NO REGRETS ~ An American Adventure in Afghanistan (31 page)

Colonel Noor Ahmad wore a tailored cotton dress uniform whereas most of the other guys were wearing camouflage or the wool-issued uniform. They looked frumpy. The colonel looked sharp, like an Afghan Napoleon. He had close trimmed silver tinged hair and a neatly trimmed matching silver beard.

Noor Ahmad had brought up fifteen guys with him. I knew about half of these men from earlier classes. I skipped the usual round of “getting to know you” on the first day of class. About three days later, after I put the guys on break Colonel Noor Ahmad walked up to me.

“David, you and I know each other. I’ve been in your class before. We have had many talks. My men feel like you don’t like them. You gathered information about them but you didn’t tell them anything about you.”

I guess because these were supposedly hardened men, I’d completely forgotten that they’d want to know anything about me. Who I was. Where I came from. What I believed. I kind of chuckled and gave a sly grin, “Well, Colonel, what do your men want to know? I figured that you had filled them in on me.”

“David, I can tell them many things but they don’t know until they hear it from you.”

“That’s fair, I suppose.”

As the students returned from break, I gathered them up. “The Colonel says that you guys want me to tell you about myself. What do you want to know?”

They started firing all the standard questions at me: “Where are you from?” “How old are you?” “Are you in the Army?” This went on for some time and finally, to no surprise, we came to religion. They asked me if I was Christian and I shook my head, “Nope, I’m not Christian. I’m more of a quasi-Buddhist. I’m learning about Buddhism.”

“But, David, you are from America. Americans are Christian. How can you be Buddhist?”

“Well guys, I just don’t like those religions. They’re too structured. Too many rules. Too much pain and animosity in there for me. Too much guilt. Too many restrictions. I want to be free and I don’t believe that any God worth my devotion would enslave me with Christian guilt or ask me to submit to his will or burn in hell. It’s all bogus to me.”

To my surprise, they all shook their head in agreement.

As they left for lunch, one of the students pulled me aside. He told me with a look of resignation, “David, I don’t like Islam. This damn religion that we have was forced on us by the Arabs. They brought it here, forced us to become Muslim and then they left us to fight over it. We have been killing each other over this religion for hundreds of years. I wish it never existed.” Then he shrugged and walked away.

I was dumbfounded. This was apostasy. To publicly say such a thing would be an automatic death sentence. I was nervous just having heard it spoken aloud in a Muslim country.

Colonel Noor Ahmad wasn’t there when his man made that statement. Something tells me that in private, he wouldn’t give a damn. I don’t think the colonel was all that religious. He was a hard drinker and he liked women. Two things that don’t sit well with Islam. I know this because he had invited me to his house on several occasions for one of his infamous parties. The good colonel was a man of appetites that ran not only to good food and fine wines. The order of the day for a Noor Ahmad party was hard liquor and loose women. I never made it to one of his parties. However, my terps did get to go. What they described was damn near Roman orgiastic in proportion, bacchanalian in flavor. Prostitutes and whiskey flowed. The affluent of Herat attended. Of course, no wives were in attendance. Mirwais and Rasul went to one party that had over a hundred guests
not
including the women. Rasul was wide-eyed when he described the scene.

These parties and this house made me curious. Colonel Noor Ahmad had a million-dollar house in Herat. He lived and worked in Farah District. His wives and children lived in Farah as well. His house in Herat was his bachelor pad. I’m sure it still is. Rasul told me that there were tables filled with food. More tables filled with every type of booze imaginable. How does an Afghan police colonel afford all of this? An Afghan colonel has a government salary that is under 1,000 U.S. dollars per month. It’s difficult to pay for a million dollar home on that kind of money. More difficult still to hold debauched parties for one hundred of your closest friends. Add in the black market booze and prostitutes and, well, you get where I’m going. Who pays for this? Does he? I never did find out.

Colonel Noor Ahmad smoked with me during class breaks. He did the strangest thing with his cigarettes. He soaked them in Russian vodka. “Imported from Moscow,” he would say. Anytime he visited, he’d give me a pack of Russian vodka soaked Seven Stars smokes. We’d shoot the shit like we were best friends. Honestly, I really liked the guy. He wasn’t greasy. He never begged. He never once asked me for anything. The only thing he wanted was to talk politics or learn the new system.

The last three days of the Farah workshop were devoted to creating property documents. I started walking the men through the process of annotating data and applying document numbers. I’d show them where to write the information on the documentation, but I kept getting blank looks. Finally, I stopped and walked around to see how the class was doing. No one had written anything.

“Guys, do you understand what I’m explaining here?”

“Yes!” Heads nodded. Everyone seemed to be on page with me.

“Okay, we’ll start again.”

I ran through the process again. Again, they seemed to be following along. But just to confirm I stopped again. “Is everyone following along?”

“Yes!” Heads nodded.

“Okay, let’s see what you’ve done.” I walked around the room. Only three guys had annotated data on their property sheets.

“Okay, what’s the problem? Why is no one adding their data?” I got no answer just more blank stares.

“Dudes, what is the problem? I’ve explained this process for a week. I’ve walked you through the process two times. Why aren’t any of you filling in your data?”

I looked over at Noor Ahmad. He’d been scribbling away with Rasul and Mark, my senior mentor, the whole time. Mark had been promoted and brought up from Qandahar when I’d been promoted last year. He’d spent the majority of the last two days sitting with Noor Ahmad discussing the conversion process in the rear of the room. I hadn’t paid attention figuring that they were perfecting his provincial property documentation. Noor Ahmad looked up at me and winked.

“Okay, guys. Am I not explaining this well enough? Is there some kind of problem?”

Noor Ahmad looked up at me again.

Rasul translated, “No, we understand. You are a good teacher.”

“So, why aren’t you guys filling in the documents?” And then it hit me. “How many of you guys can read and write?” Three of them raised their hands. I started seeing red. I’d just wasted a whole week and a half. We’d get no results from this workshop. I was pissed. I had told Noor Ahmad to bring me guys who could read and write. He’d brought me a collection of illiterate bumpkins who were not going to be able to accomplish anything. I looked over at Noor Ahmad.

“Colonel, how the hell are these guys going to be able to convert. I thought you were going to bring me men who could get the conversion done during the workshop.”

“Finished,” Noor Ahmad smiled.

“What?”

“Finished.”

“Finished what?”

“The province and districts are all converted.”

“What? How?”

“My men needed a break from Farah. Herat is a vacation. We stayed at my house. We enjoyed a vacation. We came here and enjoyed your company.”

“Okay, but how does that finish the conversion?”

“David, while you were instructing my men, I converted their books with the help of your men. Farah Province is completely converted to the new decree. I have everything here. Come see.”

“You son of a bitch. You were fuckin’ with me. I’ve been frustrated all day long thinking that I was an idiot and couldn’t explain the process to your men.”

Noor Ahmad smiled and broke out into a belly laugh. “David, I have to have my fun, too. I told my men to pretend that they were writing, so you wouldn’t know what I was doing. I wanted to finish everything before I showed it to you.”

I turned to Rasul, Mark, and Mirwais. “You fuckers were in on it, too.” Then I laughed. Mission accomplished and a good joke on me.

I looked over Noor Ahmad’s books. They were nearly perfect. I showed him a few things to shape them up but there wasn’t much. The Farah guys came back the next day but the class was essentially over. We spent the last day smokin’ and jokin’. Noor Ahmad brought in some pastries from downtown. We had a little ceremony and I gave Farah their certificate of conversion signed by myself and Colonel Zahir. Zahir stopped by to see Noor Ahmad on his way out.

Getting Farah knocked out put pressure on the other provinces. Farah got the ball rolling for us. Half of Badghis came down and finished their district conversions. Herat was already halfway complete. By the time I left, Herat would be at 90 percent conversion. Noor Ahmad had done me a huge favor by completing his conversion. He had influence and standing in the western region.

Land of the Great Conquerors

January 2010

We returned to the RHQ. It was my first trip back since my latest R&R. By this time, I was familiar enough with General Ak to walk into his office alone. Most folks went through his assistant to gain access to the man. I knocked and walked in. General Ak stood up and came over to me. “Welcome back, David. Why has it been so long since I’ve seen you?” He grabbed my hands in his and kissed me on both cheeks. Mirwais sat there in astonishment. Apparently, not many people get this treatment from General Ak.

“General, I’ve been on holiday.”

“Oh. Did you go home? How is your family? Did you tell your mother hello from me? I hope everyone at home is well.”

“Thank you, General. Everyone at home is well but I didn’t go home. I’ve been to Thailand and Cambodia again. I brought you back a gift as well.”

“Thank you, David. You are always thoughtful.”

“Well, General, I’m just suckin’ up, so you’ll keep supporting my training program.”

“Ah, David, so you are playing on my emotions,” he winked at me.

“These are dried fruits from Thailand.” I handed him bags of dried mangoes and pineapples that I’d purchased at the Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok. “And this is a statue of Jayavarman VII,” which I’d picked up in Siem Reap, Cambodia. I had not been certain that giving a statue of a person to a Muslim would be acceptable. I’d felt General Ak up on the subject before I’d departed for my holiday. He seemed to like the idea of a statue for his office. He was especially open to a statue from a far away country. I’d come upon the idea of giving him a statue of Jayavarman VII because of the similarities between the two countries. Both Afghanistan and Cambodia had turned themselves inside out, literally destroying themselves at the command of an internal enemy. With Afghanistan, it had been the Taliban. With Cambodia, it had been the Khmer Rouge. Yet both countries had overcome their internal enemies and were working to rebuild themselves. Corruption was a parallel in their struggles as well. Cambodia was wracked with corruption with their prime minister and their late king. Afghanistan was ruled by a corrupt cabal of Islamists and greedy warlords and drug lords. With both countries, it would be a long road out of the darkness of war and internal turmoil. I explained all of this to General Ak.

“General, Jayavarman VII was a great king of Cambodia. He ruled Cambodia during the golden era of the Khmer Empire at about the same time that the Ghaznavids ruled in Afghanistan.”

“Thank you, David. I will put this in a place of honor in my office, so that we will always have a memory of each other.”

“You’re welcome, General. I wanted to give you a token of my esteem for all of your help with my mission here in Afghanistan.”

“David, we are all happy that you have come to help us. There is no need to thank me for doing my duty. You have traveled thousands of miles and left your family behind to help Afghanistan. We are grateful for your assistance.”

I had just about decided to leave contract but didn’t want to tell anyone yet. The statue was one way of leaving something behind. Something to mark my presence and something to serve as a reminder to the general that Afghanistan wasn’t the only place with a rough history. Other places in the world had been through the grinder. Part of it was also my conceited way of being remembered.

A month later, I walked into General Ak’s office. “General, this is it. I leave at the end of the month. It’s time for me to go home and see where the future takes me.”

“David, we will miss you. You have spent a long time with us. I think it is good for you to go home to your family. Will you return to America or is Thailand home now?”

“General, I’ll go home first. See my momma in Kentucky. Then I’ll head over to Thailand. Maybe I’ll buy a hotel and regale travelers with stories of my adventures here. I’ve got a few good stories to tell.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do, David. What can I do for you? Is there anything that you want from Herat? Anything that I can give to you?”

“General, you have given me plenty. There is one favor that I’d like to ask of you, though.”

“Anything, David. Tell me what it is.”

“I’d like to take a tour of Herat. If you could arrange that, I’d be forever grateful. I’ve been to the Masjid Jami. But I want badly to go out and touch the minarets and the Alexander Citadel.”

“David, we will make that happen for you.”

We scheduled the tour a week later. I had to arrange to stay at the regional training center for a couple of nights. That wasn’t a problem as there was a Focused District Development in session at the time. I pretended that I had to assist with the course. The RTC commander knew that I was full of crap but he approved my stay as a favor. I brought with me a set of manjams, a leather jacket, and a
pakol
—Muj hat—to blend in while I was out in the city. There was no way that I could slip out of the RTC in manjams, so I changed from my ACUs into my “disguise” in Colonel Zahir’s office.