week 16 - war

Few things, jotted down over the last few months

I crane my neck and look for a few stars as I walk the winding path back to my shipping container… inside it is my bed, and hopefully a few hours of nothing but dreaming! It’s pretty late. The person I was trained to replace is returning to the states right after the holiday, and I’ve been trying to keep up in the office. Long days blending insidiously into nights working inside a monotonous, cleansed environment, well-furnished and artificially cozy, followed by the salient homeward strolls through the dirt and decay outside; varying styles and levels of gravel, broken asphalt, half-thought-out concrete steps and ramps, and random alleys created by the underwhelmingly planned juxtaposition of shipping containers, tents, huts, barriers, and barbed wire all over this small city block. Crisp, cool, dark.

As I gaze, I also cough… microscopic bits of dust, rubber, animal waste, and ash are expunged from sore lungs, enough to warrant the report they slipped in our medical records justifying disability benefits for the quality of air out here. Ha! The gate guards open the 4 inch thick steel door separating me from the public road I must cross to get to my hooch. I don’t even load a magazine in my pistol anymore... If someone wants to get me, John Sciuto taught me the unbeatable move, so who need bullets? I slip into the sheets and thank God for such a great life.

The local boy tells me, “It no matter bloody nose, broken arm, missing leg, this is Afghanistan.” The ones who remember how it used to be are still pretty young. If you ask me, we’re pretty much here to raise that age… so that these kids can believe in something beautiful without their nightmares getting in the way. The elders here have learned to live with… the horrors. Sometimes you are the recipient, sometimes the dealer, and sometimes the witness. The haunting is all the same.

I land in Dubai with my boss. We have a 12 hour layover. After sitting on our hands for about 2 minutes and 13 seconds we decide to leave the airport to explore the town. We consume lots of exotic food and most importantly Cold Stone ice cream, we talk about life, family, and stuff, we watch people snow ski indoors wearing turbans, and we’re just good old boys until we have to take the L-train back to the airport in the evening. We both fall asleep standing up against the hand holds. We get to the terminal, I pop in the new Arcade Fire album which I bought at the largest Virgin store I’ve ever been to in the largest mall I’ve ever seen, and I write. I look around and see westernized Islam everywhere. These followers in particular seem to be ok with letting their women be beautiful, educated, independent, and equal.

I sit down for lunch. I eagerly listen as a fella tells me about finding himself in Asia before he commissioned into the service. He had been told an old back injury would prevent him from living his life to the fullest. So he taught school in China for a year, and traveled and discovered and breathed in such a diverse existence, one most people will never see. And he healed almost completely . He gets my much shorter story… about going to China this summer and walking across a desert for a few days. I wake up. I’m in between the sheets again. I could have sworn I was back. Walking… walking… walking

Stan Mulenga. I think about Stanley a lot. And fellow muzungus. TK, the Walkers… their kids sleeping on every piece of furniture I have. It’s been a good year.

I finally see Paris. I walk all day. The top of the Eiffel isn’t that corny… especially when the most difficult decision you’ve ever made just sorta happened up there.

A friend gets a concussion, gets airlifted to Germany… gets airlifted to the states. Haven’t heard from him.

I dream about Zambia. I dream about mountains. I dream about friends I’ve lost. But I’m not in between the sheets anymore floating inside my empty shipping container. I’m back in the office. Screensaver is on, half a cup of cold tea completely motionless and vapor-less next to me. Maybe the tv in the conference room next door is on but barely audible… just a ghost, producing atmospheric background noise containing unimportant context. Don’t remember. Three hundred miles away in the southern part of the war, Marines are getting shot up real bad.

Some nights I stop at the other corner of the camp and visit the cats. My friend’s office adopted them and they are the best fed, best treated animals on this planet… Even for a dog person, having these fuzzballs crawl on you is good therapy. Thank God for great friends.

I once heard it is easier for a man to die for an idea than to apologize to someone he completely failed

The warzone becomes the escape… the place of peace.

I hear my friend’s favorite song and it lights up my world, because it fits our story perfectly.

You know it’s a going to be a great night when they have Mint ice cream and chocolate chip cookies at the dessert bar. That combination alone could solve the world’s problems.

I miss my dog

That’s a pretty insensitive thing to say. Of course I miss my family, my friends, all the people I know and love! But I miss Yeags too

Another few get airlifted out… bomb in a bazaar. One had extensive liver damage. Says he’s lucky he’s Irish and his liver was already full of holes. Ha!

I grab gate guard duty for a few weeks. The guys doing it under contract couldn’t get new visas. So we take turns standing at the wall. I open the four-inch steel door to let people go home to bed, and I see them walk across the street without loading their guns. They must know the move too.

Robin Williams and I exchange laughter. It’s good medicine. He’s a really nice guy.

Our interpreters enjoy trying to teach me Dari. They’re good men. They miss their families as much as I miss mine. I teach them some American songs on a beat up guitar. They promise to teach me some folk songs. Smiles. I’m glad we’re out here. This is Afghanistan. Dirty, grimy, forgotten sometimes to the outside world. Sure, being out here can be “a job,” but a lot of us are inside this cage with eyes wide open.

Most of the terps did some time down south. They embedded with the Marines and the Brits, shot back at the other guys, dragged wounded Americans out of harm’s way, and all they received was a thank you. They’re given a chance to earn visas to get to the states. It takes a few years to approve, and they compete in a pretty big pool. If they make it across, they can start working on getting their families out of Afghanistan as well. Beyond every mountain there is another mountain.

A Marine leaves his cozy office in Kabul and travels a full day to visit a Marine down south. Two completely different environments. And they’re brothers.

We wire money to Stan every once in a while. Happy this is possible given how tough things have been this year. Grateful for everyone who’s supported us and believed in us. Family.

Right before the Soviets showed up 30 years ago, anyone who had the means got the heck out of here. It’s a tough place to stabilize, when families keep leaving. What part of the last thousand years are we trying not to repeat? What does this land need? Irrigation systems, schools, business, progressive thought… replaced by landmines and iron fists in the last 30 years. Can the pendulum swing back? Does it take money, or does it take will? All the elders see is the horrors. What does an external superpower see in this place?

It’s a quiet Spring evening in 2010. I’m on a trip to Atlanta with some guys from work. We get back to the hotel and I run up to the room to grab something before dinner. My phone rings. It’s an old friend, who I haven’t heard from in such a long time, and I am so happy at this very moment. Nothing else matters

One night I stand there on the perimeter, thinking about the good old days. Yeah… fresh air, and a cool breeze, and… loving. A cultural professor walks by—they employ all kinds of people out here—and she says thank you for doing this… and we end up talking for an hour. Both of us freezing and trying to fix Afghanistan, right there, under a flickering streetlight. I say thank you for the good company, and teach her the unbeatable move before she goes out the gate.

We wake up every day and it’s the same thing. Decaying alleyways, dirty hills, smiling locals, business budding despite the corruption, progress among poverty. Reporters come through all the time. We smile for the news cameras, and we hammer through. War

Thank God for a great year.

As I upload this, a fella in a bright orange construction suit and a red jingly hat stops by the internet room and gives everyone a piece of chocolate.

Merry Christmas!

Love, Dan