[41] Taken from the non-published notes of the “Women’s Engagement Binder” available at the PRT, and followed up upon by interview with former discussion leaders. USAID has taken leadership on the women’s development front in Farah province, and can provide further information on request. The specific notes, titled “Women’s Development Ideas,” state:
Though Islamic law stipulates rights to women, in the countryside it ranks behind customary/tribal law which is extremely harsh to women (think village honor code). Add Afghan superstitions and women take the brunt of it. A final influence is the community—for example once a boy reaches the age of 7, he is taken away from his mother and raised by his father. Mothers in law do not help in this process and are generally quite harsh to the younger ladies in a house.
[42] Reynolds, Maura. op cit. Anonymous author for Reuters, op. cit.
[43] This state of affairs perhaps made most evident in the words of the halekon themselves, featured in the article “Afghan Boy Dancers Sexually Abused by Former Warlords” cited in “Further Reading.”
‘I was only 14-years-old when a former Uzbek commander forced me to have sex with him,’ said Shir Mohammad in Sar-e Pol province. ‘Later, I quit my family and became his secretary. I have been with him for 10 years, I am now grown up, but he still loves me and I sleep with him.’
Ahmad Jawad, aged 17, has been with a wealthy landowner for the past two years.
‘I am used to it. I love my lord. I love to dance and act like a woman and play with my owner,’ he said.
Asked what he would do when he got older, he said: ‘Once I grow up, I will be an owner and I will have my own boys.’
But Shir Mohammad, at 24, was already getting too old to be a dancing boy. ‘I am grown up now and do not have the beauty of former years. So, I proposed to marry my lord’s daughter and he has agreed to it.’
[44] From HTT Personal Field Notes dated 15 May 2009.
Chapter 20
It Doesn’t End There
Day 169
I submitted the report yesterday, and I am already overwhelmed by its reception. I have received congratulations on such revealing findings, and I am grateful but not particularly pleased. The report became a consuming and somewhat painful task, as a topic I first considered essentially “light” devolved into one revealing profound abuse.
The report is gone from my hands and delivered in a final form. Only now, after the work is completed, do I truly realize that the confusion I’ve had over so many issues in the course of this deployment can be significantly addressed by the incredibly unexpected topic I investigated. The reasons for the extreme devaluing of women and the humanitarian issues that result from it are easily understandable from these findings. However, it doesn’t end there.
One might also see potential reasons for the prevalence of drug abuse, the avoidance of reality, and the utter unwillingness to improve one’s situation along with the expectation that recompense is owed, tied to a profound sense of victimization. When a person’s hope and trust is destroyed through the terrorizing experience of abuse, and they have no example around them to restore it, how can they help but be resigned to their own tragedy?
From the Mullah who tried so hard to show that he, unique among his neighbors, liked women, to the waiflike young man who threatened a suicide attack, to the elusive boy I failed to rescue, their actions can be seen to make sense in the context of this investigation. Like the songs that come to my mind before I realize how accurately they’ve captured a truth, I think this, one of my last reports, has done the same for my long-standing concerns.
Village scene.
Day 175
My colleagues are now quite aware of my findings, and has it begun to haunt everything we perceive. I suspect we will never be able to see the actions of teenage boys in the same way again. How are we to separate their actions of violence toward us from our awareness of their own victimization, and the cycle which perpetuates both? Even now that I am back to other work, this theme remains prevalent.
Now that fall has begun, it is a concern of the British commander if the surrounding communities have adequate supplies for the winter. He wants to know their needs in enough time to request and receive such items as extra fuel and blankets. Everyone’s nerves remain on edge, as the previous month, August, has seen the most casualties of the entire war for the Brits because of a combination of suicide attacks, roadside bombs, and combat deaths.
Still, we sat in the mission briefing imitating the “stiff upper lip” of our colleagues. The job of assessing community needs fell to HTT, along with the few sturdy soldiers with whom we usually patrolled. Slasher, however, was only a week from going home, and would not be allowed to go on any more patrols.
British forces, which I have noticed over the course of my deployment appeared substantially comprised of Irishmen, Scotsmen, Ghurkas, various Pacific Islanders, and other “outsiders” to the mainstream U.K. community, seemed to have enormous hearts. At our compound, nobody within two weeks of returning home was allowed to go outside the wire for two reasons.
First, based upon informal statistics, it seemed the most likely time for “mistakes” to happen because the soldiers were elated and distracted. Secondly, and more importantly, nobody could stand the tragedy of someone getting killed so close to their anticipated return. Instead, Slasher would be replaced by the gentlemanly soldier we teasingly called Action Man. Action Man would earn his nickname in another way on our patrol.
We pulled out of the compound at Lashkar Gah in an “armored” British Army jeep. When we were with American forces, we often traveled in vehicles known as MRAPS. I loved MRAPS. Everyone knew it was possible to take a direct hit from a roadside bomb or a rocket-propelled grenade in an MRAP and walk away, battered but alive. By contrast, British Army jeeps employed technology developed for street conflict in Northern Ireland. They were designed to resist small arms fire and not much else. Non-American forces, lacking American resources, have courage bordering on insanity to regularly patrol Afghanistan in vehicles like these.
Not far out of town, a local youth, perhaps 16 or 17 years old, pulled up dangerously close to our jeep on a motorcycle, yelling wildly and waving something in his hand. This could mean nothing good. The Taliban employs two tactics involving teenagers on motorcycles. One is to equip a teenager with a grenade or explosive vest and a mission to destroy the occupants of a military vehicle. A grenade lobbed at or into our flimsy jeep would be the end of all of us (the boy included). The Taliban does this frequently enough to make us extremely wary of teenagers on motorcycles who got too close.[45] The threat is very real.
However, the Taliban intermittently employs a tactic even more disturbing. Teenage boys are recruited to act as if they are on such a mission, just like the young man who threatened my patrol before. I was far too familiar with the phenomenon.
These boys are tasked to get too close to our vehicles on motorcycles and appear on the verge of attacking us with grenades or explosive vests. The hope is to get us to fire on the boys out of fear, in the belief we are defending our own lives. It put us at a stalemate.
If we failed to stop the teenager, and he was equipped to attack us, as the events of recent weeks would strongly indicate he was, we were all dead. However, if we were to fire on the teenager and he was unarmed, we would give the Taliban a weapon more powerful than a suicide bomber and a victory even greater than the small prize of our deaths.
The Taliban, as extremist groups frequently do, would make the most of the incident in the war of public perception. A campaign would be launched based on the terrible fact that Western forces shot and killed an unarmed child. Even worse, those words would be true—regardless if the act had been based on an entirely different perception.
Photos and videos of the death and the grieving family would back up the story, and no one, besides anyone who had been in the same situation, would ever understand the trap in which we had been placed. As we see so often, th
ese incidents bring to bear the resources of the world’s media which, out of rightful shock at the tragic loss of life, unwittingly supports the intention for which the Taliban sacrificed the brave and confused young man.
None of us in the jeep wanted to kill the teenager, and all of us wanted to live. Given my recent work, we all suspected the abuse that might have brought the youth to the wiliness to act either as a suicide attacker or a willing victim for slaughter, and we saw him too, like us, trapped in an incredibly unfortunate situation. Still, it was more likely that he actually held a grenade and was about to kill us all than it was that he was part of a public-relations suicide mission.
Action Man was our gunner. There was no turret, but he stood with his top half poked through a hole in the roof of the otherwise closed-in vehicle and took aim with his rifle. He had the best view of the situation, and everyone yelled to one another to understand what was going on. He gestured for the boy to stop and everyone who could called out to the boy in Pashtu and Dari, “Stay Back!” “Stay Back!”
The first two rounds loaded in Action Man’s rifle were warning shots. He fired one round. It did no more than make noise and send a well-placed “poof” of yellow smoke above the boy’s head. If there was any misunderstanding on the boy’s part, it was erased. The message to back off was clearly sent, and the wildly fearless boy, with suicidal commitment, still stayed glued to our jeep.
If a situation was not going to end with someone shot, it almost never escalated to the point where the second warning round, the red one, was fired. We heard Action Man take the second shot. Then, in a simultaneous decision to try to preserve the life of the boy, we started yelling. “GO! GO! GO! GO! GO!”
Our only option, if not to shoot the boy, was to attempt to get out of his range. He had a motorized dirt bike well-suited to the sandy dunes we were crossing. We had an old jeep well-suited to the streets of Northern Ireland. Still, that day, our jeep had wings. Quite literally. We took to the air over and over as we crested the hills at high speed. Our jeep lacked even the modern convenience of seat-belts or restraints, so we grabbed at Action Man’s legs, which now dangled above us, to insure he didn’t fly out from the roof.
I am the wrong size for most military equipment, and I never could quite get my big helmet to fit. In one of the lurches of our jeep, it was knocked away as I grabbed for the dangling legs. In the next moment, we were flying again, and my bare head was thrown hard around the “armored” interior. I lost awareness for a little while, because I don’t know how the chase progressed from there. However, we clearly outpaced the boy, and kept him alive despite the apparent wishes of the Taliban, because we eventually arrived at the location of our mission—a village on the other side of a minefield that required us to cross on foot.
We had averted two possible headlines at home. One could have read “Western Forces Kill Unarmed Afghan Child,” and, because of its tragedy and shock value, would have been endlessly repeated. Another would have read “Five Americans and Brits Killed in Suicide Attack,” and would have been mourned. Under no circumstances would a headline at home ever read “Ragged Group of Americans and Brits in Rickety Jeep Desperately Attempt to Protect the Life of Afghan Youth, a Suspected Victim of Sexual Abuse, who Appeared Intent on Killing Them While They Proceeded on a Mission to Ensure the Village of Said Youth Had Adequate Winter Heat.” However, it’s not the things most of the world hears on the news but this kind of crazy, complex story that constitutes the day-to-day experience of the men and women whose job is this war.
I got out of the jeep and, because of my bashed head, struggled to keep my legs and to avoid vomiting. I composed myself and we crossed the minefield toward the nearby village on foot, led by a soldier wielding what looked like a metal detector meant for the beach. The villagers were kind and sad, and their story broke my heart. Almost to a person, every adult was missing limbs or hands or feet or eyes, and a few children were as well. Their injuries were evidence that they had actually attempted to work their land.
They had bought their homes and the surrounding land from a swindler, who promised them a safe place to live after the Taliban took over their village. What he had sold them were homes on a densely-mined field. They didn’t realize this until they started to explore the land, but the swindler who took their money was nowhere to be found. Now they had nowhere else to go.
It was not their need for blankets and winter fuel that needed to be brought to the attention of the commander, though that was included in my report, but the tragedy of their story about the minefield. This is where HTT work really can make a difference, as military forces may never have understood this without sending someone to talk freely to the village. However, with this knowledge, the military may be able to do something truly helpful, in addition to providing the winter supplies they had assumed might be needed.
We turned to leave, so we could bring this information back to the British commander. Then we realized that the little mine detector that had led us into the field was now out of power, or “dead” for some other reason. There was no doubt that mines were thickly-placed, as attested to by the missing parts of the people surrounding us. Word was passed that the plan was simply for us to walk out, hoping that we stepped where we had before. (I smiled confidently as we waved goodbye, but I think I wore out the set of rosary beads in my pocket as we made our way back to our jeep.)
Gratefully, we returned to the compound without incident. Instead of eating or resting, I completed the report, as I felt it was urgent to get the full information to the commander. I turned it in, headed for my tent because I still felt sick from earlier in the day, and collapsed.
Day 179
Leatherneck again. One last time. The chow hall has its grand opening today, and I made it!
As thrilled as I am, there are many who are more so than me. The excitement has reached a feverish pitch. We’ve all waited so long, we’re going to make this a celebration worth having.
I walked in. I don’t know where they could have come from, but there were balloons! Streamers fell from the ceiling. Happy flags waved.
There were cook stations just like I imagined, and each was serving their very best. There was fruit, all sorts of fruit, flown in especially for the occasion. The salad bar overflowed,
and there were even additional tables set up with fancy restaurant deserts no one had seen for endless months.
We thought the mood could not be more jubilant, but then we saw, of all people, CNN’s Anderson Cooper himself sit down at a table. We were a bit awed at the presence of such celebrity. He was coming to cover the work here, I suppose, and he just happened to arrive on “chow hall day.”
Then, it occurred to us. He had been told of our great trials—the way we lived in utter deprivation and fought on. Now this was what he saw. Balloons and banners and chocolate-covered cream puffs. Couldn’t we have waited just one more day?!
Day 180
With just a bit of wistfulness and an enormous amount of gratitude, I returned safely from my final patrol today. I was thrilled that it took place from Camp Leatherneck to the Helmand villages and Kuchi settlements that I have come to know well. I wanted to say my goodbyes.
When I arrived at the first Kuchi household I had visited, and the last one I would see, the ladies took me aside with great urgency. “There is something we really need to tell you,” they said in whispers, as they led me by the hand. I took a deep breath, because I thought I knew what was coming.
HTT is not a classified intelligence organization, but sometimes villagers will pass vital intelligence information to whatever Americans they can contact. When this happens to HTT, we pass the information along to the channels that handle such things. Usually, the information is something like “I am afraid because I believe my husband is building a bomb in the back shed,” or “There are twenty fighters hidden over that hill. Don’t go home that way!”
I took out my notebook and was prepared to listen. “You must be having man tro
ubles, dear, and we think we know why.” Completely taken by surprise, I laughed out loud. Then, welcoming the advice, I asked, “Why is that?”
“Because you really don’t do enough about your looks. We don’t mean this the wrong way, because you’re actually not extremely bad-looking. As far as Americans go, you’ve got the most potential to be attractive. However, you really need to change a few things if you hope to get a man, dear.”
“Okay, what should I do?
“Well, first off, you need to stop wearing that drab uniform and put on some color! You need as much color as possible!”
“It is my job to wear these clothes here, but when I go home, I promise to wear bright colors.”
“Very good. Now, your face is so plain. You don’t have a single tattoo. Grandma here did ours, and she would be happy to do some for you too.” Grandma looked up and smiled at me from under her tent of shawls. I knew Grandma well because I had often tried to get her medical aid. She suffered from some condition that resembled Parkinson’s Disease—her hands shook constantly. She winked and raised her shaking hands to reveal a sewing needle and a pot of ink at the ready.
Despite Grandma’s shaking hands, she really had done beautiful tattoos on the girls’ faces and arms, but I suspected she did them years ago. A part of me was tempted to agree, just to have such a special souvenir. However, I couldn’t see grandma keeping a steady hand today. “Your tattoos are gorgeous,” I told Grandma and the girls, “and I wish I could have one, but just like the rule about my clothes, I am not allowed to have tattoos on my face.”
“That’s terrible. You should really get a new job,” they told me.
“I will when I go home. Is there anything else I should do?”
“Yes. By all means, wear more rings. You only have one. You should definitely wear another on your thumb at the very least.”
Crossing the Wire Page 20