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.

Helmand 19: Big questions over a cup of tea

by Hamish Wilson/

As I shuffled into the compound in Camp Bastion, dusty, heavily laden with backpacks, body-amour covered in greasy splotches of helicopter hydraulic fluid, I ran into a distinguished looking gentleman and his military aide sipping tea in the morning sun. We exchanged pleasantries as I battled past with my bags, and was mildly startled to see his eyes light up when I mentioned my role in Musa Qal’eh.

“Do come and join me for a cup of tea.” He exclaimed, ignoring the aide’s pointed glance at his watch. “I’ve been dispatched by the Chief of the UK Defence Staff to look into this business of transition,” he announced. “and Id very much like to hear your views.”

Much to my surprise, and to the exasperation of his aide, we talked for the next hour and a half.

It became clear that that my well-dressed inquisitor was visiting in response to recent announcements by the US President and UK Prime Minister of timetables for troop reductions and a renewed focus on the ‘end-state’ for this campaign.

Despite my eagerness to change into a shirt not saturated with oil, I found the conversation stimulating – adding fuel to the gathering embers of interest in Musa Qal’eh about ‘what happens next.’ For a short while at least, it prompted me to step back from the mire of day-to-day dilemmas and frustrations to examine the big questions that define our collective contribution in Musa Qal’eh:

– What must be done in the time remaining to ensure a smooth transition to a state that is able to protect its people and govern with a reasonable degree of accountability and legitimacy? In other words, what is ‘good enough’ for the international and Afghan community to feel confident that progress will sustained?

– How must we involve Afghans in this process? Indeed – to what extent should Afghans lead the process? And which Afghans? How important is re-integration of the Taliban to the success of transition?

– Where must we focus our developmental and reconstruction efforts – and what are the minimum standard of education, healthcare, basic services such as power and clean water that should be reached as a basis for transition?

– How should the role for international civilians and institutions evolve to support this milestone? How can the space for military, governmental, private and humanitarian actors best be reconfigured?

– And what happens when we formally hand over to full Afghan control? How valid are fears of disintegration and a return to the dark days of Talib rule, warlordism and a feudal state?

– How must we forge a regional settlement in the meantime – and what will be the implications for those of us, Afghan and international alike, in remote areas such as Musa Qal’eh?

– How, (from a selfish point of view) should my daily contributions be defined such questions?

It occurred to me that our chance encounter had been unexpectedly refreshing. It had forced me to grapple with big issues that were genuinely hard, with no quick remedy or silver bullet for a solution. And I realised that such discussions – at every level – were more and more essential, even if it left me pondering many more questions than answers.

As we parted ways – to an audible sigh of relief by a now thoroughly irritated aide – and exchanged contact details, I discovered that I had been talking to Dr The Honourable Gilbert Greenall CBE, High Sheriff of Herefordshire and Fourth Baron of Daresbury.

Remarkable place this Camp Bastion; you never know who you’ll run into around here.

What next for the people of Musa Qala?

Helmand 18: No place for complacency…

by Hamish Wilson/

Each day out here sparkles with a frenetic uncertainty, a kind of relentless unpredictability that defies planning and never ceases to catch me unawares.

The day broke with the surprise arrival of retired Royal Marine Nick Pounds, an old Helmand hand and my very welcome leave replacement. We crammed the next four weeks of issues and priorities into a rapid-fire chat over steaming mugs of tea as the sunlight crept into the compound.

Children of Musa Qala – constant companions in our work

Before we had a chance to refill the kettle, my radio crackled to life. Nazir, the head of our Afghan team reported the news that a local doctor had been kidnapped by the Taliban while returning from leave in Lashkar Gah. We quickly dispatched several of our local ‘fixers’ into the district centre rush hour to do some digging – things out here are rarely as they seem at first glance.

We hurriedly made our way to the District Governor’s compound for the first gathering of the District Community Council Justice Sub-Committee, as it considered a growing dispute over land between two families from a long troubled and tribally divided village. My hope for a quick resolution receded quickly as the argument grew more heated.

The Director of Education intercepted me as the meeting closed with news that another school had been shut down – the second in as many weeks. Apparently the landlord of the private compound that had served as the classroom had decided that it was no longer profitable. Another issue to be added to the decidedly gloomy state of education in the district.

During a fleeting pause for lunch (chicken fajita has become a personal favourite), the Civil Affairs Team Leader stopped by with an update from the recent chaos caused by an accidental overpayment of one of the Cash For Works programmes – which had instantly sparked spontaneous strikes and angry demands for pay rises across the district centre. (Not that I could blame them)

By this point the day’s schedule was shot to pieces. In our (belated) daily meeting with the District Governor he confessed rather gleefully that he had spent the morning with the Chief of Police on an impromptu – and dangerous – cross country road trip to several villages on the fringes of government control – a far cry from the norm for someone who has stepped out of his office only a handful of times in recent months.

We then scrambled to the top of the base accommodation block to watch an artillery bombardment of Talib positions to the south – staring in silence as distant booms reached our ears and huge plumes of smoke rose from the far off hills.

Before the dust had settled I was called to a hastily convened meeting to discuss plans for hiring local villagers as a private security force to protect ‘critical infrastructure’ beyond the areas of government control, and as a means to repulse nightly raids by the Taliban. A proposal to be treated with care in a region of shifting allegiances such as Musa Qal’eh.

Late afternoon the secure phone rang with the PRT health team wanting to discuss the relative merits of upgrading the local clinic to the standard of a district hospital. Given the challenges of getting supplies into this remote northern district, I remain wary about such an investment.

As the sun set behind the bleached mountains, I stole a quick half-hour to play volleyball on the HLZ (Helicopter Landing Zone). We were forced to pause every few minutes as aircraft shuttled Marines and supplies in and out of the district.

We gathered in the office at nightfall for a brief presentation by our local team on the economic impact on the local bazaar of a recent three-day ‘blockade’ of the district centre by insurgents in the south – in which commercial vehicles were forced at gunpoint to drive their goods instead to Taliban controlled markets, causing huge spikes in the prices of basic products. Here their reach is never too far away.

After a short evening meal (chilli macaroni washed down with Gatorade), I met with our close protection team to discuss plans for the ‘winterisation’ of our compound – a recent downpour had proved an alarming warning of what was in store for us as the new year wet season closes in. Im thinking of thigh waders and thermal gloves.

In the nightly Operations Brief, I learned that the following day we would be hosting a group of senior French officers on a lesson-learning tour of Helmand. I would need to prepare a presentation on the Politics and Governance of Musa Qal’eh for eight am the next morning.

No place for complacency out here. Or rest it seems.

Helmand 17: The PRT, a home away from home

by Hamish Wilson/

A 40-minute helicopter flight and my rather sober world of desert sand and military rations is transformed.

A mirage of familiar faces, hot showers and second-helpings of ice cream … my infrequent visits to the Provincial Reconstruction Team in Helmand’s capital of Lashkar Gah are a welcome chance to reconnect and recharge.

The PRT Helicopter Landing Zone at twilight

For a stabilisation adviser – particularly one deployed to the far reaches of the province – the PRT is a home away from home. And like any homecoming, it is the familiar rituals that offer respite from the pressures of the ‘out-stations’. A casual cuppa outside the coffee shop, the obligatory evening volleyball, a well worn movie in the Brown Lounge and chance catch-ups with old friends and fellow stabads on their own way through.

Part of its appeal is the casual interaction of people that transcends rank, culture and institution. It is common for British officers to work alongside US marines and civilians from the UK Foreign Office, Ministry of Defence or US State Department. Institutionally, it’s impossibly complex, but somehow it works.

There’s usually a frenetic hum of activity and a throng of nationalities; British, Danish, American, Australian and of course Afghan… bringing together an impressive array of expertise in all manner of areas; health, education, governance, intelligence, counter-narcotics, the rule of law.

The PRT flags at sunset

To any outsider the idiom is impenetrable; the names of organisations are freely interwoven with the acronyms of any number of programmes – USAID, FCO, USDA, DANIDA, DFID, AVIPA, HMEP, RAMPUP, SWSS, ACEP… the landscape is fascinating and ever-changing.

A visit also presents the chance to pick up some of the rudiments of life in Musa Qal’eh – a thick wedge of Afghan banknotes, a box of ‘wag-bags’, printer cartridges, soap and a large supply of chocolate (the golden rule of any PRT stopover is never to return to the districts empty handed).

Such visits are essential for District Stabilisation Teams. We cannot operate in a vacuum; and this is where the PRT serves as more than a retreat – it is our lifeline; for resolving complex dilemmas, shaping new policies, lobbying distant governments in Kabul, London and Washington, or galvanising institutional support. And the ice cream is excellent.

Helmand 16: A meeting with Commander Koka

by Hamish Wilson/

Haji Abdul Wali was just twenty when he first fired an AK47. ‘I’ve had a rifle in my hands ever since’ he says, his fierce eyes glinting beneath a brow heavily furrowed from twenty-five years of war.

Now Musa Qal’eh’s District Chief of Police – affectionately nicknamed Koka by one of his many brothers – is one of the most feared and revered figures in the district. His reputation is well earned.

His first war was lengthy and brutal; as part of the mujahideen (literally meaning those who struggle), fighting the Russians amongst the high peaks of the Hindu Kush. His father and a brother were killed before the Soviets withdrew in 1989.

He remained with the militia group during the chaos of civil war in the early 1990s – until they were defeated by the newly formed Taliban. Escaping the violence, he sought refuge in Iran for the following year.

He arrived in Musa Qal’eh in the third year of Talib rule, where as part of a deal to protect his younger brother, he fought with them for nine months, serving under the local commander Mullah Salaam who went on to become the newly re-integrated district governor. In the transition he was appointed District Chief of Police where he remains, still fighting; this time against his former comrades.

“How have you managed to survive?” I asked, awed by his story. “It is in the hands of Allah” he says. “I’ve had a terrible life and done bad things. I don’t know how many people I’ve killed.”

Its not hard to see why his faith is strong. He tells me that he has survived three suicide attacks, and goes on to declare “I fight the Talib. I never compromise with them, and I’ve never hidden from them.”

As we speak, local men greet him with reverence, bowing low and kissing his hand. His protection is widely sought, and his judgement on local disputes rarely challenged.

In his time he has transformed a police force that was predatory and utterly corrupt. Now, his two hundred men are fiercely loyal and a competent force. “I respect my men.” He tells me. “I never steal from them. And I punish them if they do wrong. If there is fighting I will help. If they get hurt, I will provide medical treatment.” Its true – he may be the only Police Chief in Afghanistan with a special fund solely for helping his wounded.

“This is my life.” he continues, and the lines on his face reveal the truth. ”But I’m tired. The only desire I have is for peace to come to this district, so that I can spend time with my family.” He has four wives and fourteen children, the eldest of which also works in the local police force.

I wondered how he carries on after so many years of war. He tells me; “If things get better in Musa Qal’eh, they will get better in Helmand. If they get better in Helmand, they will get better in Afghanistan.” Then I asked him what would happen if the international forces were to leave.

He looks at me hard. “We might stay three or four days. And then on the fifth day, the Taliban would come. Our blood is mixed with the blood of ISAF. We have fought and died together. We must continue together.”

Helmand 15: A glimpse of humanity

by Hamish Wilson/

So many walls divide us out here.

We wear helmets and flak jackets, we flail in our most basic attempts to converse, are clumsy with age old traditions, and judge the world with westernised eyes and ideals. They – Afghans – forgive our faults, laugh at our apologies, proffer their hospitality, and disguise their suspicions. It is a collision of cultures, barely survived by a precarious goodwill and constant effort.

Sometimes though, these walls disintegrate of their own accord. Three days ago on a visit of the neighbouring district of Now Zad, I strolled past the front gates of the base – an intimidating confusion of watch-towers, machine-gun posts and boom gates. I was mildly bemused to see four local children no older than seven or eight approach the heavily armed sentry. The guard’s stern features creased into a grin as they waved and smiled. He motioned them through, and I decided to follow, wondering how on earth these children had just managed to infiltrate our camp.

They picked their way past the armoured trucks and crates of equipment to our office, where they were warmly greeted by a waiting officer. Choosing their favourite cushions, they took a seat and spent the next hour receiving English lessons from two burley marines, laughing at one another grappling with the strange language. Throughout it all they whispered and wriggled and clapped, eating popcorn and sweetbread. Their father joined us at some point with more greetings. Gifts were exchanged – adding to an air of festivity. As the evening ended, there was more hugging and much waving goodbye, and the family noisily made their way back home. The Taliban would never have allowed such frivolity.

It may sound banal, but when life is pervaded by threats and fortifications, such a moment was a glimpse of normality that is all too easily forgotten. I had watched all of this stunned and fascinated (maybe I’ve been out here too long). But it was as if all the walls and the wire, the guns and the gates hadn’t existed. We had simply treated each other with humanity – and in that moment the war had suddenly become irrelevant.

Helmand 14: The search for a prosecutor

by Hamish Wilson/

“I won’t return until I’ve found you a District Prosecutor”. Major Mark Jimison’s promise had fallen on somewhat sceptical ears as he departed in late May. The Rule of Law team charged with supporting our efforts to rebuild a broken justice system had been frustrated by two earlier attempts – in both cases the appointed officials refused point blank when they realised it was Musa Qal’eh they were being sent to.

Four months of relentless lobbying later, Mark called with the news that yet another official had been found, and had even agreed to a flying visit to judge for himself just how unsavoury a location it might be.

As the wiry man with a long wispy beard stepped from the roaring helicopter two days later, the significance of the occasion dawned upon us.

If he followed in the footsteps of his predecessors never to return, then our efforts to find a prosecutor would stall, perhaps never to recover, In an instant, this golden opportunity to restore a legitimate system of justice would be swept away, and with it our aspirations of providing the people of Musa Qal’eh a viable alternative to the brutal punishment meted out by the Taliban.

His job would be daunting – to provide a vital link in a complex chain that began with an arrest and which led to the prosecution and imprisonment of criminals half a desert away in the provincial capital. It was not for the faint-hearted – the prosecutor of a neighbouring district had locked horns with several unpleasant characters, and been told in no uncertain terms not to return from his leave.

Following a typically indulgent Afghan meal on the final night of his visit, the delicate negotiations began – reassuring the still unconvinced prosecutor of his safety, of the support he would receive, and the contribution he could make. He paused to digest this information, reflectively stroking his beard. We stopped our conversations and waited in silence.

And to our collective astonishment, he told us that he did not need to return to the provincial capital. He would instead remain here, with us, to work alongside the Governor on the long journey ahead of bringing justice for the people of Musa Qal’eh. We had found our prosecutor.

Helmand 13: A magic midnight moment

by Hamish Wilson/

It was precisely ten minutes to midnight. The moon was near full, casting its silver light across a slumbering District Centre. A moment later the stillness erupted into a deep roar as thirty-eight hulking Soviet-era trucks sparked into life. The rumbling engines began belching plumes of exhaust into the night air, shrouding the vast parking area with a choking diesel fog. In the same instant lines of waiting police pick-ups switched on their emergency lights, throwing eerie blue flashes across the gloom.

In unison, as if triggered by some unheard signal, they began pulling out onto the empty streets of the bazaar, lurching forward nose to tail. We watched in awe as the head of convoy emerged on the western side of the bazaar, its tail reaching back to the far side of the District Centre.

It was as if the streets had come to life, shuddering and growling with the passing of this mighty fleet.

Just then, the hills lit up with neon white headlights sidling down to meet the line of trucks now stretching over 2 kilometres. The US Marine escorts had arrived in their armoured trucks, and seamlessly wove themselves into the moving mass, as the police vehicles peeled off with perfect timing.

As one weaving mass, the convoy crawled across the wadi and began its torturous two-day journey back to Lash Kargah, braving IEDs and brutal desert roads to collect hundreds more tonnes of wheat seed and fertiliser for the district’s coming agricultural programme.

We were perhaps the only people who witnessed the US military, Afghan Police and these plucky civilian truck-drivers pull this off that night. It was remarkable.

Helmand 12: Casting their votes

by Hamish Wilson/

In the crisp dawn chill two men cautiously picked their way past the razor wire and through the police cordon. They made their way past the shuttered stalls, along the pot-holed pavement of Governors Road toward the polling station. We watched from high above in the rooftop sentry post, clad in body armour and helmets, clasping mugs of coffee, waiting with a sense of unspoken anticipation.

Unhurriedly the men approached the waiting officials huddled together over steaming cups of chai. A brief greeting, a shuffle of ballot papers, and within moments the first votes had been cast in Musa Qal’eh for the Afghan Parliamentary Elections.

It was, in some small way, another historic moment for a district that has rarely seen such exhibitions of open democracy. The 2009 presidential elections in Musa Qal’eh had been heralded by the launch of Taliban rockets. A year later, a wary trickle grew into a steady stream of those willing to step forward at one of six official sites across the district.

The efforts required by the district government and security forces had been staggering – flying in fifty-three election officials to recruit another hundred to man the polling stations, convoyed by police teams to all corners of the district to erect their stalls in time for election day. It was hard to grasp that these mighty efforts where repeated across every district in the nation.

Every hour or two we would return to that rooftop to watch the day unfold. We heard about tractor-driving farmers risking illegal checkpoints to cast their ballot in villages to the north. We heard reports of an attack on a polling site in the south that had incensed the local population – triggering a greater turnout in protest. We were amused to see the Mayor waving up at us, proudly showing off his inked thumb – proof of his vote. Over in the District Governor’s compound the counting went late into the night.

In all 1,648 people cast their votes. A humble turnout by any measure, but the number belied the real significance – that it had happened at all. And in a place such as Musa Qal’eh, thisalone is a sign of progress.