Helmand 26: Our eyes and ears

by Hamish Wilson/

I sit with my young Afghan interpreter by the swollen Helmand river watching fish leap out of the fast moving current.

“My family thinks I work in Herat. Only my brother knows that I am here…” he tells me, as the icy water swirls past. “In this job it is safer if our friends, our relatives don’t know what we do.”

We continue talking as the sun slowly sets, and it becomes apparent to me that his concealment is common for many of the hundreds of young Afghan men hired to work across the province as translators and interpreters for those of us who don’t speak the local Pashtu.

“I cant trust anyone in this area.” he continues. “They prefer their own people. If I go out alone, then my place will be with the Taliban next week. They say we are the eyes and the ears of ISAF.”

And he is right. Without these brave youngsters, we are blind. They see all and hear all that is passed between we foreigners and the Afghans, be they government officials, local farmers or Talib sympathisers. And they are more than interpreters – they become our guides to the complex customs and ancient traditions that define every interaction. Without them we would be helpless.

Yet they are invisible. Present in every encounter, conduits for our conversations, yet otherwise silent observers to our dealings over every imaginable issue – poppy trafficking, military operations, local disputes… Our understanding of reality is shaped by these men.

His life story is etched by the milestones of war. Born at the time of the Soviet withdrawal, his family fled to Pakistan as the Taliban rose to power. They, like so many others, returned only after Coalition forces toppled the regime in 2001. He seized the opportunity to begin a degree in medicine, but the realities of a war-ruin economy forced him to defer and instead seek work. Feeding his family was a higher priority.

With a good grasp of English learned in Pakistan, he was offered work by the British military, and promptly dispatched to the increasingly volatile province of Helmand. “I wasn’t happy to come here, but my family needed the money, so I decided to try my luck.”

And in a place such as Sangin, interpreters play a dangerous game of chance. He first arrived in early 2009, just as the ‘fighting season’ was starting in earnest. Four months later, one of his colleagues was struck by an IED. Since then three more interpreters, working on the front lines with the US Marines, have been killed. But such deaths are rarely reported in the media.

I learned from him that they are well rewarded for taking such risks, lured by salaries far higher than local officials, and the dream of qualifying for a visa in the West. Many seize the opportunity, serving their time and whisking their families off to a life unreachable by most in Afghanistan. Sadly, it means that this war is draining the precious pool of educated young men who would otherwise be helping to rebuild a shattered country. Our small team alone comprises a pilot, a nurse, a business owner and an aspirant doctor, their chosen professions laid to one side as they serve as our intermediaries.

By now the dusk has arrived, bringing with it gusts chilled by the waters at our feet. My young and loyal interpreter shares his hopes of someday returning to Kabul to complete his medical degree. It will be a hard road from here and I am reminded how easy it is to overlook the sacrifice made by those who are our eyes and ears.

The right political moment ~ reflections from WEF Africa.

by Ian Randall/

I recently returned from the World Economic Forum’s (WEF) annual Africa meeting in Cape Town. I attended to support a high-level meeting focussed on scaling-up public-private initiatives that will help smallholders become more commercially successful. The meeting was attended by Presidents and Ministers from governments across Africa; heads of international agencies such USAID, IFAD and the African Development Bank; business leaders from mullti-nationals such as Pepsico, Yara, Kraft and Swiss Re; and, unlikely as it may seem, me! How did I find myself the smallest fish in a pond full of very big ones? This happened through the convergence of some long-term personal and strategic goals.

A few years ago, I was asked by the UK’s Department for International Development to consider how the private sector could be engaged in support of agricultural development. I ended up recommending to DFID that they supported country-level facilitation of public-private partnerships to integrate smallholders in to commercially viable markets. However as part of a stretched team, and with an impending change of government, there was no political impetus and, regardless how welcome my suggestions were, they led to no consequential action.

However, developing my report for DFID gave me the excuse to knock on the door at WEF and establish some relationships. I maintained these, and in the meantime established myself in a key role coordinating the engagement of Development Partners for CAADP – a pan-African movement to boost agricultural production and thereby address poverty and hunger. This year CAADP agreed that it was a top priority to leverage the technical, financial and human resources of the private sector. At the same time, I was aware that, driven by their multinational membership, WEF had pioneered a couple of promising public-private partnerships in Tanzania and Mozambique, and was looking to scale-up their efforts. WEF’s limiting factor was finding countries where there was strong political leadership in place that would want to work on such initiatives. Earlier this year I was able to connect the effort by WEF and the effort by CAADP by introducing key people to each other.

The event at WEF Africa was the result of bringing together the public-sector-led CAADP efforts, and the private-sector-led WEF efforts. This was the right political moment and the result is remarkable. Top-level political commitment was secured from across sectors for a scaling up of initiatives across Africa. In the next year we expect to see new partnerships launched in 6 countries. The Southern Agricultural Growth Corridor of Tanzania provides a practical example of one of these. In this key farming region, businesses are establishing new hubs through which to work with small-scale farmers, providing inputs such as fertiliser or seeds, establishing storage facilities, processing commodities, and finding markets for products. The government is investing in infrastructure such as roads, rail and irrigation. Development Partners are providing catalytic finance and capacity development. By acting together everyone is establishing the confidence required to establish functioning markets. These initiatives translate a great deal of talk by policy-makers in to action. The involvement of the private sector will only last if they see results, and as such this creates a tangible sense of hustle and focus that is often absent from development processes.

I played an enabling role at the WEF event in Cape Town –  writing briefing notes for participants, helping facilitate a roundtable discussion with the Rwandan Minister of Agriculture, writing a follow-up report and participating in the working group that will take the outcomes forward. The achievement I am really proud of was to maintain a long-term strategic focus on the value of public-private partnership for agricultural development, building relationships in that space, and then, when the political moment was finally right, I was able to make some key connections so that others with much greater power and influence could multiply their impact by working together.

Helmand 25: The long road to transition

by Hamish Wilson/

2014 will soon be with us.

Over the next two years, international forces are expected to draw down, offering ‘strategic overwatch’ as Afghan government and security forces take the reins. Some argue that it is not soon enough, others that a few short years offers too little time to build the institutions that will be expected to endure beyond 2014.

Either way, the deadline has noticeably stiffened the resolve of coalition and Afghan partners to zero in on what it will take to ‘transition’ this battle-scarred province without a return to the not-so-distant days of Taliban rule and tribal conflict.

Other factors are also playing their part in concentrating attention on the ‘end-state’; the promised US military drawdown will begin to take effect sometime this year, and President Karzai’s administration is under increasing pressure to demonstrate its ability to take the lead.

Such capricious dynamics have sparked a low-key yet ambitious undertaking to define a roadmap for transition, to chart a course to 2014 and beyond.

In principle, it sounds straightforward; figure out what Helmand should look like in 2014 or thereabouts, work backwards, and a plan should emerge.

The reality is that its creation has been a dazzlingly complex undertaking…

Over the past five months, planning teams have been zealously gathering views from across the province and beyond. In the districts, local officials and police chiefs, alongside civilian advisers and military commanders have been pondering their priorities over endless cups of tea. In the provincial seat of Lashkar Gah, line ministry representatives have discussed and debated with PRT civilians, who in turn have spent painstaking hours alongside their NATO counterparts. Countless drafts have been exchanged between Helmand, Kabul, London and Washington.

We stand now giddily on the brink of completion – edging closer to a final document that will comprise a visionary ‘capping document’ underpinned by thematic plans, which in turn inform district plans… Its 67 single-spaced pages and sheaf of annexes belying the labours of its creation.

It may be easy to understate the significance of this innocuous document, but its effects should quickly become visible; the shift from company commanders spending military funds to build a bridge or repair a canal to Afghan community groups and line ministries using on-budget funds to determine development priorities for their own people. It’s frought with risk, but vital if Afghans are to assume leadership.

But so far, only half the battle has been fought.

There are innumerable cases of superbly drafted plans laying dormant on the shelves of corporate suites and government departments the world over, quietly gathering dust despite the fanfare associated with their unveiling. The Helmand Plan 2011-2014 is no different. As Major Kim Noedskov, one of the authors of the plan, bluntly puts it,  “The plan is not important. Its understanding and implementation is.”

And he is right. For such an elaborate design to take effect – that is, to change the way of doing business here in Helmand, the vision and roadmap it describes must find themselves woven into the daily ‘battle rhythms’ of tens of thousands of NATO troops, their Afghan partners and into the very fabric of the myriad institutional layers that comprise this vastly complex campaign.

It strikes me that three factors will determine whether or not this plan will have some hope of shaping the daily actions of those on the ground; the trinity of civilian stabilisation teams, military commanders and Afghan officials;

Crucially, it will take leadership; the extent to which this plan continues to be genuinely and visibly endorsed at the highest levels of civilian and military command. Second, it must be embraced by those with the money, Afghan and international alike, who must be compelled to spend their dollars in accordance with this plan – and no other. Finally, people must be held to account for delivering on the goals and milestones of the plan. This will especially contentious, when systems of managing performance and directing effort vary wildly across the institutional spectrum.

To be fair, it is early days. The plan has barely been unfurled, and high marks must be given for a determined effort thus far. It will take some time yet before its intricacies begin to trickle down to the grunts on the front line. It should also be pointed out however, that outcome of these efforts is far from certain and the final votes wont be counted for a few more years yet.

Why Wasafiri?

by Ian Randall/

Wasafiri is Swahili for travellers. Why did we choose this it for our name? During our inception as an organisation, several separate threads of thinking converged, leading us to Wasafiri as a name we were all happy to call ourselves.

There is no path

“Traveller, there is no path, paths are made by walking”. This is a line by poet Antonia Machado. I first saw it quoted by Paulo Freire in one of his many books about how to empower people as agents of social change. For me, it captures the struggle and hope involved in human progress, and the work involved in overcoming poverty.

If everyone knew how to tackle chronic poverty and related crises, then everywhere people would be living comfortable, contented lives. Instead we find that the causes of poverty are deeply woven into our social, political and economic fabric. There are no easy or obvious solutions. Nonetheless, everyday people struggle to create paths out of poverty. As small progress is achieved then, slowly, people are capable of reconstructing their reality through new understanding and patterns of behaviour.

Wasafiri was established as a home for people seeking to accelerate this process of change.  We help individuals and organisations come together in critical reflection and then act in concert to recreate their world. We are both guides and fellow travellers on this journey.

The journeymen

Guilds dominated economic activity in the Middle Ages. They were loose but powerful professional associations through which best practices were learned, and clients were assured of quality service. An aspirant craftsman would start life as an apprentice working under an established master. Once they had proved themselves they would graduate to the role of “journeyman” and take ownership of their own tools. These freelancers would rove the great projects of Europe, working under different masters and constantly learning and exchanging new knowledge.

These journeymen are the professional ancestors of independent consultants. Wasafiri aspires to create a 21st century guild that networks together such consultants in to a community of practice that, as before, transcends institutional boundaries, promotes learning and gives our clients an assurance of quality.

A global community

Development work is, in part, about establishing effective and capable institutions in poorer countries. Despite this, development consultancy firms are dominated by professionals from the global North. Wasafiri was founded by a Zambian, a Rwandan, an Australian and a Brit in the belief that we would learn more and be more effective if our organisation mirrored the world we aspired to create. We want to maintain a balance between consultants from the global North and South, establish an inclusive culture and create an organisational structure that allows everyone to contribute and benefit.

Liberal Seburikoko, Wasafiri founder, started sharing Swahili words as possible names. Swahili draws from African, Arabic, Asian and European languages. It offered fertile ground for our search for an evocative name that would capture the spirit of our aspired global community.

Travellers

Those of us who make up Wasafiri have spent a great deal of lives travelling – either as adventurers, refugees, diaspora or professionals. We tend to be happiest and at our most purposeful when facing compelling problems without any clear or guaranteed solution. We enjoy heading in to the unknown, both metaphorically and literally.

While on assignment in Nairobi, I managed to escape for one day to climb Mount Longonot, an extinct volcano that thrusts up from the Great Rift Valley. The park rangers were adamant that a lone Mzungu would not be safe from wild buffalo, so my kind driver, Paul, offered to join me in circumnavigating the crater. As we sat sharing a can of baked beans on the summit and scanning the vast landscape around us, Paul and I discussed possible Swahili words for the new company. As soon as he suggested Wasafiri I was convinced we had our name.

Helmand 24: A fragile gift

by Hamish Wilson/

The time has come to pass on the mantle of stabilisation in Musa Qal’eh. Angus and myself are making way for a new team, bringing fresh eyes and new energy to the campaign.

Reflecting on the past nine months is akin to peering into a bizarre kaleidoscope – an ever-changing fusion of colours and experiences which reveal new insights with each twist. The image that dominates my mind however is one of transformation; for in our short time we’ve witnessed nothing less than the birth of government in Musa Qal’eh.

District Governor Naimatullah’s arrival in June followed a nerve-wracking void in district leadership – the fear of uncertainty permeated any hope for the future during those precarious times. Now, and perhaps for the first time in a generation, the people of this district have a legitimate and compassionate administrator.

And we’ve since watched a trickle became a flood of local Afghans to his office – many braving the journey for the first time – to seek guidance and counsel. These days it’s not uncommon for dozens of people to be patiently awaiting an audience.

Encouraged by these wisps of change, we tempted a prospective District Prosecutor to visit. Four months later, he’s still with us – and for the first time people are taking their disputes to the government rather than to the Taliban.

And two painstaking years since work first begun, we’ve finished building the police headquarters – the finest construction in the district, symbolic of the evolution of the district police into an increasingly professional and trustworthy force. We also watched the first stone being laid for what will soon become the new District Government complex, complete with a shura hall for over two hundred people. Its unveiling will be a fitting monument for the government of a district that knew of only Taliban and warlords just a few years ago.

Then, on a sunny autumn day, we sat amongst four hundred elders who defied retribution to elect a District Community Council to represent the interests of common people across the district. We capitalised on the momentum to help the new government tentatively enforce the first ever district Counter Narcotics Plan, a remarkable achievement in a district famed for its role at the heart of Helmand’s poppy trade.

Progress in governance has also been matched by reconstruction. Roads have been improved, and a mobile phone network installed. The District Centre finally has running water and electricity every day. Two schools have been refurbished and hundreds more children now go to school. Hundreds of young men have been employed through urban regeneration schemes and agricultural goods distributed to thousands of farmers to support their livelihoods. In the past six months I’ve watched three hundred more businesses open in the bazaar, and seen the weekly livestock market grow to over 3,000 people from all corners of the district.

But what of the impact of these efforts?

To those of us in the thick of things, it’s clear that the decisive ‘political settlement’ so long sought between the government and its people is cautiously emerging from the chaos of a war-ravaged past.

Such a settlement is more than hyperbole. Ive seen it; more locals are risking their lives to share information about the location of roadside bombs. More young men are willing to work with the Government to defend their villages against the Taliban. Farmers have started to eradicate poppy from their fields. A growing number of fighters have laid down their arms in search of a life beyond the insurgency. Remarkably, we are even seeing women warily step beyond the confines of their compounds to take their own issues to the District Governor.

The gift of such progress is both precious and fragile. It must be nurtured over these coming months lest we risk the district sliding into the mire from which it has torturously risen. But it is a tribute to the resilience of the people of Musa Qal’eh that we have come this far. I remain hopeful.

And in passing on this mantle, I wish all the very best to Henry, Clive and Julius.

Helmand 23: What price ‘Acceptable Corruption’?

by Hamish Wilson/

It costs an awful lot to repair the damage of war.

Schools must be built, roads constructed, power and water supplies installed, police stations furnished, telephone networks established and irrigation canals cleared (I could go on..).

Such efforts require a ready supply of both skills and materials. Sadly, Musa Qal’eh is short on both, which means that the cost of reconstruction is high, far higher than I had initially expected. Supplies must be trucked in from as far as Pakistan, across mountain passes and treacherous desert roads. Skilled masons, bricklayers and electricians must be found in neighbouring provinces, and paid bonuses to work here. Add to this the high cost of protecting convoys and replacing vehicles that expire en-route and you can begin to understand how the costs mount up.

Despite the challenges, the amount of money being invested in Musa Qale’h has soared in recent months. This is a good thing. Firstly, the Afghan government is becoming an increasingly effective development partner and secondly, security is improving which means that suppliers are more willing to bid for contracts (for example four months ago there were five official contractors. Now we have over thirty.)

But this is not a cloudless horizon; the risk of corruption is ever present and will inevitably feed from the boom of reconstruction. Here in Musa Qal’eh such risks come in many guises – overpricing, skimping on materials, charging for non-existant labour, and sadly even kickbacks for officials.

In the face of such widespread abuse, it is all too easy to dismiss such practices as ‘acceptable corruption’, or simply ‘the cost of doing business’. Such thinking is corrosive, especially if it ultimately means that medical supplies are stolen, classrooms are not built, and public faith in the government – so pivotal in this campaign – is undermined.

The nascent Afghan administration here is acutely aware that such a toxic seed cannot be allowed to take root, and last month launched a weekly meeting to candidly examine lessons and regain the initiative. From it emerged a range of important measures;

–       Establishing a Joint Project Coordination Office to oversee all reconstruction efforts

–       Launching a public Anti-Corruption campaign

–       Blacklisting corrupt contractors

–       Deploying project monitoring teams

–       Tightening up contracting procedures

–       Taking steps to prosecute corrupt officials

This will take time and courage. But it is working already – we’ve exposed a number of flawed projects, cancelled contracts and sent more than one contractor packing. The word is spreading that there is no such thing as acceptable corruption and more importantly, we may just be able to embed a new way of doing business here in this imperfect place.

Helmand 22: Living with the ‘Devil Dogs’

by Hamish Wilson/

“I grew up dreaming of becoming a Navy Seal. Then I met some Marines.” Says Major Justin Ansel, the Battalion Executive Officer. “17 years later and Ive never looked back.”

As second in command of the First Battalion, Eighth Marine Regiment, he has the daunting task of managing well over a thousand Marines across two districts engaged in ‘full-spectrum counter-insurgency operations’. When you first meet Ansel, he embodies the image of a Marine – broad shouldered, a strong handshake, and with an air of no-nonsense competence.

Working with the US Marines has intrigued me from the first moment. Their reputation is hewn from iconic battles in exotic places – Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Khe Sanh… but just how does this legendary history translate into reality here in Musa Qal’eh?

There is no doubt that US Marines are a breed apart (I was politely informed very early on that Marines are not ‘soldiers’ – which refers to US Army). I was struck by the obvious distinctions; the ‘high and tights’ (fiercely cropped haircuts), their impressive appetite for physical training, the dog tags sewn into their boots, the famed Eagle, Globe and Anchor symbol adorning their fatigues, their guttural greetings of ‘Oorah’ (reportedly derived from the sound of a submarine diving alarm).

They are a force designed for expeditionary warfighting – taking the battle to a foreign enemy wherever they may be. And this approach pervades life in Musa Qal’eh; essentially Marines carry all they need with them, forgoing creature comforts to make do with what they have. (‘Living austere’ is the jargon.) Such a mindset also means a constant state of combat readiness. Out here, that means every Marine carries a weapon no matter what they’re doing, and that includes eating, sleeping and showering.

I was also struck by Ansel’s passion for the Corps. It is the spirit that seems to bind all Marines. “We are fanatical about our history – its who we are.” he tells me.

And he is right. It was their courage in the famed (and terribly bloody) battle of Belleau Wood in World War One which sealed their reputation. A letter later taken from the body of a German solider read “I don’t know who we are fighting, but they are like Hounds from Hell.”

Now the Devil Dogs, as they have come to be known, number over 220,000 troops, which is more the entire British Armed Forces. They have become the world’s largest mobile military, supporting three fully equipped ready-reaction task forces around the globe at any one time.

Ansel, who is nearing the end of his seventh tour, seemed to capture the mood of the Marines in Musa Qal’eh. “We’ll do whatever it takes to get this done.” referring to the campaign in Musa Qal’eh and Now Zad, and to the lives that have been lost on both sides. “And Im proud of the sacrifice we’re making here – it honours all those who have gone before us.” His words also resonate with the Corps’ own battle cry;

Semper Fidelis. Always Faithful.

Helmand 21: The search for Christmas

by Hamish Wilson/

If you look hard enough around our base you can find the occasional telltale sign that its Christmas Day.

There’s a lonely pine tree, wreathed in lights and baubles perched in the corner of the chow hall, courtesy of a passing helicopter crew. The usual tempo of operations has slowed a little, offering a brief respite for weary Marines. Festive packs sent by US veterans associations lie underneath our obligatory table decoration (a tiny plastic tree balancing atop a box of handy-wipes), containing a rifle cleaner and mini-first aid kit – a somewhat macabre gift. A deafening flyover from a fighter jet makes us all duck for cover, until we realise that the US Air Force has just delivered their seasons greetings.

We broke from tradition for our weekly barbeque last night, seeking shelter from the cold inside the chow hall to swap memories of Christmas Eves gone by.  Tales of celebrity visits to Lashkar Gah reach us, along with mythical stories of fine food and festivities – things are a little more austere here, though the grilled goat kebabs are especially fine.  (We all remind ourselves that at least we’re spared the frenzied crowds and last-minute mayhem).

The Commandant of the Marine Corps flies in for a brief visit. His whistle-stop tour takes a moment to award the Purple Heart to half a dozen Marines injured in the line of duty. His words strike a chord of hope in those listening that things will get better.

Though we wish it otherwise, life goes on. Marines stand guard throughout the freezing night. Vehicles roll in delivering fresh supplies, and the operations room hums 24/7. Late on Christmas Eve, the sharp crump of an explosion startled me. Yet another roadside bomb and someone has their life torn to shreds at the hands of the Taliban. No Happy Christmas for them.

Our Afghan friends of course don’t celebrate Christmas, though the District Governor and his team join us for the celebratory meal. Beyond the canvas of the mess tent, the mosques singing the call to prayer offer a musical reminder that for them the day is as any other.

And throughout it all, though we don’t speak it, we know that tomorrow this festive pause will be over, and the war will continue.

Helmand 20: The lesson of our town generator

by Hamish Wilson/

Allow me to share a short but frustrating story about our town generator.

I wish to tell you this not simply to unburden myself of a long-festering grievance but also with the hope that there may be some silver lining amongst it all.

Bear with me as I delve into a little history to put things into context. Since the birth of Musa Qal’eh, the local inhabitants have managed remarkably well without the miracle of electricity, adapting admirably to the scorching summer heat and the icy chill of winter.

In 1975, USAID commissioned the construction of a hydro-power plant in the neighbouring Kajaki district providing the people of Musa Qal’eh their first taste of electricity. The plant was destroyed by NATO airstrikes in 2001, rehabilitated by the British five years later, and now provides power to the district two days a week – although you can never really predict which days.

Sometime in 2008, USAID hauled a gigantic 850 KVA generator (about the size of a small truck) through the desert badlands into Musa Qal’eh – a mighty logistical feat at the time. It was a laudable effort to introduce reliable power to the district centre. Sadly, an escalation of fighting brought about an abrupt end to its service shortly after it was installed.

A year later, and with the dust settling, the District Stabilisation Team threw themselves back into the task with renewed vigour. A new network of power connections was built, extensive agreements hammered out with the local community, a plan drawn up for its policing, and a contract settled for supplying the thirsty beast with ten-thousand litres of fuel each month. A grand opening ceremony and obligatory ribbon-cutting announced to all that the lights had been turned back on (for the second time).

Five months into 2010, the generator ran out of diesel. Unsurprisingly, those responsible for the refuelling were nowhere to be found.

Just two weeks ago – some two and a half years since it was first installed – we tried to re-start the generator. We all watched with grim hope as the key turned and the monster whirred, smoked, shook and rumbled. Then fell silent. Dead. And never to be reawakened (or at least until we can find new parts from China). Sigh.

At some point in the future, I dearly hope that this story will be told as some mildly amusing historical anecdote. And that the pain will have been worth it. If there are any lessons to be gleaned, they might well include:

Afghan ownership is everything. Without endless consultation with the vast spectrum of people who miraculously appear out of the woodwork as ‘stakeholders’, such projects are doomed to failure. All too often they’re imposed upon the community, who resent or exploit the initiative, no matter how good an idea it might seem to be at the time.

Installing the infrastructure is the easy part. (And even then it’s not that simple!) Land use agreements, refuelling contracts, payment collections, security, maintenance, etc etc etc (ad infinitum)…the devil lies in the detail amidst the rush to build.

Its not just about the generator. Its easy to become consumed by the (very worthy) aim of providing electricity. But then – does the immense effort required move things closer to transition? How important is it for strengthening a fragile Government?

Power is political. (like everything in Musa Qal’eh). And the politics are made infinitely more complex whenever money, personalities, power and the international community are involved – much of which we foreigners are oblivious to.

There is no silver bullet. Transition of areas such as Musa Qal’eh to full Afghan control is going to take time and serious effort. And if there is one project which demonstrates just how difficult that might be to make happen, then its our town generator.