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
Bender, sorry for the delay in responding to this most excellent post. Ten years ago had someone told you you'd be living in a one room box in east bumf@#$ Afghanistan you'd have thought them nuts. Had they also told you that on the day you posted this missive on the internet, the man who was the reason you were there to begin with would become room temperature, just over those hills in the background, well...who knows what you'd have thought. Hopefully his demise will expedite, even by some small measure, the victory of good over this particular evil. Keep strokin' brutha and as always, thank you.
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