SPC Aaron D. Fields - Guardian

Sadly, I find myself with the most solemn of Memorial Day tributes to express this year.

After nine months of relative calm and a handful of close calls for coalition forces Parwan had a battlefield casualty when a patrol was ambushed and a volley of RPGs one of which struck the driver, specialist Fields, killing him and injuring the other occupants of the sturdy, but not invulnerable MRAP.

By chance I was travelling outside of Parwan and hadn't yet heard the news when I joined a daily briefing shortly after my return. It was unremarkable until it came time for the Command Seargeant Major (CSM) to make any comments. CSMs, whose two main jobs seem to be to look after the enlisted soldiers and to knock them into line seemed to be focused on the second task that night. Soldiers aren't known for their flowery prose, and CSMs often show their creative side in how many four letter words can be contorted into some very colorful tirades. Some soldiers had disrespected some enlisted soldiers doing administrative grunt work in the command building, and he (rightly) went after the underlying attitude of superiority with a vengeance and comparing the risks taken by soldiers in the field and those working in the command center.

It seemed a tad harsh, and I was curious why my eyebrows were the only ones that raised.  Afterwards, a friend told me about the ambush, and it was instantly clear that the no-holds barred effort to get the men in line was fueled by what I have to imagine feels like a failure to look after soldiers when one is lost.

I was surprised, perhaps because to my surprise, the previous unit had finished their tour without losing anybody to the enemy and unconsciously I was thinking I would make through my year keeping the streak alive. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

Though the "ramp ceremony" during which the fallen are flown home to their families had occured in my absence, but I was appreciative of being asked to a memorial service a few days later.

Appropriately, the unit that ended up giving me a lift to the ceremony was the one that I knew best, and I was glad to have an opportunity to spend some time with them, hoping to show solidarity, particularly since the soldier came from another part of their larger unit.

Never have I been more conscious of the fact that for all the armor and concrete that is part of daily life here, it is a shield of flesh and bone that really keeps me out of harms way, and which gives Afghans and Afghanistan a chance to break the cycle of violence that has ruined so many lives. Neither have I felt so keenly how inadequate my efforts to foster self-reliance and good governance must seem to soldiers who have lost a brother/sister in arms, and sensed how hurtful it must be when my "wisdom" on governance often amounts to doing nothing and watching the afghans either ignore or struggle with a problem that we feel we could easily "fix". I wanted somehow to convey that their sacrifice has given Afghanistan a opportunity, but whether and how they seize it is something only Afghans can decide. I can only hope that my presence and the comraderie we shared conveyed some of both my gratitude and my conviction that for all the mistakes and uncertainty of the whole endeavor, we are together in a worthwhile enterprise of defending basic human rights and dignity, and attempting to empower the afghan people to be their custodian.

The service itself was a touching mix of ceremony, stoicism, and personal sentiment. Tremendous care was taken in setting up the outdoor stage which served as the chapel. Flanked by the massive MRAPs that specialist Fields loved to drive, the precisely centered main display was the fallen soldier battle cross. A pair of boots, an M-16, helmet and dog tags. A photo stood to the side, an american flag and unit flags stood behind.

Shortly after a helicopter came in, stirring up a huge amount of dust, and depositing a british general who would be the senior representative the ceremony began. The chaplain gave a brief tribute to the young man who loved his job, muscle cars and fishing. Next the battalion commander spoke, focusing on the "soldierly virtue" of SPC Fields and honoring his sacrifice. Then came two of his friends who shared memories of their friend in a clear strong voice, but whose faces and eyes told a different story. I managed to hold my eyes at the glassy stage, only because it somehow felt like the wrong thing for the soldiers here to honor the choice and sacrifice of SPC Fields.

Despite foreknowledge of the ritual, I again had a lump in my throat as the CSM for his company called roll, repeating the name of the fallen when he did not respond, once, and then again, using his full title - Specialist Aaron David Fields. Another soldier called out the details of when and where he was killed.  This was followed by a silence and a tradition whose timing was a surprise - the 21 gun salute. I nearly jumped out of my skin, and was thankful that I managed not to make a sound in my shock.

After a benediction the audience gave their final farewells, passing two by two in front of the battle cross, offering a slow salute, kneeling before it, sometime touching a boot, sometimes leaving a unit coin, then rising to salute again and move out. As my turn came I was doubly grateful to have both a Korean colleague to join me in showing our respect, and a U.S. Embassy coin to leave as I knelt in gratitude for the protection and sacrifice given by Specialist Aaron David Fields - member of Indiana National Guard Military Police Company - The Guardians.

Bountiful Bamyan

Vacant Buddha Niche

Bamyan (or Bamiyan, or Bamian depending on who you ask) is something of an urban legend among expats in Afghanistn, and has some pretty amazing legends that go along with it anyhow.

Both a province and the capitol city, Bamyan is a modestly sized town of perhaps 60,000 if you count the outlying caves. Indeed, caves are a huge part of what makes Bamyan so special, and the huge rock faces are littered with thousands of caves, many of which are occupied, and have been for centuries.

Sadly, the best known caves and their associated niches are those that once held massive male and female buddha statues that managed to offend Taliban sensibilities after standing as a testament to spirituality and ingenuity for over a thousand years. They were shot at with tanks and then dynamited. Now, the niches, the associated monastery (built into the caves of that cliff face) and a third "sleeping" buddha which is being excavated, are part of the burgeoning (yes you heard me right) tourist industry of the town.

Although the a sizable portion of the visitors are aid workers or others working in Afghanistan, there is a growing number of hard core tourists who are making it out to Bamyan, and telling their friends. An active (and well-funded) tourist bureau has gone so far as to hold a ski competition to advertise the charms of Bamyan, and the Bamyan ski club is making a name for itself despite challenges, like the lack of a ski-lift (a shortcoming that is soon to be remedied).

A Typical Bamyan Scene

(Trout Fishing may be the next fad)

Probably of equal importance to the popularity of Bamyan among expats is the "battlespace owner" of the province- New Zealand. The food and hospitality of the "Kiwis" is legendary, and serves to confirm all the positive stereotypes about the friendly, rugged, sporty folk who call the Middle Earth (Lord of the Rings was shot in NZ) their home. Less known, but equally delectable and charming is the cuisine and hospitality of Malaysians, who share the NZ PRT, and run a series of medical programs (which in fact was my excuse to visit them).

The Fearsome Kiwi Stands Guard

Part of the magic of course is that Bamyan is safe. Not entirely without threats of course, but far better than the average inner city in north america. This has to do with various things, from geography, to the competence of local security and the coalition - but is mostly because most of Bamyan is populated by ethnic Hazaras, who suffered more than the destruction of their cultural treasures under Taliban rule, and are quick to detect and report anyone who doesn't belong. Consequently, it is common to see expats strolling town without a phalanx of bristling guards and a convoy of tank-like vehicles. It's normality was incredibly refreshing, and we relished the opportunity to do simple things like buy bread and kabobs from a street vendor, or stop to haggle amiably over carpets, jewelry and assorted other kitsch.

Sadly, the Hazaras, who have a distinctly asian appearance, are thought to be descendants of Mongol invaders, one of many armies that swept down the silk road over the centuries. One of the sadder stories (yes, things can get much worse) has to do with Gholghola - the "City of Sighs" (or of screams) a large hill, covered in ruins left since the 13th centure. The city stood for months, resisting the onslaught of (ironically enough) the mongol hordes of Genghis Khan which have become closely tied to to Hazara identity. After a traitor revealed the secret water supply for the city the mongols prevailed, and in the aftermath Genghis allegedly gathered the entire population on the hill (men, women and children) and killed them all as a lesson to other potential troublemakers. Their sighs/scream still echo in the consciousness of the residents.

Gholghola

(in foreground)

Farewell Friends

Well it's been awhile, partly due to leave, but also due to all the changes.  With the RIPTOA (turnover) there's a whole new cast of characters, and I've had to say goodbye to all the old ones.

As somebody who is pretty accustomed to living in communities where 1/3 to 1/2 depart every summer this isn't new territory, but it is still tiring, and intriguing to see the different approach that the military put on it.

Ceremonially, they are much more thorough than us civilians, officially marking the handoff from one unit to another with something called a (you guessed it) RIPTOA.  There are short speeches, music, and a bunch of people standing in formation - and then banner of the unit "on the ground" is furled by the commander and Command Seargeant Major (CSM) - next the banner of the incoming unit is trotted out and unfurled and its done. Similarly, there are farewell meetings to present certificates of appreciation and other gifts and honors, like the battalion coin and so forth.

RIPTOA - Goodbye TF Maverick, Howdy TF Defender

Socially, it felt a bit more awkward than the "hail and farewell" events that are a staple of Embassy life, where the departing families are sent off and the new ones welcomed. Mostly this is a logistical issue, because with the number and uncertainties of movement it can be a month or more to actually get somebody out of theater. As a result of that combined with my own erratic travel, I ended up saying farewell to some people a dozen times, and others got whisked out prior to the RIPTOA without a word.

Of course I made sure to say proper farewells to my closest team members, and enjoy a final chat with the Professor, CPT Esquire, and of course Papa Duck. We had a small ceremony (2 actually), the exchange of personal emails, and chatted over drinks (caffeinated). I got a few final tactical survival tips (hide behind the engine not the door of a car in a firefight) - thanked them for making me at least an honorary member of their "band of brothers" - and wished them safe travels.

Now I'm breaking in the new team, trying to come up with clever nicknames, and finding myself both thrilled and distressed that I have less than 90 days before I follow in their footsteps.  The new team seems great, though things are still shaking out in terms of who is where doing what, but I've gotten accustomed to the dizzying pace of change here, and am very encouraged by the fact that one of my new mates has already been christened with a nickname by the afghans, and I'm encouraged about the future of Afghanistan that the soldiers think highly enough of her spiking abilities on the volleyball court to name her in honor of a favorite weapon - "RPG".