The Time.
In Afghanistan, one feels the time differently than back home. Everyone over there is waiting to return home to his family, relatives and friends. But although the expectation of coming back is major, it is not the one that makes one feel the time differently. Over there, one feels the time physically, the time becomes more than just a simple and measurable set of minutes and hours. Over there, the time may flow slowly without one noticing it in one’s day-to-day chores and then suddenly run one over like a quicksand. It then slowly drowns one like a bog, penetrating every corner of one’s soul, slowing down and drowning your thoughts and desires. In times like these, one starts hating not being able to do anything. One starts looking for any project that would help you not to slow down and be drawn into the funnel of the Afghan time. This feeling might be behind the soldier’s urge to build something. Along with building useful facilities like saunas, a useless bunch of smoking areas, recreation areas and barrack extensions was built, never to be used by anyone. Probably, these were all built just to keep the soldier’s mind off the slow flow of the Afghan time.
Some people say that the time in Afghanistan had stalled sometime during the Middle Ages and has not flown since. This is not true: when one looks at a mechanical watch one sees the second hand sweeping across the markers like a windmill wheel drawn by the water. Where does the time disappear around here then? I’ve been mulling it over many times, puzzled.
The answer was prompted by the sweeping second hand. When I was a child, my farther once told me a story from his service days. Once, a large military convoy lost its direction at night in the desert. After trying to find their way for couple of hours, the head truck crew spotted flashing red stop signals straight ahead. Apparently, it was also a military convoy. The decision was quick: follow this convoy to the destination. They were driving through the night and at dawn realized that they were following the tail car of their own convoy. They were driving in circles the entire night, thinking they were moving forward.
This is the answer to my question: in circles! The time in Afghanistan flows in circles! I then began to understand all the puzzles of Afghanistan. One should not trust calendars: the time s moving around in circles and it is always the same year here. Sometime during the Middle Ages some Afghan year must have got lost finding its way through the labyrinth of local canyons. It then found its tail, like that military convoy from my father’s story had, and ate it like that serpent. It does not contradict the laws of physics, in my mind. In fact, it does not matter which direction the time flows, all it matters is how fast it flows. At least now I could explain myself the strange ways of Afghanistan.
The first thing that surprised me there were the flight maps. Those were strangely precise, up to the smallest detail. Every clay house marked on the maps still existed, despite the fact that the maps were printed in 1942. I later saw some of those houses up close: they seemed feeble and old, but they had been standing there for so many years, and possibly even for centuries. So the time seemed to keep them from decay.
Then there was a ruined fortress next to our airbase. From what was left of its walls it was impossible to guess who build it, the warriors of Alexander the Great of the British soldiers much later. It did not matter though. Following my earlier observation, I then made an interesting conclusion: the Afghan Time rejects everything that is foreign to Afghanistan. This if what feeds the myth that Afghanis are undefeated: they are not great warriors, they are rather the opposite. However, a powerful ally is on their side, the Time that can make everything foreign decay around here.
What about us then? Will the Time do this to us, too?
I remember my flights along the road to the city of Faizabad. Burned tanks and trucks were standing along the road, all covered in rust. Later I was surprised to learn that these had been burned just a year earlier during a large push to deliver some supplies. So, the heavy and powerful armour decays quickly while those clay houses do not seem to be touched by the Time.
Perhaps the biggest mystery of Afghanistan is the locals. They live according to the laws that no outsider understands. They smile at you and may treat you like the dearest guest in their house but will not miss a chance to shoot you in the back. It is normally explained by the special Middle Eastern treachery. So, do the Afghanis hate us? Are these smiles just an act, a camouflage? It could not be that, why would these people have such great acting skills? Europeans may act, Afghanis are always sincere. They are sincere by day, calling you inside their Mom-and-Pop shops and they are sincere by night when they mine the road. Again, there is not contradiction in it, the Afghanis are true children of the Afghani Time. The most important for an Afghani is that nothing is changing around him.
I remember an interesting episode I’ve witnessed. An officer was returning back home and stopped by the marketplace to buy some goods. He bargained for the price of a single item with a store owner and they came to an agreement. The officer then wanted to buy the entire stock of that item (I think those were some running shoes) from the owner, but the owner refused to sell the stock. The officer was surprised to hear that so he asked the owner why it would be so bad to sell the entire stock. The owner’s answer surprised the officer even more. The owner said that then he will have nothing to sell until the next caravan brings more supplies. The officer then offered a higher price for the wholesale, but the owner just did not want to sell. It seemed that the trading process itself was more important to the store owner than the profit. And it did not matter to the owner that only the shuravi were buying his goods and that the shuravi visited that marketplace about as often as the supply caravans.
So these children of the Afghan Time are sitting in their Mom-and-Pop shops, drinking their tea and talking slowly to each other while waiting for a customer or two. What are they talking about? Perhaps, they are talking about the strange shuravi who are always in a hurry?
-- Shuravi are funny: they want to buy wholesale in 10 minutes. But what about enjoying the trade? Nobody does business like that around here, trading is a serious process, one should not rush it. Ok, the shuravi may not like to trade themselves, but why don’t they respect the merchants? They pay us any price we ask. We don’t even enjoy the profit we get this way: the process of trade is like a process of hunting, a competition between a hunter and his prey. Trading with the shuravi is like slaughtering the sheep in a coral: you get the meat, but not the pleasure of hunting… -- And so the storekeepers begin to smile: they are laughing at the shuravi.
Then one of them is telling some news and now the storekeepers look judgemental. Perhaps their conversation sounds as follows:
Maksud was trying to pay back his blood enemy yesterday
But he is so poor, he does not even have a rifle
He came to the airbase and told the shuravi he knew where the rebels were
So, did he have his revenge?
No, not this time. The shuravi believed him and put him on their helicopter to show the way to the rebels. He saw his house and pointed at it. The shuravi pilot thought that was the house where the rebels were hiding and launched at it. His house was destroyed; his donkey and his wife were killed.
Poor guy, what a bad luck…
Well, when the shuravi realised they’ve made a mistake, they paid him for his losses.
Did they pay him well?
Not just well, they paid him three times his price! Now he’s got a new house, a young wife and the wealthiest store around.
Silly shuravi…
The storeowners laugh again, but some look like they are mulling something over… It is an interesting opportunity for one whose wife is old and ugly, and whose donkey is about to die anyhow… He could sent his older sons to his brother for a while but leave the younger ones at home, this way the shuravi would pay him more…
Or maybe they are discussing why the shuravi got so angry when their APC was blown up?
-- But why are the shuravi so angry? They’ve already got the new one, they got new soldiers and officers, and everything became as it once was. And the APC was not blown up for no reason either, it was an act of revenge. The shuravi destroyed a caravan a while ago – it was transporting the weapons, but so what? It is a profitable business and it is worth a risk. The brother of the killed caravan owner himself set up the explosives, one has to avenge a relative. But he is not angry at the shuravi any longer: his revenge is over and although he feels sorry about his older brother, he is now the owner of the caravan… And if he is himself killed, Insha’Allah, his younger brother will own the caravan…
And that’s that, they live like that, they are accustomed to this way of life. Perhaps torture is so common here because a simple death would not bring out any emotion?
But what about us? Without noticing it, we soaked in the Afghan Time, accepted its rules and started moving in circles. Just like the local hepatitis got into our veins, the Time got into our souls…
Our squadron was once given a task to support our infantry regiment in a search-and-destroy mission in the area. This was in the very beginning of my tour of duty and I jumped into the preparations full with my fresh lieutenant’s enthusiasm. I was drawing the flight map, indicating the positions of the troops and the targets. I was taking time to draw with the felt tip pens and shadowed those with a pencil. When the job was done, I started to put what I did not need in a set of drawers. There, at the bottom, I found a bunch of flight maps made by my predecessors. These were worn out and soaked in dust, so I did not want to use them and instead made my own set. But this time, for now reason, I picked one of the old maps and unfolded it. I was puzzled: the map showed exactly the same positions and targets that I was drawing just now. I then looked through the rest of the maps and found yet another one, even older, that was exactly the same. When I told about this to the liaison from the infantry regiment, he was not surprised at all. Apparently, this was a regular annual military mission. The Afghan Time showed me my place: I found this explanation to be quite logical…
That mission was followed by an endless succession of days that I could not tell apart. The routes I flew were very similar, the mountain views looked all the same and the menu in our mess hall was never changing…
A year later, we were done with our tour of duty and rotated back home. But the new officers came to replace us, meaning that nothing would change. The helicopters will fly on the same routes, the missions will be repeated regularly, and my flight maps will be lying in the bottom drawer until the day they are unfolded by the officer who replaced. No doubt, he would be puzzled…
But my way is home now: I take a flight to Tashkent airport, a cab ride to the bus station, an intercity bus ride, and another cab ride. I see my parent’s house and the eys of my parents, full of tears. My father acts like I am older than him… He shows me the improvements to the house they have done over the past year: they’ve done quite a bit. They’ve planted a new garden, built a new fence, and expanded the house with a new veranda, bigger than the previous one, with a bigger kitchen and bathroom. What a surprise! I nod to my father, congratulate him on his achievements, but deep inside I want to scream: “Father, why have you done all this?” I wished to return to the same house I left. I was dreaming about getting up to flat roof of the old, small and so familiar veranda by the end of the day; laying down on the iron roofing warmed up by the summer sun during the day and watching the stars appearing in the darkening sky. I was dreaming about looking for the familiar constellations, imagining far away worlds on many different planets, big and small, including the tiny one, the one where the Little Prince lives. The one Antoine de Saint Exupéry had flown off to in his P38 Lightning…
I do not say any of that. I am smart enough not to push my problems over to my parents. I don’t quite understand what is wrong with me yet. Back there, in Afghanistan, when my flight back home just took off, I got a strange feeling. As if I am not leaving in one piece, as if some part of me is going to stay forever in that labyrinth of canyons, in that strange, engulfing, moving in circles Afghan Time. But then, the joy of rotation back home celebrated with vodka right there on that flight followed by the rush through customs and the fuss of the bus stations drowned that feeling. That feeling has now caught up with me as I didn’t have to rush any longer.
The next day I would find a real treasure up in the attic, a pile of boards that once had been the air missile boxing. During the same day, I would build a shower stall from those behind the house, almost copying the one we had back in Afghanistan. The boards smell so familiar; they smell of airplane lube and of powder. Being inside this stall would make me feel better, as if I am still over there. It would be the first time in my life feeling nostalgic; apparently, one has to get use to the peaceful life back home…
I would try my best to overcome this feeling and become the old me. And I would almost succeed in this, as there are others who had been waiting for my return home together with my parents. But the habits acquired over there would die hard. Waking up in the morning, I would look for my pistol under my pillow; I would feel uncomfortable without my assault rifle in a crowd of people; I would be struck with fear when the pilot of my civil flight flights straight after the take-off, without spiralling up to the safe height above the airfield…
Upon my return to the regiment, I would join the fellow officers of my squadron to celebrate our rotation back home. I would then see it in their eyes. I would see that we all are drawn back over there but are scared to admit it even to ourselves, naively believing that we are just attracted by the combat. By the next Fall, a new squadron would be formed for a tour over there and my friend would volunteer. He would tell others (but primarily himself) that he is tired of the long winter in Baikal region and that it is warm in Afghanistan. I would hesitate for a long period but decide not to follow him as by than I would already be married. My life would not belong just to me. The squadron would rotate over there without me and I would continue my service in a beautiful Eastern European location. Yet, I would be jealous of those who would be serving in Afghanistan, in a place where nothing is changing…
The news of our troops leaving Afghanistan brought joy to thousands of mothers but was the loss of hope for me. I was entertaining the idea of going back sooner or later, to re-unite with that part of my soul that got stuck over there. But I told no one of it, especially not my relatives. Why would I?
Now we, the Afghanistan Vets, have our own date to celebrate, the day our troops left Afghanistan. One can not compare it to the WWII Victory Day, even if one wished. But this is not necessary. We celebrate this Day among those who have been over there and those who were waiting for us to come back home.
And over there, the Time keeps moving in circles. Nothing is changing over there.
The Dust.
The dust is rather special here, in Afghanistan. Anyone who has ever served there remembers it. We have swallowed so much of it; it became a part of us. The Dust is an ungrateful creation of the War. The tracks and wheels of the armoured vehicles create it by crushing the stones into powder. In return, the Dust pays its creators back, penetrating into the engine oil, blocking the filters and the radiators. Together with its ally, the Heat, the Dust tortures those who guard the convoys. Or it may be waiting on the ground like in an ambush, so it can jump over a helicopter that would choose to land at a wrong spot.
The Dust has a special relationship with the helicopters. If it can not get a helicopter during the landing, it would get even slowly. Like water grinds stones, the Dust grinds the engine rotors, stealing its power. In a critical moment, a helicopter may not respond to the pilot’s actions with a familiar engine throttle but would rather couch like a person who has an asthma, causing a surge. The rotor blades, grinded by the Dust, are not able to pump the air in the combustion chamber and the air is coughed out with a loud noise. The pilot would then decrease the thrust, hoping that the engines would calm down; he had been trained to do it that way and that is what the flight manual said, too. But sometimes the “disease” would already be in its terminal stage; the “cough” would then become louder and the engine would finally couch out what is left of the rotor blades together with the hot air… The destroyed engines would then be shipped back to the Soviet Union and studied there to improve the flight manuals. The rest of the helicopter would then be decaying next to the airstrip. At first, they will be looked upon as a sign of a tragedy, but then after a few shifts, they would be looked upon as just a pile of rubble…
We have just arrived to Afghanistan; we are on our way to the shooting range. The open Army “Ural” truck is carrying us on an unmade road. A thick layer of dust is spreading under the truck wheels like water. The driver is trying to drive as slow as possible, but the dust is nevertheless curling behind the truck. It interferes with our breathing, gets mixed with our sweat and turns the neckpieces of our new fatigue uniforms black, making it stick unpleasantly to our necks. We arrive at the shooting range covered in dust…
At dawn, more than a hundred helicopters at Kunduz airbase are doing all systems check before the start of the missions. The dust, lifted in the air by the blades is not settling down for several hours. Now I understand why everything in our barracks is covered in dust…
Once one is living in that dust, one may not pay attention to it any longer. But today I am flying above 4,000 meters. At 4,000 meters, the layer of dust suddenly comes to an end and it feels like we are surfacing on the water. The Afghanistan sky here is rich blue and not whitish and discoloured like it appeared from the ground. One can not turn his eyes away from the magnificent snowy Hindu Kush ridges. The land of Afghanistan lies beneath us and we can barely see it through a thick layer of dust…
We approach a remote outpost high in the mountains. A Mi-8 helicopter lands on small landing zone, the dust is circling around the propeller, one can hardly see the helicopter through the dust. But then the dust settles; the helicopter does not stop its engine while the soldiers are quickly unloading the cargo, it is a routine supply mission…
A convoy is moving beneath. The dust, lifter by the tracks and wheels is all around the convoy. Only the first car gets a fresh air. Unfortunately, the first car sometimes gets more than just fresh air: here and there, one can spot what is left from the vehicles destroyed by explosions…
On a takeoff, the starter engine is surging; it does not have any protection from the Dust, and the Dust has consumed it. Luckily, I turn off the engine in time and do not burn the entire helicopter. I am going to fly a reserve helicopter today. The land crew does a god job and repairs our helicopter quickly…
I have long given up the attempts to get the dust out of my helicopter cabin. However, the look of dusty panels still gets to me. I’ve once tried to keep the cabin door open until the engine gets to the full throttle. Well, the air flux has got rid on the old dust, but immediately brought the new dust in…
Unloading of a Mi-8 we are guarding it taking more time than expected; we are low on fuel so we decide to land as well. We find a flat spot by a river bank and approach. Suddenly, we see nothing: the Dust is attacking us like a cobra, quickly and unexpectedly. Thanks to our helicopter, we manage to get out of there. It was our own fault, we should have thought of the dust that was brought there by the river flow…
It is raining a lot in the winter, and the Dust is turned into the Mud, that is just as nasty. The Mud sticks to our bots and follows us into the barracks. As soon as it dries, it turns into the Dust again. After walking in the Mud for a months or so, one begins to think that the Dust is actually better then Mud. However, the Mud is the same old Dust, just mixed with water…
It appears that one can get used to the Dust and pay not attention to it. I going home for a short leave; my mother is surprised that both I and my belongings are soaked in dust. I didn’t even notice it any longer; a single night at the Hairaton transfer station was enough to get soaker in dust…
I am returning from my leave, flying as a passenger on a Mi-8 from Hairaton to Kunduz. Beneath us is the desert, the kingdom of sand and the Dust…
It’s a spring, a beautiful time. The Mud has already dried but the Dust is not there yet. It would not last though. In just a month, the Sun will kill the greens and will dry the earth. The Army vehicles will crush the pebbles on the roads into the dust, and everything will turn back to normal…
I am passing through a familiar outpost. Well, apparently I was wrong calling Kunduz the Kingdom of Dust… What could be worse than the Dust? The Ashes, perhaps… We are approaching the familiar landing zone and just above the ground find ourselves like flying in the milk. It is too late to climb and we land head out. We are lucky, we did not trip over. It appears that some smart cookie has burned all the wild grass around. Well, in just an hour we forget about the accident…
I am about to rotate back home; and the Dust start to get on my nerves yet again; the closer the transfer, the worse it gets. Well, actually, everything is getting on my nerves. I can’t wait to get out of here…
Today we are airlifted to Kunduz. Rotation, finally… Well, we spend two extra days at Faizabad as we are caught in a sand storm. Afghanistan and its Dust does not want to let us go…
My “Zenith” camera breaks down one year after my return from Afghanistan. I take it to the repairs. “It can not be repaired. Have you played in a sandbox with it?” – asks the repairman…
I want to through the camera away but I can’t just get rid of it, it served me well over there. It has exactly the same number of combat mission as I do. So it is in my closet now…
------
I was going through my cloths today and found my desert hat from the Afghanistan days. The hat’s been through numerous washes and yet it still smells of the Afghan Dust. It is a very special smell. Volga steppe was full of dust during my cadet years. But the Volga dust smelled of wormwood, feather grass and open space. The Afghan Dust smells of burned fuel, gun powder, TNT, and, apparently, of my youth…
But then again, I might be just day dreaming. Many years has passed by…
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…