MSI Press Blog

    Leaving Kabul The Kabul Airport had nearly no souvenirs. No embroidered shawls, no carved wood, no postcards with minarets or mountains. But one likes to bring something home—proof of one's existence abroad, as advertised. I picked up a few bags of noghl —sugar-coated roasted almonds, one of my favorite treats from any culture. Afghan food is hard to beat for flavor, not just the sweets. I added a glass cup with the Afghan flag to my worldwide coffee cup collection. That was about it. Like the world outside, there was not much to be had at the airport. At least, in the way of material things. People—that was a different story. Relatable, kind, helpful folks at every turn. While the major wrapped our box of lead vests and pot helmets—quite heavy—at the popular bubble wrap stand, I got us checked in with the counter agents for Safi Airways. Two chatty young men, instantly relatable, perhaps more so because I approached them in Pashto. Greeted me. First surprised, the...

  Kabul differed tremendously from Camp Julien . After all, Camp Julien was an Army post, a small one, in the desert. Kabul was a capital with all the accouterments of a big city, in spite of an on-going ravaging war.  In Kabul, I left the Quonset hut of Camp Julien behind, and was assigned to a barracks with about 40 bunk beds. All the beds were filled when I arrived, except for one top bunk. All four-foot-eleven inches of me shimmied up over the tall femalel soldier sleeping below -- always seems to work out that way, the mismatch. It was comfortable enough, though. After all, I can sleep anywhere; I really can.  I also left behind the near-nightly mortar attacks, but Kabul was not without evidence of struggles. The barracks had an unexploded round half-buried into one wall. It was a dud. I could sleep soundly -- and would have, anyway. One of the advantages of being assigned to Kabul was actual time off after the work day was done. The major and I were lucky. We had ar...