Lessons in the Hindu Kush

Coming of Age in the Pech River Valley

I would like to start off by pointing out that I am not an “expert” on Afghanistan. I have a unique experience in respect to one valley for a few years. The following will recount several stories of my time on “the edge of the earth”.

My first wake-up in a daytime environment in Afghanistan was at the confluence of the Pech and Kunar Rivers. I was deployed a few months early in order to establish an early contingent of our battalion, however I was impeded from doing so because a Russian contracted cargo plane that was a little too informal with their flight manifest. Unfortunately, this led to me and my trusty NCO being detained in the United Arab Emirate of Ras Al-Khaimah for three weeks. After a month of conducting inventory of our weaponry while being suspiciously watched by the eagle eyes of the UAE federal police, we were finally plucked from the searing desert by a C-17 and dropped into the dry bowl that is Bagram Airfield. Before we were able to get settled, I managed to get us manifested on a CH-47 Chinook en route to Asadabad, specifically Camp Wright, where I would finally awake to the sounds of those two roaring rivers.

After a few days of unsuccessfully attempting to hitch a ride to our final destinations in the Pech River Valley, a contingent of Marines stopped by the base for their weekly security Shura, which is basically an Islamic version of a town hall meeting, except that it holds vastly more decision making power. This small group of Marines made up the team that was responsible for embedding with and training the Afghan Security Forces. I knew that I would be spending the initial portion of my 14-month deployment as an advisor to the Afghan National Army, so it was fortuitous that I then ran into probably the most helpful Afghan I’ve had the pleasure of meeting during my two and a half years there. We will call him Gul Baz. While the security meeting began, Gul Baz sat down with me outside the American mess hall under a fig tree (it was very romantic) and explained to me the political intricacies of the infamous Pech River Valley, twisting gorge that cuts into Kunar Province before making a right-hand turn and lifting into the mythical province of Nuristan. Whether I trusted Gul Baz or not, which I did at that moment due to how “green” I was, I would come to find out how true his words were within the next year. This is what he told me…

The timber trade…

Although the Kunar Timber trade is a regional system, its second order effects are toxic and, in turn, indirectly violent. The path these trees take in order to be harvested is deliberately complex in order to retain secrecy. Many local Pashtun farmers maintain transient huts, commonly referred to as Bahndas, that are located significantly high up mountain slopes in the Hindu Kush. When on patrol in the hinterlands later on during my tour, many locals would swear to me, through the gritting teeth of nervous grins, that these structures are only used by farmers to drive their goat herds throughout the mountain. However, through the next year I encountered all too many locals hauling Himalayan Cyprus trunks out of these huts too believe that. More likely, locals build these small houses for shelter when deforesting the mountain. This timber is stored at a transient Bahnda complex before it is then funneled into Pakistan by the few passes between Torkham Gate and Chitral. The timber is monetized right across the border, directly fueling the financial needs of the Taliban.

The gemstone trade…

Whereas the deforestation in Kunar is local, the gemstone issue within Nuristan is international. Nuristan is very well-known for the abundance in minerals within its confines. Due to millions of years of tectonic shifting, mining has inevitably found its way into this troubled region, even in spite of the wars waged here. Lithium and other rare earth elements are explored in the crevasses of mountains. Every Afghan I met was an “expert” at finding that best mining location, but it seemed the most successful ventures were positioned either in boulder formations growing out of a slope or previous rock slide fields where earth had already been disturbed. Either contracted by bazaar vendors or of their own accord, these inherently hardy people lend themselves well to hard labor at high altitudes. Using rudimentary tools and the odd internally-combustible jackhammer, the mountain people carve into the mountain using techniques passed down by oral tradition in order to procure various types of topaz and emeralds. These gemstones, real and fake alike, then travel down to the valley floor, trade hands a few times, and then are either transported out of the country or they’re traded within all nearby bazaars. However, one of the largest consumers of their wealth is the insurgent financiers East of the Afghanistan border in Pakistan. In Peshawar, Islamabad, and Karachi, vast, logistical networks work day and night to ensure the safe and precise movement of these minerals. This neurotic overkill of planning is most likely because of the cash these rocks bring in to the Taliban. One carat of yellow Topaz is worth upwards of $400. Multiply this equation several times due to the raw condition of the mineral and we are talking quite a bit of money coming your way.

The following example should convey the status these rocks hold in this part of the world; during my first deployment to the Pech, my platoon was securing a village while I conversed with an elder near the Kunar-Nuristan border. As the platoon leader, I usually took a squad of soldiers to walk to our destination while my platoon sergeant and a squad covered us with four Humvees and their heavier weapons. While away from the vehicles and occupied in talking with the village Mullah, my platoon sergeant would love to cover my vehicle with significantly-sized rocks during my absence in order to capture my reaction with his camera. Needless to say, he has a lot of pictures of me looking fairly flabbergasted next to my boulder-shrouded truck. Instead of taking the time and embarrassment in order to remove all these rocks, this time I decided “Screw it, we’re RTB’ing (returning to base). I bet these things will give us some extra cover.” As we traversed the many switchbacks at a quickened pace in order to mitigate the damage of any possible ambush, we were forced to stop abruptly due to a group of Afghans playing in the road. It did not go unnoticed by these kids that the sudden stop sent the rocks on my truck flying onto the dirt road. An almost salivating look filled their eyes as they charged forth in order to collect every single one of these rocks. You can imagine that my platoon’s first reaction was that of surprise, as we believed we were about to be boarded by an angry enemy attempting to relieve us of our vehicle. However, we quickly transitioned to astonished hilarity at the sight of this event. Even in the face of possible death, as we later calculated our trips along this particular stretch of road were attacked 25% of the entire deployment, it was written into the psyche of these young locals to take advantage of any opportunity to seize…rocks. Rocks, however, that could potentially hold great wealth for their family and, unfortunately, the enemy as well.

The enemy…

Gul Baz rattled off tens of Arabic names of enemy groups comprised with local Afghans, Pakistani regional fighters, and internationally funded terrorists. I wrote down in my notebook as many of them as I could listen to, but he told me to underline one group, “Lashkar-e-Taiba” he pronounced phonetically. “They have been fighting in Indian and Pakistani Kashmir, but they were born in Afghanistan and they are coming back to stake their claim. Not just because the US are growing here, but because there are so many groups of enemy fighters here, too.” Little did I know how prophetic his words would be.

Fast-forward four months…I have transitioned from my position as an adviser to that of a platoon leader. The platoon is set up in a circular defensive posture in the village of Walo Tangy as I attempt to find the village elder, Haji Tasil, who is a prominent figure in our area of operation. Our purpose is to try and gain some intelligence about the small, but consistent attacks that are performed against our patrol almost every other visit. After half an hour of looking and talking with locals, I’ve about given up when my interpreter tugs at my body armor and gestures towards an overweight and heavily sweating man. Haji Tasil has just returned from a village deeper in the valley and he is insistent on me following him to his hut. “Sir, sir, he wants to use your weapon scope. He wants you to see something.” I give the man a pair of binoculars while he keeps pointing at a house located in the base of the valley. As I scan the porch of complex, I can see, clear as day, an RPG and a belt-fed RPD machine gun about 500 meters from where I stand. I meet quickly with my NCO’s and develop a plan to attack the structure, minimizing civilian casualties.

Our platoon splits up and descends upon the hut from two different directions. As we approach the metal front door of the house, I notice the weapons are now missing. My interpreter and I notice an unarmed man walking inside the house and motion for him to come out. As he opens the front door, commotion is heard beneath a tree nearby the house. Three shots ring out as we pick a direction and scramble for cover. Oddly enough, I pick the wrong direction. My squad leader yells at me to turn around and when I do, an enemy machine gunner sends 30-40 rounds towards us both, enveloping me in dust. For the next 20 minutes, it is a one-way firing range with my platoon on the receiving end and a dozen enemy fighters having their way with us. Fortunately beside my ego, no one was hurt that day. This was our introduction to Lashkar-e-Taiba and it left a lasting impression on us.

The Shura…

The southern Waigal Valley is comprised by a six by two mile-deep cut inside the Pech Valley. This relatively small area is divided into four separate tribal judicial systems, also known as Shura’s.

The Wazir-Goul Shura was probably the most influential when it came time to meet with me and my commander concerning developmental projects in the valley. The Tasil Shura mirrored the Wazir-Goul’s, in that there was a fairly elected Tasil-representative in every village. There was, however, an outstanding issue between these two groups. Years ago, a male Tasil relative was indicted of raping a Wazir-Goul boy and, in response, a few Wazir-Goul’s kidnapped and killed the accused. The resulting blood feud instated a status quo so obstinate that I did not see two Shura members from either group in the same place at the same time.

The Nangalam Bazaar Shura was definitely the most progressive, active in their attempts to bring modern civilization strategies to the people. We made great headway during the deployment; the building of a boys’ school, a new medical clinic, advanced cold storage training and facilities. However, complete confidence in this group was impossible as there were too many unanswered questions about their known connection with enemy spotters and financiers who benefited greatly off the trade within the shops.

Finally, the Nuristani Shura was as covert in regards to their relationship with the Taliban. One brisk fall day, our platoon was walking back through the valley after assessing a micro-hydro power dam deeper in the valley when we came upon an irregularly large contingent of Nuristani Mullah’s meeting outside a hut. I was pleased to find this elusive group together in one spot and I began making plans to set up security, sit down and establish better rapport with the gentlemen until I was all but pushed away from the meeting by an alarmed elder. As I was escorted away from the Mosque under hushed tones, I walked over to my translator who continued a quickened pace away from the meeting. Confused, I ran over to him and asked what was going on back there. “Sir, sir, please I think we have to leave. Someone said there were many Taliban in the mosque and you shook one of their hands.” I turned back, doing my best to maintain a non-aggressive pose, and watched the elders nervously watching my platoon as we marched back to our base.

“Never trust anything these men tell you. They are Spin-Giri (White Beards), but they will lie whenever they can. Also…do not catch them in a lie. If you do, you will always be their enemy.”, Gul Baz dictated to me beneath the fig tree. This was the one idiom I wrote down in my greasy notebook that hot day in May. I laughed at the impossibility during out talk, but I’m glad I remembered it for the sake of my tour. Nonetheless, I believe I am painting an unfair picture. On many occasions, my men and I were escorted from villages by elders who were doing so in order to protect us from enemy ambushes as it was a significant faux paux to kill an elder. Additionally, these Mullah’s did not have to stay in Afghanistan during the war. They had the means and support in order to cross over the border and live in the relative safety of Peshawar. But they chose to stay and identify themselves as Afghans first, Muslims second. That is true patriotism and it should be respected as such.

The meeting finally ended. Gul Baz and I stood up, hugged, and mounted our respective vehicles. I never saw him again as he was laterally promoted out of his previous job as a company commander in the Pech to a different unit somewhere else. I was glad to hear that, as Afghan company commanders are routinely targeted and killed in Kunar Province.

Lately, there have been signs that there is peace along the snaking Pech Valley. This could simply be a result of the fact that the enemy believes they have beaten and drove the foreigners from their land. Maybe, while the Afghan Army lacks the technological and disciplinary capability our military enjoys, they’ve secured a unique respect among the Afghan people due to their status as fellow Muslims that has allowed them success. But I tend to believe the former as I’ve seen to many Afghan Soldiers brutally killed by their so-called fellow Muslims to believe the latter. The Pech River Valley incarnates the phrase, “freedom comes at a price”, just not in the way we Americans think of that saying. In this small valley, and I suspect among most all other xenophobic areas of Afghanistan, the freedom is a lack of civilized order and the price is an existing state of affairs that places your own survival above all else.

I have had trouble in my attempts to find an overarching lesson from this war, other than the lazy moral that war is inherently evil. I am embarassed to admit this because our company lost three Soldiers in this valley, with several others killed during operations. This may be due to the fact that I found my way to this country in order to go to war, not to find its purpose. Now that there is time to sit down to think about this, I consistently come to the conclusion that this conflict, and others like it, transcend simple explanations. Therefore, I tend to internalize the smaller lessons. I’ve learned that Islam is as peaceful and beautiful as it is violent. I’ve learned when to back away from a fight and when to attack. I’ve learned that some deaths affect me greatly, while I find it difficult to see meaning in others. But most of all, I’ve learned that I cared for Afghanistan more than I did my own country and in some ways, I still do and always will.