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….
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