Friday, January 27, 2012
Return
Well I am looking into returning to Afghanland to join my friend's in the 173rd. I have contacted a few of them and they are all for it. The goal is to get more Video and Photos to complete a book.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Here is a nice story. We need soldiers like this.
Master Cpl. Shawn Grove pictured here with his Pashto dictionary and notebook, taught himself to speak fluent Pashtun while on three tours of Afghanistan.
Photograph by: Rick MacWilliam, Edmonton Journal
EDMONTON — It was a hot and dusty July day and Master Cpl. Shawn Grove was stuck in a traffic jam on a narrow, crowded road in Kandahar City.
His upper body out the roof of a Light Armoured Vehicle, at the gunner position, he turned to an Afghan family in an open-box cargo truck in the next lane. A farmer and his two young sons sat among sacks of grapes and raisins.
“How you guys doing?” Grove asked in Pashto, the dominant language in southern Afghanistan. “Is traffic always like this?”
The farmer’s jaw dropped. His sons scrambled over their grapes to gawk at the foreign soldier who spoke their language. Between the truck and the LAV, an Afghan boy skidded his bike to a clumsy stop and stared at Grove, wide-eyed.
Across the gap, the farm boy from Barrhead, Alta., shook hands with the Afghans. He passed the boys candies mailed from Canada, and was rewarded with a bag of grapes in return. Traffic finally moved, and Grove told them to have a good day, again in Pashto.
Everyone within earshot stared.
That quick conversation leaped the language barrier between Canadian soldiers and those they protect.
Pashto is spoken by more than 50 million people worldwide, and is well-known as a difficult language to learn. For the past nine years, the Canadian Forces have relied heavily on local Afghan translators.
But halfway through his second tour in the country, Grove decided there was a better way.
Partly, it was boredom. Partly, he wanted to crack a joke to Afghan National Army members he saw every day.
“I just decided it would be interesting to hear what they were saying all the time. It started with me writing a couple sentences down and having them slowly translate them. I would write it the way I heard, making up my own punctuation. It rolled from there, it was learning by immersion.”
At nights, the soldier studied in his bunk. He spent his free time with Afghan army members and police officers, drinking chai tea and teaching them English in exchange for new Pashto phrases he carefully printed in a dog-eared notebook.
By the end of his 2008 tour, the member of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry, 1st Battalion, could converse. But it wasn’t until he returned to Edmonton that his studies took off. Grove bought a computer program and sought out local Afghans to talk with. He watched Pashto videos on YouTube and covered the subtitles with his hands. He’d never learned a second language before, no classes in high school, and had no previous interest.
“I didn’t follow any learning pattern, and military-wise there is no language training. They give us an afternoon, here and there, but it’s for the basics, like greetings or ‘Stop or I’ll shoot.’ There was no real program in place, so I did my own thing.”
When he returned to Afghanistan in 2009, Grove was determined to hold full conversations with Afghan people. When Canadians arrived in a new village, approaching nervous families, it was often Grove who smoothed over those first crucial minutes.
“It’s such an icebreaker. If you can walk into a village and say hello, that’s one thing, but it’s another to say it’s nice to meet you and crack a few jokes. You get everybody smiling and you’re on a better foot already. It breaks down a lot of barriers. People are way more receptive and remember you the next time you arrive.”
Grove would show off pictures of his family and aerial shots of the farm where he grew up.
He discovered that a Captain Black cigar from Canada bought him 20 minutes of conversation while the smoke drifted.
Lifelong Afghan soldiers had never met a foreign uniform they could discuss their personal lives with. Even the Afghans who made it obvious that Canadians were unwanted surrendered to their curiosity about Grove.
He didn’t learn to read and write the language, as many of the Afghans he spoke to were illiterate.
Grove, 28, smiles when he recalls the missteps and confusion that accompanied his learning — such as the time a translator tricked him into calling his commanding officer an a—hole. He learned the hard way that Afghans have little concept of sarcasm. Often, he was encouraged to convert to Islam, which he politely declined.
Grove once translated between a Canadian medic and an Afghan boy with a gash on his head. When they were done, Grove stood, and in his rough accent, said: “It’s sad when children are hurt. I don’t like to see this.”
The assembled locals put their hands over their hearts in reply.
Over his three tours, Grove has seen his language skills grow in importance as the mission has progressed from firefights with the Taliban to a more structured counter-insurgency.
“In 2006, on my first tour, I didn’t even give it a thought. Now, a counter-insurgency is basically a popularity contest, you want to be more popular than the adversary. You’re a lot more popular if you can tell a joke.”
Capt. Cole Peterson, also from 1PPCLI, met Grove before and during their 2009 tours of the country. He applauded Grove’s efforts, both for the dedication they require and the benefits they bring.
“Over there, it’s completely obvious how foreign we are. We look different, walking around in all our gear. For one of us to speak like them, it immediately gets us in the door.”
Most soldiers “bash a few phrases” into their heads to make their jobs easier, but few have the natural aptitude for the language Grove has, Peterson said.
“It is a completely different language than anything we’re used to. There’s a lot of distinct noises you have to make with your throat.”
Grove plans to leave the military soon for a more “normal life,” having experienced everything he imagined when he joined at age 19 in 2002. The military was his dream since childhood and it led to 20 months in Afghanistan. Now, his battered, torn Pashto-English dictionary is the prize souvenir of his three tours.
“In hindsight, it’s a simple thing,” he said. “It’s a sign of respect to learn someone else’s language.”
Edmonton Journal
© Copyright (c) The Edmonton Journal
It's only a matter of time until some jealous officer tries to court marshal him.
Photograph by: Rick MacWilliam, Edmonton Journal
EDMONTON — It was a hot and dusty July day and Master Cpl. Shawn Grove was stuck in a traffic jam on a narrow, crowded road in Kandahar City.
His upper body out the roof of a Light Armoured Vehicle, at the gunner position, he turned to an Afghan family in an open-box cargo truck in the next lane. A farmer and his two young sons sat among sacks of grapes and raisins.
“How you guys doing?” Grove asked in Pashto, the dominant language in southern Afghanistan. “Is traffic always like this?”
The farmer’s jaw dropped. His sons scrambled over their grapes to gawk at the foreign soldier who spoke their language. Between the truck and the LAV, an Afghan boy skidded his bike to a clumsy stop and stared at Grove, wide-eyed.
Across the gap, the farm boy from Barrhead, Alta., shook hands with the Afghans. He passed the boys candies mailed from Canada, and was rewarded with a bag of grapes in return. Traffic finally moved, and Grove told them to have a good day, again in Pashto.
Everyone within earshot stared.
That quick conversation leaped the language barrier between Canadian soldiers and those they protect.
Pashto is spoken by more than 50 million people worldwide, and is well-known as a difficult language to learn. For the past nine years, the Canadian Forces have relied heavily on local Afghan translators.
But halfway through his second tour in the country, Grove decided there was a better way.
Partly, it was boredom. Partly, he wanted to crack a joke to Afghan National Army members he saw every day.
“I just decided it would be interesting to hear what they were saying all the time. It started with me writing a couple sentences down and having them slowly translate them. I would write it the way I heard, making up my own punctuation. It rolled from there, it was learning by immersion.”
At nights, the soldier studied in his bunk. He spent his free time with Afghan army members and police officers, drinking chai tea and teaching them English in exchange for new Pashto phrases he carefully printed in a dog-eared notebook.
By the end of his 2008 tour, the member of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry, 1st Battalion, could converse. But it wasn’t until he returned to Edmonton that his studies took off. Grove bought a computer program and sought out local Afghans to talk with. He watched Pashto videos on YouTube and covered the subtitles with his hands. He’d never learned a second language before, no classes in high school, and had no previous interest.
“I didn’t follow any learning pattern, and military-wise there is no language training. They give us an afternoon, here and there, but it’s for the basics, like greetings or ‘Stop or I’ll shoot.’ There was no real program in place, so I did my own thing.”
When he returned to Afghanistan in 2009, Grove was determined to hold full conversations with Afghan people. When Canadians arrived in a new village, approaching nervous families, it was often Grove who smoothed over those first crucial minutes.
“It’s such an icebreaker. If you can walk into a village and say hello, that’s one thing, but it’s another to say it’s nice to meet you and crack a few jokes. You get everybody smiling and you’re on a better foot already. It breaks down a lot of barriers. People are way more receptive and remember you the next time you arrive.”
Grove would show off pictures of his family and aerial shots of the farm where he grew up.
He discovered that a Captain Black cigar from Canada bought him 20 minutes of conversation while the smoke drifted.
Lifelong Afghan soldiers had never met a foreign uniform they could discuss their personal lives with. Even the Afghans who made it obvious that Canadians were unwanted surrendered to their curiosity about Grove.
He didn’t learn to read and write the language, as many of the Afghans he spoke to were illiterate.
Grove, 28, smiles when he recalls the missteps and confusion that accompanied his learning — such as the time a translator tricked him into calling his commanding officer an a—hole. He learned the hard way that Afghans have little concept of sarcasm. Often, he was encouraged to convert to Islam, which he politely declined.
Grove once translated between a Canadian medic and an Afghan boy with a gash on his head. When they were done, Grove stood, and in his rough accent, said: “It’s sad when children are hurt. I don’t like to see this.”
The assembled locals put their hands over their hearts in reply.
Over his three tours, Grove has seen his language skills grow in importance as the mission has progressed from firefights with the Taliban to a more structured counter-insurgency.
“In 2006, on my first tour, I didn’t even give it a thought. Now, a counter-insurgency is basically a popularity contest, you want to be more popular than the adversary. You’re a lot more popular if you can tell a joke.”
Capt. Cole Peterson, also from 1PPCLI, met Grove before and during their 2009 tours of the country. He applauded Grove’s efforts, both for the dedication they require and the benefits they bring.
“Over there, it’s completely obvious how foreign we are. We look different, walking around in all our gear. For one of us to speak like them, it immediately gets us in the door.”
Most soldiers “bash a few phrases” into their heads to make their jobs easier, but few have the natural aptitude for the language Grove has, Peterson said.
“It is a completely different language than anything we’re used to. There’s a lot of distinct noises you have to make with your throat.”
Grove plans to leave the military soon for a more “normal life,” having experienced everything he imagined when he joined at age 19 in 2002. The military was his dream since childhood and it led to 20 months in Afghanistan. Now, his battered, torn Pashto-English dictionary is the prize souvenir of his three tours.
“In hindsight, it’s a simple thing,” he said. “It’s a sign of respect to learn someone else’s language.”
Edmonton Journal
© Copyright (c) The Edmonton Journal
It's only a matter of time until some jealous officer tries to court marshal him.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
My Review of Men’s/Women’s Fort Lewis Uniform Boots
Originally submitted at Danner.com
Men’s/Women’s Fort Lewis Uniform Boots
Photographer in Afghan winter
By Jake the Photojournalist from Canada and Afghanistan on 12/8/2010
Sizing: Feels true to size
Width: Feels true to width
Arch Type: Low Arch
Pros: Water Resistant, No Break-in, Great Traction, Good height, Warm, Comfortable, Sturdy/Durable
Cons: Too warm for hot weather
Best Uses: Light Loads, Harsh Terrain, Long-Distance Hiking, 20c to -20c, Everyday, Heavy Loads, Wet Conditions, Cold Weather, Day Hiking
Describe Yourself: Professional/Guide
Was this a gift?: No
These boots were great when the weather got colder in Kabul. Even in Stockholm at -15c there was no feeling of cold. The Gore-tex regulates the moisture so you never get that cold foot feeling when you constantly go in and outside during cold weather. The boots are not stiff and would be bang on for hunting and hiking. These boots work best with wool socks, I added green inner-soles but the originals are great to. Don't mess with another boot these are the best and you look professional too.
10000ft in the Afghan mountains with the 173rd
Tags: Using Product
(legalese)
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Night Patrol in Qualat
A day or 2 had passed and I had not done much with my time at Lagman but there were murmurings about a night patrol. I had turned down a night patrol in Salar with the 173rd guys from Carwile and I missed watching a Hell Fire missile take out 2 shit heads (a term used to describe bad guys who aren’t Taliban). I was not going to miss another opportunity here in Lagman with the 2nd Striker Cavalry. I knew that I couldn’t take any photos at night and video was useless too, but this was like a grown-ups version of hide and go seek. This was urban exploring where the security guards have AK-47s and shot first and never asked questions.
I was in my bunk talking with my Special Forces friend as he told me his plans to move to PEI and leave American behind one day. At 21:30 a less then pleased Sgt. Moralas came to the door and asked why I wasn’t at the rendezvous area. Well as usual I was late and this didn’t look good for me. I was going for once without my cameras and junk. For this mission I flagrantly broke the rules and wore my Multicam gear as to render my self as close to invisible as possible. Some clothes reflect infrared light and quality material will not do that. The bad guys can use IR lights to spot us and reflective clothing makes you shine like a beacon.
Moralas is a short but scrappy Sergeant who is a career soldier and he is the first guy to actually make his men line up in formation before an opperation, I liked that. He was in a bad mood because he had found someone’s night vision goggles lying around and was not pleased. We soon loaded into the M-ATV armored vehicles and headed out to meet the Afghan National Police. We roll into Qualat, there are few street lights if any, most lights are powered by generators. I dismount and try to adjust my NVGs, I have used the goggles before but these things are fitting right, finally I get them dialed in and my green 2D world comes to life. The other guys are dressed in ACU pattern and standout more then I do. We are in a mixed residential and commercial neighborhood, the streets are dark and dogs bark their warning as we walk by. If there are bad guys they know we are here.
In Afghanistan, if you are out after 10pm it’s because you are up to something, farmers who work late know to carry lanterns so they are not attacked by ISAF. The streets here are empty and quiet, investment money has funded the construction of gutters and new roads. The roads are lined with 15ft stonewalls to define property. There are 30 of us in total and for a group that size we are pretty quiet. Moralas keeps asking me where I am because I keep following the wrong guy, they all wear the same shit and all look Latino in the NVGs. The ANP don’t have NVGs and make do, I have to flip between the 2 because some areas have too much light (1 porch lamp is too much) and it messes with the NVGs. I am ever vigilant and scoping out doors and roofs. These young guys are a little too complacent I think, but I am not sure, maybe I am paranoid after they tried to kill me twice. The ANP see a man snooping around and question him, half the ANP think he is lying about coming outside to pee so we follow him to his house and sure enough he is not up to anything.
We progress down this main street in the pitch black. I stick to the walls, good advice given to me by my old French Foreign Legion guy, there are gutters that run parallel, great places to hide in a firefight. I hear some angry chatter and another American soldier says to Sgt. Moralas “what the hell, this is not how to do a patrol, this is not what I learned in the 10th Mountain Division when I was there, we are going to get fucking killed if we run into trouble.” I like this guy. The 10th Mountain is a serious outfit and are equals to the 173rd. We come to a intersection where there is a mosque we can hear noise near by but not sure what it is, just then a friendly, bearded Imam comes out, he chats with the ANP. The Americans make it clear that they are not looking for trouble but trying to bring security. The translator helps exchange niceties and we move on. I press my ear up to the Mosque just to hear if there are fighters inside but it’s dead quiet.
Further on up the road we meet a boy and his son, they question the man to make sure it’s his actual son, child molestation is a past time here and most of the Americans are fathers and have zero tolerance for buggery. Checking the ID of children is not a mandate but for moral men it is. We move on and half the group stops at the next cross road, we hear noises and I dive into a gutter barely big enough to fit me I have decided to stick with the guy from the 10th MD he is ever vigilant and instructs 4 others to man each street corner. Lights come on outside the house with the noises, now our NVGs are useless and we still don’t have enough light to see. The guy from the 10th MD tells me his name is Absence and he wanted to join Special Forces but he just had twins so it’s out of the question now, I laugh and tell him my Special Forces buddy in my bunk has triplets. I think it’s a prerequisite for SF.
Up the road, the second half of our group has stopped and there is commotion but we have no idea why, five minutes later the group is coming back. The ANP have noticed that one of their men is a stranger and has no ID. We are now at yellow alert and they have seized his weapons now we are escorting him to the ANP compound. Taliban in the past have stolen uniforms and infiltrated ANA and ANP waiting for their chance to kill.
Back at the ANP base our questions are answered and the guy checks out but is in shit for not having ID. I talk to a older American on the compound who is a retired cop from Queens NY he is here to help train the ANP on civilized policing techniques. Little did I know that in a week I would be living on that compound too.
It was a good night. The only casualty was a soldier stepping into a pit a foot deep in human shit. The patrol offered next to no journalistic value but as an adrenaline rush it was worth a million bucks.
I was in my bunk talking with my Special Forces friend as he told me his plans to move to PEI and leave American behind one day. At 21:30 a less then pleased Sgt. Moralas came to the door and asked why I wasn’t at the rendezvous area. Well as usual I was late and this didn’t look good for me. I was going for once without my cameras and junk. For this mission I flagrantly broke the rules and wore my Multicam gear as to render my self as close to invisible as possible. Some clothes reflect infrared light and quality material will not do that. The bad guys can use IR lights to spot us and reflective clothing makes you shine like a beacon.
Moralas is a short but scrappy Sergeant who is a career soldier and he is the first guy to actually make his men line up in formation before an opperation, I liked that. He was in a bad mood because he had found someone’s night vision goggles lying around and was not pleased. We soon loaded into the M-ATV armored vehicles and headed out to meet the Afghan National Police. We roll into Qualat, there are few street lights if any, most lights are powered by generators. I dismount and try to adjust my NVGs, I have used the goggles before but these things are fitting right, finally I get them dialed in and my green 2D world comes to life. The other guys are dressed in ACU pattern and standout more then I do. We are in a mixed residential and commercial neighborhood, the streets are dark and dogs bark their warning as we walk by. If there are bad guys they know we are here.
In Afghanistan, if you are out after 10pm it’s because you are up to something, farmers who work late know to carry lanterns so they are not attacked by ISAF. The streets here are empty and quiet, investment money has funded the construction of gutters and new roads. The roads are lined with 15ft stonewalls to define property. There are 30 of us in total and for a group that size we are pretty quiet. Moralas keeps asking me where I am because I keep following the wrong guy, they all wear the same shit and all look Latino in the NVGs. The ANP don’t have NVGs and make do, I have to flip between the 2 because some areas have too much light (1 porch lamp is too much) and it messes with the NVGs. I am ever vigilant and scoping out doors and roofs. These young guys are a little too complacent I think, but I am not sure, maybe I am paranoid after they tried to kill me twice. The ANP see a man snooping around and question him, half the ANP think he is lying about coming outside to pee so we follow him to his house and sure enough he is not up to anything.
We progress down this main street in the pitch black. I stick to the walls, good advice given to me by my old French Foreign Legion guy, there are gutters that run parallel, great places to hide in a firefight. I hear some angry chatter and another American soldier says to Sgt. Moralas “what the hell, this is not how to do a patrol, this is not what I learned in the 10th Mountain Division when I was there, we are going to get fucking killed if we run into trouble.” I like this guy. The 10th Mountain is a serious outfit and are equals to the 173rd. We come to a intersection where there is a mosque we can hear noise near by but not sure what it is, just then a friendly, bearded Imam comes out, he chats with the ANP. The Americans make it clear that they are not looking for trouble but trying to bring security. The translator helps exchange niceties and we move on. I press my ear up to the Mosque just to hear if there are fighters inside but it’s dead quiet.
Further on up the road we meet a boy and his son, they question the man to make sure it’s his actual son, child molestation is a past time here and most of the Americans are fathers and have zero tolerance for buggery. Checking the ID of children is not a mandate but for moral men it is. We move on and half the group stops at the next cross road, we hear noises and I dive into a gutter barely big enough to fit me I have decided to stick with the guy from the 10th MD he is ever vigilant and instructs 4 others to man each street corner. Lights come on outside the house with the noises, now our NVGs are useless and we still don’t have enough light to see. The guy from the 10th MD tells me his name is Absence and he wanted to join Special Forces but he just had twins so it’s out of the question now, I laugh and tell him my Special Forces buddy in my bunk has triplets. I think it’s a prerequisite for SF.
Up the road, the second half of our group has stopped and there is commotion but we have no idea why, five minutes later the group is coming back. The ANP have noticed that one of their men is a stranger and has no ID. We are now at yellow alert and they have seized his weapons now we are escorting him to the ANP compound. Taliban in the past have stolen uniforms and infiltrated ANA and ANP waiting for their chance to kill.
Back at the ANP base our questions are answered and the guy checks out but is in shit for not having ID. I talk to a older American on the compound who is a retired cop from Queens NY he is here to help train the ANP on civilized policing techniques. Little did I know that in a week I would be living on that compound too.
It was a good night. The only casualty was a soldier stepping into a pit a foot deep in human shit. The patrol offered next to no journalistic value but as an adrenaline rush it was worth a million bucks.
Reply to Don Martin National Post
Friday, November 19, 2010
FOB Mizan, a learning experience
It was Sunday the 14th when my Public Affairs Officer Major Hoover informed me that I was going to a small remote base called Mizan. I had requested that I go to a rustic, smaller, and more dangerous outpost here in Zabul province. Maj. Hoover suggested I go to Mizan, had a bad feeling about Mizan and wanted to go to FOB Baylough high in the Arghandab Mountains, but Major Hoover was insistent. Who knows why that little voice pops up in our heads but it seem to happen to Tom Selleck several times per episode of Magnum PI and it happens to me out here. This Little voice was saying that Mizan was the wrong place to go, no clue why but I kept suggesting Baylough and yet I knew nothing of either base except Baylough was picturesque and the Talbin often sent new recruits to attack there to test their metal.
I hopped on a Chinook Tuesday with 2 Military Intelligence guys and flew 20min to Mizan, we landed at a small simple base nestled at the base of 3 small mountains. A Hispanic Staff Sergeant driving a Gator greets us. He is hyper and high strung. The Staff Sergeant is confused why I am at this base and looks concerned, he explains to me that he wants me to sign some letter of agreement that he will draw up regarding what I can report and with whom I can talk, he is also insistent that I show him everything I write and shoot. I have been on the base 3 minutes and not sure what to think. The Staff Sergeant tells me that the guys are paranoid and concerned that I am going to burn them. I was a bit taken back and tried to explain that I was not here to burn anyone, I am here to take photos and to get to know them, the Staff Sergeant just looks at me and says “ok we don’t want to get burnt by you, and if you see something wrong tell us before you burn us.” I explained again I didn’t come here to burn anyone or dig up controversy.” Once again, “ok we don’t want to get burnt by you, and if you see something wrong tell us before you burn us.”
What ever I said wasn’t sinking in one iota and it was becoming frustrating, I was also getting looks from some of the other guys, I just arrived there, what the hell was going on? People back in Ottawa know that I have never gone out of my way to make anyone look bad and MPs know that I never gossip about their private lives and we can party together and they can say what they want and it goes no where. These soldiers don’t know who I am or the work I do. I meet Lt. David Anderson a fresh out of school, gold bar, Lieutenant, which is the lowest officer rank and he is in charge of the base. He explains that there are about 40 men on base and that they are a close nit family that has seen serious action and constant threats and bombardment from the Taliban. The one thing that really bothered them was a visit from a reporter from the Global Post, according to them reporter XXXXX embedded with them and became very close with the troops thus sharing personal stories and photos of loved ones. The Lieutenant explained that XXXXX wrote about the unauthorized “morale patches” that some of the men wore and other troops suggested that XXXXX insinuated that their mortar fire during a battle almost killed him.
I am pretty sure I had coincidentally met XXXXX in Bagram and had lunch with him, he was roughly the same age but unlike me he had seen plenty of action in Iraq and Afghanistan. I was under the impression that he was more of a writer then a Photographer that puts me in a different book as far as I was concerned. As far as the soldiers on Mizan were concerned I was a liability and I was there to expose and humiliate them. This couldn’t be further from the truth and my efforts to encourage those whom were concerned to read my blog and see what the guys from the 173rd Airborne had to say about me fell on deaf ears.
Moral patches are pieces of art that affix with Velcro to a soldiers’ uniform, they say things like “warriors for Jesus,” or “Zombie Killer.” The brass who rarely see action from their desks frown upon that and harsh punishments can be handed out to those who violate the dress code, for those who wear them it’s a little bit of personal fun in a harsh unwelcoming place. After XXXXX’s story the soldiers from 3rd Platoon, Fox Company in Mizan got in a world of trouble. According to the troops they were really hurt and took it personally, I read XXXXX’s story and it’s not for me to judge if he was trying to expose them or if knew that there would be punishment if they were caught with these badges. Either way these guys were not happy that I was there, I tried to joke with them but they thought I was trying to goat them into saying something revealing.
I went to bed that night figuring their fear was temporary and tomorrow would be “I Love Jake Day.” I stayed that night in Lt. David Anderson’s room I had a feeling that it was for my own safety and that no soldier would feel comfortable having me in their hooch. I was woken early and told to suit up, we were off to do a patrol into a town, and we were going on foot. I was still bleary eyed when we headed out. We were on a patrol to find a new observation post for a Canadian Private security company that I won’t name. Tim (not real name) was the company’s rep and he was former 1st RCR and in his early 40s was the easily the oldest person on base. Tim’s skills and knowledge of unarmed combat was extremely impressive and his patrolling skills were first rate. The American’s respected him and he cared about them. I was a bit slow and as usual my heavy vest didn’t help, I also didn’t have time to eat breakfast not a smart move on a patrol.
We headed down in to the town from the hills, and started to hear a lot of gunfire, there is a Taliban town 10km from our position but the shooting was just the ANP celebrating Ide. We walked across a stream and made our way through an orchard where the Lieutenant stops a man and his son. The nervous man is searched and the Lieutenant makes a point of thanking him and wishing him a happy Ide. A bit further the group hands out shoes and some candy to villagers. The Village is tiny and the people are shy yet we know that many of them are Taliban. Just then I-COMMs contacts our patrol and warns us that the Talban are watching us. Tension rises and we proceed with caution. We see families of men butchering goats for a holiday dinner and young kids but no women. I am running low on water now and it looks like we have another 10km to get back to the base, I could be in trouble.
We continue further and I see the base in the distance, my bearings were off and we were closer then I thought. We return and I feel like a million bucks but my clothing is soaked in sweat. Later that night I try to talk to a group of guys smoking cigars in their bunk house but they are not pleased I am there, I try joking with them and one mustached guy gets angry at me and I am left wondering if this guy is for real. I head out and watch Tim teach more unarmed combat. I leave the gym and I am greeted by the high strung Staff Sgt that I had met when I arrived, he was still concerned about me being there and I ask Tim to come over and explain to him that Canadians don’t have a history of burning soldiers and that Canadian media was different. Despite my sales pitch he wouldn’t believe me and suggested that I was also not just a photographer but a writer too because I had a blog. I asked him if he read any of it and suggested if he did then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, just then the guy with the mustache arrived and started freaking on me and threatened to kick my ass. I was confused as to what the fuck was going on?
I realized that night this was not going to work but it was going to be almost a week until the next chopper returned. I was woken early the next day by the nervous Staff-Sgt and he said to me “ok man I am not going to lie to you a chopper is coming and it could be 2 weeks before the next one comes,” ya right. I had to scramble as I could hear the helicopter flying over and I couldn’t see strait and I had to pack all my gear. We scrambled to the fight line with boots untied and clothing hanging out of my backpack. I was not pleased to be leaving because I felt cheated by nonsense and fear, yet I wasn’t really angry and I tried to figure out what happened and to whom.
The guys from 3rd Platoon, Fox Company, 2/2 Stryker Cav. Regiment had been involved in a pitched battle months earlier and the enemy out numbered them 3 to 1, they used all their skills to defeat the Taliban in grand style. Some members had 5 confirmed kills and the Taliban after that avoided direct contact with them. The fact that not one American Soldier was hurt was nothing short of miraculous. When they received flack because of XXXXX’s story it was a hard slam for the now seasoned soldiers. I honestly think the brass should have given them a pass on the badges, as there were bigger fish to fry. The troops in Mizan that welcomed me were probably hoping that I would bring attention to the fact that they were under supported and had to resort to sharing night vision goggles while on patrol and had only 2 partially working vehicles while the jerks in Kandahar were parading around in new gear and hogging all the nice toys while never leaving the wire. Instead their story will not be heard and I will not be there to write it.
I hopped on a Chinook Tuesday with 2 Military Intelligence guys and flew 20min to Mizan, we landed at a small simple base nestled at the base of 3 small mountains. A Hispanic Staff Sergeant driving a Gator greets us. He is hyper and high strung. The Staff Sergeant is confused why I am at this base and looks concerned, he explains to me that he wants me to sign some letter of agreement that he will draw up regarding what I can report and with whom I can talk, he is also insistent that I show him everything I write and shoot. I have been on the base 3 minutes and not sure what to think. The Staff Sergeant tells me that the guys are paranoid and concerned that I am going to burn them. I was a bit taken back and tried to explain that I was not here to burn anyone, I am here to take photos and to get to know them, the Staff Sergeant just looks at me and says “ok we don’t want to get burnt by you, and if you see something wrong tell us before you burn us.” I explained again I didn’t come here to burn anyone or dig up controversy.” Once again, “ok we don’t want to get burnt by you, and if you see something wrong tell us before you burn us.”
What ever I said wasn’t sinking in one iota and it was becoming frustrating, I was also getting looks from some of the other guys, I just arrived there, what the hell was going on? People back in Ottawa know that I have never gone out of my way to make anyone look bad and MPs know that I never gossip about their private lives and we can party together and they can say what they want and it goes no where. These soldiers don’t know who I am or the work I do. I meet Lt. David Anderson a fresh out of school, gold bar, Lieutenant, which is the lowest officer rank and he is in charge of the base. He explains that there are about 40 men on base and that they are a close nit family that has seen serious action and constant threats and bombardment from the Taliban. The one thing that really bothered them was a visit from a reporter from the Global Post, according to them reporter XXXXX embedded with them and became very close with the troops thus sharing personal stories and photos of loved ones. The Lieutenant explained that XXXXX wrote about the unauthorized “morale patches” that some of the men wore and other troops suggested that XXXXX insinuated that their mortar fire during a battle almost killed him.
I am pretty sure I had coincidentally met XXXXX in Bagram and had lunch with him, he was roughly the same age but unlike me he had seen plenty of action in Iraq and Afghanistan. I was under the impression that he was more of a writer then a Photographer that puts me in a different book as far as I was concerned. As far as the soldiers on Mizan were concerned I was a liability and I was there to expose and humiliate them. This couldn’t be further from the truth and my efforts to encourage those whom were concerned to read my blog and see what the guys from the 173rd Airborne had to say about me fell on deaf ears.
Moral patches are pieces of art that affix with Velcro to a soldiers’ uniform, they say things like “warriors for Jesus,” or “Zombie Killer.” The brass who rarely see action from their desks frown upon that and harsh punishments can be handed out to those who violate the dress code, for those who wear them it’s a little bit of personal fun in a harsh unwelcoming place. After XXXXX’s story the soldiers from 3rd Platoon, Fox Company in Mizan got in a world of trouble. According to the troops they were really hurt and took it personally, I read XXXXX’s story and it’s not for me to judge if he was trying to expose them or if knew that there would be punishment if they were caught with these badges. Either way these guys were not happy that I was there, I tried to joke with them but they thought I was trying to goat them into saying something revealing.
I went to bed that night figuring their fear was temporary and tomorrow would be “I Love Jake Day.” I stayed that night in Lt. David Anderson’s room I had a feeling that it was for my own safety and that no soldier would feel comfortable having me in their hooch. I was woken early and told to suit up, we were off to do a patrol into a town, and we were going on foot. I was still bleary eyed when we headed out. We were on a patrol to find a new observation post for a Canadian Private security company that I won’t name. Tim (not real name) was the company’s rep and he was former 1st RCR and in his early 40s was the easily the oldest person on base. Tim’s skills and knowledge of unarmed combat was extremely impressive and his patrolling skills were first rate. The American’s respected him and he cared about them. I was a bit slow and as usual my heavy vest didn’t help, I also didn’t have time to eat breakfast not a smart move on a patrol.
We headed down in to the town from the hills, and started to hear a lot of gunfire, there is a Taliban town 10km from our position but the shooting was just the ANP celebrating Ide. We walked across a stream and made our way through an orchard where the Lieutenant stops a man and his son. The nervous man is searched and the Lieutenant makes a point of thanking him and wishing him a happy Ide. A bit further the group hands out shoes and some candy to villagers. The Village is tiny and the people are shy yet we know that many of them are Taliban. Just then I-COMMs contacts our patrol and warns us that the Talban are watching us. Tension rises and we proceed with caution. We see families of men butchering goats for a holiday dinner and young kids but no women. I am running low on water now and it looks like we have another 10km to get back to the base, I could be in trouble.
We continue further and I see the base in the distance, my bearings were off and we were closer then I thought. We return and I feel like a million bucks but my clothing is soaked in sweat. Later that night I try to talk to a group of guys smoking cigars in their bunk house but they are not pleased I am there, I try joking with them and one mustached guy gets angry at me and I am left wondering if this guy is for real. I head out and watch Tim teach more unarmed combat. I leave the gym and I am greeted by the high strung Staff Sgt that I had met when I arrived, he was still concerned about me being there and I ask Tim to come over and explain to him that Canadians don’t have a history of burning soldiers and that Canadian media was different. Despite my sales pitch he wouldn’t believe me and suggested that I was also not just a photographer but a writer too because I had a blog. I asked him if he read any of it and suggested if he did then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, just then the guy with the mustache arrived and started freaking on me and threatened to kick my ass. I was confused as to what the fuck was going on?
I realized that night this was not going to work but it was going to be almost a week until the next chopper returned. I was woken early the next day by the nervous Staff-Sgt and he said to me “ok man I am not going to lie to you a chopper is coming and it could be 2 weeks before the next one comes,” ya right. I had to scramble as I could hear the helicopter flying over and I couldn’t see strait and I had to pack all my gear. We scrambled to the fight line with boots untied and clothing hanging out of my backpack. I was not pleased to be leaving because I felt cheated by nonsense and fear, yet I wasn’t really angry and I tried to figure out what happened and to whom.
The guys from 3rd Platoon, Fox Company, 2/2 Stryker Cav. Regiment had been involved in a pitched battle months earlier and the enemy out numbered them 3 to 1, they used all their skills to defeat the Taliban in grand style. Some members had 5 confirmed kills and the Taliban after that avoided direct contact with them. The fact that not one American Soldier was hurt was nothing short of miraculous. When they received flack because of XXXXX’s story it was a hard slam for the now seasoned soldiers. I honestly think the brass should have given them a pass on the badges, as there were bigger fish to fry. The troops in Mizan that welcomed me were probably hoping that I would bring attention to the fact that they were under supported and had to resort to sharing night vision goggles while on patrol and had only 2 partially working vehicles while the jerks in Kandahar were parading around in new gear and hogging all the nice toys while never leaving the wire. Instead their story will not be heard and I will not be there to write it.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Kids Day in Qualat, my adventure to a girls' school and the poor part of town.
I wake up at 9am and scramble to get my vest and helmet on, I knew today wasn’t going to be dangerous but it was my first time really going to the towns near my new home at FOB Lagman. Lt. Moher a 25 yr old tall, half Asian, half white, American officer had setup a Women’s outreach program and it involved going to Girls’ Schools and poor areas in the town of Qualat. I walk to the rendezvous point on base where I see 40 Romanian soldiers and 40 American soldiers milling about with 1 pissed off Lt. Moher. She turns to me and explains this was supposed to be small and low profile and now it’s become a “cluster fuck.” I am not sure what to think all I know is we are travelling in a M-ATV and these 4 door vehicles are cool but are not the best in a IED attack, plus they are not friendly to 6’2” men.
We head out the gates of the base and on to the main road. Qualat like many other towns has plenty of small family businesses and shops. Scrap metal and farm produce seem to be the flavour of the day. Someone has put effort into the infrastructure and the roads are nice. Our convoy enters a compound with pine trees, which is a sight for sore eyes in a country unusually devoid of trees and greenery. This compound must have been an old Soviet base and has a derelict tank and real buildings. The Americans have been here longer then the Russians and have only built temporary structures all the best bases have Russian buildings. I dismount with the 2nd Striker Cavalry’s Sergeant Major Williams who is a tall older black guy with a fancy gold tooth in the front that doesn’t befit a Sgt. Major. The troops show him respect and give him little back talk and call him by his rank. We load US Postal boxes marked “for the girls” on to the back of our truck, gifts from Americans gifts from people that will never see or meet an Afghan, ever.
We arrive at the girls’ school and I feel a bit embarrassed arriving in such a convoy but the locals pay it little attention. The Romanians are already there and pulling security. I make haste for the front door but I don’t expect to get in, last time I was at a girls’ school it was with Barb Star from CNN and we had to negotiate with school officials to let male reporters inside. This time the door was open. The compound was white and blue in colour and had grass. I noticed the older girls wear burkas and the young girls wear white headscarves. There is no prosti-tot clothing like back home in Canada. A old woman chases away young unschooled boys with a stick, the school yard has guard towers and is under the watch of the ANP who are nervous about the combat camera guy and I shooting photos of the girls. I tell the translator to tell the ANP to relax and that we North Americans are not interested in 7-year-old girls, just then a US soldier yells to the translator and ANP officers “ya the only sick perverts here are you guys not us.” I chime in with “ a bunch of boy raping sickos.” I don’t like to be told I can’t shoot photos of something.
Lt. Moher and her cute friend Sgt Bladen hand out gifts to the girls that line up for what ever the boxes contain. As I sit on the wall a dejected 3yr old girl leans up against the wall like some old sailor, her eyes tell of pain and true unhappiness, I snap away secretly from the hip as to not alarm the ANP, it’s a killer shot, she stairs into the camera perfectly. A soldier that sits next to me says that he loves this place, I question his comment and he explains that he loves the grass and the cleanliness. I like the desks placed in the basketball court outside, I wish I had grade 5 class outside like they do. I open up a box of gum and the girls grab at the gum like thieves, I was thinking that these Southern girls were a lot ruder then the Eastern kids, I would soon find out how bad the kids here are when we leave. We hop back in the M-ATV and head out to our next event in the poor area. As we leave the school and drive past the unschooled street kids they start to throw rocks at the armored vehicles, rocks hit the Sgt Majors window and he barks “son of a bitch, those little bastards, keep it up and I am going to stop this truck and get out, then you be sorry.” Just then another rock hits the windscreen and cracks the 4 inch glass “ mother fucker I swear, oh no you didn’t, you lil shit,” Sgt Major Williams is now losing it and he is ready to bring the pimp hand down on this whole village. We speed off and climb to the top of the hill in the poor part of town. I dismount and there are already 300 kids in this open area waiting for us, a hand full of ANP hold them back but some swarm me and want chocolate or pens. I am not giving either Sgt Maj Williams spots the stone throwing kid and says he will grab him when he gets close. There are no adults except for us around, one kid pretends to pick up a stone and throw it right at my lens as I look through the view finder and I jump back in shock, now I have 200 kids laughing at me including Afghan Cops. I feel silly and keep a straight face and pretend not to care and ignore them for 20 seconds, like the kids don’t exist, then like a bolt of lightning I jump forward with a Scottish battle cry and 200 kids flee in terror and come back laughing as they know I got them really good. The Cops can’t stop laughing and give me high 5s. All I do is make things worse and now the kids think I am a jester with a camera. For some reason I give one of the brats my camera and he makes a lil film, it’s cute, and maybe the last time the kid ever uses a camera.
With 200 kids in tow I head with the women’s team into the warren of alleys that make up the poor area. Unlike Central America people here have some pride and don’t live in shacks they still make the mud and straw walls that are found around the country. Girls dress in nice colours, boys in earth tones, the young girls all have babies in their arms, and they take care of their younger siblings while their mothers are never seen. The soldiers are cautious due to the nature of the area, it is perfect for an ambush and our slow movement has given any possible evildoers time to get their shit together. We stop at one home and the American women head in to talk to the women in the compound to make sure they are ok. Some of the MPs bring out special cameras to finger print and retina scan. Afghans rights are a bit of a joke and soldiers can search homes and cars at will.
With the first house done we move on and the kids follow, I am getting annoyed at 1 kid that wears a ball cap and is desperate for me to give him my watch or pen. The cops do their best to keep the children at bay and even try to lock one in a compound. The young girls look down trodden and sad while all the boys are happy, it’s like some how they know hell awaits, and sad is too mild of a word. The one good thing is that the young girls love the American women and gaze at them with stars in their eyes. Perhaps one day one of those girls will get others organized and they will say no to oppression. Lt. Moher picks up a baby and holds it in the air. The baby boy is not sure what to think of the fuss.
We start to head back to the convoy and for once I am in the lead, along with now 30 kids in tow like the Pied Piper. The kids are starting to grab at me, attempting to steel my camera and knife. I am starting to get annoyed and I know I need to get these kids under control because some are now taking punches at me. So I get their attention by marching goose step style, they start doing the same, then I put my arm out strait in a salute and yell “left right left right!” The kids love it and don’t want to stop. Shop owners and passers by on motorbikes stop to look and laugh. The American troops are now giving me oh grief looks. I get to the top of the hill and I am the only westerner there and now I have to fend off 30 kids who want chocolate and pens. One takes a swing at me and I turn around and tell him no in Afghan, I point at him and let him know I will smack him if he tries it again.
Finally the Cavalry arrives… haaa wait they are Cavalry, I will never get to say that ever again. Sgt Major Williams has a look like he is ready to call in an air strike on the kids and tells the others to start handing out the clothes. The troops have to gesture as to hit the kids with the butts of their rifles as the crowd loses control. T-shirts and hats fly through the air as the children like piranha attack the worthless clothing. The Sgt Major yells to leave ASAP and I spend no time getting back into the M-ATV. I am glad to leave but I feel that there is more for me to do in this country.
We head out the gates of the base and on to the main road. Qualat like many other towns has plenty of small family businesses and shops. Scrap metal and farm produce seem to be the flavour of the day. Someone has put effort into the infrastructure and the roads are nice. Our convoy enters a compound with pine trees, which is a sight for sore eyes in a country unusually devoid of trees and greenery. This compound must have been an old Soviet base and has a derelict tank and real buildings. The Americans have been here longer then the Russians and have only built temporary structures all the best bases have Russian buildings. I dismount with the 2nd Striker Cavalry’s Sergeant Major Williams who is a tall older black guy with a fancy gold tooth in the front that doesn’t befit a Sgt. Major. The troops show him respect and give him little back talk and call him by his rank. We load US Postal boxes marked “for the girls” on to the back of our truck, gifts from Americans gifts from people that will never see or meet an Afghan, ever.
We arrive at the girls’ school and I feel a bit embarrassed arriving in such a convoy but the locals pay it little attention. The Romanians are already there and pulling security. I make haste for the front door but I don’t expect to get in, last time I was at a girls’ school it was with Barb Star from CNN and we had to negotiate with school officials to let male reporters inside. This time the door was open. The compound was white and blue in colour and had grass. I noticed the older girls wear burkas and the young girls wear white headscarves. There is no prosti-tot clothing like back home in Canada. A old woman chases away young unschooled boys with a stick, the school yard has guard towers and is under the watch of the ANP who are nervous about the combat camera guy and I shooting photos of the girls. I tell the translator to tell the ANP to relax and that we North Americans are not interested in 7-year-old girls, just then a US soldier yells to the translator and ANP officers “ya the only sick perverts here are you guys not us.” I chime in with “ a bunch of boy raping sickos.” I don’t like to be told I can’t shoot photos of something.
Lt. Moher and her cute friend Sgt Bladen hand out gifts to the girls that line up for what ever the boxes contain. As I sit on the wall a dejected 3yr old girl leans up against the wall like some old sailor, her eyes tell of pain and true unhappiness, I snap away secretly from the hip as to not alarm the ANP, it’s a killer shot, she stairs into the camera perfectly. A soldier that sits next to me says that he loves this place, I question his comment and he explains that he loves the grass and the cleanliness. I like the desks placed in the basketball court outside, I wish I had grade 5 class outside like they do. I open up a box of gum and the girls grab at the gum like thieves, I was thinking that these Southern girls were a lot ruder then the Eastern kids, I would soon find out how bad the kids here are when we leave. We hop back in the M-ATV and head out to our next event in the poor area. As we leave the school and drive past the unschooled street kids they start to throw rocks at the armored vehicles, rocks hit the Sgt Majors window and he barks “son of a bitch, those little bastards, keep it up and I am going to stop this truck and get out, then you be sorry.” Just then another rock hits the windscreen and cracks the 4 inch glass “ mother fucker I swear, oh no you didn’t, you lil shit,” Sgt Major Williams is now losing it and he is ready to bring the pimp hand down on this whole village. We speed off and climb to the top of the hill in the poor part of town. I dismount and there are already 300 kids in this open area waiting for us, a hand full of ANP hold them back but some swarm me and want chocolate or pens. I am not giving either Sgt Maj Williams spots the stone throwing kid and says he will grab him when he gets close. There are no adults except for us around, one kid pretends to pick up a stone and throw it right at my lens as I look through the view finder and I jump back in shock, now I have 200 kids laughing at me including Afghan Cops. I feel silly and keep a straight face and pretend not to care and ignore them for 20 seconds, like the kids don’t exist, then like a bolt of lightning I jump forward with a Scottish battle cry and 200 kids flee in terror and come back laughing as they know I got them really good. The Cops can’t stop laughing and give me high 5s. All I do is make things worse and now the kids think I am a jester with a camera. For some reason I give one of the brats my camera and he makes a lil film, it’s cute, and maybe the last time the kid ever uses a camera.
With 200 kids in tow I head with the women’s team into the warren of alleys that make up the poor area. Unlike Central America people here have some pride and don’t live in shacks they still make the mud and straw walls that are found around the country. Girls dress in nice colours, boys in earth tones, the young girls all have babies in their arms, and they take care of their younger siblings while their mothers are never seen. The soldiers are cautious due to the nature of the area, it is perfect for an ambush and our slow movement has given any possible evildoers time to get their shit together. We stop at one home and the American women head in to talk to the women in the compound to make sure they are ok. Some of the MPs bring out special cameras to finger print and retina scan. Afghans rights are a bit of a joke and soldiers can search homes and cars at will.
With the first house done we move on and the kids follow, I am getting annoyed at 1 kid that wears a ball cap and is desperate for me to give him my watch or pen. The cops do their best to keep the children at bay and even try to lock one in a compound. The young girls look down trodden and sad while all the boys are happy, it’s like some how they know hell awaits, and sad is too mild of a word. The one good thing is that the young girls love the American women and gaze at them with stars in their eyes. Perhaps one day one of those girls will get others organized and they will say no to oppression. Lt. Moher picks up a baby and holds it in the air. The baby boy is not sure what to think of the fuss.
We start to head back to the convoy and for once I am in the lead, along with now 30 kids in tow like the Pied Piper. The kids are starting to grab at me, attempting to steel my camera and knife. I am starting to get annoyed and I know I need to get these kids under control because some are now taking punches at me. So I get their attention by marching goose step style, they start doing the same, then I put my arm out strait in a salute and yell “left right left right!” The kids love it and don’t want to stop. Shop owners and passers by on motorbikes stop to look and laugh. The American troops are now giving me oh grief looks. I get to the top of the hill and I am the only westerner there and now I have to fend off 30 kids who want chocolate and pens. One takes a swing at me and I turn around and tell him no in Afghan, I point at him and let him know I will smack him if he tries it again.
Finally the Cavalry arrives… haaa wait they are Cavalry, I will never get to say that ever again. Sgt Major Williams has a look like he is ready to call in an air strike on the kids and tells the others to start handing out the clothes. The troops have to gesture as to hit the kids with the butts of their rifles as the crowd loses control. T-shirts and hats fly through the air as the children like piranha attack the worthless clothing. The Sgt Major yells to leave ASAP and I spend no time getting back into the M-ATV. I am glad to leave but I feel that there is more for me to do in this country.
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