Catching up

Okay, first things first. A lot of things have happened since I last did this. I also promised several people that I would write about [fill in the blank] in my next blog post. Since it has been a few months, that’s a lot of promises. So sorry about old news, but anyway, here it goes:

Obama shot Bin Laden in the Face

Generally Afghan reaction to Bin Laden being shot in Pakistan was really well represented by Karzai, who—for once—seemed to really speak for all of his people when he basically stated: “We told you so.” Reactions from co-workers covered all the viable views Afghans seem to be capable of, such as: denial (“I want to see the body.”), conspiracy theory (“They killed him a long time ago and decided now is a good time to announce it”), sorrow (“He was a good man, and Bush and the Jews framed him for 911”), and nihilism (“Yes, I heard. It won’t change anything here”). Generally, “we told you so” and “who cares” cover almost everybody’s feelings at the time. Personally, I was happy they finally got him. I know that’s not the most human rights oriented reaction, and it would have been nice if he had been captured alive, dragged to a federal court, and put on trial. Had they done so, I would have advocated for life imprisonment instead of the death penalty, though not for his sake. Still, when I read the news of his demise, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction that I’m not ashamed of.  

Helmand

The timing of Mr. Bin Laden’s death did worry me a little since two days after he was shot while watching porn, I was on a plane with my friend and our regional director Haqmal flying to Helmand. Helmand is a large and rather hot (both action and temperature wise) province in the south of Afghanistan where a lot of US Marines were shipped after the British ones failed to subdue those folks.

However, I found the place quiet and pleasant. In Lashkar Gah, the provincial capital, green parrots circled giant sunflowers, and fruit vendors hawked wonderful green plums I enjoyed unwashed and heavily salted while walking the streets at night. The Helmand River provided fresh fish, which we fried and ate with the seasons first watermelons. Large, fruit-bearing cannabis plants grew unmolested on the premises of the appellate court, where men (prosecutors and judges from the southern districts) garbed in clothing from a century ago listened to a lecturer explain what the rule of law was and the difference between their cultural beliefs and the laws of Sharia.

Haqmal and I first met with the chief prosecutor of the province because he was still holding a young woman that had been declared innocent of murder charges, since he wanted to appeal the case. In case you don’t think this is ridiculous, let me assure you it is. She was all of five feet, had no means to escape Helmand, and the evidence against her had been flimsy to begin with. It should also be mentioned that this prosecutor’s last job had been on the Human Rights Commission of Afghanistan. All of that meant that I was foaming at the mouth and that Haqmal abandoned our usual routine where he is the patient one trying to make a deal and instead joined me in brow beating the guy. This didn’t get us far. Though we did take pictures.

We left the uncooperative prosecutor, visited the juvenile detention facility to meet some of the boys there, had tea with some military justice folks, and finally, had a meeting with the chief appellate judge. A tiny white-bearded man who sat behind a computer purchased five months before that was still wrapped in plastic, the Chief Judge had a healthy sense of humor. I complained that his judges would force our lawyers to take clients on the spot in the court and give them five minutes to “investigate the case”. He chuckled and told me a story about him doing the same thing to a hapless rookie defense lawyer whose brand new client was a giant Taliban: “he did a very good job considering.” “How long was the trial?” “Hee Hee! Not more than fifteen minutes.” Haqmal brought up the case of the young women still held by the prosecutor. Heating up again I asked, “In what system on Earth is this allowed?” Between fits of laughter, the Chief Judge agreed, “Not a single one.” His excuse was always the same: "Yes, but this is Helmand."

We got them to agree to release her, and with Haqmal leaving for Kandahar, I decided I would try to stay with the provincial reconstruction team (PRT) that funds our office down there. I had to meet with them for dinner anyway and thought it was very likely they would put me up for two nights in an air-conditioned pod.

Should I Stay Or Should I Go?

The PRT is a base dominated by British and American military personnel. It is heavily fortified using a lot of sand given shape by means of burlap and metal fencing. The outer gate is guarded by a bunch of Afghan police dudes who looked really unfriendly. Of course, I made friends, and they asked me to take their picture. When I wondered aloud whether it might be against the rules to take a picture of a military compound with a bunch of foreigners inside in one of the most dangerous provinces in Afghanistan, one of them said, “Not if I put my sunglasses on first,” which seemed fair to me.

The meeting went well and the PRT food was not bad, but my appetite was stilted by the amount of weapons casually pointed at me. At one point an Army dude sat down next to me after depositing his M60 on the ground a couple of feet away the table. Its barrel was pointing straight at my bearded head, though of course this was not personal.

I still really wanted to sleep with AC, so at the end of dinner I asked for the favor and sat waiting for my counterpart, Naina, to go ask her superiors. I tried to make small talk with some of the folks there, but ended up looking like a fool when I called a Range Rover a Land Rover and one of the British officers had to correct me. So I shut up and sat waiting patiently while watching a satellite TV reality show about British teenagers going on unsupervised vacations and doing stupid things.

Naina came back a little harried and explained that I was not allowed to stay, that I shouldn’t have been allowed inside, and that I had to leave immediately because they didn’t want to be responsible for my safety. Someone, not her, someone further up the chain, had basically told me to get out. Now. This was a little unexpected, but I said that it wasn’t a problem and tried calling the office knowing their phones wouldn’t work. Why not? Well, in Helmand, the Taliban have politely explained to the cell companies that service has to stop at a specific time in the afternoon, usually three. And the cell companies do as they are told; otherwise their towers get blown up.

When I didn’t get an answer, Naina looked a little sick, but I smiled reassuringly and told her to just walk me out of the base. Honestly, I was pretty tired of the place and starting to yearn for the fruit vendors and their delicious green plums.

I was thinking that those cops outside were pretty cool and was sure they would help me out. Even if they didn’t, I was dressed and looked like a religious student. So long as I didn’t open my mouth and no one needed advice on the Koran, I could walk the mile and a half to the office unmolested. All I needed were directions.

As we searched for someone to give me them to me, the sun set, and with the waning light, Naina became more and more distraught. She deposited me with some logistics people who gave me the directions I needed and rushed off. Five minutes later, she reappeared looking less worried but even more apologetic. She had gone to some other person further up the chain. I suspect Naina pointed out to this person that they were about to put a US citizen out on the street at night in Lashkar Gah without protection.

Naina explained that new orders were issued. Not only was I not being thrown out anymore, no actually, I was not allowed to leave their custody until safely deposited back in Kabul. So within a matter of fifteen minutes, I was told to get out and then that I was not allowed to leave. I also had to cut my trip short, since they wanted to be rid of me as soon as possible. Naina explained that this meant getting on a 4 A.M. helicopter flight to Bost, which is the airport/giant military base and catching a military flight back to Kabul. Getting me on these flights took another couple of hours. I just kept watching British TV.

Afterward, Naina, who had been doing all the work, graciously bought me two beers (I had no dollars), and I got my wish and slept a total of four hours in an air-conditioned pod. I woke up and made my way to the helicopter pad along with a fellow traveler named Richard who was on the same flights as I was. An extremely nice British gentleman, Richard was the head of a logistics company  but had previously served in the military. He was an old hand at dealing with these folks and having him around was extremely helpful to me. We waited for the flight in a graveled space with two benches. While Richard napped, I bummed a cigarette from the kid on duty. He looked like a high school student, was from Philadelphia, smoked Newports and was really really ready to go home. I asked him how long he had been deployed. Only six weeks he said. Jeez I replied.

Bost is a gigantic air base, and by road it takes less than ten minutes to get there from Lashkar Gah. Our helicopter flight however took two hours. It made a loop, first going south and then coming back up. Stopping to pick up and drop of military personnel at various bases like a bus driving its route. We went far enough south for Richard to point out Pakistani border to me. The old dudes inside, contract workers who looked like they wouldn’t be here but for the state of the economy back home, gave us safety briefings that mostly concerned not getting chopped up by the blades of the helicopter as we ran away from its shot-down and burning wreckage. At one point one of them, a big boned man wearing a shirt that somehow managed to hang loosely about him, goofed up and the door flew open mid-flight. He was scolded and told to just down sit next to me and not touch anything. He was sweaty and miserable.

When we landed in Bost, Richard talked them into giving us MREs and pods and I worked on some reports and ate until it was time to queue up for our flight back to Kabul. Richard and I both knew that body armor and a helmet are usually a must on these military flights, but I managed to make it through security check-in and sat down on the airplane next to two giant US Marines without any incidents. I thought I was home free, but then someone asked: “Do you have a helmet and body armor?” I whipped my head in the direction of the flight-crew member trying to look innocent and pitiful. "I don’t. I’m sorry." "Well, HOW did you get through security and check-in?" "I just walked through and showed my ID. I’m sorry."

He rushed out of the airplane, called some folks, and another Brit, who was even more distraught, wondered how I had gotten to Bost. My answer caused him to flutter his arms like bee or humming bird, lift up on his tip toes and to carefully explain to me that Afghanistan was a nation at war and flying in helicopters is dangerous. I was really tired, and his heavy British accent, animated style, and litany of obvious facts made me think of Monty Python skits. I distinctly remember wishing I could join in by putting on my best British accent and yelling: "Say no more, say no more. Wink wink, nudge nudge."

Richard tried to run interference, but they seemed mostly upset at the total failure of their systems to catch me before I boarded. I would have to get off, all the cargo would have to be rechecked, and the flight delayed unless they could find me a helmet and some body armor. One of the two Marines glared at me while shaking his head. The other smiled real big, commented on my cowboy boots, and offered me his spare body armor. 

Thus, I found myself heading towards Kabul in the helmet of an unknown British officer in Bost and the extra body armor of a kind American Marine. Of course, I looked like a four year old dressed in his dad’s clothes: the armor formed a tent around me, and the helmet came all the way down to the middle of my nose, totally covering my eyes. I didn’t mind though. I pushed it back enough to take a couple of pictures after they closed the back, then let it slide forward again so I could pass out cold the moment we got on the runway and wake up only when I was safe and sound in Kabul. Once there, they dropped me off near the British Embassy across from the supermarket that had been blown up a couple months before, killing a human rights activist and her whole family. I walked over to it and called Zanzir to come pick me up.

 

Quotes and Stories

Quotes:
“Your country dirtied up my pants!” – Me, being peeved about how fast my nice suit pants got dirty today.

“Our country dirtied up the world!” – The almost instant reply by Qazi Mustaffa, who looked like he was asleep when I made my complaint. He is an old judge who, due to the pressure of successive torture under the Communists, Mujahedin, and Taliban, lost his ability to hold a regular job and now works for us as a day guard.

“Wolves. Judges. Wolves. Politicians. Wolves. Foreigners. Wolves. Soldiers and Taliban. Wolves. My face in the toilet. All that blood. Just blood and wolves.” – Another one from Qazi Mustaffa.

“I don’t understand, and I have been thinking about it a lot. Thinking a lot is a sin, so you should just find someone else.” – Leather craftsman commenting on my slightly idiosyncratic bag design. I’m going to have to make a cardboard model.

“When I first moved to Germany, my pants were pitched for two weeks.” – My database manager explaining his time in Germany and how long it took for him to get used to how women dress there. His physical illustration included what appeared to be the ol’ Heil Hitler but terminating in a fist.

Zanzir’s fender bender:
Let me cut to the chase. It was Zanzir’s fault, and the other car’s headlight was broken. A crowd gathered and Zanzir offered to fix the car for the other gentleman. “No,” he said, “I want revenge.” As if by magic, a hammer appeared from among the crowd and the gentleman proceeded to take his revenge. The crowd approved, and Zanzir’s headlight was broken. Zanzir noticed that the hammer stroke had scratched his chrome and demanded justice, since no such injury was suffered by the other gentleman. The crowd agreed. The hammer was passed. Our admin guy got out and told Zanzir to leave it. The crowd disagreed. “Justice!” they screamed, but Zanzir relented.

More Justice:
A woman was sold by her father. She was sold again by her “husband” for a two thousand dollar profit. She was put on the street for some time, ran away, and sought shelter at her aunt's. Her aunt’s husband raped her and threatened her life to keep her silent. She told her aunt and ran away again for fear of him. She was pregnant when she made it to the provincial capital. There, she was arrested by the police for “escape from home.” A legitimate crime under the penal code. Her aunt’s husband still threatened to kill her. One of our lawyers took the case and realized that simply getting her released from prison would not due. After negotiations with the judge, police, and the rapist. Everyone, including her, agreed that the rapist should marry her, and she should become his second wife. The matter was thus settled.

All in a day's work

Since its Norooz, and due to the serious nature of the news these days, the following is not a rant on the situation in Afghanistan.

To start off, here is an email exchange I had with a professor from Texas A&M doing agricultural consulting in Kabul. I have never met the man, but his invitation ended up at our offices by mistake, and after a little search, I found his email address and contacted him. He sent someone to fetch it and then, I sent him this:

Dear Michael,
I sent the invitation along earlier today. Since I figured I may have a little credit:
I'm curious as to whether I can eat the lamb meat here medium-rare, so long as I know the meat is fresh (get it butchered)? Or do these animals have diseases I have never heard of and therefore shouldn't be consumed without properly destroying all the flavor?
I realize this question may not be your primary expertise and is certainly below your pay grade, but I'm tired of gray meat and figured I'll never get this chance again.
thanks,
sia

This was what he wrote:

Dear Siavash,
You are correct, it is not my primary expertise but I have been eating medium rare kabobs in Afghanistan for about 4 years now and no problems. I agree that over-cooked meat is terrible! You will enjoy some of the best sheep meat here in Afghanistan!!! Happy New Year!!
Michael

I love Texans.

The Office and the meaning of life:
There was a kerfuffle at the office with one of the lawyers and one of the drivers getting into a serious enough argument that it caused me to waste a day of work on mediation between the two clans. My tendency in these situations is to berate both sides for their shortcomings. It’s a style that really suites my personality.

The drivers are—with the exception of Zanzir—barely literate. For most, Dari is a second-language they are uncomfortable with, yet they are the least likely to be chauvinistic about tribal differences. The lawyers may feel superior and outnumber them by a four to one ratio, but I would cast my lot with the drivers if the situation ever came to a head.

Anyway, while in the middle of telling the drivers that they ought to be much more polite to the lawyers they drive around, Najibullah, a hard-working guy with giant hands and a beautifully worn face, asked me in all seriousness and a work-weary voice: “Siavash, is it the case all over the world that less powerful people have to simply take some amount of abuse from those they work for, or is it just the situation in Afghanistan?” I was flabbergasted to find that this was not a rhetorical question. All of the drivers and guards stared at me with genuine curiosity. Thus, I spent half an hour describing the puzzles of socio-economic progress, diverted into globalism, refocused on the nature of justice, and when they still seemed confused (I have no idea why), I put it this way: “A week ago, my boss told me to ‘stop thinking ass-backwards’, and I just nodded my head in agreement.” A room full of raised, furry eyebrows told me that I got the message across.

After a day of shuttle diplomacy, I ended the afternoon by entering the drivers’ room, a place about 2.5 square meters that defies the usual comparison to a locker-room, because these men smell like earth and leather, rather than a jockstrap. They were all glum, since I was making their cohort apologize to the lawyers in the car.

His name is Bashir, a tall Tajik with a head so large and so precariously placed on his tiny neck that I have an irrational fear it’ll fall on me one day and crush the life out of me. Initially, he had refused to apologize, saying he had done nothing wrong and that he’d rather lose his job. Zanzir had warned me he would: “Afghans don’t apologize in the face of injustice.” After scoffing inside at the high-minded rhetoric, I tried to be ‘culturally sensitive’ (less of an a-hole). So, I asked Bashir to do it for me, and when he agreed, I could tell he was genuinely doing me a favor.

Anyway, the drivers’ hole is usually a jovial place where we smoke cigarettes and comment on the size of women’s shoulders, and I felt responsible for the oppressive mood. As a result, I challenged one of the guards to a wrestling match.

Amin Shah is about a foot taller than me, has the ugliest goatee I have ever seen, and a week ago, the 19-year-old proudly recounted how his body building coach had given him a compliment in front of the whole gym. Yay! Naturally, after about five minutes, the mood of the place had much improved, and all it cost me were two carpet burns: one giant one on my shoulder and a smaller one on my cheek. When Amin Shah found himself in an arm lock after literally wiping the floor with my face, he smiled broadly, lifted me into the air with his captured arm, and calmly noted that my style was fundamentally very sound.

Dr. Najeebullah or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Taliban

Let me start off by pointing out that I am wrong. That’s what every Afghan I have talked to, here and in the US, has told me about the following opinion:

I’m not scared of the Taliban anymore; in fact I’m scared for them. I mean, I’m a little scared of being blown up by their newly intensive campaign to kill and frighten non-combatant foreigners here in Kabul (this one was scary, oh and this one), but I’m no longer really afraid that Afghanistan will fall into the hands of those total lunatics if NATO leaves. 

Here is why: Everything is different from the nineties, when the Taliban managed to gain a precarious hold on the majority of the territory of Afghanistan. Sure, there are some advantages they now enjoy as opposed to fifteen years ago, with the most important being that Ahmad Shah Massoud, the only warlord that was still effectively resisting the Taliban in 2001 and who seemed to care a little bit (in his later years) about human rights, was killed right before 9/11. No one—certainly not Karzai—has replaced Massoud, who spent most of his relatively short life fighting communists, the Taliban and finally dying at the hands of Al Qaeda suicide bombers.

But I'm not going to dwell on that, especially since many Pashtun don’t consider the Tajik Shah Massoud to have been all that great. So anyway, beyond that little advantage, even if NATO left, the Taliban would have to overcome several disadvantages that they did to have to face when they overran the civil war-torn country in the nineties. 

1. They can no longer depend on Pakistan’s full support. Sure they still have safe havens and even some amount of covert assistance from rogue elements in the military or Islamist factions in the government. But in the nineties, Pakistan, with its own cash and that of Saudi Arabia, fully supported the Taliban without shame or care. That’s just not going to be the case anymore. 

2. The Taliban have been fighting NATO for ten years now (sort of). Though that makes them battle hardened, it also makes them battered. Meanwhile their traditional foes, the warlords of the Northern Alliance have been collecting money, arms and allies in the region, while enjoying the protection and training of the most modern and professional fighting force on Earth. 

3. Most of the Afghan population is no longer curious about what life would be like under the Taliban. They know. And not even a majority of Pashtun liked what Mullah Omar hath wrought. 

4. In 2001, the Northern Alliance with the help of air support and only 4000 foreign troops pushed the entrenched Taliban into Pakistan. How are the Taliban going to push out the Afghan government, who will continue to have air support for the next fifty years (even if it is fractured into the little pieces that represented the Northern Alliance)? 

So, what is it that Afghans say when I ask them about this? Whether I speak with a driver or a minister here in Afghanistan, they continue to fear the Taliban, because everyone else lacks any sense of unity and purpose. Further, they just don’t trust any of the warlords to stay and fight. While they fear and hate the Taliban, everyone accepts that those guys are motivated and brave fighters and that Mullah Omar, crazy though he may be, is not the type to pack up and leave with his poppy profits if the going gets tough. 

My argument is one based on an analysis of resources, alliances, strategies, and historical facts. Theirs is based on personalities, motivation and conspiracy theories. This, of course, is my daily experience when discussing anything from human resource issues to car registration.This is not to say they are not right, just that I'm not used to analyzing those data points.

In any case, if I’m right, then the worst thing that could happen to the Taliban would be an exit by NATO. All of the powerful warlords currently biding their time and enjoying cozy government positions are ruthless war criminals. Literally all of them, whether Pashtun, Tajik, Hazara or Uzbek. If they get to be in charge of the actual war against the Taliban, all of the criticisms against NATO night raids, aerial bombings and drone attacks will seem quaint. 

Can you imagine a scenario when the international community has to rescue the Taliban and their families from war criminals and make claims on their behalf? 

Next: Why the next guard/official/bureaucrat who messes with me will cause my incarceration.

Guns N' Roses

Well … that was a tough December. We haven’t had snow yet, so the dry air, smog and the dust—so much dust—have caused an epidemic of colds and flues. I moved out of the office and into a little house, but rather than giving me some kind of peace of mind, I now have two structures to worry about: water, electricity, gas, internet access, guards, cleaner, etc. At least there aren’t any more lawyers to take care of. Instead, I live with two highly efficient Dutch journalists.

Trying to fix the house, the office or anything here is an exercise in humility and patience. I’ve thrown a fit or two in the last month; mostly in private, but at least once while a scared co-worker cowered in the corner of my office as I hurled inventive profanities by combining English and Persian words. 

Everything here takes three times as long than imagined and when its finished, is in immediate need of further repairs. That is, few projects are ever complete unless you decide that they are. The decision is often reached when the worst is avoided and with lots of self-congratulation. This goes for accessing clean water, painting a room, having heat at night, clean clothes, whatever. Just reevaluate your goal, lower the bar, and gently step over it with your chest out and head held high.

Decent internet access at the office was one of my main priorities, and I was in a bit of a rush to get it done. However, I realized I shouldn’t hold my breath after one particular incident. See, the new ISP folks were supposed to place a dish on our roof. After we used the hose to pull the sucker up, my IT guy, Ashfaq and a few of the guards helped the technicians secure it, while I went down to the office. Up on the roof, while trying to get the thing to point the right direction, they heard our next-door neighbor yelling. Looking down, my guys noticed that he was wielding an AK-47 and accusing them of spying on his womenfolk from the rooftop. Since he apparently missed the giant satellite dish they were lugging around and had a big gun, we didn’t try to reason with him for very long. It took another two weeks to get it set up and working properly without anybody getting shot. Four days later, it needed repairs.

Progress is made, but every inch of it is a struggle. The only times when you can be as successful as you want, are when you want to destroy something. Annoyed by an overly bureaucratic office policy? Ignore and undermine it for a few days and it will disappear. Ugly little unstable wall? Kick it down. Dingy carpet? Tear it out. Overgrown garden? Burn it. That’s right. Burn it. No one gives a damn here, and fire is efficient. Of course, you have to find a new policy that makes sense, build a new wall, buy new carpet and plant a new garden (maybe paint the charred garden walls), but eff it, for now, something got done.

Obviously, I can’t help seeing parallels between my particular situation and that of the greater struggle. I have trouble with folks telling me that after nearly a decade we should have learned that nothing can be done here. They don’t seem to realize that for the first half of this war, our governments were barely securing the place, much less doing the hard work of rebuilding it.

Three years into the war, and after several increases had taken place, we had a little over 12,000 US forces in Afghanistan, Uzbekistan and Pakistan combined. That was 20,000 less than we had in South Korea, and 140,000 less than we had in Iraq (not counting the 50,000 sitting in Kuwait). By June 2008, after doubling from the year before, we had 48,000 troops here. Afghanistan, the second poorest country on Earth, was finally getting more help than South Korea, a member of the G-20.

So really, the US’s, or more accurately, Donald Rumsfeld’s work was a lot like our small fire in the office courtyard. Sure we did something, but we have yet to actually accomplish anything, and by spring, if we haven’t turned the soil and planted some roses (they grow really well here), all those weeds and thistles are sure to grow back.

Next: Why I’m scared for the Taliban (really)


p.s. I don't really know how to respond to individual comments. In fact, to be perfectly honest, I just discovered that I have to click on something to see people's comments.  So I just read them all. You guys are very nice, and yes I want a new quilt.