One thing that can be said about the culture in this place, they are not fucking around.
I spent some time away from the air base recently, doing some missions in another AO (area of operation) and checking out the local scenery, as always. It was an enjoyable change of pace from the tedious routine, although one could argue it did in itself become a bit tedious. But that’s neither here nor there.
When you go on missions around the air base, you more often than not find dozens of kids and other assorted spectators rushing to your locations, hands outstretched, waiting for that bak sheesh (Gifts). They see our convoys rolling through and know that somewhere, a foolish young soldier has a bag of candy or MRE’s to be given away. Maybe, just maybe, they’d score a broken mechanical pencil.
This new area we were in, however, we had no trails of wanting, but instead were received with stares and wondered pointing. Occasionally we’d get a thumbs up, or a rock hucked at us. These people either weren’t that accustomed to our driving through their villages, or those who had come before us were never in the generous spirit. Either way, it was a welcome break from annoying little children, and it made it more enjoyable to actually hand out candy and food.
A week into all this, however, we were left throwing out water and food with little enjoyment, but a whole lot of pity and a dash of horror.
We were convoying through a local highway, doing our route clearance thing, when we came upon road construction. There was a little dirt road that curved around it to the other side, all the local traffic was taking it so we followed suit. Rounding the first little curve on this dirt road, we were silenced when we had to swerve to avoid the young woman, adorned in a black berka that covered all but her eyes, and the three little children gathered around her. She held a nearly new born in her one arm, her other outstretched. One of her kids, no more than three or four years of age, was lying at her feet, weeping.
This woman was a castaway. We had heard about this when we first arrived at country, but had never actually seen it. When a woman breaks some asinine rule, say she talks back or disrespects her husband, or perhaps she shows her face to the wrong man, or even acts kindly towards an American soldier, her and her children could be thrown out. Abandoned. In a culture where the lack of a husband leaves a woman with a complete lack of social rights and power, this is a death sentence. So these women take to the streets, preferably the busy ones, to beg for their and their children’s lives.
As I pass this scene, I think about the youngest child with her. Chances are, he won’t be alive by time I leave this godforsaken place. I think about people back home, in America. The people that mutter complaints to themselves when Starbucks forgets to put creamer in their coffee, or the people who bitch and moan about Triple A taking thirty minutes to come change their tire for them.
As all this goes through my head, I look forward and see the other two mothers and the crying children hiding behind their mother’s dress. A yellow Toyota almost hits one of the outcasts.
We couldn’t dole out that water and food out any faster that day.
This culture is not fucking around.
Keep on keeping on…
