Crossing the Wire

by Cardinalli, AnnaMaria

  I dare to observe that womanhood itself here warrants offense and distrust—much like the dog whose “dogness” warranted it earlier, much like this distrust warranted the outcome of my own trial in the U.S. rather than the actual matter of the case, much like this distrust results in the horrific violence and abuse that women have known in this cultural context, particularly, but not exclusively, under the Taliban.

  Medical mission.

  I understand now that women are offensive, but I have yet to understand why.

  Day 152

  Oh! There’s something I completely forgot to write about yesterday. It’s not a professional concern, just one that I’ve always wondered about personally. I came here curious about local music.

  When I’m trying to break the ice, or just have a light conversation when I’m vising a home, I often ask, “What kind of music do you like?” or “Could you teach me a song?” Shocking, at least to me, are the answers I usually receive.

  “I don’t listen to music.”

  “Well, what kind of music do you like to sing? Even just around the house?”

  “I don’t sing music.”

  “Okay, well, if you were putting your little baby to sleep, how would you do it? Would you sing him a lullaby?”

  “No, no singing. He will sleep. That’s pointless.”

  I was distressed. One of the most important windows through which to understand a culture, I always thought, was its artistic expression. How was I to make sense of a culture that seemed to give itself no music?

  I knew there was Afghan music, heard in more populated parts of the country, but the rural culture here seemed to have no awareness of it or musical tradition of its own. Either that, or it was somehow so extremely secret they wouldn’t mention it to me, but I couldn’t imagine that to actually be the case. What was I to make of a culture that didn’t sing?

  I finally got a different answer yesterday and, as usual, it came from the Kuchi families.

  “What kind of music do you like?”

  “You know, the good kind! We wouldn’t like bad music. What a question you ask!”

  “What makes it good?”

  Rolling their eyes, the ladies answered, “You can dance to it.”

  Excited, I asked, “Where do you hear it? Can you teach me any?”

  “Silly girl, everyone knows it—just turn on the radio. Bollywood!!!” they exclaimed. And the ladies began demonstrating appropriate dance moves while the men got the radio working.

  I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. When the FET caught up with me, they thought I had been in the sun too long. I wouldn’t stop smiling.

  Day 154

  Today is particularly worthy of a diary entry, as I visited a base housing some Italian forces in Farah province. I was thrilled to find out I was going. It was an area out of my geographical responsibility as a HTT member, but it was a new responsibility of mine as a member of FET. We were going to attend a meeting of local leadership as well as take the opportunity to engage some State Department personnel about women’s issues in the region.

  Table at Italian chow hall.

  My heart stopped just a bit to see the Italian flag flying in Afghanistan. We had some time to kill between our helicopter landing and the start of the meetings. Logically, I made an immediate beeline for the Italian chow hall, certain that it must possess something far better than the offerings at Leatherneck. I never did eat there. I was stopped in my tracks by what I saw.

  Amid the most primitive accommodations, there was one small table, beautifully set. It had a white tablecloth. The plates and cups were good china, and I wondered how they could have arrived in Afghanistan without breaking. The silverware was real. It was complete with a wine glass, crystal candlesticks, and a crystal vase. The simple flower in the vase was the only part of the setting that wasn’t real.

  Its presence struck me with all the sweetness and tragedy of a Puccini opera. The table was always kept, set with great care, waiting for the soldiers who would never return. I touched a hand to it with a kiss.

  I went to the first meeting a bit distracted, and my Italian wasn’t good enough to follow the translators too well, but things were fortunately uneventful. The second meeting, with the State Department, however, revealed something I found odd. I mentioned an idea that any program aimed at women’s needs must, to some degree, take into account children’s needs as well, as whatever resources a woman had were likely to go first to the children she was raising.

  “Great,” I was told, “then we really only need to worry about boys up to the age of six or seven. Girls we can start treating as women soon after.”

  The part about treating girls as having the same needs as women once they were well into their childhoods made perfect sense to me in this context. The part about boys, however, made no sense at all.

  “Wait. What happens to boys after six or seven? They don’t stop needing stuff.”

  “No, but they stop being the concern of their mothers, so they won’t need women’s resources.”

  “Huh? Why would a mother stop being concerned about a six-year-old, whether it was a boy or a girl?”

  “Oh, it’s not so much that the mother isn’t ‘concerned’ in that sense, it’s that the child is no longer her responsibility, and she has limited access to the child and therefore limited influence regarding his care.”

  I’m always amazed at how folks from all levels of the State Department manage to put things so, well, “diplomatically” when they make points that would send an average person’s hair on end. My hair was on end.

  “Why would a mother’s access to her child suddenly become limited?”

  “Well, at that point they’re their fathers’. They spend time with the men of the village, and once they’re able to do that, the men don’t want them so much involved with their mothers anymore. The boys quickly learn to distance themselves from their mothers too. It’s not a big deal. It’s just the way the culture is here.”

  Once again, I want to understand this culture and its values on its own terms. On an emotional level that I keep out of my notes and only in my diary, however, this just rings a dissonant note. I suppose I can understand boys wanting to be “macho,” but this was not the child’s decision. Perhaps six-year-olds elsewhere don’t want their mothers kissing them goodbye in front of the other kids in their kindergarten class. Still, I realize that plenty of other societies are warrior cultures, and a bonding to an intensely male identity is cultivated in boys at a very young age. I needed to respect this.

  Day 157

  A reporter from National Geographic Explorer arrived today. She was a sweet, blonde, gutsy girl who was hard not to think of as an immediate friend. Hearing about the FET, she threw on armor, shouldered a camera, and accompanied me and my interpreter on today’s (very small) patrol. While her footage never aired, it became a beautiful moment to literally put a “lens” on our work.

  We visited a Pashtun settlement with three households. Each one, having met us a few times previously, welcomed our new friend—a blonde American with a camera of all things—into their homes. They shared tea, talked to us about how their health was improving or needed improvement, and told us how the embroidery business, in which some of the teenage girls of the families had begun to engage, was progressing along.

  The girls showed us their work. Their families were proud. I was overwhelmed.

  These were people with hope for their own future and the future of their country. They put effort forward to ensure it. They were willing to welcome an unknown American—a blonde woman with her hair uncovered and her camera, which could show to the world the women of their household—without hesitation.

  They bore us no hate, only kinship. Things had changed. Things could change. I saw it, through that kind reporters’ lens, today.

  I couldn’t help but be reminded of the one other time a journalist had followed me on a patrol. It was such an unfulfilling experience, I disregarded mentioning it even
in my diary, but I remember it now. She was horrified the whole time.

  Her first statement, upon meeting me, was “It’s so dusty, it’s affecting my sinuses. I don’t know how you people manage to be so dirty.” She acted as if the dust was present because we were simply too uncouth to use a vacuum cleaner and an air purifier—or as if we, ourselves, didn’t mind it.

  I figured it was a bit of shock, much like what I experienced when I first arrived. I ignored the comment. When she followed me on patrol, however, I realized her attitude was real!

  I was talking to the father of a large family. The conversation was going neither well nor poorly, but he was concerned about teaching his boys to read and write and having so little with which to do so. I realized that a gift of the school supplies the Marines kept in their vehicle—kits of crayons and pens and paper—might help things go better. I put a word in to the Sergeant next to me, and he passed the word along to the Marines back in the trucks.

  A bit more time progressed and the conversation wasn’t improving, so I asked the Sergeant how things were coming along with the supplies. He turned and bellowed helpfully:

  “You get CC her f*cking crayons! I wanna see those crayons this f*cking instant!”

  I loved my Marines—the way they could manage to fit the words “f*uck” and “crayons” in the same sentence, while actually expressing a thoughtful and generous intent. They arrived immediately and cheerfully with gifts for the children. The father was delighted.

  Our reporter saw it differently. “I can’t believe the offensive language you people use so carelessly. You demonstrate your ignorance and violence at every turn.” I was hurt for the sake of the Marines.

  They were doing whatever was necessary to help me and to help this family. Yes, the work here is gruff. Yes, the work here is dirty. That’s how we were bringing about the change we witnessed so beautifully today.

  Need those crayons!

  Day 158

  Kilroy was here. I couldn’t help myself. I never thought I would be the kind of person to engage in graffiti, but it seemed the only right and loyal thing to do.

  We are waiting for a helicopter from Leatherneck to Lash. Who knows if or when it will come. There’s a wooden table here. It seems that many bored Marines before me have spent time contributing art to the tabletop.

  However, Kilroy wasn’t there. Kilroy was a beloved figure to the troops in World War II. He was particularly loved by my Grandpa.

  Now, having rethought Grandpa’s role in the war, I’ve begun to understand the humor. Grandpa would draw Kilroy in mischievous places. He’d draw him in places he wasn’t supposed to be, just to say an American had been there—like Kilroy—peeking over the wall. I drew him for Grandpa

  Shura

  Chapter 19

  NATO Soldiers as Objects

  Day 160

  We’ve made it to Lash for a meeting with the head of the UK-based cultural research program similar to HTT. The tiny body of troops here was apparently so happy with the information on humor, the larger organization hoped to pose another question. Their program does not deploy teams, as the US does, and the director shared that despite the expertise of the people who work in their department, they have been unable to adequately answer a question very frequently presented to them by deployed forces.

  No one knew how to explain the apparently overt sexual propositioning of troops by Afghan men. (I had certainly noticed this in recent months.) They were not even sure if they were correctly interpreting the advances for what they seemed. What were, if anyone was willing to ask, the typical sexual practices of the Pashtun male population? Would I mind investigating the matter?

  Excuse me? I had gotten so many somehow sex-related questions in the course of this deployment that I had to wonder if I was unconsciously projecting a Dr. Ruth-like persona. The establishment of the FET was a gender issue, and it brought up to me a great deal of confusion over gender relationships in Afghanistan.

  That was a far cry, however, from overtly researching sexuality, let alone sexual practices. I thought of the well-shaven soldier and the disconcerted contractor, and I understood why the question was relevant. However, I also had to wonder too what research techniques I could employ for this tasking, especially as a female.

  Nevertheless, I agreed to the project. I had certainly seen plenty of homosexual behavior among Afghan men, but aside from my concerns about grooming standards allowing beards, I didn’t truly consider it a topic worth much official study. Apparently, it was more of an issue than I had thought if it was so prevalent that it affected Western interaction with the Afghan people to the point that high-level officials needed to answer the question.

  How much of an issue was it to the Afghan people themselves, then? If this was an essential piece of culture, we did need to understand it better. After all, this war centers upon the people.

  Day 163

  Back at Leatherneck, I paged through my government-issued notebooks, sized just right for the pockets of my uniform, which had been my constant companions. Unlike my diary, which was a confidant, these were simply detailed recordings of each day’s experiences. The first rule of my work was to meticulously record every experience with local and military culture, as you never knew what might prove valuable for later analysis.

  The books bore the marks of everywhere they had accompanied me. The stains of spilled tea and the smell of cheap imported Turkish cigarettes, the dirt embedded from a quick tactical maneuver and the happy child’s drawing on my paper with a brand new pen all came alive on the crumpled paper. I was swimming through a flood of memories, but I was searching for something very specific.

  I needed to revisit the most overtly sex-related research experiences I had recorded. I had put some of the most uncomfortable ones out of my mind, simply because they were so unusual to me that I didn’t really have a mental “file” in which to store them. Suddenly looking through the lens of sexuality, however, some of the most troubling unanswered questions I had struggled with throughout the deployment began to fit a plausible picture.

  Unfortunately, as I sat alone on my bunk, my notes surrounding me in piles that began to reveal an organization, I was disturbed to see the picture that emerged. I remembered the lessons of intelligence analysis that I had learned in my early training. Two seemed the most important to me, and despite my discomfort, they screamed at me now.

  One involved the analysis of competing hypotheses. It was a rule that ensured that the analysis you presented was the one that accounted for the greatest amount of evidence at hand. It made certain that, even unconsciously, you didn’t settle on a hypothesis you “liked,” or thought anyone else might like.

  The other was more of a maxim than a rule, akin to “…and ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free…” emblazoned on the entry wall of a famous government space. It said that the sole job of an intelligence analyst was to “Speak truth to power.” It meant that an analyst’s job was to ignore consequence.

  Ignore offense. Ignore politics. Ignore diplomacy. Ignore the influence of position or rank. Only find and tell the truth to the people who need to know it, whether or not they’d like to hear it. (It wasn’t a job that made for popularity.)

  Though I had many adventures (and frequent misadventures) as a collector of what was truly intelligence, be it classified or not, I still forever saw myself as an analyst.[14] I put back on my wire-rimmed glasses. Regardless of whether I liked what I was doing, after 120 days in Iraq and now 163 days in Afghanistan, I knew my job.

  I leaped from my bunk and found our old corner of office space in the command tent. It had grown even smaller. The air conditioning, as was frequently the case, was out. It stayed out. The August temperature seemed beyond what I could endure. Able to do nothing else—even sleep had it been possible in the heat—I worked through the first night and soon found there were many more to go.

  Day 167

  For the past five days, I moved from the computer onl
y to shower, because the heat made any food seem incredibly unappetizing. I could be seen in my corner, wearing several identical versions of the coolest, thinnest military t-shirt I could find (pilfered from British supplies), with my hair caught up unglamorously in a bandana and circles under my eyes.

  The generous Marine officers I have come to so appreciate occasionally smuggled me an energy drink, as I must have appeared to need one. “Marine gasoline,” they called it. It occurred to me that maybe I had followed in my Grandfather’s footsteps—here I was, a “standby typist” after all.

  No one but the Marines talked to me, most likely because I looked so engrossed! After all, I “liked writing papers,” and I seemed to be writing one. I tried to research any previous academic findings on the topic of Pashtun sexuality whenever the internet connection at the camp worked. It continually depressed me to find more evidence that fit only the hypothesis I suspected.

  This evening, I finished. The report is below. I am going to chow. I am finally going to bed.

  Human Terrain Team (HTT) AF-6

  Research Update and Findings

  Pashtun Sexuality

  Background

  The Human Terrain Team AF-6, assigned to the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Battalion and co-located with British forces in Lashkar Gah, has been requested by these forces to provide insight on Pashtun cultural traditions regarding male sexuality for reasons of enhanced baseline cultural understanding for improved interaction as well as any IO applicability.

  Methodology

  Because of the extremely sensitive nature of this investigation, traditional HTT techniques involving a directed research plan and series of interviews executed to generate, test, and confirm hypotheses are not feasible. Direct questioning of Pashtun male interviewees on the subject is further hindered by the female gender of the social scientist writing.