NO REGRETS ~ An American Adventure in Afghanistan (32 page)

As I changed, Colonel Zahir looked on approvingly. “David, you look like an Afghan. You should come live with us. You would make a fine Afghan. You’re just as stubborn and loud. You’d fit right in with us.”

I laughed. Colonel Zahir was always good for the backhanded compliment. That’s what I loved about him. “I don’t think I’m fat enough to be your Afghan brother. I’d have to have a big belly like you.”

“Ah David, you are halfway there. You’ve put on too much weight since you’ve been here.” He was right about that.

Mirwais, Rasul, and Colonel Zahir sat their staring at me as I disguised myself. Rasul helped me get the manjams situated so that I looked like “a real Afghan.” After my successful conversion to a local, Colonel Zahir had lunch brought to us from the dining facility. Oddly enough, I never felt endangered eating with the Afghan police. Their dining facilities always seemed more sanitary. I think it was a mind game that I played on myself. I never got sick eating with the ANP and escaped Afghanistan without any three-foot-long tape worms crawling out of my ass.

Eating with the Afghans is always an adventure. They give you a plate full of rice. Three or four bowls containing potatoes, soggy french fries, and meat were placed in the middle of the table. Your rice was your own. Everything else was communal. I was fine eating that way with Mirwais, Rasul, and Colonel Zahir. After scarfing down chow, Colonel Zahir walked us over to where we’d be meeting our escort. Colonel Nasim was waiting there for us. Nasim was the regional security commander. I’m pretty sure that he was acting against his wishes. He looked nervous as hell. Zahir winked at him and said, “Dave, you are not an important person.”

“Damn, I thought I was the shit. Now you tell me I ain’t shit, Colonel?”

“No one is going to try to assassinate you or kidnap you but if something happens, it will look bad on us. We are sending two trucks with you. You’ll have six security guards in the truck following you. My nephew and my driver will be with you in your truck. I’m also sending two security guards along in your truck. One of these men will always be within arm’s distance of you.”

“I got ya big daddy. No problems. I’m in disguise. No one will even know I’m out there.”

We waited around for another few minutes for the second truck to arrive. Colonel Nasim gave the security detail a long talk before we departed.

“What’s he saying to them, Mirwais?”

“He told them that if anything happens to you that General Ak will kill them and their families.”

“Holy shit! That makes me feel safer,” I said laughingly.

We stood there for a while longer as we waited for the weapons to be checked and extra ammo for the M249 machine gun to be brought up and loaded on the vehicle. As we stood there waiting, a police unit was standing in formation waiting to enter. Afghan discipline was lax as hell. All of the soldiers kept turning around in formation to stare at me. Finally, one of the Afghan NCOs started exchanging words with Mirwais.

“Mirwais, what was that all about?”

“He was asking who you were. Those guys think that you are from the Panjsheer Valley. That’s what he asked me. ‘Who’s the Panjsheeri?’”

“Get the fuck out of here.” Panjsheer Valley was the home of Ahmad Shah Massoud. Panjsheer is northeast of Kabul on the other side of Bagram Airfield. “Are there white Afghans living in Panjsheer or do they think I’m an albino?” I continued.

“There are light-skinned Afghans in Panjsheer. I guess you could pass for one dressed like that.”

“Really? Well that should make it better out in town. Now we know that I can pass for an Afghan. At least at first glance. With all the security around me, I doubt anyone will risk approaching me. I guess we’re good to go. Besides when I scowl, I’m a scary lookin’ mofo.”

After the ammo was loaded, we rolled out the compound gate. We passed a couple of DynCorp guys whom I knew on the way out. No one recognized me. Zahir’s cousin sat in the front seat and directed us around the city. First stop was the minarets and the Sahn e Goharshad shrine. There are five remaining minarets and the shrine housed in the Mosallah Complex which was once an ancient place of learning. It was built in the late 1300s by Shahrohk, the son of Tamerlane (Timur the Lame), for his wife Goharshad. This university of antiquity was quite progressive for its time since it schooled both men and women. The genders did not mix, of course, because it was an Islamic institute but still women were allowed and even encouraged to become educated.

After Mosallah, we continued up into the foothills to the north of the city in order to reach our next stop—the Martyr’s Museum. This museum was dedicated to those Afghans who were killed during the March 1979 uprising against the Soviets. It was a round building with a panorama of the events of the uprising depicted in paintings and models. Surrounding the building are Soviet military hardware. There are several air defense and artillery pieces plus an Mi-21 Hind helicopter. We were the only visitors and I was given a tour by the museum curator, an older gentleman who told me that he’d been in some of the major firefights against the Soviets.

We went to several other sites such as the People’s Monument which is a Soviet T-72 tank with statues of Heratis attacking it with pitchforks, sledgehammers, and other farm tools. The tour culminated with a visit to the Alexander Citadel. This ancient fort had been leveled several times since it was built by Alexander the Great. The base of the great fort is the only original piece of the citadel. I had to go up and touch the foundation that had been laid by Alexander over two thousand years ago. It was a spiritual experience walking on ground that had been conquered by Alexander, Genghis Khan, and Tamerlane—three of the greatest conquerors in the history of mankind.

Instead of heading straight back to the Regional HQ, the convoy stopped at a shishah bar. It was a pleasant day for that time of year. Our security squad stayed outside to keep prying eyes away, while we entered the place. The restaurant was a collection of tent like rooms on elevated platforms surrounded by curtains. The floors were lined with Afghan carpets. The proprietor brought us shishah pipes with mint flavored tobacco. Mirwais, Rasul, Zahir’s nephew, and I sat on the carpets, smoked shishah, and sipped mint tea. I was transported back in time. Perhaps I’d walk outside and see Tamerlane or his son gallop by on the way to battle.

We took the long way back to the RHQ. As we drove around the city, we passed gold and jewelry shops, the Herat bazaar, men on horseback, and families in carriages mixed on the streets with military vehicles and
zaranjs
(three-wheeled miniature pick-ups). The mix of the ancient with the modern was incredible. Old buildings and mud brick hovels stood amidst buildings of glass and steel.

After an hour of joyriding, we stopped at a bridge near the Hari Rud. We stepped out and stretched. A few of the security guards walked off to relieve themselves. Rasul, Mirwais, and I took photos holding our security’s AK-47s. The policeman driving our escort vehicle decided to drive his truck into the river to wash off the dust. There were a few other vehicles in the general vicinity being washed by their owners. I looked over at Mirwais and Rasul, “Dudes, what did you think of all that?”

“You’re a lucky guy, Dave. I’ve lived here almost my whole life and I’ve never seen most of that stuff,” Mirwais answered.

“Well, I still didn’t get to see everything that I wanted to see. No Minaret of Jam. But this day was cool as hell. Maybe someday I’ll get to come back and get out to Jam. Maybe I can get a newspaper or magazine to pay for an article about Herat and its antiquities, shrines, and monuments. I’ll bring you along as my terp.”

We drove back to the RHQ from there. Across the Hari Rud and on through Gozara and Injil districts one last time. This would be my last time passing this way. In the morning, I’d be heading back to Camp Stone. The next time that I would leave Stone would be to convoy to the Herat Airport on my final flight out.

The last thing that I did that day was visit my friends outside the gate. Jalil, Ali, and Nahida. These were three kids who sold soft drinks, snacks, smokes, toilet paper, and a few other items to the police out of a small store near the entrance of the regional training center. As soon as Jalil saw me, he ran towards me yelling, “Uncle!” I walked over to their small store and took a knee next to Jalil, who was about eight years old. His older sister Nahida and younger brother Ali stood nearby.

“Mirwais translate for me.”

“Jalil, Ali, Nahida, I’m leaving Afghanistan. You won’t see me anymore after this.” Jalil put his arm around my neck and hugged me. Ali walked over to me and held my hand. Nahida stood in the doorway of their mud brick store. “Bubbas, I’m gonna miss you. Hanging out with you guys has been the highlight of my stay in Herat.” They didn’t say much but just kind of clung to my neck. I tried to think of some kind of words of wisdom to tell them. Something that might stick with them or spark their curiosity of the world someday. Nothing came to me. Finally, it was time to get back to Camp. “I’m gonna miss you guys. I’ll try to come back and see you someday.” I hugged Jalil and then Ali. Then I stood up and walked over to Nahida. Muslim culture prohibited me from giving her a hug. I shook her hand and told her, “Remember, you’re beautiful and strong. Remember.” With that, I turned around and walked to the RTC. As I walked away, tears streamed down my cheeks. That was the last time that I saw them.

It had been a hell of a month. The whole of it had been one long farewell tour. Everywhere I went I had been shown love, respect, and fellowship. Fond fare-thee-wells greeted me at every turn. The contrasted feelings that the Afghans evoked in me was profound. These men were alternately spoiled, corrupt, loving, hospitable, respectful, and reverent human beings. Some of them were stone cold killers. They were enforcers of the worst kind. They dealt in death, drugs, kidnapping, and ransom. They also cared deeply for those around them. I had trusted them with my life and they had repaid that trust with hard work and effort. Sometimes. Other times, they ignored me. Brushed me off and made me feel as pathetically useless as a third nipple.

Even so, it had been worth it.

Epilogue

I have no regrets about my decade in Afghanistan. I went seeking adventure, the world, and a good paying job. What I hadn’t counted on was becoming jaded with American intervention in the world. Two years removed from the Army, I was a fairly idealistic young man in 2003. When I accepted the job with KBR, I believed that I was joining the “fight for freedom and democracy” in Afghanistan. By 2009, the U.S. had either abandoned that fight or it had all been a good round of propaganda used to fool Americans into going to war. We were not supporting democratic leaders. We were not supporting women and minority groups. Instead we were putting the warlords back in power. The same warlords who stifle the voice of the Afghan people. Every voice for real change in Afghanistan has been quieted by the warlords. In many cases, this has been accomplished with our acquiescence and support.

When I first started mentoring the Afghan National Security Forces, the U.S. Command and ISAF were “committed” to a professional force. In 2008, when Stanley McChrystal took over the ISAF mission, we adjusted our sights. We went from a goal of a 90-percent proficiency rating as success to “good enough for the Afghans.”

The problems that I detail in this book were common place when I was in Afghanistan. There was constant infighting between the State Department and the Defense Department. The military personnel with whom I worked were usually overwhelmed and unprepared for the mission of mentoring. They did not stay in position long enough to develop relationships with the Afghans. Many of them hated working with the Afghans.

Corruption was, and is still, rampant within the Afghan National Security Force. Our leadership refuses to acknowledge this corruption officially in many cases. The Afghan government does likewise. Why shouldn’t it? Its officials benefit from corruption both professionally and personally.

During the two and half years that I mentored the Afghan police, we saw improvements in professionalism and competence. Corruption, however, was on a steady rise. Over half of the fuel sent to western Afghanistan never reached its intended destination. Afghan logistics officers were still hoarding equipment rather than issuing that equipment to lower echelons. Checkpoints were still routinely abandoned primarily due to the neglect of soldiers. Contractors were still required to pay a bribe in order to win bids. Many projects were never completed due to embezzled funds. A decade later, the corruption within the Afghan police is still pervasive.

Before leaving Afghanistan I went to the Babur-e Bagh—Babur’s grave site—to reflect on my time in his beloved land. How different it would seem to Babur. Outsiders had again invaded. War ravaged the land and people. A fundamentalist brand of Islam had seeped into the culture along with these outsiders that Babur would not recognize. Babur was a faithful Muslim. Even so, he much admired other cultures. He had stopped to gaze upon the Bamian Buddhas and never had the thought crossed his mind to destroy them. They were windows to the past for him. Nothing more.

Being from one of the countries that had facilitated the incursion of fundamentalist Islam, I could not help but think of the part that America had played when it had pulled the Saudis into the effort to defeat the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. The Saudis had brought money. They had provided intelligence. They also brought with them the parasitic form of Islam created by al Wahhab. That Wahhabi creed was the brand of Islam that became the backbone of Taliban Islamic belief.

The Taliban are the source of the majority of the violence in Afghanistan and Pakistan. They are the riddle that the U.S. and Coalition governments have not been able to solve for more than fifteen years and counting in Central Asia. The heart of that riddle lies in Saudi Arabia. As long as the West pumps money into Saudi coffers in exchange for oil, Wahhabism will be a major challenge across the Muslim world. Saudi Arabia is the head of the beast.