Afghan Reflections

Ride Home

Let me say a word about how call-signs were assigned once one arrived in Kabul and received a radio.  The recipient had a chance to select a call-sign, however, no delay was entertained else something like Cupcake or Buttercup was chosen. I was relieved — my choice was Kayak.

One day I scheduled a meeting with the general assigned to command the intelligence academy. Accompanying me was the construction manager of the facility. His call-sign was Big Builder, and indeed he was big. I relied upon him to give a realistic estimate as to when  the renovation of  the buildings would be completed and ready to receive the first students.

The fifty acre compound was once a Soviet facility during the occupation. The mounds of former ammunition bunkers lined the left side of the road as one entered. I was told, but never visited, an underground secure communications facility located across from the bunkers. Just beyond the perimeter of the training facility, to the north, was located a major office of the Red Crescent and on a promontory in the distance a communications tower. The general and I trudged to the top and viewed further off modest brick homes nestled further up on the hill in a most picturesque setting against a mountain backdrop.I wondered who was responsible for carting water to these isolated homes when the general told me that they were not served by well water.

On the 40-minute return drive to our compound in the Green Zone, we passed through the Napa District, known for its shops selling used automotive parts, followed by merchants selling rugs, some of which were spread out before the shops. Someone asked the name of the circle, perhaps intending to return to purchase a rug. The Blackwater security guard riding shotgun replied “Blue Saucer,” just as we passed a concrete disk that looked like a blue saucer in the middle of the traffic circle.

Someone began discussing the number of parachute jumps he collected in his military career. I had no intention of mentioning my measly five qualifying jumps so many years earlier in the madness of youth. The fellow riding shotgun — a former Army Ranger — said he had one jump.  “What, only one jump?” all asked in unison.  “Yes, only one combat jump,” he repeated with a smile and eighty-four other jumps.” 

He had parachuted into a suspected training facility and home of Sheik Omar in Khandahar in 2003. (Sheik Omar was and is the Taliban leader who is now suspected of being sequestered and protected in the tribal areas of Northwest Pakistan.) 

Upon landing there was not much to do since most of the Taliban fighters had been killed by Specter, a rapid firing airborne weapons system, or they had fled. However, he was quick to remind us that it still qualified as a combat jump.No one objected.

A second fellow in the vehicle mentioned his fifteen jumps with three malfunctions.  He decided that someone was trying to convince him to give up jumping, which he did.

A third warrior mentioned his last jump that really could have been a disaster but somehow he landed on his rucksack in a sitting position.

The drive home passed quickly with such sharing.

Afghanistan and the Future

Those evenings in the hutch or at the Tali-Bar gave me the space to ponder Afghanistan’s future, though admittedly from the distance of knowing that I would be returning to Virginia after my respite there. I witnessed and read about the aid pouring into the country along with the military and security assistance, with much of the aid seeming to disappear and little improvement in the infrastructure evident. Perhaps, not much has changed since I was there in 2005.

I could not avoid missing the reporting on the poppy fields, the illegal drugs and the war-lords and even the Taliban who benefited from the illicit trade as the drugs made their way sometimes over ancient and not so ancient routes north, through Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, ultimately reaching Russia and Europe, and the feeble attempts to rid the farmers of their sole source of income, not to say the warlords of their booty.

Then there were the forests where only 3% has been reforested since the 80’s due to the ravages of war, the lack of a railway system – as existed in India since the British Raj – preventing a true integration of the disparate provinces of the nation; not to mention that Afghanistan is land-locked; and that on all sides were nations who sought to influence greatly Afghanistan’s domestic and foreign policy – and the Western nations who had their own agenda.

For some inexplicable reason or reasons, I began to gain confidence in Afghanistan’s future. Could it have been prompted by meeting Afghans both in Afghanistan and back home –  Afghans with a singular devotion to the country that is distinguished by a deep spirituality, a heritage reaching back before the invasion of the Genghis Khan, a humor that transcends sorrow, a street-savvy and suspicion that would make a New Yorker comfortable, an ability to endure hardship that escapes us, a trust that is extended in a handshake – not rattled by a complex legal document, a wisdom enshrined in the tribal elders, an artistry captured in the colors of the landscape, and hospitality that is expressed even in poverty.

And I wondered, what would it take for an international corporation, supported by a nation, to boost its commitment to Afghanistan’s security and economic development by entering into 50 year mutual joint-venture agreements  – repeat mutual joint-venture –for say the lumber, pharmaceutical,  communications, and transportation industries? Is it the Japanese that develop 50-year business plans – embracing long-term vision – as others seek short-term gains? Or is the alternative to allow, yes allow, the emergence of another jihadist state to suffocate freedom of expression.

You can see that a hutch, a glass of wine, distance from home, or perhaps it is just something in the aging process where questions formulate that challenge conventional thinking.

Afghan Reflection on War

Over tea one afternoon with some senior officials in the year 1384, or 2005 if you prefer, the Afghans were expressing relief that the anticipated violence in Mazar e Sharif did not materialize. Mazar e Sharif is located in the north and was a strategic base for the Soviets during their invasion of Afghanistan. They used its airport to launch air strikes on the Afghan mujahedeen. In the course of our conversation, the Afghans decided it was vigilance that caused the lull in the fighting.

Who is to say? Was it vigilance, weariness, the weather, luck, prayers, hope, or a combination of factors, especially when the government was in a defensive mode waiting for the enemy’s strategy to unfold? At this time, there was growing violence along the Afghan-Pakistan border as well. Nothing seems to change.

On another occasion I recall standing at the front entrance of the former hotel and the home of the Tali-bar. One could see in the distance a tall radio communications tower set on a peak.  I was told that years earlier, first during the conflict against the Soviets, then the mujahedeen fighting among themselves, and later against the Taliban, though everyone tried, no one succeeded in destroying what had become a symbol of military ineptitude.

On the first day of the conflict against the Taliban in 2003, the tower was destroyed by one precision bomb dropped by an American aircraft, leaving the buildings surrounding unscathed. The word quickly spread on the streets of Kabul that the Americans would win the war.

Now, some years later still, the question to consider is what does winning the war really mean?

Spirituality and Mysticism in Afghanistan

Afghanistan is a land of superstition, mysticism, and luck. Let me give an example of luck. One day I was off to visit the director of the Intelligence Service.  I removed my body armor before going into his building – which, incidentally, was the former KGB Headquarters in Kabul when the Soviets occupied Afghanistan.  To do so I took off my glasses to get the armor over my head, placing the glasses on top of the armored SUV.  I followed the same procedure on our return to the vehicle.  We arrived at our compound fifteen minutes later after negotiating speed bumps, sharp turns, and traffic cutting from one lane to the other at high speeds.

I realized only when we were approaching the last leg of the journey that I left my glasses on the roof of the vehicle.  When we parked the vehicle, I discovered to my great surprise that my glasses were still there. How is that for luck? Later, when I recounted the incident to Sufi friend, he offered the following quote from Saidi (Sheikh Saadi of Shraz – 1184-1291):A grain of merit is better than tons of everything else, but a grain of luck is better than tons of merit.

About superstition, in a meeting with the one of the directors, he accidentally bumped my shoe as he stretched his leg under his desk. Having heard the required response only days earlier, I quickly extended my hand to shake his. The Afghan superstition is that not doing so ensures that one will engage in an argument or worse with the individual at some future time. The director in taking my hand smiled that I had learned of this custom.

Finally, let me say something about mysticism – or perhaps more accurately spirituality. In another encounter with my Sufi interlocutor, he repeated a poem of Saidi from memory.  His deep voice, his expressiveness with sparkling gray eyes, his hands moving to emphasize the words, and the lilt of his Dari was mesmerizing. When I asked him to repeat the poem, he picked up the two inch thick volume of Saidi's poetry and began to read first in Dari and then translated into English.  Here is the English translation.

On the last moment of my life,
Just before I died,
My last thought was of You.
My wish was for this body to
Become the soil upon which You reside.

And on the very morning of resurrection,
As I poke my head out of the tomb
I am going to ask only about You and
The Person I am going to look for and find is You.
Even with the throngs of souls rising up around me.

And though there are Angels in heaven
That will offer wine to those of us rising,
I am not going to drink from them
Because I am already drunk with love for YOU.

And isn't it interesting that we consider Afghanistan a dark, foreboding, and violent place?  And yet just beneath the surface of this rocky land these sentiments arise?

The Tali Bar

During my stay in Kabul my hooch was located on the grounds of a hotel that once hosted local weddings and celebrations. Wild roses grew in unattended gardens on property leased from the estate of the son of a prominent political leader.  I say estate because the son is said to have been gunned down when he rushed to the site where he had heard that his father had been assassinated.  The father was unharmed.

Off what was once the hotel ballroom – converted into a storeroom – was the Tali Bar. Warrior spirits still lingered there. When the U.S. special operations forces entered Kabul – still contested by Taliban fighters, they spent the first nights on the floor of what was to become the Tali Bar.

When I was there, camouflage netting hung from the ceiling; captured weapons – mostly long guns and machine guns – were affixed to the plywood walls, installed after the taking of Kabul.  It was sort of a dingy place with two pool tables situated a couple of steps down from the bar.  There were a few tables for card games, a large screen television with Armed Forces Network. All drinks were $2 and on the honor system. (Yes, a Coke was $2 as was a glass of wine poured to the brim.) Cigarette and cigar smoking were permitted and not surprisingly created a thick cloud over the card games once commenced. There was a sound system, but it was drowned out by the animated conversations of the old and young warriors.

What made this gathering spot special were the hundred of statements and messages written on the plywood walls by former visitors to this weary land. What follows is a brief sampling of the spirit.

The only thing necessary for the triumph of Evil is for good men to do nothing.

You have never lived until you have almost died.  Life has a special meaning that the protected will never know.

Dreams and intellectual activity are incompatible, whereas action is well suited to a large measure of dreams.

The deed is all, not the glory.

If I see you no more in this world, I'll see you in the next.  Don't be late.

No matter what they say, we are one nation under God and still in God trust.

In memory of Sgt. Lord (USMC) K.I.A. 8-18-04 An Antar, Iraq. Rest in Peace Devil Dog, Semper Fi."

It was easy to become reflective in the Tali Bar amidst such witness.

Not so many years ago in the winter season, I drove outside of Kabul toward the airport on my way to meet with an official in charge of personnel. I welcomed any ride outside the confines of the Green Zone. From time to time, I spotted the letters OMAR DT followed by a number that was painted on the dusty brown mud walls and low buildings that lined the road. When I inquired as to the meaning I was told that they signified the area had been cleared of mines for the number of kilometers and direction indicated.

On this occasion I passed hulks of Soviet armored personnel carriers, evidence of the destruction that holds to this day Afghanistan in its grip. The building in which we were to meet was pockmarked by shrapnel and automatic weapons fire. Deep craters were in evidence in the vacant lots surrounding, perhaps caused by bombing runs by the Soviets or artillery rounds let loose by warring factions.

There were clusters of gleeful children playing on the streets and in the courtyards of the buildings, as they did not have school in the winter because the buildings were not heated.

 The official who was there to greet me was a swarthy fellow with a dark beard sprinkled with gray, in his early 50's – a ruthless looking fellow with a great laugh, twinkling eyes, but eyes that have lived through many life times.  We talked about family being the treasure beyond treasures, and how children – and I added grandchildren – kept us young.  As is the custom, a huge tray of fruit was put before me. Thankfully, I had become adept at peeling an orange and eating it without too much fanfare.  Tea was usually served — and quite a variety from green to tea with milk and sugar. And there was always included a tray of green raisins and shelled walnuts, though the latter were sometimes not so well shelled necessitating the consumption of some rough edges, almonds, and some pastry, indescribable but tasty.

The gentleman talked about the destruction his country had faced. Prior to the Taliban, during the Soviet occupation, the Soviets destroyed the very morals of the country — the fighting was so cruel. The most recent oppressors, the Taliban, destroyed the school system and it will take many years to recover. Though his children attended school, they didn’t learn anything because there were no trained teachers available – all female teachers were fired by the Taliban.  Therefore, when he returned home in the evening, he stayed up late instructing his children. He feared for this generation of children.

I was flattered upon departure when he asked might I be an American of Afghan heritage.

On the ride back, I considered the spirit of the Afghans I was meeting to be quite extraordinary in their compassion brought out by the pain experienced.

Whenever I could manage it, I would slip off to the Gandamack Lodge Restaurant – outside the Green Zone. I say slip off – not quite. Before departing we lined up transportation and protection in an armored SUV, and then received final approval from the security office. And of course we had to be armed before departing.

The restaurant, which is still owned by a British national, was on the approved list of restaurants because it was located well within a compound behind a high green metal fence on a narrow street – almost alley. It was decided that a car bomb would not penetrate the restaurant’s interior.

During the Taliban era, the restaurant was the home to Osama bin Laden’s fourth wife, and it was rumored that he still owed $500 for her stay. It was one of the first Western restaurants opened at a time when most of the city lay in ruins after the Taliban fighters were expelled. See this link – http://www.gandamacklodge.co.uk/index.htm — for the Gandamack Lodge today, just in case you are planning a visit to Kabul.

Upon arrival, we would ring the bell and wait for the 4 by 6 inch metal slot at eye-level to slide open so we could be recognized. The gate was then unlocked to receive us. Antique guns lined racks in the foyer of the lodge, where leather bags were for sale as well.   In the dining room a CD with music from Titanic played.  A huge samovar adorned an antique dark wood service station in one corner of the L-shaped dining room. The walls were covered in the art work of a Canadian photo-journalist.

Our waiters were all Afghans with an easy, friendly manner, and they served us with grace and attention. After all these years, it was not the food that I recall, but the respite in the deep conversations that we would exchange with those whom we encountered only briefly in the turmoil that was and is Afghanistan. It seemed that life in Kabul encouraged one to focus one’s attention, to be present. Relationships were formed without the preliminaries to share and experience what each considered important in life. Time seemed to slow as we savored each morsel and word exchanged, regretting when it was time to conclude so that we would be ready to meet the vehicle returning us to the Green Zone.

For those of you who are frustrated with our strategy in Afghanistan, let me offer three stories from a Sufi whom I befriended during my stay there.

The first concerns Alexander the Great conquered what was Afghanistan 23 centuries ago, though he never completely subdued the people. It was Alexander’s toughest challenge. He remained there for many years. One day he received a message from his mother, the queen, as to why he was dallying in Afghanistan when he could choose a much more hospitable region from among his conquests. Alexander was troubled as to how to answer her.  Finally, he decided to send her a sample of earth from four corners of this kingdom, representing the land of four tribes and directed emissaries from each tribe to carry the earth back to Macedonia for his mother. Thus, he would explain his reason for staying there.

The emissaries arrived in Macedonia after an arduous journey. They were deciding who among them would go in first to the queen to present the portion of earth from his particular province. But they couldn't agree.  Before long they began to fight and a great commotion arose in the palace.  The queen came out to see for herself what was happening and there she observed these Afghans fighting to the death.  With a knowing smile, she commented, “Now I understand what draws Alexander to remain in Afghanistan.”

The second story concerns hell and the fire pits that exist there.  Huge angels, each assigned to a particular fire pit where they would strike the heads of those trying to escape with large clubs, in the process exhausting the angels.  The exception was one particularly powerful angel who was reclining on the ground.  His fire pit held Afghans who were so condemned.  The other angels became curious and asked why he didn't have to strike potential escapees.  The resting angel explained that every time one of the Afghans reached the top of the pit, poised to escape, another Afghan below pulled him back into the fire.

The third story simply compares Afghanistan to a soup bowl that is turned over. Were you to succeed in turning the bowl over, you would discover another bowl below, and then another, and another.

The message in all three tales is that Afghanistan is difficult to comprehend; but like any challenging puzzle, if one did, who knows what would find in the turmoil, in the fires of hell, or under a soup bowls.

I enjoyed the people with whom I met in a professional capacity. I presented a course on intelligence analysis and about forty Afghans of various ages attended each wearing the deep lines of experience. They were not hesitant to ask probing questions that reflect their interest and intelligence. I found the encounters challenging and very satisfying.

For one session my experienced interpreter had to attend another meeting. His replacement, the cousin brother of a senior official, just returned from Scandinavia, was a disaster. The eyes of those in attendance had begun to glaze in confusion. My interpreter was unable to grasp the intricacies of the subject matter. At one point he wanted to call the experienced interpreter for a translation – not possible since the session could not run over one hour. I put my arm around the fellow and told him to tell the audience that they now should understand that they are in a special profession requiring even a more special vocabulary. In jest, I told the group through this interpreter that I would give the next session in Dari – the official Afghan language.

Dari is a Persian language and spoken in Kabul. Its accent seems harsher than the Farsi which is spoken in Teheran, though both peoples would easily understand each other

I also learned something of the differences in leadership styles that seems to plague the current political scene as well. A Sufi friend explained the differences among the major ethnic groups. An Uzbek tells you to do something because you acknowledge he is the best because he has beaten you and everyone else at any contest proposed; a Tajik tells you to do something because he views himself as the best simply because of his position in the hierarchy; an Hazari wants to lead but only once a consensus is concluded; and a Pashtun – belonging to the largest ethnic grouping in Afghanistan – orders you to do something and you do it, even though as a fellow Pashtun you are just as qualified to be leader as he is, and you probably will decide to pull out of the coalition formed when you decide it's time. I have wondered how this description would hold up in the U.S.

So how do you get these diverse Afghans to work together? The answer is carefully, firmly, patiently, and with humor – not taking oneself too seriously. They are a proud and resourceful people. Perhaps, the same advice is applicable here as well.

Occasionally, I will post a reflection from my time in Kabul in 2005, advising the Afghan ministry charged with responding to the threat posed by the resurgent Taliban.  With Afghanistan figuring so prominently in the media, these reflections might serve to add empathy to a people – not unlike us – seeking peace to raise their families; people who experience and deal with grief and joy in ways so similar – with tears and laughter. So let me being.

I lived in a hooch, a modified shipping container, about 20 feet by ten feet, with a bathroom and shower separate.  Within were bunk beds, steel lockers – like one would find in a gymnasium,  a mini fridge, and a safe in which was stored my sidearm, ammunition, passport, and money.

Security on the fortified compound where I lived was so tight I had thought at the time that it wouldn't be too different if I were serving time in a Federal prison.  A German Shepherd bomb sniffing dog patrolled the grounds with its handler.  Every time we returned to the compound, security personnel searched the vehicle to ensure that some malcontent has not planted an explosive device.  Vigilance and alertness were the watch words of my existence.

Whenever I left to attend meetings with Afghan officials, I carried a weapon and wore body armor. On my first visit to the Afghan ministry, I especially noticed the weight of the body armor after walking up four flights of stairs. Contributing to my huffing and puffing on that first visit was that fact that Kabul is 5,800 feet above sea level.

Driving in Kabul was always an adventure.  Though the flow of traffic was supposed to be on the right, much time was spent on the left, passing slower vehicles. As no surprise, the armored SUV’s and military vehicles most always seized the right of way.

When the clouds cleared several days after my arrival in January, I noticed in the sun the towering mountains – or at least the foothills that surround the city. The snow was deep and the panoramic view of the rugged and steep terrain was spectacular.

The city was poor.  I wondered how the people survived.  The shops along the street sold items that would be rejected for a landfill in Virginia.  The children though were like children – a brilliant light in their eyes and smiles; they looked healthy – but what did I know. Some of the women wore the burqa (head covering); many more were covered in a light blue garment from head to ankle with thin gauze effectively covering their faces.

I met some delightful people in the course of my duties.  Pity that there was no opportunity to socialize. From late 20's to early 60's they were without exception the most eager and alert folks with whom I have had contact; all of whom spent the last 20 plus years in combat.  On more than one occasion, I told them that what they lacked in formal education, they brought forward a world experience that no Westerner can match.  They had a wonderful sense of humor — or at least they laughed at my feeble attempts at humor.  Eager, devoted, curious, energetic, committed, vigilant, expressive with eyes that told their stories, they were proud and not complicated to read. It was easy to form relationships with them, if one was direct and made no attempt to deceive.  Their humor comes up in the tensest of situations when plans were being formulated that in another environment might be considered nerve-wracking.

Let me close with some lines from Sufi poet Rumi who was born in Afghanistan and wrote over five hundred years ago after his family fled to present day Turkey to escape the onslaught of the Mongols.

From behind a thousand curtains, where is located your unknown, I hear a voice that no one else can see.