* * *
The move of Thunder Lab from Kabul to Shindand took about a month. A group of instructors went first to inspect the new facilities and arrange the training spaces and living accommodations. In military terminology, they were called the advance party. As students, we would travel to Shindand over a three-week period. We were known as the main body.
The new Thunder Lab would occupy a building that previously served as a morale and welfare facility for another air advisory group, so it needed to be modified to suit the needs of language training. In addition, the class size of twenty-five (my class) would eventually grow to support upward of seventy-five students once fully operational; NATO was making a major investment in the training of Afghanistan’s air force.
The night before I was scheduled to leave, I went home to get some last-minute belongings and say goodbye to my family. That night was tough; I knew training would last a very long time, more than a year, and I wouldn’t see my family until I finished. This would be the longest I’d ever been away from home.
It was a bittersweet evening. I was excited to continue my training. I’d been in the military for over a year now—between basic officer training, air force orientation, and the initial months of language training—but being transferred to Shindand was a big jump. I was a lieutenant in the Afghan Air Force, my country was at war, and I was being assigned to an operational base to learn to fly combat missions.
My parents were happy about what my future held, but they were sad about my leaving. My mother was very anxious, still coming to grips with her daughter being in the military, but she was supportive. I held her hand and told her I was happy, this was what I wanted to do, and she’d raised me to be a strong woman. I wanted her to be proud, and she was.
My Baba Jan also expressed his feelings about what I was about to do. He hugged me, and I still remember the words he spoke: “I have faith in you, and I know you will do great. You are making my dream come true. You are like a son to me and I am grateful to God for a daughter like you. I know you will make me proud, and I am not worried about you as my child, even though you are going to be away from me.”
Reading my father’s words, you might consider his comment about me being a son to him as odd, even disrespectful. But I didn’t take it that way, nor do I perceive it as disrespectful now. I knew what he was trying to say—even in this male-dominated, patriarchal, and misogynistic society, I was a strong, independent woman who could do anything, just like a son could.
His words made me feel good, not because I wanted to be compared to men, but because my father believed gender didn’t matter. The individual person is what is important.
The next morning, I said goodbye to everyone, including my younger sisters, who still didn’t know the truth. They believed I was going back to the university campus, not to a military base hundreds of miles away in western Afghanistan.
My brother, Omar, drove me to the Kabul air base and dropped me off. When we said goodbye, I hugged him close, said I would miss him, and asked him to pray for me. I told him, “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.” I meant it.
Like my father, he was different than most Afghan men. He’d believed in me, supported me, and stood up for me. Omar was my Lala Jan, my dear brother.
23
Move West
On a cool morning in April 2012, I linked up with Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman, our remaining instructors, and my classmates on the flight line at 0700. The instructors quickly divided us into three groups and directed us to board the waiting Cessna 208s.
The Cessna 208 Caravan (C-208) is a single turboprop aircraft that essentially performs utility functions, like carrying people and cargo. It can hold upward of fourteen passengers or a cargo load of a few thousand pounds, depending on elevation, distance, environment, weather, and a host of other variables. It’s one of the few fixed-wing aircraft in the Afghan Air Force’s inventory, and in addition to transporting people and cargo, it has conducted ground attack and intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance (ISR) missions. It’s also a great aircraft for training new pilots.
This would be my first flight in an airplane, and I happened to sit next to Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman. As we strapped in to prepare for takeoff, at one point he leaned over and said, “This will be you soon. This is the airplane you’ll learn to fly.” His words made the butterflies in my stomach flutter like crazy.
From my seat, I watched everything the pilot and copilot did for the preflight checks. Their gloved hands moved swiftly over the controls and gauges, ensuring everything was set correctly and in order. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I saw their lips moving as they spoke to each other and the control tower.
A ground crew performed their last-minute checks outside the aircraft, verifying all the compartments were secure, then removed the blocks from under the wheels. Everyone—both the pilots and the ground crew—knew exactly what they were doing, what they were looking for, and how to work together as a cohesive team.
We received clearance to taxi to the runway for departure. I recall the plane nudging forward, rolling across the tarmac with a slight bounce; it was bumpier than I had imagined. It was also loud, but the headsets we wore muffled most of the noise. With these headsets we couldn’t listen in to the cockpit, but we could talk among ourselves.
We rolled to a position at the end of the runway. As soon as we were lined up, I saw the pilot push the throttle forward, making the engine whine. We gradually picked up speed, hurtling down the runway, with the plane rattling as we accelerated. I bounced around in my seat, almost knocking into Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman, grateful for the safety belt.
When we lifted off, everything went magically still and peaceful. Gone was the bumpy runway jostling us in our seats and the crosswind rocking the plane—we were in the air, flying smooth and fast, gaining altitude.
I looked out the window as we soared above Kabul, quickly trying to find my bearings and wondering if I would see my house. I found our general neighborhood, but the plane banked before I could find my street.
I’d never seen the city like this. I’d had a decent view when I went walking in the hills beside my father, but this was totally new. The cars, the houses, the buildings, the roads—they looked like tiny toys that kept getting smaller and smaller the higher we climbed and the farther away we flew.
As new vistas appeared, I spotted snowcapped mountains to the north, which up here in a plane looked very close but were in fact miles and miles away. Afghanistan’s sandy plains also caught my eye, desolate and dry, stretching to the horizon. The plains were dotted with pockets of lush green oases, with houses, farms, and towns located nearby. I imagined families tending to the fields, working in their gardens, cooking fresh bread in wood ovens, and grilling kebabs over an open flame.
Although I’d heard my parents and relatives talk about it before, up here I finally got to take in the magnificent natural splendor of my Afghanistan, with all its diversity. Up here, my homeland was beautiful and peaceful—I was speechless.
Then I heard my headphones crackle and Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman’s voice come over the intercom. He announced this would be the aircraft we would learn to fly and to enjoy the view; once we were in the cockpit, there’d be no time for sightseeing and we’d be too busy to miss home. We all laughed.
* * *
When we landed at Shindand Air Base, I felt like we’d entered another world. Where the bustle of city life had been right outside the gates of the military bases in Kabul, here there was nothing but a military footprint.
Afghan, NATO, and US military aircraft were scattered across the airfield and inside the hangars. There were Mi-17 helicopters, Cessna C-182s and C-208s turboprop aircraft, C-130 Hercules transport aircraft, massive C-17 Globemasters, F-16 and F/A-18 fighters, and others. Some of the aircraft were in rows while others were clustered, but all of them were spaced far apart to mitigate the effects of an indirect fire attack. (If the aircraft were t
oo close together and one of them got hit by a mortar and started burning, the others could go up in flames.)
Nearly everyone I saw was in uniform. There were airmen and soldiers from a variety of countries working in the mechanical yards, driving trucks or Humvees, walking with rifles slung across their backs, and going in and out of buildings carrying out their assignments. Paved roads and concrete slabs broke up the flat, sandy terrain. There was no foliage, and there were barely any colors besides gray, brown, tan, and green camouflage. Fences and guard posts lined the base perimeter and were also scattered throughout the interior of the base. Depending where you needed to go, you might have to pass through two or three internal checkpoints along the way.
Shindand was solely a military base and had been in operation since the time of the Soviets. After 9/11 it’d been built up to handle the NATO mission—supply, transport, ISR, close air support, and training. Aircraft were constantly taking off and landing, while soldiers and equipment were continuously going on and off the base, heading out to conduct combat operations against the Taliban and terrorist fighters, who still posed a serious threat to the Afghan government, population centers, and NATO personnel.
Shindand was a massive military machine that I’d heard about but never actually seen, until now. This would be my home for the foreseeable future.
* * *
The new Thunder Lab was contained inside the Shindand English Language Training Center (SELTC) in its own section of the base. There were multiple buildings that housed classrooms, as well as a separate building with a large hall. All the male students would stay in a nearby barracks with other Afghan soldiers and airmen, but as a woman it was not safe for me to live in the same building with them.
I was assigned to the barracks that housed the American and British female advisors. I had a concrete room with one window, two beds, and two wall lockers. Next door was the communal bathroom and shower, which was still a concept I was getting used to. I’d experienced this kind of arrangement in basic training with the Afghan trainees, but now I would share facilities with the Western advisors.
Although this would be a new experience for me—living in close proximity to foreigners—I wasn’t bothered by it. All the advisors were very accepting and approachable. These Western women were tough, without a doubt, but they were polite and welcoming. I felt safe here.
* * *
The next morning I woke up at 0400 to start physical training at 0500. By 0600 I was formed up with the other students to march over to the US compound for breakfast. After I had my pancakes (one of my favorite foods, which my American advisors introduced me to), I sat with a group of the instructors, who were curious to know what I thought of Shindand so far.
I told them it was too soon to have much of an opinion, but Shindand seemed like a great place to continue our training and learn from the advisors. It was also fascinating to watch how the rest of the base functioned and to see how personnel from the United States and other NATO countries conducted themselves. What struck me was the universal confidence they all seemed to have, and it didn’t matter if they were male or female. They walked purposefully, spoke strongly, and knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing. This in many ways was in stark contrast to a wide swath of the Afghan military, though I didn’t say this out loud.
The instructors commented on the general activities of the base, which were separate from SELTC, and how this was a full-fledged operational base conducting real support and combat operations. They also talked about some of the attacks the Taliban had made against the base. The Taliban had primarily conducted rocket and mortar attacks, launching rounds from nearby villages or farm areas. They typically would fire from civilian areas, both to mask their activities amid the population and to limit our ability to respond without incurring civilian casualties.
Fortunately, these attacks weren’t very accurate. Although people had been wounded and killed and buildings had been damaged, the rockets or mortars often missed the base entirely or hit an open area. I’d grown up during a civil war and endured the violence of the Taliban, but the idea of indirect fire attacks, complex ambushes, and ground engagements was sobering. The war was still going on, and I was training to fight in it.
After breakfast, we returned to the SELTC area, but rather than heading into class, we stayed in formation in the courtyard. Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman stood before us and announced he had been reassigned to another command and would no longer be the OIC of Thunder Lab. His replacement was US Navy lieutenant commander Matthew Pescador, who was a naval aviator. We watched the change-of-command ceremony, where Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman formally transferred authority to Lieutenant Commander Pescador.
After the ceremony, we went into class and continued language training in almost the exact same manner as we’d done in Kabul. We were immersed in English through classroom language instruction, professional development, leadership classes, meals, and social interaction with our instructors. This went on for two more months.
* * *
On May 31, 2012, I took my final exam for Thunder Lab. I needed to achieve a score of 75 percent to start the academic portion of flight training. I was well prepared and eager to take the test.
The exam was quite comprehensive, with well over a hundred questions and activities, including reading comprehension, writing, listening, and speaking. It took most of the morning, and although I was confident in my abilities, I found the process exhausting and stressful. I didn’t want to merely pass; I wanted to do well and believed it was important to be near the top of my class.
Once we handed in our test sheets and materials, we had to wait two hours to receive our scores. When it came time to find out how we’d done, three names were called before mine. Lieutenant Commander Pescador then called my name, Lieutenant Rahmani, and said I’d achieved a score of eighty-nine and successfully graduated Thunder Lab.
One of the British female advisors and pilots, Lieutenant Lauren Steward, was present and came forward to give me a hug. I was so excited and so was she, and she told me now I could start real pilot training.
Later that afternoon, I ran out to the courtyard to see if I could get a signal for my phone. Coverage was spotty at Shindand and we didn’t have regular access to the Internet, so I’d only talked with my parents a handful of times since arriving.
It took me fifteen minutes, but I got through and heard the phone ringing on the other end. My father picked up, and I told him I’d passed my language training; I’d start flight training soon. I said I would have never made it this far without him, and I was so grateful for his faith and trust in me.
Although I couldn’t see him, when he spoke I could hear the smile on his face. He said he was so happy for me and that his prayers and love would also be with me.
24
Flight Training
I again woke up early to prepare myself. It was June 3, the first day of actual flight training. The new classroom was about two miles away from my barracks, and I would need to walk there. The sun was starting to come up and there was a slight breeze in the air, causing the dust to swirl a few feet above the ground. Although it was summer, at 0530 it was cool outside.
I didn’t know what to expect. Even though I’d been in the military for well over a year, my knowledge of aviation was quite limited. I would have a lot to learn and would need to learn it fast if I was to make it through training. I also knew I couldn’t fall behind; I needed to be on par with, or ahead of, the men.
I kept hearing my Baba Jan’s voice in my head telling me I would succeed and not to get discouraged if I encountered challenges or failures. My dream would come true, and he would always be proud of me. I took this as an auspicious sign.
About a half mile away from the new training area, I spotted four large tents, one of which would serve as our classroom. As I drew closer, I recognized some of the instructors going in and out of the tent and saw some of my fellow students making their way there in small groups. There
would be ten of us, but I was the only woman. Two other female students had made it to SELTC as well, but they still needed to pass their English test and would be there for another year.
Inside the tent, I saw the instructors preparing the classroom. They immediately welcomed us and started showing us around. The instructors were either retired military or contract civilian pilots—Rowe, Bostrom, Baker, Klemm, and Osmon, to name a few—and they all came from the United States. But no matter who they were or what their background was, they presented themselves as genuinely excited to be training us.
The classroom had tables and chairs for all the students and a blackboard at the front. There were also fans to circulate air. Although the tents were air conditioned (they were massive canvas structures), we would soon find out how stifling they could get during the hot, dusty days of Afghanistan’s summer.
Next we went outside, and the instructors escorted us over to the flight line so we could see the aircraft used for training: C-208 and C-182 fixed-wing aircraft and Mi-17 helicopters. We would learn to fly the C-182, a four-seat single-engine light aircraft, which looks very much like a Cessna you would find on any small airfield in the United States.
However, even though the instructors were introducing us to the planes and giving us teasers about what lay ahead, we’d have to pass aerodynamics in ground school before getting anywhere near the cockpit.
Open Skies Page 14
