The Father Wears Combat Boots

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

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

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

First Mission: The Silk Road

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.