THE ROAD TO HELMAND

I went to Afghanistan to help rebuild people's lives.
But I learned the hard way that good intentions aren't enough.

The news came in a phone call from Afghanistan. Ten days ago, a
suicide bomber tried to talk his way into a compound in Lashkar Gah
where I had worked until last October. He blew himself up without
getting in and no one else was seriously hurt, but the story shook me.
What I had expected for so long had finally happened.

I went to Afghanistan in October 2005 to work on an economic
development project funded by the U.S. government. I went because I
believed in the mission: helping to improve the quality of life in a
war-torn land. I was lucky to get out.

Now I am home, hearing with dismay that President Bush lauds our work
as a success and is requesting more aid for Afghanistan. I think of my
colleagues still back in Helmand province, especially the young
Afghans who risk their lives to work with us because the United States
has insisted that progress is on the way.

I know about the millions of dollars already wasted there.

When I was in the field, I sometimes had to travel to Kabul to talk to
U.S. officials about various assistance strategies and whether they
were viable on the ground. They call the process "groundtruthing."

A year later, this is the story of my time in Afghanistan. This is my
own groundtruthing.

September 2005

I didn't want to go.

When a friend mentions the job in Afghanistan, I shake my head before
he even finishes talking. I'm not looking for another adventure. I've
worked with uban youth and in Angola. I've done enough hard time in
hard circumstances. At 36, I feel it's my time to settle down. The
most dangerous province in Afghanistan is the last place I want to
go.

But my friend presses. "Would you be willing just to talk with them?"
he asks. I imagine what I've seen of Afghanistan in the media -- a
desperate place bombed to hell even though it already looked to be in
pieces. Still vulnerable to the idea of humanitarian service, and to
adventure, I agree to a meeting.

The project in question, run by a private contractor and funded by the
U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) to the tune of $121
million over four years, is intended to provide jobs, develop business
and agriculture, and improve infrastructure in Helmand province -- all
part of the effort to reduce poppy-growing in that region, one of the
largest opium-production centers in the world. It seems a worthy goal.

But the project is also taking over from another that shut down after
11 members of its staff were killed. The Taliban have never claimed
credit for the deaths, but most people assume they're to blame.

I talk to anyone I can find who has experience in the region. No one
thinks I should take the job. Only one person I meet has ever even set
foot in Helmand, and she sounds stunned that I'm considering working
there for a year or two. The lone voice of optimism is that of a
journalist. "You'll have a ball," he says.

Before I leave for Kabul, I put my belongings in long-term storage,
ship my cats home to Texas, rent out my apartment. I also prepare a
power of attorney and my will.

October 2005

Our little plane hits the large swath of gravel that serves as an
airstrip for Lashkar Gah, the capital of Helmand. The barrenness all
around is astounding: no buildings, no parking lots, nothing but a few
dust-colored structures.

A group of Afghan men with Soviet-era rocket-propelled grenade
launchers watch us get off the plane. They follow every move I make,
but I'm careful not to look them in the eye.

My living quarters are a bedroom and bath in a 10-bedroom, three-story
pink stucco building that people call "the palace," short for
"narco-palace." Blast-protection film covers the windows, and the
security manager is preparing to hire a crew to fill thousands of
sandbags to fortify the perimeter. The project office is in the same
compound, so my commute is about six steps door to door.

The house speaks of rare wealth (and bad taste), but the periphery of
our compound is just like everyone else's: rudimentary ditches filled
with rubbish and a black-green soup of waste and water.

An American colleague takes me up to the roof. All around are
grassless yards and square houses of mud or clay. Directly below us, a
scrawny cow stands under a drought-shrunken tree, a chicken pecking at
her hoof, while a child prepares to fly his plastic-bag kite.
Passersby stare up in shock at the sight of a blond woman with an
uncovered head. Ducking, I hurry back inside.

One of 34 Afghan provinces, Helmand lies about 400 miles southwest of
Kabul. It's home to the highly conservative Pashtun people. Poppy
production was nearly unheard of here before the Soviet invasion in
1979. But today, most farmers grow poppy, along with smaller amounts
of other produce. It's simple economics: A farmer can earn about
$5,400 per hectare of opium yield, almost 10 times what he would get
for a hectare of wheat.

In the 1950s and '60s, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and USAID
developed a 1,600-kilometer irrigation system in the province. Many
residents remember a time when Lashkar Gah, with its newly paved
streets and neat rows of tree-shaded houses, was called "Little America."

Today, much of the pavement is ruined, and the sagging former USAID
homes look much older than they are. Meanwhile, massive, gaudy
structures built with drug money rise around them. Because of their
bizarre, strange-colored exteriors dotted with mirrors and decorative
tiles, these narco-palaces are also referred to as "Pakistani wedding
cakes."

I am the only woman on our team. I'd been warned that locals would
think I was a prostitute brought from the West for the male staff of
American, Australian, British and Latin American contractors, and that
this perceived violation of Islamic morality would put the team at
heightened risk.

So I am required to stay on the first floor, while my expat male
colleagues enjoy more private quarters upstairs. I dress in shapeless
clothing and wear only enough makeup to feel comfortable, yet I still
feel as though I'm surrounded by a neon light.

The only time I feel relief from this self-consciousness is around A.,
our Hazara cook. Unlike the Pashtun men, A. looks me in the eye,
laughs easily, doesn't seem afraid of me. He spends hours preparing
our meals, then watches our expressions as we eat, awaiting
appreciation from the table, often winking at me.

Nonetheless, by and large the food is horrible -- sometimes really
horrible. But about once a week, A. hits the bull's eye. His "Pashtun
burgers" are a favorite. He uses an old coffee can to cut circles out
of nan, the flat Afghan bread, to serve as buns.

More than anything, A. wants to be a chef in the United States.
Sometimes I get excited about this idea and think about ways to help
make it happen. But the barriers are too great.

I feel the same about S. and R., the two young Afghan women in our
office. They want to go to medical school, but they have no passports
and no money. Nor do they know much English. I feel impotent in the
face of their dreams. Getting an Afghan into the United States
post-9/11 is as ambitious an undertaking as, well, getting poppy out
of Afghanistan.

The people of Helmand fall into two categories. The great majority
believe that poppy is the only reliable source of income. The small
minority believe that with help, alternative livelihoods are possible.
They don't know how to make progress, but they're hungry for it, so
they're willing to trust us.

The project's goal is to diversify the economy and create jobs. Plans
include building roads and refurbishing the irrigation system,
electrification improvements, job training, an industrial park. I'm
responsible for setting up the public information office and
developing a campaign to promote the project to Afghans. But there's a
substantial caveat: illiteracy. The project's security manager tells
me that not one man in his unit of 60 can write his own name; to
receive their pay, they "sign" with their thumbprint. Whatever
strategy I come up with will have to be compelling but simple.

The company seems most invested in pleasing its client, USAID.
Meanwhile, USAID is concerned about pleasing the Afghan people, local
and national Afghan leaders, the media, Capitol Hill and the State
Department. So I am to issue reports every other week, as well as
"success stories" that will convince everyone that these millions of
dollars are well spent, that U.S. efforts in Helmand are a shining
example of our good work in the world.

On paper, it sounds great. But in practice, all I have to promote are
concepts. I'm told to wait before I initiate any public education
effort. Weeks go by. Nothing happens. I tell the team I'm concerned
about losing the confidence of Afghans who are interested in finding
livelihoods other than poppy cultivation. I suggest announcing project
timelines so that people can anticipate positive changes. We must
provide something to generate discussion as people eat their meals,
sit together for tea, walk to Friday prayers.

But because of mismanagement at multiple levels, personnel turnover,
lack of initiative and concerns about personal security, progress
simply isn't forthcoming. Often the local Afghan government and its
culture of corruption, or USAID, are blamed for the lack of results,
but the bottom line is the same: We have very few accomplishments to
report.

In the meantime, the reports are still due. And I feel pressure to
explain to local residents what we are doing here. I hear over and
over how the Afghans feel let down by the international community. So
our words and images must be chosen with great care. I have little but
words and images to offer.

Though the Taliban pulled out of Lashkar Gah after the U.S. invasion
in 2001, they have gradually made their way back, working with drug
lords to control the production of the poppy crop they once forbade,
the profits from which now fuel their resistance. The Taliban and
their collaborators approach our laborers regularly, making deals to
ensure their loyalty during the planting and harvesting season.

But maintaining poppy production is only part of their mission. They
are here to expel the infidels, maintain the status quo of fear and
resist progress that suggests cooperation with the West.

We hear that the Taliban see Helmand province as their proving ground,
the key to taking back Afghan territory from NATO and Afghan troops.
Commanders on the ground describe the situation as the most brutal
conflict the British army has been involved in since the Korean War.

I ask the elders who work in our office to help me find someone to
serve as my assistant. B. comes in the next day. She's nervous, and
her English is poor. She doesn't have any real qualifications. But I'm
desperate for help, so I hire her.

November 2005

Our security manager is continually checking rumors of danger.
Recently, he has received reports of more "night letters" distributed
locally.

The night letter calls on holy warriors to fight the infidels. One
that I read states that cooperation with Christians and Jews and those
associated with the U.S.-backed invasion is punishable by death. Any
Afghan known to work as a cook or driver or to engage with Westerners
will be executed.

I think of B. and the risks she takes to work with us. We agree that
she will call me at the end of every work day to let us know that she
has arrived home safely. She in turn worries that I could be poisoned,
and insists that I eat food prepared only by people I trust.

A vehicle-borne suicide bomb detonates outside the provincial
governor's office compound, about two blocks away. It's only a partial
explosion, and the bomber survives the blast to be shot down as he
gets out of the car. Several days later, we hear more blasts -- the
rest of the suicide mission's explosives. U.S. Special Forces forgot
to tell anyone they were going to set them off. Our ribs shake from
the impact, and a tense silence descends on the office.

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.

December 2005

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.

February 2006

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."

August 2006

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.

September 2006

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.

October 2006

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.