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The Road to Helmand
I hold a dry opium pod, and it rattles like a baby's toy. Today I learned that women are planting poppy openly in front of their homes, trying to attract buyers. I'm told that some are widows who can't imagine another way to provide for their children. Others are virtual widows, their husbands lost to the haze of opium addiction.
I met today with F., the director of women's affairs for the province. Apparently she secretly educated hundreds of girls in her home during the Taliban era. The Helmand Women's Association is housed in a dank, dilapidated building. F. receives no salary and faces begging, pleading women every day. She feels helpless, and is grateful that we are here.
* * *
Several of us go to the bazaar in search of spices for our Thanksgiving meal. I bite into things, hoping to find nutmeg, and examine the local version of peppercorn. My favorite senior Afghan staff member, H., is with me as the crowds gather to watch us.
Suddenly, I'm pushed. I assume it's an accident, but H. snaps at the crowd. We've just received a call from security about a possible car bomb, so he's already on edge. It's one of only two shopping trips we'll make before the market is designated "no go" for expats, and it is cut short. But I have nutmeg.
I heard this today: "Helmand is where God comes to cry." The barren surroundings are so overwhelming that they blunt any interest in conversation, so our travels on the road are mostly quiet. Until we see a camel, or an enormous Kuchi dog, or a little girl decked out in something bright and sequined.
Every day here, it is palpable, the cost exacted from a people living between abject poverty and illegal income. I see it in the cautious eyes of turbaned men coming into the compound to meet with our agricultural team, and in the suspicious expressions of local leaders.
I don't think they know that we understand their situation. Inside this compound we think about it all day, every day. We talk about it at meals; we know the world outside these walls is waiting for more and better options.
But the team seems to face obstacles everywhere: some USAID regulation that management can't get around; resistance to new ideas; and a general sense of being overwhelmed that's the result of an ill-conceived mission.
Local residents live between a rock and a hard place, and expect us to extricate them. We live between a rock and a hard place, and clock time until our contracts are up.
I feel bad that we're not accomplishing more here, but I have no guilt about living in this compound and earning hardship pay. Especially because USAID keeps raising our danger pay, but never talks about evacuation. We're the only foreigners left here except the military. Even a Bangladeshi nongovernmental organization shut its doors recently after one of its Afghan staff members was killed as he prayed in the nearby mosque.
* * *
As harvest season approaches, we brace ourselves for foreign media inquiries. Predictably, most want to tell the sinister story of opium and violence. I am determined to show a different Helmand. But after the first two or three visits, it becomes obvious that the project has few activities to showcase. Over and over we take reporters to the cobblestone road at Qalai Bost.
Our one success story, the road was begun early this year, using stones harvested from the Helmand River. Nearly 350 men were paid $4 a day to leave the poppy fields and work on it. I never thought I could get excited about road construction, but it truly is a thing of beauty, as is the laborers' pride in it.
In preparation for a visit by reporters, I want the men to practice being interviewed, so I play reporter while B. serves as interpreter. I ask her to encourage the workers to use their own words. To my relief, each man speaks authentically about his fondness for the work. A day's wage on this project, one says, is enough to buy medicine and send his child to school, and he is proud of the fact that it is clean money.
The reporter I accompany to the site the next day has been around the region a lot longer than I have. When I suggest that she speak to the men I had talked to, she recoils and strikes off in the opposite direction, looking for other laborers who will tell her the darker story of poppy. We all could have saved her the time and risk and told her that over the phone. We all know that story.
* * *
B. has grown so much in the job. Once a young woman who refused to talk to men she didn't know, she now makes phone calls and engages with both men and women with confidence. Mortified when I first suggested that she accompany me to a meeting with government officials, she regularly makes presentations to groups.
She also has an acute case of wanderlust. When I return from London, she asks about my holiday. "It was lovely," I say. She smiles but her look is one of longing. "Where would you want to go if you could go anywhere in the world?" I ask her.
She stiffens, and says I must not suggest such things. "God has written on our foreheads where we are to go in this life," she says, "and he has not written that I am to leave Afghanistan."
I smile. "A few months ago, would you have believed it if someone had said: 'God has written on your forehead that you are to work with an American organization and make a good living'?"
She seems uncomfortable. I feel guilty and go back to my computer. Then she whispers, "Holly. I would like to visit India -- India and London!"
* * *
In the past, threats of poppy eradication have been empty, but now we hear that it has begun. Locals tell me the average citizen believes that "alternative livelihood programs" and eradication efforts go together. This is just what we didn't want, and what some on our team fear puts us at greater risk. We urgently need to make the public distinction between alternative livelihoods and eradication.
We all seem to know how inverted this process is. The options that the project is proposing should have been in place before the eradication threat returned. It comes to these farmers every year lately, and every year they ask, "What are our alternatives?" And every year, the answer is the same, though no one is honest enough to say it: "There are no other options."
I'm back from home leave, and B. tells me about the phone calls.
"I was called by this man," she says. "I don't know who he is, but you know, he shouldn't do this. So I said to him, 'What kind of Muslim are you to call an unmarried woman?' " But he responded: "What kind of Muslim are you to work with Americans?"
The caller said he knew where she lived, what time she left her family's home for the walk to our compound, what color her burqa is. I think of the threats to the women on the provincial council, to F., and the recent killing of F.'s counterpart in Kandahar, as well as of F.'s own driver. I tell B. she must now call me when she reaches her afternoon classes. I make her change her route and ask her to call me after she arrives home each night.
* * *
F. and the other women in Helmand's department of women's affairs have avoided going to their new building since her driver was killed, so B. and I head to the old office for a meeting. For this three-block drive, B. covers all but her eyes. She says she doesn't want to be seen in our vehicles; it frightens her. In the front seat, two middle-aged former soldiers from South Africa serve as our escorts. They are carrying automatic weapons; we all wear body armor.
During the meeting, we hear a large explosion. On the way back to the compound, we learn that it was a suicide bomb at the market nearby. It killed 23 people, many of them women and children doing their midday shopping.
The intentional killing of innocents, virtually around the corner. We go to dinner, talk about it briefly, then move on to new recipe ideas. Without our being conscious of it, numbness sets in.
The head of the British government's drug team is pacing on the tarmac in Kabul, his bulletproof vest a stark contrast to his summery plaid shirt and rumpled khaki suit. He and his colleagues don't get to Helmand much, and he seems anxious.
We are headed back to Lashkar Gah, to a counter-narcotics shura, a consultation with religious leaders and tribal elders. Planting season is fast approaching, so the pressure is on to encourage people to plant something other than poppy. To increase confidence in him, we've told locals that the governor of Helmand has called the meeting. In truth, the meeting was put together by the British drug team working with USAID and the State Department.
We arrive two hours late and enter a room crowded with somber, sweating men. Some have traveled for more than a day to be here.
After a series of benign speeches by the governor and the ministers of agriculture and of rural reconstruction and development -- speeches that fail to make use of the statistics and talking points we've worked around the clock to produce -- the crowd asks questions. The men become worked up, but all I hear are the predictable complaints: There are no alternatives to poppy. Why can't you just raise the price of cotton, we'd all grow it instead. Where has all the reconstruction money gone?
I am getting as agitated as the crowd, because I know that the materials in the unopened plastic folders would have preempted all these questions. I watch the ministers take notes as the governor mops the sweat from his face and neck.
I get up and go into the hall, where the governor's shooters are pacing. But before I can leave, the meeting breaks and I am led to a private lunch where 30 people sit in silence.
* * *
Another suicide bombing, this one even closer to the compound. I'm in the reception area. At first I think someone has slammed the metal-and-glass door behind me really hard, so I keep talking. We've just received 15,000 information booklets that I've designed. I'm showing them to our Afghan staff when I notice people running.
Our security force comes through the door and rushes past with weapons in hand. We cancel the road move we had planned and some of us gather to watch the smoke rise. The bomb killed 21 people down the street, about a block and a half away.
Once every few days, I think about the very real chance that this could be B.'s last day, some guard's, even mine. Bribes are offered and accepted frequently here, and I wonder when someone wearing an explosive vest will pay off one of our Afghan guards for access to our building.
It is my final full day in Afghanistan. I feel spent. I make some green tea out of sight of colleagues who are fasting for Ramadan. If depressing had a taste, I think it would be lukewarm, unsweetened green tea.
It occurs to me that I have been set up to fail, and that this is what has made me so tired, not the dysentery or the malaria or the long days and nights. On the good days, I still feel like progress is possible. Other days, I internalize the project's failure, and that is the feeling I leave Afghanistan with. The sandbagged walls and armored vehicles have not prevented guilt from penetrating my bones.
I now think that the West can do little if anything to quell the opium poppy trade, except to intercept the traffickers. This will be true as long as Helmand's residents refuse to recognize and respect the central government; as long as streets and schools, markets, mosques and government buildings are targeted by suicide bombers; as long as elders strike deals with the Taliban and government officials themselves profit from poppy production.
Still, I wish I could have been and done more. Then on this last day, I see the photographs of our public information materials being distributed in the villages of Helmand. They show wide-eyed children studying the pictures, teachers in full classrooms pointing to pages in the booklets I wrote, smiling policemen handing them out.
I don't know if the words and images inspired any conversations about hope and possibility. But in my final hours in this country, these pictures allow me, at last, to feel some small glimmer of satisfaction.
Holly Barnes Higgins is a former aid worker
in Afghanistan and Angola.