A Path with Heart

I landed at my assigned FOB (Forward Operating Base) in the afternoon of 31 January. Set between beautiful snowcapped mountains; Pakistan nearby. I couldn’t imagine a war being fought here. The local villages looked like a National Geographic photo expose′ as a Chinook helicopter flew us in.



Terraced farmlands irrigated by hand hoed ditches spread from the wide valley floors and crept up the foothills into the mountain valleys. I imagined a culture that has been persevering in these harsh mountain environments for thousands of years, maybe since the last ice age, some 20,000 years. Islam came here much later, and remains at the very center of Afghan society. We hear the call to prayer 5 times a day, 7 days a week, broadcast over public loudspeakers in every village.

Afghani Provinces are akin to our states; Districts like our counties. But the boundaries of the Pashto Tribe in this region cross all district, provincial, and national lines into Pakistan. The main street bazaar near the district center is lined with a variety of colorful shops each probably owned by generations of the same tribal families. Farmers, Sheppard’s, shop keepers, and various tradesmen all mill together to discuss social issues, village gossip and continue daily village life as the generations before them have. Nearly all are devout Muslims.

Children crowd up to us when we stop and dismount (get out of our vehicles). Some wear shoes. Many are barefoot in muddy sandals, even in cold weather, wearing bright and varied clothing from any number of international relief organizations. Some boys as well as girls paint their fingernails. They stare at our uniforms and into our faces; some know English from school and eagerly show us their books.

On the 10th of February, we waited outside the District Center while our military leaders met with the Provincial Governor. I remembered I had a Pashto Language book with me. The left column was in English, the right column was Pashto, a script which is a variant of Arabic. Kids spotted this instantly and had quite a fun time talking to this stuttering American about simple things. 1000 questions: What is this? Sâ’at (a watch). What is that? Tëmâncha (pistol). What’s in this? Paṯëy (bandages). What do you do? Aaskaree daaktar (soldier medic). Children often ask me my name, Tō′mâs, and then my Father’s name, Ō′lâf. Sometimes they ask about my brother or son’s name. When I tell them I have no son, they are surprised. The children never ask about my mother, if I have a wife or any sisters.



I have to be very careful when giving anything to these kids. They will mob and fight for what they want in a split second. I gave a Jolly Rancher to a beautiful little 4-5 year old girl. I saw her a minute later with a swollen lip and eye, and no candy. She didn’t cry, as if that was just the way it was. Wincing, I waved her back over. Yelling Za! and pushing boys out of the way, I gave her another piece and using my hands like sign language got her to eat it right there next to me, with other kids grabbing at her. She smiled the cutest smile I ever saw as she left. That moment made my day. I thought that moment probably made her week, or month for that matter. After that I only give candy to children in groups of less than 5 and out of sight of other children.

Afghans don’t have the same sense of personal space as we do. The kids come up and touch us and our gear. We carefully keep pockets closed; they will pick them clean otherwise. Candy (biscuit) and pens (qalam) for school are common requests. Older men will walk up and stand right next to or in front of me, looking me right in the eye. They want a cigarette. I sometimes give them one if they’re alone. Elders love it when I light their cigarettes for them in a grandiose manner. It shows honor upon them which I am happy to bestow. I can only imagine the lives Afghans lead in this beautiful ancient war torn land. I wish I could listen in on just some of their lifetime of stories.

You may have noticed that I’ve avoided any references to my AO (Area of Operation). For security reasons I’m unable to give you specifics…yet. If my picture appears in Time magazine with my unit and location, that’s fine. I however, cannot publish that myself. Rather than merely tell you I’m somewhere in Afghanistan, I’ve settled on the name Can’t-tell-ya-where-I-am-istan: Where everyone means well, nobody smells bad, and the food… is to die for.

Next time: Life on the FOB