The Road to Helmand

So I am required to stay on the first floor, while my expat male colleagues enjoy more private quarters upstairs. I dress in shapeless clothing and wear only enough makeup to feel comfortable, yet I still feel as though I'm surrounded by a neon light.

The only time I feel relief from this self-consciousness is around A., our Hazara cook. Unlike the Pashtun men, A. looks me in the eye, laughs easily, doesn't seem afraid of me. He spends hours preparing our meals, then watches our expressions as we eat, awaiting appreciation from the table, often winking at me.

Nonetheless, by and large the food is horrible -- sometimes really horrible. But about once a week, A. hits the bull's eye. His "Pashtun burgers" are a favorite. He uses an old coffee can to cut circles out of nan, the flat Afghan bread, to serve as buns.

More than anything, A. wants to be a chef in the United States. Sometimes I get excited about this idea and think about ways to help make it happen. But the barriers are too great.

I feel the same about S. and R., the two young Afghan women in our office. They want to go to medical school, but they have no passports and no money. Nor do they know much English. I feel impotent in the face of their dreams. Getting an Afghan into the United States post-9/11 is as ambitious an undertaking as, well, getting poppy out of Afghanistan.

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The people of Helmand fall into two categories. The great majority believe that poppy is the only reliable source of income. The small minority believe that with help, alternative livelihoods are possible. They don't know how to make progress, but they're hungry for it, so they're willing to trust us.

The project's goal is to diversify the economy and create jobs. Plans include building roads and refurbishing the irrigation system, electrification improvements, job training, an industrial park. I'm responsible for setting up the public information office and developing a campaign to promote the project to Afghans. But there's a substantial caveat: illiteracy. The project's security manager tells me that not one man in his unit of 60 can write his own name; to receive their pay, they "sign" with their thumbprint. Whatever strategy I come up with will have to be compelling but simple.

The company seems most invested in pleasing its client, USAID. Meanwhile, USAID is concerned about pleasing the Afghan people, local and national Afghan leaders, the media, Capitol Hill and the State Department. So I am to issue reports every other week, as well as "success stories" that will convince everyone that these millions of dollars are well spent, that U.S. efforts in Helmand are a shining example of our good work in the world.

On paper, it sounds great. But in practice, all I have to promote are concepts. I'm told to wait before I initiate any public education effort. Weeks go by. Nothing happens. I tell the team I'm concerned about losing the confidence of Afghans who are interested in finding livelihoods other than poppy cultivation. I suggest announcing project timelines so that people can anticipate positive changes. We must provide something to generate discussion as people eat their meals, sit together for tea, walk to Friday prayers.

But because of mismanagement at multiple levels, personnel turnover, lack of initiative and concerns about personal security, progress simply isn't forthcoming. Often the local Afghan government and its culture of corruption, or USAID, are blamed for the lack of results, but the bottom line is the same: We have very few accomplishments to report.

In the meantime, the reports are still due. And I feel pressure to explain to local residents what we are doing here. I hear over and over how the Afghans feel let down by the international community. So our words and images must be chosen with great care. I have little but words and images to offer.