The first named street I saw on leaving Baghram Airfield was “Texas,” and the next one was “Tennessee.” That being the case, God could not have completely deserted this land so craved by Alexander the Great and Ghenghis Khan that they left behind sufficient progeny to continue the fight – with or without foreign intrusion – and modern history speaks brutally to their success in that regard. Regardless, “God blessed Texas with his own hand,” and Tennessee is the “greenest state in the Land of the Free,” and seeing those signs was a welcome sight.
My main impression of Afghanistan so far is that of mud. Everywhere mud. When I caught my first glimpse of Afghanistan soil, I was looking through the tiny porthole/window of the hard-working/ever-faithful C-130 aircraft whose individual construction probably predated my birth (no exaggeration). What I saw, as opposed to Afghan soil was actually hard concrete and brown buildings, with wisps of snow blowing by to join the thin blanket already covering the ground and rooftops. On exiting the back ramp (from which those who fight quietly in far-off places with little-known names jump into the night at high altitudes), my view was impeded by a close-in, overcast sky. And then I saw the mud.
It is ubiquitous, yet inside every dry building is a thin layer of dust that tells and foretells the probable thickness of air on days when moisture is not present. While I waited for transportation to take me to my lodging, a young Afghan man (really still a boy), came into the room. He wore cargo-pants, and a loose black shirt. His complexion was dark brown, and his hair was black. He flashed a smile, but then ducked his head, and proceeded to dry-mop the floor. Billows of dust caused my hasty retreat. An Air Force tech sergeant oversaw his work, and so did another smiling Afghan man. I wondered about the sense of dignity and self-esteem of the young Afghan being supervised by two others while doing the most menial of tasks in a room in almost untenable disarray, yet bearing on its door the proud sign “Distinguished Visitors Lounge.” While he worked, he seemed to avoid eye-contact, but he smiled again on departure, as if to say, “Things could be worse.” And so was my first introduction to the Afghan people.
My journey to this tortured land was one worthy of Odysseus – the main difference, I think, was that on arrival, I was able to phone home, and then I slept for 11 hours, and then 3 hours, and then 2 more hours. When I finally clambered out of bed again, 36 hours had passed since my last meal. My room is comfortable enough, with bunk-beds (fortunately, no one else in the room), phone, computers, TV, and internet. No wifi though, which means that I cannot communicate from here on my own devices, which means no pictures to upload. And, these quarters are only temporary – my next flight leaves after eleven o’clock tonight – that’s 10 ½ hours earlier than US Central time. I make no prediction about being able to communicate home at all.
I was asked several years ago to record how it “feels to go to war.” I guess the answer depends on when someone actually “starts” going to war. Is it at the first point of hostility, as when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor or when Al Qaeda flew civilian aircraft into our most prominent skyscrapers? In those days, the entire nation felt threatened, at least for a time. Is it at the point, where realization hits that one’s own sons or daughters might be cast into harm’s way? Is it when an invitation is extended and accepted to join the fight personally? Is it before or after completing training required to be effective in the job “downrange?” Is it when time comes to say goodbye to those loved beyond measure? Is it when first undergoing the hush, darkness, and attendant foreboding of arrival at the transition stations (the places where co-travelers segregate to go to their various war-theater assignments)? Is it the familiarity of all of those feelings when deploying for yet another time?
Certainly, the feeling this time was different than when I first deployed to Iraq more than 2 years ago. Absent this time was the sense of foreboding. I ask myself if that is healthy or not? Is it gone because we are succeeding, or becoming complacent? At this point, I have no answer. Casualties continue.
Iraq was very different than my pre-conceived notions. This country, Afghanistan, has confounded foreign armies over millennia, and the outcome at this point is far from certain. If history has taught us anything about anywhere, it is that the future cannot be cast – it will follow its own course. Tyrants and “wanna’-be kings” come and go, and despite the cravings of their egos and the contemporary impositions of their wills, they are all reduced to short paragraphs in history books. Life, it seems, is a relay-race from generation to generation, and there is no finish line. The best we can hope for is to bequeath to our great-grandchildren and their immediate predecessors our best effort at passing along the freedoms and prosperity that we knew in the earlier days of our own lives. That sense mixes into the feeling of going to war – it gives the best response I can conceive of why we go to war – we cannot allow its depravities to consume our own beloved homeland and people.
Because Iraq challenged the impressions I had had of it prior to arrival there, I have done my best to divorce myself of drawing similarities between there and here in Afghanistan – at least for the moment. In reality, despite my physical presence at its heart, I cannot say that I yet have an impression of this country called Afghanistan. I am in awe of its history and the reputation of its people for being fierce and unrelenting in defense against any and all foreign armies. Yet I have also seen with my own eyes in other places, that people tire of war – that the few engaged in atrocity make victims of the populations they terrorize, and that those populations usually consist of fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, grandmothers, grandfathers – families who want only to live in peace and prosperity – to live and let live. In that desire lie seeds for optimism.
Immediate Update: I just took another walk outside. The sun is out, the sky above is blue, but around the horizon, there is still a white haze. Nevertheless, in the mid-distance, rising to lofty heights, are mountains covered in snow from their bases to their peaks. It is amazing what that sight does to lift spirits!
First Impressions: Afghanistan by Lee Jackson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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