In My Father's Country (28 page)

“Why, Karzai gave it to him to build the palace!” said the decorator
in a tone that suggested I should know this already. Anyway, he couldn’t care less where the money came from; he was happy to be hired and paid.

It was difficult for the soldiers to pull security while Judy and I circulated through the crowd. Since we were going to be there for a while, we found a place in one of the big tents. The tent was open, with all the sides rolled up and tied beneath the roof. We sat down on one of the blankets and engaged the locals passing by in small talk. Some men wandered into the tent. Even in the heat they wore sports coats over their
shalwar kameez
and black plastic sandals. They’d heard there was a female Pashtu speaker at the PRT who could also speak English. We engaged in small talk, both the visitors and the conversation drifting here and there. No one was in any hurry. The park was close enough to the PRT that it was unlikely we would be ambushed if we took our time, and so we just sat chatting and drinking tea, and trying to connect with locals in a way we had never done before. The sun lazed across the sky; the breeze carried the medicinal scent of eucalyptus. Someone mentioned that they’d planted some on the other side of the park. A few men dozed, and I would have too, had I not become aware of something unexpected.

The army’s standard approach to interacting with regular Afghans is to devise a mission: Let’s go to village A and see whether they need a school, and complete that mission in the shortest time possible, preferably the same day. The mission might include counting the number of school-aged children and figuring the distance to the closest school. Afterward, a storyboard of the mission is created, usually heavy on pictures and light on text, describing what happened on the mission and whether or not the goals set out were met. Most PRT missions are designed to be short, featuring a straightforward goal that can be measured at the end of the day. If the mission happens to be a meeting or public appearance, once the event is over, everyone hops into their Humvees and races back inside the wire to work on the storyboard that inevitably concludes with “Mission accomplished!”

But this casual gathering was something else entirely. It didn’t seem to have anything to do with anything measurable. Judy, the commander,
the soldiers pulling her security, and some local agronomists were just sitting around talking, getting to know one another, becoming acquainted with one another’s culture.

Sherzai blew into the tent and reached his arms wide, as if trying to gather up the scene for future reference. “I like this!” he cried.

This may not sound like much. Today we have a greater understanding that building long-term relationships with the Afghan people is critical, but in 2005 it was very unusual. To most soldiers, Afghanistan was just a tour of duty. Their only goal was to get through it alive, so they could be promoted and move on. Even now it’s unrealistic to expect soldiers to think differently. I remember counting down days on my wall calendar a couple of months before my contract would end. And I was there by choice, not to mention the fact that I wanted to be among people with whom I share roots. The average American soldier viewed Afghans as poor, uneducated, and often crazy men who bullied their women. They wanted to do their time and return to their families and their regular posts, where they wouldn’t be shot at as much. If, in the meantime, they lost a buddy in a firefight, an ambush, or an IED explosion, they’d resent Afghans even more, failing to understand how allegedly innocent villagers—people whose lives the soldier was risking his own to improve—would allow the insurgents to plant IEDs in their roads.

The missing link was a genuine relationship with the local population. If the villagers felt connected to us, they would be more likely to cooperate with our missions, warn us of any impending danger in the region, and avoid providing shelter and support for the insurgency.

This tactic of forging relationships is part of the counterinsurgency, or COIN. In 2005 the U.S. Army was not practicing any COIN that I observed. The marine corps released its COIN Manual in 2006, with its focus on Iraq; and the special forces and the marines were practicing some COIN, but it was not yet the official policy of the regular army. Most army members at the time thought that COIN was unnecessary in Afghanistan because the regular army was there on a reconstruction effort, and not just chasing the bad guys. I imagine the thinking went
something like this: Since the United States had been invited to Afghanistan by the government, COIN wasn’t necessary because GIRoA is a democratically elected entity, meaning, essentially, that the Afghan populace wanted us there and we would and should not have to fight for their hearts and minds.

Soldiers didn’t realize the importance of relationship building in the success of U.S. reconstruction efforts. This is not to say that villagers would be able to stand up to the insurgents directly just because they were supportive of the U.S. mission, but if they felt that the company commander was a friend, they might find a way to pass on crucial information that could potentially save the lives of his soldiers.

Once established, these relationships could be passed on to the incoming units, because one of the characteristics of being in uniform is that you become interchangeable with the soldier who replaces you. If one company commander stresses the importance of good neighborly behavior to newly arrived troops and introduces them to local villagers, he creates a foundation that can be built on when the next unit arrives, and so on. The result is trust, and a long-term relationship, principles that are a big part of Pashtun culture.

This picnic felt like the beginning of a new type of relationship between Afghans and Americans, and the beginning of the idea that led General Petraeus to encourage his soldiers to mingle more, to drink more cups of the world-famous Afghan green tea.

SEVERAL DAYS LATER
Judy and I arrived at Sherzai’s palace to find him in the grip of a new idea. It had come to him in the middle of the night, and by 10:00
A.M.
, he was busy implementing it. Inspired by the success of the park-opening celebration, he’d invited five hundred
mullahyaan
—the Pashtu plural of
mullah
—to his compound for an impromptu meeting, in the hopes of endearing himself and his government to them and showing them that he was approachable. This was pure Sherzai, who was all about scoring points—with the
mullahyaan
, Karzai and the central government, Judy and the PRT, even me. When he learned that I’d admired the beautiful white embroidered Kandahari
kameez
he wore to the park opening, he immediately sent me two, one in white, the other in beige. When I told Sherzai that my fiancé, Eric, had always wanted one and would love it, Sherzai said, “Well, Miriam, if I had known that you were going to be marrying a non-Pashtun, I wouldn’t have given you those; I don’t want to be giving a gift to a non-Pashtun who is marrying a Pashtun woman!”

The meeting with the
mullahyaan
was news to Judy and me. I’d arrived wearing what had become my uniform, a pair of Express jeans and a plain, short-sleeved T-shirt. Judy was in her standard fatigues. Sherzai stood by the window, grinning and rubbing his hands together like a movie villain.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” he said, nodding out the window.

A hastily erected tent stood in the courtyard.
Mullahyaan
were arriving in twos and threes, prayer beads dangling between their fingers. I stared down at the tops of their white turbans.

“Wali Sahib, why didn’t you tell us about this? We didn’t bring our scarves.” I used his title in Pashtu, which I did when I wanted him to remember that I was there as an American.

“Didn’t you tell me you refuse to wear the scarf, Miriam? Or has the sight of these
mullahyaan
finally put the fear of God in you?” He grinned at me.

“It’s a matter of respect. I’m not going into a tent full of mullahs without a scarf.” I didn’t want to offend these men unnecessarily. It was one thing to make a point with the average Afghan man by not wearing a scarf, but there was no need to rub the
mullahyaan
’s noses in it.

Sherzai collared one of his assistants and sent him searching for a pair of scarves for Judy and me. I stood at the window, watching the
mullahyaan
file into the tent. The day was overcast, a uniform ho-hum Portland gray. Judy and I would be the only women in the tent. I looked at her. She was glancing at her watch, unconcerned. As a woman in the army she was used to being the only female in a room full of men. My situation was considerably different. To be the only female Pashtun in a room full of religious men meant that I was going to be judged, and judged harshly.

The assistant returned empty-handed, unable to locate the nonexistent secret trove of scarves Sherzai seemed to feel existed somewhere in the compound.

“Take this.” Sherzai pulled his black-and-white-checked scarf from around his neck.

“Are you joking? They’ll know it belonged to you. That would be even worse.”

“You know, Miriam, you are more trouble than all the
mullahyaan
, all five hundred of them combined.”

He called over one of the guards and sent him to the bazaar. The guard returned with identical pale-green scarves, the hems stitched with pale green thread. They were prettier than anything in my duffel bag at the PRT. Sherzai escorted Judy and me into the tent, where we sat in folding chairs near the front and listened to two and a half hours’ worth of speeches. Regardless of their tribal affiliations,
mullahyaan
love to make speeches and are true politicians at heart.

Afterward, Judy and I wandered outside into a warm drizzle. One mullah, a frail old man with black eyebrows, white hair, and only two upper teeth, said, “Daughter, I feel it’s my Muslim duty to tell you that you will go to hell for what you are doing here.”

“I’m thankful for your concern, Baba.” I used the title of grandfather in hopes of reminding him that he was supposed to be kind. “I will make sure that when God is sending me to hell He knows you did your Muslim job, telling me the error of my ways. I am hopeful that He will be merciful and not hold you responsible for my sins.” There is a belief of most Muslims, especially the more conservative ones, that if they see another Muslim doing un-Islamic things, it is their duty to point out the error, and if they don’t, God will send them to hell with the one committing those crimes. This puzzles me, as I’ve read the Koran and know that there are many restrictions on one Muslim’s duty to question another Muslim’s faith and intentions. I would never understand how a Muslim could justify questioning my faith, but it has happened a hundred times to me, not just in Afghanistan but even in a convention center in Portland.

Sherzai invited us to his office for tea, eager to hear us reassure him that the afternoon had been a success. I told him about the old mullah who’d told me I was going to hell. Sherzai narrowed his eyes, something he did before he lost his temper, and went to the window, as if the offending mullah was still out there.

“Who said this to you? Show me who insulted my guest.”

According to the strict interpretation of
Pashtunwali
, Sherzai had every right to kill this mullah. He would receive no punishment for murder; in fact, he would be viewed as a good and honorable Pashtun for defending the honor of a guest. I suddenly felt tired from my long nights of little sleep.

“I don’t think that’s the point, Wali Sahib. It was a fine event. They were all happy. But the bigger point is that these
mullahyaan
are not ready to mix with Western females. So next time, don’t invite us, please.”

“These
mullahyaan
need to adjust, Miriam. They must accept the realities of the modern Afghanistan.”

“And we want to be accepted by them, Wali Sahib, but this makes it seem as if we are invading their space and disrespecting the culture. We’ll never be accepted under those circumstances.”

“I suppose this means you’re not going to tell me which mullah showed me disrespect by insulting my guest?”

“The American in me won’t let me tell you, especially if you’re going to beat him up. You have to let it go.”

“He told you you were going to hell, Miriam. It’s hard for me to let that go.”

“It wasn’t the first time I have been told that,” I said. “And I am sure it won’t be the last.”

T
WENTY

A
t night the CAT I interpreters who worked next door, at Jalalabad Airfield, came over for tea, television, and conversation. The CAT II interpreters at the PRT had a tearoom for sitting and talking. It was furnished with a TV, a table, some chairs, a hot plate, and a mini-fridge. Because it was at one time someone’s quarters, there was also a set of metal-framed bunk beds. There was a maroon-and-black, machine-made rug from Iran on the floor. Interpreters and U.S. soldiers (invited by interpreters they worked with) all hung out here before and after dinner. Sometimes we’d bring food from the chow hall and eat there. It was the first place where I really saw U.S. soldiers and interpreters socializing during off-hours. The soldiers loved laughing at the local TV shows, where if any female was wearing short sleeves, her bare arms would be blurred out. Or they would see some woman on TV and say, “Hey, look, we
can
see Afghan women during our deployment.” The interpreters would reply, “Yes, but they are not Pashtun women. They are the Kabuli women, and it is not the same. Real Pashtun women are not allowed to be seen by men!” They would argue back and forth, and I would sit there in my jeans and T-shirt, watching the interpreters telling the soldiers the difference between a Pashtun woman and a Kabuli woman. Were they trying to insult me by having this discussion in front
of me? I honestly didn’t think so. Like myself, they didn’t see me as belonging to either group; for that moment I was an American.