The Simplest of Questions - Thoughts on the Afghan War

On the 25 of August in 2009, 14 Afghan National Police members stole three Ford Rangers, took their weapons, and deserted from their posts at Neshin Castle. Just over a week later, 8 ANP members took a truck from the same outpost and deserted. A note in the military dispatch detailing the desertion states matter-of-factly that they deserted because they hadn’t been paid. NATO and the United Nations have been in Afghanistan for nearly a decade trying to build the civil structures of a functioning nation and they still can’t pay the police officers. These stories and others are detailed in over 90,000 short and terse military dispatches leaked to Wikileaks last week. The overall picture is grim. High civilian casualties, constant combat and disorder, and the systematic failure of institution-building come across in the acronym laden field reports. In the section focusing on defections, it is interesting to note that along with ANP desertions have been the surrender and defection of (sometimes) large groups of insurgents.

When the media portrays the war as a clash of civilizations and a battle between Islamic fundamentalism and the auspices of modern democracy, the field reports tell a different story. Alliances and allegiances in Afghanistan are weak and shift on a regular basis. The questions in the minds of Afghan (including those ANP members) are not of grand scale ideological conflict. They are the questions one would expect of anyone who has been trying to live in a country torn by war for nearly half a century: How do I keep a roof over my head? How do I feed myself and my children? How can I avoid getting killed. The ANP members did not swear allegiance to the Taliban and go off to fill their ranks. They left because they weren’t being paid and could not make a living. A dispatch tells of a group of around 40 insurgents who, after their Mullah had been killed, surrendered to US forces because they were tired of “running and hiding.” They didn’t admit that they were misguided and now accepted the West’s philosophy. They just wanted the fighting to stop.

Since the invasion and defeat of the Taliban government in 2001, NATO and the UN have imposed a top-down enforcement of institution-building in Afghanistan. Basically importing Karzai to head things and going to Warlords (some of the worst human rights violators in the world) and giving them cash and government posts. The hope seems to have been to drop a Western government from the sky onto the country and hope that it would take root. The result has been widespread corruption and nepotism. Warlords languish in their riches, accumulating more and more while the average Afghan has seen little to no improvement. In essence Afghanistan has gone from a vicious and genocidal (but predictable) dictatorship to a state of complete chaos where their lives depend on the whims of criminals and the aim of NATO fighter jets.

It is time for a rethinking of nation-building in Afghanistan. The top-down approach is not working and the basic needs of millions are still not being met. A story emerged recently (though it got very little publicity) of the success of a small Afghan community. The leaders of the town had realized that they couldn’t depend on the West for help against the Taliban and that they could depend on the Taliban to attack and conscript them so they decided on a grassroots approach. The community itself organized and trained a militia from their own ranks. To this day they have held off repeated Taliban attacks and secured their region without the help of Western aid. Their militia was referred to by an American commander as they most effective Afghan fighting force.

Take a man away from his family and town, put him in a uniform and give him a gun, put his life in constant danger, and don’t pay him anything. Chances are his support for your plans for his country will wane severely. Why shouldn’t those ANP members have deserted? What exactly were we doing for them? Take that same person, approach him in his town and offer him the basic tools for deciding his own destiny and trust can be built. It is not for us to decide what happens in Afghanistan. It is for the Afghans. An Afghan wants safety, peace and health as much as anyone else. Help is definitely needed and this is not a call for Western powers to pull out of Afghanistan. It is a call to truly, and for the first time, approach the Afghan people themselves and give them control. Undermine the Warlords and Taliban by building a horizontal base of grass-roots, village to village support. Let the villagers decide on the institutions they need and want and provide protection and support when they organize.

If anything can be said with certainty from any side of the political spectrum is that the Afghans have suffered enough. For us to replace tyranny with violent uncertainty and widespread cronyism is not helping. Let’s restart with the people and build from there.

Spirit of the Sun - Article

There is an uneasy peace in the streets of Cape Town. It appears as a city under siege. Armed guards stroll aimlessly through the business district twirling their truncheons. Barbed wire and electric fences surround all buildings from high-rises to modest apartments. The occasional car passes through the rainy streets. Everything feels sterile, sanitized and cold: lifeless. The morning passes and the streets begin to fill. But still, the joyous noise and mayhem of other major African cities cannot be found here. The blacks and the whites keep to themselves as they pass with briefcases in hand. Apartheid has ended, but still, of course, the streets and alleyways are cleaned by blacks. The city’s soul is hidden under a bullet-proof vest.
Some friends and I decided to visit one of the black Townships on the outskirts of the city near the airport. On the way there, the driver takes us through the remains of the completely bulldozed ‘District Six’. It used to be a huge neighbourhood housing blacks and whites that was completely demolished in the 1960s by Apartheid authorities. The homeless were relocated to shantytown camps, one of which was named ‘Langa’ meaning ‘the Sun’. Langa was the site of some of the fiercest battles between police and freedom activists during the fall of the White Only government. I had heard it described by journalists as a “hellhole of filth, disease, and violence.”
When we arrived I felt a keen sense of exhilaration. This was the Africa I had come to see. The dirt streets were overflowing with people. Corrugated tin roof shacks were stacked together and formed the passageways for the ample traffic. Scores of curious children swarmed us as we disembarked from the van. The healthy and well-clothed tots plied us with questions and took our hands as if to give us a personal tour of their home. We wandered the streets where women cooked meet on grills and men carried wares. Though we were a curiosity for passersby we were never hindered and never felt the slightest threat.
We were soon invited into a local bar, composed of an empty, windowless shack, with a bench around the inside, a woman stirring a pot at the back, and a solitary hanging light bulb providing the only illumination. The hut was filled with men of all ages, some with woolen caps. The beer was poured into an empty paint can and passed around the room. It was offered to us and we all had a swig. No payment was accepted and we thanked our gracious hosts.
Out on the street we were directed to one of the larger concrete bunkhouses that lined the center of the township. As we walked towards the building children played soccer in the street, teenagers stole glances at us and laughed, and old men chatted huddled around corners. The afternoon sun cast the scene in a golden hue.
I am told by the driver that it can take eight years or more of waiting before a family can be offered space in one of these barracks. We enter a room not near big enough to be called a bachelor suite back home. It is home to eight families and their sleeping bags are laid out in carefully assigned positions. The matriarch of the largest family proudly shows me around. She is particularly happy to show me her night-patrol jacket. During Apartheid, Langa was controlled by brutal criminal gangs. The populace rose up and did away with that, instituting their own patrols to keep the peace. She is beaming with pride over her role in keeping her community safe. Her husband is away in the city doing menial work to pay for their living. She is left to care for the kids during the day and watch the streets at night. I ask her,
“Is there any crime in Langa?”
“No, no,” she tells me, “everyone knows everyone else.”
We walk the busy streets and chat with many people. Most hope of a better life in the city, a better job, more money. Concurrent with this we encountered a strong sense of pride in the township. People talked about future plans for community centers and schools.
We made our way over to the ‘illegal settlements’. These were shacks set up on land that the government had designated as no-go zones. These were the poorest settlements in Langa. The industriousness of the residents was impressive. One family’s shack was composed entirely of doors. One made judicious use of toilet seats. A young man emerged from his home and welcomed us over. His two beautiful daughters came out to play with us and pose for pictures. With pride, he freely welcomed us into his home and introduced his wife. He explained that he worked during the day in the city. He told us that he worked very hard to provide a better life for his daughters.
The graciousness and generosity of the citizens of Langa was overwhelming. The strong and cohesive sense of community in this place in undeniable. The goal of Apartheid was to break the blacks: to disenfranchise them, take them from their homes, to destroy their culture, to make them weak and subservient. No greater testament to the failure of those policies exists than in Langa. Langa has a soul and it is vibrant, industrious, alive, joyous, and full of hope.
Whereas Cape Town exudes a feeling of fear and the need for protection, Langa welcomes you with open arms and oozes pride and self-regeneration. The townships and their tribulations contain valuable lessons for Cape Town. At the same time, there is much that Cape Town can do for the Townships. It would be thoroughly irresponsible to write anything about Langa without mentioning the poverty. It is there in force, especially in the illegal settlements. Much more funding is needed for proper housing for the residents. Much can be also done to address the rather shameful fact that the city uses the townships as a cheap labour force. Their pay rates are never sufficient to escape the townships and provide a better life for their children.
What Langa offers Cape Town is far more long-reaching. It is the proof that forgiveness is possible and sometimes great opportunity for bridge building can come from the relics of the painful past. The joyous, vibrant and stridently life-affirming spirit of this magical place can hopefully one day infect Cape Town itself.

The Lives of Others - Article

Dusk had fallen on the landscape like a thick blanket when we entered the town. Our vehicle bumped along the hole-scarred highway lined with wooden shacks. We were silhouetted by the shacks’ solitary light bulbs: the town’s only illumination. We rounded a bend and our path was blocked. A crowd of perhaps one hundred Ethiopian men danced and jumped in the street. They sang and waved their walking sticks giving us the impression that we had stumbled upon an impromptu celebration. As we inched forward into the mass, something changed in the space of an instant. The crowd enveloped the vehicle and began to shake it and beat the hood with their sticks. The reason for the change was written into their faces: they had seen my bearded white face in the back seat. Now the thump of sticks off the hood was accompanied by a multitude of outstretched hands demanding payment. In the midst of panic I realized that producing my wallet would have only worsened the situation. My sense of isolation was palpable. Regardless of the fact that I was in a vehicle with several Ethiopian friends I felt completely alone – the only white man in this corner of Africa.

After what seemed like an eternity, a man appeared shouting at the crowd and pushing them from the front of the vehicle. Our mystery benefactor cleared a small opening and we pushed forward and out of the town. As we entered the impenetrable darkness of the African night, our expedition cook turned to me from the front seat.
“They drank the local beer,” he said with a smile as calm and collected as he ever was. It was as if the situation had never weighed on his mind in the slightest.
These moments had been indicative of the best and the worst of an encounter with the Other. My difference, the colour of my skin, had been the catalyst of the meeting. Assumptions were made on both sides; neither side was capable of seeing past the prejudice of the moment to the truth of the matter. The group saw a rich westerner; an easy rube to be intimidated for benefit. I saw an unruly mob and probably imagined more danger than was really present. Yet in the end an unspoken dialogue prevailed. The man had pointed out to the crowd that they were being belligerent and putting themselves in a position of domination over me to extort reward. I was a visitor to this country and this, the man reasoned with the crowd, was highly inappropriate. This sense of action as being wrong was not Ethiopian, it was common to all humans. They left, only temporarily shamed out of song and dance to grant me a reprieve, and I departed relieved and shamed by the depth of my racially motivated fear. Nothing had been said and yet everything had been known.

The cook’s calm smile and reassuring words were important in their own right. However much we had come to know each other and however much we shared in common as human beings – we came from different worlds. In my world violence was a phenomenon most commonly experienced through watching the nightly news. Aside from the odd hallmarks of crime, such as seeing some yellow police tape in front of a local restaurant, it was largely foreign to me. And when I did see signs it was with the same grim glee as a motorist slowly driving past a highway accident.

As our vehicle drove on into the warm night, I took stock: there was an entire geography of context to understand in this country. This was a country where the proliferation of automatic weapons amongst the populace was absolutely commonplace. This was a country where the burnt carcasses of tanks and armored cars littered the fields. This was a country where a few cafes had grenades thrown into them shortly before I arrived. This was a country that had felt the despair of famine and the terror of war both in the very memorable past. A crowd of drunks haranguing one’s vehicle was barely something about which to raise an eyebrow.

Fear, however, real, unadulterated fear, is often the byproduct of a meeting with Others. In one sense it is a primal fear of the unknown harkening back to when humans existed in small clan groups and always risked encounters with other clans. As the late Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski put it, we are then faced with three choices. We can fence ourselves off from the Others and pursue an isolated existence. We can enter into dialogue with them and attempt to grow stronger with each others’ help. Or, we can enter into war with the Others. All too often, one can imagine that fear triumphed and war was the result. All we have to do is look at the innumerable conflicts around the world based on perceived difference and ethnicity. The unspeakably bloody results of Rwanda, Chechnya, and Bosnia added to what we witness everyday in Darfur, push us as social actors to somehow see past impulsive prejudice and conquer the fear.

When it comes to encountering difference, dialogue is the currency of cooperation. Without dialogue how can an Israeli come to terms with someone who is willing to blow himself up to fight what he sees as unjust oppression? Without an honest attempt at mutual understanding how can the average white American understand that the motives of terrorists are more complex than just idiomatic statements like “They hate our freedom,”? However, getting beyond the fear and towards a multilateral debate with others is no easy task and the cards are stacked against any who would try. In spite of this, rising above the anxiety of contact with those who are different from us is the most important task a person may be confronted with in contributing to a full and lasting peace in the world. We must not forget that in an encounter with Others, one learns important truths about oneself. In the words of Emmanuel Levinas, “…the self is only possible through recognition of the Other.” This is not always a pleasant or welcome experience – but it is vital. We immerse ourselves in a new context of being, essentially, in a new world. We are alone and we are whole. We are no longer a pastiche of our Western friends and values. We can become the Other and understand instead of drawing back in fear.

If we look at the globe, all we see are groups of Others trying to coexist. Boundaries are everywhere demarking difference: by race, by class, by country, by religion, or on a larger scale, North vs. South, East vs. West, First World and Third World, Occident and Orient. Perhaps the boundary that matters most is one defined by inequality: the boundary between the enfranchised and the disenfranchised, the haves and the have-nots. The gulf between those with power in the cabinets and boardrooms of the world and those in the streets crying out to be heard is the most chaotic and socially explosive of global divisions. It was just such a chasm of understanding into which I fell that night in the small mountain village. The men in the street saw an outsider with means: a man whose wealth allowed him to visit their country. Mine was the face of the ‘faranji’, the face of one who hides behind a camera lens and powers through their landscape in air-conditioned range rovers. Perhaps I angered them. Perhaps they were tired of being a display for self-important travelers. Perhaps they thought I owed them something.
All around us we see fences, wars and dialogue. Those with influence and capital build walls to protect them from the Others. Theirs’ is the dialogue of alliances of groups of others seeking domination of everyone else. They view the problems of the world through the strictly reductive lens of an economic prism while hiding behind their fences of police blockades and tear gas. Not surprisingly, it is fear of Others that guides their hands. It is a fear of what such an encounter would mean and, more importantly, what it might mean to the socioeconomic status quo that they have enjoyed so thoroughly for so long. However, the policies of exclusion and the deification of economic determinism have brought us to the chasm before which we stand and a serious altering of the status quo, if not complete overhauling, is due.

It is only the dialogue of inclusion and cooperation that has any chance of bridging the gap. The World Social Forum is a commendable example of groups of Others coming together and seeking solutions through multilateral assistance. They work to give a voice to the silenced. We must never forget that the whole Othering project, which sets us apart with difference is undermined by the primacy of human experience. We all take pride in our accomplishments and regret our failures; appreciate honesty and do not accept lies; feel comfortable and safe in a warm home and feel destitute in the cold street; we all demand dignity and the right to have our voices heard. The list can go on and on. This primacy unites us all, rich and poor, and is the key to breaching the fences of our world and opening productive lines of dialogue. In an age when environmental threats couple with economic and social ones to threaten the very existence of global order, meeting the Other on common ground and realizing our ultimate sameness is fundamental to our survival.