I am however... writing a book.
When we have returned from Afghanistan, back to normalcy where everything can stop swirling in shadows, I will try to resume the blog.
Posts
A Checklist For Home Buyers
14 years ago
27 October 2009
Pause
I'm not blogging any more due to the fact that I cant talk freely about most things in my life right now. The facts must be altered, the opinions censored, and to me... its pointless to write fake blogs for the sake of putting something down.
26 July 2009
Dust, a gift, and a bad guy
The last month has been sporadically eventful, but nothing of significance, unless the spattering of rockets here and there counts. It has gotten to the point of simple annoyance, although the insurgents aim is getting better, as a lot of the rockets hit inside the wire now. Our multi-purpose tent had a very nice hole in it following one rocket attack (not to mention the poor guy running on the treadmill with a complimentary shrapnel-hole in his ass) and I have spent more time than I care to in the bunkers. Otherwise, we have one classified incident in the works that is preventing the normal battle-rhythm, and most of the month has been spent in varying levels of frustration for the entire brigade.
I flew to Kushamond a week ago, and am quite sure that, had someone told me I had landed on Mars by accident, I would have believed them. Most of the Afghanistan that I have come to know (and love/hate) is full of rocks, and some semblance of vegetation, however sparse. Kush though… nothing but dirt as far as the eye can see, and stench.
I stayed in the aid station, where the permanent tenants were very hospitable, despite the extra body that they didn’t have room for. Hoping to hop on an air assault, I was disappointed day after day as each mission got scratched. One evening we were out at the HLZ waiting on the chinooks when a dust storm graced us with its fury. We stood, or crouched, for an hour while Afghanistan shoved half the desert down our throats and caked every square inch of skin, exposed or not. I laughed as the guys howled at the wind to ‘Bring it on, baby’ and managed to at least get some good photos out of it. (Nevermind that it took me just shy of two hours to clean my M-4 and my camera.)
The chinooks came, touched down, and may as well have flipped us all the bird as they promptly left. No mission. It was rescheduled for wee-hours in the morning, and didn’t get scratched until I had roused myself out of bed at 3am and gotten ready. Naturally. Still, no mission.
I finally got an offer to tag along with the Civil Affairs guys to go assess the village, but because there were no spare assets really, we had to walk. So I found myself on a foot patrol. In the desert. In July. It wasn’t far, but the fields of dirt and gnarly sticker-weeds masquerading as plants made me wish for a long hike through the mountains instead. A few gun-shots popped off when we walked into the village, but we couldn’t tell from where, so only paused briefly. We had coke and tea with the sub-governor, and made the routine checks at the school and mosque. Some of the guys sat down to play an accordion and drum with the Afghans, which was short but entertaining. Later, back at Kush, one of the Sgts came to get me and said the governor we met earlier was at the gate and wanted to see me. Perplexed, I went to meet them. They gave me a bright orange headwrap as a gift, and told me that they were so pleased to have me visit. They said they wished there were more women like me that were brave enough to come to their village, and it encouraged them for the future. I shook my head. I don’t even know what to say to something like that. I am a very normal American woman, but I suppose because they don’t see us often, it stood out to them. Their simple gesture however, to bring a small gift all that way, meant more to me than most gifts I have received, no matter how expensive or luxurious. And, at a time where I am disheartened with most of my surroundings, US or Afghan, it was a delightful dose of encouragement.
Kushamond chow was good, and the Soldiers out there were hard-working and jovial (which was surprising to me, given the conditions), but I was ready to go. They had captured a suspected Taliban, needed someone to escort him back to Sharana, and asked if me and my counterpart would be willing. Of course! Who could pass up that kind of opportunity… As I gripped his frail arm and led this blindfolded man to the helicopter, the rotor wash making him shake, I had one of those ‘Is this my life?!’ moments. Why am I holding a Taliban dude by the arm?!
The entire flight I wrestled with myself. Part of me hated him passionately, for the rockets, and the IEDs, and the memorial ceremonies of my Soldiers. For the year I was missing of my children, and for the mothers of the fallen who would never see their children again. The other part, well, I know that he likely has been taught, or believes, that what he is doing is right. Maybe he is simply evil, or maybe he genuinely believes that he is defending his God and his country. I know how we, as Americans, would react to foreign militaries in our country, threats against our beliefs and lifestyles… and I imagine our reaction wouldn’t be a whole lot different. As I questioned whether I should despise him, regard him as just an enemy, or try to simply acknowledge the differences between us… he shook, and rocked, and murmured prayers to Allah.
We landed in Sharana, and no one was there to meet us. I helped the man off the bird and pulled him as he stumbled across the rocks to a connex. His hands were purple from being cuffed so long, and he was moaning ‘wah’ over and over. The weather was scorching so I asked the flightline NCO for a drink, and pulled the man’s headwrap down to pour some Gatorade in his mouth. He lapped at it like a dog. I had been expecting his face to look like that of some of the other suspected Taliban that I have been around, cold and cruel, staring out of blank eyes with hate. But this man only looked scared, tired. He muttered thank you in Pashto to me, and something else that I couldn’t understand. I smoked a cigarette, and offered him the last half of it. He nodded, and I couldn’t decide if it was humiliating or not, standing there holding a cigarette to his mouth while he puffed and coughed. He looked at me gratefully, said thank you again, and I patted the sweat off his face before I covered it back up. I decided then, that I don’t like him, I maybe despise him, but he is a human. We do many things for our enemies that they would not do for us. We return their bodies to their villages when they are killed, we provide medical care for them when they are injured, even after they attack us. We try as hard as we can to respect their cultures and traditions, we don’t go in their mosques, regardless of them using that as an advantage to hide out. That’s what makes us different. Its easy to be frustrated with these policies, and I have been many times. At the same time, our mindset that everyone has rights, even the accused, sets our country apart. So even though he may be a very bad man, and even though the Soldiers watching me hold a cigarette for him had lots of jokes, and even though I may get reamed for this later.. I saw the look in his eyes and I have to assume that maybe, possibly, he will remember that when the Americans captured him, they were humane.
Eventually our ride came and we handed him over. Then Sharana got rocketed. The sirens went off. My comcam counterpart and I sat on the ground in the shade and had a cigarette while the mortars thudded somewhere on the outskirts of the FOB.
I reminded myself… 20 days until leave. 20 days. 20 days….
13 June 2009
Sharana
I flew to Sharana a little apprehensively, not because I had any reservations about anything in particular, but the exhaustion of this place is setting in, the enemy activity is heating up, and in ten days, something is bound to happen that is worth a certain level of anxiety.
For the first 9 days, it was pretty mellow. I did some simple stories, met some fascinating people, and had chow and a shower every day (which is more than can be said for a lot of places around here.) Some of the guys built a porch swing in their smoke deck, and it became 'my spot' in the evenings, so much so that one of them drew a box and wrote "Press Only, Press Box" on it. Some of the simplest things here make my day...
The UAV platoon almost granted me a pass to Forget-Im-in-the-Army-land for an afternoon, but not quite. After completing my photos and interviews, a glistening haggi-motorcylce was beckoning to me. (ok, dingy and battered is more accurate, but to me, it looked positively captivating...) They said I could ride, and after refreshing my memory on gears and clutches and brakes (oh my), I puttered around the UAV tent smiling like a 2 year old on his first trike. I then made a fool of myself on Rock Band, or whatever that dumb game is. We drove back from the flight line and the burn pile, bits of leftovers from crashed planes, and tents reminded me that I am indeed still in Afghanistan. The raging dust storm that greeted me as I stepped out of the humvee provided ample confirmation.
I went on a day mission with the PRT to escort some Embassy and Washington DC 'VIPs' to the Governors compound. I was supposed to interview 'Grandma Guhl,' the Afghan Director of Women's Affairs, which I was thoroughly excited about. To my dismay, the VIPs were so rude, high-maintenance, and chaotic that my interview fell to the wayside, along with any shred of pride I had for the US in general that day. I was... embarrassed, to say the least. This small group of 'respected' officials showed up late, unprepared, forgot sensitive items... then proceeded to talk to the local nationals in the most condescending, patronizing tones. It made me sick. The lead speaker at one point said, over-emphasizing each syllable as though speaking to children, 'The enemy is using terror as a tactic. A tactic. Do you understand?' By this time, I was so aggravated, it took everything I had not to stand up and scream at her. Of course these people understand, they live it every day. THEY get blown up, and lose their children, and receive death threats and night letters... while SHE sat there in her designer jeans with a coach purse on the table (that could feed their whole family for a year) unashamedly. Fine, you want to spend your money on that stuff, great, but dont set it on the table while you mock the Elders of a war-torn country with your silly little questions. Argh! I could go on, and on, about several of the comments made, but I will spare you my rant. The last straw was on the way out, when they demanded we produce a female bathroom out of the Afghanistan dirt, and threw an adult 'VIP' version of a hissy fit upon discovering that their option was... 'behind that dirt pile over there.' No, actually, I lied... the very last straw... was when they boarded their bird out and never said Thank You to one single Soldier.. the same Soldiers that had escorted and protected them, and put up with their I-Am-God bullshit.
As we loaded up for my last Sharana mission for an overnighter that was supposed to be simple: check out some schools, a dam, talk to some sub-governors... the Soldier next to me informed me that he was bad luck. I smiled, and told the truck that I was amazing luck, so they had nothing to worry about.
Twenty minutes out, and we were standing beside a hunk of metal that used to be a civilian SUV, running a group of prisoners through our profile system. The Afghan Army had done a superb job at securing the site and policing up the suspects, and had them piled into the back of one of their vehicles. The men, their hands zip-tied behind their backs, glared at me as I took mug-shots of them, and their proud faces showed no sign of remorse.
We arrived in a village to meet with the assistant police chief, and the security (Illinois National Guard) element asked if I would like a PSD (personal security detachment) to walk me through the bazaar while the leaders met with the chief. Um, yes please, I'll take a bazaar and locals over a KLE any day.
We wandered slowly, looking at each of the shops and buying bread and cookies. An old shoe maker sat in the shade hammering tiny nails into the sole of a shiny shoe. Steam rose from the blacksmith's shop where they hammered red-hot iron, and scowled at us. Men on donkey-pulled carts passed, looking curiously at my big camera. And the children stared shyly, some of them flirting and giggling. We reached the end of the strip and made our way back to the convoy, and a few of the shops closed their doors and shut down business as we passed.... hm. Suspicious? I think so...
We loaded up and headed to a school to conduct an assessment. We were eating Afghan cookies and joking and laughing over the radios as we drove through the twisting alleyways between the qalats (mud-houses.)
Ping... ping...ping... is that... gunfire?!!
'SHOOT HIM, SHOOT HIS ASS...' our PL screams into the radio, and I look out the window and see... mayhem. Bullets are bouncing off of our MRAP, and the one behind us... the gunners are already unloading on little Afghan men running across the rooftops. I think 'Wow, a real ambush, we're getting shot,' as a puff of smoke comes through the crack 2 inches from where Im sitting, where a bullet just hit. So the firefight goes on, maybe for 2 minutes, but it felt like 10 or 15... The firing eventually stops, and in the pause, the PL tries to maneuver (flank) around the back of the qalats to get these guys as they flee. We round the corner, and spot a man with an RPG (rocket propelled grenade) crouched by the edge of a qalat. Thunk... (I actually like the noise it makes when it comes out of the tube, because then you know its coming....) it hits about 15 meters behind our truck... 'GODAMMIT, SHOOT THAT MOTh...' The .50cals etch holes in the sides of the qalat as the rounds chase him, and Ambush Part 2 ensues.
'Uh, we got a guy hit back here, Doc's working on him,' crackles over the radio. That was the point that it stopped being fun. Another truck radios in 'our gunner is knocked out, but I think he's ok.' The PL tells the convoy to get out, to get away from this maze where we are surrounded. We turn around, and shortly the gunfire stops.
As we are driving, Soldier's breathing heavily into the radio and buzzing off adrenaline, someone says 'hey, thats a body over there.' YAY!! We are pretty sure that we got a few of them, but seeing a body provides evidence of a job well done, so we go to check it out. Half-way there, the gunner says 'Oh, my god... thats a kid.' My heart sinks, time freezes, and Im a little nauseous.
I told people, before I ever came over here, that I am ok with war. That I think I can handle dead people and shooting, as long as its not a kid. But lord, please dont let it be a kid.
We pull up next to him, and I know better, but I look anyway. I stare. He's laying on his belly crumpled under a tree, his sandals by his head. He's about 6 or 7. I stare some more. I think of my son who is about to turn 6, and I think of the little boy's mother. And I am horrified more so than I can remember being.
*insert side-note here* Due to security/intelligence/regulations, I dont know what I can or can not share about the rest of this story. I will say that we did not shoot this little boy. I looked at him myself, the site, and the angle that the rounds went into the tree, and I can say with confidence, that we did not shoot him (honestly, in my UNofficial opinion, I think he fell out of the tree during the firefight.) Our leadership did hold a town meeting to answer questions and apologize for the circumstance. The rest of the day/evening was a mess that I wont get into, and upon returning the next morning (to conduct the Shura) we had a short ambush, yet again. I have many thoughts and opinions, none of which need to be shared here.
Overnight, we staged the MRAPs on the edge of a newly-built AfCop, nothing but a ring of concertina wire between us and the outskirts of an Afghan village. I climbed under the MRAP to smoke a cigarette, leaning against the tire, then curled up on a cot and fell asleep... the stars twinkling merrily, so contrasting to the war raging beneath them. I didnt hear any of the mortars or illumination rounds our guys shot off throughout the night, and woke up to the PL peering at me in the wee hours of the morning. 'Mornin sunshine...' The Islam call to prayer reminded me where I was, (and how ridiculously early it was) and I climbed back in the truck for another fun-filled day in paradise.
When we finally arrived back in Sharana, dirty and tired, the bad-luck Soldier looked very seriously at me and said 'One of us lied.'
**Our Soldier that got hit was shot in the forearm, and is doing fine, purple-heart and all.
For the first 9 days, it was pretty mellow. I did some simple stories, met some fascinating people, and had chow and a shower every day (which is more than can be said for a lot of places around here.) Some of the guys built a porch swing in their smoke deck, and it became 'my spot' in the evenings, so much so that one of them drew a box and wrote "Press Only, Press Box" on it. Some of the simplest things here make my day...
The UAV platoon almost granted me a pass to Forget-Im-in-the-Army-land for an afternoon, but not quite. After completing my photos and interviews, a glistening haggi-motorcylce was beckoning to me. (ok, dingy and battered is more accurate, but to me, it looked positively captivating...) They said I could ride, and after refreshing my memory on gears and clutches and brakes (oh my), I puttered around the UAV tent smiling like a 2 year old on his first trike. I then made a fool of myself on Rock Band, or whatever that dumb game is. We drove back from the flight line and the burn pile, bits of leftovers from crashed planes, and tents reminded me that I am indeed still in Afghanistan. The raging dust storm that greeted me as I stepped out of the humvee provided ample confirmation.
I went on a day mission with the PRT to escort some Embassy and Washington DC 'VIPs' to the Governors compound. I was supposed to interview 'Grandma Guhl,' the Afghan Director of Women's Affairs, which I was thoroughly excited about. To my dismay, the VIPs were so rude, high-maintenance, and chaotic that my interview fell to the wayside, along with any shred of pride I had for the US in general that day. I was... embarrassed, to say the least. This small group of 'respected' officials showed up late, unprepared, forgot sensitive items... then proceeded to talk to the local nationals in the most condescending, patronizing tones. It made me sick. The lead speaker at one point said, over-emphasizing each syllable as though speaking to children, 'The enemy is using terror as a tactic. A tactic. Do you understand?' By this time, I was so aggravated, it took everything I had not to stand up and scream at her. Of course these people understand, they live it every day. THEY get blown up, and lose their children, and receive death threats and night letters... while SHE sat there in her designer jeans with a coach purse on the table (that could feed their whole family for a year) unashamedly. Fine, you want to spend your money on that stuff, great, but dont set it on the table while you mock the Elders of a war-torn country with your silly little questions. Argh! I could go on, and on, about several of the comments made, but I will spare you my rant. The last straw was on the way out, when they demanded we produce a female bathroom out of the Afghanistan dirt, and threw an adult 'VIP' version of a hissy fit upon discovering that their option was... 'behind that dirt pile over there.' No, actually, I lied... the very last straw... was when they boarded their bird out and never said Thank You to one single Soldier.. the same Soldiers that had escorted and protected them, and put up with their I-Am-God bullshit.
As we loaded up for my last Sharana mission for an overnighter that was supposed to be simple: check out some schools, a dam, talk to some sub-governors... the Soldier next to me informed me that he was bad luck. I smiled, and told the truck that I was amazing luck, so they had nothing to worry about.
Twenty minutes out, and we were standing beside a hunk of metal that used to be a civilian SUV, running a group of prisoners through our profile system. The Afghan Army had done a superb job at securing the site and policing up the suspects, and had them piled into the back of one of their vehicles. The men, their hands zip-tied behind their backs, glared at me as I took mug-shots of them, and their proud faces showed no sign of remorse.
We arrived in a village to meet with the assistant police chief, and the security (Illinois National Guard) element asked if I would like a PSD (personal security detachment) to walk me through the bazaar while the leaders met with the chief. Um, yes please, I'll take a bazaar and locals over a KLE any day.
We wandered slowly, looking at each of the shops and buying bread and cookies. An old shoe maker sat in the shade hammering tiny nails into the sole of a shiny shoe. Steam rose from the blacksmith's shop where they hammered red-hot iron, and scowled at us. Men on donkey-pulled carts passed, looking curiously at my big camera. And the children stared shyly, some of them flirting and giggling. We reached the end of the strip and made our way back to the convoy, and a few of the shops closed their doors and shut down business as we passed.... hm. Suspicious? I think so...
We loaded up and headed to a school to conduct an assessment. We were eating Afghan cookies and joking and laughing over the radios as we drove through the twisting alleyways between the qalats (mud-houses.)
Ping... ping...ping... is that... gunfire?!!
'SHOOT HIM, SHOOT HIS ASS...' our PL screams into the radio, and I look out the window and see... mayhem. Bullets are bouncing off of our MRAP, and the one behind us... the gunners are already unloading on little Afghan men running across the rooftops. I think 'Wow, a real ambush, we're getting shot,' as a puff of smoke comes through the crack 2 inches from where Im sitting, where a bullet just hit. So the firefight goes on, maybe for 2 minutes, but it felt like 10 or 15... The firing eventually stops, and in the pause, the PL tries to maneuver (flank) around the back of the qalats to get these guys as they flee. We round the corner, and spot a man with an RPG (rocket propelled grenade) crouched by the edge of a qalat. Thunk... (I actually like the noise it makes when it comes out of the tube, because then you know its coming....) it hits about 15 meters behind our truck... 'GODAMMIT, SHOOT THAT MOTh...' The .50cals etch holes in the sides of the qalat as the rounds chase him, and Ambush Part 2 ensues.
'Uh, we got a guy hit back here, Doc's working on him,' crackles over the radio. That was the point that it stopped being fun. Another truck radios in 'our gunner is knocked out, but I think he's ok.' The PL tells the convoy to get out, to get away from this maze where we are surrounded. We turn around, and shortly the gunfire stops.
As we are driving, Soldier's breathing heavily into the radio and buzzing off adrenaline, someone says 'hey, thats a body over there.' YAY!! We are pretty sure that we got a few of them, but seeing a body provides evidence of a job well done, so we go to check it out. Half-way there, the gunner says 'Oh, my god... thats a kid.' My heart sinks, time freezes, and Im a little nauseous.
I told people, before I ever came over here, that I am ok with war. That I think I can handle dead people and shooting, as long as its not a kid. But lord, please dont let it be a kid.
We pull up next to him, and I know better, but I look anyway. I stare. He's laying on his belly crumpled under a tree, his sandals by his head. He's about 6 or 7. I stare some more. I think of my son who is about to turn 6, and I think of the little boy's mother. And I am horrified more so than I can remember being.
*insert side-note here* Due to security/intelligence/regulations, I dont know what I can or can not share about the rest of this story. I will say that we did not shoot this little boy. I looked at him myself, the site, and the angle that the rounds went into the tree, and I can say with confidence, that we did not shoot him (honestly, in my UNofficial opinion, I think he fell out of the tree during the firefight.) Our leadership did hold a town meeting to answer questions and apologize for the circumstance. The rest of the day/evening was a mess that I wont get into, and upon returning the next morning (to conduct the Shura) we had a short ambush, yet again. I have many thoughts and opinions, none of which need to be shared here.
Overnight, we staged the MRAPs on the edge of a newly-built AfCop, nothing but a ring of concertina wire between us and the outskirts of an Afghan village. I climbed under the MRAP to smoke a cigarette, leaning against the tire, then curled up on a cot and fell asleep... the stars twinkling merrily, so contrasting to the war raging beneath them. I didnt hear any of the mortars or illumination rounds our guys shot off throughout the night, and woke up to the PL peering at me in the wee hours of the morning. 'Mornin sunshine...' The Islam call to prayer reminded me where I was, (and how ridiculously early it was) and I climbed back in the truck for another fun-filled day in paradise.
When we finally arrived back in Sharana, dirty and tired, the bad-luck Soldier looked very seriously at me and said 'One of us lied.'
**Our Soldier that got hit was shot in the forearm, and is doing fine, purple-heart and all.
30 May 2009
15 May 2009
Sabari... rockets, anyone?
I left Salerno in a MaxPro, the souped up Cadillac version of the MRAP. The one-hour trip turned into six hours, as the route clearance element was thorough and stopped often to evaluate suspicious landmarks. Their efforts paid off though, three IEDs were found and detonated along our path. I watched the transmitter light up as it blocked signals- likely from insurgents trying to detonate the explosives before we could. Again, the realization set in that these bastards are sitting along the road, pushing some button expecting a big boom to tear us apart.. and then I find myself laughing, as our EOD blows up their bomb. Poor bastards, must be so disappointed, all the work they put into making and laying it for us, and we drive away, unharmed, leaving them at square one. Ha.
Sabari is... small, to say the least. They serve chow out of mermites (at least its not first strikes though!) and besides the TOC, the main hall, and a gym-in-a-tent, there isnt much here... besides the hand-made port-a-shitters.
The first afternoon I was gathered with 2nd Platoon waiting for the mission brief... whistle, boom... a rocket, sounding closer than the others Ive been around, sent everyone hustling away to the bunkers. I was kind of bewildered by their rush, Ive never actually gotten in a bunker for a rocket. As Im walking, trailing behind everyone looking at them like they are over-reacting, the second one impacts, and this time, its about 30 paces away. Ah, thats why we get in the bunker here. So I pile in with everyone else, all of us laughing, several cracking jokes, some smoking.I look at the concrete bunker and wonder if it really would do much to protect us, besides bury us under rubble,and come to the conclusion that it may possibly be more for peace-of-mind than anything else. We sit through a couple more rockets, and the leaders decide to just get in the trucks and push out. So we leave the people not going on mission in the bunkers, we pile in our trucks, and roll out... quick.
A female interpreter is in my truck, scared to death. The poor woman was shaking, sweating, struggling.. we patted her and told her we would take care of her. She cried. She said to me later 'I dont know how you live this every day. You all are so strong.'
We bounced and swerved through the river bed, on the lookout for the insurgents that were shooting rockets at us. We got to the village and dismounted, I loaded a round in the chamber, and proceeded in the tactical march down the alleyway. It was one of those moments (yet again) that I wondered when I went from playing Army, to doing the real thing. The locals glared at us over the walls. We got up to a group of them, and the Human Terrain Team sat to speak with them. I took some photos. I pulled security from the corner of the Mosque. I took some more pictures. I wandered slowly up to a group of young boys and coaxed them to come closer. I used butchered Pashto to speak with them a little, and then one young man who was headed to the University, came and spoke to me in English. He wanted to know why I take pictures of Afghans. I told him they were beautiful. He told me he wanted to be a reporter, and was going to go to school for Journalism. I stood and spoke with him for 15 minutes, as the hoard of young boys grew to about 50, surrounding me with their curious eyes. One reached out to touched me, shrieked like I was on fire, and they all giggled. One of the 2nd Platoon Soldiers shushed them from behind my back, and pulled security on me, back to back. Then, an elder ruined all my fun, came over and screamed at the boys. The interpreter said he chastised them for talking to a woman. They watched until he wasnt looking, and smiled and waved, then hid behind their head-wraps. A few minutes later, they scattered, sprinting... as gun fire rang out, close. I was amazed at myself, before I had time to process what was going on, I had taken cover behind a tree and had my m-4 raised. Then it occurred to me, wow, are we getting shot at? Huh. Fascinating. It was over in ten seconds, and everyone started creeping back out. Ive always been curious to know what my reaction would be, and I was almost disappointed that the training and instinct took over so much so, that my brain had to catch up with what my body was doing. We walked down the alley to speak to some of the residents, trying to gather information and intelligence on the received fire. The Sabari locals are threatened and terrified constantly by the insurgents, and so were reluctant to speak with us about them. Knowing that they had heard the rockets that afternoon, we listened as they said they hadnt seen or heard anything. 2nd Platoon swept a field and found numerous mortar impact areas, and we went to search a qalat with the Afghan Police, but found nothing. We came back empty handed, but in high spirits, ready to head back again the next day. And so ended my mother's day. I got a CAB, but didnt hear from my children, or anyone else for that matter. Happy Mother's day to me.
We woke up at 345 the next morning to complete our PCCs and PCIs, brief, and head out by 530. Within 5 minutes we had a vehicle stuck in the watty and were all hoping that it wouldnt be an indication of the day's activities. I pulled security overlooking a wheat field while the sun rose, and was thoroughly appreciating the beautiful country. We arrived in Chinah an hour later and proceeded to speak with the local nationals, who were surprisingly friendly. I came prepared for the children this time, equipped with gum. They were shy at first, but after cooing at them for about 30 minutes, I convinced them to let me take their 'Hahkus' (picture) and even got them to 'wakhanda' (smile.) I spoke with a little girl named Lulumah, told her my name and how 'khristah' (pretty) she was. We were good friends after that. :) We hiked around the village, along the side of a mountain, and then I went with an overwatch element up a hilltop where the locals have built a prayer area. We pulled security on the stacked stones under a tree for most of the morning, watching the families in their qalats living out their daily lives.We spotted a coochie off in the distance and headed over to talk with them. I was taking photos of a fascinating old man when the rockets started hitting. Their aim was poor enough that we couldnt tell if they were even aiming for us, but somewhere around number 5 we all sprinted back to the vehicles, and were shortly given information that higher had a grid of the point of origin for the insurgents firing at us. We sped off to find them. The radio traffic was fairly intense as the leadership tried to figure out how to get there, and coordinate the 'big guns' with our air support. We reached the area of qalats where the insurgents were, and dismounted amid the buzz of the choppers. I followed the infantrymen up the alley, pointing my m-4 over the walls and in the side alleys, and trying to convince myself that this wasnt training. For some reason, the adrenaline wouldnt kick in though, and I was completely calm, my biggest challenge juggling my camera and my m-4, trying to find a pause where someone had the area secured for a split second enough for me to get a photo. The target area was a company sized area, and we were covering it with a platoon, so they were short-manned so much so that I (dubbed Kodak, the camera girl) had to step into an infantry role. We rounded up a group of military-aged men, and filed them along a wall to hold. I guarded these men with my m-4, some of them staring at me with loathing, some with mild surprise. I stared back at them. I analyzed them. I tried to pick out which ones I thought looked suspicious, which I thought looked innocent. I raised my camera, and a few shielded their faces. I wanted to ask them if they thought that wasnt obvious. After rounding up the rest of the men, we went on to search a few of the qalats. We stacked against the door, and I almost laughed, remembering back to basic training when we had learned this technique, and I had thought 'I'll never do this, Im not infantry.' Ha.
I havent been in a local qalat yet, and I was so intrigued by the lifestyle that I nearly forgot why we were there. The donkeys, cows and chickens flocked around the courtyard, and the terrified women and children ran to hide in the corner. Pots and hand-woven baskets cluttered the porch, and in each qalat, a dog barked and growled with his tail between his legs. We continued through several qalats, lead by the helicopters overhead giving us tips on where people appeared to be hiding. We combed through wheat fields and rock clusters, and I found myself falling into the tactical 'wedge' formation (another skill at basic training that I thought I would never use) alongside the guys, and the longer we went, the less I had to think about it. It started to become natural. We used bounding and buddy-cover tactics, pulling security in an alley while your battle-buddy passes, and waiting for the next guy to replace you, so you can pass. 2nd Platoon is incredibly skilled, proficient, and moves with stunning cohesion. Unfortunately the afternoon passed and the insurgents remained hidden. Tired and hot, we piled back into the vehicles to return to the COP, prepared to head out, yet again, the following morning. After an extensive AAR, I gathered my things and headed to the shower, which was more comparative to a cold hose than anything. Im butt-ass naked, washing my hair, and hear a thunk, and a boom. Damn. I turn the water off, listening. I hear running feet... pounding on the door, 'Incoming' he yells, and runs away. Fucking rockets. By the time Im rushing out of the bathroom half-dressed and dripping, they are climbing back out of the bunkers. I roll my eyes, and decide that walking bare foot on the muddy bathroom concrete, likely giving myself athletes foot in the process, was just not worth it, and next time.. well, I'll take my chances. They cant aim for shit anyhow.
We left the COP on foot at about noon the next day, the sun scorching overhead. We walked to a qalat in search of one particular IED maker. 2nd squad set up security while the rest of us went inside with the Afghan police. The man wasnt there, but his four wives and several children went scuttling into one of the rooms. The eldest wife came out to speak with the police, and assured us that there was nothing to be found there. She told the police shame on them for working with us. We searched the courtyard, and the meeting room in the corner, pulling up rugs to look for hidden caches in the floor. Finally, in the 'barn' we made a find. Bags of rubber, wire and metal, a Russian pressure plate mine, batteries, and several hand-made detonators and chargers. Enough to arrest the man. We heard rockets launching (again) and listened as they hit Sabari. Everyone just sighed. The women told us that they needed to pee, so the police shooed all of the men outside. The female medic and I stayed to pull guard, and I watched the women use their little latrine. They were acting very suspicious and talking in hushed voices, glaring at me from behind their head-wraps with their hands behind their backs. Our leadership decided that they wanted to search the house as well, but they couldnt go in with the women. So the medic and I told the women that they would need to be searched and then go to a different room. They said they needed to change clothes, and shut the door. Hmm. Our interpreter rushed them through the door, and eventually they came out. We searched them, finding only money and a cell phone, which we confiscated temporarily. I looked at their terrified faces, one of them pregnant and probably 14 years old, two of the others younger than me, and I wondered what their husband would be like when we found him.
The eldest wife had told us that her husband could be found working in the bazaar at his shop. So we trekked across shit-strewn wheat fields for what felt like an eternity, and walked through the village, calling 'Ha Salom Holechem' to the unfriendly men lining the shops. The man, old enough to be my grandpa, was in his shop as his wife had said, and he spoke to us with shaking fingers and lurching eyes. Knowing that he makes IEDs that blow my men up, knowing that he sends rockets flying onto the COP, was still not enough to curb my sympathy for him. He was scared to death. More wires were found, and he agreed to walk back to our COP with us for an 'interview.' We escorted him back through the watty and along the hard top, and I cant remember being that hot with the exception of Airborne school. My body armor felt like a thousand pounds, but I was smiling, because we had met our objective, found the target, and the guys to my right and left were motivated and excited. We filtered into the courtyard for our AAR back at the COP, sang happy birthday to one of the HTT members, and...whistle, boom. Seriously?! This one was close, they must be tracking their shots and getting better with their aim... Everyone jumped up, and once again, we piled into the damn bunker, thoroughly annoyed.
The following day was much of the same, searching qalats, patting down women, lots of sun and heat. COP Sabari had four different sets of rocket attacks, but.. I made it through a shower in peace. Everyone was napping during the fourth attack, and I looked around the bunker at the sweaty grumpy faces and thought a whole year of this may just drive them mad. I went down to the ASG compound for dinner, compliments of the Afghan commander, and enjoyed the traditional floor spread of rice/beef stew/bread and milk chai, although Im fairly sure the flies enjoyed my more of my meal than I did. I watched later as 2nd platoon (who had rushed out on QRF mission while I was at dinner) fired the .50 cal and some choppers shot their big guns off in the distance. Illumination rounds lit over Khost city, and I smoked a cigarette while absorbing my personal wartime fireworks show.
I thought I dreamt of an explosion, and I probably did, but at 430, the second and third rocket hit, and the bubbly cook called 'incoming' in a voice too cheerful for wee hours of the morning. Ugh. I asked if the bunkers were mandatory, or can I just sleep and be blissfully unaware if it hits me. Nope. Sigh. Sitting in the bunker, yet again, at 430, in my hazy grumpiness, I decided that this is ridiculous, and nuclear weapons are our best option. Of course, I came to my senses later as I walked around the bazaar and spoke to the children there. The livestock, produce, and tapestries dotted the watty, along with hundreds of people who gathered around us in throngs, to stare, and to try to communicate. I was amazed at how, even through language barriers, we were able to joke and laugh with them. A car came speeding up to our cordoned area, and wouldnt obey the stop signals, so the Afghan police fired a few warning shots with their AK-47s. I had my back turned at the time, and decided I am entirely too comfortable with those noises, as I just casually turned around thinking 'hmm, who's shooting?' The car didnt slow down. I watched two of our gunners atop the MRAPs take aim, unload, and stop the vehicle. I went back to what I was doing. Before leaving the bazaar, we walked down one of the market lanes to buy some fresh watermelon. Old men sat in their shops, shelling herbs to make fresh spices, preening chickens, sorting bright tomatoes and onions, and laying back smoking hash. The market was bustling, and our ACUs and helmets brought a sharp contrast to the street, drawing stares and bewildered looks as we walked up and actually purchased items. The farmers smiled cautiously, but gladly went through the bartering charade with our leadership, and we all walked away with melons tucked between our m-4s and body armor.
My last day at Sabari I organized a platoon photo and hassled them with moving the trucks around to get the right background. I had them climb on top of one MaxPro, while I stood on top of another... and, you guessed it... incoming. We all kind of looked around, exasperated, and shrugged our shoulders. Just take the picture they said. Yay, no bunkers!!!
While I was at Sabari, Khost City got hit by two suicide bombers, and the Salerno gate had a VBIED attack (vehicle borne IED) that killed 7 locals and wounded around 20. We heard that one at Sabari, and I spent that entire day wondering if any of my guys were hit.
So things are heating up here, and it looks like it is going to be a very, very long summer... and while these things wear quickly on us, I am still enjoying my job, the culture, and this country.
Sabari is... small, to say the least. They serve chow out of mermites (at least its not first strikes though!) and besides the TOC, the main hall, and a gym-in-a-tent, there isnt much here... besides the hand-made port-a-shitters.
The first afternoon I was gathered with 2nd Platoon waiting for the mission brief... whistle, boom... a rocket, sounding closer than the others Ive been around, sent everyone hustling away to the bunkers. I was kind of bewildered by their rush, Ive never actually gotten in a bunker for a rocket. As Im walking, trailing behind everyone looking at them like they are over-reacting, the second one impacts, and this time, its about 30 paces away. Ah, thats why we get in the bunker here. So I pile in with everyone else, all of us laughing, several cracking jokes, some smoking.I look at the concrete bunker and wonder if it really would do much to protect us, besides bury us under rubble,and come to the conclusion that it may possibly be more for peace-of-mind than anything else. We sit through a couple more rockets, and the leaders decide to just get in the trucks and push out. So we leave the people not going on mission in the bunkers, we pile in our trucks, and roll out... quick.
A female interpreter is in my truck, scared to death. The poor woman was shaking, sweating, struggling.. we patted her and told her we would take care of her. She cried. She said to me later 'I dont know how you live this every day. You all are so strong.'
We bounced and swerved through the river bed, on the lookout for the insurgents that were shooting rockets at us. We got to the village and dismounted, I loaded a round in the chamber, and proceeded in the tactical march down the alleyway. It was one of those moments (yet again) that I wondered when I went from playing Army, to doing the real thing. The locals glared at us over the walls. We got up to a group of them, and the Human Terrain Team sat to speak with them. I took some photos. I pulled security from the corner of the Mosque. I took some more pictures. I wandered slowly up to a group of young boys and coaxed them to come closer. I used butchered Pashto to speak with them a little, and then one young man who was headed to the University, came and spoke to me in English. He wanted to know why I take pictures of Afghans. I told him they were beautiful. He told me he wanted to be a reporter, and was going to go to school for Journalism. I stood and spoke with him for 15 minutes, as the hoard of young boys grew to about 50, surrounding me with their curious eyes. One reached out to touched me, shrieked like I was on fire, and they all giggled. One of the 2nd Platoon Soldiers shushed them from behind my back, and pulled security on me, back to back. Then, an elder ruined all my fun, came over and screamed at the boys. The interpreter said he chastised them for talking to a woman. They watched until he wasnt looking, and smiled and waved, then hid behind their head-wraps. A few minutes later, they scattered, sprinting... as gun fire rang out, close. I was amazed at myself, before I had time to process what was going on, I had taken cover behind a tree and had my m-4 raised. Then it occurred to me, wow, are we getting shot at? Huh. Fascinating. It was over in ten seconds, and everyone started creeping back out. Ive always been curious to know what my reaction would be, and I was almost disappointed that the training and instinct took over so much so, that my brain had to catch up with what my body was doing. We walked down the alley to speak to some of the residents, trying to gather information and intelligence on the received fire. The Sabari locals are threatened and terrified constantly by the insurgents, and so were reluctant to speak with us about them. Knowing that they had heard the rockets that afternoon, we listened as they said they hadnt seen or heard anything. 2nd Platoon swept a field and found numerous mortar impact areas, and we went to search a qalat with the Afghan Police, but found nothing. We came back empty handed, but in high spirits, ready to head back again the next day. And so ended my mother's day. I got a CAB, but didnt hear from my children, or anyone else for that matter. Happy Mother's day to me.
We woke up at 345 the next morning to complete our PCCs and PCIs, brief, and head out by 530. Within 5 minutes we had a vehicle stuck in the watty and were all hoping that it wouldnt be an indication of the day's activities. I pulled security overlooking a wheat field while the sun rose, and was thoroughly appreciating the beautiful country. We arrived in Chinah an hour later and proceeded to speak with the local nationals, who were surprisingly friendly. I came prepared for the children this time, equipped with gum. They were shy at first, but after cooing at them for about 30 minutes, I convinced them to let me take their 'Hahkus' (picture) and even got them to 'wakhanda' (smile.) I spoke with a little girl named Lulumah, told her my name and how 'khristah' (pretty) she was. We were good friends after that. :) We hiked around the village, along the side of a mountain, and then I went with an overwatch element up a hilltop where the locals have built a prayer area. We pulled security on the stacked stones under a tree for most of the morning, watching the families in their qalats living out their daily lives.We spotted a coochie off in the distance and headed over to talk with them. I was taking photos of a fascinating old man when the rockets started hitting. Their aim was poor enough that we couldnt tell if they were even aiming for us, but somewhere around number 5 we all sprinted back to the vehicles, and were shortly given information that higher had a grid of the point of origin for the insurgents firing at us. We sped off to find them. The radio traffic was fairly intense as the leadership tried to figure out how to get there, and coordinate the 'big guns' with our air support. We reached the area of qalats where the insurgents were, and dismounted amid the buzz of the choppers. I followed the infantrymen up the alley, pointing my m-4 over the walls and in the side alleys, and trying to convince myself that this wasnt training. For some reason, the adrenaline wouldnt kick in though, and I was completely calm, my biggest challenge juggling my camera and my m-4, trying to find a pause where someone had the area secured for a split second enough for me to get a photo. The target area was a company sized area, and we were covering it with a platoon, so they were short-manned so much so that I (dubbed Kodak, the camera girl) had to step into an infantry role. We rounded up a group of military-aged men, and filed them along a wall to hold. I guarded these men with my m-4, some of them staring at me with loathing, some with mild surprise. I stared back at them. I analyzed them. I tried to pick out which ones I thought looked suspicious, which I thought looked innocent. I raised my camera, and a few shielded their faces. I wanted to ask them if they thought that wasnt obvious. After rounding up the rest of the men, we went on to search a few of the qalats. We stacked against the door, and I almost laughed, remembering back to basic training when we had learned this technique, and I had thought 'I'll never do this, Im not infantry.' Ha.
I havent been in a local qalat yet, and I was so intrigued by the lifestyle that I nearly forgot why we were there. The donkeys, cows and chickens flocked around the courtyard, and the terrified women and children ran to hide in the corner. Pots and hand-woven baskets cluttered the porch, and in each qalat, a dog barked and growled with his tail between his legs. We continued through several qalats, lead by the helicopters overhead giving us tips on where people appeared to be hiding. We combed through wheat fields and rock clusters, and I found myself falling into the tactical 'wedge' formation (another skill at basic training that I thought I would never use) alongside the guys, and the longer we went, the less I had to think about it. It started to become natural. We used bounding and buddy-cover tactics, pulling security in an alley while your battle-buddy passes, and waiting for the next guy to replace you, so you can pass. 2nd Platoon is incredibly skilled, proficient, and moves with stunning cohesion. Unfortunately the afternoon passed and the insurgents remained hidden. Tired and hot, we piled back into the vehicles to return to the COP, prepared to head out, yet again, the following morning. After an extensive AAR, I gathered my things and headed to the shower, which was more comparative to a cold hose than anything. Im butt-ass naked, washing my hair, and hear a thunk, and a boom. Damn. I turn the water off, listening. I hear running feet... pounding on the door, 'Incoming' he yells, and runs away. Fucking rockets. By the time Im rushing out of the bathroom half-dressed and dripping, they are climbing back out of the bunkers. I roll my eyes, and decide that walking bare foot on the muddy bathroom concrete, likely giving myself athletes foot in the process, was just not worth it, and next time.. well, I'll take my chances. They cant aim for shit anyhow.
We left the COP on foot at about noon the next day, the sun scorching overhead. We walked to a qalat in search of one particular IED maker. 2nd squad set up security while the rest of us went inside with the Afghan police. The man wasnt there, but his four wives and several children went scuttling into one of the rooms. The eldest wife came out to speak with the police, and assured us that there was nothing to be found there. She told the police shame on them for working with us. We searched the courtyard, and the meeting room in the corner, pulling up rugs to look for hidden caches in the floor. Finally, in the 'barn' we made a find. Bags of rubber, wire and metal, a Russian pressure plate mine, batteries, and several hand-made detonators and chargers. Enough to arrest the man. We heard rockets launching (again) and listened as they hit Sabari. Everyone just sighed. The women told us that they needed to pee, so the police shooed all of the men outside. The female medic and I stayed to pull guard, and I watched the women use their little latrine. They were acting very suspicious and talking in hushed voices, glaring at me from behind their head-wraps with their hands behind their backs. Our leadership decided that they wanted to search the house as well, but they couldnt go in with the women. So the medic and I told the women that they would need to be searched and then go to a different room. They said they needed to change clothes, and shut the door. Hmm. Our interpreter rushed them through the door, and eventually they came out. We searched them, finding only money and a cell phone, which we confiscated temporarily. I looked at their terrified faces, one of them pregnant and probably 14 years old, two of the others younger than me, and I wondered what their husband would be like when we found him.
The eldest wife had told us that her husband could be found working in the bazaar at his shop. So we trekked across shit-strewn wheat fields for what felt like an eternity, and walked through the village, calling 'Ha Salom Holechem' to the unfriendly men lining the shops. The man, old enough to be my grandpa, was in his shop as his wife had said, and he spoke to us with shaking fingers and lurching eyes. Knowing that he makes IEDs that blow my men up, knowing that he sends rockets flying onto the COP, was still not enough to curb my sympathy for him. He was scared to death. More wires were found, and he agreed to walk back to our COP with us for an 'interview.' We escorted him back through the watty and along the hard top, and I cant remember being that hot with the exception of Airborne school. My body armor felt like a thousand pounds, but I was smiling, because we had met our objective, found the target, and the guys to my right and left were motivated and excited. We filtered into the courtyard for our AAR back at the COP, sang happy birthday to one of the HTT members, and...whistle, boom. Seriously?! This one was close, they must be tracking their shots and getting better with their aim... Everyone jumped up, and once again, we piled into the damn bunker, thoroughly annoyed.
The following day was much of the same, searching qalats, patting down women, lots of sun and heat. COP Sabari had four different sets of rocket attacks, but.. I made it through a shower in peace. Everyone was napping during the fourth attack, and I looked around the bunker at the sweaty grumpy faces and thought a whole year of this may just drive them mad. I went down to the ASG compound for dinner, compliments of the Afghan commander, and enjoyed the traditional floor spread of rice/beef stew/bread and milk chai, although Im fairly sure the flies enjoyed my more of my meal than I did. I watched later as 2nd platoon (who had rushed out on QRF mission while I was at dinner) fired the .50 cal and some choppers shot their big guns off in the distance. Illumination rounds lit over Khost city, and I smoked a cigarette while absorbing my personal wartime fireworks show.
I thought I dreamt of an explosion, and I probably did, but at 430, the second and third rocket hit, and the bubbly cook called 'incoming' in a voice too cheerful for wee hours of the morning. Ugh. I asked if the bunkers were mandatory, or can I just sleep and be blissfully unaware if it hits me. Nope. Sigh. Sitting in the bunker, yet again, at 430, in my hazy grumpiness, I decided that this is ridiculous, and nuclear weapons are our best option. Of course, I came to my senses later as I walked around the bazaar and spoke to the children there. The livestock, produce, and tapestries dotted the watty, along with hundreds of people who gathered around us in throngs, to stare, and to try to communicate. I was amazed at how, even through language barriers, we were able to joke and laugh with them. A car came speeding up to our cordoned area, and wouldnt obey the stop signals, so the Afghan police fired a few warning shots with their AK-47s. I had my back turned at the time, and decided I am entirely too comfortable with those noises, as I just casually turned around thinking 'hmm, who's shooting?' The car didnt slow down. I watched two of our gunners atop the MRAPs take aim, unload, and stop the vehicle. I went back to what I was doing. Before leaving the bazaar, we walked down one of the market lanes to buy some fresh watermelon. Old men sat in their shops, shelling herbs to make fresh spices, preening chickens, sorting bright tomatoes and onions, and laying back smoking hash. The market was bustling, and our ACUs and helmets brought a sharp contrast to the street, drawing stares and bewildered looks as we walked up and actually purchased items. The farmers smiled cautiously, but gladly went through the bartering charade with our leadership, and we all walked away with melons tucked between our m-4s and body armor.
My last day at Sabari I organized a platoon photo and hassled them with moving the trucks around to get the right background. I had them climb on top of one MaxPro, while I stood on top of another... and, you guessed it... incoming. We all kind of looked around, exasperated, and shrugged our shoulders. Just take the picture they said. Yay, no bunkers!!!
While I was at Sabari, Khost City got hit by two suicide bombers, and the Salerno gate had a VBIED attack (vehicle borne IED) that killed 7 locals and wounded around 20. We heard that one at Sabari, and I spent that entire day wondering if any of my guys were hit.
So things are heating up here, and it looks like it is going to be a very, very long summer... and while these things wear quickly on us, I am still enjoying my job, the culture, and this country.
Dicey, Some Important Guys, and a few blown up ones
Access to Dicey consists of a drive through the Khost-Gardez Pass, a small road that winds and twists along the sides of mountains. At times, I looked out the humvee window and saw simply a long drop into nothingness. The Coochies, (shepards/nomads/gypsies leading strings of camels, sheep and donkeys with brightly colored packs tied to them, some holding little Afghan infants) plodded by us, glaring out of their headwraps. I think of the movies from older wars, and how they portray scared children watching invasions of military vehicles and big guns, and I am sorry to be terrifying these people. The views in the KG Pass are beautiful, and I sat contentedly in my seat taking in the countryside.
Once at Dicey, I downloaded my gear into the only other female's bay, taking up her entire floor with my cot. A Sgt sees me walking by and asks if I want to shoot a .50 cal. Um, yeah. So we go up to the top of a hill, he tells me to pick a target, and I unload on it as the sun sets. Woohoo. I spend the rest of the evening playing spades with PSD.
In the morning, I wake up to someone knocking and telling me to go to the aid station immediately. Weird. I didnt really put two and two together, considering what goes on at the aid station, so was caught slightly off guard when I met the stench of blood and burning flesh at the door. The medics were bustling around a local Afghan who had stepped on a landmine. I took the photos, knowing I couldnt publish most of them, but I figured the medics would enjoy seeing themselves in action. As I ate my breakfast shortly after, I wondered why I wasnt queazy.
Our Brigade commander with all his minions showed up a few hours later, followed by a surge of media, entertainers (some big basketball guy, guys from a TV show, a baseball guy... who knows, I dont follow that stuff), and Chief of Staff Admiral Mullen. They did the usual tour-the-COP VIP routine, and I followed around blending in with the civilian media.
Arriving back at Salerno after my month out was... depressing, to say the least. I went back to my guard shift every morning, and running piddly errands, escorting media, etc. Booo.
Toby Keith showed up to give a concert. I really enjoyed his band, they were friendly and patriotic.
Army Chief of Staff General George Casey Jr. came the following day, and again, we played the VIP routine... he gets a brief, re-enlists some Soldiers, gives out a few awards and coins. Kind of killed my coin buzz, because he's as high as it gets in the Army, so now Im no longer on a quest for a 'big' coin...
I photographed another very blown up guy, I mean... this guy was literally falling apart. I wish I was a little more disturbed by all of it. The concept of a man torn apart by explosives gets to me, but for some reason the blood doesnt. I want it to. Maybe I should have been a medic.
Once at Dicey, I downloaded my gear into the only other female's bay, taking up her entire floor with my cot. A Sgt sees me walking by and asks if I want to shoot a .50 cal. Um, yeah. So we go up to the top of a hill, he tells me to pick a target, and I unload on it as the sun sets. Woohoo. I spend the rest of the evening playing spades with PSD.
In the morning, I wake up to someone knocking and telling me to go to the aid station immediately. Weird. I didnt really put two and two together, considering what goes on at the aid station, so was caught slightly off guard when I met the stench of blood and burning flesh at the door. The medics were bustling around a local Afghan who had stepped on a landmine. I took the photos, knowing I couldnt publish most of them, but I figured the medics would enjoy seeing themselves in action. As I ate my breakfast shortly after, I wondered why I wasnt queazy.
Our Brigade commander with all his minions showed up a few hours later, followed by a surge of media, entertainers (some big basketball guy, guys from a TV show, a baseball guy... who knows, I dont follow that stuff), and Chief of Staff Admiral Mullen. They did the usual tour-the-COP VIP routine, and I followed around blending in with the civilian media.
Arriving back at Salerno after my month out was... depressing, to say the least. I went back to my guard shift every morning, and running piddly errands, escorting media, etc. Booo.
Toby Keith showed up to give a concert. I really enjoyed his band, they were friendly and patriotic.
Army Chief of Staff General George Casey Jr. came the following day, and again, we played the VIP routine... he gets a brief, re-enlists some Soldiers, gives out a few awards and coins. Kind of killed my coin buzz, because he's as high as it gets in the Army, so now Im no longer on a quest for a 'big' coin...
I photographed another very blown up guy, I mean... this guy was literally falling apart. I wish I was a little more disturbed by all of it. The concept of a man torn apart by explosives gets to me, but for some reason the blood doesnt. I want it to. Maybe I should have been a medic.
Dand Patan
I'll have to finish the Kalagu blog later... Let me catch up here, so I can move forward.
This is from a couple weeks ago, when I was in Paktya.
I flew to Dand Patan with the Provincial Reconstruction Team commander, as well as several key leaders from Paktya including the Police General, Governor, and sub-Governors, to attend a political rally. The locals in Dand Patan flocked to the black hawks as we landed to greet their leadership party, the first of many significant differences demonstrated in this area. Dand Patan is located right on the border of Pakistan, so they have a real problem with insurgents crossing the border... however, they have set aside many of their tribal disputes and have banded together against enemy activity. This creates an atmosphere that is leaps and bounds above the majority of the Paktya districts, and contrasts severely with that of Zormat. The children here laugh and flirt, they'll even venture close enoughto try to converse. The Elders, while maintaining their Islam discipline, are more casual, smiling and joking.
I sat, as the only woman, through the political rally, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible, which proves challenging with my big camera and feminity. I wore a head-wrap to be respectful, and decided that I could not ever convert to Islam (not that Im considering it) if for no other reason than the annoyance of the dumb thing... it gets in the way, slides off, blows away.. I spent more time fiddling with it than my camera.
A group of children sang for the Elders, their young voices carrying a sweet message reminding the audience that, while they may be from separate tribes, they are all one people. It was encouraging to hear a message of unity coming from the rising generation. A poet followed, challenging the crowd with the questions "Who's game is this? Why do we let them come to our country and cut our heads off? Why do we let them teach our children in their madrassas?" Following the rally we toured several facilities, and went to a school for lunch. We sat on the floor surrounding a long tarp, and I cringed as the servers walked across our 'table' with bare feet, throwing the bread down where they had just stepped. Now, every meal I have had in Afghanistan has been phenomenal, but this one... well, I politely gagged it down. Chunks of fat with bits of meat sat in a bowl of grease, in which the lovely sub-governor next to me pulled my bread apart and dumped in the bowl, to absorb the grease.. thanks man. I dont know what kind of fat/meat it was, but I am sure that I prefer my ignorance in this case.
We then went to the sub-Governors compound and discussed needs the community had. Not knowing that I was simply a journalist, he explained that his wife was the leader of the women in the area, and that she needed a building in which to hold women's meetings. He said that she was pushing for rights concerning domestic violence and a bit more freedom. He went on to say that she had left her 8-month old baby in their house to come to meet me, and had waited for three hours that morning for the rally and lunch to finish. When I still didnt come, she went home. My jaw dropped. I had no idea. I felt a deep sorrow, for a woman who would leave her baby, just to talk to an American woman about the freedoms she desired.
Our last stop of the day was yet another tea party with the key leaders. Women in Afghanistan are not welcome in groups of men, and so I usually hang back around the outskirts of such meetings. These men, however, were not having that. They pulled a chair up to the table, and I sat, looking interested in the things they were saying in Pashto, not understanding a word, but nodding and smiling. One of the men pulled out his phone and showed me his sons. I took out my Ipod and showed him my children. He asked to take a photo of me and him, so he could show his wife. After seeing that I cooperated, and apparently didnt mind being photographed, a whole slew of men pulled out their phones and took pictures, asked me to pose with them. I felt like a very silly girl playing celebrity...
The sky turned grey about an hour before we were due to fly out, and the governors were discussing how they refused to be stuck there overnight. So we flew out in Amber air. Hahahaaa... I literally decided my life had come to an end during that flight. The black hawk dropped and shuddered, over and over. A few times it twisted, and continually lurched. The guy across from me was very green in the face. Everyone's knuckles were white, as we all tried to stare out the windows and remain calm. Small gasps escaped from each of us at the particularly scary drops. We flew low, and as we skimmed the mountain tops, I tried to rationalize that if we did go down, at least we werent that far away from impact. It started hailing seconds after we landed, which was the only thing preventing me from stopping and kissing the ground.
This is from a couple weeks ago, when I was in Paktya.
I flew to Dand Patan with the Provincial Reconstruction Team commander, as well as several key leaders from Paktya including the Police General, Governor, and sub-Governors, to attend a political rally. The locals in Dand Patan flocked to the black hawks as we landed to greet their leadership party, the first of many significant differences demonstrated in this area. Dand Patan is located right on the border of Pakistan, so they have a real problem with insurgents crossing the border... however, they have set aside many of their tribal disputes and have banded together against enemy activity. This creates an atmosphere that is leaps and bounds above the majority of the Paktya districts, and contrasts severely with that of Zormat. The children here laugh and flirt, they'll even venture close enoughto try to converse. The Elders, while maintaining their Islam discipline, are more casual, smiling and joking.
I sat, as the only woman, through the political rally, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible, which proves challenging with my big camera and feminity. I wore a head-wrap to be respectful, and decided that I could not ever convert to Islam (not that Im considering it) if for no other reason than the annoyance of the dumb thing... it gets in the way, slides off, blows away.. I spent more time fiddling with it than my camera.
A group of children sang for the Elders, their young voices carrying a sweet message reminding the audience that, while they may be from separate tribes, they are all one people. It was encouraging to hear a message of unity coming from the rising generation. A poet followed, challenging the crowd with the questions "Who's game is this? Why do we let them come to our country and cut our heads off? Why do we let them teach our children in their madrassas?" Following the rally we toured several facilities, and went to a school for lunch. We sat on the floor surrounding a long tarp, and I cringed as the servers walked across our 'table' with bare feet, throwing the bread down where they had just stepped. Now, every meal I have had in Afghanistan has been phenomenal, but this one... well, I politely gagged it down. Chunks of fat with bits of meat sat in a bowl of grease, in which the lovely sub-governor next to me pulled my bread apart and dumped in the bowl, to absorb the grease.. thanks man. I dont know what kind of fat/meat it was, but I am sure that I prefer my ignorance in this case.
We then went to the sub-Governors compound and discussed needs the community had. Not knowing that I was simply a journalist, he explained that his wife was the leader of the women in the area, and that she needed a building in which to hold women's meetings. He said that she was pushing for rights concerning domestic violence and a bit more freedom. He went on to say that she had left her 8-month old baby in their house to come to meet me, and had waited for three hours that morning for the rally and lunch to finish. When I still didnt come, she went home. My jaw dropped. I had no idea. I felt a deep sorrow, for a woman who would leave her baby, just to talk to an American woman about the freedoms she desired.
Our last stop of the day was yet another tea party with the key leaders. Women in Afghanistan are not welcome in groups of men, and so I usually hang back around the outskirts of such meetings. These men, however, were not having that. They pulled a chair up to the table, and I sat, looking interested in the things they were saying in Pashto, not understanding a word, but nodding and smiling. One of the men pulled out his phone and showed me his sons. I took out my Ipod and showed him my children. He asked to take a photo of me and him, so he could show his wife. After seeing that I cooperated, and apparently didnt mind being photographed, a whole slew of men pulled out their phones and took pictures, asked me to pose with them. I felt like a very silly girl playing celebrity...
The sky turned grey about an hour before we were due to fly out, and the governors were discussing how they refused to be stuck there overnight. So we flew out in Amber air. Hahahaaa... I literally decided my life had come to an end during that flight. The black hawk dropped and shuddered, over and over. A few times it twisted, and continually lurched. The guy across from me was very green in the face. Everyone's knuckles were white, as we all tried to stare out the windows and remain calm. Small gasps escaped from each of us at the particularly scary drops. We flew low, and as we skimmed the mountain tops, I tried to rationalize that if we did go down, at least we werent that far away from impact. It started hailing seconds after we landed, which was the only thing preventing me from stopping and kissing the ground.
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