Dushman (Enemy)

"If I see Taliban, I will kill him with my own hands." I'm sitting over a meal of rice, beef, chickpeas and a flatbread that resembles Naan with one of my interpreters who is putting the chickpeas, rice and meat together with the bread and eating it with his fingers. I try to emulate. We're both sitting cross-legged on the ground next to the supply truck. "Why do you say that?" He looks at me and gives me a serious look and says, "Taliban blew up my vehicle, only the platoon commander and me survived . Everyone else died. So when I see Taliban, I will kill them." I asked if he was injured. He said yes, and showed me a scar on the top of his head and said that he was in surgery for several months. I asked him how old he was, he told me 20 years old. He looked at me again with that same seriousness and said, "I will kill Taliban for what they did." I told him I liked his spirit. He gave me the last of his flatbread.

The sun rises lazily over Kabul. It's obscured by the hazy pollution that sits over many third world metropolises. It doesn't matter. Our vehicles are rolling along the outskirts of Kabul. The streets are crowded with vendors and vehicles. No one thinks twice about cutting their vehicle into our convoy. It's unsettling, but we drive on. We drive into the Afghan National Army (ANA) compound and we make our way out to the training area where our Afghan counterparts and the Americans are setting up for the day. Unfortunately I don't have my camera (for reasons I'll explain later), but picture a valley surrounded by high mountains all around with snow capping the tops of them. It's picturesque.

The ANA commander shakes my hand, "Good morning!" This is about the extent of his English. He beams with pride. For an Afghan, he is tall and slightly regal looking. They told us that many of the senior ANA commanders are old Mujaheddin fighters from when the Soviets were here in the 80s. I'm not sure if this guy is or not, but he grips my hand with the confidence one expects of a senior officer. He speaks through my interpreter, "I am happy to have you as my mentor!" I respond, "I am pleased to be working with such a fine unit." We exchange further pleasantries and he went about commanding his unit.

My role is not to be the Afghan commander or make decisions for him. I'm his mentor and adviser. I don't offer solutions, I offer suggestions. At the moment, I'm working with another American unit who is doing their training, so my role right now is mostly observation until the ANA unit becomes operational. When it becomes operational, we assume responsibility and start working with them.

The ANA is doing heavy weapons training on this day. We watch as Romanian soldiers unload Rocket Propelled Grenade launchers and the rockets for the launchers. The Afghans are huddled around this. They like weapons that make a great big explosion. We do too. The Romanians speak English and teach the Afghans how to load and carry the launcher and we wonder whether we might be given the opportunity to fire one of these rockets. We also watch as other American soldiers set up 50 caliber machine guns in order to familiarize the ANA with their use and how to load, unload and fire them. WHOOOOOSH BOOM! I turn and one of the Romanians has fired an RPG at the rusted hull of a tank 300 meters away. One of the things about Afghanistan is that relics of previous wars are never in short supply. Rusted out tanks and armored vehicles dot the landscape as do bombed out houses. We always have something to shoot at. The Afghans cheers and start shouting. Some of their own line up to fire RPGs. They're given 30 rounds. They hit the tank 4 times. This is considered a success. They cheer whenever a round impacts the tank and we cheer right alongside of them. Meanwhile, the Afghans are struggling with the .50 cals. They are cautious of the weapon and the first couple of soldiers who try to use it fire single shots. Eventually, they start getting into it and started firing sustained bursts. Nothing quite like RPGs and .50 cals going off at the same time.

One of the more interesting aspects of work out here is working with our interpreters. We call them "Terps" for short. They're young men for the most part and speak enough passable English to interpret our conversations with the ANA. They think they're bad, but we try to straight them out. Interpreters here are given the opportunity to get a Visa to move to the United States after 2 years of interpreter work. It's dangerous work and we have heard that the Taliban is paying $20,000 for a dead interpreter. They're smart and funny and think it's cool to try and use American lingo. We frequently have to remind them to stop cussing so much. They respond that they are only copying how the Americans talk. We have nothing to say to this.

Training is wrapping up. Afghans don't like to train after 3 pm. We return to our base. Two days later, we head out again to the training where the ANA is drawing equipment. We don't stay too long. We've received another mission to make a humanitarian assistance (HA) drop at a local school. One of the soldiers has received a a poster from the Library of Congress in DC depicting "woman in science." The only problem is that we don't know where the school is, so we improvise. We pull off the side of the road and ask one of the locals for directions to the nearest school. He points us in the right direction. Several U-turns later, we are winding down a bumpy, dusty road.

Afghans love us or hate us. Mostly, these emotions are often seen within short spans of time. Afghan children run up to our vehicles. We dismount our vehicles and I start saying "Salaam Aleikum" to the kids. They surround me saying, "Mister, mister! Chocolate! Candy! Pepsi! Pen! Notebook!" I smile and feign my best "ignorant westerner" smile and walk toward the school.

We are allowed permission to enter the school. We walk in and speak to the administrator. He's excited about the posters. I realize the posters are in English, but I smile away anyways. He offers us chai. We decline as hospitably as we can. We have to go. Before we go, he has a list of things he needs. I write them down. We bid goodbye to the school administrator and walk back to our vehicles. A mob of children surround me and start reaching into my pockets to take my stuff. I'm dumbfounded by this. I tell them, "No! No! No!" They don't listen. As I'm climbing into my vehicle, they're still clawing at my pockets and trying to pull me back down into the crowd. Fortunately, I'm able to climb up into my vehicle and close the door. I check all my stuff to make sure I have everything. Wallet, cell phone, ID, wait, where's my camera. I check all my pockets. It's not there. I knew I had it before, but I don't have it now. The kids stole my camera. All the pictures I've taken of Afghanistan are now in the hands of thieving children. I am not pleased.

Afghanistan is a beautiful country. The mountain ranges are immense. I would have pictures of this, were it not for children and their small thieving hands. Work here is tiring but I think it will pay huge dividends, not only for us but for the country of Afghanistan as a whole. Thank you again for the encouragements you've sent. Keep in touch.