Thank-you James. That will be all.

Are you aching for the grave?
Hoping to make the cut.
Is there a wound you cannot stave?
Wishing you were anywhere but.

Is that a tear in the corner of your pain?
Cascading through this eternal nightmare
Lifes' blood spills, leaving an indelible stain
Covering a gap that wasn't really there

If you measure a man by the depth of his lies.
Then watch as we kneel before the final crown
This unfathomable soul thus meet its demise
Its highs just serve to bring me down

With hope lost, I'm blind to living
Funereal flowers and the stench of decay
A world full of victims no thanksgiving
The convulsions of life have made me this way

I've been getting away with it.

Windmills of my mind

It's long past midnight.  I have nothing to say.  Nothing to write.  I want to, but I can't.  The frustration is almost physical.  There's nothing there.  If there is, I can't find it.  My mind is turning furiously, feverishly searching for something to write about.  Whirring, spinning, churning.

Round.

You know how sometimes a song resonates exactly with the way you are thinking?  You listen and the lyrics express precisely the ideas, emotions or feelings you are experiencing in a way you never could.  The words capturing perfectly, unequivocably, your state of mind.

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever spinning reel

I have been struggling to think of something to write, bogged down in a swamp of failure.  I get so frustrated, because I can feel the words inside my head, struggling to escape, lurking below the surface, rising, only to get sucked back down again.  I can see them, floundering, their shape so close yet indistinct and impossible to make out. I feel there must be something to be written if only I could find the time.  Capture a moment.  But time passes. 

Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space

I get anxious, the anxiety surrendering to despondency, desolation and finally desperation.  I know it's there, lurking, hidden.  The fear of failure drives me on, drives me down into the dark places, where secrets lie hidden, waiting to be disturbed.

Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone,
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half forgotten dream,
Or the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream

The ideas sweep around inside in my head, words spinning, spiralling out of control.  Jumbled incoherent phrases. A maelstrom of fancies, theories, concepts.  Chaotic, turbulent notions, cast about carelessly, randomly, offering glimpses of a tale to be told, a story to write.  My consciousness wants to scream, but the sound is drowned out by the noise of  my unconscious.  Reasoning, regard and sanity are squashed by the anarchic disorder, too powerful to permit logic. 

Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that you said?
Lovers walk along a shore
And leave their footprints in the sand

Is the sound of distant drumming 
Just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway
And the fragment of this song
Half remembered names and faces
But to whom do they belong?

I'm trapped on this carousel.  Endlessly turning, always moving, never achieving.

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever spinning reel

As the images unwind
Like the circles
That you find
In the windmills of your mind!

I have nothing to say.  So it starts again.

Round.

Staying in lane.

It is estimated that there are 245,000 miles of road in the UK.  To put that in perspective, you could drive to the moon and still not get to the end of the road, if you'll pardon the pun.  Interestingly, if you wait long enough you might get to the end of the road, because the total distance of tarmac in the UK (not including new build) gets shorter every year. Scientifically, it gets shorter because the accuracy of our measurement gets better, but sub-consciously I can't help liking the idea that somewhere, somehow, some roads are getting shorter. The smarter among you will have noticed I prefaced my first fact with "estimated" (that's why I like you, you're smart). The total distance is estimated, because, well, we just don't know where all the roads are.  I'm not talking about missing roads, like the M7, M10 or even more carelessly missing, all the Ms from 12 to 17 inclusive. I'm sure we will find them one day.  I'm talking about the ones we know about, like the one outside my front door.  We know it's there, we just don't really know where it starts and ends, so we don't know what we are measuring.  Don't think about it too much.  It makes your head hurt.

As I lead you merrily down this garden path, and we jump inside my Honda CRV, before pulling out into the aforementioned very busy road, you would be forgiven for wondering where I am taking you.  Well, not far. I just want to show you something. It's the M27 specifically, but Motorways generally.  Motorways only account for 0.9% of UK roads, but that's still 2205 miles of M.  I feel as if I have driven most of them this school holiday.  I admit I haven't seen much of them because most of the time I have spent contorting myself from the waist up, screaming at the children to keep quiet, and if I'm not screaming at the kids, I'm screaming at everyone else.  That's because I have proven my theory that people see the Motorway as a sub-conscious but precise reflection of their character.  The lane we drive in, correlates directly to the sort of person we are.  That's why no-one drives in the inside lane.  The slow lane.  No-one wants to admit publicly to the world that they are slow.  No-one willingly admits they slavishly follow the laws of the land.  Unless they do.  That's why the inside lane is full of sensible, courteous people demonstrating decency, caution and consideration.  And old people. And trucks.

Likewise, no-one drives in the outside lane, the overtaking lane.  The fast lane.  No-one willingly admits they can't wait and don't give a damn about the law.  Unless they can't and don't.  That's why the outside lane is full of people who drive too fast and too close, avoiding rational behaviour and staking too much on the forlorn and misguided belief that they have the reaction time of a fast-jet pilot.  And pricks (admittedly and possibly, also the occasional fast-jet pilot but the two, in my experience are not mutually exclusive).

Not wanting to be one of the minority, the majority end up in the middle lane.  The people in the middle lane aren't slow or old. They don't mind breaking the law.  A bit. Every now and then they will pop into the fast lane, just to demonstrate they have that dangerous, edgy side, but ease comfortably back into their lane once they have manoeuvred past someone else in the middle lane, exuding that strange, smug, self-satisfaction that they are, still, able to pass others in life, even if it's just metaphorically. Just as, occasionally, they will drop down into the slow lane, just for a while, until frustrated with following someone else's pace, and having demonstrated the perceived, requisite respect for the law, others and the appearance of respectability, they accelerate back into the middle lane. Where they feel comfortable.

That's why the middle lane is full of people like me. And you.  Normal people with real lives.  People who can't do everything according to the rules, because if we travel at the right speeds and stay in the right lane, we just won't get anywhere.  We can't wait for everyone else, but we don't want to annoy them.  We look one way, at the inside lane, marvelling at how anyone can have the time and patience to calmly sit there, idly wending their way through life without constantly being late. We rant at their complete and utter indifference to the realities of life, the blindingly obvious lack of baggage occupying every inch of their otherwise empty car, whilst jealously wishing we had that luxury.  We look the other way, at the outside lane, at those who overtake us, surreptitiously eyeing up their bigger, faster car, the two-seater sporty one with no room for child seats, let alone luggage.  We mouth the platitude that they won't get there any faster.  But we know they will.  Because they don't care.  And why should they?  Statistically, Motorways are the safest roads to drive on.

I was on the M25 last week.  There are four lanes. I predict the breakdown of society.

The Rule of Law

Kabul, 2011.

We had another briefing today on the rule of law.  It's quite big out here. The law of armed conflict, international law, criminal law.  In a country where the judicial system is riddled with apathy and corruption and the political system is twisted by patronage and nepotism that may seem more than a little ironic.  That said, I don't think any of us with more than a passing knowledge of Afghanistan will be that surprised by the inherent contradiction.    I think the point is, that by setting an example, the Afghans can be inspired, coerced and (probably) forced to accept some sort of minimum base line.  I will watch that development with great interest...As if that's not enough of a Sisyphean task, persuading the Taliban to acknowledge any set of laws will be a bigger challenge.  Despite a self-professed prohibition on the use of women and children as combatants, we have seen a marked increase in their use.  Yesterday we had an incident where an 8 year old girl was given a parcel and told to take it to the policemen.  As she complied, the taliban then remotely detonated the explosives contained within, killing the girl but no-one else.  

This comes in swift succession to other incidents using women and children as both unwitting and witting accomplices, last week, Afghan police revealed 4 boys, all under the age of 13 who had been recruited in Pakistan for suicide bombings.  Meanwhile, a woman was one of two suicide bombers (the other being her husband) who carried out an attack on Saturday.  Stopping a suicide bomber is hard enough.  Identifying women and children as potential bombers is practically impossible.  This is an example of another law.  The law of unintended consequences.   In much the same way as the insurgents switched from open combat to IED emplacement as they suffered losses and defeats, they have again switched tactics.  As ISAF make some, limited, but genuine progress in establishing security it becomes increasingly more difficult for the insurgents to attack coalition forces, hence they switch targets to civilians, as demonstrated by the attack on the Intercontinental Hotel this morning and Logar hospital at the weekend.  As it becomes harder for groups of fighting age males to actively engage ISAF troops in conventional, mujahadeen-style, attacks, they start to use proxies such as small children, as demonstrated yesterday.  So whilst we, quite rightly, attempt to prosecute this war according to a set of laws, not everyone out here is bound by such conventions.  

As well as the statute laws, what makes matters worse, is that we appear to are governed by a whole host of other laws.  I am not talking about those ethereal made up laws - like Boyles Law, Ohms Law or Keynes Law.  I am talking about the ones that affect us on a day to day basis.  Like Sod's law, Finagles Law and Sturgeons Law.  We all know Sods Law, the big brother to Murphys Law, which states whatever can go wrong, will go wrong - and I am not just talking about dropped toast landing buttered side down.  This being Afghanistan, we have Finagles Law, whatever can go wrong, will go wrong - at the worst possible time.   It's like running out of ammo, just as you get back to base, only to find out you are in the middle of a suicide attack.  Typical.  Here in Kabul there are three laws in particular I would like to draw your attention to.  Those of Messrs Sturgeon, Parkinson and Rothbard are particularly apposite.  Sturgeon's Law states 90% of everything is crap, Parkinson's Law states that work expands to fill the available time and Rothbard's that everyone specialises in their own area of weakness.  

If ever there were a set of laws that should be applied to Afghanistan, that's them

War of the Worlds

I haven't finished talking about the reunion yet.

Do you ever feel like you don't belong?  Not simply a stranger in a foreign land, where things are different but recognisable, but an alien in another world, surrounded by new, unimaginable things.  Do you look at things that have meaning and worth to their owners, but seem ridiculously irrelevant to you, or worse, do those same objects appear bright and shiny?  Do you covet them?   Do you feel as if you did not originate from the same place as everyone around you and you are there, at best, under sufferance, at worst as an invasive species. Like Wells'  Martians - at once vital, intense, inhuman, crippled and monstrous.  That's how I felt.  For a long time.  

I'm still not sure where I do belong.  As I get older, more and more, I feel that gulf of space.  Over time it seems to widen.  Imperceptibly, but absolutely.  Moving further and further apart from a time and place where I did belong.  Watching it slowly disappear.  Spying on the lives of my childhood friends through the medium of Facebook, I empathised with those aforementioned aliens rather than with my friends.  Their minds may not have had as little meaning to me as those of the beasts that perish, but their lives fascinated me, drawing me in, and with my "intellect, vast and cool and unsympathetic I regarded their earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew my plans against them".  Like the beings in War of the Worlds, across the gulf of Space, I watched them, believing their stories of fame and fortune and glory.  Two decades ago I knew these people, laughed with them, cried with them.  I loved them and hated them. Then and now.  I knew them as children and I knew them as people. I wanted their world.  So I went.

But over the course of the evening my curiosity waned, my jealousy evaporated.  They were the same.  We were the same.  Older.  Fatter. Richer.  No wiser.  No happier.  In reality, most were miserable about some facet of their lives.  Regardless of geographical proximity, it seemed they all envied something others appeared to have.  We all had our red weed and our black smoke.  The stars we had seen as children had turned out to be way too high.  Like Wells' books, this story too has an epilogue.  When I look back on the significance of my personal invasion, I too have an "abiding sense of doubt and insecurity".  My invasion did not result in the creation of my own utopian world, where I could truly belong.  It left me empty and confused.  I also think I can feel a cold coming on...

The Nature of the Beast

Others.  They move among us,  yet we do not see them.  

They wade through this sea of swarming humanity.  Waters which, ebbing and flowing, part miraculously,  finding another course. No spoken command, simply an unconscious recognition that the merest lapping contact would pollute irrevocably.  Yet we do not see them.

Their faces, featureless, blurred and indistinct, pass unnoticed and instantly forgotten, leaving nothing but an inexplicable feeling of disquiet.   Their eyes, missing souls, seek out the dark corners of ours, recognising the darkness within, enviously watching the brief but bright fire within us, whilst they burn, long and cold leaving nothing but ash. Yet still we do not see.

They have seen the ends of days and the valley they walk through has no shadows, only death. They are dark angels and they know no fear.  Where they tread, addiction and betrayal grow, despair and chaos thrive.  Bridging the gap between their world and ours, they touch lives, leaving no marks, but initiating a slow spiral descent towards an inevitable, apocalyptic end.  Yet still we do not see them.

In isolation, they prey on the weak, feeding on misery like carrion. Offering neither salvation nor redemption, they exsanguinate life.  Recognising their destructive power they avoid contact with their own.  Attracted by the stench of addiction and betrayal, they come.  Unable to resist,  they congregate, gorging on a feast of manipulation and exploitation. 

That is the nature of the beast.  I see them.  

Are we winning yet?

Afghanistan, 2011.

Every morning, (early every morning) I go into an operations room.  I am supposed to be getting an update on everything that has happened in the seemingly fleeting moments that I have been asleep - and you would be surprised how much can happen in that very short period when I am snoring.  I like to start bright and breezy, so I usually ask "Are we winning yet?"  Now, I may mean it in an ironic, kind of sarcastic, maybe funny way and it usually gets a little laugh (we are easily pleased).  The Battle Captain (the guy or girl who is overseeing things) then usually launches into a brief designed to tell me as much as possible in as short a time as possible.  I pretend to understand everything they have told me, then I go and confidently tell a whole other bunch of other guys, most of what I have just been told (or at least my interpretation of it).  They in turn go and repeat it to other people and so it goes on.  I know its nearly time to go to bed when I go to a brief and someone tells me all the things I started telling people at the start of the day.   (Probably the subject for another email).

Anyway, back to the war (or the insurgency as it is formally known - again, probably the subject of another email.  The insurgency formerly known as the war?).  So I am asking the question.  No one actually answers though.  Who decides?  On what criteria?  Every day I report to someone on the number of dead and wounded.  Ours and theirs.  The list goes a little like this...

? x US/UK/ISAF (delete as applicable) KIA.

? x UK WIA,

? x ANSF (AFG National Security Forces) KIA or WIA

? x LN (Local nationals) K or W

? x INS (Insurgents) KIA or WIA

? x Detainees

I am not going to comment here on the priority or importance attached to each category (another email perhaps?) Lets focus a little. So how do we win? Is it just a battle of attrition, ie, we kill more of them than they kill of us.  That's simple. 

1 x US KIA vs 16 x INS KIA = ISAF win.  Yes? No? 

Where do the 15 x LN dead enter the equation?  Or the children, who, to punish their parents have had their hands and/or feet placed in boiling water? 

If we place so much concrete and so many barricades around a police headquarters that the INS attack a bank instead, killing LNs instead of ANSF have we won?

There is a programme here designed to take weapons off people.  So when we have disarmed the population have we won?  I doubt it, because we are also running a programme to arm the population.  Seriously.  I'm not making it up.

In a country where people trade suicide bombers like baseball cards, where people sell their own children to be used as suicide bombers and where police chiefs release known INS becuase they are of the same tribe can we ever win?

Does it matter whether we win or not.  Probably not, because in 2015 we are all going home.  I am pretty sure that when we go, the politicians will declare a victory.  NATO will have enabled the Afghans to be masters of their own destiny.  The politicians will claim we have trained, enabled and handed over a competent, professional police, judiciary, military.  We will have enabled good governance and the spread of the rule of law.  I am not sure it's all true.  All I know for sure is that when we do go home we will leave behind more concrete and fewer people.

Memorial Day

Afghanistan 2011.

Yesterday was Monday.  It was a Bank Holiday in the UK.  In the United states it was Memorial Day.  Memorial Day is a United States holiday observed on the last Monday of May that is the American equivalent of Remembrance Day.  On November 11th the US have Veterans Day, which is slightly different.  Memorial Day actually used to be known as Decoration Day and was first observed by freed Southern Slaves in South Carolina in 1865, to remember the fallen Union soldiers of the Civil War. The recognition of the fallen victims slowly grew to honour all Union soldiers and it was extended after World War I to honour all Americans who have died in all wars. Sadly, Memorial Day in the US now often marks the start of the summer vacation season and, what began as a ritual of remembrance and reconciliation after the Civil War, has become increasingly devoted to shopping and national sporting events. 

Here in Kabul at 0930 every morning there is a NATO briefing session.  Every Monday, at the end of the brief, we all stand to attention and a presentation is played showing pictures of all the dead Coalition soldiers.  To accompany each image someone reads out the name, rank and age of each casualty. There were a lot of casualties this week.  The Americans lost the equivalent of one soldier every day this month.  The toll doesn't end there.  This Monday, this Memorial Day, we had a two minute silence and the US also remembered soliders who died by their own hands since returning from Afghanistan. Nationally, the number of those who've committed suicide on returning from operations, nearly doubled from 80 in 2009 to 145 last year.  Almost all of them were from the Natuional Guard and Army Reserve, the equivalent of our Territorial Army.  The two minute silence yesterday was particularly poignant.  I am going to use somebody elses words here because mine are simply not adequate enough.  The words come from the First Two Minute Silence held in London on 11 November 1919 which was reported in the Manchester Guardian on 12 November 1919:

"The first stroke of eleven produced a magical effect. The tram cars glided into stillness, motors ceased to cough and fume, and stopped dead, and the mighty-limbed dray horses hunched back upon their loads and stopped also, seeming to do it of their own volition. Someone took off his hat, and with a nervous hesitancy the rest of the men bowed their heads also. Here and there an old soldier could be detected slipping unconsciously into the posture of 'attention'. An elderly woman, not far away, wiped her eyes, and the man beside her looked white and stern. Everyone stood very still ... The hush deepened. It had spread over the whole city and become so pronounced as to impress one with a sense of audibility. It was a silence which was almost pain ... And the spirit of memory brooded over it all"

Ten Dollar Taliban

Afghanistan.  Just arrived. 2011

As all military theorists know, Sun Tzu said "So it is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you can win a hundred battles without a single loss.

If you only know yourself, but not your opponent, you may win or may lose.  If you know neither yourself nor your enemy, you will always endanger yourself. "  

Without lecturing, I thought it might interest you to know a little more about the Taliban.  So here goes.  Taliban 101.  

Taliban means "student" in Arabic.  Referring of course to the Quaran.  Ish.  The Taliban's extremely strict and anti-modern ideology has been described as an "innovative form of sharia combining Pashtun tribal codes," or Pashtunwali. Hmmm.  Innovative.  That's one word for it.  Pashtunwali is a very honourable amd worthy code (I have included the basic tenets at the bottom of this email).  If we all lived by this code (ish), the world would indeed be a better place.  The problem is, it has been corrupted and misinterpreted. Also contributing to the mix is the jihadism and pan-Islamism of Osama bin Laden (never a good thing).  Under the Taliban regime, Sharia law was interpreted to forbid a wide variety of previously lawful activities in Afghanistan. One Taliban list of prohibitions included: pork, pig, pig oil, anything made from human hair, satellite dishes, cinematography, and equipment "that produces the joy of music", pool tables, chess, masks, alcohol, tapes, computers, VCRs, television, anything that propagates sex and is full of music, wine, lobster, nail polish, firecrackers, statues, sewing catalogs, pictures and Christmas cards.  They also got rid of employment, education, and sports for all women.  They banned dancing, clapping during sports events, kite flying, and characterizations of living things, no matter if they were drawings, paintings, photographs, stuffed animals, or dolls. Men had to have a fist size beard at the bottom of their chin, conversely, they had to wear their head hair short - and the police checked.  Public executions, whippings and beatings were commonplace.  Nice bunch.

The Taliban are the baddies.  Not all the baddies.  There are others, but they sort of fall under that headline Taliban.  Broadly speaking we (military) categorise them into three types.

On the extreme right we have the ideological group.  Their goal is an Islamic fundamentalist state governed by strict interpretations of Sharia law.  These are what we call the irreconcilables.  It is unlikely that this group of Taliban will ever allow freedom of religion, expression, women or speech.  Let alone anything else.  Led by Mullah Mohammed Omar (who is believed to be in Pakistan), funded by the drug trade, Pakistan and Saudi Arabia (to name a few) and supported by Iran and Pakistan.  These are bad guys.  Really bad guys. The primary mission of the task forces I work with is to kill or capture these people.  They are targetted, tracked, monitored and eliminated.  Seriously.  Using guided missiles, snipers, night raids and high risk arrests we aim to remove these people from the battlespace.  And we do.  Very successfully.  Daily.

At the other end we have the so called "ten dollar Taliban" or even the "two dollar taliban".  These are farmers, migrants, unemployed or bored individuals who pick up an AK47 and have a go.  They fight because the poppy harvest is over, because they need to provide food for their family, because the local Taliban leader coerces and threatens them or just because they like to fight. (It's like that over here!).  The NATO solution here is to invest.  Heavily.  We are (mostly the US) spending billions, and I mean billions.  Organisations here provide advice to farmers to improve crop yields, we provide crops as an alternative to poppies including pomegranites, date/fig trees and others.  We build roads and schools and hospitals, we build power plants, hydroelectric dams, bridges and infrastructure.  Cash for work programmes offer alternative employment for useful work such as road building, ditch digging and irrigation projects.  The Taliban leadership however respond by cutting off the noses and ears of workers who participate in these programmes, blowing up the infrastructure, targeting schools and schoolchildren and attacking construction sites.  Our conventional soldiers therefore respond by patrolling, protecting and reassuring.  By putting themselves in danger every day, they show the population that they can have a safe environment in which to live and work.  By providing security we can allow these individuals an alternative to fighting and thus remove them from the battlespace.  By training huge numbers of police and Afghan army we hope they can provide themselves with long term stability and security without the need for us to stay here.

In the middle we have the rest.  The solution here is simple.  We tip them one way or the other.  They either participate in society in some way - and we have formal reintegration processes to allow fighters to return to society - or we kill them/drive them away.  We aim to polarise everybody and once they have made their intention clear we deal with them in an appropriate manner.

It sounds pretty simple, and it actually is.  It also sounds pretty brutal, and again, it probably is.  It might even work.  There are problems though.  We can't operate in Iran and we can't operate (much) in Pakistan.  So the insurgents, especially the senior insurgents, just hop over the border, where they sit, issuing orders and proclamations..  Hmmm.  What to do about that?  The Madrassahs in Pakistan turn out hundreds of indoctrinated suicide bombers every year.  Young men who have been brainwashed and drugged enough to believe that it is glorious to blow yourself up in crowded streets or school playgrounds.  The Taliban also hate foreigners.  Outsiders in their country.  Us. They try and kill us as frequently and as spectacularly as possible.  They love what we call complex attacks - A few days ago one of our bases was attacked.  A suicide bomber drove a vehicle to the gate and exploded himself.  At the same time the guard towers were attacked with rocket propelled grenades and small arms fire.  As the police and soldiers at the gate were dealing with the incident, and the guard towers were occupied, four men wearing suicide vests ran through the entrance to try and enter the compound and kill as many coalition forces as they could.  Simultaneously an Aghan police ambulance arrived at the gate.  In the confusion, the guards were about to let the ambulance in when that too exploded as the four suicide bombers in the back had detonated prematurely. 

These are problems that can't be solved with money and these are problems that are made worse by killing, as that just produces more fuel for the militant propaganda machine to recruit more bombers, and more support from fringe states for their "oppressed brethren".  If anyone knows what we can do about that I would be glad to hear it...

Pashtunwali.

Melmastia (hospitality) - Showing hospitality and profound respect to all visitors, regardless of distinctions of race, religion, national affiliation as well as economic status and doing so without any hope of remuneration or favour. Pashtuns are considered to be the most hospitable people in the world. A Pashtun may go to great lengths to show his hospitality.

Nanawatai (asylum) - Derived from the verb meaning to go in, this is used for protection given to a person who requests protection against his/her enemies. The people are protected at all costs, in many cases even people running from the law must be given refuge until the situation is clarified. It can also be used when the vanquished party is prepared to go in to the house of the victors and ask for their forgiveness. (Its a peculiar form of chivalrous surrender, in which an enemy seeks "sanctuary" at his enemy's house).

Badal (justice) - To seek justice or take revenge against the wrongdoer. This applies to injustices committed yesterday or 1000 years ago if the wrongdoer still exists. Justice in Pashtun lore needs elaborating: even a mere taunt (or "Paighor") is regarded as an insult - often, shedding the taunter's blood is the only acceptable redress (and if he isn't available, then his next closest male relation). This in turn may lead to a blood feud that can last generations and involve whole tribes with the loss of hundreds of lives. Probably not

Tureh (bravery) - A Pashtun must defend his land/property, family and women from incursions wherever he or she might reside. A Pashtun should always stand brave against tyranny and he should always be able to defend his property, family, women and the honour of his name; killing the offending party is an acceptable recourse for an attack on any of these.

Sabat (loyalty) - Loyalty must be paid to one's family, friends, and tribe members. Disloyalty is extremely shameful in Pashtun culture, and a Pashtun's family, friends, and tribe members are also shamed if one is disloyal.

Imandari (righteousness) - A Pashtun must always strive towards thinking good thoughts, speaking good words and doing other good deeds. Pashtuns must behave respectfully towards all creations including people, animals and the environment around them. Pollution of the environment or its destruction is against the Pashtunwali.[

Isteqamat - Trust in  Allah.  The notion of trusting in the one Creator generally comports to the belief in only one God (tawheed).

Ghayrat (self honour or dignity) - Pashtuns must maintain their human dignity. Honour has great importance in Pashtun society and most other codes of life are aimed towards the preservation of one's honour or pride. They must respect themselves and others in order to be able to do so, especially those they do not know. Respect begins at home, among family members and relatives.

Namus (Honor of women) - A Pashtun must defend the honor of Pashtun women at all costs and must protect them from verbal and physical harm.

The Lottery of life.

All life is a lottery.

In my wallet I have four tickets for the EuroLottery.  You know, the one which would make 100 lucky winners millionaires.  I have them in my wallet because I haven't checked them yet.  I haven't checked them yet, because I know I haven't won. It's not just me though.  When questioned, most people who buy a lottery ticket never expect to win anything.  In scientific terms, normal decision models, based on the premise that most people want to maximise value, mean buying a lottery ticket is irrational.  This is backed up in all sorts of ways.  In the UK, the probability of dying between Monday and Friday is actually greater than the probability of winning the lottery.  Actuaries state that you should buy your ticket on a Friday evening, or, even better, a Saturday morning, so as not to waste a pound in case you die.  I feel this misses the point somewhat.  In an homage to that old saying, "it's not the winning, it's the taking part".  By buying a ticket, there is a thrill, a frisson of excitement, anticipation at the thought of what might be.

If....

The purchase of the ticket allows me to indulge my fantasy of wealth beyond reasonable expectation.  Beyond measure even.  I am paying for pleasure, buying a dream.  The gain, in entertainment value, of the ticket more than outweighs the pecuniary loss, and, therefore the rational, logical imperative to not buy a ticket.  I like the idea that I may have won, more than I like the reality of knowing I haven't.  In many ways, it is much better value to never check the ticket, and maintain the secret pleasure of knowing I might yet be a winner.  In this way, I need never buy another ticket again - so I really will be making myself richer.  Indeed, by checking, and discovering I am a millionaire, I may be doing myself harm. Many big lottery winners confess to being afflicted by anomie, a dislocation from friends, family and life, resulting in alienation, purposelessness and in some cases, suicide.  So, if Camelot announce the fact that there are still unclaimed millions, I may leave it a little while, to savour the possibility. Actually, I know there is a six month limit on claims, but this is months away, so for now, I will keep my ticket, unchecked, in my wallet for a little while longer. But I will check it.  Eventually.  Who knows?  I might be a winner.

Wishful thinking

Kabul 2011.

July.  Already.  That was quick. I suppose it depends on your perspective as to whether it has come around quickly or not.  Ask my wife and she will say it has taken an eternity.  Ask my children and they will probably have no concept of how long I have been away. Ask me, and it depends on the time of day, week, activity levels or whether lunch was good or not.  July is significant for many things, mainly for the fact that I can now say that "next month I go home", but out here, apparently, it's not all about me, July is also the month that "transition" starts.  Actually, transition is due to start during the Afghan solar month of Saratan, which ends on 22 July, but let's not split hairs.  Transition is the process of handing over control from coalition to Afghan security forces and officials.  Under this process, the Afghan military forces and civilian officials will take ever increasing responsibility for their own affairs and, more importantly, their own security.  It is due to start simultaneously in seven areas of Afghanistan.  Currently the areas scheduled for transition include Mazar-i-Saharif, (scene of the bloody and vicious murder of the seven United Nation employees in April), Herat (scene of multiple suicide and armed attacks) and Lashkar Gar (volatile hotbed of insurgency in Helmand Province).  Good luck.

10 000 US troops are due to leave Afghanistan by the end of 2011, with 33 000 more to follow next summer.  Canadian combat troops completed their last operation on 30 June, before pulling out. David Cameron has announced we will start our drawdown "in line with the US".  This is from a total of 150 000 coalition troops that have been battling with the Taliband-led insurgency for over 10 years, all of whom are due to completely drawdown by 2014.  We must be winning?  Really. The attack on the Intercontinental Hotel this week has shown just how fragile the security situation is here, striking at one of the most heavily guarded sites in the heart of the capital.  Afghan security police and troops were involved in a five-hour gun battle with Taliban militants that only ended with intervention from a US helicopter gunship and coalition special forces, neither of which are available to the Afghan government once we leave.  A UN report stated yesterday that insurgent attacks were up 51% countrywide in the past three months when compared to 2010.  A US backed campaign to prosecute corruption has silently died a death in the face of opposition from President Karzai and a campaign of assassination of officials and infiltration of security forces has gutted the governments ability to act.  The investment of national treasure in Afghanistan has been immense. Billions of dollars have been spent here, and thousands of US, UK and coalition lives lost.  The clumsy efforts to reach out to the Taliban for talks and a half-baked peace deal, after years of refusal to do so, the indecent speed at which we appear to be running for the exit and the fragility of the general situation here do not bode well and bring into question the value of that investnment.  Even if, Inshallah, the security forces hold, then the poverty, corruption and lack of governance, coupled with a dramatic drop in foreign funding which will inevitably accompany any western withdrawal, will surely precipitate a collapse.  As if that weren't enough internally, regionally, China, Pakistan and Iran are lining up as new players in another round of the "Great Game", the Victorian power struggle that lies at the heart of many of the problems in the area.

The common perception is that the Taliban will be back, in strength, as soon as the foreigners leave.  In fact they are back already in many areas, with a network of shadow governors and corrupt government officals waiting to see which side to back.  Interestingly, and perhaps ironically "Captive Nations Week" is at the same time as the start of transition - the third week of July.  This is observed in the US and aims to raise public awareness of the oppression of nations under the control of Communist and other non-democratic governments. I am starting to wonder just how free and unoppressed the Afghan people will be when we all leave.  I wonder if, in 2015, we and the Americans will be able to look towards Afghanistan with pride having liberated it from its non-democratic taliban government?  I would like to think, that like my immediate future, the Afghan people, have something to look forward to.  I suspect that's just wishful thinking.

I guess that's why they call it the blues.

Kabul.  Second day back after R and R.

Last night, for the first time since I got to Afghanistan over 3 months ago, I was scared.  Proper scared.  It was scary when I arrived initially, but I wasn't scared.  Not like this. I have arrived back in Afghanistan after 2 weeks back in the UK on my mid-tour R and R.  I am now firmly ensconced in a very dingy, cramped, cold, noisy and, to my mind, very exposed, tent on the edge of the airfield at Kabul International Airport.  To prove my fears were founded, just as I got into bed - which was the top bunk of what I still feel is a very high bunk bed - we were rocketed.  Three times.  As I lay on the dusty floor, shivering in my boxer shorts I thought  "I'm scared".  Not scared of dying, although that, of course, would be bad and would probably lead to trouble...  More scared of dying in a stupid way, or in an undignified state of dress, or without being to fight back.  As time passed and I became more cold and less certain of my own miserable demise I started to think.  To be honest there's not much else you can do.  Unfortunately, lying on a sandy floor in your pants whilst being rocketed is not exactly conducive to positive thought. I thought - I miss my wife, I miss my children, I miss my parents.  I miss my bed and I miss my friends.  I miss cars, I miss cheese and onion crisps and I miss going to bed and not worrying about getting killed in the night.  I even miss N and her funny grumpiness. (Probably in that order) I am certain that my fears and subsequent thoughts were all down to the fact that I had just had two weeks R and R back in sunny old Blighty. Those days, seeing friends, kissing my wife and holding my children, made me realise what I had to lose. I kind of knew it on Day 1, but it's easy to push it away before you arrive, then when you arrive you don't have time to think.  Having subsequently spoken to a number of people, they have all experienced, to a greater or lesser extent, the same feelings following their R and R.  Strangely, they all relate it to Baby Blues.  A depression following an event of joy.  There is probably some deep seated psychological psychosis there, but let’s leave that for another time.

Anyway, having taken 3 days to get round to finishing this email, I can tell you the feeling has almost (almost) entirely dissipated.  Routine and reality have kicked in and not even the suicide bombing at the hospital the next day has produced feelings in anywhere near the intensity of that night.  The corny bit is, as I was lying there (won't mention the pants again), with the explosions of the rockets sounding like a storm I couldn't get a song out of my mind. (Still humming it in my head now)

Time on my hands could be time spent with you
Laughing like children, living like lovers
Rolling like thunder under the covers
And I guess that's why they call it the blues 

Everything changes.

It has been exactly one year since I returned from Afghanistan.

Just writing that down seems incredible to me.  The plane carrying me back to the UK touched down in Oxfordshire 365 days ago.  UK to Afghanistan and back with just 180 days travel time in between. A lifetime of experience separating the two. It was only a year ago but it seems so much longer.  At the same time it also feels like only yesterday.  Superficially, everything seems fresh in my mind, I think I can still remember things clearly, but when I concentrate and focus they start to blur, details are lost, names forgotten, places evaporating, shimmering like heat haze above the sand they stood on.  In my mind I can still remember blinking in the sun that first day in country. If I shut my eyes I can still see the barren desert, the high hills, the uniforms, the people, the weaponry, the constant never-ending movement of men and machinery, all with one deadly purpose.  At night, in the silence, I imagine I can still hear the endless, relentless barrage of noise.  The aircraft engines turning, the generators throbbing and the constant, incessant heat, the heat that seared your throat every time you took a breath. I vividly remember all of this but can't explain any of it to anyone.  Those I love weren't there, and it means nothing to them.  Those that were there, aren't here now.  I miss it.  I miss what it meant.  I miss the focus it brought, the clarity of purpose, the singularity of being.  I'm not saying I want to go back, because I don't.  I want it to mean something though, and it doesn't.

When I got back it was as if nothing had changed.  Mostly because it hadn't.  Nothing has changed.  But it has.  As I was waiting for my flight home from Camp Bastion, we watched coverage of the riots in the UK. London was burning and, as a Nation, we appeared powerless to prevent it.  Mobs were roaming the streets, robbing, looting, destroying.  From Afghanistan, we looked on in wonder and disgust and shame.  Would we merely swap the dusty roads of Helmand for the dirty streets of Hull?  A friend of mine who works in Birmingham described how she would get off at New Street station dressed in a business suit, accompanied off the train by youths in hoodies with baseball bats.  All off to the city for very different days.  The juxtaposition of this ordinary life carrying on as normal set against the anarchic chaos of the riots resonates with me.  Last year I was carrying a weapon 24 hours a day, seeing death manifest itself in so many ways, attempting to repair the fabric of a foreign society, whilst 3000 miles away my countrymen were tearing the fabric of their own apart.  Now I am shopping in Sainsburys.  One year on, I am watching one of the most spectacular Olympiads ever, in a city and a country where we, superficially at least, are united behind an ideal and I am missing a country riven by them.

Everything changes.

The Young British Soldier

There are many ways to die in Afghanistan.  Road-side bombs, rocket attacks and ambushes are all every-day risks, acknowledged and accepted by everyone in uniform out here.  The spectre of capture is one which even the most battle hardened soldier prefers to ignore.  We may have the most sophisticated weaponry, surveillance and communication equipment available but it is all of little use if we are unlucky enough to fall into enemy hands.   For all our technological advancement the enemy hasn't changed much since we were here last in the 19th century.  When Rudyard Kipling visited the North-West Frontier the bodies of captured British soldiers were routinely subjected to horrifying mutilations by the Afghans.  Back then, soldiers believed it was far better to take your own life than fall victim to the Afghans.  

This week I observed the "Personnel Recovery Operation" for 20 year old Highlander Scott MacLaren of D Company 4 Scots.  What started out as a massive Search and Rescue Mission tragically became a recovery mission. Witnesses have claimed that Highlander MacLarens body was paraded around like a trophy by his Taliban captors and  David Ridley, the Wiltshire and Swindon Coroner, recorded that Highlander McLaren had been ‘assaulted, tortured and ultimately executed’ by insurgents. No one will ever really know why he left the relative safety of his camp and comrades.  In the same way, I know we will never know what actually happened to Highlander MacLaren.  Whatever the truth, I can't help but hope that, if I am ever in the same situation I can follow the advice of Rudyard Kipling, writing in 1895, in a prophetic and apposite poem entitled "The Young British Soldier" - the last verse of which reads:

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier ~of~ the Queen!

Touchy Feely

Afghanistan 2011

For a little while I have wanted to write an email on the subject of touching.  Bear with me.  I know it sounds a bit odd.  I have tried a few times, but it just keeps getting confused with lots of other things. A couple of things have happened that have, for one reason or another, delayed this email, but more recent events have made it seem more important that I write it.

When I arrived here I quickly noticed the Americans are very touchy.  I mean they touch each other.  Handshaking, patting shoulders and backs, high fives etc.  It seems that they initiate some sort of bodily contact at any and every opportunity.  Admittedly they are not as touchy as the Afghans, who touch each other all the time.  It's very odd (and quite normal) to see two male soldiers or policemen walking around holding hands.  (I can't quite imagine S, D and K all walking round holding hands - but hey, times change fellas...).  Anyway, people all seem to be touching each other a lot more than I am used to.  

It's very strange being surrounded by people but not having any contact with them.  You could, probably, come out here and not touch anyone for the duration of your tour.  How strange is that?  Too strange obviously.  That's why people manufacture contact.  Sometimes good, sometimes bad.  Thousands of testosterone filled males, a few females and enforced, extended physical isolation.  Never a good recipe. Horrifically, there was a gang rape out here last week, and reports of sexual assault are common. This is obviously the dark side of things but I can see where it comes from, even if I don't understand how it ends up resulting in that.  I don't want to focus on that line, I am on about the good stuff.  I miss it.  I am trying to explain how it feels to not have any cuddles, I miss playing with the children.  I miss holding hands.  I miss waking up in the night and there being someone there.  I am not going to get all mushy on you, just trying to explain.  OK.  Got that?  Right. Well keep it in the back of your mind and read on.

Yesterday another British soldier died.  Their death takes the UK service personnel death toll to 364.  Almost 365.  One a day for a year.  That's a lot.  I know some people would say one is a lot but it's not.  364 is a lot.  This soldier died in hospital in the UK having been flown home from here.  As soon as they died it was news.  What wasn't reported was that by the time they flew home, they were already a quadruple amputee.  This was not reported in the media.  Because they weren't dead, it wasn't newsworthy enough.  Personally I think losing all four limbs is newsworthy, but I don't sell papers.  Almost every day we have amputees.  I don't think anyone realises the scale of the injuries inflicted every day.  I didn't.  When the soldier died they became news.  I am not sure what that says about us, the media or the world.  Maybe something for a future email?

Just as an aside, when you have finished reading this email, go to the link below.  This page lists every service man or woman killed in Afghanistan since the invasion in 2001.  If you have time, just look through it.  If not, start at the top of the page and put your mouse on the down arrow on the scroll bar at the side. See how long it takes to reach the bottom...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-10629358

Anyway, here's another link.  When I heard about the soldiers injuries I wondered what sort of life they would have.  I couldn't imagine being completely dependent on other people for the rest of my life.  Maybe they would have gone on to do amazing things, maybe they would have been an incredible example of positivity in the face of adversity.  Personally, I can't imagine never giving anyone a cuddle again, not holding my children, never being able to stroke someones face.  I can't comprehend the thought of not being able to hold the ones I love one more time.  Maybe that's why people here seem to crave human contact more. 

Maybe I just need a hug.

Marking Time

Sometime in 2011.  Kabul.

My watch strap broke a few days ago.  "Bugger" was my first reaction.  Everything out here is "time critical" or "time dependent".  How was I going to survive without a trusty timepiece on my wrist?  I would be constantly late, missing appointments, forgetting briefs.  People would die for Gods sake.  Well, maybe not.  Having now not worn a watch for a few days, actually it's not that bad. In fact, it hasn't really mattered at all.  I am sat at my desk right now and I have three computer screens in front of me.  Two say 1.05 pm - they are my NATO screens.  I also have a UK machine that says 0837 because it's operating in ZULU time.  Then, on the wall in front of me there are 7 massive monitors showing me what's going on.  Above them is a large red display showing the times in

WASH DC - 0435
LONDON - 0935
ZULU - 0835 - (there's a discrepancy there with my UK computer - I wonder if it matters?)
BRUSSELS - 1035
KABUL - 1305
SYDNEY - 1835

I also have a mobile phone which has the local time on its display.  I don't think I will forget the time.  You can't get away from it.  It's posted everywhere.  It started me thinking - and you know what I am like when I start thinking.  My tour started on (date) and is due to finish on (date).  That's 186 days, 4464 hours, 267 840 minutes, or if you prefer, sixteen million, seventy thousand and four hundred seconds. Trust me, sometimes it feels like the last.  Today is (date).  I have completed 114 (at the end of today) of those days.  Not that I am counting of course.  I'm not.  Really.  Lots of people have "chuff-charts".  Elaborate excel spreadsheets or simple bits of paper on which they mark off the time they have spent in theatre and the time left till they go home.  Most have only two key milestones - R and R and End of Tour.   People are just counting the days till they can go home.  Marking time till someone tells them the job is done and they can leave.  For the civilians amongst you, in the military, "marking time " is when you march on the spot.  Lots of activity but no forward movement.  If that's not a metaphor for what we are doing here, I don't know what is. I am sure there are some very good people, doing some very worthy jobs and making some real progress here.  I genuinely believe that we have made the lives of some Afghans safer and more secure.  I just don't know how long all that will last when we pull out in 2014.  What will happen when the Afghan government doesn't have a hundred thousand coalition troops, with advanced weaponry, high tech surveillance equipment and modern aircraft?  What will become of the enormous military infrastructure that we have developed all over this country?  Only time will tell and apparently the Taleban have a saying regarding the coalition.  "You may have all the watches, but we have the time".

The King is dead. Long live the King.

Afghanistan, 2011

Well, that's that then.  P4 is no more.  Welcome A4.  Not the paper.  General John Allen has taken over command from Gen David Petraeus and now commands the NATO led International Security Assistance Force as well as the US Operation Enduring Freedom.  Actually, not the best week to take over.  The change in command comes as, under the transition plans, we start passing control of some areas to its Afghan counterparts.  On Sunday, ISAF handed control of Bamiyan Province back to the Afghans - It was the first of seven areas to be passed to Afghan security forces under the plan announced by President Karzai in March.  That day, I was involved in the operation that dealt with the aftermath of the attack on the compound of President Karzais' senior adviser, Jan Mohammed Khan, which ended in his death, along with that of another senior parliamentarian.  The same night Afghan and NATO troops fought an overnight gun battle  during which we called in almost constant air strikes on a series of Taliban-held compound strongholds. To top the evening off, I attended a ramp cermony for 7 French soldiers killed over the weekend, where we watched their bodies being loaded onto the flight back to their homeland.  Yesterday, Canada's most senior officer in Afghanistan, Brig Gen Dean Milner, flew out of Kandahar with the last of Canada's combat troops there. That day, the Police Chief was killed in a bomb blast and a spokesman for the governor of Helmand said seven members of the Afghan National Police Force were killed by gunmen at a checkpoint in Lashkar Gah.  Central Lashkar Gah is due to be handed over by British forces to Afghan control tomorrow.  The same day, the Taliban released a video showing the execution of 16 Pakistani policemen captured in a raid, the British lost a soldier, killed by a member of the Afghan National Army, ISAF lost 15 killed or wounded and a number of children were killed when their bus hit a mine.

It's only Tuesday morning.  I don't know how A4 is feeling, but I'm tired already.  It would appear that insurgents have stepped up attacks on troops and senior Afghan officials, whilst maintaining their indiscriminate targetting of innocent civilians.  He must be wondering what he has let himself in for.  Typical of many American military commanders and units, General Allen has a catchphrase, which he uses to sign off on all his meetings, conferences and briefings. It's a trait I have mentioned before among the Americans.  General Allen concludes everything with the words 'Speed and velocity".   He did it today at his first morning update which we monitor by video conference. The Australians in our ops room, with their typical enthusiasm and eagerness to banter/belittle/barrack, immediately yelled they are the same.  In my very polite, very British and, perhaps, very condescending way (they are Australian!) I pointed out that they weren't.  Speed refers to how fast an object is moving.  Velocity is speed with a direction.  You can take one pace forward and one back repeatedly and have speed but no velocity as you aren't going anywhere.  The newly crowned King is getting at least part of his wish.  There is a lot of speed.  Everything is being done at a frenetic pace.  Operations, partnering, mentoring, transition and withdrawal.  At least I think it's speed.  It could be haste, but that's another matter and depends on where you are standing.  It's the velocity I think is the real issue.  Everything seems to me to be heading in different directions.  To train, equip, develop, prepare and then leave the Afghans is the stated direction.  To do it all in the next 2 years is the stated timeline.  2 days into his reign, losses continue, enemy activity intensifies, withdrawals occur and security is threatened.  The crown must weigh heavy.

Bright copper kettles.

July 2012.  Not an Afghanistan one.  Well.  Not much.

I'm 40. I still feel "sixteen, going on seventeen" but the reality is, somewhat, different.  I have crested my mountain, and rather like Maria, am now careering downhill towards the churchyard with unseemly haste. (I'm reluctant to do too much spinning as it tends to leave me dizzy and confused - To be honest, an all too common state of affairs these days).  I may be exaggerating a little here, for dramatic effect of course, but the simple fact is, and I will say it again, I'm 40. I knew it was inevitable.  I knew it was coming, yet, I must confess, it did take me a little by surprise, like the dirty Nazis, sneaking up and "Anschluss"-ing me when I wasn't looking. Perhaps that's the reason for all the introspection and broodiness that some people have commented characterise my recent musings.  Or, perhaps now I'm 40 I just accept that life isn't all raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.  The reality is a lot more dog barks and bee stings. 

As I hit forty, I think it is inevitable that I look back and take some sort of stock.  I feel I have experienced things that make me look at life with a more pragmatic perspective.  Things I thought mattered don't.  Things that seemed insignificant aren't.  I haven't changed, but I'm different.  For the first time in my life I am feeling liberated enough to talk openly about what I feel, without consequently feeling foolish.  For the first time in my life I am confident enough to want to be different, to stand out, to not accept what is and to want more.  I'm not sure what that means, and I'm not sure how I achieve it.  What I am sure of however, is that old Maria had it right you know.  You can't have one without the other.  It's a great big Yin and Yang thing.  What seem like polar opposites, separated by a world of experience are in fact different sides of the same coin, interdependent and interconnected. You can't have the light without the dark, and there is a little bit of each in the other.

I was lying on my bed the other day with my five year old son next to me.  He was reading to me.  He has been at school for less than a year and he can now read.  Such a small, simple thing, but I had a sudden, indescribable feeling of overwhelming love for him I had to physically choke back the tears. This boy, who was born so small I was scared to hold him for fear of hurting him.  My son.  So innocent, so inquisitive, so simple and unaffected.  I missed him so much when I was in Afghanistan, the pain was actually physical.  He literally lights up my life and I would gladly give it for him.  Conversely, I would tear apart with my bare hands anyone who hurt him.  I have seen the suffering of children, in Africa and in Afghanistan.  I have seen first hand the misery of AIDS and war.  I have seen the darkness and I am thankful for the light.

You can forget your cream coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels,  your doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles.  These are the sugar-coated lies people seem to want to eat and I view brown paper packages tied up with string with suspicion.  Maria was simply attempting to cauterize.  To block out the temporary bad with memories of the good,  by remembering her favourite things. I too have trembled before the thunder.  I have heard the dogs barking and felt the bees stinging, but it is the memories of these that make my favourite things so much more real and valuable, so much more vibrant and tangible.

I am 40.  I am sure I have not yet climbed every mountain and I am equally sure that I will have my fair share of bad times to come, but I too have my favourite things.  So, for now, So long. Farewell.  Auf wiedersehen.  Adieu.

The sound of silence

2011.  Afghanistan

I think I am suffering from writers block, a mental abberation. I haven't been able to think of a topic to write about for well over a week. Either my life is devoid of anything meaningful to say, or my mind has given up completely on any analytical thought and is slowly simmering away in its own juices.  Simply atrophying away.  It 's probably both.  People here talk of getting into a routine.  I think I am now in it.  It's actually not very nice.  I get up - very early in the morning, go to work, finish at lunchtime, go to sleep, get up in the evening, go to work, finish in the early morning, go to sleep, get up at lunchtime, go to work, finish in the early evening, go to sleep.  Rinse and repeat as necessary.  And so it goes on.  Day after day after day, with another 9 weeks stretching out into the far horizon with the end, like the Hindu Kush mountains that surround me.  In sight, always visible, always there, but unreachable.  Ever present, but unchanging.  Life has slowly, imperceptibly, slipped into a constant stream of seemingly irrelevant nothingness.  Operations continue, reports are produced, briefs are given, decisions made,  patrols conducted, and then the same thing happens again.  No-one here seems to have noticed. I'm not sure if I should tell them or not. I wonder if it's important?

Have you ever felt like you needed to say something and then, when you open your mouth/book/email, suddenly realised that you have nothing to say/write/type?  That's how I feel. It's very frustrating.  Here I am, embroiled in a geo-political struggle playing itself out on the world stage, every day seeing events that are being talked about at the very highest level of governments and I have nothing to say.   Maybe that says something in itself.  But then, maybe it's because I am seeing them and the politicians aren't.  Yesterday I spent most of the day working up plans and Mission Briefs to kill some people with a missile strike.  I got it all briefed, approved and organised and then went and watched it on a live video feed.  For tea we had pizza.  I want to write about it, but don't know what to say.

I am also having trouble sleeping.

Deja Vu

2011  Afghanistan.

Its 0500 and I am sat at a desk.  I am pretty sure my eyes are bloodshot and I am definitely finding it hard to focus.  I am also having a strange sene of deja vu.  At least I thought I was.  Apparently I'm not.  Deja vu (already-seen) is, actually, the phrase used to describe an overwhelming sense of familiarity with something that shouldn't be familiar at all.  That's not it at all.  Unfortunately I am all too familiar with this situation.  It happens every other day.  It's definitely not jamais-vu (never-seen), which is the psychological sensation of never having done something that is very familiar.  I would probably welcome that.  I was hoping it was presque-vu (almost-seen) which is the sensation of being on the brink of an epiphany. Reportedly, this is often very disorienting and distracting, rarely leading to an actual breakthrough.  I am definitely disoriented, completely distracted and writing this blog instead of preparing a brief for my boss to deliver to the General is definitely not going to lead to an epiphany.  Perhaps a court martial.  

What's the point I hear you ask?  If I don't hear you ask, I will definitely ask it myself.  What's the point? I just seem to be repeating the same actions on a daily basis.  The whole ISAF headquarters operation here seems to churn out the same presentations, the same briefs, day after day with an increasing monotony.  The first five hours of my day on this shift consist mainly of cutting and pasting todays numbers and operations into yesterdays format.  Please don't get me wrong.  I don't disagree with the mission that we have here.  I don't believe the aim is worthless.  In fact I believe if we actually want this to work we will have to increase our commitment with more resources, more money, more people.  I don't think we will, but that's what is needed to complete the job. I also don't doubt that my role, in its own little way, is important.  Not as important as many others I admit, but nonetheless important.

By the same standard no one should doubt the bravery of our soldiers, who carry out their patrols in the searing heat, in constant danger with little to look forward to except more of the same the next day, the next week, the next month.  No one can deny the tactical success this achieves at a local level, despite the cost in blood, sweat and tears.  I do question whether this sacrifice will be enough to secure within three years the wider strategic goal of stabilising Afghanistan to the point where the Afghan authorities can govern the country without outside intervention.  We tried it in the nineteenth century, the Soviets tried it in the 1980s and now in the 21st century we are back, along with the rest of the Coalition trying it again.  Just over a year ago, the then Foreign Secretary, David Miliband, asked a couple of Afghan ministers how long Afghan government authorities would stay on in Helmand after Western forces left. The expected answer was "decades" or even "forever". The actual answer was "Twenty-four hours".

I think I am having a strange sense of deja vu.

What will you do when you get home?

2011.  Afghanistan

We were having that conversation last night.  You know, the "What are you going to do when you get home?"-one.  The one where the guy with the fewest days left gets shot shortly after, probably just before he boards the helicopter that takes him out of the combat zone.  The one where the fresh-fashed, eager,young idealist embarrasses himself with talk about the glory of war and how he is going to marry his school sweetheart, before dying horribly in some vain and pathetic way, probably on a doomed-from-the-start patrol, codenamed "Operation 50-50", or "Mission Certain Death". I tend to avoid any missions with dubious operation names (mostly the American ones - they actually had an operation called (in Pashtun) "Operation Get-some"  Hmmm.  Steer clear of that one.)  Anyway, luckily, I wasn't the youngest, I am already married and I still have quite a while left on my tour.  I think I will be ok.  Not sure about Dave though...Probably stop talking to him.  Anyway, we were having that conversation again.  I say again, because we have it a lot.  Even though, if we paid attention the first time, we would know how long Stefan has left and what job John is going to do on his return.  We have the conversation again though because when we had it last time we didn't really listen to what anyone else said.  Mostly because we don't really care.  We don't care that Bruce likes Harleys, American Colins mother was Scottish, or that Parkys wife is a bit of a nag.  We have the conversation, listen, sometimes politely, to other peoples answers and bide our time until it's our turn to speak.  We then regale everyone with our pipedreams, plans, half-baked ideas and sometimes even an honest answer or two.  I am sure they listen to me.

Anyway, the point is, that, to a man, everyone here wants to do something when they return to whatever country they call home.  It may be build a summerhouse by the lake in Sweden, drive across Europe on a motorbike, restore a car or learn to play the guitar.  It doesn't really matter what it is, but everyone has something.  I think it's because we realise a few things.  Firstly, we realise that a day is an awful long time and secondly, we waste an indescribable amount of that very valuable time.  If we worked the hours we work here on the things we love, we could accomplish great things.  If we invested the time we spend here with our children, wives and families, we would be happier.  If we just got off our bums, stopped wasting that precious time, and actually did stuff, life would be better.  I am convinced it's true.  I am so convinced it's true that I have great plans for when I get home.  I am going to get an extension, I am going to buy the Land Rover Defender I have always really wanted and I am going make the effort to go to the hills walking more.  I am going to take the family camping more (whether they like it or not),  I am going to go places and I am going to do things. I am going to enjoy what I have, make the best of it and live life the way it's meant to be lived.

Dave's off to the Tangy valley tomorrow.  Hope he'll be ok.

Shades of Grey

Afghanistan, 2011

Afghanistan has claimed another victim.  Lower flags, remove headdress and brace up.  Another casualty of war.  My hair.  It has finally happened.  I have, over the last month, developed some greying at the temples.  I was hoping to make it to my 40th next year with my lustrous thick black hair, but alas it was not to be.  Instead I am doomed to celebrate with, what I am convinced will now be, a "dignified older gent look"  Bit George Clooney?  Maybe not.  I am hoping it will add some gravitas.  Maybe not.  In a bid to explain this I have done some research.  You know how I love that.

Apparently greying hair could be caused by stress.  Don't laugh!  It's hard work out here. I will certainly not be using that travel agent again to book my holidays.  They were right about the all-inclusive though.  Haven't spent much money out here.  Mind you, the sea views are a bit elusive and the locals aren't quite as friendly as the brochure made out.  I will probably mention it on Trip-adviser.  Anyway I digress. The greying could also be caused by a deficiency of Vitamin B12, usually found in fish and shellfish (see, it's not just me who can't find the beach), liver, eggs, milk, and milk products.  All of which are in short supply.  I don't think I have had egg more than once since I got back from R and R.  I will probably have to face up to it and admit though that it could, finally, and probably most likely, be caused by age. Apparently changes in hair color occur naturally as people age - no-one ever mentioned that to me.  Apparently my hair will turn gray and then white. They certainly didn't mention that.  This is called achromotrichia. More than 40 percent of people have some gray hair by the time they are 40.  Why does everything seem to happen at or about 40?  I can sense some emails on that subject as we draw ever closer to the big 4 0.

I think it's best if we can all agree (nod wisely) that it is probably a combinatuion of all three.  Premature greying caused by a combination of poor diet, stress and age.  Yes?  Well that's what I am going to put it down to.  I don't care what you say.  I bet you are all wondering how I am going to cleverly weave my greying hair into some pithy, apposite yet incisive diatribe on the trials, tribulations and situation here in Afghanistan.  You are probably thinking, I could mention  there is always a blurred area, a grey area.  An area where we have to negotiate with the Taliban (never say never), a grey area where we have to turn a blind eye to corruption as a way of life in government, a grey area where we gloss over the fact that the Afghans have neither the will or capacity to govern their own country.  A grey area where no-one appears to be minded to do anything about the staging areas for terrorism that lie just across the border in Pakistan.  A grey area where, despite the Generals advice that we have neither the manpower or equipment to do the job properly now, we are already planning the draw down.  I could say all that, but I won't.  You have already thought it. 

I could say it's not as simple as black and white.  Like my hair, it's a combination of factors.  Its all shades of grey.