Sitting Indian-Style

It was about 2PM on a Monday afternoon. The Captain had finished his lunch and was lounging on a twin sized mattress in the corner of his command post…and by command post, I mean a small room with a single hand held radio, a desk, a chair, and his bed. His green beret gripped tight around his wrinkled forehead. His skin was coarse and furrowed from nearly three decades of warfare under the Kandahar sun. He was an old man for a soldier, I’d guess in his fifties. But despite his age, his hair was as black and as thick as mine. Like a lion, his hazel eyes burned with a fiery will to survive. He was the king of his jungle; not the weapons my platoon carried, nor the technology we had at our disposal, could faze him.

“Asalaamu Alaykum,” I began with a nervous crack in my voice. I had barely left puberty, and yet here I was: a 23 year old Platoon Leader representing the military might of the United States to a Company Commander in the Afghan National Army.

“Wa Alaykum Asalaam,” he whispered in a tight-lipped glare as he shook my hand and invited me to sit down. His demeanor was uninviting, which surprised me. On one level, I expected incessant flattery in attempts to wheedle equipment or even money from American forces. On another level, I figured he would recognize the unmistakable Indian name on my uniform and find common ground in our ethnic roots. The cold welcome was disheartening. Was he insulted that the Americans sent a meager Lieutenant to engage him rather than the typical Major or Colonel? Whatever the issue, I needed to be careful. Losing his loyalty would have severe repercussions for my entire battalion. The Captain lit a cigarette.

Company Commanders in the American Army are usually in their late 20s to early 30s. They command between 80-120 soldiers and tens of millions of dollars worth of accountable assets. On the other hand, Captain Abdul Kalam Kalay was nearly twice as old, commanded a Company of about 50 Afghan soldiers, and probably had more money in his wallet than his unit had in its entire budget. But despite his Company’s destitution, the Captain held the power card in this engagement, and he knew it. You see, no matter how little money Captain Kalay had or how weak his Company, he knew the Americans could not leave Kandahar until he could secure this sector without us. And he was in no rush.

The Captain blew a smoke cloud, filling the room and my lungs with the disgusting aroma of moldy tobacco and body odor. “Okay…so what do you want from me?” he asked. Though he spoke in Pashtu as my interpreter translated to English, Kalay’s body language spoke louder than his words. He crossed his arms. He did not smile. He didn’t look me in the eye. As far as he was concerned, I was a pest.

“Well,” I began in the most diplomatic voice I could conjure, “I’m here to check on you and see how things are with your unit…how are your patrols going?”

“Why should you care?” He shot back.

I leaned forward, “I just want to know how we can help you, and how we can work together. What are the issues you all have here?

“You want to know what issues we have? What do you care? You know my soldiers live here with no water, no electricity?” The Captain grew emotional. “How come no one has come to see me in so long? It’s been almost two weeks.”

“Well, there have been some other important missions going on that have taken the other commanders’ attention. But rest assured I have their full confidence and authority to speak on their behalf.”

“Well, let’s just get to the point,” said the Captain, “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“You know what I’m talking about…my generator?”

“I don’t understand, Sir. What happened with your generator?” Captain Kalay’s arms pulsated upwards with the rising intonation in his voice.

“My generator!” he yelled, “It broke! You took it and told me you would fix it! It’s been almost three months now! What is the hold up?! You come in wanting all this help, but you haven’t given me anything! You only come around when you want something, but never give anything up for me! You are the rich Americans. We are a poor people. You could have my generator fixed immediately if you wanted. I see your helicopters flying in and out of the FOB every day. You have plenty of parts to fix it. You delay it because we’re not important to you!”

I was growing impatient, but before I could lose my senses, something happened. I felt a conscious shift in my demeanor, followed by a subconscious effort to pacify it. I was one angry soldier. I didn’t want to be in Afghanistan. I didn’t want to help this asshole, and I certainly didn’t want to put up with this sort of nonsense from anyone. It was completely unprofessional, and every bone in my body wanted to get up and leave the room. I wanted to dump this crazy horse on someone else.

I don’t know if it was the smell of the room, our matching skin-tone, or my sympathetic nature, but my heart was not ready to step away from him. The soldier inside me wanted to leave the room, and I’m fairly certain most commanders would have tried to find a way out. But I pacified that urge. I flipped a mental switch. It was time to stop approaching this man as a soldier, and start approaching him as a cultural brother. I re-postured my legs on the concrete floor. I sat Indian-style…pun very much intended.

Despite fighting the impulses of the geek inside me, I looked at this situation as a math problem. People always wonder why Indians are so good at math, so good at logic. It’s not that we have some genetic calculator in our brains. It’s about patient persistence. It stems from our roots in Yoga: the art of deliberate, methodical movement of the mind and body. We exude it in everything we do; in the way we cook our food, the way we contemplate mathematics, even in the way we approach love, marriage, art, religion, child-rearing, and yes Bollywood. Everything about the Indian identity is about slow, deliberate, and methodical movement forward. It was time to move forward with Captain Kalay. I sat up straight, took in a deep breath, and entered a state of diplomatic meditation.

“Sir,” I replied in a serene voice, looking him in the eye. I did not smile, I did not frown. It was just me. “I’m sorry we’ve kept your generator. Can you tell me a little bit more about it…what was the problem with it? What do you use the generator for?” And so began thirty minutes of torrential complaining as the Captain poured his fighting heart out on the ground. I listened as attentively as I could. I needed a lead. I needed to connect with this man. I needed to find the ledge on my bank of the divide where a bridge could be built to his.

“The generator powers everything. It keeps us warm at night. My men are cold in their guard towers. We only have daylight to cook our food, and they haven’t been able to eat a warm meal. I am unable to communicate with my men when they are on missions because we cannot charge our radios. The generator powered our pump, and now my men do not have drinking water—“

“Hey Sir,” interrupted my platoon sergeant who sat beside me. He spoke directly to the Captain, “We can give you water. We can give it right off our trucks. That’s no problem.” I smiled and nodded at my senior enlisted advisor. I was so fortunate to have a platoon sergeant who was both resourceful and thoughtful. He found the ledge. I turned to check the Captain’s reaction. He was staring at me with cautious enthusiasm.

“Okay…” he said with a mildly confused tone. He sounded like a child on his birthday unwrapping an oddly shaped gift. We stepped outside of the command post into the bright blue sky. The air was still chill, but fresher than ever before. Our security detail had been waiting outside, monitoring suspicious movements

“What’s going down?” asked SGT Mack, the squad leader.

“You’ll see,” I replied. I knew my Platoon Sergeant already had a plan. I told the commander to bring a truck and follow my soldiers to our vehicles’ position at the bottom of the hill. The Captain’s tan Ford Ranger pick-up, the most elite combat vehicle the ANA could afford, pulled up next to each of my three vehicles as my soldiers unloaded dozens of boxes of bottled water for the ANA soldiers.

The commander’s driver and aide were dumbfounded. They could not believe their eyes. I had never seen such happiness in the eyes of grown men before. The Captain was almost in tears. He held out his hand.

“Do you have a camera?” he asked.

“Sure do,” I whipped out my point-and-shoot and enjoyed a taste of celebrity status as the ANA soldiers took turns throwing their arms around my shoulders, posing for their personal portraits with me. Ten minutes into the photo shoot, the Captain grabbed my interpreter and started frantically begging for something.

“What does he want?”

“He wants you to write down your name and unit so he will know to ask for you when he visits the Colonel.”

“He can’t read English, can he?”

“No…only Pashtu.”

“Well, I’m about to rock his world,” I snickered. Luckily for me, I studied Arabic at the Academy which uses the same alphabet as Pashtu. I wrote my name down in Arabic script on a scrap piece of paper and handed it to him. The Captain giggled with excitement. He turned to my interpreter, speechlessly. My interpreter simply nodded his head.

As my soldiers began unloading the last few boxes of water, I decided to dig into the old man’s mind. He’d no doubt seen so much history in his years as a soldier. “So, Sir…you were in the Northern Alliance before you joined the ANA?”

“Yes, I was.”

“You know, I studied Ahmed Shah Massoud when I was in college…what an amazing man.”

“Yes, he was brilliant. I loved working for him.”

“You actually worked for him?”

“No, but I was an intelligence officer for the Northern Alliance.”

“Oh really? What kind of work did you do?” The Captain turned and looked me square in the eye. He quietly whispered in a grave tone. I turned to see if my interpreter heard what he said.

“…the Commander says, ‘don’t be shy Lieutenant Srinivasan…you know just as much about being a spy as I do’.” I paused for a second before it hit me. The Captain’s mouth was now shaped in a sly grin as he continued to stare me down…he thought I was a spy.

“Aright, Sir. We’re ‘bout done here,” sounded the platoon sergeant.

“Sounds good. Let’s mount up, get REDCON1.”

I turned to the Captain whose once steely eyed glare was now a warm, grandfatherly smile.

“It was an absolute pleasu—“

“Stop,” he interrupted, “In Pashtu culture, we never say goodbye. We will only continue this friendship later. I can’t wait to work with you in the future.” There would be no handshake with this officer. There would be no ceremonial left-hand placed over the heart. Rather, Captain Kalay opened up his arms and gave me a vicious bear hug before nonchalantly turning back towards his truck and moving back to his post.

“I think you made a new friend, Sir,” mocked my Platoon Sergeant.

“Yeah…It’s about time.”

Thankful

0100. I’m not sure what was more frustrating: the fact that the indigo light on my sports watch was growing weaker or the fact that I had been trying to fall asleep for almost three hours with no success. My stomach was churning with a serious case of indigestion and a hint of bloating from the monstrous Thanksgiving feast I had just eaten. Even in one of the most poverty stricken countries on earth, thousands of miles away from my mom’s kitchen, I nor any of the 140 soldiers of Attack Company showed any mercy on our digestive tracts this Thanksgiving. I was paying for it now though.

My digital watch keeps time in two separate time zones. I keep one at my current location (be it Afghanistan, Ft. Lewis, etc) and the second one on U.S. Eastern Standard Time. Whenever I’m homesick or bored, I check out the time on the East Coast and try to figure out what my parents and family friends are doing right about now. The Army usually has me doing the most random things at the most random hours of the day, so I’m able to maintain some variety in this little game I play with myself.

0200. I check the time on the East Coast. 1630. Oh nice…late afternoon on Thanksgiving Day. By this time, I would’ve just been getting bored of pestering my mom and sister for attention as they slave away in the kitchen. I’d be making my way to the television to flip channels between movie marathons and football games, enjoying the smells of the meal to come. “Ah, that’s a good one to sleep on.” I closed my eyes and finally started to relax a little bit.

“Sir!” Specialist Frances stormed into my tent, “Hey, Sir…wake up!” I looked at my watch. 0234. I am not exactly sure what I did or said next, but deep down, I definitely knew what was coming.

“What’s up man?” I squeaked out from the pocket of warmth underneath my fleece blanket.

“Hey you’re on QRF right?” I looked at my watch again…0234 still. My platoon had been on QRF (Quick Reaction Force) for the past week or so…we weren’t coming off till 0600. Whatever this was, the ball was in our court.

“Yeah…that’s us. What’s up?”

“First platoon just hit an—“ He didn’t need to finish, I jumped out of my cot with the energy of an Olympic sprinter and I switched on the tent’s fluorescent light.

“Everybody up! REDCON1! Let’s go!” I yelled throughout the tent. Like magic, lights flipped on, my NCOs began screaming orders up and down the tent, getting their men ready for whatever chaos was to come. I swept to SFC Nix’s cot.

“Hey, 1st Platoon just hit an IED. I’m going to go to the Battalion TOC to figure this out.”

“Roger, we’re on it, Sir,” he responded. I didn’t have to say anything else. I knew my Platoon Sergeant would take care of the rest.

I jumped back to my own cot and scuffled around as I tried to fish for my uniform items through the sea of paperwork and laundry I had set aside on my desk. I threw together some concoction of a combat uniform with whatever I could find. “Pants? Check. Socks? Check. Underwear…hmm, guess not.” I needed to hurry up, “Eye-pro? Check. Thermal fleece….oh hell yes. Okay, body armor, helmet, gloves, boots, weapon, ammunition, NVGs, water, map, camera, tourniquet, Afghan money, first aid kit, and radio…wait for it…okay good, deuces!” I was set. I stormed out of the tent into the 20 degree cold and headed towards the Battalion Operations center, leaving the welfare and preparation of the soldiers in my PSG’s hands. It was 0236.

“Hey Raj,” called out the night Battle Captain, Captain Beiber, “I’m sure you’re already tracking, your first platoon hit an IED, we need you to get the wrecker and EOD down there as soon as possible. Here’s the grid.” He pointed to a digital map outlining where the units were. It was only 8 kilometers away…they were almost home.

“Aright, any casualties?”

“One dude messed up his back and—

“But everyone’s alive?” I interrupted. After all, it’s the only thing that matters.

“Yeah, everyone’s fine. They’re calling in a bird just to be safe for one of their guys. Bird goes wheels up in 2 mikes.”

“Nice, cash money.” It was the best news I’d heard all night. “Hey when you can, get the wrecker and EOD dudes on the net, tell ‘em to drop down to my Platoon Freq. We leave in five mikes.”

“Got your back, man. Be safe.”

0250. It was hard to believe that, just 15 minutes ago, I was lying comfortably in my cot trying to fall asleep. Now, my platoon was parked at the gate, ready to roll out. We were just waiting on getting the wrecker and EOD elements up on the net. Of course, neither of them had prepared their communications systems nor conducted any sort of checks before leaving. I guess they just assumed they could give themselves the night off.

Still, I kept my cool. If there’s one thing I pride about my leadership in combat, it’s that I am able to keep a certain calmness in my voice even when stress and emotions are running high. My gunner, SGT Coolie, actually thinks I’m too calm. “There’ll be some serious shit going down, and you’ll be talking to us like you’re at a tea party!” he once joked with me. None the less, there have been four distinct moments over the past few months when I’ve lit up the radio with a few choice words to get things moving…and this was shaping up to be number five…

“Hey wrecker, it’s Attack 46. What’s your location…we need to leave like 5 minutes ago.”

“Hey…” came a slothful voice over the net, “It’s wrecker, yeah hang on. Gimmie a freakin sec. I’m uhh…I’m on…my way.”

I could tolerate the disrespectful nature of his transmission; I really don’t need soldiers to talk to me like a prince in order to feel like their leader. I could have even tolerated his lethargic state, provided that he was actively trying to get his act together. But if any soldier wants to feel the wrath of this Butter Bar LT, the one thing they have to do is deliberately give less than 100% effort when our brothers are idling in dire straits. I picked up my FOB hand held radio to talk to the soldier on a different net to keep our interaction private.

“…Yeah, got it…it’s 3am. It’s Thanksgiving. You’re tired…I DON”T FUCKING CARE. We have Americans outside the wire in harm’s way, and you’re feeling sorry for yourself because you didn’t get your full night’s rest after a whole day of eating your fucking turkey. Get your head outta your ass and move the fuck out!”

“Roger, Sir!” The driver’s voice transformed from slothful to spiteful. He wasn’t one of my guys. He didn’t know who I was. Whatever. I’m not here to win a popularity contest. He got the hint, and at least he was awake now and ready to do his job.

“Aright, let’s start pushing.”

0301. We stormed out of the FOB as fast as the recovery assets would allow. Dirt and sand covered my face as I stood out of my Stryker’s hatch. It’s hard enough navigating with night vision, but the dense dust clouds that our vehicles kick up in the desert make it almost impossible. At this point in the tour, it doesn’t really matter. We’ve figured it out…we just gotta keep rolling.

In the fragile moment of the operation where everything seems to be going as planned, I checked the time on the East Coast. 1740. I smiled. By this time in the day, I would be starving for dinner. I usually either skip lunch or eat something light so I can have liberty to stuff myself at the main event. I’d set the table, fill glasses with water. My father would put on some classical Indian music; the same music that would annoy me to no end as a child now seems to bring charm to our family table. My sister would be putting the finishing touches on her trifle…or is it a truffle? It’s a big bowl with layers of fruit, cake, and yogurt that I absolutely love. I may not know what it’s called, but I’m an absolute expert on its production. “No Ranj, your strawberries are not arrayed in the correct way. See, watch me. This is how you do it. No Ranj, your blueberries…geez they’re just a mess. They’re all over the place. You need to array them like this. And your yogurt…it’s too…goopie. Yes, goopie. You need to spread it like this, no…steady….ugh!” About this time, my sister figures out that I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about and kicks me out of her operation. “Well…not going to lie,” I say as I leave, “I’ve seen better truffles…or trifles…whatever…but yours isn’t too bad…but don’t get lazy.”

As we approached the IED blast site, we joined the cordon, securing the West and North. The EOD and wrecker team pulled closer to the downed vehicle. I can see it from my hatch through my night vision. There are soldiers scattered around, doing whatever they can for those shaken up in the blast. They find consolation in manual labor of gathering gear, securing weapons, and accounting for one another…taking care of one another.

Thirty minutes roll by. It feels like an eternity. There’s not much I can do right now. The site is being cleared, the platoon is taking care of itself, and we make sure they have some room to breathe. It’s early in the morning. The sun was about to rise, and it promised to be a beauty. Cirrus clouds stroked the high altitudes over a crisp blue sky. The warmth of light thawed my nose, and I could see almost everything around me. I didn’t need to look at my watch. I knew what would be going on back home.

My family would be sitting down for dinner. We’d pour a few glasses of wine and start cutting up the main course. But as all families do on Thanksgiving, we go around and say what we’re thankful for. We may say friends, family, success, our health, our food. Perched atop my Stryker, I close my eyes for just a moment. I go back to my home on Thanksgiving Day. So Rajiv, what are you thankful for? I’m not sure what I said last year, but today…I’m just thankful everyone is okay. I’m just thankful we all get to see this sunrise. I’m thankful we all get to see tomorrow…

So, who’s next? What are you thankful for? Whatever it is,  make it quick…I want to get to the trifle.

 

Higher

My Platoon Sergeant and I stared at the map of our Area of Operations in our platoon tent. Our eyes were not fixated on points or grids. We were done with the planning process. We had already delved into our platoon’s task and purpose, nested within the company’s mission statement…now, it was time to take a step back and look at the big picture.

“Wow…this looks like a giant clusterfuck,” I chuckled, trying to be at least mildly humorous.

“Well,” SFC Nix responded calmly, “It is what it is.” He nodded and returned to preparing his gear for the mission.

“It is what it is,” I replied. These five words have become the catchphrase for our deployment as we attempt to draw some sense, some sort of explanation, for how “Higher” (the amorphous black box of Army brass that tells us what to do) comes up with its great ideas.

“Hey Brooks!” I yelled down the tent.

“Roger, Sir!” Specialist Brooks jumped sarcastically off his cot to a comical position of attention, nostalgic of a rag-tag soldier from a MASH episode. His lips quivered as he did everything he could to avoid cracking a smile.

“Get me the President on the phone, NOW!”

“Roger, Sir! I’m on it!”

I’m not sure if I mentioned it to my readers yet, but my platoon has a direct phone line to the President of the United States in our tent on FOB Ramrod. Yep…we sure do. The phone is a bulky black touchtone that was probably purchased before I was even born. It’s quite possibly the most random thing Brooks could have received in his most recent care package from home, but we decided to make good use of it anyways.

The phone rests on a wooden shelf in the middle of our tent. Two 10-inch straps of duct-tape hold a DNC campaign photo of Barack Obama on the wall next to it. In the top left-hand corner of the photo, scribbled with a black sharpie marker, are the words “Direct Line” with a giant arrow pointing to the phone from the President’s protruding ears.

Brooks grabbed the phone viciously, feeling the weight of national security upon his shoulders. He dialed in his Super-Secret White House access code number…“Get me the President,” he said in a dire tone, “…it’s Lieutenant Srinivasan calling for him!”

“Sir,” Brooks looked up at me as he hurled the phone in my direction, “They’re getting him for you right away, Sir.” I stared at Brooks with a spy-movie look in my eyes as I held the receiver to my ear…the suspense was so thick, you could swim in it.

“This is Srinivasan,” I began, “…Okay Barack…listen man, I need you to talk to Stanley…yes, I know he’s been very busy, but I don’t care, I need you to tell him to stop trying to impress me with these redonkulous powerpoint animated missions…it doesn’t make it look any cooler.”

I started waving my fist in the air (after all, it always comes down to the dramatics).

“…Tell him to take the week off, get a drink, and relax a bit…I dunno, tell him to go see a movie or something…What? Say that again?…There are no movie theaters in Afghanistan?! Dude, are you effing kidding me?!”

I flung my arms in the air, “Have that fixed pronto…well, I don’t care if healthcare is in shambles, we need a movie theater in Afghanistan now… C’mon, man, support the troops! okay, good…” I smiled at Brooks as he gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“Hey, thanks B-rock…you da man…yes…don’t worry, I’ll be there for your Christmas party… no, I’m not going to bring the keg this time…I don’t know, Barack…well then just get Hilary to do it.”

I covered the microphone with my free hand and whispered to Brooks, “God, POTUS just won’t stop talking!”

Brooks just shook his head, “Typical…” he chided.

“Wait!” I continued on the phone, “I almost forgot, the mess hall ran out of hot chocolate yesterday, and I really wanted some hot chocolate damnit!” Brooks and I looked at each other and nodded in agreement.

“…Barack, calm down…hey, listen it’s okay man, just don’t let it happen again… listen, calm down, stop crying…don’t be so hard on yourself, really…no, you don’t have to fire Bob, I’m sure he just got distracted…why? Cause he bought that new Wii for the Pentagon…”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Brooks was now sufficiently entertained and was ready to go back to whatever he was doing. It was time to pull the plug.

“Aright Bama, I gotta peace out…sure, we can do our secret handshake over the phone…no…nobody is watching me, I swear!” I winked at Brooks and went through a random series of hand slapping motions, fist pounding, and gang signs. I would further describe my secret handshake with the President in more detail…but then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.

“You’re a Barack-star! Peace out homie.” I hung up and tossed the phone back to Brooks. Like a precision machine, he caught the phone, placed it perfectly on the shelf where he found it, and returned to his hysterical position of attention. My face returned to its dead serious glare.

“Thanks Brooks…Mission Accomplished.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re dismissed”

“Roger, Sir.” Brooks flung himself back onto his cot.

I turned around, cracked a smile and started giggling to myself as I strolled back to my end of the tent…”I love my job.”

Being a platoon leader is the easiest job in the army when you have amazing soldiers like I do. I really don’t do all that much. Some days, I wonder if these guys even need me! But after a dreary four months in Afghanistan, the Holiday season fast approaching, soldiers missing their families, and another eight months to go before we go home, platoon morale can get a little low. The absolute best part of my job is being able to tear through a soldier’s mid-tour rut, even if just for a moment. Sometimes it means having a fake phone conversation with our Commander-in-Chief about a keg party. Sometimes it means introducing Private Hoff to the wonders of a hot cup of organic green tea. Sometimes it means just having a normal conversation with SGT Coolie about his future in the Army. Being a platoon leader really is the easiest job in the Army…when you genuinely love the guys you work with.

After my theatric display with Brooks, I sat down on my cot and realized something…”I’m really going to miss this one day.” I am going to miss being a platoon leader. I’m going to miss working with American heroes every day. Platoon Leader time in the Army only lasts for about 12-18 months. After that, an officer’s career timeline usually puts him in a staff job before going to the Career Course and taking Company Command. Even as a commander, officers still don’t spend all that much time with their soldiers. At that point, we join the “corporate army” with endless hours of meetings and briefings to bear…we become part of “Higher”. It just doesn’t get much better than what I have now.

As I sit with my soldiers for dinner on Thanksgiving evening, or open up Christmas care packages with them in the December cold, I’ll try my best not to sulk around my men for missing my own family back home. Rather, I am resolving now to live in the moment; to find some holiday cheer in the company of the amazing men I live and serve with every day. Spending the holidays with my soldiers will indeed be a memorable time for me. We’ve already been through so much together, but as with all family units, the loyalty and affection we hold for each other often goes unexpressed in the chaos of adult life. Families use times like Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukah, Diwali, Kwanza, and New Year’s as opportunities to reconnect with those people who mean the most to us. For my platoon, I hope it will serve the same purpose.

One day, I will look back upon these cold bitter months in Afghanistan as the final weld in my Platoon’s family bond. They may not be Mom, Dad, or Ranj, but my soldiers and NCOs are definitely the next closest thing. Besides my parents’ home in Boston, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be this holiday season. Only a handful of Americans will ever get the opportunity to bond with their countrymen in the torment of war. For every memorable moment missed at home, there is another memorable moment just waiting to be experienced here in Afghanistan. These are memories that few people will ever have the blessing of sharing, and ones I’ll value for the rest of my life. It’s memories like these that will keep me warm when my time comes…when I get transferred away from my platoon to the cold, dark, staff offices in the black box of “Higher”.

Forest Edge Drive

I remember watching news reports from Iraq and Afghanistan as a cadet at West Point. I thought to myself, “Wow…my friends are there. They’re making history!” I envied the pride and fulfillment they must have felt serving at the tip of the spear of American foreign policy. Now that I’m in their shoes, it turns out the gravitas is not quite as remarkable on this side of the ocean. We don’t get to see ourselves on CNN. We don’t get to read much about the war in the New York Times. We do have military-catered newspapers for some general information about what’s going on the world, but for the most part, traditional news outlets on a Forward Operating Base are few and far between. Thus, the significance of our daily patrols, the weight our actions carry in directing world events, often evades us.

Internet time on a FOB is like gold. There are seven computers on this FOB and well over a thousand soldiers, contractors, interpreters , and other enablers who wait in line patiently to use them. There’s a conservative 30 minute limit, but that only yields just enough time to check a few emails and a bank account with the lethargic speed of the internet out here. Hence, most soldiers are not inclined to waste such precious minutes checking out CNN.com.

Earlier this week, I decided to break the mold and find out what was going on in the world. Ironically enough, it was the day of the recent shootings at Ft. Hood, Texas. As an Armor officer, the majority of my peers from my Basic Officer Leader Course all serve at Ft. Hood with the 1st Cavalry Division or the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment. I thought of them. But it wasn’t until I saw a picture of the assailant that a very important piece of this puzzle drew my attention…the shooter was a Muslim.

As with any shocking incident, we all point fingers in a thousand different directions. It’s human nature to undertake grave generalizations in order to rationalize such chaos. I’m sure some blame American society for ostracizing those who practice faiths and cultures outside of the acceptable norm. We could blame the ethnic diaspora’s elders—the shooter’s parents and mentors—who were unable to raise this individual with a plural identity between his ethnic heritage and his identity as an American citizen. Perhaps the onus is on the military. Maybe our profession has gone soft in enforcing its institutional culture of respect and allegiance to the constitution and the United States. Have we made it too easy for those who antagonize our values to join our ranks? Of course, we could also argue our military as too hostile of an environment towards Muslim Americans, thus provoking such tragedies upon ourselves; nearly 10 years of warfare against Muslim extremists doesn’t do much for the faith’s reputation among most soldiers.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in Afghanistan, it’s that you cannot fight a generalization with yet another generalization. It is foolish, if not dangerous, to simplify dynamic conflicts and identities into emotional catchphrases to address isolated events. But there’s no such thing as an isolated person, no such thing as a heart untouched by such sorrow. There is no such thing as a soldier, father, mother, sister, brother or child without an emotional pull to this story. I understand how difficult avoiding rash judgment can be.

In many ways, the cultural challenges that the Ft. Hood shootings represent to the institutional Army mirror the same challenges that most platoon leaders and company commanders face in fighting a counterinsurgency. When we lose our own, we must somehow prevent the rest of the unit from unfairly assigning generalizations to the demographics of the one responsible. Each time an IED strike occurs, each time a soldier is hurt, we Platoon Leaders stand in front of our soldiers—most of whom are about our own age—and we must explain to them the importance of carrying out future operations with the tact and grace needed to win a counterinsurgency. But how do you keep a young soldier, whose squad-mates are his closest family, from aggressing out of control onto a population which he has generalized as evil to cope with the pain of loss? How do I convince him that “not all Afghans are bad. Not everyone is our enemy”?

Well, I’m still working on it…but I’ll let you know when I find out for sure.

Whatever progress was made in bridging Muslim relations with the U.S. Military is surely set back about five years as a result of this shooting; as is most progress I made in trying to get the word “Hadji” out of my soldiers’ vocabulary (Here’s that post in case you missed it: Hadji). I won’t give up though. To stop now would mean to surrender to extremism…not necessarily of the Muslim variety, but the extremism that festers deep inside the American soul. It is a frustration brought on through a hegemonic world presence with a rapidly diminishing value of returns. It’s the human nature of self-interest which goes unspoken as we send billions of dollars overseas every year despite the millions of problems we still have at home. It is the fervent cry to “forget diversity, forget the rest of the world…what about me?! What about my family and friends?! What about my way of life!? I’m sick and tired of helping people, tolerating the religions that keep hurting us! How bout we start helping ourselves!” This too is a form of extremism. Is this extremism more justified and rational than the brand we’re fighting here in Afghanistan? Perhaps, but unfortunately it is still potent enough to undermine whatever ambitions we have of winning the peace in the War on Terror.

On a more personal note…the shooter, Hasan, had many roots close to my own. We both grew up in Southwestern Virgina. He attended Virginia Tech just down the road from my hometown in Roanoke, VA. We both grew up as religious and ethnic minorities in an area where our identities were tolerated, though not so much understood. Even more coincidentally, our paths both led us to careers in the military. Yet somehow, our abilities to reconcile our cultural identities with our communities differed greatly. Somehow, I became a benefactor of the American dream where Hasan felt as its victim. I can’t help but wonder, if I grew up in so many of the same communities as Mr. Hasan, where did our callings part ways? Why did I turn out like me, and why did he turn out like him? Where did America fail Mr. Hasan…or where did we fail him?

Despite the appearance of similar childhoods, I am secure enough to identify the nuances in our upbringings; nuances that the vast majority of Americans probably wouldn’t comprehend, but would ultimately make the difference between our lives.

I was blessed with loving parents who never pressured me into my faith or heritage, but allowed me to find it on my own. I grew up in a safe neighborhood with neighbors and friends who took care of me in spite of, or even because of, the difficulties of reconciling an Indian Hindu Vegetarian lifestyle in rural Southwest, Virginia. This is the meaning of opportunity for an immigrant child. Unfortunately, the “Land of Opportunity” comes in varying doses to different people. While I certainly do not condone Hasan’s actions, I am aware that we all are products of our environments. It takes a village to raise a child. With our similar backgrounds, I can’t help but wonder…what if I had grown up on his street? What if he had grown up on mine? Would our lives have continued on similar paths? I don’t know, and we never will…so in the time being, I guess I’ll just be thankful for the blessing of growing up on Forest Edge Drive.

Twenty Somethings

Anyone who has even scarcely paid attention to the news in Afghanistan recently knows that it has been a rough week for us here in Kandahar and Helmand provinces. While soldiers may have varying degrees of relation to the tragic incidents over the past few weeks, it undoubtedly touches all of us; as a profession…as a family.

A couple days ago, in the silence and darkness of night, I found myself twisting and turning my cot. I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t anxiety or stress, nor was it fear or depression. I just couldn’t sleep. It’s not uncommon for a deployed soldier to experience some difficulty sleeping. After all, we interchange so frequently between day and night missions that our circadian rhythms flow more like jazz improv than a steady waltz. Whenever I have trouble sleeping, I find myself jumping out of bed and trying to find some activity that would make sleeping look like a more pleasant alternative for my body. As I still have a “fat kid” mentality from my more portly days in Roanoke, Virginia, that activity is usually running. There’s nothing like a solid run to make a fat kid want to go back to sleep.

The days in Kandahar province remain hot, but the nights now fall to the 60s as winter approaches. The sensation of cold sweat running down my spine didn’t really bother me as I ran…mostly because I was too focused on trying not to roll my ankle on the dirt and gravel roads around the FOB. I started pumping my arms to maintain speed. My eyes flexed in ten different directions trying to simultaneously avoid dozens of gravel obstacles while anticipating the next batch. And it was dark. No one was watching me run, and it occurred to me that if I were to fall and hurt myself, I’d probably be out here all alone. I brought my quick gallop down to a stroll and started walking off the shivers from the wind chill. As I lifted my head and broke my fixation on the trail in front of me, I saw only one light in the entire FOB still shining brightly. It was the FOB Chapel.

The Chapel has a small room called the “ChapEx”. It’s kind of like a PX (Post Exchange), but everything is free. All the items are donated from the USO. I had ran out of soap, and I was not going to go back to bed without a shower…so I sauntered up to the Chapel’s bright lights and entered the ChapEx, scavenging for toiletries.

“Hey there!” came an excited voice from behind. I was startled. I turned around to find Captain Barton, our Battalion’s Chaplain, standing behind me.

“Oh, hey Sir. How’s it going?” The Chaplain was still wearing his ACU uniform without the blouse. He was probably getting ready for bed, but in his position, he’s on call 24-hours a day just as I am.

“Not too badly, yourself?”

“I’ve been okay, just trying to grab some soap…stay outta trouble, you know the drill,” I smiled. Chaplain Barton and I have a unique relationship. He is a devout Protestant from Tennessee. He is older than most captains, and speaks with a charming southern draw. I am a Hindu. In fact, I’m the only practicing Hindu in the entire Brigade as of his count. But though we are two men coming from such different backgrounds, we both share a unique friendship as two men on separate trails towards the same spiritual end.

“You need any more…reading material?” He asked me. Captain Barton was kind enough to order me a copy of the Bhagavad Gita and Ramayana with his allotted budget. “That’s what the money’s there for!” he told me, “To meet your spiritual needs, whatever they may be!”

“Nah, I’m good for now, Sir. Thanks though.” I paused. I could sense Captain Barton was waiting, calmly and silently, for some sort of explanation for what I was doing in the ChapEx at such a late hour. “Well, if you don’t mind…I’d like to talk to you about…well, you know.”

“Absolutely, c’mon into my office.” He gave a soothing pat on my back as he escorted me out the door. The Chaplain’s office looks more like a storage room with an out of place desk and computer in the corner. The hum of a stainless steel refrigerator next to the door was sure to distort the hundreds of private conversations held in this room from those lingering outside. I grabbed a folding chair towards the end of the desk. We both sat down, leaning forward, elbows resting on our knees. The Chaplain sat patiently, waiting for me to begin.

“So…I guess I wanted to talk to you because…I’ve just been…confused.” I stuttered, trying to find the words. “The past couple days just sort of rocked me. And I’m having trouble understanding…how any sort of loving God could see this as—I just don’t understand—I—“

“You can’t understand how a loving and compassionate God could allow something like this to happen?” Chaplain Barton finished my sentence.

“Yeah…exactly.”

“Well, there are plenty of reasons. And keep in mind, I come at this from a different religious philosophy,” Chaplain Barton began with the confidence of someone who had conversed on this topic numerous times, “but think of God’s decisions in two categories: Divine will and Permissive will. Divine will implies that he actually wants something to happen, whereas Permissive will means that he simply allows it to happen.”

“Well, why on earth would he allow such evil to happen? I mean–“ And then it began.

I buried my eyes in the heels of my palms…and cried. I broke down. Tears flowed slowly, my lungs and chest pulsated as they purged three month’s worth of buried frustration and fear. “I mean we’re just a bunch of kids!” I pulled my head up from my hands. I could see the redness in my eyes in the reflection of the fridge in front of me. “We’re just a bunch of 20-somethings running around this country with guns and bombs and—I have 20 year old soldiers with kids and wives back home. I have guys who haven’t even had their first legal drink yet! I’ve met their daughters, their sons, their wives. And they’re all such good people…I mean they’re really good people.” I dropped my head back into my palms.

“And I love my guys, I love them so much,” I dug deep into my heart to find a degree of composure. I wiped away the tears and mucous streaming down my face.

The Chaplain sat there serenely. He was strong. As I regained control over my emotions, he slowly and quietly began to whisper his piece.

“I hear you, Raj. It’s a tough one. But, let’s think of it from a barebones and simple point of view. True, you’re all young…but really? What is an appropriate age to die? Not everyone can live to be 100. The world couldn’t sustain itself. Death is a part of life, and we tend to fear it tremendously because it’s unknown and appears lonely. But it’s a very important part of life, and it’s important for sustaining life. Of course, if some people have to die, we don’t want anyone we love to be in the mix. We say ‘it’s okay to pick that guy, but none of my friends or family’. But it doesn’t work like that.”

“I guess that’s understandable…but—I don’t know…I have to go out on patrol tomorrow. I have to get up there in front of my soldiers and brief a plan that makes them feel safe and comfortable. I have to put them at ease that their Platoon Leader knows what he’s doing…but I don’t know. I just don’t know if I’d be able to handle it if the worst were to ever happen to one of my guys.”

“That’s completely normal,” Chaplain Barton smiled. “You know, there’s something a friend of mine told me right when I joined the Army. He said, ‘Soldiers do not give their lives when they are killed in war. They already gave up their lives when they joined the Army. It just happens, on that particular day, their life was required in service to their country.’ See, you and your soldiers already gave your lives. You all joined knowing that this was a dangerous job.”

Chaplain Barton could tell I was just getting more and more confused. “So maybe you can help me. You’re a smart guy. What is your spiritual philosophy on death? Why did you join the Army?”

“Well,” I searched for my own history in the back of my mind, “I guess I joined the Academy cause I liked the camaraderie I saw between the cadets. I wanted to be in the Army because this country gave me so much that I am sure I wouldn’t have had my family remained in India.”

“Okay, that’s good! Now how does that incorporate into your faith?”

I paused for a moment. “The story I use is that of Arjuna. He’s sitting there on the precipice of battle, looks over the field and does not see his enemy. He sees his family. He decides that he cannot go to war against his own blood. But then Lord Krishna, who is his chariot driver, begins a conversation with him on the purpose of his life and the necessity to stand up for what you believe no matter what the challenge or consequence.”

“See!” Chaplain Barton interrupted with the excitement of striking gold, “you just have to remember that, in every tragedy we see here, we’re all soldiers standing up for what we believe in. That’s an honorable strive, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess it is…” I paused, “it doesn’t make it any less heartbreaking though,” I continued sadly.

“True, this has been a traumatic week, and you’re scarred; not physically, but emotionally. And the only cure is time…and discussion…it won’t always be this painful.”

“I see that. I guess the Army just has this aura of machismo where no one dares talk this sort of stuff. We go on acting like nothing is bothering us.”

“Absolutely, but believe it or not, you’re ahead of the game. The fact that you realized something was bothering you and found someone to talk to…you’re going to be just fine, Raj. When you go out tomorrow, just remember that your guys all volunteered. They are here because they believe in America and will do whatever is needed to be done to protect it. I think you’ll be just fine.”

“Hey, Thanks Sir.” I began to stand up. I could smell my own body odor stinking up the office. I needed to shower and rest, “This helped a lot.” I stuck out my hand waiting for a reciprocating shake. Rather, the Captain opened his arms and gave me a warm embrace. A hug. I let out a childish and comforted sigh. It dawned on me that it was the first time I had been hugged since my parents dropped me off at formation on the night of my deployment. Even more impressive, he did so even though I smelled like a garbage bag.

I stepped out of the Chapel, soap in hand, and started walking towards my tent. My head was held up a bit higher and I felt a bit better. I didn’t feel good, but I guess the fat kid inside of me finally had enough…it was time to get some sleep. Thankfully, the walk back to the tent just wasn’t as dark as before.

Hadji

(I write this post primarily for the junior officers and senior enlisted who may read it…this is a change that will happen only at our level.)

Warfare is just as much an intellectual battle as it is a strategic and physical one. I find the biggest strength of the U.S. Army, and our biggest shortfall, is our ability to simplify (or oversimplify) extremely complex concepts and technology for our masses to understand. Working with the world’s most sophisticated communications and weapons systems is not easy. But somehow, the Army’s teaching style makes it so that 20-year old Corporal Joe Dirt can safely operate a multimillion dollar piece of equipment that could annihilate an entire village.

Thus far in American history, we’ve also had the luxury of oversimplifying the enemy. We have had the luxury of understanding our enemies as one-dimensional actors; we could understand them as evil. We did not have to acknowledge them as cultural beings, as husbands and children with families and identities. Rather, we had the luxury of demonizing our enemy with condescending terms. In Vietnam, we called him “Charlie”. In the Cold War, we called him “Ivan”. In our new Global War on Terror, we call terrorists “Hadji”.

For our benefit, the words “Charlie” and “Ivan” never meant much to the Vietnamese or the Soviets. But in the Muslim world, the word Hadji has a greater significance than most Americans can ever imagine.

The five pillars of Islam include several tasks: announcing your witness of Mohammed as the prophet of Allah, fasting during the month of Ramadan, giving alms to the poor, praying five times a day, and of course completing the pilgrimage to Mecca known as the “Hajj”. When one returns from this venture, he is treated as an enlightened leader in Muslim cultures. His community bestows the title of “Hadji” upon him. It is a term of respect and endearment. It is a title of wisdom and reverence.

When I spent a semester studying in Egypt as a West Point cadet, one of my closest Egyptian friends, Walid, told me a fascinating story. He had a seven year-old cousin who lived in Iraq.

          “My cousin is absolutely terrified of Americans,” He began.

          “I understand. Soldiers are intimidating,” I replied, “but really most of them are good people. They want to help Iraq.”

           “My cousin was outside playing one day and there were some soldiers walking through the neighborhood. Some bad men started shooting them and the soldiers ran into our house. The soldiers started yelling and screaming.”

           “Wow, no kidding…if I was a kid I’d be terrified,” I sympathized.

           “No Rajiv,” Walid interrupted, “that is not it. The soldiers kept yelling, ‘kill the fucking Hadji, Where’s the Hadji!?’” Walid leaned in towards my seat. “You see, we call our grandfather Hadji. Hadji is a sacred title we call those who have completed the pilgrimage to Hajj. When soldiers say ‘Kill the Hadji,’ my cousin hears ‘Kill the grandfather, kill the elder!’ For this, he hates American soldiers. He is so scared that they want to kill our grandfather.”

I was dumbfounded. There we were as a nation, simultaneously fighting two counterinsurgencies in two vastly different Muslim countries, and we were making the rookie mistake of alienating the very people we were trying to influence. After nine years of warfare, we’re still not speaking their language…both literally, and figuratively.

So what do we do? Is the use of the word “Hadji” really that big of a deal? Sounds like a quick fix, right? All we need to do is write up a short-order memo: “The Army’s Soldiers will stop using the word ‘Hadji’”…but it’s not that easy to purge a word from the military’s vocabulary, despite the strategic implications it may carry.

The problem here is not simply with our diction. The problem is NOT that our leaders make no attempt to understand the local culture. In fact, I’d argue the opposite. I am impressed with my peers’ and superiors’ understanding of Afghanistan’s history and appreciation of the national identity crisis these people face. The problem is the level of command at which the expertise and information stop. The problem is the oversimplification of the rifleman; the over simplification of the influence that Private Hoff or Specialist Brooks—my soldiers—can have on this war. The problem is Army leaders underestimating our soldiers’ abilities to understand and internalize the complexities of a counterinsurgency.

Standing in front of a platoon of soldiers as a fresh Lieutenant can be a scary experience. We do whatever we can to show that we care about our men, and that our care is genuine. We start talking their talk, and walking their walk…the last thing we ever would want to do is challenge their mode of thinking. We wouldn’t want to appear academic or elitist. And thus, the important concepts that our soldiers need to seriously consider usually go unspoken. Not because our men don’t have the intellectual capacities, but because leaders do not take the time to challenge them on these strategic levels of thinking.

I told my soldiers Walid’s story about the word ‘Hadji’, and as expected, most of them didn’t seem to embrace it. But I’ll keep trying. Unfortunately, I am only their platoon leader. Their interaction with me is minimal compared to the time they spend with my battle-hardened NCOs who care for them on an hour-to-hour basis. I’m sure my NCOs won’t be letting go of the world “Hadji” anytime soon. It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks. I don’t expect my senior enlisted advisors to change their vocabulary, especially when it has already served them successfully on previous deployments. My senior enlisted advisors will probably continue using the word Hadji to refer to terrorists, and my privates and specialists will follow them. There’s not much I can really do about that…I’m a platoon leader, not a baby-sitter.

I am certain, however, that I did plant a seed in my young soldiers’ minds. One day, when they’re Team Leaders, Squad Leaders, or Tank Commanders, they may dig back into their memories and pull out that relatively obscure story and teach their future Privates about the word “Hadji”. In order to bear fruit tomorrow, the seed must be planted today. It is going to be a long war, and the changes in the military culture needed to win it will take a long time to occur.

I ask my colleagues who may read this post to talk to your soldiers about the word “Hadji”; talk to them about the difference between an Uzbek and a Pashtun; tell them why Hazara people are so harshly treated in this country; tell them why some Afghans speak Dari and some speak Pashtu. Let’s stop underestimating our men. If we honestly believe in the “Strategic Corporal,” then it’s time to start talking to him like a strategic actor. I have no problem simplifying the Army’s complex equipment…but let’s not make the mistake of oversimplifying the American soldier.

 

…and btw- the black smudge over my lip on my new facebook picture is not a mustache. It’s a radio microphone…relax everyone

Bird’s Eye View

I love helicopters. I love flying in them, I love watching them fly over my head. The physics behind a rotary wing aircraft are absolutely memorizing. It’s hard to make a helicopter look as sexy as a fighter jet, so I’m not expecting a Top Gun movie about Army Aviation to come out any time soon. But perhaps there is charm in being one of the few who get to appreciate this hidden magic.

Every so often, the junior officers of 2-1 Infantry must return from our Forward Operating Base back to Kandahar Airfield to take care of random orders of business for the battalion. Last week, I took part on one such trip to draw funds for my company to purchase…well, whatever it wants. The helicopter took off gracefully, and I clung to the side of the aircraft to stabilize myself as I peered downward onto the cosmic deserts of Kandahar. The bird’s eye view of the province is immaculate. Oceans of sand flow in waves across the terrain, banking on burgeoning mountains in the distance. Wholesome crumbs of the bread of civilization spill across this table of God’s creation. Motorcycles and rickety farm trucks shine in the sunlight as they intermingle with a primitive ecosystem. The only obtrusive stains on this canvas are our Stryker tracks, smudging the desert from our cross country movements. They are, indeed, a bit out of place.

But from this vantage, there is certainly more than what meets the eye. Beyond the desert, I see centuries and millennia of warfare. This is the last unconquered land. These are the last unconquered people. Our Stryker tracks cover those of T-72s from the Soviet invasion, which cover the tracks of the British Landcruisers from the Royal Empire. The wagon trails of the Monghul Expansion cover the steed prints of the Persian Empire, which cover the chariot tracks of Alexander’s Army. How many generations of men have spilled their blood over these sands trying to win this trophy country? The destructive creativity of mankind knows no limits to satisfy its greed or its insecurity. When a spear wouldn’t work, we invented the musket; when that failed, the rifle, the machine gun, the tank, the fighter jet, the nuclear bomb. Yet somehow, despite limitless military technology and the fortunes of the world behind them, no Army has ever destroyed the grip of these simple Afghan tribesmen. Somehow, God has decreed that this land shall know no authority but His own. It is a cur that shall never be tamed.

There’s nothing like a war to challenge the pores of one’s faith. Some days, I find no sense in the idea of a God. On others, I pray sincerely to Him. Occasionally, I curse Him. But as I entertain the notion that there is a greater plan at work here–greater than those of the politicians embarrassing themselves on the news networks– I find again a certain charm in bearing witness to this mystery…Afghanistan’s own form of hidden magic.

Perhaps there is a reason why this nation refuses to find peace. Perhaps there is a reason each new Afghan generation seems to purge itself of all semblances of stability. Perhaps it is a part of a greater plan that the rest of the world observes the bedlam of ungoverned masses. Perhaps we need a nation like Afghanistan to truly value the thousands of blessings we all enjoy as citizens of the western world. Afghanistan is the Control in mankind’s science experiment of the Democratic variable. This nation represents the primordial essence of being to which we will degrade if we seriously do reach “mission failure” in the grander scheme of our national identity. Perhaps God created Afghanistan so we could comprehend the value of what He has already given us.

So the next time you’re at the DMV complaining about the long lines, just be thankful we actually have a means to track down vehicles and drivers when they escape from the scene of a crime. The next time you get frustrated at a TSA agent in the International Arrivals terminal, just be thankful we actually invest in some means to protect our borders from the smuggling of dangerous people and weapons into this country. And for God’s sake, the next time you think you’re too busy to stop by a polling center on Election Day, just be thankful that you don’t live in a nation where political terrorists intimidate you out of voting.

Just as quickly as we took off, the helicopter began to drop its altitude as we descended onto the landing pad at Kandahar Airfield. The footprints left in the sand of previous passengers and pilots withered away in the rotor wash from the aircraft, and I stepped out leaving my own mark on the ground having seen this nation from a bird’s eye view. I whipped out my notepad containing my daunting To-Do-List for the trip to KAF. I felt the need to add just one more task: “Request absentee ballot from home”. I closed the notepad and walked off the flight line with a smile on my face. I no longer worry about “winning Afghanistan.” I find some humility recognizing that history does not favor our cause. But I find strength knowing that, if our service in Afghanistan can make just a few Americans more proud and thankful for the gifts we have at home, then the fruits of this war will outlast the tracks we leave withering in the deserts of Kandahar.

Home Sweet Home

There are few moments more relaxing than the stroll from the motor pool back to the platoon tent after an all night mission. The sky glows in shades of purple and yellow as the sun begins to peek it’s brow over the desert. The base is calm, the streets are empty, soldiers are asleep, and the only sounds to be heard are power generators humming in the distance. My platoon walks slowly. We’re drenched in sweat, and the cool morning temperatures bring shivers to our skin.

My guys are hungry. They’re tired, they haven’t slept all night. But you wouldn’t know any of it from the smiles on our faces as we walk by. The soldiers share hilarious stories of their pre-deployment drunken and promiscuous ventures through downtown Seattle. They argue over what kind of Korean import sports car is going to overtake the Italians. They recount the college football highlights they’ve seen on random Sportscenter clips in the mess hall. Above all, they poke fun at each other. And being the LT makes me anything but off limits; I’m the prime target. “Dang, Sir! You’re a hairy motherfucker,” Specialist Brooks constantly jokes, “we could like shave off your back hair and sell it as wool!” But it’s okay because he’d always follow his quip with, “um…respectfully, Sir.” I’d smile, turn around, and pretend to punch him in the stomach with the rest of the platoon cheering and laughing along. Our platoon is a family. The way families in the Army show affection is not with hugs or kind words…rather, we berate each other to no end.

I walk towards the front of the group, not because my soldiers are following me per say, but because I’m in a hurry; I still have debriefs and paperwork to do. My section leaders and platoon sergeant walk on my flanks recounting all the maintenance issues and reconnaissance tips we collected. I tend to walk by quietly, absorbing the information, feeling the moment; coming to grips with understanding that this is my platoon, these are my soldiers…and we’re home safe. Relax.

Home at FOB Ramrod comes in the form of a mid-sized tent on a patch of gravel in the Attack Company area. The structure has a plywood floor and a few extension cords lining the edges of the tent. Fluorescent lights hang from the ceiling next to long fly catchers covered with dozens of insects. My cot is the first one on the left, allowing for easy Platoon Leader access for the random “Hey You!” tasks that may come down at random parts of the day. Sharp nails protrude the wooden studs in my corner. I use them to hang my weapons, a few uniforms, and a beanie cap. I have a makeshift wooden desk, leftover from the previous unit, where I keep a computer and my IPod speaker dock: a platoon essential for our pre-mission pump mix. The only sentimental trinket I keep on the desk is a midsized stone displayed in the far left atop a stack of topographic maps. It’s one of the two rocks that two disgruntled Afghan children hurled at me just a few weeks ago. I found it tangled inside my body armor shortly after the incident. I reflect on it endearingly, despite the concussion it inflicted on me…I guess the story it carries is just too valuable to let it go. Next to my desk is my cot, covered in a blue comforter I’ve had since I was twelve. The cot is green and taut. It’s no posture-pedic mattress, but after a long night outside the wire, I’ll settle for what I can get.

At the rear of the tent, the soldiers’ cots line the walls, with a table in the center covered in board game pieces, spades scorecards, and home baked cookies from a wife’s care package. There’s no telling what you’ll find back there on any given day. Sometimes, it will just be a few normal guys playing poker. On others, I’ll find Private Hoff standing naked with nothing but combat boots and dog tags, bending over in front of the other soldiers, demanding a “tick-check”.

On this particular morning, however, the antics ceased early. SGT Espy, a dismount team leader, was mixing himself a protein shake for his coming workout, “You comin’ out, Sir?”

“Dude, we just got back man! I’m gonna knock out for a little,” I whined.

“Pshh, sleep is a crutch!” He chided, “Haha, don’t worry about it, we’ll hit it hard tonight.”

“Sounds good man!” Espy had become my workout buddy early on in the tour. He is 21 years old, and stands about 5’6” with 160lbs of pure muscle. He’s a lifting nut and often leads the whole platoon in arduous midnight workouts. The only thing I hear Espy talk about more than fitness was his wife left back home in Lacey, Washington outside of Ft. Lewis. He was 19 when he got married. He had been with the same girl since he was 15 years old! I can barely keep a girl for 6 months; I don’t know how he did it for 6 years and counting.

Chili and Furley sat on their beds watching a movie, Brooks and White were focus on their video games, a stereo quietly jamming rap music in the background. The wallpaper on Brooks’ computer has a big American Flag with bombs dropping from the sky reading “We’re gonna free the shit outta you!” It makes me smile every time I read it. There’s something fulfilling about watching my soldiers’ individual personalities penetrate the Army’s blanket of uniformity.

“Yo Sir, Dance!” called Brooks as he turned up the stereo. I looked at him with a snarl, staring down his challenge.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I demanded.

“C’mon, let’s see what you got!”

I walked to him slowly, deliberately…he looked scared, had he crossed the line?

Before he could understand what was going on, my mouth opened with the biggest, cheesiest smile in Afghanistan, and I slid across the floor doing my world famous “Carlton Dance” from Fresh Prince. SGT Lays bent over cracking up.

I stopped. My smile faded back to my glare. I slowly turned around and walked back towards my cot…I could hear the boys still laughing in the background.

SGT Lay’s area is scattered with pictures of his wife and daughter whom I met just before deployment. Even after only two months in theater, his daughter has already changed so much. Luckily, SGT Lay brought his PlayStation 2 with him to Afghanistan to keep his mind off of what I’m sure is a difficult time for him away from his family. SGT Lay and I share a unique bond. Like me, SGT Lay is an immigrant. He was born in Mexico and came to this country at a very early age. He enlisted in the army at age 18. Now at 21, he is already married with a daughter, holds the rank of Sergeant, and works directly for the Platoon Sergeant as his gunner…not too bad at all.

“So what’s the mission, Sir?” SGT Lay would ask me nearly every single time I walked through the door.

“Ha! Dude, we just got back from our last one.”

“I know, Sir. I was just curious if you knew what was next.”

“Nah, brother. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” SGT Lay was fascinated with military tactics. Every time I put out a platoon mission, he’d have the most in depth and fascinating questions. I had countless talks with him over pen and paper drawing out the doctrinal maneuver of a tank platoon.

SFC Fix and SSG Koonts created their own little castle across from mine. Walls of firm plywood supported makeshift shelving around their cots, holding dozens of radio batteries, duct tape, and pictures of their wives and the four children they had between them. At the foot of their cots is a magnificent oak bookshelf that could sell as an antique in an American furniture store. They snagged it and stocked the shelves with a convenience store’s worth of potato chips, beef jerky, candy, and all the goodies sent from home. But the highlight of their corner is the old 13” television set which sits on the top shelf, connected to their own videogame console. The whole platoon rallies around their area for Madden 2009 tournaments. It was a rare occasion to walk through the tent with nobody on the controllers mastering the dime defense or the play action pass with their favorite teams. I was never much for videogames, but it’s something that brings the guys together in what little free time they have. Perhaps more importantly, it takes our minds off of the things we’re missing back home.

There’s a certain strength I find in my men as we dig in for the long haul here in Afghanistan. I am a single guy. I don’t have children or a wife; I don’t have anyone whose wellbeing depends on my nurturing or paycheck. But for the vast majority of my soldiers, the consequences of conflict reach far beyond their own lives, and they know it. They touch their children. They touch their wives who have dedicated themselves to their husbands’ service to the Army. With these emotional burdens tugging on their hearts, I’m absolutely amazed at how much focus they’re able to maintain on our missions…they’re stronger men than I am.

Calling this tent “home” still causes my stomach to turn upside down. “This isn’t home,” I’d tell my soldiers, “our job is to make sure every last one of us makes it back to our real homes…this is just a pit stop for us.” But I say that in vain, along with the other leadership catchphrases we all learn before donning our brass bars. My soldiers are here, and they call this tent home. They’ve isolated their professional focus from their sentimental draws. They’re here, not only because they’re told to, and not because of the pay, but because they feel some sense of purpose here. They bring new meaning to the phrase “home is where the heart is.” So if my platoon can come back from mission each day, walk into this rickety old tent, and call it “home sweet home”, then maybe I owe it to them to knock off the leadership ceremonials for just a few hours, pick up a game controller, and get my butt kicked in a game of Madden…all in a day’s work.

Don’t forget to wish my Dad a Happy Birthday this Wednesday!

Word on the Street

I don’t know what you’re hearing, but the word on the streets of FOB Ramrod is that there’s a lot of debate back home on the direction the war in Afghanistan will take over the next year. I’ve been getting several letters and emails from friends, mentors, and colleagues asking for my take on the situation from the line. I understand that GEN McCrystal is requesting a “surge” of troops while popular support for the war is waning. It’s a complex situation, and we’ve already invested billions of dollars and hundreds of lives into this conflict. It’s a topic that divides, not only the nation, but even the army… even my platoon! What I would like to do in this post is present, not an argument for either withdrawal or persistence, but rather a few important considerations to take into account in this discussion; ones that you probably won’t hear on the 24 hour news networks.

Here are the facts I’m working with: Right now, the United States has 62,000 troops in Afghanistan. McCrystal’s plan would take us up to about 80,000. This puts NATO at around 120,000 troops which is about where Iraq was for the majority of our time there (it got up to about 160,000 with the surge). General McCrystal’s argument is that he needs more troops over here to accomplish the mission of securing Afghanistan within the next year, or we’ll reach “mission failure”.

Here are some things to consider:

1) Iraq and Afghanistan are not the same conflict:

Al-Qaeda and Jesh Al-Mahdi were both foreign groups who came to Iraq to fight a war. Their leadership had little vested interest in the future of Iraq or its people. To Al-Qaeda and Jesh Al-Mahdi, Iraq was not much more than a battleground upon which to kill more Americans. We “surged” our way out of Iraq because Al-Qaeda and Jesh Al-Mahdi had no ties to Iraq and could leave the country without sacrificing their global strategic objectives. Moreover, they were each losing public support in Iraq due to inflicting tremendous civilian casualties. When we added 60,000 troops to Iraq, the opportunity cost for these terrorist groups to invest in their Iraq campaigns grew dramatically, and the relative gain of killing Americans in Iraq did not match the cost to continue the conflict. Thus, Al-Qaeda and Mahdi members in Iraq either died or left, and Iraq is safer today because of it. The Taliban, on the other hand, is a home grown terrorist group. It is an Afghan organization that has existed for decades; but its members have been fighting occupiers for centuries. Unlike Al Qaeda in Iraq, the future of Afghanistan is a vital part of the Taliban’s strategic objectives. The Taliban want control of Afghanistan as a part of its win-criteria. Thus, they actually care about their reputation with the local populous and do their best to minimize civilian casualties. They have hugely successful and widespread information campaigns. They understand and blend in with the local population far better than an Infantry platoon can…I’m not sure if two or three infantry platoons would do it much better. Any sort of “surge” we want in this country will thus have to take a different form than what was used in Iraq because our enemy is home grown and will not leave.

2) The Afghan population doesn’t understand us:

When my platoon goes into an Afghan town or village, people are terrified of us. They think we’re there to kill them. I was on an Observation Post in the Arghendab district a while back. We were about two blocks from a mosque. I happened to run into a village elder passing by our position. Since he was the only villager we had seen all day, I stopped to ask him a few questions. He told me that villagers were not going to mosque because they were afraid we were there to kill those who prayed. Most Afghans don’t talk to us, look at us, or trust us. The majority don’t give up intelligence either. I can’t say I blame them either. If I was a common Afghan villager who saw a platoon of soldiers roll into my town on a monstrous vehicle, wearing RoboCop like armor, and holding rifles and machine guns, I probably wouldn’t want to talk to them either.

3) There are Shades of Taliban Gray:

The official Taliban organization is not all that big. There’s more to this operation than just the person who makes the IED and the one who triggers it and that help comes from outside. What about the guy who operates on the Taliban’s vehicles? What about the person who allows the Taliban to hide his or her weapons on their land? What about the person who simply informs the Taliban when and where he found Coalition soldiers? When our enemy doesn’t wear uniforms and the population has varying degrees of involvement with Taliban attacks, how do we define who is a bad guy and who is a good guy? Are we here to kill every single person in the supply-chain of an attack? Are we okay with just settling for the triggerman? Without clarity on who the enemy is, how would we define our expanded mission with more troops?

4) There are hundreds of villages and leaders with whom we don’t have time or resources to build relationships.

Just looking at the map of Afghanistan and seeing where our troops are operating, and the districts where we have our focus, there is a lot of blank space. This is a big country, and it’s true that the coalition footprint in many areas is weak; providing ample opportunity for Taliban regrouping. More importantly, a typical Army unit’s tour in Afghanistan is only a year long, minus at least 2-3 weeks for R&R leave, minus a month or so for in and out-processing. I imagine it takes months if not years to earn the trust of an Afghan elder. Secondly, not only are there hundreds of local leaders we are unable to engage, but the few units and commanders who are able to build strong relationships with villages and their leaders are out of the picture after only a few months. Though my year in Afghanistan feels long, in the eyes of an Afghan elder, I’m as ephemeral as a blink of the eye.

5) Our Rules of Engagement don’t let us do all that much:

Our new ROE restrains the American use of force. While I won’t go into much detail, I will say that we have a severely limited scope of targets we can engage here and limited means to engage them. I appreciate that we must win the favor of the local populous in this conflict. With every Afghan who dies, regardless if they are Taliban or civilian, we incur against us the wrath of each parent, spouse, child, and friend. How does having more combat troops in Afghanistan align with an ROE that doesn’t use the full combat power of troops already here? Also keep in mind that the limiting factor on most of our missions are not the American forces, but the Afghan National Army and Police who are required to be on all missions with us. We out number them almost 10-1. There just are not enough of them to go around, and we are unable to do our job when they can’t fill numbers or just decide not to fight. If we bring more troops without a greater-than-proportional increase of ANA/ANP, how would more troops operate while still abiding by our new ROE?

6) What are soldiers trained to do, and what are you asking them to do?

My platoon is a mix of tankers and infantrymen. Our training consisted largely of conventional tactics, maneuver, blowing stuff up, etc. I am sure the rest of the combat forces in the Army are the exact same way. But the kind of war we are being asked to fight is not conventional, I won’t even say it’s asymmetric; it’s clandestine. It’s a war of relationships and information. So at what point is Private Snuffy from the boondocks going to get trained on how to befriend a local Afghan? When does Private Joe Schmoe from a violent neighborhood learn how to win a war without using his rifle? Is it fair to send more soldiers into a clandestine, unconventional fight with only training in conventional and urban warfare?

7) Are We Ready at Home?

I have my doubts that the American political will to stay in this country will not outlast the time that the Taliban are willing to wait us out. Between the Americans, the Soviets, the British, the Persians, the Monghuls, and the Greeks, this society knows a thing or two about how to expel an unwanted occupier; many of whom brought even more troops than we’re willing to invest. If we add more troops, will we have the political and economic will to support us for the long haul?

8 ) What really is the question here?

To me, the question isn’t “do we send more troops or not”. The question is not “Is America safer with troops in Afghanistan”. The critical question to me:“Is Afghanistan the most effective place for America to spend its defense resources?” We must also consider if sending soldiers and resources to Afghanistan potentially makes us weaker as we divert focus and assets away from domestic security. Afghanistan is not the only country with people wanting to kill Americans. I imagine there are plenty of threats from Iran, North Korea, Sudan, Somalia, and other unstable countries who wish to attack us at home.

The thing I love most about the Army is that, behind closed doors, leaders can disagree and argue all we want. But, once a decision is made, everyone walks out of the room devoting ourselves 100% behind whatever course of action the commander chooses. There are no hard feelings, there are no whiners; only people who are ready to work. We understand that the sum of our efforts is greater than its parts; people who unenthusiastically go through the motions of following orders could end up costing lives. No matter what decision President Obama and GEN McCrystal make, I know my soldiers and I will execute it with all our hearts. Back home, however painful it will be for those who don’t get their way in this debate, I hope they can find it in themselves to take a bite of humble pie and give their support; if for no other reason, it will make change politically expedient, logistically sound, and thus safer for all of us over here. This is a national mission…and the sum of our efforts is greater than its parts.

Thirty Days

It’s only 30 days. It doesn’t sound so bad. No food, no water during any hours of daylight; no exposure to any form of alcohol, foul language, or sinful thoughts…I could do that. I’m a tough guy, why not? But when you add in the 120 degree heat and the need to continue functioning as a working professional to earn money for your family, the Ramadan experience doesn’t sound like such a cake walk anymore.

I’ve now spent significant time in eight separate Islamic countries. Each time, it becomes easier to associate the chaos of the Middle East with the doctrine of its misunderstood faith. The overbearing influence of Islam is surely the defining trait of these societies. In Egypt, the call to prayer blasts for miles from dozens of mosques, leaving no stone unturned from its summon. In Bahrain, Qatar, and UAE the crowds assemble in massive formations, almost military-esque, to bow in devotion to Allah. In Tunisia and Jordan, not a decision or even a sentence passes without the insistent inclusion of “the will of God”. How on earth can societies function, can democracies function, with the constraints of such a rigid and demanding religion? I just accepted that Islam would never successfully mesh with any form of democracy.

When the Holy month of Ramadan began here in Afghanistan, I expected the worst of all of the above. I was waiting for the Afghan outbreak of violence and religious uprising against the infidels who had invaded their country. What I found was far different, and would change my understanding of modern Islam forever. To best describe my perceptions of Ramadan, I must introduce you to one of my closest new friends. He is a lifeline for our platoon, and our conduit to understanding the depths of Afghan culture. He is my interpreter. For the purposes of this essay, I will call him Frank as to make absolutely no allusion to his identity.

17 year old Frank is a native of Afghanistan working for the American Army; not exactly the most popular kid from his home town. He says there is a strong tension between himself and his friends back home. Likewise, there is a lot of tension between Frank and the rest of the platoon. Most of the soldiers naturally don’t trust him, and I am not sure if he really trusts them. It’s nothing that isn’t to be expected. For most of the platoon, their tour in Afghanistan is their first time out of the continental United States. I was the first vegetarian and the first Indian that most of them had ever met. My soldiers didn’t grow up in the most diverse neighborhoods. The only understanding of Afghanistan that most of my them had prior to arriving here were the Taliban attacks they saw each day on the news. They saw their faces; saw their skin, their hair, their clothes. Frank looks like the men in those pictures. He has a constant 5 o’clock shadow, giving him a darker complexion. He wears a curtha and a khwalay on his head. If I had grown up never knowing Muslims until I landed in Afghanistan as a U.S. Soldier trying to kill the Taliban, I’d probably be suspicious of Frank too.

But I didn’t. I was born in India. I know South Asia, and I’ve known Muslims my entire life. Being from the same neck of the woods, Frank and I share a lot of interests. I speak Hindi, and he speaks Urdu having lived in Pakistan for several years. He loves Indian food as do I. He’s already raided my collection of Bollywood DVDs. I guess we both find some sensation of home in the bright colors, the singing, the dancing, and the language of these otherwise redundant movies.

On Day 1 of Ramadan, Frank asked politely, “Sir, may I have a chance to pray?”

“Sure,” I said, “Do whatever you want.”

“Thank you, Sir. I will just be right here in this corner.”

Frank crept silently to a disparate, empty square space on the edge of the tent. He faced outward, and quietly whispered prayers to himself. He didn’t disturb a fly. Five times each day, for nearly 20 minutes each time, he would perform his religious duties. He woke up at 4am to pray as the sun rose. And like clockwork, he would pray each day at 10am, noon, 3:30, and just as the sun was about to set. As a soldier takes pride in cleaning his weapon and maintaining his equipment, Frank took pride in the discipline of his prayer. It was almost soothing. In such unpredictable times, it was nice to have someone in the platoon who had such a consistent relationship with a higher power.

“Hey Frank, you want to go grab lunch?” asked the soldiers nearly every day. He would smile and shake his head kindly.

“No sorry, it’s Ramadan and I cannot eat.”

“Oh sorry, we forgot again. Let us know if we can get you anything.”

As a vegetarian, it can get a little frustrating when people can’t remember such a defining quality of my life. It gets annoying having to remind people that I can’t eat meat or fish, reminding them why I can’t, and letting them know that it’s really not a big deal. The debacle gets old, but I do it because it’s the price I pay for living in a free society and practicing my faith of choice. But Frank lives here. We’re in his country, though he’s immersed in our world. I find his patience with my unit’s lack of exposure to Islam nothing short of noble.

Though Ramadan slows down much of Afghan society, it doesn’t hold back terrorism. As my unit rolled out on mission, Frank came along and still managed to adhere to his strict schedule and diet. Our interpreters are required to wear heavy helmets and body armor to keep them safe outside the wire, so he was undergoing much of the same physical exhaustion we all felt. The sun pounded on our necks and faces. Many soldiers who had all the water and food in the world were falling victim to the heat. But Frank remained steady. He was fine. Frank was not an anomaly. There certainly were those who were more demanding of further religious accommodation, but for the most part, the Afghan interpreters in our unit were very considerate of our missions and our soldiers.

As we drove through Kandahar City, I noticed a few things. The people prayed in the privacy of their homes and offices. There were no massive formations crowding the streets (at least no more so than usual). When the call to prayer sounded, it didn’t blare through every crevice in the town as it did in the Arab world. In Afghanistan, the call to prayer was modest. It was humble. It felt much more like a call to prayer, rather than an order.

I asked Frank about this unique display. “Why is Islam so different here than in the Arab world? Both civilizations have endured centuries of conquering and re-conquering. Both have been persecuted for their beliefs. Both have extremist groups operating within their borders and terrorizing their people. How does Afghanistan manage to practice Islam with such humility in the face of such misunderstanding?”

“Remember, Sir,” Frank began, “Arabia is the home of Islam. The Koran is written in Arabic. Islam is a part of who they are. For us, Islam is just a religion. For [Arabs], it is more of a matter of identity than religion. It is a matter of nationalism.”

“But why religion? Each Arab country has its own history, why do they choose to identify themselves as Muslim as opposed to Egyptian, Jordanian, or Lebanese?”

“The Arab states are relatively young. These countries’ histories are not that old. Also, they did not earn their independence as Afghanistan did, or even as America did. Both Afghanistan and America fought wars, fought off the British and other conquerors to build our countries. We take pride in our countries because we sacrificed for them. Most of the Arab states won independence, not because they fought for it, but because their occupiers just left and signed a few [peace treaties]. Islam is the only thing they have had to die for. It is the strongest force holding them together.”

“That makes sense,” I replied. “So even during Ramadan, you feel lots of pressure to adhere strictly to Islamic codes and rules?”

“No, not really. My family wants me to sometimes, but most of us just do it on our own.”

“How is that? These are such difficult rules to live by during Ramadan. You don’t have any force pushing you, keeping you in line?”

“Faith in Afghanistan is a personal relationship with God that each individual is to create and maintain themselves. No one is going to push it on you. Remember, Sir, we are a people who live to be independent. We are fighters.”

“So independence is why I have kids throwing rocks at me?” I joked.

“Yes, Sir. That is correct. We don’t like occupiers like–” I could tell he stifled himself to keep from insulting the United States, “We don’t like people telling us how to live, like the Taliban. Each Afghan must be strong enough to stand up for what he believes in. If you want to be a good Muslim, you must do certain things. We are not Muslim because we are forced. We are Muslim because it is the honorable way to live in our culture.”

The past month has been an eye opening experience for me; an opportunity to observe and understand the people of Afghanistan, and a forgotten face of Islam. As the U.S. conducts two wars in Islamic countries, it is all too easy to demonize the one characteristic that both nations hold common. The reality is that Islam has very little to do with the conflicts our nation faces. Our enemy is not a faith, but an extremist interpretation of isolated doctrine. The enemy is not a belief in Allah, but the belief that there is no room for pluralism in societies wishing to earn God’s favor.

I don’t know if either Iraq or Afghanistan will ever be fully democratic countries. I’m not even sure if the United States would be any safer if they were. What I do know is that people like Frank are not the people we are here to fight. I just wish they all didn’t dress so much alike.

It’s only 30 days. It doesn’t sound so bad. No food, no water during any hours of daylight; no exposure to any form of alcohol, foul language, or sinful thoughts…I could do that. I’m a tough guy, why not? But when you add in the 120 degree heat and the need to continue functioning as a working professional to earn money for your family, the Ramadan experience doesn’t sound like such a cake walk anymore.

I’ve now spent significant time in eight separate Islamic countries. Each time, it becomes easier to associate the chaos of the Middle East with the doctrine of its misunderstood faith. The overbearing influence of Islam is surely the defining trait of these societies. In Egypt, the call to prayer blasts for miles from dozens of mosques, leaving no stone unturned from its summon. In Bahrain, Qatar, and UAE the crowds assemble in massive formations, almost military-esque, to bow in devotion to Allah. In Tunisia and Jordan, not a decision or even a sentence passes without the insistent inclusion of “the will of God”. How on earth can societies function, can democracies function, with the constraints of such a rigid and demanding religion? I just accepted that Islam would never successfully mesh with any form of democracy.

When the Holy month of Ramadan began here in Afghanistan, I expected the worst of all of the above. I was waiting for the Afghan outbreak of violence and religious uprising against the infidels who had invaded their country. What I found was far different, and would change my understanding of modern Islam forever. To best describe my perceptions of Ramadan, I must introduce you to one of my closest new friends. He is a lifeline for our platoon, and our conduit to understanding the depths of Afghan culture. He is my interpreter. For the purposes of this essay, I will call him Frank as to make absolutely no allusion to his identity.

17 year old Frank is a native of Afghanistan working for the American Army; not exactly the most popular kid from his home town. He says there is a strong tension between himself and his friends back home. Likewise, there is a lot of tension between Frank and the rest of the platoon. Most of the soldiers naturally don’t trust him, and I am not sure if he really trusts them. It’s nothing that isn’t to be expected. For most of the platoon, their tour in Afghanistan is their first time out of the continental United States. I was the first vegetarian and the first Indian that most of them had ever met. My soldiers didn’t grow up in the most diverse neighborhoods. The only understanding of Afghanistan that most of my them had prior to arriving here were the Taliban attacks they saw each day on the news. They saw their faces; saw their skin, their hair, their clothes. Frank looks like the men in those pictures. He has a constant 5 o’clock shadow, giving him a darker complexion. He wears a curtha and a khwalay on his head. If I had grown up never knowing Muslims until I landed in Afghanistan as a U.S. Soldier trying to kill the Taliban, I’d probably be suspicious of Frank too.

But I didn’t. I was born in India. I know South Asia, and I’ve known Muslims my entire life. Being from the same neck of the woods, Frank and I share a lot of interests. I speak Hindi, and he speaks Urdu having lived in Pakistan for several years. He loves Indian food as do I. He’s already raided my collection of Bollywood DVDs. I guess we both find some sensation of home in the bright colors, the singing, the dancing, and the language of these otherwise redundant movies.

On Day 1 of Ramadan, Frank asked politely, “Sir, may I have a chance to pray?”

“Sure,” I said, “Do whatever you want.”

“Thank you, Sir. I will just be right here in this corner.”

Frank crept silently to a disparate, empty square space on the edge of the tent. He faced outward, and quietly whispered prayers to himself. He didn’t disturb a fly. Five times each day, for nearly 20 minutes each time, he would perform his religious duties. He woke up at 4am to pray as the sun rose. And like clockwork, he would pray each day at 10am, noon, 3:30, and just as the sun was about to set. As a soldier takes pride in cleaning his weapon and maintaining his equipment, Frank took pride in the discipline of his prayer. It was almost soothing. In such unpredictable times, it was nice to have someone in the platoon who had such a consistent relationship with a higher power.

“Hey Frank, you want to go grab lunch?” asked the soldiers nearly every day. He would smile and shake his head kindly.

“No sorry, it’s Ramadan and I cannot eat.”

“Oh sorry, we forgot again. Let us know if we can get you anything.”

As a vegetarian, it can get a little frustrating when people can’t remember such a defining quality of my life. It gets annoying having to remind people that I can’t eat meat or fish, reminding them why I can’t, and letting them know that it’s really not a big deal. The debacle gets old, but I do it because it’s the price I pay for living in a free society and practicing my faith of choice. But Frank lives here. We’re in his country, though he’s immersed in our world. I find his patience with my unit’s lack of exposure to Islam nothing short of noble.

Though Ramadan slows down much of Afghan society, it doesn’t hold back terrorism. As my unit rolled out on mission, Frank came along and still managed to adhere to his strict schedule and diet. Our interpreters are required to wear heavy helmets and body armor to keep them safe outside the wire, so he was undergoing much of the same physical exhaustion we all felt. The sun pounded on our necks and faces. Many soldiers who had all the water and food in the world were falling victim to the heat. But Frank remained steady. He was fine. Frank was not an anomaly. There certainly were those who were more demanding of further religious accommodation, but for the most part, the Afghan interpreters in our unit were very considerate of our missions and our soldiers.

As we drove through Kandahar City, I noticed a few things. The people prayed in the privacy of their homes and offices. There were no massive formations crowding the streets (at least no more so than usual). When the call to prayer sounded, it didn’t blare through every crevice in the town as it did in the Arab world. In Afghanistan, the call to prayer was modest. It was humble. It felt much more like a call to prayer, rather than an order.

I asked Frank about this unique display. “Why is Islam so different here than in the Arab world? Both civilizations have endured centuries of conquering and re-conquering. Both have been persecuted for their beliefs. Both have extremist groups operating within their borders and terrorizing their people. How does Afghanistan manage to practice Islam with such humility in the face of such misunderstanding?”

“Remember, Sir,” Frank began, “Arabia is the home of Islam. The Koran is written in Arabic. Islam is a part of who they are. For us, Islam is just a religion. For [Arabs], it is more of a matter of identity than religion. It is a matter of nationalism.”

“But why religion? Each Arab country has its own history, why do they choose to identify themselves as Muslim as opposed to Egyptian, Jordanian, or Lebanese?”

“The Arab states are relatively young. These countries’ histories are not that old. Also, they did not earn their independence as Afghanistan did, or even as America did. Both Afghanistan and America fought wars, fought off the British and other conquerors to build our countries. We take pride in our countries because we sacrificed for them. Most of the Arab states won independence, not because they fought for it, but because their occupiers just left and signed a few [peace treaties]. Islam is the only thing they have had to die for. It is the strongest force holding them together.”

“That makes sense,” I replied. “So even during Ramadan, you feel lots of pressure to adhere strictly to Islamic codes and rules?”

“No, not really. My family wants me to sometimes, but most of us just do it on our own.”

“How is that? These are such difficult rules to live by during Ramadan. You don’t have any force pushing you, keeping you in line?”

“Faith in Afghanistan is a personal relationship with God that each individual is to create and maintain themselves. No one is going to push it on you. Remember, Sir, we are a people who live to be independent. We are fighters.”

“So independence is why I have kids throwing rocks at me?” I joked.

“Yes, Sir. That is correct. We don’t like occupiers like–” I could tell he stifled himself to keep from insulting the United States, “We don’t like people telling us how to live, like the Taliban. Each Afghan must be strong enough to stand up for what he believes in. If you want to be a good Muslim, you must do certain things. We are not Muslim because we are forced. We are Muslim because it is the honorable way to live in our culture.”

The past month has been an eye opening experience for me; an opportunity to observe and understand the people of Afghanistan, and a forgotten face of Islam. As the U.S. conducts two wars in Islamic countries, it is all too easy to demonize the one characteristic that both nations hold common. The reality is that Islam has very little to do with the conflicts our nation faces. Our enemy is not a faith, but an extremist interpretation of isolated doctrine. The enemy is not a belief in Allah, but the belief that there is no room for pluralism in societies wishing to earn God’s favor.

I don’t know if either Iraq or Afghanistan will ever be fully democratic countries. I’m not even sure if the United States would be any safer if they were. What I do know is that people like Frank are not the people we are here to fight. I just wish they all didn’t dress so much alike.