One of the better pieces on Afghanistan Afghan Diary: A Tour Of Kabul And The Troubled South Radio Free Europe Radio Liberty Friday, September 21, 2007 RFE/RL's Brussels correspondent, Ahto Lobjakas, spent a week with NATO-led troops in Afghanistan this month. The trip was organized by NATO for European journalists to show them the reality on the ground for troops in the International Security Assistance Force. In his Afghan diary, Lobjakas takes us from Kabul to Kandahar and two other southern provinces, where the Taliban insurgency is strongest and opium-poppy cultivation hardest to eradicate. Read his accounts of the challenges faced by ISAF reconstruction teams working in the south -- including locals' suspicion and unease; a helicopter journey where machine-gun bursts barely raise an eyebrow; a Humvee ride where he gets an impromptu training session in handling ammunition; and how ISAF troops and ordinary Afghans live such separate lives that Kabul's bazaars mostly come to ISAF, instead of the other way round. Part One: Security On Kabul's Chicken Street Western travelers unable to take advantage of military means of transportation and obliged to resort to the services of commercial air carriers to reach Afghanistan may be forgiven for not thinking themselves particularly welcome on arrival. Typically, the trip from any Western European destination to Kabul takes about 24 hours. Mine, originating from Brussels, features stopovers in Vienna (a reasonably pleasant two hours) and Dubai (a hellish logistical nightmare). Once the KamAir flight leaves Dubai, Kabul in midmorning seems a very inviting prospect. Not for long. The frankly Soviet entry formalities (and I speak from experience) quickly sap whatever reserves of goodwill and wanderlust I have retained from the journey. The 20-meter line (actually never less than two intersnaking queues) to the immigration official in his glass cage takes more than an hour. Then, at the very point of being reunited with my luggage -- in what seems like an act of God after the chaos in Dubai -- officials beckon toward another line. In time, the official at the end of this line presents me with a form seeking numerous particulars of my journey, authored by the Foreign Department of the Interior Ministry. But like in what used to be the Soviet Union, the chinovniks in Afghanistan do not speak for the people. Once outside the airport, unadulterated hospitality and bonhomie overwhelmed me. Gandamack Lodge, the home of the small party of NATO-sponsored European journalists and our minder, a genial lieutenant-colonel, has sent a minivan. The lodge, centrally located and yet removed from the hustle and bustle of Kabul, is all smiles. Not cheap, it offers near-European comfort without ever letting me forget I am in Afghanistan. Nineteenth-century guns grace its walls, a local salesman is installed in the hallway, a flock of ducks walks the garden. 'Fear Has Sharp Eyes' The question uppermost in my mind since the start of the journey has been that of security. The hotel, behind its two sets of gates and surrounded by other friendly, secure compounds, appears safe enough. Of the various officials I quizzed on the subject prior to my departure, an overwhelming majority cautioned against wandering the streets without armed protection from ISAF, NATO's incarnation in Afghanistan, sporting the 26 allies and 11 other concerned nations. Fear has sharp eyes, as they say in Estonia. Kabul, fortunately, still remains eminently approachable for low-key Western visitors guided by an experienced local minder. Which is not to say that the fears expressed by officials are wholly groundless, but the fact remains that Western civilians attract no immediate hostile attention. (This also holds for Kandahar, where I was taken on a three-hour tour of the city by a local "fixer" in his battered Nissan during a similar trip in February.) It is the Western military which provides the targets of choice, and bomb and suicide attacks on military vehicles claim nearly all of the Western victims in Afghanistan. The exceptions -- where civilians have been targeted -- have almost always featured remote rural settings. The obsession with security is brought into unexpected focus, however, on the famous Chicken Street, just around the corner from my hotel. A riot of little boys quickly assembles around our small party of Westerners, good-humoredly clamoring, "Who is your bodyguard?" and "I am your bodyguard!" Leaving Chicken Street, I decide to reward their concern with our safety, against most of my companions' warnings ("They'll be at each other's throats."). I change some dollars with a taxi driver whose services our fixer has engaged to take us to the mausoleum overlooking the city, and pay off my five bodyguards with 10 afghanis -- roughly $0.20 -- each. This turns out to be a reasonable rate of remuneration, as I later find out that it equals the price of a loaf of the most common type of flat bread. The "bodyguards" accept their wages with good grace, and two who said they were brothers serenely share a 20-afghani note. This encounter serves as a reminder that an Afghan's working life starts from an early age. The little boys were all about 8 to 10 years of age. In this light, the oft-quoted statistic that the median age of the Afghan population is 17.6 years takes on a very different significance. At 17.6, the median Afghan will have spent long years contributing to his or her family's income. And if Chicken Street, Kabul's most flamboyant commercial artery, is anything to go by, life in the Afghan capital is not easy for its traders and their minions. At best, it idles. Although there is a small Western presence in the town, the thousands of ISAF personnel stationed in and around Kabul rarely, if ever, venture out of their compounds on social errands. In fact, Chicken Street is officially off-limits for ISAF members. Ordinary tourists, meanwhile, are few and far between. On this particular Saturday, I saw none during my two hours out on the town. There are a few brave souls -- mostly journalists and NGO personnel -- who keep a semblance of nightlife going in Kabul. But this is an anaemic world that exists in almost total isolation from the average Afghan's daily grind. The many generators that line the streets in central Kabul tell a similar story. The capital can rely on six to eight hours of grid-provided electricity a day, and even that is, at best, an erratic supply. The open gutters, possibly Kabul's worst eyesore, proffer similar melancholy testimony. They also remain a health hazard of more than passing relevance. ISAF officials like to quote a (possibly apocryphal) study purporting to establish that up to one-third of Kabul's ever-present dust is fecal in origin. This would certainly explain the draconian hygiene measures in force at all ISAF compounds. A fair part of soldiers' waking lives in Afghanistan is spent washing their hands. Afghan Diary, Part 2: The Challenge Of The 'Pashtun Belt' NATO, or ISAF (I shall take the liberty of using the two terms interchangeably), have kindly seen fit to treat me to three days of visiting Provincial Reconstruction Teams (PRTs) in three different southern provinces -- Kandahar, Zabul, and Uruzgan. PRTs form the nexus of the conundrum facing ISAF in Afghanistan. "There can be no security without reconstruction, and no reconstruction without security" has become something of a mantra for NATO's secretary-general, Jaap de Hoop Scheffer. There are 25 PRTs in Afghanistan (one per province, with nine provinces yet to acquire one), and the three listed above are arguably among the most crucial, given that NATO's toughest challenge lies in the southern Afghan part of the wider "Pashtun belt." That challenge combines the double menace of the Taliban insurgency and poppy cultivation. That the recent resurgence of the Taliban in the south of the country closely shadows increases in poppy cultivation is commonly noted by ISAF officials. That the Taliban is a 99-percent Pashtun phenomenon is a somewhat more reluctantly acknowledged, but nonetheless equally incontrovertible, truth. As my small party was about to embark on its tour, we were told in passing that we would on each leg be joined by a couple of our Afghan colleagues. None ever materialized, however, and after the initial excitement subsided I later asked an ISAF media officer what had happened. I was told that on the first day, one local journalist had turned up at the gates of the wrong compound, where the guards had not been briefed. Two others had arrived at the right ISAF camp, one carrying an expired Afghan press ID and the other an inexpertly forged ISAF pass. Both were detained, questioned for hours, and eventually released. Why the two had taken such liberties was never clearly explained, nor possibly understood, by ISAF personnel. On another day, a local colleague was apparently on the cusp of accompanying us to Zabul, but then backed out, reportedly for fear of missing the beginning of Ramadan that same night. Ramadan, as a phenomenon, does not impinge on ISAF's military routine much. ISAF officials and troops are, however, keen to show respect for local traditions in their contacts with Afghans. So in Uruzgan, the Dutch troops at the Chora outpost, living cheek by jowl with an Afghan National Army (ANA) detachment, decided to forego lunch in a one-off gesture on the first day of the fasting month. Which meant the same for our visiting party of journalists. (On a culinary note, as we spent most of our time on base, nearly all of our meals consisted of military fare -- plentiful and wholesome, but prone to repetition and routine. None of it is local, and the amounts wasted look biblical.) Seat Of Pashtun Power Kandahar, our first destination, took us to the historical seat of Pashtun political ambition. Modern Afghan kings hail from the region, as does the Taliban, as does President Hamid Karzai. The Kandahar PRT, located on the outskirts of the city, has Canada as its lead nation. Its corridors currently ring with pronounced French accents, as the country is for the time being represented in Afghanistan by the 22 Regiment, which hails from Quebec. The PRT is involved in projects -- whose numbers vastly exceed expectations -- intended to improve local welfare, such as funding schools, hospitals, bridges, and wells. I am taken to see a cutting-edge ISAF project -- a shura, or council, turned into a District Development Assembly, which convenes local tribal elders on a regular basis for discussions of what amount to regional development plans. The hope is the local elders will prepare themselves for the challenges of institutionalized self-government, learning on the job. Dand district, whose shura I visit, is a reputed Taliban stronghold. Neither I -- nor ostensibly anyone at ISAF -- knows whether any of the men we meet are Taliban sympathizers. I then go to see a canal built with ISAF funds, but the crafty "malik" -- a local village administrator -- redirects my group to where he wants ISAF to build a new bridge. Three schools of thought are in evidence as to why a bridge is required. The malik says it would give the 366-hearth village direct access to their grape fields. Some of our Canadian escorts appear to believe the fields are, in fact, a cannabis plantation. Higher-ranked ISAF functionaries say they believe the villagers grow pomegranates. More than 50 PRT projects are currently in progress in the neighboring Panjwayi and Zhari districts. Both districts, southwest of Kandahar city, are currently a key battleground in ISAF's fight against the Taliban. ISAF forces routed a large Taliban force there in late 2006 and declared a conventional victory. However, as the Canadians pulled back, their casualty-stricken forces, the ANA, and the Afghan National Police (ANP) proved incapable of holding on to the gains and the Taliban started reinfiltrating. This is exactly the kind of circumstance on which turns the shorter- and medium-term success of ISAF in the south of Afghanistan. A senior ISAF official told me in Kabul that domestic stability is only sustainably achieved by nonmilitary means. ISAF would therefore like to see the ANP become funded as generously as the ANA. Things are moving in the right direction, but the challenges are formidable -- particularly corruption, widely believed by the public to be rife at all political levels. Meanwhile, it is not all clear sailing for the chief of ANA's southern 205th Corps in Kandahar, Brigadier General Gul Aqa. He first says the ANA has the Taliban on the run, but then admits the ANA cannot stand without ISAF backing. He assures me no poppies are being grown anywhere near where the ANA's 205th Corps has planted its eagles. Which means the ANA is steering clear of Afghanistan's worst problem. This brings us back to the ANP. The third showpiece project I'm shown is a police substation in northwestern Kandahar. The police in Afghanistan have such a bad rap that the local authorities have banned officers from giving interviews. This is an interdiction Canadian ISAF troops enforce with bizarre zeal. They say they do not want to complicate relations with the governor, a key pillar of support. The little we manage to extract from the police chief suggests he has not had any contact with the Taliban, nor does he wish to have any. Thus, the circle closes. ISAF says it is in Afghanistan at the invitation of the Afghan government and only does what the government asks. Its officials admit poppy cultivation and the insurgency are inextricably linked. Yet ISAF won't touch the opium trade, partly because it fears fatalities, and partly because the government hasn't asked it to. Which leaves the government to its own devices. It appears to be expected to "uncorrupt" itself and lift itself out of the morass it finds itself in. Afghan Diary, Part 3: Mystery And Suspicion In Zabul The day begins with an early morning helicopter jaunt from Kandahar Airfield to Forward Operations Base (FOB) Lagman, 160 kilometers away, which takes us under an hour. The scenery variously consists of yellowish-gray desert welted with innumerable track marks, isolated mud-walled compounds, beer garden-style nomad tents, camels, nomads themselves, impossible-to-date traces of habitation, and agricultural activity. The vista, with the occasional mountain jutting out of an otherwise apocalyptic plain, is reminiscent of something out of J.R.R. Tolkien. (Incidentally, ferrying my group around involves considerable NATO outlay at an hourly cost of about $2,000 per Black Hawk, of which we need two.) The trip passes uneventfully, not counting an interlude when both machine guns appear to fire short bursts at targets on the ground. These, we are told, were apparently provoked by ground fire. This is later contradicted by others who suggest that test firing is standard practice for Black Hawk crews. At Lagman, I furtively witness a commemoration ceremony for a U.S. soldier killed the week before, timed to coincide with the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. The Romanians then take us on a 25-kilometer patrol between FOB Lagman (500 men) and the smaller and fairly isolated FOB Masoud (50-strong). ISAF traffic along the road apparently attracts improvised explosive devices (IEDs) and small-arms fire. That very morning, a seven-ton Afghan National Army truck was hit by an IED on the other side of FOB Masoud. The trip to Masoud and back therefore takes twice the usual time -- two-and-a-half hours. As we set out in Humvees for Masoud, the commander of my vehicle instructs us in how to release machine-gun cartridges from their storing place and asks us to pass them to the gunner should he start firing. The commander also shows us where the handguns are kept, asking us to pass them on too, if necessary. It reminds me of a story making the rounds of ISAF media circles, about a Western TV journalist who reportedly came under fire when embedded with NATO troops last year. The story goes that, after he ran out of videotape, he grabbed a submachine gun and started firing at insurgents himself. The incident sparked a lively debate in Western media circles in Afghanistan, and the consensus appears to be that the man brought the trade into disrepute. As journalists, we lay claim to -- and depend on -- our neutrality. Also, as a civilian, the TV reporter may well have been culpable under Afghan law. ISAF enjoys negotiated immunity, but that does not extend to all Westerners. And so, sitting next to the cartridges on that Romanian Humvee, I couldn't help thinking, "What if? Where to draw the line?" 'Farm By Day, Fight By Night' ISAF justifies countryside patrols with the need for "visibility" -- to win the hearts of the presumably friendly locals, but more importantly, to strike fear among the Taliban. Zabul is a notorious transit corridor for foreign militants. In Kandahar and Helmand a similar logic applies, with an even stronger emphasis on intimidation. This, however, may be counterproductive. Much of the anecdotal evidence I have come across suggests the Taliban is a grass-roots phenomenon, better understood in terms of perceived local grievances than highly organized jihadist ideology. Estonian troops fighting in Helmand told me in February that the enemy "farms by day and fights by night." A local elder from Dand district near Kandahar insisted that NATO, as much as Pakistani-based militants, is to blame for stoking up resentment among the locals. Every aggressive armored foray into a local neighborhood, every "collateral" death, the very evidence of an ill-understood Western presence, is a challenge to the local community, its age-old ways, fierce traditions of self-sufficiency, and unbending autonomy. Here, "visibility" can easily give offense. The Dand elder said that fighting the Taliban will only make it stronger. Instead, NATO must talk to the Taliban, he said. It is striking how little NATO professes to know about its enemy. It routinely distinguishes between "Tier One" militant "irreconcilables" and "Tier Two" foot soldiers, motivated by greed and a list of other mundane concerns. But officials concede most of this is no more than guesswork. Things appear more complex. Much of the backbone of the unrest in the Pashtun south seems to involve a "Tier Three" of the Taliban -- locals who are simply ignorant of ISAF's goals. One ISAF officer tells me that after ISAF first arrived in 2006, many locals believed "the Russians had returned." The Dand elder says local people still don't know "if the foreigners are coming for cooperation and rebuilding, or just to fight and get the country in their hands." This suggests ISAF must do more to explain itself. ISAF is now trying to do this, and the Dand elder is part of a cutting-edge outreach project to coax durable self-governing structures out of the existing "informal networks of authority" in the region. ISAF offers development aid, but the locals decide where, what, and when. The problem is this requires time. Meanwhile, aggressive ISAF "visibility" undoes the long-term good work on a daily basis. Every car which does not stop to let an ISAF convoy pass is in real danger of being fired upon. A little boy propelling a wheel on the roadside causes serious consternation in the Humvee that took me around in Zabul today. You can't argue with the consternation. The Romanians lost a man last week in an IED attack. But something needs to change. Because there were no friendly faces among the locals as we drove through Zabul. There were, however, little boys miming the pulling of triggers and explosions. I had seen the same mimics in Kandahar the day before. There, a rock thrown by a child landed in my vehicle in a minuscule act of defiance. The absence of elementary welcome in a society where everything traditionally revolves around the notion of hospitality is worrying. Afghan Diary, Part 4: 'You Can Go From Being Smiled At To Being Shot At' As methods of transportation go, a military helicopter is superior to everything else in Afghanistan. It is fast, reliable, relatively safe, and offers unrivalled aerial views. Again, as on the way to Zabul, my trip this day to Uruzgan from Kandahar takes me gradually out of the gray-brown dustbowl of the desert into mountains which first resemble immense crumbling boulders and are later replaced with younger-looking volcanic ridges, sporting unexpected pink and purple streaks. Again, there are the clay-walled domestic compounds, evidence of agriculture (largely neglected), checkerboard herds of white and black goats routinely scattered by the helicopters, and the imperturbable camels. The countryside seems to be made for heat, in a Switzerland-meets-the-Sahara fashion. Signs of temporary respite exist in the shape of seasonal riverbeds and wadis. Most human habitation clings to verdant slivers of vegetation following rivers, but there are plenty of settlements in the arid highlands and the seemingly uninhabitable deserts. My first stopover is at FOB Ripley, or more precisely in its Dutch part called Kamp Holland (the camp is shared with the Australians). We observe ANA soldiers performing a mock vehicle check under the tutelage of Australian instructors. The ANA men are engineers by trade, but their Australian trainer says all skills come in handy "behind the wire." I chat with the Afghan soldiers, one of whom speaks English. A Pashtun hailing from Peshawar in Pakistan, he says loyalty to his country was what brought him into the army. He says "Americans" (read ISAF) are friends of the Afghan people, whereas those who do not like them are "enemies of the people." The soldier says he feels at ease wearing his uniform in the provincial capital, Tarin Kowt, but adds that he would not do so in Chora. Which is precisely where I am headed next. Frequent Attacks Chora is a small Dutch base situated amidst a patchwork of areas that ISAF describes as being mostly "nonpermissive." In a "nonpermissive" environment, attacks on ISAF troops are regular. Boundaries here are fluid, the Dutch like to stress. "Going around a corner, you can go from being smiled at to being shot at," says one soldier. We are initially scheduled to go on a patrol with the Dutch troops in a "permissive" area adjacent to their camp, but an early morning rocket attack (which does not hit either the Dutch or the nearby ANA camp) puts an end to that -- though the experience ought to be routine, as the Dutch say they suffer one attack a day. After landing in a helicopter-generated sandstorm, I walk past an assembly of morose, tense-looking locals and enter the camp -- to emerge one-and-a-half hours later as the Black Hawks return. The compound is surrounded on three sides by towering mountains, but the Dutch soldiers do not appear cowed. To the contrary, they proudly recount the breaking of a three-day Taliban siege in late June. That, an ISAF official later says, had been the Taliban's only serious attempt this year to take the fight to NATO. Again, I chat to ANA soldiers who say the Taliban are "strong" in the area. They say they are eager to fight, but complain they remain dependent on ISAF for air cover. They also tell me many Taliban are local. "They come from Kala-Kala," says one, referring to a notorious regional Taliban stronghold. A Dutch officer concurs, saying "more than half" of the Taliban are locals with mostly petty grudges that drive them to armed violence. He says the mood of a given locality could depend on a plethora of circumstances, among them views of the local mullahs and elders, and considerations linked to criminal enterprises. The latter is a euphemism for poppy growing, a popular pastime in Uruzgan, with two yearly crops. The ANA soldiers also tell me that most foreign Taliban are Pakistanis, Arabs, Uzbeks, and Chechens. Like ISAF officials, they say they've learned this information from intercepted radio chatter. The Dutch appear to take a more "caring" approach to their ISAF tasks than is the rule in the south. One senior officer says that while the security of the troops remains paramount, they always "try not to physically hurt anyone." He also says there is "no one solution" in Uruzgan, adding that the Dutch take the time to find individual solutions to each situation -- ranging from repulsing Taliban advances by force to talking to community leaders to ease local tensions. On the way back, we fly over a green rural neighborhood emitting heady wafts of what reminds many in my party of the smell of cannabis. Afghan Diary, Part 5: Leaving, The Afghan Way There are two ways of getting in and out of Afghanistan: the military way and the civilian way. One entails no visas or passport checks, no customs or baksheesh. The other features all of the above and more. Often much more. One offers little in the way of entertainment value; the other tests the most tolerant of temperaments. One eliminates all Afghan involvement; the other is wholly Afghan, with a vengeance. This time, I left the country the Afghan way, which, briefly, took place as follows. Gandamack Lodge courtesy taxis whisked my little group through the serene and sunny streets of Kabul to the airport without major incident (not counting an emergency stop to accommodate a colleague who had picked up a nasty stomach bug the previous day). At the gates of the airport, men in uniforms perfunctorily check cars and paperwork. One approaches the first car in our convoy, and the driver informs us we need to alight and present ourselves for "checking," pointing to an adjacent building. I deflect the request, saying our NATO minder, sitting in the second car, calls the shots. After a brief delay, we proceed unchecked. It later transpires our minder had greased the wheels with a $20 note. We arrive at the parking lot where, without overt ceremony, porters with trolleys begin carting our luggage unbidden toward the main terminal. We pass two checkpoints, free of charge, and the porter deposits us at another gate. His place is taken by a slicker-looking man, who retains the trolley. Once inside the building, our new guide points to a window, saying, "$10 airport tax," and returns a minute later with a tax receipt and incorrect change. He then makes the suggestion, "$5, no problem." I resist and continue doing so as the price drops: "$3, no problem," then, "$2, no problem." Edging ahead sideways toward the next uniforms at the next entranceway, I suggest the porter consider the baksheesh received, on account of the missing dollar in the change. The porter protests, but seems unwilling or unable to accompany me past the next checkpoint. This involves a metal detector, which I pass without further investment. Having regained possession of my bags, I round a corner, coming face to face with a young man in mufti, who in rapid and exemplary American-inflected English rattles off the instruction, "$2 government tax on bags, and tips for the guys, whatever you like." He proceeds to tie two plastic ribbons onto my bag. I pay up, but do not tip. I am then handed over to a man in blue overalls who asks me, "Window or aisle?" I automatically respond "window," and the man conveys my request to the check-in desk. I pay him $1, and am presented with a boarding pass entitling me to a window seat. This concludes my investment in the proceedings. I later hear that hardier colleagues managed to negotiate their way without paying a dollar, whereas others could be said to have overtipped. 'Looking Is For Free' This show of entrepreneurial spirit is part of the same continuum displayed in the weekly bazaars in larger ISAF compounds, one of which I had visited that morning. There, dozens of select merchants (selected how I never learned, but there must be thousands of them in Kabul) hawk carpets and other wares and engage older hands in leisurely bouts of haggling. Acceding to the exhortation, "Sir, looking is for free" usually results in significant expenses. The Afghans' commercial adeptness seems more than justified by the sense of complicity inculcated in the customers by the fact that the DVDs, CDs, watches, and sunglasses -- which sell best at these bazaars -- are all counterfeit. The bazaars are as close as most NATO soldiers and officials get to real Afghan ambience without body armor. ISAF employees braving the streets of Kabul in civilian clothes are few and far between (in fact, I know of only one), and Kandahar, for example, is completely out of bounds. This serves to highlight the chasm that exists between the reality of ordinary Afghans and that of ISAF personnel mandated to assist them in the betterment of their lot. Locals do work in ISAF camps in numbers, but their presence is limited to the absolute minimum. At Kandahar Airfield, I'm was told that not a single local stays overnight in the 10,000-strong camp. The separation between the two worlds extends all the way to separate toilet facilities. The fact that ISAF and ordinary Afghans live worlds apart has implications going beyond the humdrum. There are people within ISAF who recognize that such a degree of self-insulation against the Afghan reality can only work to the detriment of the Western stabilization effort. There are (muted) calls for a bolder and more open ISAF presence -- for example, in the form of foot patrols in places like Kandahar. But the bitter truth remains that as things stand, few if any ISAF nations are prepared to take such risks. The mind boggles, but fIve years into ISAF's presence in Afghanistan, a journalist in the company of an experienced local "fixer" is incomparably safer in the streets of downtown Kabul or even Kandahar than the members of an armored military patrol. One cannot but wonder how much this chasm is going to cost ISAF in the long run.
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