The Compound

Sunday, September 18, 2011 (continued)

After the required check of our ID’s, and a sweep of the undercarriage of the truck for explosives, we were granted access to the compound.  As we cleared a second security gate, I observed a training exercise involving two men lying face down on the ground, amidst a number of on-lookers.  The only the men in uniform were those dealing with the prone individuals.  I had expected everyone on base to be wearing the ANCOP (Afghanistan National Civil Order Police) uniform, but most wore the traditional Afghan garb (or as we referred to them, man-jams). I was told that since the compound was also an assembly point for police officers awaiting a permanent assignment, or coming back from leave, many were authorized to be in their civilian clothes.  Still, others had not yet received their official ANCOP uniforms.

Afghan men in their local dress, as they appeared on the training compound

 

Up to this point the only people in this style of dress with whom I had interacted, were the local workers on Camp Pinnacle.  But even there, they were always outnumbered by the other workers who wore western styles and by us in “contractor” clothing.  Dressed as I was, I was now in the minority.  This helped me realize how prejudiced I had become by associating a certain style of dress with “the bad guys”.  So now, here I was among all these “possible terrorists”.  I began thinking more rationally, “Certainly, they can’t all be members of the Taliban, al-Qaeda, or the insurgency.”  Well, I hoped, anyway!

The compound's front/main building below an empty billboard.  The two men in the foreground are language assistants.

The site itself had been some type of manufacturing plant during the Russian occupation.  There was a large building that housed administrative offices and lodging for select ANCOP members.  The others were quartered in tents, behind the building and throughout the compound.  The building’s roof provided “high ground” upon which small guard towers were positioned along strategic points.  The shell of another building was situated to the rear of the main building, and at a lower elevation.  Within its walls stood tents where the less fortunate were housed.  They were, however, heated and cooled.

Tents in which many of the officers were housed

Interior view of the spartan conditions in the tents

One of the rear buildings still bearing the remnants of previous years' fighting

As we dismounted from our trucks, I followed my coworkers’ lead in removing our body armor.  While, physically, it was a relief to have the extra weight lifted off our shoulders, the prospect of wearing less protection was somewhat troubling.  Probably sensing my unease, Kenny, one of our team leads instructed, “It’s relatively safe here.  But we always try to stay in pairs when we move around the compound,”  - his advice seemed to conflict with his security assessment of the facility.  As our small contingent of contractors walked among the man jams, I noted how at ease my colleagues seemed.  I, on the other hand, despite my best effort to look nonchalant, felt as though I had the “deer in the headlights look”.  Some of my anxiety was due to my perception (whether true or not), that I seemed to be attracting more stares and attention than were my comrades.  Again, I chalked that up to being the “new kid on the block”. 

I was introduced to a few of the LA’s (language assistants).  All were quite friendly and seemed eager to be of service.  Only one wore the manjams; the others were dressed in western-type clothing.  A few wore a mixture of clothing types and styles.  With these, one could discern with some accuracy, some of their previous working partners.  For example, one LA wore military issued combat boots, contractor pants, and a NY Jets jersey.  In discussing whom he had worked for in the past, he indicated that he had worked with a US Marine unit, and a contractor who liked the Jets – therefore, the reason for his “multiple personality” dress. 

Me and Brooks Sanderson (in baseball caps) and 4 of the LAs

For my first day I would be shadowing Bill, a retired Maryland trooper.  As he drilled weapons manipulation and reloading exercises for the AK-47, I was impressed by his professional demeanor and how he presented himself to the Afghan students.  I was surprised by how much of a delay was caused by the translation from English to Dari, the primary language spoken in Kabul. It seemed to take away from the flow of the lesson.  I wondered how it would affect my own teaching style.  Hell, I lose my train of thought while I’m speaking English; let alone having to wait for someone to translate!  

I was introduced to Hashimi, a young LA who would be my primary interpreter.  He was 22, lean, athletic, stood about 6’, and was an avid boxer.  He had a good nature about him, and it wasn’t long before he could easily understand my jokes.  Nor did it take me long to learn that humor doesn’t always translate well – that’s where Hashimi was worth his weight in gold. 

The first time I took a stab at being humorous, I recall Hashimi pausing and shooting me a serious look.  The stare was followed by silence.  As if he were attempting to hide his non-verbal communication to me, he shook his head ever so slightly from side to side, as if to say, “Don’t go there!”  When the lesson was over he simply said, “That would have not been good.”  He then explained some of the cultural nuances, and that to have translated the joke, would have probably crossed the line.  I took his word for it.  Being thankful that he prevented me from becoming embroiled in some kind of international incident, I expressed my gratitude for using his better judgment and asked him to feel free to censor me in the future. 

It wasn’t that Hashimi disapproved. He was very open-minded, to the point of regularly requesting jokes of me.  He was just being protective of my (and probably his) welfare.  Such is the importance of a good relationship with an interpreter.

Hashimi, my language assistant...

....flashing the obligatory gang sign.

  

At the conclusion of training, as Bill, Hashimi, and I made our way through the crowd of manjams, I asked Hashimi why so many people seemed to be staring at me.  He told me that they thought I was an Afghan, but they couldn’t figure out why I was dressed the way I was. 

Once back in the truck I was informed that the “training” we witnessed as we pulled into the compound earlier that morning wasn’t training at all.  Instead, the men that were being searched on the ground were two suspected insurgents attempting to gain entry into the compound. 

It’s going to be an interesting place to work.