Dispatches from FOBistan: Kapisa, in Pictures

BAGRAM AIR BASE, AFGHANISTAN — BABEAA kindly gave me the shoutout. Another friend of mine told me that my posts about Afghanistan have become uncharacteristically sentimental. I think that is a natural consequence of this place—to me, it makes perfect sense that all Afghan men are romantics, and all poets are beloved. There’s almost no other way to talk about it.

Talking is actually the problem. Not talking with locals—every single person I have met has been at the very least friendly, if not warm (there is a complexity to how greetings, hospitality, and conversation unfold that can never be learned from books). Rather, I cannot talk about what it is I’ve been doing, and that is a real shame. I’m learning a tremendous amount of the depth of the challenges we still face, but, as BABEAA noted, there is remarkable progress being made, and even many reasons for hope. Lest I fall victim to the charge I’ve often thrown about, this is not the result of some PAO giving me instructions. In fact, it is at least partially my distaste of the PAO that has prevented me from seeking permission to post pictures of humans and write about my work here. Rather, I see a few reasons to keep hope burning, however gently, even if there are far more reasons to feel pessimistic about Afghanistan’s eventual fate.

Melancholy, then, seems the most appropriate emotion (especially since as I was there some Afghan National Army troops got into a firefight and one died, making the remainder of my stay there much more somber). My trip to Kapisa was cut short by the never ending logistical nightmares that plague the war here. In Iraq, there is always a convoy, always a helicopter or airplane flight, that can take you somewhere you need to go. It took me five days to squeeze into the back of an old French APC to get out to Kapisa; had I not managed to grab a seat on the PRT convoy back to Bagram, I’d've been confined to FOB Morales-Frazier for another five days. I like M-F, as it’s called—it is quiet, relaxing even, but filled with purpose (and it really does have the best pizza in Afghanistan, thanks to this Kosovar from Chicago who’s out making his fortune). But again, logistics would have me confined to the base with little to do. My job, when I’m not at Bagram, is out there, talking with as normal an Afghan as I can find about what his needs are.

So, in lieu of a deep discussion of the ways I think the Army continues to misunderstand and misapply counterinsurgency theory, the many ways I can see NATO being a better partner in the fight without significantly changing its fundamental nature, or even the ways PRTs can operate much more effectively in their Areas of Responsibility, I’ll just post a bunch of pictures from this trip, and my all-too-limited time spent outside the wire. This place has a knack for getting under your skin and starting an obsession. I felt that even before coming here; now, having an elder offer to host me for a week to study his village (he told me Afghaniya is far more beautiful in the Springtime, and I believed him, even if it is more violent), or working the many bureaucratic snaggles when dealing with district officials, community elders, the French, the Americans, and the PRT… well, consider me even more hooked than I was before. Pics, below.

The village of Afghaniya, in front of the entrance to Afghaniya Valley.

Several times a week, Chinooks drop off passengers and some supplies… if the weather doesn’t get in the way.

Some inexplicably ruined Hesco barriers, in front of perfectly functional ones… in front of those amazing mountains.

This bazaar, where you go to buy headphones, Pringles, Pakistani tea, and eat really yummy kabobs, used to be outside the wire. Now, it is only outside the inner wire. FOB Morales-Frazier is growing, and doing so quickly.

MRAPs are ungainly beasts. They are top-heavy, enjoy sliding off roads hacked out of the mountainside, and the drivers can barely see what’s directly in front of them. One MRAP driver accidentally destroyed the Tagab District Center’s gate, through no fault of his own.

Shiny green ANP-branded Ford Ranger pickup trucks, outside the Tagab District Compound.

The DSG compound, Tagab, Afghanistan.

The inner courtyard of the Tagab District Compound. A shura was in session; I find those unspeakably boring. So I was outside, trying to chat with the less “important” people, the ones responsible for their communities’ day to day problems. You would be amazed at what you can learn from such people, even if you don’t know what questions to ask.

My mom wanted a picture of me, so here I am in front of the entrance to the Tagab Valley, from a perch above FOB Morales-Frazier. An elder today tried to flatter me by saying I could pass as Afghan if I didn’t have my glasses (he was amazed at how strong they were, and how blind I am); he was very kind to do so.

Tagged as: Afghanistan

This post was written by...

Joshua Foust – author of 1801 posts on Registan.net.

Joshua Foust is a Fellow at the American Security Project and the author of Afghanistan Journal: Selections from Registan.net. His research focuses primarily on Central and South Asia. Joshua is a correspondent for The Atlantic and a columnist for PBS Need to Know. Joshua appears regularly on the BBC World News, Aljazeera, and international public radio. Joshua is also a regular contributor to Foreign Policy’s AfPak Channel, and his writing has appeared in the New York Times, Reuters, and the Christian Science Monitor. Follow him on twitter: @joshuafoust

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