Weapon of Choice

(Please know, up front, the pictures have nothing to do with the writing.) 

Sporadic pop pop pop gunshots erupted on the street on my last full day at Kabul embassy. Gunfire continued, enough to get up from my nap (!). Looked out the third floor window of my room. Scurrying security guards moved about pointedly. 

One guard took a prone firing position, on the deck, aiming outward from the wall that encloses the embassy compound towards a place where Afghan kids usually play in the street. The gunfire sounds came from that direction. Sametime, sirens began wailing and, here at the embassy not a woman's but a man's recorded voice stiltingly broadcast over a loudspeaker, "Duck. And. Cover. Duck. And. Cover. Stay. Away. From the. Windows. And seek. Shelter." That message continued to play over and over for about twenty minutes, sirens wailing.

 

Americans have certain ways of reacting to seemingly dangerous situations. One way: humor. We have a place on the embassy where many overworked government servants congregate at the end of the day, after dinner, to enjoy each other's company and partake of libations. In a kind of psychologically twisted way, we named the bar, Duck and Cover. As that siren wailed and the voice told me to, "Duck. And. Cover," I couldn't help of any better way to pass the time than to hightail it to the Duck and Cover to have a beer whilst the Taliban hordes tried to breach the walls and come after us. Another example of American humor in the midst of a difficult situation: the crew of an American EP-3 was forced to hard land in China and held hostage about 11 years or so ago. Chinese guards were befuddled by the insurmountable attitude of the Americans. Often, unpredictably, the guys and gals in the crew would break out in the Eagles song, Hotel California, the one that goes, "You can check out any time you like. But you can never leave." How could those Americans sing when surrounded by guards, living in Chinese barracks, not knowing when or if they would ever get out or if they would be shot for "spying" on China? Must have something to do with hope. I like to think that in the middle of all that they hoped, i.e. they knew, their government was doing all it could and would continue to do all it could in its power, very considerable power, for every individual in that crew.

 

Back to the story. Turned out that Taliban hordes were not trying to breach the walls on this occasion. Word on the street: an Afghan on Afghan bungled kidnapping attempt or bank robbery. But that brings me to another way Americans react to situations with others or other nations: fear. We often come across as a fearful lot. Not knowing exactly what was going on outside those embassy walls, our "security" guys drew their guns and were ready to go, guns a blazin'. It was necessary in this case, to be sure. But people make mistakes, all the training in the world notwithstanding. Guys with guns are not exempt from this reality, especially fearful guys with guns. 

On the other hand, what comes across as fear to others could also be called, "attentiveness," which is not such a bad thing to have. Our world requires attentiveness. Indeed, this experiment in which we are all engaged, this attempt to exercise free government as a body politic, remains a fragile undertaking in history; must be protected. However, to the extent that we react at others from fear instead of who we are as a nation, motivated by the power of individual liberty and justice for all, we can make others edgy. Not a good thing where weapons, some capable of killing  whole cities of people in one fell swoop, abound. People with weapons can make mistakes.

My point seeks to agree somewhat with Brennan in his blog. In an "Us and Them" world, if we relate to others only in ways that dominate by armed force, or seem to over rely on force, we become a significant cause of our own insecurity. Others will resist. I surely would. I guess my point is: if our weapon of choice in relating with others in the world seems to be through weapons, then our nation will be short lived on the world stage. Live by the sword, die by the sword. Is that in the Bible?

Don't know. But what is in the Bible is the human strain to beat "swords into ploughshares," meaning enough with the weapons, let's get on with doing productive things that bring food to the table, both to our own tables and to those with whom we share this crowded and growing smaller place, Earth. If guns dominate relations, no one is growing the food or making tables or chairs or eating utensils or financing the people who do. What makes these United States the great nation it is, in my humble opinion (imho), are ideas assembled and arranged in such a way in our Constitution that men and women are incentivized to discover who they are as individuals and apply that in freedom to serving others in community, receiving value for service, be it farming or banking or construction or waiting tables, and sharing value with others who serve because none of us will ever have all we need alone. It is a great system, a balance not struck quite so well by any other nation in the world, again, imho. If I understand Brennan's thrust: self reflection, idea sharing, dialogue, commerce, and honest true-to-self-and-others negotiations will make the global neighborhood much better than weapon pointing.

 

I began this post thinking I would move to Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) and their relevance to what is going on in Afghanistan. However, I shall let it rest; will get to that on my next post.

 

Am returned to the U. S.; amongst you I dwell. Thank you for your prayers while I was over there. Prayers work miracles, no doubt, and this strange mix of dust and water inside my flesh will look to smile with each of you again. Airborne, enroute to Colorado, am struck by the beauty of this verdant land of ours. God shed His grace on thee. Please know you are blessed just to be living in these United States. If you are prone to gratefulness, let me suggest your life here is one thing for which to be grateful. I am. I do not love my country more than I love my God. However, I love my country because it gives me the space to love my God, who calls me to love you, which I do, deeply, of my own accord, which is how I believe my God would want it. Peace, Tim

p.s. These pictures are a tribute to two groups of people. One, the beautiful people in Afghanistan, for whom you are devoting considerable resources and sending your fellow countrymen and women; some give their lives most immediately on the Afghan behalf, the most unselfish act. Two: to you, the group of people who offer your bounty and lives so the Afghans may have life, freedom to choose, as well. Who knows if what you offer will be enough? But you offer it anyway, another unselfish act.

 Have recently come back into touch with a long ago friend who has encouraged me to love myself. Now, those of you who know me might think that I have never had a problem with self love, heck sometimes all I have thought about is myself, selfish guy by nature that Tim Roorda. My friend, though, has encouraged me to love myself practically, i.e. make a practice of loving myself. My immediate response is, heck, since 14 or so, I have practiced loving myself...all too often! What my friend means, though, I have realized, appears alien to me. Among the ramifications, first: actually quit accusing myself of being a bad person; set down the negative adjectives; cease and desist the selfishness that beats me over the head with how inadequate I am or what I just did is. Let go the self obsessed judgment in how I relate with others; stop prefacing interaction with apologies. Second: become aware of how I do fit in, how I am contributing to the work around me, of the attributes I genuinely love about myself. My friend encouraged me to write a love letter to myself, read, record, and listen to it. How weird! So I did: a fascinating exercise, healing practice, highly recommend it. To love self anew, I had to realize the old way, the obsessed judgment that self castigates, injects guilt and/or shame, forces me to read self improvement books and induces me to buy what advertisements tell me to buy, did not achieve the desired effect: better self. To love myself anew, I have to apply myself to seeing the good, look inward for resolution, "don't just do something, sit there." Strangely, this corresponds with one of my focused prayers over the past few years:  "God, please turn my eyes away from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. God, please help open my eyes to the Tree of Life." In short, God, Who has everything to do with the Tree of Life, encourages self love, has given Self through the Christ, has always been encouraging me that way: am a beloved child of The Author. Could that be one of Christ's most profound messages: peace on earth good will to men (and women), forgive not only others but self, love yourself because the Great, Good, Living, Loving God loves you? When you genuinely love self, loving others comes naturally? Saw an evocative quote recently with my friend from the beginning of this paragraph: "Bad news is: there is no key to the universe. Good news: universe was never locked." - Beyondnanda

So, am better because of my long ago friend. And being better contributes to wanting to be better in mind, in heart,  in body. Looking inward with my mind at my body, I realized I lack core strength. Not just a little but a lot; anatomically articulated, very 

underdeveloped psoas, transverse abdominal and related core muscles. Sure, have done yoga for years. Been an athlete all my life. Took pride in physical fitness and working out. But since I was a kid, I have used strength in all-around muscles to make it look like I was performing a particular motion, like walking or climbing stairs, or striking a pose, e.g. "tree" in yoga. Took four years but yoga 

and my friend have exposed me as a fake. Absent the value judgment and self flagellation (see paragraph one), I can get on with doing things correctly. Estimate it will take about three years to aright. But engaging my core as I sit, as I walk, and doing specific exercises that isolate and encourage the underdeveloped muscles makes everyday actions easier. Dear God, has everyone else known this all their lives? All my life, been working my butt off (literally because I used a lot of butt muscles to compensate...probably used my butt muscles to smile...have been a buttface then, no? Forgive me, please, for being a buttface and for digressing) for sitting, walking, among other activities.  Breathing, especially, has gotten easier. And for a guy who had asthma as a child, like that it could kill me, breathing better brings new life.

Almost fifty, learning how to breathe. So much to learn. A kid again. What pain in the butt! What fun! What next, Papa?

Returning to the U.S. next Saturday. Intend to share with you in next post impressions of this place, another planet,  from this time, some nine months past since I landed in southern Afghanistan. Have interspersed pictures of self and this place over these past nine months to hint at the next post, should be soon. Maybe even next week. Happy Father's Day. Love you all dearly, Tim

Kandahar rockets, God, terror, politics and pics

Her voice comes across loud, clear, unruffled, matter of fact. And I know she must care for me because she is telling me what is going on around me, why the siren. She has a British accent. I pay attention to her voice. As I get older, am convinced that God has powerful feminine aspects. One reason I know God has feminine qualities is because women, collectively and as individuals, often scare the bejeezus out of me, always have, make me tremble in my boots; have been able to hide it pretty well, mostly by being angry at them, trying to conquer them. Don't know why, just acknowledging it. Younger, I never would have admitted it. But now am not judging it; perhaps am moving from terror to respect, proper respect for the power a woman has and instead of wanting to win against a woman, am moving to move with and trust Woman; She is great, knows what is best, and will not crush my bones to bake Her bread.  I still have no problem referring to God as Him but it is with profound humility and awareness that it's just a pronoun, falls short of expressing characteristics of Identity. Please, am not suggesting that God is a female with a British accent and has been talking to me about sirens. Am not going crazy, though that Easter post may have led you to believe so.  The British accent woman referred to above is the one that slowly announces over the Kandahar base loudspeaker, along with the siren, "Rocket.......attack.     Rocket........attack.      Rocket........ attack," when motored, metaled, exploding frag shafts with half an education have been fired at us from far away Afghan fields. Far, but close enough. 

When we hear her and the siren, first thing: hit the deck and cover. Not unlike the duck and cover drills at University Park Elementary School when the Soviet scourge was on the verge of nuking us in the 1970s. I remember Mrs. Luke, her very blond doo wop hair, white skin, piercing blue eyes and upturned nose like a sidewinder snake, telling us in third grade that Denver was a likely target because of NORAD in Colorado Springs and the big Buckley golf balls. Whatever was our lesson that day (we learned how to write cursive in third grade) we also learned fear of powers beyond the playground, beyond our community, far away from under our desks, from the other side of the world. 

Now, here I am, on the other side of the world in Kandahar. Second thing, after a couple minutes of closely studying either rocks and pebbles on the ground or designs on a linoleum floor, we move to the nearest concrete bunker. If I am in my room, I always take my small block of wood, to sand it further into a massage bar for sore muscles. Sanding whiles the time away, sometimes as much as 45 minutes, as we chat, often joke and laugh as Americans are want to do wherever we are, whatever the circumstances, and wait for the male voice that says over the same speaker system, "All clear...all clear...all clear." My heart goes out to all in the world who are subject to random violence, who are going about their lives, trying to fit in, trying to be productive for their communities when all of a sudden, out of nowhere and for no discernible reason to themselves, they must break their line of concentration and activity for fear and move, just to see another sunrise. It is no way to live. And I pray we never experience that life on our soil. 

I have to choose to not be afraid. Tough decision because stories abound. Couple years ago an Australian guy, who could usually be found in his room, stepped out for laundry or some such for a few minutes one day. That moment a rocket crashed through the wall, exploded, melted everything. He was pissed: his computer became thrashed, melted plastic. (Note to self: back up files frequently when in a war zone.) In a tragic development while I have been here, a rocket killed a woman from Kenya who was working hard for her family back home. There is evidence that, historically, some of the culture from this area of the world supported a strand of thinking, "Do not fear the thousands but fear the one." A group of people here (and I gotta do more research on this with my mentor here) used to send out assassins who would work their way into inner circles of service to leadership in nearby empires. It took years. On a given day, that one would receive a golden dagger, which was his signal to kill. That concept of fear the one has a big return on investment, empowers a small group of people leverage to coerce others. I guess that's one form of terrorism, where very few people hold more political sway only because they are able, willing, and have the means to harm or kill. I do not see the Taliban as a religious group because of their history. I see them more as a bullying political group because they want political power to determine how the people here will live as a body politic, how everyone should believe and how that belief expresses itself in daily life. They do whatever it takes to retain power, like any politician would. But they are a very small minority, if you believe our polls. That last clause holds the most meaning for what we are doing here: if you believe our polls. The people here in South Afghanistan have been so bullied, so beaten down, so thrashed about over the past thirty years, it is often perceived that they will answer a pollster in line with what they sense the pollster wants to hear. That is, the people here have learned to survive by not expressing their own will, their own thoughts, their own identity but by pleasing those taking the poll, those that have the biggest guns, in order to to see the next sunrise. My prayer is we are using our power as a nation, our ideas and yes our guns, to create space for the Afghans to exercise their own will, to express themselves peacefully, to empower them to say "yes" or "no" for their own lives. And dang it, it takes time to wake up from thirty years of living nightmare. But, who are these people, really? What we are doing may not work at least in terms we define; I think we must honestly face that fact as a nation of people. However, I also honestly believe we as a people, as a body politic along with other nations, are doing the best we can, bound by bureacracies, to help these people wake up from a living nightmare. 

IHow we are doing it can always be improved upon. For that reason, am glad we have the media, who like a good woman, points out how things are screwed up. A good reporter (and woman) might even suggest how things could be better. Regardless, am pleased to be part of this effort so in the future, experience will help me contribute to better action from our nation.

f you want to read more about what is happening in Afghanistan, please email me. A friend here I should be honored to call sensei wrote an excellent article, uses cinema to analyze and better understand what is happening. Good, fun read. Shall get his permission to send it to you.  Enough the banter, Bender! Some pictures.  

Mike Warmack, a good friend, Colonel in the Army, and I stand on a terrace that overlooks the border with Pakistan; I think it is called The Friendship Gate. Behind us is Pakistan. We were in a town called Weesh in Spin Boldak. Strange names. We flew from there over a place called Registan, a big red sand desert, with the spectre of sparse rock mountains below.

 

To the right is home sweet home. Our single rooms are inside this structure. Here, the balance between beauty and "security" tilts heavily toward "security," big concrete T walls. The architecture tends toward clamshell roofs, gray colors, and stolid heavy shapes; at least it's life. Not how I would want to live for long, though.






So, in my very small way, I chose to counter the architectural effect, invested myself in some flowers, peat moss from Amazon, help from an accomplice who shipped me fertilizer and seeds, and local dirt. Below is a pic of a flower box I made with young sprouts reaching upward to the April sun: zinnias, that will look like spinning school children with outstretched hands in multi colors, and calendula, seeds came from my garden in Denver.

You can also see I had to thin out, pull some of the sprouts that crowded the box. It's a tough process to choose which to pull and which will live. The box cannot support all that come up; I leave the ones I pull to wither next to those still living. Some belief tells me their decomposition adds to the richness of the soil, gives meaning to the lives that go on. Made me ask the philosophical question, "Do the lives of our young Soldiers and Marines, who invest themselves wholly for us as a nation, add to the soil of our lives as we go on?"

Another flower box, this one has sunflowers (for Mom), thumbergina (for Mert) and red mustard leaf, a wasabi like taste of home from my garden. This small project helped pull my mind out of the emotional struggle I was going through in March and April, gave me reason, shared lives that had to be tended to; carried me through that time of now done darkness.

Nor would I have made it through without your prayers, your thoughts, my trust that you care. I know you are there for me, as I am here, with all those serving in Afghanistan, for you. That living circle gives our collective lives powerful meaning, whatever comes. Peace and Love,

Tim

Predisposed...

[Please forgive, it’s been a while. Let me post this Easter message. I will offer a conventional update with pictures soon...]

Being a guy with a spiritual bend, am subject to stories. Have learned recently how much words affect me, how fragile my ego makes me. Predisposed to the story that there is something wrong with me, something seriously wrong, it emotionally shreds me to hear rumors of rumors that my performance in a job was flawed, that my contribution to the team was judged negatively. Wondering and worrying about what people said and are saying about me sets me up for emotional tug of war. One end pulls with strong story that there is something seriously wrong; I should quit. The other pulls with fighter pilot ego, strenuously defending myself in my own mind, seeking comfort in stories that counter, that assert I am good, I am damn good. I put myself on trial in my own head and make myself prosecutor, judge, and jury, eager to convict and punish, even to the point of physically harming myself. In emotional pain, for integrity’s sake, it would feel only right to have physical suffering. What concerns me of late: I may, like an addict, need this emotional drama. I may behave to establish this kangaroo court in my head because I end up in some kinda sick but comfortable funk that causes me to wallow in worry, in fears, to walk on egg shells in the midst of friends and co workers. Instead of being a man who seeks truth in the job and Truth about life, I end up in the court’s attached jail: distraught, behaving with hesitation, mealy mouthed, milquetoast. Not swinging away at life I ride the bench, like I did with deep emotional pain in ninth and tenth grade during baseball season.

I quit baseball after that. Quitter? Yes, that is true. In eleventh grade I turned to lacrosse to stay in the game. So, it’s also true that I continued playing. Ron Harris, Jr, with the eye of the artist and whose words have often cut to the chase in my life, reminded me a couple of years ago I am a survivor. Have come to realize that as a tremendous dynamic. Through all the failures, through all the seriously impossible situations where I glommed onto the story that something is wrong with me, I have survived.

Am looking at the stories I tell myself, the legalistic trials my mind plays and replays. Truth is, that is selfishness. So, the courtroom in my head begins the proceedings: Accuser tells me how bad I am because I am selfish. Rejects the word "fragile," tells me I am "weak." Strongly advises, "Admit it. Give up and die." But the ego rushes to defend with proof, asserts I am doing great things here in Afghanistan, that the understanding and insight that come from me today will fix the problems here and teach the Afghans the right way to live, that I, among all here and now, am more valuable than those around me, of whom I can speak negatively, whom I must derogate to feel better about myself. What crap!

When I stop, be still, listen to silence, perhaps in prayer, a still small voice intimates: that courtroom drama, striving to convict me to its attached jail and demean those nearby, leads to neither here and now nor there and then. The firm and gentle voice suggests to keep on, with dignity. It's okay I still don't get it. Continue to swim in a sea of unknowing by the grace of the Power, Presence, and Person. Instead of value negative terms like "weak," "selfish," "hopeless," that still small voice uses words like "fragile," "My beloved child," and "faith." Truth points toward a different venue for drama, a theater with a different story, whose seats, stage, and walls are made of wood from the Tree of Life. And that theater has a Tavern attached! Where can I buy tickets to that theater? Who mints the coins accepted as legal tender at that wild and fun Tavern?

Happy Easter. Thank you for your prayers; they have delivered me through a terrible desert.

Tim

In Marja...how we doing in Afghanistan?

A few days before my 49th birthday, waiting for the helicopter, teeth chattering at 3:30 a.m., about 25 degrees, my arms- gloved hands wrapped round for warmth, lying horizontal on a dusty bench near the flight line, looking silently up at stars that blanketed a beautiful night sky, no artificial lights near, every piece of clothing in my backpack and body armor on, fleece vest under a winter shell coat zipped to my mouth, a thick silk black bandana to my nose, clear protective eyeglasses, hood pulled up and over my kevlar helmet covering the wool cap on my head, ear plugs muffling most sound, and I thought, shivering, eyes straight vertical, "God, this is cool! Orion's belt is particularly stellar here and now."

I had spent that week in Marja, an important District Center in the Central Helmand Valley. Marja was carved with Helmand River irrigation from a dusty desert in the 1950s by USAID as a farming village with blocks, canals, and drainage ditches designed to optimize agricultural production. This particular area has been widely covered by the media this past year; the Marines went in last February and the fight has killed many. Held up by the U. S. and Afghanistan as an example of how we are going about this struggle, detractors have shown their light on Marja to demonstrate our effort in Afghanistan is doomed. Indeed, Marja presents somewhat in microcosm what we are trying to achieve here. I went there to find out for myself, something I learned on my trip to war-torn Nicaragua with Phil Neff in 1984: truth on the ground usually differs from how it is portrayed. Everyone has an agenda, me not excluded. Please let me share this openly with you, not as a representative of the United States. This is only my opinion and I request you treat it with the trust and confidence our friendship engenders.

No one would have guessed three months ago what I saw in Marja: a school opening in Balakino neighborhood where 200 kids, eager to learn, lined up to watch the district governor cut the tape to formally open the building. Fathers of the kids, with AK-47s, formed a neighborhood watch atop the school to protect it from those who would use violence and destruction. Yes, it has been a real threat. Insurgents have firebombed schools, threatened children who attend, thrown acid on girls, and done all they could to stop formal education of kids. Further north in Koru Chereh, another school, this one still a series of tents, where now 350 kids in 2 shifts per day attend. These kids beamed to be able to read, proudly standing at the front to recite their lesson in the mid day, comfortable sun. A resolute principal, who has faced, faces, and will continue to face death threats and murder attempts, stood strongly by, equanimous, neither smiling nor gloomy, present for the students, there to make sure they continue to learn. People in markets, teeming to buy and sell and walk in the streets. Most remarkably, there were women walking outside, in the markets. Of course, they wore burkas but they were out, which indicated an environment where women could walk. Conversations with locals, with authorities, with U. S. and British personnel revealed a remarkable change of tone over the past three months. 

When the Marines arrived last February, it took them eighteen hours to fight their way approximately 50 meters. And elders as late as October would not attend a shura (meeting) for fear they would be targeted by insurgents. I attended a shura with 70 elders where they began considering an agricultural processing facility. An older, white haired and long bearded man, pleasantly plump, entered the tent and all stood. He beamed with grandfatherly love, walked with a limp from Soviet bullets in his leg, his eyes went every whichaway, and, in the shura, honestly confronted the governor with the support of those in attendance. The governor will have to account for his actions with regard to this processing facility; this is how these people forge their future, the only true source of security. 

 

(Look closely for missing toofer! All I wanted for Christmas was one front tooth.Thanks, Heller!)

That is not to say we are done in Marja. While I was there, we lost a Marine, five blocks away from where I was at the time. And the loss affected me more than when I was on the carrier when we lost two fellow aviators, friends. Perhaps it is age but it seems to me that ground warriors have a much more intense experience of loss when one of theirs is killed. His name is Lucus Scott; I'll never forget it. I suggested to the authorities above me that we must wait until June before we characterize Marja for the fighting season returns after the poppy harvest in April. What will happen in Marja? An open ended question.

In Helmand, we have created time and space for six district centers to determine how they are going to live and they have reached out for a new way of life beyond threats, murder, intimidation, and destruction. However, these district centers are islands of opportunity in a swamp where insurgents continue to lurk and try to stay alive. If they survive, and the people do not reject them, then they will likely return to power. So the next step is to link the islands, the district centers, for people to move freely, for commerce, for ideas, for discussion to determine how these people want to live as a nation.

So down south, which is a different Afghanistan from the north, we are achieving measures of success. Up north, my friend James tells me we are seen as supporting a government in which the Afghans have lost hope. But if we are going to stay until 2014, the next election cycle, then we have a commitment to a new government beyond the current administration here. That tells me something, what exactly am still not sure. 

Am going to sign off now. Please feel free to ask questions. I will answer them as honestly as I can. It will help all of us if you come to your own conclusions about this place called Afghanistan, what and how we're doing here. You are why we are here in this cold, hot, flat, globular, crowded, lonely world, where all we really have is each other and The One. Love, Tim

 

Pigeon Games

Let me share my yesterday afternoon stroll with you. An American businessman friend, James, and I walked through Babur Gardens, around the mountain from Kabul, near the University. Air temperate and comfortable, much like a later afternoon in Denver, about 55 degrees, warm in fleece, walking, talking, enjoying space and time away from the thick pollution that smugs the rest of Kabul. Am not going to write some didactic macro history summary about Babur, a 16th century Moghul emperor from India who insisted on being buried here in a non grandiose manner, writing, "If there is a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here." Neither will I try to describe the quaint and proportional marble tomb and mosque, whose intricate archways create such a beautiful sense of motion as you walk by. Nor risk the words to fall short of the marble ribbon watercourse that bisects the gardens, trees, rose bushes (some with leaves and half emerged blossoms waiting just a slight sustained upturn in temperature to burst), and large grass lawns that form descending terraces down the slope of a mountain. A few Afghans shared the park with us, walking about peacefully. Instead, let me project what was going on with the pigeons.

Envision multiple flocks of pigeons flying about, not directly above but off to the side of the gardens over the high wall that separated the garden trees from the houses that escalated along the contour of the rising slope, stadium seating if you will, where the garden is the stage for the neighbors on their roofs and balconies. The pigeons circulated about the homes on the northwest side of the stadium. What caught our attention was whistling and then flag waving that accompanied the flights of the pigeons. James soon recognized this as a game that Afghan men play late in the day this time of year. Various pitched whistles, different colored flags moving back and forth like metronomes, the launch and gyrating flights of birds from separate balconies, morphing patterns of wing flapping specks forming new rounding flock shapes, expanding and contracting, now dense now rarefied, turning and turning, landing then launching again with a flag wave, each flock flitting around the most beautiful pigeon. Indeed the game centers on this pigeon. Looking closer, each had a central pigeon whose colors distinguished her: browns, creams, and whites in unusual patterns. In the market, a prize pigeon can garner between US$5,000 and US$6,000, James advises.

The goal of the game is to garner more pigeons for your flock with the beauty of your pigeon. The human element comes in when they land on your balcony and you tend to them, feeding them, caring for them, treating them well. The ultimate score is for the beautiful pigeon from another flock to join yours and end up on your balcony or rooftop so you can nurture them. I don't think it's a game where one Afghan neighbor gets in his neighbor's face or talks smack about how his pigeon kicked butt on another the night before. Rather, it's a game of gathering, in the end, uncontrollable birds flitting about in the late afternoon wind, treating them well such that the beauty within chooses to nest on your rooftop or balcony. Unlikely this game would ever catch on in the West for how does a human control how a pigeon perceives beauty? And without more control over the factors at play, how can there ever be fair competition? James and I watched, fascinated, for some time. Then we heard loud dog barks and growls accompanied by human cheering which told us another Afghan sport was at play: dogfights. We moved on.

James drove me back to the embassy through teeming crowds in multiple markets and chaotic traffic circles of Kabul, people running out right in front of us, traffic jams, pot holed streets between dilapidated and bombed out buildings left standing, spiral staircase skeletons reaching to nowhere, bullet pock marks in the walls, everything and everyone stained with a particular Afghan look, rugged and surviving, can't call it unclean or dirty because the beauty of these people is that they continue living through all of it, not giving up. They do not smile. They look back squarely and state their hope by continuing to live.

Am back on the plane, bound for Camp Leatherneck, about to land and return to work after three weeks of being with family and friends and love in Colorado, Jordan, and Bahrain. Tears well up in my eyes as I think of home, you, our mountains and the beauty of our mutual lives, how precious in this world of ours, how blessed you and I are. Am grateful for this job, pleased to no end that this power of emotion which has brought me to tears connects me with you through time and space, allows me the privilege to sign with genuine Love,

Tim

p.s. below is a picture in front of the library at the University of Kabul with my Afghan friends, Syed is to your left and Shuja is to your right.