by Bryan Wood
I think we waited for an hour or so until our escort finally arrived. The escort consisted of six heavily armored HUMVEE trucks, each with either a fifty caliber machine gun or fully automatic grenade launcher in the turret. I knew this could not be a good sign.
As the HUMVEEs stopped, the rear door of one opened up, and my old friend, Sean, came running towards me from within the truck. I knew my unit was coming to replace his, and I knew he was in country, but I never expected to run into him so soon. Sean ran to me and nearly tackled me to the ground in excitement. He has been here for six months and since my unit is his relief, he is going home. I asked Sean where we were going and what it was like. Sean described a small compound in the middle of downtown Kabul. He told me it was a very small area, in the heart of the city. Sean told me, “Dude, this place is really fucked up.”
My squad, along with one other squad, loaded up in the back of one of the 5-ton trucks. The rear of the truck was covered with a canvas tarp and had no doors or windows. If we could see out then anyone else could see in, and we would be sitting ducks. The hour-long ride from Bagram to Kabul was long, dark, bumpy, and boring. Anxiety was starting to fade into exhaustion, and I really just wanted to sleep more than anything else.
We arrived to a military compound in the heart of Kabul. The compound, called Camp Eagle, was very small at only about the size of a city block. The walls of the compound are right next to the city’s streets, and there are people everywhere outside of the walls. We were told our primary duties will be to accomplish tasked missions and provide safety and security for the compound’s operations against any and all threats. Recent threats to Camp Eagle include rocket attacks and a suicide bomber who used a pair of hand grenades to kill one Afghan local and two American Special Forces soldiers. One of the guys welcoming us said, “Have fun guys. Protecting this place is like trying to protect a virgin on prom night. Eventually someone is going to get through.”
The housing in Camp Eagle is actually relatively nice, and I use “relatively” very strongly. The building in which we will be living was once the Japanese embassy. We have running water, showers, and indoor plumbing. There is no heat and although it may be cold for now, winter will be over soon. The entire squad is assigned to one room in the basement. While nine guys in one small room may seem bad, it is a lot better than living in a tent back at Bagram.
There are a lot of Afghan civilians working inside of Camp Eagle. It is kind of unsettling to see so many civilian locals inside the walls of the compound, and it is very apparent most of them do not seem to like us. There are Afghan groundskeepers, translators, construction workers, and laborers. They are everywhere.
The day was filled with getting our gear sorted and getting ourselves settled in. Bed time came quickly, and by the time it had I was completely drained. It is bitter cold in here, but I am so tired I think I’ll barely notice as I fall asleep. Today was a very long day.
February 24, 2003:
We woke up to another early start today. I went upstairs to the kitchen area and I was shocked to see Afghans making our food. I was told every Afghan civilian on the compound has had a background clearance done, but I am still a little uneasy with eating food made by them. Everyone who has been in the compound for a while tells me they have more than earned our trust, but I really have no choice but to eat it. As much as I hate to admit this, it was actually pretty good.
Right after breakfast, the squad was told to be ready in fifteen minutes for our first tour of downtown Kabul. We left Camp Eagle in a line of HUMVEEs and I was the machine gunner in the second vehicle. The vehicle has a large circular hole in the roof, called a turret, with a machine gun mount. As we rolled beyond the safety of the gates and into the city, I sat perched out of the turret with my M249 machinegun locked and loaded. I had sat in that same position countless times in training, but never in a hostile environment. I have never felt as vulnerable in my entire life as I did being so exposed in that turret.
Leaving Camp Eagle and riding into Kabul was an instant culture shock. The Taliban may no longer control Kabul, but it is absolutely still a war zone. Every other building is either riddled with bullet holes or gaping holes from various explosions. People are armed everywhere. Civilians are just walking down the street with AK47s and SKS rifles. I saw one child, no older than thirteen or fourteen carrying an assault rifle.
The streets are also disgustingly filthy. We passed down one narrow roadway where I saw a man in his thirties or forties taking a shit on the side of the road. One of the experienced troops that we are replacing was riding in the vehicle with us. Over the loud interior noise of the HUMVEE he explains that standards are very different in Kabul and, although not encouraged, this kind of behavior is not uncommon.
The tour continued on for approximately an hour with nothing eventful being seen except the magnitude of extreme poverty. That is when we stumbled upon a woman being beaten by two men. The woman, wearing a dark blue Burqa, was on her knees and struggling to stand, as one man beat her with a belt and the other pushed her back to the ground. As we drove by this scene, our “guide” told us this was very common in Kabul, and he said, “Try not to let it bother you.” He told us we were going to see a lot of things that would bother us here, but we cannot get involved in this kind of mess. You just have to look the other way.
The women here all wear a blue Burqa. The Burqa is a long robe, which covers the woman from head to ankle. Over the face is a layer of mesh cloth that enables the woman to see out but allows no one to see her. It is a very strange feeling seeing a person wearing this type of thing. Every woman here is wearing one, and there are no exceptions.
The squad returned to Camp Eagle and had a lot of briefings. I found out my squad would be assigned to the midnight to eight o’clock in the morning shift for perimeter security. During the day we will be assigned to various missions outside of the compound as they are assigned. We were told we will be working seven days a week with no days off, but I guess you really do not need a day off here; it’s not like there is anything fun to do. I went to bed after dinner for a quick nap before starting my first midnight shift.
February 25, 2003:
I showed up at the front gate of the compound just a few minutes before midnight. I was greeted by the guy I was relieving with a sarcastic “Have fun.”
A non-English speaking Afghan guard walked up to me and placed his fisted hand over his heart while he said, “Salom.”
I extended my right hand, and he shook it eagerly with a large smile on his face. I could not understand a word he was saying, but it was obvious he was happy to meet me.
There are several Afghan guards which patrol the outer layers of the compound. These guards are not very professional looking at all. This man was wearing very old clothing, layered to keep him warm, and a pair of old worn out sneakers. The only thing that made him a soldier in any way was the AK47 he gripped with his left hand. Another guard quickly came over and surprisingly introduced himself to me as Massoud. Massoud actually spoke English quite well. He later told me his father was a doctor before all of the wars broke out, and he learned to speak English at a very young age.
Since it was after midnight, it was very quiet on the streets beyond the compound. This gave Massoud and I a chance to talk, and we got to know each other for a few minutes. Massoud then began to explain the dangers of the area. Massoud stressed to me to always be ready no matter how quiet things may seem.
Massoud said, “Any one of these cars, at any moment, can stop right in front of us and explode. If you’re paying attention and know what to look for, you will live. If you are not ready, you will die.”
Massoud continued to talk to me about ways to identify possible car bombs and pedestrian suicide bombers. He also told me about other threats I would certainly be confronted with in Afghanistan.
Later in the night, Massoud told me more about himself. He said he was 27, which came as a surprise since he looked like he was at least forty-fiv
e. Massoud said life had been very hard for him and he has been at war since he was a very young boy. As a child he was a Mujahedeen fighter against the Soviets. After the Soviets pulled out of Afghanistan, Massoud’s home area became entangled in civil fighting by rival groups, and he was fighting again. Massoud enjoyed a very short period of peace in his life, until the Taliban began a rise to power in Afghanistan.
Massoud became involved in the fight against the Taliban and was imprisoned and tortured by them for three years. Massoud told stories of his life to pass the night, and many of them were truly heart breaking. I have never felt as sorry for anyone as I felt for Massoud. In America we think of our war veterans as being tough, but this guy is not a war veteran; his entire life is war.
Massoud said to me, “I was Mujahedeen, and I am still Mujahedeen. We have little in this world except for the honor of our word. I will always protect you, as you do the same for me,” as he stuck out his hand to me.
I shook Massoud’s hand and told him, “It’s a deal.”
The rest of the night passed without incident, and my first night on duty in Afghanistan is over. It is just before eight o’clock now, and the street is alive with pedestrians, rickety carts, old cars, bicycles, and even donkeys. The people in the streets are all extremely poor looking and dressed in rags. This place is unlike anything I have ever seen.
February 26, 2003:
Today has been pretty quiet. Around one o’clock in the morning, while I was on-duty, I heard two bombs explode off in the distance. I guess they were not really close enough to cause any concern.
Maybe it is just because I am new in country, but it gets scary down here at night. Sitting in a small fighting position, late at night and all alone, gets creepy, especially when bombs go off. The fighting positions, we call them OPs, are basically a small plywood shed with a tin roof, positioned randomly along the compound’s perimeter walls, and they are about eight or nine feet above the street below. They are surrounded by sandbags, and the large openings on the front and sides are covered by chicken wire to help protect you from rocks, bottles, or whatever else someone can throw. The dents, dings, bullet holes, and other damage show that they have taken quite a few hits. Each OP is about four feet by four feet and maybe 4 or five feet high. They are each supplied with a plastic chair, an M249 machinegun, one thousand rounds of ammunition, and an AT4 rocket launcher. There is no electricity in the OP, but there really is not a need for it; the last thing you want to do is light yourself up in here. One quick flash of light and a sniper will know exactly where you are.
I am starting to get very homesick, and this place is starting to become very real. I missed so much about home last night. It was so quiet in the OP, all I had time to do was think, wonder, and miss everything. Each and every person has had a bad day at one point or another, but you usually get to go home at the end, relax, and start over. There is no “going home” here; this is home.
Other than the two explosions earlier in the night, it was complete silence. It was just me all alone with my thoughts. You never really appreciate the little things in life until everything has been taken away. It is the details that make us happy, the little things. I would trade anything for the opportunity to enjoy a hot pizza, a cold beer, and a funny movie tonight. I never would have thought something so little could mean so much.
February 27, 2003:
Tonight started off slowly. It was very quiet, no pedestrians or cars, and I guess you could even say it was boring. I heard periodic gunshots throughout the night; some were single shots and some were full automatic bursts. Most of them sounded a distance off, but a few exchanges were a little too close for comfort.
After shift, at eight o’clock in the morning, two team members and I decided to go out of the compound. Whenever you leave the compound, it is always a good idea to bring a local you can trust to help you get around and translate for you. It has to be someone you can absolutely trust, and we brought Massoud. Massoud basically told us that if shit hits the fan, follow him and we will be fine.
We went to an area of Kabul the troops call Chicken Street. It is very densely populated and extremely poor. Approximately one third of the people in this area are homeless and struggling for survival. We drove to Chicken Street in a Land Cruiser, wearing body armor and armed with an array of handguns, machineguns, and assault rifles. The second we pulled into the area, people would try to open the Land Cruiser’s doors every time we stopped. Pointing a 9mm at them did not faze them one bit; they still tried relentlessly to open the locked doors.
We found the best area to park, though I did not find it so hot, and we were swarmed by people as we exited the vehicle. They were all peasants hoping to get from us anything we were willing to offer. One woman in a burqa approached us, and she was crying heavily. She made a motion to her mouth with her hand as if she was eating through the burqa, and she then pointed to a small boy. The boy looked to be around eight years old and was laying on the edge of the road against the curb. He was barely clothed, unconscious, and appeared very malnourished. As we got closer to him, he almost looked as though he was not even alive.
As we shoved past the woman, she grabbed a hold of me. Massoud immediately responded by pointing his AK47 at her and shoving the barrel into her chest. Massoud pushed the rifle into her chest so hard she fell backwards to the ground. The woman began to cry even louder and it became more of a wailing sound. Massoud looked at me and told me the boy died two days ago, and to forget about them. Forget about them? How?
We wandered the area and saw so many people selling things from either a makeshift cart or from a rug spread across the sidewalk. People were selling everything from daily necessity items, to food, to bootleg videos, and even knives and guns. There was commotion and noise everywhere, but all I could hear was the sound of that woman crying in my head.
February 28, 2003:
It was a very quiet day today, thank God. It was kind of rainy all day, so I suppose that either forced people inside or kept them busy trying to stay warm and dry.
I have been here for almost a week now, and I am constantly seeing new customs of the Afghan culture. Sometimes they are interesting, sometimes they are strange, and sometimes they are just shocking. Since I arrived in Kabul, I have noticed a lot of men hugging, kissing, and holding hands together. Many of the men wear nail polish, and I have seen some wearing lipstick. Not just one or two, but a lot of them. Me and another American soldier talked to Massoud and asked him about this.
Massoud explained to us that in Afghanistan women and men do not mingle, and dating is not only strictly forbidden it is also a completely unknown practice to many Afghans. Massoud told us that even married men are very rarely seen in public with their wives. Massoud said most marriages are arranged, and a family will essentially sell their daughter to the potential husband that can afford the most. Since men are allowed more than one wife in Afghanistan, you end up with one wealthier man having multiple wives and many men having nothing. Massoud explained that when children are born, females are considered undesirable and very often do not survive to adulthood. This creates a lot of men who will never date a girl, or even meet a girl outside of their own family. As a result, in some instances, these men “date” each other.
Massoud said although homosexuality is forbidden in Islam and in Afghanistan, it is much easier to hide than being seen in public with a woman. The very idea of male/female mingling is not only considered taboo in culture, it is forbidden by law. The penalty for premarital sex or dating can be as high as death. The typical method of execution for such an offense is called stoning. Massoud explained that the man and woman are placed standing in a hole and buried to their waist. Family members and villagers then begin throwing a stockpile of stones at the couple until they are dead. Massoud pointed towards the road and indicated that the field near the compound was used for such executions. He said, “Stay here long enough and you’ll see one.”
After hearing Massoud’s explanati
on, I began to understand why so many men show such affection towards one another. I do not think they are necessarily homosexual in our sense of the word. I think the men just utilize the only option they have for affection: one another.
Massoud also said child abuse is extremely common in Kabul. He said many children are raped every day and there is no one championing for their rights or safety. With so many homeless children in Kabul, and virtually no protection for them, it is out of control. Massoud said by the time many boys reach adulthood they have likely been raped multiple times throughout their childhood, causing many to become numb to the idea of having sex with another male.
It is absolutely shocking and heartbreaking to see how women and children are treated here. I have never imagined anything like this.
March 1, 2003:
It was very quiet throughout the night, but things got very busy right after dawn. Yesterday, a British soldier was out in Kabul when an Afghan approached and shot him. The Brit’s body armor stopped the bullet, and he returned fire, killing the Afghan. A lot of locals are now angry over the shooting of an Afghan, and many decided to protest.
A protest consisting of about five or six hundred people, in an area just outside of the compound, quickly turned into a riot. Things got worse until a hand grenade was thrown from the crowd into the Afghan Police compound across the street from us. Two Afghan Police Officers were seriously injured, and the Afghan force responded by opening fire on the crowd. Three officers posted on the roof of the Police Station began shooting into the crowd with their AK47s, causing people to run and clearing the crowd. After several short bursts of fire, some people were trampling one another to flee, and others were carrying away those wounded by the gunfire. Within fifteen minutes, the riot was over and everyone was gone. I cannot even imagine how many people may have just been killed.
