The blast was loud and seemed more distinctive than normal. Too loud, in fact; almost jarring, and it immediately snapped me out of my gauzy morning, pre-coffee haze. Although I don't remember exactly what time it occurred, it certainly wasn't after eight in the morning; probably closer to seven. I grabbed my interpreter, hopped in our team's Ford Ranger, and headed up to the front gate.
I was stationed at a Provisional Reconstruction Team facility in Jalalabad, Afghanistan, at the time. The facility/base was located off the main thoroughfare that connected Jalalabad, eastern Afghanistan's largest city, with Kabul, the capital. In what seemed to me to be a bit of a cruel irony, it was at one time referred to as the "Silk Road."
My interpreter and I arrived at the gate within a minute or two. There was already a large crowd gathered; probably close to a hundred. It never ceased to amaze me how many Afghans you would find out doing things, at what I thought were ungodly hours in the morning. The police haphazardly cordoned off the area.
It was immediately apparent that either a small bus or large passenger van had been detonated. Debris was strewn over a stretch of about a fifty yards.
It's funny the things that you remember in these situations: a part of someone's arm, a single child's shoe seemingly perfectly placed on the blacktop about fifty feet from the van, a charred body, a man swinging a stick at a child because, I guess, the kid was getting too close to the scene.
Somehow, that seemed the most incongruous of all.
The explosive device was placed under the back end of the van. It appeared to have been remote detonated. Evidently, based on what I was able to piece together from witnesses, the detonation triggered flames that swept through the van from the back to the front before the actual explosion occurred.
I soon learned that the van carried female election workers, which was probably the most dangerous job in Afghanistan. Two of the females had their small children with them in the van. The driver was able to get out just before the detonation, although he was sufficiently disoriented that he wasn't able to provide much information.
Ultimately, four people were killed and thirteen injured in the incident. I doubt it was even a blip on the news in the US. In fact, I had a difficult time finding it just to be able to provide a link here [and you have to scroll down to the middle of the page at that].
I hadn't thought about this incident in a while. Hadn't thought of going down to the hospital to obtain information; how sickening it felt to attempt to piece the story together by talking to those that were nearby when the bomb detonated and were injured. The fact is, I hadn't thought about this because there are too many of these incidents. In essence, they all sort of bleed together in my mind; indistinguishable in most respects. Sadly, ordinary.
But I thought of this last week when I read about our intrepid president's remarks concerning serving in Afghanistan. I think everyone is probably familiar with these, but I give them to you here:
"I must say, I'm a little envious," Bush said. "If I were slightly younger and not employed here, I think it would be a fantastic experience to be on the front lines of helping this young democracy succeed."
"It must be exciting for you ... in some ways romantic, in some ways, you know, confronting danger. You're really making history, and thanks," Bush said.
ROMANTIC!
Just stop and allow that one to sink in a bit. Stew in it.
On the fifth anniversary of our horribly misguided invasion of Iraq, this guy can still speak of war in these terms. The armchair quarterback that believes adolescent chest thumping trumps reasoned discourse.
There is nothing romantic about picking up pieces--literally, of another human being. It's not romantic to see grief stricken parents wailing over the loss of their daughter.
There's nothing romantic about coming under a hail of RPGs. Or having to take out an enemy position because it's on ground that's a bit higher than yours.
And, most of all, there is nothing romantic about death.
War is ugly; it's dirty; it's random; and it's cruel.
War has a cost that can never be measured by monetary estimations, such as $12 billion dollars per month. And it should never be waged, except as a last resort.
Although I hadn't planned on turning this diary into another Obama campaign solicitation, I've changed my mind.
I've supported Sen. Obama consistently because he has shown the type of reasoned judgment that I believe we so desperately need. When I listened to his speech yesterday--and subsequently read it as well, it seemed more than just a potential turning point for his campaign. It seemed weighty; historical even.
It's way past time we elevated the debate past hyper-macho posturing and triangulation. Join me in demanding leadership that doesn't haphazardly send our nation's sons and daughters into harm's way. That doesn't authorize a misguided war to appear hawkish on national defense issues.
Join me in transforming the discourse to which we have grown accustomed. I've given my full allotment, but I hope you will consider contributing to Barack's campaign by clicking here.
Peace.