Another Day At the Office

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

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

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.