In January 2009, I embarked on a journey to Dubai, only to discover what would later become known to me as the Terminal of Lost Souls. While Dubai International Airport was known for its grandeur, luxury shops, and modern facilities in Terminals 1 and 3, Terminal 2 was a completely different world. This terminal catered to discount carriers flying to areas like Uzbekistan, Somalia, Iraq, and Afghanistan, where passengers consisted of poor construction workers, mercenaries, contractors, and journalists like myself.
As a public-radio correspondent, I had been producing stories about Afghanistan for years, but I had always yearned to report from the field. Finally, I got the opportunity and eagerly jumped in. Little did I know, I was completely unaware of the true human toll of the conflicts I had sought to cover.
During my first trip, I focused on reporting on the Taliban’s use of Pakistani tribal regions as a training ground. It became clear that if the Taliban had a sanctuary that the United States couldn’t reach, the war was destined to be lost, or at the very least, incredibly difficult to win. I was granted an embed in Laghman, a province in northeast Afghanistan, where the Taliban had supply lines to Pakistan.
Upon landing in Kabul, the capital city of Afghanistan, I noticed a mix of Russian and Sudanese influences. The grey sky and scattered trees reminded me of Moscow, while the rundown buildings and bustling marketplace resembled Khartoum. As I traveled north, I witnessed the overcrowded informal settlements filled with people who had fled the provinces to escape conflict. Many of them couldn’t, or didn’t want to, return to their homes.
After arriving at Bagram and then moving on to Camp Fenty, I had the opportunity to speak with the brigade commander about the deteriorating security situation. He emphasized that without the ability to secure the border and prevent the Taliban from finding refuge in Pakistan, defeating them would prove to be an immense challenge.
Although I had hoped to join combat patrols in Laghman, I was assigned to travel with one of the U.S. government’s provincial reconstruction teams. While this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, it allowed me to converse with Afghans and hear their stories. Road construction was a key aspect of America’s counterinsurgency strategy, as improving infrastructure was believed to stimulate economic development and reduce the likelihood of individuals accepting payments from insurgents.
During my time in Afghanistan, I had many encounters with locals who expressed gratitude towards the United States and frustration towards Pakistan. However, I couldn’t help but wonder what they were truly thinking but not saying. Did they hold any hidden resentments or fears?
One particular experience that stood out to me was my time at an outpost in Najil, where soldiers shared stories of frequent attacks by militants. One evening, they believed an attack was imminent and fired off rounds in the suspected direction, unaware that one of the rounds was an illuminating mortar. This mistake could have had catastrophic consequences, but thankfully, nothing happened that night. It was at this moment that the reality of being in a war zone truly sank in for me. Despite being surrounded by highly trained troops and state-of-the-art military equipment, my safety could never be guaranteed.
In October 2009, I returned to Afghanistan to report on security conditions and development efforts. This time, my focus was on Gardez in the eastern part of the country, where I embedded with American troops involved in building and inspecting schools. During one visit, I walked through a poorly constructed school filled with debris. Frustrated, the Army captain accompanying me expressed his disappointment, but there were no workers around to address the issue. It had only been a few weeks since an improvised explosive device (IED) was found in the same school.
That night, I had anxiety dreams, unsure of their significance. I hadn’t experienced any direct danger, but I was starting to feel the underlying stress that came with being in a place where danger lurked around every corner.
The following day, I took a flight to Combat Outpost Herrera, located on a hill just 10 miles from the Pakistani border. This outpost provided a clear view of how insurgents treated the border as nothing more than a line on a map. The base had already seen its fair share of action, with insurgents frequently coming close enough to launch small arms attacks.
Soon after my arrival, an explosion occurred nearby, triggering a state of alert. We quickly sought refuge in the bunker, waiting for the all-clear signal. Luckily, the explosion turned out to be a mortar landing outside the base, without leading to a full-blown firefight. Despite the relief, I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was finally being exposed to the realities of combat.
That evening, the troops decided to have a cookout. It was a casual affair with young soldiers enthusiastically adding gasoline to the coals. Most of them were just kids, too young to even legally drink. When I was their age, I was busy attending fraternity parties, playing the guitar, chasing girls, and generally being a typical college student. I couldn’t fathom what it would be like to be in their shoes, sent off to a foreign land to fight an unfamiliar enemy.
While relaxing in a small rec room with a few soldiers, a boom and rumble interrupted our conversation. We looked at each other, weighing the need for immediate action. Then, the base’s public address system announced an alert, and we quickly made our way to the bunkers. According to soldiers, the explosion occurred approximately 500 yards from the base, possibly due to an old mine or a botched IED planting. A few days later, I flew to Salerno in Khost province, where I witnessed the resilience and bravery of Afghan civilians working in the face of constant danger.
Despite the risks they faced, individuals like Saeed, a shop owner in the bazaar, chose to work with the Americans due to the lack of alternative employment options that could support their families. Saeed expressed frustration towards the corruption of the Afghan government and believed that security conditions were worsening. Our conversation was abruptly interrupted by a loud boom and a whistling sound. Seconds later, an explosion sent a plume of smoke into the air from just 75 yards away. Panic ensued, and everyone sought shelter in the center bunker. The Afghan shopkeepers shared their fear, claiming it was the most frightening experience they had encountered during their time at the base.
When I approached the scene of the explosion, I couldn’t help but feel gratitude that the shell had been caught by a tree, preventing greater damage. The projectile had hit the branches, detonating harmlessly and sparing lives.
These experiences in Afghanistan opened my eyes to the harsh realities of war. Although I may have been surrounded by well-trained troops and advanced military equipment, the sense of safety was merely an illusion. The inconveniences and dangers I faced were nothing compared to what the local population endured on a daily basis. It was a humbling and eye-opening experience that would forever change my perspective on conflicts and their devastating human toll.
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