Azik (not his real name) is Hazarin-a part of a traditionally persecuted ethnic minority in a land where identity rules above all else. He is tall and very thin. The skin on his face falls over high cheek bones and over a pronouncd chin. His eyes are purposeful, telling a story of hardship, pain and sacrifice, but often you catch the glimpse of joy-an opening into his soul, where the suffering of his country is not felt. Azik is one of our interpreters, or as the Army likes to call them, Language Assistants. We have been directed to not call them Terps as apparently this is a derogatory term in Dari-it slips out sometimes.

Azik is 27. He has vivid memories of the atrocities committed by the former Soviet Union and he knows what it means to live under authoritarian rule of the Taliban. Haunted by the unfortunate machinations of conquest and terror, much of his childhood was spent ripped away from the core of his family, living apart in Pakistan, learning to cope, and learning to keep hope alive. His family split, like many families did during the Soviet invasion in order to survive. Caravans of refugees fleeing the fighting, seeking refuge in one of the only places which would take them-Pakistan-Azik’s family learned early on survival meant separating husband from wife, brother from brother, parent from child.

He spent his formative years without his father, living with his mother and a couple of other siblings in Jalalabad Pakistan. Money was sent from the family auto parts business in Afghanistan which managed to survive. Unlike many others, he had the chance to attend school-learning English-exposing a fresh mind to the world at large. But, due to circumstances, Azik was stuck. Stuck within a world bound by family and tribal traditions-stuck by a tradition of service to the family-stuck due to lack of having access to money-Azik would have to wait for something else.

His family branched out. The Soviets left and Afghanistan was thrust into a civil war. The family sought refuge in a safe part of the country, they moved to the North. For the most part, they were safe from the Taliban, but had to suffer under the incompetence of the Northern Alliance and no set services from the state. The family made due. An auto parts business was rebuilt and the older brothers, seeking a better fortune, headed to the Persian Gulf-landing jobs which paid a 100 times more than what could be had in Afghanistan. Money was sent home and the family continued to prosper. The family was together-hope seeped into the language of the family-hope was within reach.

The American’s arrived. A regime was toppled and once again hope was spread among a people-a wonderment of what the future would hold. Azik, having a strong command of English stepped forward and began working for the Americans. His desire was twofold: one, he wanted to help, he wanted to help build his country from the ashes of so many false starts; and two, he sought a way out of Afghanistan. A dichotomy which was apparent in all respects and one which tore at him-leaving would provide a new life and chance to get away from so much-but also in doing so it would take him away from making a difference where someone of his intellect is needed so badly.

I end another day and as always, the red Sharpie makes a bold slash across the classic pin-up girl calendar which hangs on my wall. Ms. April winks at me. She is tempting me-ah come on Aaron, mark another day. I can not, the time has not passed. I cant fool myself, I know the days, the numbers, the amount of time left. Marking a date prematurely is a tease; there is no satisfaction in doing so-so please Ms. April, do not ask me again. There is a small ritual when I take the pen in hand. The pen is my friend; a symbol; a reminder of what the future holds and my homecoming. The cap sticks a bit as I pull it-challenging me to prove the day is actually over and it is now time to leave my mark. A whiff of ink, the classic smell of a Sharpie; how many times have I smelled that smell; but have I ever really smelled the odor which dances under my nostrils? It is home; it is the smell of coloring with my children; posters or a work project-the satisfaction of leaving something permanent; Sharpies are good. My actions are driven by time-by dates which bracket my existence. Time, the ultimate constant but finite in so many ways for me, yet, the act of marking a calendar- a visual representation of another day never to be relived again-sending it away-stating clearly that the seconds, minutes, and hours which have just passed, whether they were productive or not, can now be given to the trash heap of the past. Tomorrow holds promise, but in a combat zone, a promise of what? So many variables to balance, so many choices to make and so many risks to mitigate, will I have the fortitude to make the right choices? And to be honest, do I even want to make the right choice? Do I want to wake up and force myself to eat another day of frustration with the mission; with the Army; with my inability to affect change at a meaningful level? Yes. Yes, I will make the right choices and try to do my best as I know I need to reach the end of yet one more day so I can stand in front of Ms. April and soon to be Ms. May-pull out my red Sharpie and make that bold slash across my calendar. It is one more day closer to home.

My apologies in not posting anything in the past two weeks. Our pace of operations has begun to increase and I am finding I am out on missions more than before - actually a good thing. The only way to make a difference is to establish a presence and be among those who need our help.

Would also like to say thank you to those who have contacted me and are going to send some volleyballs! I will definitely get some photos for when we distribute them. The people of Afghanistan will be very pleased - I will have to see if they are putting together a team for the Olympics - some of these kids can play!

Found myself in a provincial capital the other day. American's are still a rare sighting in the area in which we operate, so we usually draw a crowd. The young boys have no fear and will approach us with a broad swagger, asking for all sorts of items. We will banter with them, and if we have candy or something else to give we will, but we also encourage the kids to keep moving as our presence is also a threat. I don't know if I could live with myself if we were attacked and some innocent children were caught in the cross-fire.

The little girls are a different story. As we drive through a village, they are always there, but mostly on the periphery - shy waves and bright smiles. Most of the young girls have short hair and pierced ears - even on infants. And as is custom, they usually will not engage us.

I was pulling security with our vehicles while we conducted some business with the provincial police commander. Two little girls passed by me -- probably not more than 6 years old. They smiled and I waved as they walked past. I turned to pick up my sector when out of the corner of my eye; I caught one of the girls coming back up to me. I turned and smiled and took off one of my gloves so I could reach into my pocket-knowing I had no candy, I thought I would give them a US dollar. I only had US $20's, but I did have a 1000 Afghani bill which is the equivalent to $20 US. It is only money and they need it more than I do, so I handed her the Afghani bill. She snatched it out of my hand, gave a little giggle and then ran off with her friend-probably not knowing what she held. Well wouldn't you know, but five minutes later she was back with about 6 other little girls. I had moved into the turret of one of our vehicles and I got a kick out of watching this little gaggle of kids run from each American soldier looking for the big one who had given out so much money. Finally they spotted me and came clamoring up to the vehicle. Jumping up and down with excitement they began chattering asking for more money. It was all very innocent and I could tell they were genuinely happy and excited about potentially receiving another King's Ransom. Unfortunately, I only had candy-but they accepted this with open arms and wide grins. This interaction made my week.

It is the simple things when you are deployed which makes the days bearable: A friendly gesture from a local; a word of support from a friend; an email out of the blue from someone you have not heard from in years; the sound of my childrens voice over the phone; knowing you are missed; the smile of a child.

Our first major mission took us deep into the mountains of central Afghanistan. Once our convoy of US and Afghan Army vehicles left the major highway, movement was slow going and it took almost 19 hours to reach the village where we would conduct the humanitarian assistance mission. Our cargo consisted of basic life support items: flour, beans, blankets, clothing, picks, spades, bowls, school supplies and transistor radios. Items which may not seem like much, but considering how little many people had, it all helped.

In my opinion, the children are the key to the counter insurgency fight. If the children are around and if they are friendly and if they do not show fear, you have a better chance of winning over the parents. Granted, a big element of this is a childs natural curiosity, but when children are present the chance of contact with the enemy is lessened. We are large foreigners, alien and distinctly different from anything which moves across the landscape, a source of wonder and amazement with our armor, weapons and big trucks. The children in Afghanistan have been friendly, constantly asking for candy, pens, anything we have, they want-especially volleyballs, yes volleyballs. I would almost argue volleyball is more popular among the Afghans than football. If anyone wants to send me some, I would gladly take them.

During our mission, I was struck by one particular child; I hope I can do him justice as I describe the image I saw in a passing moment.

The truck was the last in the convoy of Afghani and US vehicles moving through the town. I choked on dust as I was in the gunner hatch facing to the rear-the last man-the rear guard. Sweat pooled under my armor and I had to keep wiping my glasses to keep the fine film of dust off of them. My mouth craved moisture. As I took pulls off my water bottle, I was greeted by eager eyes peering at me from the road side-they wanted the clean water as well-if only I had more to give. Children and adults alike stopped what they were doing when we rolled by-giving waves, or merely a pause and a glance, as if trying to gauge our intentions. Inaudible calls were yelled in my direction, based on the hand gesture, it was the universal sign for give me. Give them what? Anything I could, but if only I had more to give. The faces and sites rolled by, almost as if passing in a rear-view mirror-if I was not careful I would become memorized by the faces, the actions, the small details of life, the etching of sadness in an elders face, the stolen glance of a woman in a burka, the look of innocence spread across the face of countless children-I had to remain vigilant-but it can be difficult when you are fascinated by a new culture.

The convoy slowed as we navigated a particularly rough patch of road. Seemingly out of nowhere, our vehicles were swarmed by children. Mister, mister, give ball. Mister, America, volleyball. Hey, give me, give me. I scanned the crowd, the chatter of our internal intercom competing for my attention. Off to my left, a small boy, standing away from the crowd. His skin was a light bronze, delicate, not yet worn by the harshness of the Afghan countryside and Afghan life. He was no more than 4-reminding me of what my boy once looked like. His head was shaved and there was a minor sheen of black stubble. He wore a black shirt with a single yellow stripe running across his chest. His pants were a subtle yellow and black plaid. I was struck by the fact he looked like he was wearing a coordinating outfit-but that thought quickly left my mind as I was reminded of the fact he probably only had a few things to wear-no dotting mother to lay out matching outfits from the Gap for him in the morning. His eyes were coal black, with a virgin white outline-stunning. He raised his right hand and quickly began to scratch his bald scalp, really working it, frantic almost. His head turned to face my truck as we slowly rolled by and he dropped his hand into a small wave, almost uncertain if he should wave, even though everyone else was. My face lit up and I flashed a big smile. He responded in kind. Reaching down into the turret, I pulled out a candy bar and tossed it in his direction and it landed at his feet. He picked up the candy bar and a look of pure delight spread across his face. He knew he had something special. Raising the candy bar in triumph, he turned towards his house to probably go show his family what he had just gotten. Our convoy began to pick up speed and as the dust cloud began to form again, I saw the faint image of the boy standing at the door of his mud house, he was waving goodbye with the candy bar still firmly in his grasp, in his other hand he was giving me the thumbs-up. It was a good sign.

Our team completed a humanitarian assistance mission yesterday. The trek took us deep into the mountains of central Afghanistan. The further we travelled from Route 5 (the ring road) the more primative living conditions became. I will have a more complete entry on this mission soon. Here are a few photo's from the trip.

I dressed with a sense of purpose this morning, a renewed sense of meaning, a small spring in my step, like a child at Christmas, the day had finally arrived where I would be allowed to go outside the wire on a true mission. The smile on my face broadcast to the rest of the soldiers in the hut that today was the day.

In the military, the wire is the protective barrier we shield ourselves with away from the general population. As with all cultures, the US Army downrange has its own form of social hierarchy which runs outside the standard norms of rank. In a combat zone there are only two types of soldiers-those who go outside the wire and those who never leave the wire. Now, we all have our jobs in the military and most soldiers are not combat arms (armor, infantry, field artillery) but in order to maintain a sense of sanity and purpose one wants to be a soldier who operates mostly outside of the wire-it is where the action is and the place you can make a difference. Those who live their whole existence inside the FOB are called Fobbits. As in those individuals who do not venture far from home, much like Hobbits who live in the Shire from Lord of the Rings.

Our team would be doing an initial run to a few other NATO bases to do some coordination and provide the new team members with an overview of the general AOR surrounding our base and the major population center located a few kilometers away. The convoy would consist of two up-armored vehicles, six US soldiers and one local national interpreter. A small package of forces, but one which packs a surprising amount of firepower-and with all missions, the hope you will not have to employ the awesome power you carry.

I wore the following: 1 moisture wicking t-shirt; 1 pair ACU (Army Combat Uniform) pants; 1 ACU top; 1 combat rigger belt (tan); 1 pair Oakley tactical gloves (tan); 1 pair green moisture wicking socks; 1 pair combat boots (size 11) desert tan; 1 army combat helmet; 1 pair Wiley-X ballistic sunglasses; 1 tourniquet; 1 army ID card; 1 picture of my children; $80 US cash; 1 Leatherman multi-tool (inscribed with-This Kid Not Boo); 1 Gerber folding knife-3 inch length; 1 set dog tags; 4 packets Lipton Instant Green Tea, Citrus Flavor; 1 set Tactical Tailor Body Armor; 2 Small Arm Plates Interceptor-10 pounds each; 2 SAPI side-4 pounds each; 1 pair combat ear plugs; 1 Camel Back, ACU pattern, 2.5 liter; 8 5.56 mm magazines-30 rounds each; 2 fragmentation grenades; 2 9 mm magazines-15 rounds each; 1 Surefire Flashlight; 1 Improved Field Emergency Kit; 1 MBTR portable radio with hand mike extension; 1 Garmin eTrex Vista GPS; 1 Bench Made Six Inch Tactical Knife; and 1 Tactical Tailor Chest Rig-to carry most equipment. In a GO bag, carried in the vehicle, I had the following: 1 Iridium Secure Satellite Phone; 1 Nokia cell phone; 9 5.56 magazines-30 rounds each; 10 AA batteries; Army binoculars; PVS-14 monticule night vision device with helmet mount; 1 digital camera; 1 digital video camera; 1 GPS worldwide locator beacon; 1 complete area map set; 1 Army issue green field notebook; 1 ACU Boonie Hat; 2 Meals Ready to Eat; and 1 case of mint flavored dental floss. Not to mention I am armed with an M-4 rifle, and a Berretta 9 mm semi-automatic pistol (carried in a tactical drop holster). Americans travel light-ha!

The operation order was given and we loaded our vehicles, the familiar sound of a round being chambered provided comfort-we were ready-I was ready. Easing out of the main gate onto a secondary road which would lead to our first destination, my fingers began to tingle and my chest constricted a bit. A flood of emotion rushed through my head as I experienced a minor flashback to the hundreds of times I had done this same action in Iraq, always with the thought tucked deep inside of whether or not it would be the last time. My eyes scanned the landscape, searching for the telltale signs of trouble-ambush, IED attack-give me something, something to give me and the team that fraction of a second in which we could react and make the right decision. Where was the threat? What was that? The internal communication between the driver, the gunner and myself buzzed with the descriptions of potential dangers: stopped vehicle 50 meters ahead; man on a roof top, 75 meters to the 9 oclock; choke point in the road; 2 males approaching on a motorcycle, gaining quickly; taxi trying to infiltrate the convoy-the actions of thousands of actors danced outside of our protective armored cocoon in a seemingly uncoordinated form of madness and we only had milliseconds to decipher, interpret and discard or react to an environment in which we had no control. It can be maddening, frustrating and seemingly impossible, but as with many things, one learns what is normal and what is out of place. A quick glance and a whole host of once potential threats can be discarded. The Afghan people we encounter are the ones truly living their lives-what may seem like chaos is nothing more than people just trying to live, to make ends meet. The mental ability to process so much will be played out for the rest of the tour-you just have to remember, even if it seems as if you are not involved in the play, you are the lead actor and everyone you pass watches and reacts to your moves-with applause, or something more dangerous.

The landscape in North Central Afghanistan is barren. Tiny nubs of grass sprout from a parched landscape - fodder for the herds of goats and sheep which roam the valley floor. The snows melted less than three weeks ago and the temperatures have risen into the low 80s. Mountain tops are devoid of the last remnants of moisture and the locals state that soon the clouds will go away as well for a few months - the sky will remain a vibrant blue from horizon to horizon with the blazing sun being its’ constant companion - not a good thing for a soldier carrying 60 pounds of kit and driving in an armored vehicle.

From my vantage point I can see no trees. Rocks dominate the landscape - seemingly sprouting from the ground - the one true crop the locals can count on - well that and some minor poppy cultivation.
Faces are worn, weather beaten but with immensely expressive eyes. The eyes glow with a radiance of life - the colors provide the only palate in an otherwise devoid canvas. When you look into a mans eyes one is reminded how at our core we are all the same - and for the most part wanting the same things - we just tend to go about it in different ways.

Our base is a collection of wooden B huts (still trying to track down why they are classified as B). The ground is paved with medium sized river rock, making walking around surprisingly difficult - to the point where several soldiers have broken their ankles and have been sent to Germany and then home. Life support is provided by KBR and the chow so far is pretty unremarkable - essentially devoid of flavor. The food is a marked difference from the European fare we had for 2 days in Kabul at the Kabul International Airport while we waited for our flight up north. At KAIA it was mostly staffed by NATO forces (Germany, Norway, Bulgaria, Italy, Netherlands, Croatia, Belgium, Czech Republic, Macedonia, a few Brits and Lithuania). Very European in presentation and taste - cheese with each meal, lighter offerings which did not include 5 different types of breakfast meats - so good my mouth is watering thinking of the lamb kabobs we ate for dinner one night - I could have definitely gotten used to eating like that all year. Sorry about the digression.

Additionally, we have a gym which is decently stocked and minor amenities such as a PX (with nothing in it), a TV room, barber shop and internet room. The restrooms are converted shipping containers marked by a very pleasant scent - which stings the nostrils. All drinking water is bottled as the water in the showers, sinks and toilets is non-potable and contains about 10-20 percent chlorine. We share living space with a contingent of Croatians and some Germans and Swedes live next to our base. All coalition forces share a larger base with units from the Afghanistan Army.

I and two other soldiers from my team have been assigned to a Police Mentoring Team (PMT) which operates from our base, but pushes out to a province a good distance from here. I meet my commanding officer on Saturday and from what we have been able to gleam from those around the base, it is common to push out to the province and sub-districts and spend 5 to 7 days away from the camp at a stretch. This allows the team to be among the police we are mentoring, establish a presence in sector, gather intelligence and provide an opportunity to further the goals of the Afghanistan and Coalition. Plus, the command climate at this post is extremely poor and morale is in the crapper - so any chance I can to get away and be running a mission, I will surely take.

The sounds of war awoke me out of a restless slumber. Rattling my eardrums, my mind raced trying to place the sound which disturbed my first night of sleep in Afghanistan. A vehicle borne improvised explosive device (VBIED) had exploded within ¼ mile of our base in Kabul. It was a familiar sound as I had witnessed a few VBIED's in Iraq. As the din of the explosion receded, I lay on my bunk searching for a sense of feeling a sense of fear a sense of urgency something to stir me into action nothing. I was back into the mix back to war, and I knew I was not in danger. I rolled over and went back to sleep. Welcome to Afghanistan.