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.