you do the same thing over and over, each time expecting different results. You know what that is. And so here we are.
He read the e-mails and cables, stretching over the past several weeks. The conditions had been getting worse. He hadn’t noticed it while at the jirga. At eleven, he got up for a meeting on the same issue.
“Hey, John, back from the dead?” his section chief asks.
“Yes. It was a long trip. But a good one.”
“I bet. They’re going to want to know what you think. Things’ve been blowing up in Helmand. Not so much near L-G but a lot south and west of it.”
“I didn’t see it. Not where I was.”
The conference room is bright and harsh and the table is of faux-granite with microphones embedded in it for teleconferences. He knows nearly everyone there but is surprised at the military soldiers who are present, high-ranking officers, which tells him that a decision is being made at this meeting. Or maybe a decision has already been made and they are here to announce it. He wonders in his seat as they close the door. At the head of the table is a military colonel and the American knows immediately that a decision has already been made.
The colonel starts, “Okay, let’s go ahead and begin. As you all know, at the last IPC we had proposed the campaign in Helmand to push back the insurgency some distance to establish a foothold where we could begin civil reconstruction. That plan was reviewed by the ambassador and the council and they’ve decided to proceed. So, I want to fill you all in on the timeline and just get an idea of what each agency will provide as we move into the execution.”
The American listens. They talk about the military operation. The village they’ve focused on has only one way to enter, a road that comes south from L-G to the north and bisects the small village. Allegedly this is a headquarters of an insurgent group operating throughout the region. They have roughly fifty people in the town, which is small, clustered into a three-square block area. The force will come in on this road. Once combat has settled, they will stabilize the town, the colonel says. When they discuss the post-assault portion, they mention civil stability and the town’s populace and what issues might arise. They go to the diplomats for this.
The American’s section chief says, “We’ve been operating in Helmand for sometime, you know, mostly in Qurya and L-G and west. The PRT has been based near L-G. John actually just came back from there after several weeks.” The section chief turns.
The American sits up slightly. “I spent most time in L-G but did get a chance to head out to other areas, to Qurya, to Delaram, to Gereshk. I have to admit, though, I didn’t see the violence or the sentiment that’s expressed in the reporting. Not there, at least.”
The colonel asks, “Well, what’s your sense after the operation? Can we stabilize the town and the surrounding region? Are the people there open to it?”
“I haven’t actually been south of L-G so it’s hard to say. But near L-G and north of it, we’re having trouble putting together effective townships. They don’t match with the flow of the communities and at the jirgas, I feel like they aren’t quite buying it.”
The colonel sits back in his chair and rubs his chin. He looks down at the table for a moment and then up at the American. “But you think south of L-G we can keep it stable after we’ve cleared the insurgents?”
“Well, I can’t really say. I think that there’s a possibility we could, yes, but it’s not certain. And I think there’s a possibility that letting the town govern itself as it is might be better in the long run.” The American knows he has spoken something that cannot happen. The decision has been made. The town will not govern itself. It simply will not.
“Okay.”
The American isn’t quite sure if the colonel has heard. Oh yes, he’s heard you. Don’t fool yourself into thinking that he didn’t hear it. He heard it all and he’ll do what he damn well pleases. Do they need to listen? We have so many goddamn lines of communication and so many agencies and men running around this country. Each man has his own telephone and boss and tells what he sees or what he wants his boss to believe. And your boss? You have a boss, too. Of course you do. You’re one of the men, running around the south of this country now for several months and you tell him what you want. He wondered how it was in the north. Does the north have the same problems? They probably do. There’s no difference. North or south, we all have our own telephone and our own boss and our own problems. No, the north’s problems were probably no different.
Another man, a major, says aloud, “So I wonder if a larger force structure is needed.” Several others nod. The colonel is writing something on a yellow steno pad.
The American leans forward in his chair and says, “Well, I’m not sure if it’s a question of force size or acceptance by the population. Many of the towns we visited were disturbed by our mentioning political parties, for example. They don’t understand them and don’t really trust them. It runs against what they’ve lived all of their lives. And it may not be the best way to reform their system.”
“Well they don’t have a system. That’s the problem.”
“In some parts in the south, they do.”
The American wishes like hell he knows how it is in the north. It’s important to know how it is in the north. They probably have their own systems there, too. Everyone has a system of some sort. There is no reason for the north not to have a system.
“Well, I don’t think they have a system worth keeping.”
The major is a fat man. The American sees that his uniform bulges in areas. His hair is heavily receding on the top and the brown sides are dry and seem combed but not washed. He wears thick glasses and his eyes are large behind the lenses and slightly red.
The colonel says, “Well, the issue of whether or not their system is better than ours is over.” He looks at the American as he says this. “The question is how do we go about with the operation. I think we have all the other answers we need.”
The meeting continues for a while and the American is quiet. The conversation centers on other matters and afterwards, he returns to his desk and his section chief comes to him. His face is pale and stern under the lights.
“You know, John, you could really help us out a bit more without your idealism.”
“It’s not idealism. It’s realism.”
“Realism, yeah. It’s called idealism and it’s hopeless. And worthless.”
The American doesn’t answer but feels the eyes of his supervisor and behind them, the eyes of the colonel.
“You have to buy into this.”
“Why do I have to buy into it? There’s no need for me to buy into it. So many other people have already bought so much of it. I can’t to buy into it anyway. Not since I’ve been here.”
“Well, you’re going with them.”
The American looks away.
“They need diplomatic representation and people with knowledge on the ground. Of the region. You have that. You have the most of it probably. So I’m sending you with them.”
“Where are they going first?”
“First to L-G. Then moving south from there. I’m not sure where.”
“It won’t be good. There’s a lot of hostility there.”
His supervisor’s tone is quiet now. He says, “It’s never good, is it?”
The American looks up at him. “No.” Then he thinks hard and he says, “I want my own interpreter.”
“Who?”
“An Afghan I know. He’s in L-G. He’s good and knows the people in the south.”
“Fine, that’s fine. But remember that you are here to perform a mission that has already been decided upon. You won’t change policy overnight but you can still make a difference.”
His section chief leaves. The American imagines that if the embassy were destroyed it would all go to hell, the entire country. He watches the fluorescent lights above and sees how they make the offices look clean and efficient and effortless.
They lef
t Kabul in the early morning. The air base was humming and the sunlight was still just a hard, dark blue over the Hindu Kush mountains to the east. The American traveled in a heavy helicopter and, once aloft, he was quiet and looked out the open door to the low ground that passed beneath them as swift running streaks. It was bitter and cold and the soldiers all wore their military garb and the American had on his khaki pants and his travel shirt and a flak jacket and a military parka over this. His hands were white and had no color but in his palms was a white sweat that formed a thin film on his fingers and in the creases when he formed fists to keep the fingers warm. As the sun rose, the air warmed but the wind made it hard to remove the jacket. The earth below was now the sun-burnt, ageless dirt of Afghanistan. The sun was now low over the horizon. To his left he saw a large hill rise up from below, between the helicopter and the sun, so that the face of the hill was shaded and melancholy.
Some old country. Well thank god you all are here to make it right. The American knew better than that. Yeah, you know better but that doesn’t stop what you’re doing and where you are going. You and your idealism. And in this doing and going you’re selling your whole goddamn soul to the effort and you don’t even know it. And you can go back to the U.S. after you’ve done your time and tell others that you were noble and did you what you really believed was right. Shut up, he told himself with great anger. His eyes traced the earth-floor below, the