The Accidental Soldier

The Rearview Mirror

2009-07-24T18:17:00.002+04:30

Friends, I'm out of Afghanistan. They started flying us out about a week ago, did the usual long layover in Kyrgyzstan, and we touched down on US soil about two days ago. We've still got members of our unit back at Bagram waiting for their flight out, so please keep them in your thoughts for a few more days until they're safely out.

For any readers out there who've been following my story just long enough to see me home safely, we are basically at the end of our trip. Yes, I'm currently stuck on an Army base back East, getting my teeth checked, my records reviewed, and being reminded not to yell at civilians. But I'll be home and ready for regular life in a few days. Mission accomplished. Thanks for coming along.

Now, if you care to bear with me, I think I've got a few stories left to tell. I promise that this wont become a daily log of relationship musings and professional gripes -- I'm sure you don't need me explaining regular life to you. Sure, it's anti-climactic, but there are still a few stories left to tell that are only making sense to me in retrospect, a few lessons I can only understand from a distance, and some pictures that only become clear in the rearview mirror. Stick around a little longer and I'll share those too.

Either way, I'm home. Much love for helping me back.

Snapshots

2009-07-16T21:56:00.002+04:30

My PRT included both a Vietnam veteran and a former Vietnam refugee in our leadership ranks. They fought like an old married couple. Imagine Billy Bob Thorton and Jackie Chan arguing about military operations.

I said goodbye to the world's oldest Afghan yesterday. He's cranky and demanding and thinks out loud. He gave me a hug and wished blessings on me and my family. He made me miss my late grandmother.

Got chewed out by an officer with temper issues this morning. I walked away while he was still yelling - I'm too old for this crap.

Smoked a deliciously fat cigar this evening under a perfect summer sky with my replacement. We talked leadership, the military-industrial complex, and maintaining your personal dignity in the face of rampant profiteering. He's a good man, and I wish him much safety and success.

Developed an unsurprising addiction to food porn these days, staying up late at night flipping through a stack of Bon Appetit magazines I found abandoned in the goodie pile. After evenings of long workouts and sensible dinners, I salivate as I flip through money shot close-ups of juicy, rare meat and chocolate creations dripping dark, gorgeous sauce. I threw away my stack of Army issue Maxims, but I mailed the Bon Appetits home.

Had an argument with the Governor about the appropriate way to manage and oversee US-funded projects, and won.

Excited as I am to come home, can't shake the feeling of bittersweetness as this chapter winds down. (Not over yet)

Earning my Keep

2009-07-10T08:47:00.002+04:30

Summertime in Kapisa

2009-07-04T16:46:00.001+04:30

On the Road Again

2009-06-28T19:06:00.001+04:30

Out on a mission the other day, under a bright morning sun, a white pick-up full of Afghan cops and guys in suits starts following our convoy and trying to wave us down. We sort of lost them for a little bit, but they caught back up and managed to get us to stop. The little general and I walked back to talk to them. "We wear suits, so you know we're important," the head guy says to us, "so when we try and wave you down you should really pay attention." One of the cops then pulled out a tangled, softball-sized ball of red & black speaker wire. "This was attached to a bomb set down the road for you. We cut the wire so they couldn't hit you, but would you mind doing something about the bomb?"

Under the glaring mid-morning sun, they led us a few miles down the road and pointed out the spot. Nothing obvious, but we stayed way back and stopped traffic. Within minutes, there was a jumble of cars, trucks, motorcycles, wheelbarrows, 3-wheeled taxis, and pedestrians jamming the road, asking questions. "What going on?" "There's a bomb." "Oh. Is it for you?" "Probably." "So, can we pass, then?"

After what felt like forever, under a blazing midday sun, the French bomb-squad guys finally showed up and proceeded to precisely and gingerly find the bomb, and then hack it right out of the ground. ("Dude, is that safe?" "They're the pros." "True. I'll be behind that wall over there if you need me.")

We're not bomb-techs, we're people people, so we just kept the sweaty, thirsty, irritated crowd at bay. "You promised this would only take two hours." "No we didn't. And, by the way, it's a frickin bomb." "I got somewhere to be. Why don't you just blow it up?" "We don't like explosions." "I don't think your bomb engineers are very good." "Thanks for the feedback. Now stay back." "I'm late for school." "I think your teacher will understand." "I'm sick." "Did we mention the BOMB?"

My favorite though, was the teenage guy, decked out in slick shoes, dressy jeans, and clubby shirt, that strolled past dozens of vehicles and hundreds of people, right up to the cordon, and says in accented but comfortable English, "Hey, man, what's up? My friends and I are late. You mind if we drive on through, buddy?"

Jeez.

The French guys finally got the thing out of the ground and off to safety, so we, drenched in sweat, sunburned, and exhausted, all climbed back into our trucks. Crisis averted and without a single injury, we continued the mission ("talking to people and looking at stuff" as our medic generically but accurately describes our basic mission).

Actually, one injury. The little general doesn't like water ("It's so blah, it doesn't even taste like anything"), so by the time we got back to base she was so dehydrated we had to drag into our sick bay and stick a couple of IVs in her. Happy to report that she's fine, and back to her usual diet of fried stuff and Coke.

Radio Silence

2009-06-26T15:16:00.001+04:30

This doesn't really fit with the usual image of soldiers at war, but, truth is, I spend a lot of time at my computer. Computers, actually. I have two - one is a classified system (not nearly as cool as that might sound.) Research, analysis, and information management are a big part of my job (just as nerdy as it seems.)

Point is, I've been logging some quality hours at my keyboard these days, and when the work is done, I havent had the energy to devote to the blog. Sorry. But, I promise, in the next few days I've got a few good stories to tell. Among them:

- our collective thrill at greeting the first of our replacements;

- the sunburnt joy of a day spent calming irrate, stranded Afghan commuters while our French buddies dug up a roadside bomb with our name on it;

- a belated father's day tribute to my dad; and

- rockets in the night.

Most days, life here is as mundane as anywhere. But Afghanistan still has a way of slapping you around if it thinks you're not paying attention.

Finding My Voice

2009-06-05T17:39:00.001+04:30

There were a lot of awful things about my deployment to Iraq a few years back. The terrible leadership. The car bombs. The aimlessness of it all. But the most mundane and maddening thing about it, day after day, was the terrible translation (we had one awesome interpreter, but he was the exception that proved the rule.)

Granted, these poor guys (all guys) were in over their heads. Most of our translators were young kids who'd picked up English from bootlegged movies or foul-mouthed GIs. They could tell someone to put their hands up, or to go screw themselves, but that pretty much emptied the English bank. The Army, bless their hearts, tried fixing this by hiring Iraqi-American immigrants to come back and work with military units.

The poor guy that got assigned to us, a cab driver in the States, just stared blankly at me the first time we worked together, put on my mission to talk to the about the division between municipal, provincial, and federal public service delivery (defeated, "who pays the garbage man?" I finally asked). Or the time an angry Iraqi civilian decided to give us a big piece of his mind as we walked out of a government building. After several minutes of angry gestures and disgusted looks at me while he spit "Amerika!" the translator looked at me straight-faced and said "ummm...he pretty much is thanking you for kicking out sadam. pretty much." Oh, my.

This year's been different, and I owe much of the credit to "the Little General," our Five-Foot-nothing Afghan-American interpreter who throws her weight around like an NFL player, speaks English with a Queens accent, Dari with an Iranian accent and, God love her, knows the Afghan word for "transparency." She's assigned to translate for my boss and me, and I'll be the first to admit we'd be lucky to be half as effective without her.

She knows that when we say "hello," in English, what we really mean is "God's peace be upon you. How is your health? How is your family? How I've longed to see you again since last we parted. Are you tired? May you have the energy of a young athlete. etc. etc. etc." She knows how to walk that fine line between lecturing an Afghan official on corruption and actually calling him corrupt. She can turn from butter-you-up sweet to don't-mess-with-me business on a dime. She can entertain 100 Afghan boys on the spot to keep them from overrunning a construction site inspection. The woman can take our blunt, clumsy, culturally ignorant American word bombs and turn them into sharp, effective, respectful Dari. "Fix my words," we often whisper, just before we say something we know is stupid (we often say stupid things.) And she reliably fixes our words while staying to true to our meaning.

My boss and I spend the day between missions giving her hell. "Go home, your husband misses you, spend time with your parents, go back to school. We're here on orders, but you can leave whenever you want." But she knows we'd be lost without her. She's our voice. And our friend.

The Mission, and Life, Continues

2009-05-31T19:43:00.001+04:30

After a couple of days of stunned grief, we got back in the saddle on Thursday and went back to work. Nervously, I climbed back into my armored truck and, along with the team, hit the road. We drove past the site of this week's suicide bombing, scorch marks, a small crater, and a downed tree all that remained of that horror. I took a deep breath for myself and made the sign of the cross in memory of our friends.

Our first stop was to check in on the UN advisers to the upcoming elections. As we walked into their walled, barbed wired compound, we were hit by an odd, sweet, outdoorsy smell. Inside we came upon a gorgeous rose garden, lovingly tended and in fool bloom. Wonderfully, movingly unexpected. We walked in and had French press coffee and chow hall donuts (I stole some early that morning) with a Bolivian, a German, and two Liberians. Our Afghan elections officer, located nearby and hearing we were in the neighborhood, dropped in, gave me a hug, held my hand, and asked where was that laptop I "promised."

We moved on to a meeting with some of our Provincial Council members, the highest elected officials in our province (who have an odd tendency to blame things on "the government"). They were genuinely happy to see us and to see us ok. One of them called immediately after the attack to make sure we were ok, while another went to the scene. I, like a tactless fool, sat down and got straight to business. They politely answered, then went on for 15 minutes about how they were so glad we hadnt been involved and how they were praying for the good people that were killed and their families. And they meant every word. It was touching. I felt connected. As we finished our meeting, they told us how much we'd helped them, how much they'd miss us when we left, but how happy they'd be when we were safe with our families. I was moved.

We finished our day and came home, successful, exhausted, and relieved.

On Friday I learned that a very close friend here just received test results from a routine medical check he did while home on leave. The results were not good.

On Saturday morning I learned that the Deputy Governor of our Province, a trusted colleague who was everything that the Governor is not, passed away on Friday night after a months-long struggle with illness.

On Saturday night I went to church for the first time in weeks, looking for a little peace.

This morning I went back out, took another deep breath and made the sign of the cross, looked at some projects, met the oldest, coolest judge in Afghanistan (picture Gandalf speaking Dari), and came back home, sweaty, tired, and ready for this damn month to end already.

I Have to Believe

2009-05-26T21:14:00.001+04:30

We just finished a dignified, beautiful ceremony whereby we saw off the remains of three airmen and soldiers on their final journey home to their loved ones. They were killed this morning in an awful attack in an otherwise peaceful neighborhood that my guys and I know all too well. Although my team was not involved (contrary to the claims of the bastard who took credit for the attack), we nonetheless lost dear friends and colleagues with whom we trained, with whom we worked, and who we will dearly miss.

I have to believe that they did not die in vain. I have to believe that they gave their lives in the service of lasting peace and dignity here. Like us, their mission was not to make war, in the traditional sense -- their work was to help rebuild Afghanistan and give the next generation, if not this one, a chance at a decent life. I have to believe that they did not die in vain.

It's hard, though. It's hard not to feel angry and hopeless and cynical and furious. And sad. Just plain sad.

Every day here we saddle up and go out into our province and build and train and mentor and cajole and push. And every day we hit walls. We see freshly built roads falling apart from lack of maintenance, fresh wells run dry, fat contractors doing shoddy work, corrupt officials skimming development funds, local "leaders" asking why we don't solve their problems, people eager to point the finger at someone -- anyone -- else when asked the simple question -- "what are you doing for your community?"

Deep in the dark caves of my mind I fight against the voice that asks,"what's the point?" And I fight, With myself. With the other cynics. With the "blow 'em all up and let God sort em out" crowd. I make myself believe that our work, my work, here is honorable, and just, and needed. Sometimes I even convince myself it's effective.

But today. God, today...

Spring in the 'Stan

2009-05-10T20:34:00.002+04:30

My first week back was miserable. I'd had these high hopes of going home, recharging my batteries, and coming back to work with renewed energy and enthusiasm. Instead, I went home, had the time of my life with my nearest and dearest, and came back loathing everyone here, Afghan and American alike.

Pleased to report that I'm better now. Part of it was the jet-lag, I think. Although i'm still as homesick as I've been since my first year of college oh so many years ago (I counted the other day and was floored at how long ago that was!). But I'm in a better mood, because I can, once again, appreciate the awesome ridiculousness of this place. For example:

- On May 5th I was in a meeting with a local legal official, a somber Pashtun guy from down south who could barely be bothered to speak Dari, the standard language of official business here. We were discussing plans for a new juvenile detention facility in the Provincial Capital when his phone started loudly ringing. His ringtone? La Cucaracha.

- The base-wide e-mail the other day soliciting people to sit on an Asian-American heritage month planning committee. The subject line: "Ethnic Observers Needed."

- Our translator coming into work the other day proudly proclaiming that the Afghan Government had taken action against Swine Flu. They quarantined theTHE pig at the Kabul Zoo. (At least they didnt start rounding up Mexicans.)

- Standing outside, rifles in hand, 50 pounds of armor on our backs, with one of our security detail the other day. A storm had just broken and we were staring at the mountains, gigantic and jagged, barren and beautiful, draped in the scraps of the clouds that had blown away. "It's like Lord of the Rings or something, " he turns to me and says, "but without the monsters and wizards and stuff."

Finally, I looked outside and realized it was spring. Big green leaves and chains of white blossoms on the trees. I'd forgotten they were trees. They were just these skeletal, monochrome, scratchy things. Fresh birsongs. Fields of red wildflowers everywhere. Barefoot kids (same as back in the winter, but they're actually enjoying it now.) Waking up at 5am and stepping out into the morning sunshine. You'd have to be pretty committed to self-pity to stay miserable.

Not Fair (Updated)

2009-04-25T23:01:00.006+04:30

So, the last picture I posted was at Morales Frazier. While you, the reader, pictured me there, me, the author, was spending two weeks near the ocean in California. Not the most accurate self reporting on my part.

As fate's repayment, I'm now on my way back to Afghanistan, typing this message at a DFW lounge. Once I figure out how, I'll post a beach pic or two. But for now, back to the impossibly cute Afghan kids and the laughingly shifty Afghan pols.

Morales Frazier

2009-04-02T20:28:00.003+04:30

I'm spending a few days out at our Forward Operating Base (FOB), an "austere" combat outpost in the middle of the fight, as opposed to Bagram, a small city of a logistics hub insulated behind several layers of security in a relatively secure valley.

So, here I am, in the fight (figuratively), in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by mud and sandbags, but the Internet here is better than Bagram. Is it me, or is that just weird?

There's also a pizza place that charges in euros. Pretty French nurses. Afghan Army soldiers. An Afghan restaurant run by a guy called Jellybean. Co-ed bathrooms. A bar. A french chow-hall that offers single-serving fancy cheese at every meal. (Last night I had a mini-brie and a blue cheese wedge. The french guy next to me snorted "Pasteurized!") WWII this ain't.

The really mind-blowing part is that this is the same base that recently launched a significant offensive in a nearby valley. Before a background of nurses and pizza and Internet and booze, people are still fighting and dying here. I cant think about it too hard, or else it just makes my head spin.

Another Day At the Office

2009-03-23T21:05:00.001+04:30

There's drama in our little slice of Afghanistan. Shootouts between
the Afghan Army and the Taliban (Taliban as shorthand for "the bad
guys." The real mix of insurgents is much, much more complex) in the
town square. Local officials getting unilaterally (and, in my opinion,
unfairly) sacked. Busted mosques. Someone had the idea to invite a
handful of local leaders out to one of our field bases to have a
little meeting, an elders' shura, to hug it out. We expected 8. 100
came.

It was an impressive, but by no means rare, collection of respected
elders from a particular valley. The exchange lasted for hours, often
at a roar. As a state department colleague put it, "Democracy in
action." And it made for a lovely picture.

But clearly, I'm tired. My mind drifted towards cynicism, despite my
best intentions. We invited 8. 100 came. "Who's stacking the deck?" I
wondered. They railed against the government, against the Afghan
Army, against the Americans. "What have you done for yourselves?" They
argued, they yelled, they agreed to kick the Taliban (and the rest of
the riff-raff) out of town. "But who among you will take
responsibility?"

In a way that's never been clearer to me, the devil's in the details.
All the big talk of governance, development, and security that fills
the pages of innumerable Afghanistan "strategies" comes down to how
deal with groups of old guys who's concept of Afghanistan barely
stretches outsides the confines of their respective valley, or
mountainside, or whatever geographic barrier/ family allegiance
defines their place in this world.

Allow me to drastically oversimplify: Ask too much of these guys, and
you risk re-establishing the warlord system, and destroying any chance
to help build an Afghan national identity (we're not Nation-builders,
I know). Ask too little, and you've built a welfare state (Janet
Jackson's "What Have you Done for Me Lately," would be a fitting them
song to many of our relationships here.)

I've seen the pendulum swing. I've struggled to find the balance. I've
struggled even harder to convince my colleagues and superiors that
that balance has, thus far, eluded us. I need a vacation.

The Gov

2009-03-11T20:02:00.003+04:30

Apparently, someone thinks I photoshopped myself into the last picture I posted. To avoid such slander, I leave myself out of this one.

The magnificent creature in this picture is none other than the Governor of my province. The reason I have a job here. The source of all my frustration. One of the most fascinating people I've ever come across. A mid-level warlord turned politician who I'd have mistaken for a caricature if not for the fact that we work together.

Case in point: we're in the most dangerous valley in our area the other day, sitting on the floor having lunch after a big deal traditional meeting with a bunch of local gray beards, trying to
convince them to get their kids to stop joining the Taliban and join the Afghan Army instead. Governor's there, the Afghan Army commander, some embassy folks, the Head graybeard, some ISAF folks (I snuck in and snagged a good piece of floor).

My commander, who thought the shindig was done and went to go put his armor back on, walks in late while everyone's got a mouthful of food. Governor looks up at him, points at the commander's kevlar crotch armor (the most embarrassing, but important, part of our gear) and asks, "what's that for?" Boss, not missing a beat, looks back and says "it's for my wife." "I walked these mountains for 30 years," the Gov says, "fought the Russians, fought the Taliban. I never wore one of those." "You're a hell of a fighter" says my boss, trying to salvage the exchange. "My wife will tell you what I'm better at," cackled the Gov in response.

An Afternoon at the Bazaar

2009-03-06T22:11:00.001+04:30

We had an entirely unusual and pleasant afternoon the other day. There's a little bazaar we drive through nearly everyday on our way to do business. The other day, for the first time on our rotation, we decided to stop.

It was cold and damp. We got our fair share of dirty looks. It was always a little nerve-wracking to see a car off in the distance speeding in our direction. But it was entirely satisfying to leave our 6 ton armored behemoths behind and get out and just walk for an hour. I spent most of the time talking to shopkeepers, asking about business, about inflation, about security. Foreigners with guns tend to make people nervous, so I did my best to break the ice with my muttered bits of broken Dari (Salaam! Cheetor astem? Hoob asti. Name ma Felipe ast. Name cheest?). I doubt they understood what I was trying to say, but, more importantly, they got the sense that I was trying and, with the help of our interpreter, we managed to talk.

Of course, no afternoon in Afghanistan is complete without the kids. The kids in the picture were trying to sell us a little yellow bird. Our interpreter (in the brown camouflage) bought it for a buck to free it. He took hold, threw it up in the sky to set it free, whereas the bird weakly struggled out a few half-hearted flaps and fell into a puddle. Figures.

A Day at the Office

2009-02-25T19:31:00.001+04:30

Not exactly, but close... We took this at a Mosque opening event we took part in a couple of weeks ago. Basically, a photo op.

The story behind the pic- my boss (wearing the headset) and I chased our commander, his Boss, and the Governor down the road in this little village where we did the photo op. We caught them at the last minute ducking through the little door in this mud-walled compound and heading into a crowded room.

Pushed our way through a group of mustachioed men with guns, most of them Afghan police and Army we hoped, found the boss at the other end of the room sipping tea and shooting the breeze with some ancient mullah, and took a seat on our helmets to keep him covered.

My friend says that my blog is too factual, that I gotta talk about my feelings more. So, how'd it feel to be in a room full of strange men with AK-47s? Truth be told, scary, but perversely fun.

Snowflakes Keep Falling on My Head

2009-02-13T10:05:00.002+04:30

Just checking in here.

So, last night I wet to the gym and went back to our headquarters for a little late work. It was a crappy, rainy, soggy night.

When I left for my shack a couple of hours later, I stepped outside and it was a different world. The rain had turned to giant, fat snowflakes that had fallen hard for, apparently, the entire time I was inside. Everywhere, everything was covered in an inch of gleaming snow.

Muddy roads, wooden shacks, dirty humvees were instantly softened and brightened. The reflected light off the snow made the night bright as dawn. The night was quiet.

It was shockingly, unforgettably, fleetingly beautiful.

Friends: Part II

2009-01-30T21:31:00.001+04:30

US pays $40,000 after 15 Afghans die in raid

By JASON STRAZIUSO – January 28, 2009

TAGAB VALLEY, Afghanistan (AP) — U.S. commanders on Tuesday traveled to a poor Afghan village and distributed $40,000 to relatives of 15 people killed in a U.S. raid, including a known militant commander. The Americans also apologized for any civilians killed in the operation...

The continuing saga of death and diplomacy in my little slice of the struggle. Truth is hard to come by. Solutions even harder.

I promise that pictures of kids and clinics and roads and rivers are soon on their way, and that we remain hard at work trying to build stability here. It's just amazing how complex and fragile those gains can be sometimes. It's hard, but that's just the way it is.

Friends

2009-01-24T21:52:00.001+04:30

Afghan official warns foreign forces against causing civilian casualties

Media: BBC Monitoring (Afghan Islamic Press, Pakistan)

Date: 21 January 2009

Kabul, 21 January: The chairman of the Provincial Council of Kapisa: If foreign forces continue causing civilian casualties, their fate will be similar to that of the Russians. After a number of civilians were killed in a foreign military ground and air operation the other night [19 January] in Kapisa Province, the Chairman of Provincial Council of Kapisa Dr Monawar Shah strongly condemned civilian casualties in an interview today and told Afghan Islamic Press [AIP]: "We have called on foreigners many times to avoid civilian casualties in their operations. However, foreigners killed 14 civilians in the Anzari village of Tagab District the other night on first of Dalwa." Dr Monawar Shah added: "Twelve people were killed and six others were wounded in the operation. Also, the foreigners took eight people alive with them."

He said this was a very bad action by the foreign forces and added: "We have previously also told foreigners and now, too, we tell them that if they continue civilian casualties in Afghanistan, their fate will be similar to that of the Russians." He expressed the hope that the foreign forces would not endanger the lives of ordinary people and would adopt a proper policy in this regard. The coalition forces said yesterday that they had killed 19 insurgents, including a commander. Foreign forces have previously also carried out such operations in Kapisa which have reportedly caused civilian casualties. People have also staged demonstrations against such foreign military operations many times.

I saw Dr. Monawar the other day, apparently just before he gave this interview. I see him pretty often. He gives us man hugs. He makes us tea. I consider him one of my Afghan friends here. It's pretty hard to think that he expects us to meet the same fate as the Russians. I guess I'd be pretty pissed off, too, if a whole bunch of folks in my village were killed. We called him on it later. He said he was misquoted. I think he meant what he said.

It comes down, as does this entire struggle, to how you define combatants vs. civilians. From what we were told, some of our guys (coalition troops, but not my unit directly) did a late night raid, took fire, and fired back in force. To our guys, everyone in those houses was a combatant. To the Afghans, most of them were civilians. From the coalition perspective, they lived with Taliban- "harbored them," we'd say. As soon as our guys started taking fire, they perceived everyone in those houses to be a threat. The Afghans argue that, down in these distant valleys, everyone knows Taliban, everyone lives with and among them, everyone is related by kin, or tribe, or some lingering alliance from their days fighting the Russians. The hard truth is that, down here, friendships are fickle, volatile, dangerous things.

Pizza Hut and Holiday Cheer

2009-01-10T23:04:00.001+04:30

Just realizing that I hadn't posted in a while and figured I should check in. Since I've got nothing terribly insightful to share, the two things on my mind at the moment will have to do.

First, have a mentioned that there's a Pizza Hut on base? And that they deliver? Yup. War. American style. Extra cheese. I think of this because while I was at the gym tonight, trying to run off my substantial chow hall dinner (that's another story), this guy walks in the back door carrying a stack of pizzas. "What a jerk," I thought, figuring someone was trying to taunt those of us struggling to be healthy. Then it hit me- "I'm in Afghanistan, at the gym, and someone just had pizza delivered." This isn't Apocalypse Now. It's Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

Second, I can't lie. The holidays sucked. I missed home. It wasn't awful. It just wasn't warm and safe and familiar and all that great stuff that the holidays can be. The consistent bright spot, however, was the near daily outpouring of love and support, via e-mail, letter, card, package, picture, and kind thoughts that kept me going through it all. Friends old and new, family distant and close, and many, many kind strangers helped to brighten the darkest winter days. Thanks and love to all.

Despicable

2008-12-29T10:39:00.001+04:30

If you know me, or have seen my past posts, or saw my Iraq pictures, then you know I've got a weakness for the kids. If you know me, or have seen my past posts, or have heard some of my darker Iraq stories, then you know I've got a particularly vivid fear/hatred of car bombs.

Which is why this story out of Southeast Afghanistan yesterday ht me square in the gut. Some SOB decided to blow himself and his SUV up at checkpoint. Fine. Desperation. Asymmetric warfare. Terrorism. Whatever.

He didn't much seem to much care about the predictably adorable bunch of grade-schoolers walking through the checkpoint on their way to school. Last day of the year, no less.

14 kids -- 8 to 10 year olds -- killed on the spot. Several adults killed. Dozens more injured. (need nightmare fodder? see the video)

Disgusting, despicable, worthless, soul-less, asshole.

Christmas Mubarak!

2008-12-24T21:34:00.001+04:30

A couple of weeks ago my boss and I (and our interpreter) spent the afternoon calling our Afghan colleagues to wish them a happy Eid. "Eid Mubarak!" he began every call, to the giggles, guffaws, and gratitude of all the folks we called. So, today, Christmas Mubarak!

We spent the day working today, travelling all around the province, speaking with everyone from high government officials to village cops to dirt-smeared kids. I had a ball. Some of the highlights:

- During a very somber meeting with a government bigshot and a group of bearded elders in traditional dress to discuss the coalition activities in their area, cheesy, late-90's club music started playing out of nowhere. Sheepishly, one of the elders reached into his pocket and whipped out a cell phone waaaay cooler than mine. He shut the ringer off and we continued

- We spent an 2 hours driving not more than 10 miles to village out on the outskirts of the provincial capital. The road was so bad we saw probably 10 donkeys for every car, mostly old toyota corollas. I thought our Humvee was going to snap in two- I have no idea how these folks keeps these little Japanese sedans running for a decade on these roads. It's gotta be magic.

- Standing in front of a school that our predecessors built just a few months ago, a group of about 30 villagers insisted that we never do anything for them. "We built this school," we said, "and that clinic right over there." "Yeah, well," they said, "the road's terrible."

- As we walked down the crappy road to the new clinic, a kid pulls up beside me and starts chatting me up. "Baksheesh, give me pen." Since I didn't have enough for the several dozen kids walking behind us, I said sorry. He grinned and said "My name is Apenis." "No it's not, kid." Grin. "My name is Apenis." "Your name is not Apenis. My name is Felipe." He laughed and said "My name is Sabiullah." "OK, that sounds right."

- Met a Barney Fife village cop, bearded, five foot nothing, no gun, who spent an earnest afternoon shooing kids away from our trucks. He was great. Obviously loves his job, loves his village, and takes a lot of simple pride in what he does.

I think the day made me nostalgic for road trips to Mexico with the family when I was a kid. We had a powder blue, '74 Chevy silverado with a camper in the back. The crappy roads, the mud brick homes, the donkeys, the endless streams of kids, the rock star treatment my dad would get every time he got out and started giving change and candy to every kid he saw. My mom yelling at him when he ran out of stuff- "if you don't have enough for everyone, don't start!"

It was a good day. A Christmas (eve) to remember.

Felipe in the News

2008-12-23T17:12:00.000+04:30

Not really. But my new neighborhood is. Check out this Economist article on the Afghanistan troop surge and the latest strategy here. The best part is where the article specifically calls out one of our districts and our work with the shuras as a test case for the new strategy. Best comment on the article so far? My colleague here- from now on, "when I want to know what we will be doing in our AO (area of operations), I'll just check the Economist."

It's not so much that this is a surprise, but it's the notion that the nascent "secret" plan that's being cranked out by commanders as I write, that we are still figuring out how to most effectively implement, is coming back at me over the ether, via London, is just weird. So much for operational security, eh?

Air Force One

2008-12-15T08:38:00.001+04:30

4 years ago, just before Christmas, I was summoned to my commander's office in Iraq. "Perez, he said, " you've been selected to represent the unit to greet a distinguished visitor to the base." "Who?" I asked nervously. "The Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld."

At 3am the next morning I stood in the foyer of the headquarters building, housed in what used to be Uday and Qusay Hussein's summer palace. After a couple of hours, I heard Rummy's chopper land, watched as his personal security detail (private contractors, of course) entered and cleared the building. I listened as he spewed the party line about success in Iraq, touting the merits of his policies where I had seen them fail with my own eyes.

He talked about the then "successful" push into Fallujah, which had not defeated the insurgency, but had only pushed the fight into the less heavily defended city of Mosul. Where we were. He talked about the "successful" efforts to train the Iraqi police force, a police force which almost entirely melted away when the insurgency attacked Mosul. Where we were.

As directed, I held my tongue. I should have held my nose. I skipped breakfast and walked back to my bunk bitter, more certain than ever that our leadership was failing us.

12 hours ago I was summoned to my commander's office here at Bagram. "Perez, he said, " you've been selected to represent the unit to greet a distinguished visitor to the base."

Respectfully, I declined.

Good Choice, Sir

2008-12-06T09:44:00.001+04:30

The new/ old Secretary of Defense, Robert Gates, just published his vision for reforming the Pentagon. After one read, he's right on. Some highlights:

We've been fighting low-intensity wars since Vietnam- why are we still training and equipping for the Cold War? It's time devote the appropriate share of leadership and resources to the wars we are fighting -- Iraq, Afghanistan, the inevitable next counterinsurgency -- rather than the wars we fear we may (ie, Russia, China).

Fix the bureaucracy, Part 1- The Army still does peacetime promotions, rewarding loyalty, longevity, and the ability to make friends and influence people. The ability to fight, win, and build lasting stability? Less important. Ridiculous. Criminal.

Fix the bureaucracy, Part 2- The Pentagon weapons procurement system was so busy researching, designing, and building sophisticated, cutting edge, super-secret, sci-fi weapons of the future that it couldn't be bothered with something as mundane better armored vehicles to protect against improvised road-side bombs. Ridiculous. Criminal.

This stuff matters. It may not make a difference in my time here, but it could help save the life of the guy who replaces me

The Father Wears Combat Boots

2008-11-30T19:40:00.001+04:30

Something about being in uniform seems to bring me back to church. And it's not the usual blessmelordsoIdon'tgetshot thing. It's more about finding a small escape, a little bit of peace amid the rumbling humvees, the screaming jets, and all the guns (although I do take a pistol to mass).

This base is terribly ugly. All old soviet bunkers, cheap wooden huts, barbed wire and diesel fumes. But the Chapel here is lovely. It's a big, airy, white building with wooden floors, comfy chairs, and exposed rafters. It's even decorated for Christmas right now. The priests are an old polish guy with coke bottle glasses and a younger East African firebrand. They're both great. They both wear camouflage and combat boots under their robes. The band is surprisingly cool. They've got a choir with a couple of angel voiced female sailors, an old-school choir director who strums his little guitar with kumbaya earnestness, and a guitar and bass player who sound like they're trying out for the Red Hot Chili Peppers. It's weird, but moving after a long week.

I'll admit that I find it a little hard to pray sometimes. I'll get into the groove and my mind starts wandering -- good music, good people, good times. But I figure the Big Guy's not jealous, and I imagine he'd smile to think of the love between my family, my friends, and me. When I do settle in for a little prayer, I thank him for the people in my life, asks that he keep them safe, and ask that he helps them not worry about me. It's all about finding a little peace.

Storytelling

2008-11-27T08:32:00.002+04:30

My buddy asked a good question that I think sheds a lot of light on this whole blog thing. "How candid can you be?" Turns out I'm less candid than I'd like. The occasional rant against stupid rules aside, I choose my words with some care.

First off, there's "operational security." That means I avoid discussing, in detail, where we work, who we talk with, what we discuss, and all that good stuff. And since the absolute most interesting part of my work deals with specific personalities in specific places facing specific issues, OPSEC dictates that NOT I share my most colorful stories. Given where we work and what we do, discretion can be a life and death matter (remind me someday to tell you the one about the crooked politician, the altruistic warlord, and the incompetent construction contractor.)

Second, there's this whole Internet-is-forever thing. I try not to sell out any of my buddies here with names or photos, on the idea that anything I say can be tied to me forever, but it shouldn't haunt anyone else. So, I scrub their details out of my postings too.

Finally, I've got a little bit of paternalistic editing going on. I (usually) judge it best not to share my own fears and anxieties. My mom reads this. She's worried enough. This is my fight. So there goes one of the juicier sources of material.

What we're left with is storytelling- how do I reflect the true texture of this place not through reports (which I officially do plenty of), but through stories (which entail some fudging of fact.) It's a challenge that I wrestle with every time I post. And, often, when I decide not to.

Saluting

2008-11-20T21:15:00.001+04:30

Anybody remember that scene in Forrest Gump where Forrest and Bubba report for duty in the jungles of Vietnam? Where they shoot their hands up to their hats in a salute as soon as they see Lieutenant Dan? And he proceeds to chew them out for doing something as dumb as showing the snipers who the leaders are?

Here at Bagram, smack in the middle of a war zone, we salute. All the time. ALL the time. This place is crawling with officers. So many officers, in fact, that most of them probably have more bosses than subordinates. It must make them feel so small that they searched and searched and searched for a way to feel important. Best they could come up with is getting everybody to salute them. It's as ridiculous as it sounds.

Afghanistan is a beautiful country. I mean it. I wish I could see more of it. (And I still owe you a run down of my trip last week). Problem is, I don't live in Afghanistan. I live on Bagram Airfield, a place with neither the comforts of home nor the mystery of being abroad. I'm not complaining (really), just reflecting. And by the looks of this LA Times article, I'll have plenty of chances to get out and about over the next few months.

Western Parwan

2008-11-16T20:03:00.003+04:30

First Mission: The Silk Road

2008-11-14T20:14:00.001+04:30

Just got back from a 3 day mission out into Western Parwan province. Travelled along one the branches of the ancient silk road, drove through bustling markets, saw smiling, waving boys and girls headed to school, met with local leaders, visited great development projects- it was incredible. Couldn't have asked for a better end to my first week here.

Details, pictures, and maybe even some video up soon, but just wanted to check in for now.

Reluctantly, My Address

2008-11-09T21:30:00.000+04:30

I've been hesitant to do this, since I want for nothing here at the largest US Airbase in Afghanistan. However, many of you have kindly and consistently asked for my address, and I am touched enough to oblige:

Felipe Perez
PRT Parwan & Kapisa
APO AE 09354

That's it. I know, it's so short it just seems wrong, but it works. By the magic of American airpower, mail takes about a week to get here. Pictures, letters, and postcards would make my day. If you're compelled to send something heftier, books, DVDs, or mix-CDs keep the boredom away and are shareable with the troops. And if anyone insists on sending edible goodies, I'll start posting a log of the extra miles I've gotta run to stay in fighting shape.

Seriously, though, I'm touched. Thank you

The Governor, Part II

2008-11-09T20:38:00.000+04:30

Yesterday's lunch was a blast, so we followed it up with another one today, this time with the Governor of Kapisa Province, our other area of responsibility.

Actually, we didn't just meet with the Governor either day-- it was the entire provincial government, including all of the department heads and the elected members of the legislature, about 20 folks total (19 of them men). The split between the two kinds of officials was amazing. The department heads were all executive-branch technocrats (or wannabe technocrats) in suits and trim beards, with a good bunch of them speaking decent English.

The elected members were straight out of a Nightline special report- traditional wool hats representing their respective tribes, big bushy beards, and long cotton shirts and baggy pants. Interestingly, most of these guys wore some sort of western jacket or sportcoat over their otherwise Afghan outfit.

I was lucky enough to sit with the electeds, who immediately started digging into me. They asked how many wives I had, and were disappointed that I had none. They wanted to know if I was Christian and how often I prayed everyday. They asked if my parents were still alive, and whether I would take care of them when they got old. But mostly, they just laughed at my sad attempts to speak a few phrases of Dari (Afghan Persian).

My conversations pale in comparison to a couple of buddies'. They noticed the ring on one Air Force Captain's finger, and asked how long he'd been married. "Six years," he answered. "Excellent! (through a translator)How many children do you have, Captain?" "None," he smiled. Shocked, his lunch buddy smacked his fellow Afghans on the back and laughed, "what's the matter, can't find the hole?"

Here's another- at today's lunch a handful of female officials joined us. Just coming to the lunch already speaks volumes regarding these ladies' toughness and commitment. A female soldier from our group joined them for lunch, and they hit it off, the bunch of them chatting and laughing through lunch. The Kapisa governor, a much schmoozier guy than yesterday's governor, started working the room and made his way to the ladies. He sat down and joined them for dessert, grabbed a piece of cake, and took a couple of fork-fulls as he mingled. After he got up, my buddy looked at one of the ladies and asked, "wasn't that your cake?" The council-member didn't miss a beat as she shot back,"Yeah, he took my cake just like he takes my rights."

I'm not making this stuff up.

The smart-assier among you are probably laughing at me, thinking, "this guy's not at war! I'm taking my care package back." You're right, this isn't your typical follow-the-blackhawks-and-kick-down-the doors kind of mission. But it's my mission. And I like it.

I'm really encouraged by this, actually. I was in Iraq for over 6 months before we ever did anything remotely this inclusive and personal. It's gonna be a productive year.

The Governor

2008-11-08T11:02:00.000+04:30

It's my second full day here and I'm having lunch (along with several of my colleagues) with the Governor of Parwan Province and his staff. It's gonna be a busy year.

P.S. Anybody got an extra "Obama Elected President" newspaper they can spare? They're a little hard to come by in central Asia.

Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan

2008-11-07T17:12:00.000+04:30

After what has felt like the longest lead up of my life, I am here. Arrived just before dawn yesterday and watched as the morning light lit up the Hindu Kush mountains.

(Math-themed digression: this [the long lead up, not the red-lit mountains] reminds me of a story that Mr. Slevin once told me in 9th grade geometry class to explain sums of infinite series [that's a sub-digression that I'll spare you]. Some smart greek guy asked another greek guy, "For you to get from Athens to Sparta, do you first have to go halfway there?" Greek guy 2 says, "Sure." So smart guy says, "Once you've made it to the half-point between Athens and Sparta, do you then need to cross the new half-way point between that spot and Athens?" Greek guy 2 says, "Sure." Now smart Greek's got him on the ropes and asks, "If you've always got to get half-way to Sparta before you actually get to Sparta, and there's always a new half-way mark ,no matter how close you are, how do you cross that final, infinite, half-way mark and actually get there?" Greek guy 2 was so perplexed he invented some new math.

I just realized this story worked a lot better when Mr. Slevin kept walking halfway to the wall as he told this story.)

Point is, after what started to feel like an infinite series of half-way theres, I am, finally, here. Safe and sound.

Not impressed. But that's the next post.

Si Se Puede

2008-11-05T12:47:00.001+04:30

It'll be a great story for the kids some day; "I was in Krgyzstan the day President Obama was elected, waiting for the plane that took me to Afghanistan."

A bunch of airmen and I got up early this morning (we're 11 hours ahead of Eastern time) to watch the results come in. I'm lucky to have found the biggest pocket of Democrats and moderate Republicans in the whole US military. I think there's almost 7 of us.

We ate our breakfast as they called Pennsylvania for Obama. We watched nervously as Virginia, North Carolina, and Florida remained too close to call. Watching the big screen in the rec room, most of us cheered as they called Ohio blue. I got hopeful, almost cocky. But still, at 10am sharp, local time, I nearly choked on my coffee when the words flashed on screen- President Elect, Barack Obama. One guy across the room stood up and cheered. Most of the room just grumbled "there goes the country," or something similarly offensive. I just sat there and fought back the lump of pride welling up in my chest. I'll deal with the liberal bashers and Obama haters later. For now, I'll just bask in the hope.

Krygyztan

2008-11-02T12:06:00.001+04:30

Before last night, I was only vaguely aware that this was a real country. Turns out it's real. And rainy.

The military seems to not like doing stuff in straight lines, so we'll be here for a bit before catching our final plane into Afghanistan. We're staying at a small US Air Force Base that used to be a small Soviet Air Force base a couple of decades back. It's a lot like the FOB back in North Carolina -- tents, barbed wire, armed guards, gravel roads -- except that this place is not make believe.

Also, the management here is well aware that the setting sucks, so they bend over backwards to keep morale up. Chow's great (including a panini station and a fro-yo sundae bar). The gym is ginormous, looks like one of those Bally's ads on TV, and pumps motivational, base-heavy gym jams 24 hours. There are at least 4 24-hour free Internet cafes (the filter's a nanny-monster, though. Ex. The Onion is deemed "obscene.") There's also a bar. Really. Except only Air Force folks can drink. Seems there've been too many drunk soldier incidents.

The trip here was weird. Everybody was clearly flipping out, but we all handle it differently. Some guys (including me), had their cell-phones glued to their ears until the stewardesses pried them away. Some folks lost themselves in their gadgets and games until their batteries died. Some guys did the thousand-yard stare. Some guys sang. One guy, no joke, whipped out a harmonica.

Maybe there's a method to the madness. Maybe we need a psychological buffer zone between the shock of leaving home and the shock of going to war. As purgatories go, I guess Kyrgyzstan ain't too bad.

Shannon, Ireland

2008-11-01T06:04:00.001+04:30

1am in at the airport in Shannon, Ireland. Our charter plane is layed up for a couple of hours for fuel and a new crew. We're sitting here, buying stuff we don't need at the duty free (no alcohol!), using the wi-fi, and staring longingly at the bar.

I actually love this place. Last here in July of 2005, en route home from Iraq. We landed at 7am and they suspended the no alcohol policy for a couple of hours. We tracked the manager down, got them to open up the bar, and several pints of Guiness later, we stumbled onto the plane singing "Come On, Eileen," the closest thing to an Irish drinking song we could come up with. It was beautiful.

Not today. Headed to war, rather than away. But there's a pint with my name on it they're keeping cold for Summer '09, when I head home.

Next stop- somewhere in Central Asia.

It's Time

2008-10-31T20:05:00.001+04:30

It was over a year ago that my unit dropped the news that we'd been slated for a tour in Afghanistan. At the time the news hit me like a fist, but over many, many months and the progression of life in all it's messy, painful, glory, I'd become numb to the fact of my impending trip. When I left home three months ago to come to North Carolina for training, Afghanistan once again felt real. But that faded away after realizing we'd be here for months of low-quality training. It became a real necessity, for my own peace of mind, to just bury this trip way back, to make it almost a fantasy.

Two days it ago, though, it hit me. It's time. We're leaving. Now. Wow.

Here I am, sitting in a hangar at an air force base, guns and bags in hand, waiting for the green light to load up. Those of you who've been keeping up with this whole North Carolina mess will not be shocked to read that our plane is late! God bless America.

So, this is my last American posting for while. My trip to the 'Stan will span many countries over many days, so I'll update this page next time I find a computer. Wish me luck...

October 13th, 2004

2008-10-14T01:58:00.001+04:30

RELEASE NUMBER: 041018-01

DATE POSTED: OCTOBER 18, 2004

PRESS RELEASE: Civil affairs officers killed in Iraq

U.S. Army Special Operations Command Public Affairs Office

FORT BRAGG, N.C. (USASOC News Service, Oct. 18, 2004) — Two Army Reserve civil affairs officers died Oct. 13 during an improvised explosive device attack on their convoy in Mosul, Iraq.

Lt. Col. Mark P. Phelan, 44, and Maj. Charles "Rob" Soltes Jr., 36, were returning from a mission at a local hospital with members of the Upland, Calif.-based 426th Civil Affairs Battalion's Public Health Team when their vehicle was attacked.

Five other Soldiers were wounded during the attack.

The worst day of my life was 4 years ago today, watching Maj. Soltes's and Col. Phelan's last moments, and seeing three other friends seriously hurt. I was riding as a machine gunner in the Humvee behind theirs when they were hit by a suicide car bomber. We had been in Iraq 3 weeks.

Major Soltes was taken from two young sons and a lovely, pregnant wife. She later had a beautiful, healthy boy. Colonel Phelan was taken from an adult daughter and a loving wife. Mrs. Phelan continued to send us care packages throughout our unit's year in Iraq. She makes delicious rice krispie treats. It makes me sad, now, to think of them and of her.

Before that day I don't think I ever had a clue what these war deaths meant. They were names on a list, men and women who understood the risks they took and died doing their jobs. Their deaths were sad and tragic but, in my naive thinking, understandable and bearable. I had never given a moment's thought to the surviving family. I had never considered their battle buddies who sustained life-altering injuries (across the two wars, for every soldier killed, several more are badly hurt.) And I'd never thought of their surviving teammates. The men and women trained accept risk and face death and, really, no better at it than anyone else.

As of today, 4182 US service members killed in Iraq, and 611 killed in Afghanistan. Every October 13th I make sure and set aside time to remember that each of these deaths hurt someone just as deeply and as as the passing of Mark and Rob hurt their families and us.

Nerdfest

2008-10-03T23:04:00.000+04:30

Today is day 5 of a 6-day Interagency (Army, Air Force, State Department, USAID, and US Dept of Agriculture) Strategic Planning workshop. I'm in heaven.

We're talking measures of effectiveness (outcomes, not outputs!), de-conflicting multiple plans (for example, ISAF vs. ANDF) , developing 1, 3, and 5 year projected end-states, synchronization matrices- great stuff!

In all honesty, one of the most heartbreaking things about my tour in Iraq a few years ago was the shocking lack of vision, lack of a plan, lack of a clear understanding of what we were doing and why. Blood was spilled and treasure was wasted in vain.

This experience, this nerdfest I'm in now, is encouraging. Granted, half the eyeballs in this room are glazed over, but this is important work. What are the root causes of instability in Afghanistan? How, given limited resources, will we tackle those drivers? How will we know whether we're succeeding? How do we make sure all US agencies are pulling together? This room doesn't have all the answers, but to board that plane to Afghanistan without asking the questions would be criminal.

Embrace the Suck

2008-09-28T23:30:00.000+04:30

Army port-a-potties the world over (I can speak to the US, Germany, Kuwait, Qatar, and Iraq, at least) are full of some of the crudest, funniest, and wisest graffiti ever. My personal favorite, scrawled or scratched into at least one potty in ever place I've ever been, is "Embrace the Suck."

"Army Strong," "Army of One," "Be All You Can Be" aside, "Embrace the Suck" is the real Army motto. The wisdom is simple and powerful. War sucks. Soldiering sucks. The Army sucks. Deal with it. Get over it. Accept it. Embrace it.

I think I'm close.

Just came back from 5 days in the woods. Slept in the dirt. Got rained on. Tore my hands up taking machine guns apart in the dark. Got real stinky. In short, it sucked.

But on day three or four (we lose track), we had hot chow trucked out to the woods. It had stopped raining. The sun was setting behind the North Carolina woods, through a break in the rainclouds. The truck was blaring 80's R&B as they pulled up, and we convinced them to open the doors and turn it up. Before long, plate full of lukewarm spaghetti in hand, funky buddies at my side, and bad music in background, I was as happy as can be. It wasn't long before our pint-sized First Sergeant started screaming about something or other, but it was wonderful while it lasted.

Better yet, last night, our field days over, we rolled back into the FOB. I've never been happier to see broken showers, a crowded tent, and a dining hall full of bland food. I'm learning to embrace the suck.

400 Joes/ 8 Showers = Funk

2008-09-23T06:44:00.000+04:30

Not content with the indignities of port-a-johns, we shower in trailers here. Our little corner of the FOB houses around 400 soldiers and airmen ("Joes"- soldiers and airmen is too long. Also, the air force uses "airmen" as a gender neutral term. No feminist hate mail, to me at least, please.) Anyway, we 400 Joes (also gender neutral. cool your heels.) have 5 shower trailers, 8 showers a trailer, assigned to us. So, on a good day, 10 Joes per shower.

Tonight, on my way to getting all fresh and clean, I saw one long line and four signs on four trailers. "Closed until further notice." No further explanation. Awesome.

Nothing to Lose

2008-09-23T03:07:00.000+04:30

This Army business was never intended to be a career (why I am here is another posting), and the last couple of months haven't changed my mind. So, this is, for all practical purposes, the end of my military career. And I love it.

There're no promotions to suck up for. No supervisors to make feel smart. No career-defining evaluations coming my way. When my bosses here do stupid stuff, I let them know, respectfully, that I think they're doing stupid stuff. I, daily, give honest, brutal, and (I hope) constructive feedback to our trainers.

I've managed to make myself a huge pain. I make the leadership squirm. I say the things that my buddies and, regrettably, most of my senior officers wish they could say. When I feel that my time is wasted, I say so, and I suggest a way to not waste it next time. When a training event misses the mark, I let them know, and I recommend exactly how they can fix it. I'm probably the most notoriously insufferable smart-ass here. But that's ok. Because I'm usually insufferably right. This is kinda fun.

Combat First Aid, Tactical Convoys, Language Classes, and Command Post Exercises

2008-09-15T19:53:00.001+04:30

When I left home a month and a half ago, I fully expected I'd be in Afghanistan by now, happily attempting to nest by putting down a cheaply bought local floor rug and building a bookshelf out of scavenged planks and cinder blocks. But, no, I'm still here. Still living out of a rucksack. Yup. Great.

Training's actually gotten much better, though (which isn't saying much, frankly.) Here's how we've spent most of the last two weeks:

Combat First Aid: Applying a tourniquet (tight is good), treating a collapsed lung (make another hole in the chest), and starting an IV (going into, rather than through, the vein in the hardest part.)

Tactical Convoys: Getting 20 people in several humvees hundreds of meters apart to act as a well-oiled machine while under fire is hard.

Dari Language class: Spent a day learning such useful phrases as "may I search your car" and "drop your weapons," before the instructor went on a heartfelt but rambling and eternal monologue on Afghan history, politics, economics, and culture.

Command Post Exercise: Three days in an air conditioned tent (could be worse) doing simulated mission planning, analysis, and execution. Much nerdy fun.

My Prayers are in Chatsworth

2008-09-14T20:29:00.000+04:30

For the last few years I've had the pleasure to work with LA's first responders- the LAFD, the LAPD, and everyone else who runs towards disaster as others run away. A bittersweet sadness and pride came over me as I saw these men and women at their finest, bringing strength to tragedy at the Chatsworth train wreck. My prayers are with the LAPD, having lost a colleague in the accident, with the LAFD, facing the grim work of rescue and recovery, and with all the individuals and families touched by the incident.

Story Arcs

2008-09-12T08:29:00.000+04:30

On a gorgeous morning 7 years ago, I was walking to a Brooklyn subway station to catch a train into work when I ran into cabbie parked along the street. He was standing on the passenger side, watching a little black & white TV perched on the roof of his cab. I could just make out the fuzzy image of a familiar, blocky skyscraper billowing smoke. "Looks like a plane hit one of the towers," he said, pointing West to Manhattan.

I walked on. By the time I made it to my subway stop, the second plane had hit. Cops were screaming at everyone to get off the trains and go home. Sirens blared as every firetruck and ambulance in Brooklyn tried to make it across the bridge into downtown. The streets were full of confused people. I don't think we knew enough to be scared yet.

I decided to walk on, headed towards the East river, to get a look for myself. Walking through a nice neighborhood of brownstones, I was hit by a cloud of smoke and ash coming at me from the river. A few people ran the other way. I walked on.

Finally getting to the riverbank, I sat on a bench and looked across at the familiar Manhattan skyline, the lower half covered in choking, black smoke. I looked over at the hipster kid sitting on the other side of the bench, listening to a little pocket radio. "They fell," he said. "What fell?" "The towers, man. They're gone." I spent the rest of the morning sitting and staring.

Beautifully Terrifying

2008-09-11T04:06:00.000+04:30

I've been carrying a print-out of an old NY Times Magazine article -- Battle Company is Out There -- and finally read it a couple of nights ago.

It's beautifully vivid and sympathetic, terrifyingly graphic and conflicted, and deeply moving. I hesitate to post this, but it's a very real part of this story.

One BIG note- I will be nowhere near Kunar. However, I will have friends there.

The Bright Side

2008-09-07T16:47:00.000+04:30

After much whining on my part, a dear friend asked me what I liked about being here. After a little reflection, here's a short list:

- I see the sunrise most everyday. It's no less beautiful on Friday than it is on Monday.
- I call my mom all the time, and it's a treat rather than a chore.
- A patch of grass, a set of earplugs, and a hat pulled low is all I need to relax.
- I miss my job.

Hurricane Hanna

2008-09-06T04:30:00.000+04:30

For those of you who like maps, meteorology, and current events, you may have figured out that there's a storm headed this way. Long story short, we've evacuated the FOB, we're back in the World War II barracks until the storm passes and, best of all, training will continue on schedule. Hooah.

Lasers, Tumbling Humvees, Night Vision Goggles, and Machine Guns

2008-08-31T04:19:00.000+04:30

So, in the last week I've:

- Fired hundreds of rounds out of a medium sized machine gun;
- Shot targets at night using an infrared targeting laser and night vision goggles; and
- Used a giant, expensive simulator to practice getting out of a Humvee after a rollover accident.

It's actually a lot less fun and exciting than I would have imagined as a ten year old kid playing GI Joe. What does this have to do with the actual PRT mission I described a week ago? Good question.

FOB Patriot

2008-08-29T01:53:00.000+04:30

As if Fort Bragg itself were not enough, they've decided to build a camp in the middle of the woods, barely 5 minutes outside of the built up regular base, and train us there. It's called Forward Operating Base (FOB) Patriot, and it's meant to simulate deployment. All I know is that it adds insult to injury to actually still be in the US but have to live like we were in Afghanistan. In fact, I bet the bases in AG are better. The only benefit of this awful place is that it makes me actually look forward to going overseas.

One of these days I'll post something more upbeat. Really. Just looking for something good to say.

We waste more time before 9am than most people waste all day

2008-08-21T03:44:00.000+04:30

Got up at 530am today, to be outside our decrepit old building at 6am to stretch. No exercise today. Just stretching. Had breakfast, showered, dressed, put on my 50 pounds of gear and walked a half mile to catch a 730 bus that would take us one mile to our 8am appointment.

We've been here for two weeks now, doing a whole bunch of nothing. But today sounded cool. We were gonna do some weapons training, using simulators that are essentially big arcade games. We were also gonna do some humvee training, learned how to escape from a rollover over using a big simulator that is essentially an amusement park ride. Should have been a day of good, fun training.

Problem was, about 200 people showed up for the same training. With three weapons simulators that accommodate 5 people at a time, and one rollover simulator that takes 5 people, we essentially spent 8 hours in line for about 1 hour of training. I get a better fun/ waiting ratio at Disneyland.

They didn't know we were coming? They couldn't have staggered us through here, bring small groups on different days? They didn't realize that putting 200 people, 5 at a time, through a 30 minute training would take a while? Don't they do math here?

Frustrating day.

My Mission: Provincial Reconstruction Team Sergeant

2008-08-15T17:22:00.001+04:30

In writing about our actual mission, I always feel like I need to err on the side of caution, for fear of revealing any sensitive information. So, here, to explain to you all what it is I'll be doing for the next year, I've compiled a few unclassified, open-source links that can say it for me.

I'll be working in Afghanistan as part of a Provincial Reconstruction Team (PRT). The US Agency for International Development (USAID) has a great description posted here. My team will be relieving a unit currently working North of Kabul. They've got got a website up, which you can see here. The Naval Post Graduate School's got a great research program in Culture and Conflict studies. They've done great analyses of the provinces where my team and I will be working, which you can see here and here.

Finally, for the extremely curious among you, the Army has actually produced two documents that define the scope of our work. The Army Center for Lessons Learned Provincial Reconstruction Team Playbook is a typical Army publication- long on the acronyms, short on the usable advice. But it's what we got. In contrast, the Army Counterinsurgency Field Manual is a page turner. Really. I'm not kidding. I actually bought a hard copy at Barnes and Noble. You wanna know what the damn shame is? The guy who was instrumental in writing it, John Nagl, has since left the Army. Hooah.

Groundhog Day

2008-08-07T23:54:00.000+04:30

Here I am again. Same WWII era barracks. Same long lines to get my pay straightened out and my Anthrax booster shot. Same hot summertime in the South. Last time I was here doing this was in 2004, before heading off to Iraq, and the feeling of suddenly waking up 4 years ago is hard to shake...

I'm back in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The Army doesn't just send us to war. They mobilize us. I'd rather just go already. If I'm gonna leave loved ones, a great house, and a fun job for year, at least send me off to work somewhere. But this? This is just boring. And it will be boring for a while.

Ontario Airport USO

2008-08-02T17:56:00.000+04:30

I'm using their computer, eating their cookies, and waiting (along with 100 other soldiers in my unit) for my 7am flight to Fort Bragg. Reported in to my unit at 430am this morning with my groggy family in tow. I need to start getting used to doing everything way too early.

Where it begins...

2008-06-19T05:00:00.000+04:30

After nearly three years of fat, happy, civilian life post-Iraq, I've been called up to active duty once again. In early August I go back into uniform for several weeks of training and paperwork at Fort Bragg, NC. From there, it's off to rural Afghanistan for a one year tour trying to create some stability and development.

My plan is to offer some glimpses of (and, maybe, insight into) the journey from Los Angeles City Hall to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Somewhere in Afghanistan.

Where it Began...

2008-06-19T04:42:00.000+04:30

In July of 2003, fresh out of grad school, I arrived at Fort Knox, KY for Army basic training. Just a year after my first miserable day in the Army (lots of angry men in brown, round hats, lots of push-ups) I was in North Carolina preparing for a year in Iraq.

I spent most of that year e-mailing home to friends and family. David Nickerson, a great old friend of mine who I haven't called in far too long, posted them all on our college's alumni blog, along with some really moving (for me at least) commentary.