I am currently reading The World is Flat. It is a book which talks about globalism in the marketplace and how it effects everyone from America to developing countries to the companies comprising the market. He puts forth an interesting idea--what if the president made a call for finding alternative enery in ten years much like JFK did in calling for the nation to put a man on the moon in ten years. This is not just for the environment, or to become energy independent from the world. But when I think about Al Qaeda's attacks on the free world and the reasons for these being rooted in resentment towards a Western presence in their region, how great would it be to turn these terrorists into desperate appealers for international aid as the oil revenue from their $100 barrels dried up. I doubt they would be crying for us to stay out of their country then. And JFK's call didn't just result in a moonwalk, it spurred a generation of aspiring scientests and researchers who went on to propel the country into its status as the leader in many fields. This call and subsequent focus on research and development of new technologies and resources could once again boost America to the forefront.
Mr. Friedman also discusses the growing deficit or the shrinking lead in certain Science and Technology fields across America at a time when we need it more than ever. To make matters worse, science funding was being cut drastically at the time of publication. Of all the pork that is passed, all the money we come up with for defense and the current military operations, the millions spent on social programs or any other department of government, cutting funding for the future(isn't that what scientific research is all about?) doesn't sit right with me. Surely we can devote some funds to figure out a way to end reliance on such a volatile region for such an essential resource.
An area that has always seemed to me imperative to improve at any given opportunity is education. Education of the next generation of scientists in America can't simply be fixed by throwing money into the school system, this would probably result in the purchase of a newer version of a textbook, a low fat snack vending machine, and of course increased salaries. I think a huge obstacle is figuring out how to go about raising children to aspire to become scientists; but a quote I love from the book that might be helpful is in China Bill Gates is the Brittany Spears, in America Brittany Spears is the Brittany Spears.
The book has served as an eye opener for me in the sense that growing up in America we assume our place as the world leader, whether economically, politically, militarily, or what have you. This feeling of entitlement is now colliding sharply with the plain truth that we will not be able to dominate in most areas and in some we can't even compete. We either need to work harder in this flatter world or ready ourselves for a bit of a shock when our standards of living start to fall.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Our very own Alamo
The platoon has picked up sticks and resettled into our own joint service site--this one is a little closer to Baghdad and doubles as an Iraqi Police(IP) station. The IP's keep things interesting during the day, whether its knocking on our office door to ask for water or a pistol permit at ALL hours of the day or bringing in the rowdy "he keeps on throwing bottles at my sheep" crowd for a few hours of cool down in the slammer. It is pretty exciting to be out on our own without the demeaning stare of the higher brass glaring down at us. I guess it still does, but only from cameras far, far away. And the best part is, the mission is still getting done, without higher being around to yell about cleanliness of the food serving area or the proper way to wear a uniform, the food serving area is neat and uniforms are still being worn. We get a lot of 'walk-in' traffic throughout the day, local leaders stumping for a project to improve their area, random tips about IED's everywhere, and of course people stopping by to see if we are willing to give them 'chocolata' but its not too bad. Because at least they are coming in to us and not just spinning out of control in a hopeless situation which some people back home seem to think. Of course the potential for this sudden and violent spin is there and might just be on standby, but for the time being the area is safe and I am happy to say most of my time each day is spent discussing which water pipes to fix or schools to send desks to rather than who in the world shot at us the other day. Yes the responsibility has increased greatly from being one of four platoons at a JSS to the only one that is taking care of the patrolling, guarding, maintaining, and every other aspect that goes into running a combat outpost but I think we have adapted well and our enjoying the increased load, mainly because it is up to us how we handle it.
We have changed bosses in a way, I have gone from one troop to another in the Cavalry Squadron we are attached to. It is actually the same troop I worked for a year when I first arrived at Hawaii so I know everybody, which made the transition much smoother. I am definitely thrilled to still be working for the Cavalry as opposed to being stuck on one of the larger FOBs or Camps which smack of garrison life back home complete with paperwork by the truckloads and random taskings to complete some detail to fit somebody's taste.
The new area is still a mix of Shia and Sunni but they have been living together for as several generations so that is nothing new for them. They have done a great job of standing up their own security checkpoints for their villages and the men who run these seem to be honest and hard working.
So that is the quick update on what I am actually doing out in this neck of the woods.
We have changed bosses in a way, I have gone from one troop to another in the Cavalry Squadron we are attached to. It is actually the same troop I worked for a year when I first arrived at Hawaii so I know everybody, which made the transition much smoother. I am definitely thrilled to still be working for the Cavalry as opposed to being stuck on one of the larger FOBs or Camps which smack of garrison life back home complete with paperwork by the truckloads and random taskings to complete some detail to fit somebody's taste.
The new area is still a mix of Shia and Sunni but they have been living together for as several generations so that is nothing new for them. They have done a great job of standing up their own security checkpoints for their villages and the men who run these seem to be honest and hard working.
So that is the quick update on what I am actually doing out in this neck of the woods.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Catch and Release
Through the dusty haze that settled in on Alahat earlier in the morning I picked out the approaching Iraqi Army convoy who were escorting the detainees. The crowd in front of me all stopped their conversations and swung around to see how far away the convoy was. A banner above the podium had some Arabic writing that my interpreter told me just announced this as the release ceremony. There were several members of the media in the audience and they were getting shots of our soldiers securing the locations, of the several local dignitaries who were going to be giving speeches later in the afternoon, and I'm sure some shots of the audience itself. The audience was made up of all of the local sheiks who were to sign as guarantors of the behavior and conduct of the detainees from their area. Sprinkled into the crowd were a few family members, but these could have been counted on one hand.
Over the loudspeaker an Iraqi man urged the crowd to wait in their seats until the detainee each was signing for was called forward. The sheiks all gathered around the closest of the arriving IA vehicles, jockeying for the best position to get first look. The anticipation in the air was high and the sheiks all shouted greetings into the trucks.
The detainees being released were captured well before my unit arrived, meaning they had all been convicted of criminal activity against Coalition Forces. The atmosphere of the ceremony was one of pride and joy, I felt it most closely resembled a kindergarten graduation. The sheiks were the blushing parents and we were the third grade class snickering from the sidelines, the former gathered to celebrate the significance of this achievement and the latter knowing its insignificance. I watched in surprise as the sheiks--all of whom are in that title due to their responsibility for security in their respective areas, security from the types of attacks the men being released had either planned or participated in--warmly embraced the detainees as they were ushered from the trucks to the seating area.
Once the group was seated, several speeches were given applauding the convicts for their willingness to cooperate with Coalition Forces, I guessed this trait was proven earlier in the day when a piece of paper stating 'I, _________, will not attack Iraqi Security Forces' over the course of three paragraphs was placed in front of them and they were told to get released they must sign and then they snatched the pen off the table and scribbled their names on it, and reminding them they will be held accountable for any criminal activity undertaken from this point forward. I doubt many were listening because I could barely hear the speeches over the din of conversations coming from the giddy group. As the sheiks came forward to sign the documents as guarantors, I realized that perhaps the men working for us and the men working against us were actually on the same team. I wondered to myself how many of the twentytwo being released would wind up back on our wanted list by next month.
After the ceremony was complete and the media had taken their fill of happily reunited sheik/insurgent couple shots the group began filing out for the parking lot. Waiting for them there were three IP trucks. The serenity of the afternoon to this point was now disrupted by the raging debate between policemen and sheiks. Through my interpreter I learned that the IPs had warrants for six of the newly freed men for crimes other than those they were convicted for. Finally, the police slapped the cuffs on the six and threw them in the back of their trucks. As they drove off for jail I couldn't help but smile for the first time since the happy ceremony began.
Over the loudspeaker an Iraqi man urged the crowd to wait in their seats until the detainee each was signing for was called forward. The sheiks all gathered around the closest of the arriving IA vehicles, jockeying for the best position to get first look. The anticipation in the air was high and the sheiks all shouted greetings into the trucks.
The detainees being released were captured well before my unit arrived, meaning they had all been convicted of criminal activity against Coalition Forces. The atmosphere of the ceremony was one of pride and joy, I felt it most closely resembled a kindergarten graduation. The sheiks were the blushing parents and we were the third grade class snickering from the sidelines, the former gathered to celebrate the significance of this achievement and the latter knowing its insignificance. I watched in surprise as the sheiks--all of whom are in that title due to their responsibility for security in their respective areas, security from the types of attacks the men being released had either planned or participated in--warmly embraced the detainees as they were ushered from the trucks to the seating area.
Once the group was seated, several speeches were given applauding the convicts for their willingness to cooperate with Coalition Forces, I guessed this trait was proven earlier in the day when a piece of paper stating 'I, _________, will not attack Iraqi Security Forces' over the course of three paragraphs was placed in front of them and they were told to get released they must sign and then they snatched the pen off the table and scribbled their names on it, and reminding them they will be held accountable for any criminal activity undertaken from this point forward. I doubt many were listening because I could barely hear the speeches over the din of conversations coming from the giddy group. As the sheiks came forward to sign the documents as guarantors, I realized that perhaps the men working for us and the men working against us were actually on the same team. I wondered to myself how many of the twentytwo being released would wind up back on our wanted list by next month.
After the ceremony was complete and the media had taken their fill of happily reunited sheik/insurgent couple shots the group began filing out for the parking lot. Waiting for them there were three IP trucks. The serenity of the afternoon to this point was now disrupted by the raging debate between policemen and sheiks. Through my interpreter I learned that the IPs had warrants for six of the newly freed men for crimes other than those they were convicted for. Finally, the police slapped the cuffs on the six and threw them in the back of their trucks. As they drove off for jail I couldn't help but smile for the first time since the happy ceremony began.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Prayers for Teyaba
The old man counted his beads as he looked out across his dusty yard into the littered street. With each bead that passed through his grasp he silently chanted a short prayer. After the last bead he fidgeted in his seat and glanced blankly about the empty room. The room was bare save for the cushions lining three of the walls, a single inn table on which tea was served and his plastic chair. It was not common to sit in chairs as opposed to lounging on cushions but the old man preferred his chair. His gaze shifted back onto the dirty street and he began his count anew.
He was very old. None of the strength of his youth remained and this pained him more than any of the other changes that accompanied growing old. His skin was very dark from a lifetime spent under the sun. He had a large nose which dominated the landscape of his face and bright, weary eyes. His beard was close shaven and neat. He wore a tan tunic and a white headdress.
The house was the same one he lived in his entire life. His wife had passed away shortly after delivering their fifth child leaving him with two sons and three daughters. The daughters each left upon marriage to live with the family of their husbands. He was now joined in the house by the families of his sons. His eldest son Abbas had five children. The younger son was killed four years prior by the Shias. He had named that son Ibrahim in hopes of him fathering a large family. He had instead been killed while his wife was pregnant with their first child, a daughter named Teyaba. She was a girl of four years who had all of her mother's physical features except for the large nose of his family. He had fifteen grandchildren but she was his favorite.
As he counted his beads he would sometimes hear his grandchildren playing in the street and let his mind wander to thoughts of when Ibrahim was a child playing in the same streets so many years ago. He had his strength then and his wife. There were plans of taking the Hajj and praying at Mecca but war broke out and his unit was sent to the front. His leg was badly wounded when his platoon assaulted a machine gun position and he stepped out in the face of a volley of fire to instill courage in the younger soldiers and then felt his leg rocked as if by a sledgehammer and spent the next few moments writhing in agony until he lost consciousness. When he awoke he saw he had no right leg and knew his opportunity to make the Hajj was lost along with his leg. His fight was holy and just but he still regretted not making the trip when he had his strength. His leg, like his son, was taken from him by Shias and he hated them for this. Hated them for taking away his Hajj; hated them for taking his strength and mobility; hated them for killing his son. And most of all he hated them for making Teyaba grow up with a crippled old man for a father.
But then his mind was jolted back to his beads and with it the soothing calm brought on by repetitions of prayer. Teyaba presently ran in, jumped on his lap, and nuzzled into his chest. He felt her soft breathing on his tunic. She looked up at him with her dark eyes and smiled. She was a happy child unburdened by the fact that her father died before she was even born. He gave her a squeeze and she hurried off his lap and disappeared into the house with a laugh. In a moment she was back out the front door and into the street where the sound of her laughter was lost in the chorus of shouts of the other children at play. He felt sorrow for Ibrahim never having the chance to play with his daughter. He was all one could ask for in a son and the old man was sure he would have made an exceptional parent. Teyaba would have been the joy of his life.
From the Mosque beside his home the early afternoon prayer sounded and with great effort he worked himself out of the chair and knelt on the ground. He caught a glimpse of a car passing his home just before he started to pray. The car was not one he recognized and the man driving was also unfamiliar. He tried to call for his eldest son but his throat was too dry. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as he began clawing his way up using the chair for support. He cried out as the chair toppled to the ground. His fear drowned out the prayers from the mosque and the sounds from the street. He heard nothing.
The explosion was sharp and sudden. The street was lost in his view and in its place a cloud of dust entered through the gate and billowed towards his home. He began crawling towards the door to get to Teyaba. He longed for his strength back for just long enough to find his granddaughter. The sounds of shouting and wailing were the first he heard. His son rushed from the back rooms and grasped him by the arms and lifted him up onto his chair. He forced out Teyaba's name and pointed towards the front door, his finger trembling. Abbas ran out into the street to find her. The old man fixed his eyes on the street as he rocked steadily in his chair, sifting the beads two at a time in earnest.
He saw his son run towards the front door with Teyaba in his arms. Her clothes were badly torn and covered in blood. She was laid on his lap and to his relief he found her soft pulse. Abbas hurried to the back of the house in search of bandages. The old man took off his white headdress and put pressure on the wounds on her stomach. Her red blood soaked into the cloth and he began frantically tying the other end of it onto her shattered leg to stop the bleeding there. He felt his son's hand firmly on his shoulder. He looked down at his innocent granddaughter and she looked peaceful. He handed Teyaba up to his son. The old man's prayer beads fell to the ground beside his stained white headdress as he buried his head in his hands and started to cry. The sounds of prayer emanating from the mosque filled the room.
He was very old. None of the strength of his youth remained and this pained him more than any of the other changes that accompanied growing old. His skin was very dark from a lifetime spent under the sun. He had a large nose which dominated the landscape of his face and bright, weary eyes. His beard was close shaven and neat. He wore a tan tunic and a white headdress.
The house was the same one he lived in his entire life. His wife had passed away shortly after delivering their fifth child leaving him with two sons and three daughters. The daughters each left upon marriage to live with the family of their husbands. He was now joined in the house by the families of his sons. His eldest son Abbas had five children. The younger son was killed four years prior by the Shias. He had named that son Ibrahim in hopes of him fathering a large family. He had instead been killed while his wife was pregnant with their first child, a daughter named Teyaba. She was a girl of four years who had all of her mother's physical features except for the large nose of his family. He had fifteen grandchildren but she was his favorite.
As he counted his beads he would sometimes hear his grandchildren playing in the street and let his mind wander to thoughts of when Ibrahim was a child playing in the same streets so many years ago. He had his strength then and his wife. There were plans of taking the Hajj and praying at Mecca but war broke out and his unit was sent to the front. His leg was badly wounded when his platoon assaulted a machine gun position and he stepped out in the face of a volley of fire to instill courage in the younger soldiers and then felt his leg rocked as if by a sledgehammer and spent the next few moments writhing in agony until he lost consciousness. When he awoke he saw he had no right leg and knew his opportunity to make the Hajj was lost along with his leg. His fight was holy and just but he still regretted not making the trip when he had his strength. His leg, like his son, was taken from him by Shias and he hated them for this. Hated them for taking away his Hajj; hated them for taking his strength and mobility; hated them for killing his son. And most of all he hated them for making Teyaba grow up with a crippled old man for a father.
But then his mind was jolted back to his beads and with it the soothing calm brought on by repetitions of prayer. Teyaba presently ran in, jumped on his lap, and nuzzled into his chest. He felt her soft breathing on his tunic. She looked up at him with her dark eyes and smiled. She was a happy child unburdened by the fact that her father died before she was even born. He gave her a squeeze and she hurried off his lap and disappeared into the house with a laugh. In a moment she was back out the front door and into the street where the sound of her laughter was lost in the chorus of shouts of the other children at play. He felt sorrow for Ibrahim never having the chance to play with his daughter. He was all one could ask for in a son and the old man was sure he would have made an exceptional parent. Teyaba would have been the joy of his life.
From the Mosque beside his home the early afternoon prayer sounded and with great effort he worked himself out of the chair and knelt on the ground. He caught a glimpse of a car passing his home just before he started to pray. The car was not one he recognized and the man driving was also unfamiliar. He tried to call for his eldest son but his throat was too dry. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as he began clawing his way up using the chair for support. He cried out as the chair toppled to the ground. His fear drowned out the prayers from the mosque and the sounds from the street. He heard nothing.
The explosion was sharp and sudden. The street was lost in his view and in its place a cloud of dust entered through the gate and billowed towards his home. He began crawling towards the door to get to Teyaba. He longed for his strength back for just long enough to find his granddaughter. The sounds of shouting and wailing were the first he heard. His son rushed from the back rooms and grasped him by the arms and lifted him up onto his chair. He forced out Teyaba's name and pointed towards the front door, his finger trembling. Abbas ran out into the street to find her. The old man fixed his eyes on the street as he rocked steadily in his chair, sifting the beads two at a time in earnest.
He saw his son run towards the front door with Teyaba in his arms. Her clothes were badly torn and covered in blood. She was laid on his lap and to his relief he found her soft pulse. Abbas hurried to the back of the house in search of bandages. The old man took off his white headdress and put pressure on the wounds on her stomach. Her red blood soaked into the cloth and he began frantically tying the other end of it onto her shattered leg to stop the bleeding there. He felt his son's hand firmly on his shoulder. He looked down at his innocent granddaughter and she looked peaceful. He handed Teyaba up to his son. The old man's prayer beads fell to the ground beside his stained white headdress as he buried his head in his hands and started to cry. The sounds of prayer emanating from the mosque filled the room.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Dazed and Confused
Some of the funniest quotes from my soldiers thus far have come as we near the end of an all night mission--heads are bobbing, speach is slurred, reports are fuzzy and vague, an altogether regretable state of affairs for a platoon in the throes of combat but one which is inevitable given the schedule of patrols we keep. As an introduction to these quotes I will simply state you are peering out from your vehicle into the town/highway/house/back of your eyelids you are currently overwatching when you turn to say something to a fellow soldier in the vehicle. Sure enough, that soldier is "blindly contemplating", sound asleep. "Hey, John Doe! Wake up!" And much like a dog ate my homework, a classic excuse is immediately offered up. The highlights:
1) "I don't know, sergeant, I just closed my eyes to blink and they wouldn't open."
2) "I'm awake but my neck is tired!"
3) "I'm just trying to...fix...something....down here....Okay, finished, I'm good."
4) "I was just resting my eyes for a little bit, figured I could listen for awhile, I'll go back to looking now."
5) "#$%& we've been out here a long time, Sir!!"
These responses usually have the effect of setting off the rest of the truck in an uproar which if nothing else serves to wake us up for awhile longer. Night after night we are encountered with the biggest enemy in an at most semi-kinetic fight, complacency. Let the enemy see where exactly your soft underbelly is and prepare to get tickled on it. So we wake up, slap ourselves to rush some blood to our face, and focus in on whatever it is we happen to be overwatching.
The latest update I can give you is with the Sadr uprising in Basrah, Najaf, and Sadr City we had some minor unrest in our own town among his supporters which has caused us to again amp up our efforts in a preemptive measure to keep the lid on the situation. At least it seems to be working. Now the latest is Sadr has called off his supporters and is currently kicking back in Iran getting an earful for stirring up the Americans and possibly delaying what otherwise seemed to be the inevitable drawback and transition to financial support that will come post-election '08. I think the larger question in all this is what happens when we leave? Who's going to put the lid on a largely popular fanatic when the police force consists of at least a large contingent of supporters at worst and sympathizers at best? Who is their unifying figure the country will rally around, someone who rises above the religious and ideological squabbles and bloodbaths and unites the tribes and sects and provinces under an Iraqi banner. At some point for them to be a successful democracy there has to emerge at least a nationalist impulse among the people which shuns entangling alliances with Iran and Syria and compels men to work for the greater good of the whole. Right now their interests go as far as our checkbook leads them and when the pen that signs the checks runs out of ink I will be very interested to see who they turn to for sustenance--the government or their religious leaders?
1) "I don't know, sergeant, I just closed my eyes to blink and they wouldn't open."
2) "I'm awake but my neck is tired!"
3) "I'm just trying to...fix...something....down here....Okay, finished, I'm good."
4) "I was just resting my eyes for a little bit, figured I could listen for awhile, I'll go back to looking now."
5) "#$%& we've been out here a long time, Sir!!"
These responses usually have the effect of setting off the rest of the truck in an uproar which if nothing else serves to wake us up for awhile longer. Night after night we are encountered with the biggest enemy in an at most semi-kinetic fight, complacency. Let the enemy see where exactly your soft underbelly is and prepare to get tickled on it. So we wake up, slap ourselves to rush some blood to our face, and focus in on whatever it is we happen to be overwatching.
The latest update I can give you is with the Sadr uprising in Basrah, Najaf, and Sadr City we had some minor unrest in our own town among his supporters which has caused us to again amp up our efforts in a preemptive measure to keep the lid on the situation. At least it seems to be working. Now the latest is Sadr has called off his supporters and is currently kicking back in Iran getting an earful for stirring up the Americans and possibly delaying what otherwise seemed to be the inevitable drawback and transition to financial support that will come post-election '08. I think the larger question in all this is what happens when we leave? Who's going to put the lid on a largely popular fanatic when the police force consists of at least a large contingent of supporters at worst and sympathizers at best? Who is their unifying figure the country will rally around, someone who rises above the religious and ideological squabbles and bloodbaths and unites the tribes and sects and provinces under an Iraqi banner. At some point for them to be a successful democracy there has to emerge at least a nationalist impulse among the people which shuns entangling alliances with Iran and Syria and compels men to work for the greater good of the whole. Right now their interests go as far as our checkbook leads them and when the pen that signs the checks runs out of ink I will be very interested to see who they turn to for sustenance--the government or their religious leaders?
Monday, March 10, 2008
Mother
This year is one that will go down in infamy as the day I didn't contact my mom on her birthday. Of all the things to do at a time like this. So I wanted to say Happy Birthday mom and I love you! And I'm pretty sure this girl said happy birthday too but then again she might have said leave me alone, I don't speak Arabic that well.
A quick semi-funny story:
Steel platoon is driving through town one night, pretty lazy patrol, just making sure all is quiet in the area when I get a call.
"Steel 1 this is Steel 7 someone is throwing rocks at our truck
over" This was coming from the lead truck in our platoon that night.
"Where is it coming from over" came my reply.
"The top of this two story house beside us over"
So we dismounted and investigated and sure enough we see these two teenagers throwing not rocks but bricks at us from their roof. To make matters worse the only door we see to this house is locked from the inside and there doesn't seem to be anyone willing to answer our repeated knocks. We're about to do the only thing we could think to do--that is kick in the door, clear the house, flexcuff the young men--when literally right before I give the order my interpreter breaks in.
"Oh wait LT, this might be a mosque."
Holy sh-- that was close. Having been briefed on several occasions by the Colonel on the fine line I was walking after the speed bump* the last thing I needed was reports that Hollywood cleared out a mosque. I was telling my men to back off when WWHHHHAAACCCKKKK a brick lands on my helmet. At this point I gather all the reserve and patience I have left after a day of patrolling and dealing with other peoples problems(from hereon referred to as OPP, 'yeah you know me') and quickly decide to level the mosque. I mean this brick hits my helmet and shatters(not quite as reliable as the bricks back home) and brick pieces go down your shirt and you're all sweaty and hot from a day of work and these two punks are upstairs sky hook'n bricks onto my trucks and now my head. But luckily I have been briefed by the BIG MAN about precision and restraint following the fisticuffs of fiscal year 2007 and applied a little bit of what he was talking about.
We went to the next door neighbors house and got him to go inside the mosque, turned out he knew the guy who lived there as the caretaker and he somehow slept through our yelling and banging but heard his neighbor's light rap on the door. He comes out with I kid you not a 'I honestly have no idea why there is an uparmored humvee and 15 soldiers standing at my door looking mildly to extremely upset but I am going to assume it's because they want tea' smile. The neighbor gets him to bring down the two teenagers who pull their best 'we were sleeping and thought there were robbers trying to break into the mosque and steal our slippers' routine. I communicated the possible repercussions of throwing rocks at soldiers with hand and arm and rifle signals. We waited for the police to show up and stared at these teenagers who honestly thought this was the funniest prank ever. Then the police show up and they start wailing uncontrollably. The policemen walk up to me and I simply point at them and they force the two boys to the back of the police truck and drive off, no questions asked.
The caretaker of the mosque, only seconds before declaring the boys' devotion to the straight and narrow, looks at me with an innocent smile and asks, "Chai mistah?"
"Yeah, I'd love some chai," I reply and sit down and hear him talk about OPP over hot tea for the next hour.
Monday, February 25, 2008
School of the Soft Knocks
The past few weeks since the speed bump* have gone by quickly, Steel Platoon is back out in the town doing missions instead of grounded on Taji for safety standdown. The information flows in quickly, people are fed up with the punks and outsiders trying to ruin stability in their region. We are constantly getting phone calls and anonymous tips from locals about who, where, and when the bad things are occurring. The best part is it takes out the hours of blindly stumbling around looking for a nugget. So far the key to any success we have had has been information coming in from the people in town. (*long story short a safety standdown on Taji for a negligent discharge at the clearing barrel)
A few lessons about counterinsurgency that I have read about before and definitely agree with now that I have seen them in action are the importance of information from the populace, making military goals and plans subordinate to the civilian government's, the less firepower you use the better, and the only progress you make is in areas the population supports.
The first one I have already pointed out above, but is really the most important. These people know who the bad guy is, what he has done, and where he can be found. We come out on patrol and see a 'population' and not a bad guy with horns and a tail. They walk around all day with the knowledge of exactly which one of their neighbors has plans to do harm to Coalition Forces. The only way to get that information is provide a means for them to communicate it to you without exposure. They will not walk up to you on the street or in the base, they won't cough in their neighbors direction on patrol, no--information comes in the form of a cell phone call after dark. Another key is to give them a reason to call, or better yet, not give them a reason not to call. Rough treatment, having a general prejudice against the population, disrespect towards the culture, and threats of violence will not coerce the late night phone calls from the willing. They have to see the hope we bring and want the change brought about.
The second lesson deals with priorities. As a military we have a certain way we want things done and a certain timeline we want them done in. Civilian governments often execute in the realm of promises, compromise, negotiations, and procrastination; these words are greek to the operations officer. We know situation, mission, execution--see the problem, know the endstate, make it work. Something also referred to as square peg round hole syndrome. And then right before we execute the plan here comes Murphy with his 'wait the city council says they are going to do this with that road.' The military can be a monster at times, it is thrown at a problem and then watched from a distance. The civilian government(in this case the Iraqi government) must have priority and control in all matters. It is their country, it is their progress, it is their endstate. Not only does understanding this principle reinforce the government's willingness to work with the military, it reinforces the power of the government which in turn rallies the support of the population, which in the end is the endstate.
Precision and restraint are the two maxims we apply to any and all reactions to hostile force. It is important to defend yourself and imperative you don't allow your force to get sniped at or bullied without some reaction, but the key is to eliminate the threat, not the threat area or the threat's family or the threat's way of life. Find exactly what you are targeting and hit it quick and surely. Support for military operations from the local population is grounded on the assumption that the military acts against the enemy and not that population. They support our targeting of those who target us, the minute we slip or deviate from that explicit target is the minute the support of the populations slips away.
And in the end, the support of the population decides the victor in an insurgency. The population is the prize(to quote FIASCO), they get all the votes, the war is fought in the court of public opinion just like steroid scandal. He who gets the most support wins. Our fight is just as much as a PA/PR campaign as it is a war on terror, in fact at this stage I would say even 70% so. We must take into account the reaction of the population to all actions before we act, ignoring their vote would be disastrous to our campaign. You don't have to kill all the bad guys, just eliminate the support they garner from the local population. Without it, they can't hide, they can't move, they can't attack. They just get handed candy and a PA flyer as our patrol drives by on the way to another meeting. What a war.
A few lessons about counterinsurgency that I have read about before and definitely agree with now that I have seen them in action are the importance of information from the populace, making military goals and plans subordinate to the civilian government's, the less firepower you use the better, and the only progress you make is in areas the population supports.
The first one I have already pointed out above, but is really the most important. These people know who the bad guy is, what he has done, and where he can be found. We come out on patrol and see a 'population' and not a bad guy with horns and a tail. They walk around all day with the knowledge of exactly which one of their neighbors has plans to do harm to Coalition Forces. The only way to get that information is provide a means for them to communicate it to you without exposure. They will not walk up to you on the street or in the base, they won't cough in their neighbors direction on patrol, no--information comes in the form of a cell phone call after dark. Another key is to give them a reason to call, or better yet, not give them a reason not to call. Rough treatment, having a general prejudice against the population, disrespect towards the culture, and threats of violence will not coerce the late night phone calls from the willing. They have to see the hope we bring and want the change brought about.
The second lesson deals with priorities. As a military we have a certain way we want things done and a certain timeline we want them done in. Civilian governments often execute in the realm of promises, compromise, negotiations, and procrastination; these words are greek to the operations officer. We know situation, mission, execution--see the problem, know the endstate, make it work. Something also referred to as square peg round hole syndrome. And then right before we execute the plan here comes Murphy with his 'wait the city council says they are going to do this with that road.' The military can be a monster at times, it is thrown at a problem and then watched from a distance. The civilian government(in this case the Iraqi government) must have priority and control in all matters. It is their country, it is their progress, it is their endstate. Not only does understanding this principle reinforce the government's willingness to work with the military, it reinforces the power of the government which in turn rallies the support of the population, which in the end is the endstate.
Precision and restraint are the two maxims we apply to any and all reactions to hostile force. It is important to defend yourself and imperative you don't allow your force to get sniped at or bullied without some reaction, but the key is to eliminate the threat, not the threat area or the threat's family or the threat's way of life. Find exactly what you are targeting and hit it quick and surely. Support for military operations from the local population is grounded on the assumption that the military acts against the enemy and not that population. They support our targeting of those who target us, the minute we slip or deviate from that explicit target is the minute the support of the populations slips away.
And in the end, the support of the population decides the victor in an insurgency. The population is the prize(to quote FIASCO), they get all the votes, the war is fought in the court of public opinion just like steroid scandal. He who gets the most support wins. Our fight is just as much as a PA/PR campaign as it is a war on terror, in fact at this stage I would say even 70% so. We must take into account the reaction of the population to all actions before we act, ignoring their vote would be disastrous to our campaign. You don't have to kill all the bad guys, just eliminate the support they garner from the local population. Without it, they can't hide, they can't move, they can't attack. They just get handed candy and a PA flyer as our patrol drives by on the way to another meeting. What a war.
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