, it’s that pacifists die in this country.  So this sounds like a wonderful cause, preventing the deaths of some unknown number of Afghans.  But what does the math say?

In the roughly ten years that we’ve been in this country, we’ve lost roughly 1660 Americans according to at least one source.*  That’s an average of 160 per year, 13 per month, or 3 per week.  In other words, every two days here an American dies.  They die for an effort to save an untold number of Afghans.  Therefore, saving an unknown number of Afghans must be worth the deaths 160 Americans per year to our political and military leaders.  But, when do we reach the tipping point?  How many American lives per month is too much in the equation?  And if we do in fact reach that point, do not the previous lives lost also become too much?  In other words, I pose a question to those who say we should stay to protect Afghans (as opposed to eliminating an existential threat): Can you look a mother, sister, wife, or child in the eye and say their son, brother, husband, or father had to die so that some unknown Afghan(s) could live?  Or more bluntly: How much is an American life worth in terms of Afghan lives?

Now some reading this will certainly be offended at my ability to analyze this issue dispassionately.  But we’ve done this before.  Look at Rwanda or Darfur.  Some within the international community begged the US to intervene.  We chose not to do so.  Why?  No strategic interests you say?  How is that calculation any less gruesome than the one I just made?  That calculation places interests such as oil (or lack thereof) above human lives.  I think those situations are the same as now.  Then, we made a calculation that American lives were not worth risking.  Today, they are.  Why?  I have no idea.  I’m simply confused.  I have no answers – and that is what makes this so hard. 

*http://icasualties.org/oef/

A Matter of Justice

I was nervous.  I had been waiting for this day for some time and it had arrived.  But, somehow, its arrival was not comforting.  I am not normally nervous on meeting important people, but, on this day, I was meeting the most important man in the world.  He held my future in his hands.  I was meeting with the father of the woman I wanted to marry and would ask him for his blessing (it’s what we do down South).  As I was still in college, I really had nothing to offer except potential (I hoped he would think).  Now that I have a daughter, I can begin to understand what he must’ve thought.  Deep down, no one is ever really good enough for a father’s daughter.  Intuitively, I knew this then.  Fortunately, he was able to settle; something a father here was unable to do.

Apparently, the custom here does not require the suitor to receive the blessing of the father, or perhaps it was ignored in this case.  In any case, two young people in love decided that a life together was what they desired most.  Like a young Romeo and Juliet, these two lovers were also from different tribes.  Thus, they eloped, were married, and returned with a fait accompli.  The father, however, was unwilling to accept the matter.  He called the local police and filed a complaint alleging adultery.

Adultery being a serious crime here, the police sprung into action, arresting the couple.  It was at this point that a deal was proposed; whether by the police or the prosecutor I am unsure.  In any event, each of the accused was told that the charges could be dropped for a payment of 50 thousand Afghanis (a little more than $1000).  However, this amount was much more than either could pay, so the case was bound over to the court.

During the preparation of the charges, the court determined that her age must be ascertained prior to any hearing on the charge of adultery.  The young lady was then sent to a local hospital wherein a test akin to a rape kit was administered to determine her age.  The specifics of this test are unknown as, to my knowledge, western medicine has no test wherein exact age is determined by examination of the vagina.  In any event, the age was set at 19.  This determination meant that the girl would receive a much harsher sentence, something the father had not accounted for.  Thus, he paid a small sum to have the test done again and his daughter was again subjected to this “medical” humiliation and had her age determined at 16. 

Having now “scientifically” determined the girl’s age, the court turned to the matter of adultery.  The question before the court was whether the couple was legally married or not.  Now even my non-lawyer friends, having received tutelage in law from shows such as Law and Order, realize that in order for a conviction, the prosecutor bears the burden of proving the lack of a marriage.  Not so here.  The court immediately ordered the couple to prove their marriage.  They complied by showing the equivalent of a marriage license from a religious figure in a neighboring province.  This was deemed insufficient and the couple was ordered to produce the man who performed the marriage.  As is often the case here, the couple did not have a defense attorney to procure the testimony of the one who performed the marriage.  Thus, the couple was convicted.  My understanding is that the man’s family was able to raise enough money to secure his release.  The girl received a sentence of 18 months and remains in jail as you read this.     

After nearly ten years and billions of dollars, this is the face of Afghan justice.  So I ask you, are we winning?

A Self-Licking Ice Cream Cone

I owe Senator John Kerry an apology.  During his failed Presidential election campaign, there was much talk about his opposition to the Vietnam War.  I joined the chorus of folks criticizing that opposition. After serving (or perhaps during his tour) in Vietnam, he came to understand the futility of it all.  Rather than simply follow along with the rest of the myrmidons, he chose to voice his opinion.  Although I still do not condone how he chose to do this, I can now understand his opposition better.

Futility, I think, also best describes the mood here.  As I travel around, speaking to folks on the ground, the mood is quite somber.  This is in stark contrast to high-level briefings I’ve attended.  While war-supporting talking heads in the media spout talking points for the military-political counterinsurgency cabal, the facts on the ground continue to cast doubt on our ability to see this through to an end worthy of the effort.  Briefings in Kabul accentuate the positive, facts on the ground are a bit more realist in perspective.  For example, there has been much talk of late regarding the military successes in the south.  This success is not in doubt as many good men and women have paid for that success in blood, sweat, and tears.  However, the south is only a small part of the picture. 

While Taliban and associated groups are being hunted down or run off in the south, they are making a resurgence in the Afghan heartland – the few provinces surrounding Kabul.  A recent report from the International Crisis Group indicates that this resurgence is due, in part, to collusion between corrupt Kabul government officials and insurgents.  From these provinces, insurgents are able to stage attacks on Kabul to exercise psychological control over the capital.  Although secondary to physical control, psychological control is crucial to long-term insurgent goals because it demonstrates the ineffectiveness of the Kabul government.  This, combined with endemic corruption, sets up an end-game for post-American departure.  Once the Americans leave, the locals think, no one can prop up the ineffective Karzai government so we must shift from passive acceptance of the Taliban to active support.  This is completely within Afghan cultural norms – await a winner and then throw your support that way.

Perhaps John Kerry recognized this during his generation’s seemingly never-ending war.  I have now begun to see this with my generation’s war as well.  I see a strategy wherein money seems to be the answer to all problems.  We continually pour money into this country only to have, by some estimates, nearly 4 million dollars per day leave the country earmarked for deposit into the Dubai accounts of corrupt Afghan officials.  We continue to measure success in metrics that have no real bearing on the ground truth.  Make no mistake here; I do not protest the effort as a whole like John Kerry did so many years ago.  I firmly believe in the application of military force to remove threats to our country when negotiations or the like fail to achieve our objectives.

I subscribe more to a Clausewitzian view of war in this respect (Carl von Clausewitz is a, some would say the preeminent, military strategist).  War cannot be made bloodless; it must consist of violence directed toward the enemy to put him in a situation that is more unpleasant than the sacrifice you ask him to make (i.e. what you are trying to compel him to do).  Instead, we are trying to buy our enemy.  Sure, the COINistas (adherents of counterinsurgency as a panacea) will say we’re engendering support from a passive population, but this really isn’t the case.  As mentioned above, the passivity of the locals here disappears as they calculate a winner.  Our money is being used to buy influence with corrupt officials and locals who see that we are soon leaving and the Taliban will remain.  Thus, our enemy and our “allies” are nearly one and the same.  I see this now and it is quite disheartening. 

Generals get on television and tell us we can’t kill our way to victory.  They are the COINistas.  Despite mounting evidence to the contrary, they continue this line of thinking as if repeating it enough will make it true.  Meanwhile, Americans (and Canadians, and Norwegians, and Germans, etc.) are dying.  I get it now Mr. Kerry, I do.  War is about killing – killing a lot.  It is about the controlled application of violence to the extent that your enemy is either utterly destroyed or is in such fear of that occurring that he will surrender to avoid it.  If we are not willing to apply this amount of force (or if the situation doesn’t call for it) then we should not use our military.      

So why are we doing this?  A friend of mine here said that we’re doing it because we’re doing it.  What did he mean by that statement?   Well, inertia is a powerful thing.  Once something as big and powerful as the military-political complex gets going, it’s hard to turn it around I guess.  So the war machine keeps doing the same thing over and over, despite the lack of real results, just to perpetuate its existence.  Like the self-licking ice cream cone it exists just to enable itself.   I thought about this quite somberly as I listened to Senator Lindsay Graham tell a crowd at the US Embassy in Kabul that we’d never leave Afghanistan.  God, I hope he’s wrong.  I hope the Afghanistan war machine really is like that self-licking ice cream cone and ultimately consumes itself.   

Daydreaming

There I was again, like so many other times before.  The inside of a helicopter, regardless of type, is like a cocoon.  The hum of the rotors is loud at first, but becomes surprisingly mundane, beckoning you into a mental slumber.  When I find myself in this situation, or one like it in which movement and conversation is restricted, I often retreat into my mind.  Being a long way from home, I think of the same thing always – different aspects, but always the same thing.  As the rotor blast became white noise and the back-and-forth shaking began to take on a crib-like feel, I checked out mentally and went to another, better time and place.

It was hot that day, as it always is during the summer in Georgia.  I had spent the day with a fraternity brother getting ready for yet another party.  Mainly this preparation consisted of purchasing food, tapping a keg, and playing volleyball.  As the summer sun disappeared into the western sky, I went inside to clean up before the guests began to arrive.  It had been a good day and the night was sure to be good as well.  I just didn’t understand at the time that that night would be life changing.

Later, as I stood in the kitchen, a friend approached and asked if I would like to meet her friend as she pointed to the living room.  Looking across the room, I saw her for the first time.  She was strikingly beautiful.  Her long dark-red hair was pulled slightly back so as not to obstruct her face.  She held a Dixie cup in her hand (filled with Coca-Cola no doubt) and appeared to be having a good time as well.  Her sundress, a blue and yellow floral pattern if memory serves, swayed slightly as she moved gently to the sound of the music.  As she took a drink, she looked in my direction and our mutual friend motioned her over.

I didn’t hear our friend make the introductions because I was mesmerized by her eyes.  She had the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen.  Sky blue is not only a cliché description, but also not entirely accurate.  As you look into a partly cloudy, summer sky focus on the edge of the clouds – that space where the cloud and the sky seems to merge into a color that is neither blue nor white but both.  Her eyes were that color.  I didn’t really know what to say, but I knew I needed to keep her talking because I wanted to keep looking into those beautiful eyes.

I must have said something funny because she laughed and then smiled (not in a pity-like way, but as if I was actually being charming).  The smile matched her eyes.  It was radiant and genuine.  I knew then that I would be content if I could just make her smile and laugh.  I spent the rest of the night out on the porch with her, just talking.  After the typical college “what’s your major” kind of questions, we spent the rest of the evening talking about our hopes and dreams. I didn’t know it then, but her dreams would become mine and mine would become hers.

Reality sinks in as the helicopter lands and I’m back in Afghanistan rather than at a fraternity party long ago.  That meeting occurred 18 years ago today.  I married her almost two years later.  She doesn’t believe me, but I did actually have to catch my breath when I first saw her enter the church in her flowing white wedding dress.  She still looks that beautiful.  She still has the same smile and the same laugh.  And I still live to see her do both.