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World of the News

~ For the universal in today's top stories

Tag Archives: Afghanistan

#71 Anthem For A Boy Soldier

February 7, 2016

Did he die like a lamb? Six months ago, having fought ‘like a miracle’ when his home town in Afghanistan was besieged by the Taliban – so says his uncle the pro-government militiaman, boy soldier Wasil Ahmad was feted, garlanded, photographed carrying a taped-up, hand-me-down AK47, and widely shared.

Does this mean Wasil was also fated, set up, all but sacrificed to the Taliban? Who came like priests only completing the ritual when they duly shot and slaughtered the wee boy walking unwillingly to primary school in Tirin Kot, capital of the southern province of Oruzgan.

But reports of Wasil Ahmad’s death may have grossly exaggerated the distance between his chronological age – 10 – and the paramilitary shoe-size he’d already stepped into.

Despite comments to the contrary in Western media, the police uniform which the boy soldier appears in, was not too big for him. In those photographs, widely shared, his head is not too small for the matching helmet. Eyes, nose and the set of his mouth are in proportion – well-balanced – with the rifle sitting comfortably on his arm.

In August’s local hero pictures and again in what appears to be a photo of his body shortly before burial last week, this boy’s countenance seems equally untroubled.

Strange to say but perhaps there’s less to be frightened of at 10 years old and under – before Consequences kick in and we are drummed with uncertainty and impermanence.

What simple innocence (we think) we hear in ‘Once In Royal David’s City’ – twilight on Christmas Eve and all things safe and sound in the voice of a King’s College chorister. But what if boyishly unadulterated is also supremely implacable; not only guileless but remorseless, too?

As death itself; meanwhile so pleasing to behold you cannot help but liken the boy to your own son to have and to hold. read more

#5 That’s All, Folks!

March 22, 2014

Streaked across the tiled floor, the blood of four young gunslingers sent into Kabul’s Serena Hotel to shoot up the celebrations (kill count: 9) for New Year’s Eve in Afghanistan. They themselves were shot down by government soldiers.Their bodies were photographed where they fell, then dragged out of the hotel in the early hours of the morning after.

By now, Kabul’s Hotel-of-Terror is almost dog-bites-man. In June 2012, the Spozhmai Hotel was similarly shot to pieces at the start of another festive weekend (23 dead including five Taliban); in June 2011, the Intercontinental (21 dead). In the aftermath,the same spokesperson for the Afghan government, and the same spokesperson for the Taliban. Not much for this youthful quartet to celebrate, knowing they would hardly live to see in the New Year. With firearms hidden in their socks the Taliban boys had evaded the hotel’s security checks, hiding in the toilets until the time came to come out and blow the guests away. A photo of their shoes – two pairs black, two pairs brown, all of them chunky, hunky things – shows they were not from Son of Rambo or Lord of the Flies. These youths were much older, if none the wiser. Was there the smell of festive cooking, wafting in every time a hotel guest came in to use the loo? Or nothing but cleaning fluid and abrasive mutterings that the toilet stalls were still occupied; just what the hell was going on? Just how the hell did you sit it out, boys, those hours of waiting for your lives to be flushed away? What a waste. You could have been getting changed in there, waiting to go on stage in a rock’n’roll band; first night nerves every one night stand. Easy to imagine a youthful play of tender and tough, of Mercutio’s contempt for his own life as well as others’; to recall Raskolnikov, even Alex and his Droogs. But for all I know, your actions had nothing to do with the modern condition. Perhaps you hated Hotel Mayhem – Serena: is someone having a laugh? – not because it was cheesy and a little bit Dubai; more that you were good ol’ country boys whose idea of the human race only stretches as far as your own clan, along with its racing horses and fighting dogs. Whatever the reason, whether or not you reasoned it at all, in youthful haste you’ve already left your one and only mark on the world: famous for 15 hours, topping the Reuters list early one day; next day washed away into the archives.

And nothing else will ever become of you.

Strange Salute

November 12, 2013

Splat. Nasty little noise seemingly of no consequence. But the sound and sight of Marine A using a 9mm pistol to kill a gravely wounded Afghan prisoner (captured in a cornfield in Helmand province on 15thSeptember 2011), were recorded for posterity on a junior soldier’s head cam. Subsequently found on the soldier’s laptop by military police investigating another matter, this evidence led a British court martial to convict Marine Sergeant A of murder. He is due to be sentenced on 6th December.

Stills from the film (the court released audio and selected images, withholding the full footage on grounds that terrorists might use it for recruitment purposes) show green vegetation and earth the colour purple. Contrary to expectations of sand, more sand and sandy haired soldiers in desert fatigues.

A mounting frenzy of violence led by Marine A – forget about that, too.

According to the audio, less Hell than Purgatory: the dead weight of the wounded prisoner; tiresome procedures – ‘biometric enrolment’ – for entering him into the DNA database, whether he lives or dies; routine swearing – each man informing the others how much he hates the hateful job of clearing up after these stupid people. As one of the company is heard to say, ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this.’

After the ‘splat’ of 9mm gunfire, Marine A declares: ‘There you are, shuffle off this mortal coil, you cunt.’ At the court martial he apologised for this grandiose afterthought, as if quoting from Hamlet (‘mortal coil’ is the line following ‘to be or not to be’) were as culpable as the killing.

But at the very moment of death, perhaps even Marine A recognised the need to rise to the occasion. Having killed ‘the cunt’ himself, he all but stood to attention; before returning to the vernacular (‘it’s nothing you wouldn’t do to us’), not forgetting to cover his back (‘obviously this doesn’t go anywhere, fellas. I’ve just broke the Geneva Convention’). read more

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