A small gift from a visiting American is no solution to the long-term problem of malnutrition, however. We sometimes go on missions to assess what self-sustaining community projects could be put into place, backed by U.S. or British funding. Instead of simply giving food that will shortly run out—especially when NATO forces eventually leave Afghanistan—we want to show villagers there are ways that they can produce their own food and income, without having to rely on international forces or the Taliban. They can support their families and end their suffering on their own.
Particularly exciting to me are the funds available to commanders for micro-grants which would enable families, even women, to receive the start-up costs and materials needed to establish their own small businesses. I have tried explaining all sorts of agricultural options to local farmers, from being provided instruction and set-up in drip irrigation techniques, which are low-cost and work wonderfully in arid environments, to small livestock business options, where chickens would be provided so families could eat and sell the eggs.
I see these things as real solutions to the cycle of poverty and anger which lends power to extremists and terrorists. I had been confident that the villagers—who, like the children yelling “Qalaam,” constantly insisted on their need for more assistance—would be thrilled. Instead, I began to have my almost indomitably optimistic heart broken.
Slowly, patrol after patrol, while often conducting surveys on labor and agriculture, I have found that most men who define their profession as “farmer” do little farm work at all. Blaming political unrest and a poor climate, they do not plant their fields. If they do plant, it is not with a food crop but rather a crop of poppies, the sale of which inevitably aids the Taliban and al Qa’ida.
Tending of the fields and any food-producing gardens within their compounds is women’s work and belongs to their wives. Many “farmers” I have met spend most of their days gathered together with the men and boys of the village, enjoying one another’s company by having discussions, smoking, and playing games—sometimes even leaving the village together for walks in the desert or treks to procure sparse flowers for one another. The men have a gentle and leisurely refinement—but one that seems so out of place in the context of the suffering around them.
While their wives remain at home, poorly groomed and dressed in the most conservative clothes imaginable, many farmers, like the boy with the pink bracelet, are comfortable adorning themselves as elaborately as possible, some even enjoying eye makeup and henna-painted hands. As evidenced by their clearly non-work-oriented attire, most of these “farmers” are completely uninterested in a small business that would entail more farm work, like raising chickens or tending string irrigation systems.
Somehow, however, these men were also extremely unwilling to allow their wives, who would clearly end up doing the actual work, to participate in the programs. Though they tend not to explain their reasoning, my personal guess is that it is for fear that the women might begin to feel empowered—as if they could accomplish something for their families that their husbands could not. Instead, the farmers argue and become increasingly angry in their insistence that it is the responsibility of the government—either the government of Afghanistan or the governments of Western countries—to provide entirely for food and the complete sustainment of their communities.
Because no government has adequately done this so far, their dissatisfaction and anger only increases. As I sat in on one shura and observed the discussions, I heard the heartbreaking declaration, “If you can give us chickens for eggs, you can give us chickens to eat. If we have chickens, we will eat them. Then you will give us more.”
I was gloomily reminded of Paula and her apricot orchard. I was also dismayed as to where this vehemently held idea of complete dependence on the state had come, as the Pashtun people had for centuries been proudly independent and had no experience of ever being provided for in this way by any government.
I must consider, though, that some Pashtun communities display the absolute opposite of this tendency. I remember a group of families I encountered along the roadside, together thrashing grain on some particularly colorful oriental carpets. The girls played with the boys as the men and women worked together to feed their families, and the children were friendly and clearly happy. The small group did not have much of a harvest, but what they did have, they planned to share as a community in the truest and noblest tradition of Pashtunwali—the tribal code of honor that has guided the Pashtun people since time immemorial.
When I stopped to visit with this little band, they asked me where my patrol was going. I explained we were headed to the next village, about two miles further along the road. They were actually shocked by the idea of going so far. “We never go over there. The people are so different there.”
I began to understand how right they were. In southern Afghanistan, the cultural and attitudinal differences between two locations can be vast, even separated by a short walk. This is the challenge of understanding the “Human Terrain” of this area—no overall assessment can apply to any individual village, and only in-person research, on the ground, can begin to reveal the truth about each community.
Even in an “angry” village, one family loved the idea of a micro-grant. I was taken by the intricate beauty of two teenage girls’ needlework, and I asked if they ever sold their work or provided it to friends. “We wish we could! Imagine what beautiful things we could design and make for everyone’s weddings! However, we can’t afford thread anymore, we can’t get to the bazaar we used to go to because of the Taliban roadblocks, and there isn’t much linen left there anyway. We haven’t embroidered for months!”
When I explained that a micro-grant could fund their business idea, and that our commander was even willing to look into ways that we could deliver them a shipment of linen and thread while it was still difficult for them to obtain, I saw light and empowerment in the girls eyes, and nothing but beaming pride in their father’s. My badly wounded optimism has moments like this when it begins to heal. I have begun to think that one difference in the life of a family still makes our work worthwhile, even if the social problems at large do feel overwhelming.
__________________________________________
[7] Having given away my first watch, my options were limited to what the big PX in Kandahar carried. This watch was the only one small enough to fit, but it was clearly a “girlfriend gift,” meant to be sent back home.
Chapter 12
We Spell Misery M.R.E.
Day 92
We went nowhere today, but we ate plenty. We started to go somewhere, but the truck we were in broke down. That’s never a fun situation, because as you wait in the desert while another vehicle goes to request a repair, you realize you are nothing but a sitting duck, should the enemy happen to find you.
We livened up the long hour by sharing our M.R.E.s with our British counterparts while we waited. They had heard much about the American M.R.E—the indestructible individual field ration ubiquitous to modern warfare. I shared with them that the oddly backwards acronym stands for “Meal, Ready-to-Eat,” but due to its typical impact on one’s digestive system, it is usually referred to by Marines here as “Meal Refusing to Exit.”
Much of what is thought about M.R.E.s is generally untrue. First of all, we do have something resembling “real” food here. We’ll have great food as soon as that chow hall in Leatherneck opens. (What’s going on with that, anyway?) M.R.E.s are only for those times when chow happens to be otherwise inaccessible.
We take them on patrols with us. We eat them when we’re working too far away from a chow tent or on something too involved to make the trip worthwhile. We eat them when we are camped waiting for a helicopter or when facilities aren’t functioning or when we’ve really had it with chow tent’s offerings. Mostly, we sneak them to hungry villagers.
M.R.E.s are not all bad. Generally, they’re just not good. I do have a particular liking for the one labeled “Vegetable Omelet
te.” People tend to leave this one alone, so I get my favorite almost every time. It consists of a highly condensed patty of egg, which reminds me in flavor of something like a quiche or a frittata or a Spanish tortilla—especially when combined with the occasionally-cooked potatoes, also conveniently included in the pack. There is usually an additional side of nacho cheese-filled pretzel bites.
Cheerful and a Huey.
The Vegetable Omelette selection also includes a small packet of hot apple cider mix. I am not sure why someone would want hot apple cider while enjoying an omelette and pretzels in the desert. However, I have found that the packet makes a very nice dessert if you simply sprinkle its contents on your tongue. Meal accomplished.
While my favorite frittata is best enjoyed cold, any M.R.E. can be warmed with the “flameless heating apparatus” thoughtfully provided with each package. This uses a chemical reaction to create a hot box in which to place your food. While safely “flameless,” the chemical reaction itself produces a strong odor resembling both gasoline and rotten eggs. Therefore, once your food is warm, your appetite is gone.
Another confounding aspect of the M.R.E. is the set of instructions included for the use of the heater. The wording and illustration, it seems, has not changed for years, despite the fact that it can cause complete hilarity among stressed troops, as it did today among the Brits in the truck. The sheet instructs the diner to lean the box against a “rock or something.” It then includes the following illustration, complete with an object labeled “rock or something.”
The real problem with M.R.E.s, however, is the wrapping. While the heat-bonded plastic may be useful in protecting the food from nuclear fallout, it makes it impossible to actually access the food in the event you should be hungry. If you finally do manage to get the package open, you will then find each item individually wrapped in similarly impenetrable material.
At Leatherneck, I noticed many Marines carrying their favorite enormous knives, called Ka-Bars, while walking through camp. Some Ka-Bars are nearly the size of machetes. I see them particularly among motor pool and aviation workers, and I wonder what immediate danger of hand-to-hand combat they perceive.
I have just today solved the mystery, as we struggled mightily to open the M.R.E.s in the truck. A Ka-Bar is actually necessary to open an M.R.E. These Marines I saw, who generally work in fairly distant parts of the camp, weren’t planning on violence, just lunch.
Now, I have to wonder if the design of the M.R.E. has ever damaged our hearts and minds efforts. Many generous-minded patrollers share M.R.E.s with villages. I wonder, though, after a waving patrol is gone, how the villagers ever manage to get the food open. It’s just mean to offer people lunch and then make it impossible for them to eat it. Has this ever angered a village? It would definitely anger me!
Broken truck.
Chapter 13
Playing I.E.D. Chicken
Day 96
A slim young man in unusually flowing clothes wore a strange and distant expression. He was making a swift line toward me as I stood forward of the patrol, interviewing an older gentlemen about life in his village. It was a natural place to be standing.
I was simply the person who happened to be talking to the villager, so I stood close to him. The patrol was immediately nearby, surrounding me in a semi-circle. They were my good friends, the British patrol from the broken truck, protecting me.
At first, I thought the young man might have something he urgently wanted to tell me, as villagers sometimes did. Yet something about him made us all uncomfortable. Upon seeing the man approaching from a long way off, the older gentleman I was interviewing broke off our conversation and moved hastily away. The danger was then clear.
“Lift up your shirt!” an authoritative British sergeant called to the young man while he was still a distance off but approaching at increasing speed. Translators quickly took up the yell. Other soldiers began either demonstrating the gesture or readying their rifles for him if he did not comply.
We couldn’t be certain he was a suicide bomber, but all indicators seemed to blare “yes.” A number of soldiers from our base were killed just this week by a bomber in our immediate area, and our nerves were stretched to breaking. Still, the patrol couldn’t make a mistake and fire too early. The man continued to make his approach directly at me as the soldiers kept their best positions to fire. There wasn’t time to move now.
As the person unintentionally nearest the young man, I dared not back up anyway. I held out the wild hope that by staying close to the explosion, the thick armored vest I wore might spare some of the patrol around me. If I was going to die anyway, this only made sense.
In a bizarre and incomprehensible moment, I challenged the man’s now-mocking smile with my own. If I had no weapon to fight him, I would still win by keeping him from killing us all. The desperate shouting of the patrol, the readying of their raised rifles, all faded out of my hearing as the man came almost touchably nearer.
I then understood his smile. His threat was empty. He had no bomb but wouldn’t mind getting himself killed as an “innocent.” Sound returned. I heard the final warning of the British soldiers, trying to protect me, ready to shoot him with his next step. At the last possible moment, he lazily raised his shirt to reveal a bare chest and brushed into me as he continued on his way, through the patrol and past it.
It was a psychological game being played against us, and it was very effective. We discontinued our interviews and headed back for the base. “Go, go, go!” we yelled as we piled back into a vehicle.
I tried to move quickly, but my legs surprised me by feeling like rubber—the way they do in a nightmare when you can’t outrun a monster. Both my body and mind were numb. Somehow, I was suddenly inside the jeep.
Only after we were safely returned did I allow myself to feel the appropriate, nauseating, pants-wetting fear, but the ordeal was over. The young man won only one tiny victory. I know he will often walk toward me in my dreams.
Later this evening, the gears in my mind re-engaged enough for me to wonder what that was really about—not on the level of warfare tactics but on a simply human level. Why was that young man so somehow peculiar, and what, really, would compel a young man to play with his own life and ours like he had? I had met his eyes. I had seen him closer than one would usually see a likely extremist bent on death and live to think about it after.
There was something unexpected about him—not necessarily the grim and fierce commitment of a combatant or the beatific glow of someone anticipating paradise, but almost a despondent hurt and haunted mockery of life.
Day 103
Patrols are somewhat limited out of Lash right now. The last few weeks have made this the deadliest summer of British participation in the war. Nobody is saying this is the reason we are “staying in” more, but I am certain it must be.
Again, because there’s not much current need for a Social Scientist here or at Leatherneck, I am being sent off back to Kandahar province. Silly poems race through my mind as I sit on another big, leaky helicopter—not one of the little Hueys that I so adore. “There was a girl who traveled far to meet her love in Kandahar…” It has become clear to me poetry is not my strongest suit.
It’s a beautiful day, and the pilot lets us open the wide back ramp of the helicopter where its contents are loaded in. We see a huge swath of Afghanistan from high up now. The villages are tiny, but the colorful flags that fly on the walls are still clear as they blow in a rare breeze. If you lie on your belly, you can crawl right up to the edge of the ramp while still safely strapped in. I scoot up next to the gunner, and grinning outrageously, thrilled to be alive, we feel the world rush by.
Men waiting in the shade of a building.
Chapter 14
To Walk a Mile for a Camel
Day 105
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to hear the phrase “I’d walk a mile for a Camel” in the same way again. I remember the poor hobbled camel I saw in Helmand, but here in K
andahar, I have learned that camels sometimes suffer an even worse fate after they are rendered three-footed and kept a mile out from town. The chow hall this morning was buzzing with enough uncomfortable conversation, nervous laughter, and gagging noises to get me to ask what had happened.
Apparently, a few soldiers with the duty of watching the perimeter of the camp overnight had witnessed a man approach an isolated hobbled camel. Thinking he was unobserved, he came equipped with a step-ladder, promptly sodomized the camel, and, when finished, to the hysterics of the soldiers watching from a distance, dismissed the camel with an elaborate slap on the rump—as if to celebrate the fact that he had just delivered a stellar performance. He then swaggered away, step ladder in tow.
Being the “cultural observation” person, I was asked to explain this. I can hardly imagine the research techniques that would be necessary to study bestiality formally in the context of Afghanistan, so I didn’t have many answers. However, just from casual observation, I thought one might argue that it may be based generally on the unavailability or undesirability of women. Further, while at least not directed toward human beings, the practice appeared to involve an element of excessive cruelty (because of the long-term isolation and hobbling of the animal) and could be called abusive.
Day 106
Although I haven’t spent as much time here as I have at other camps, Forward Operating Base Ramrod has become familiar enough to me that I anticipated the “big day” with everyone else. I just didn’t realize it was today!
“Oh Great! We figured you’d get here,” said the chaplain and the carpenter as they found me today and dragged me off. “We only have an hour or so to practice. You’ll sing, right?”
Crossing the Wire Page 12