The third day of our mission, I was invited to attend dinner with the FET team stationed at the COP (combat outpost) we were staying at. FET stands for Female Engagement Team--a team of two female Marines that go out on patrols into the city with male Marines, whose sole purpose on those patrols is to speak to the women of the city. These teams are scattered over the city, a couple Marines on each base, and having them on the COP is convenient for us because it means the Marines at the COP already have billeting and head facilities for females established.
Our patrol consisted of about twenty people total, including civilians from Civil Affairs, translators, and local Afghans. I couldn’t tell if the Afghans were police, army, or something different, but they carried weapons (local nationals are not allowed to carry crew-served weapons), and the Marines were okay with it. It took maybe fifteen minutes to get where we were going; 800m total. We crossed many fields, each with deep ruts between each row of crops. We also crossed several canals. They’re typically just too wide such that you might be able to jump it, but weighed down with your gear you’re not sure if you want to try. And then there was the canal where the far side was probably six feet, with a 70 degree slope. One of the Afghans gave me a hand up, which I needed.
We arrived at Mr. Assef’s home and were invited into a room with a large rug in the center, and cushions lining the outside. Mr. Assef is a tribal leader close to the outpost, so the civil affairs group (CAG) talked to him for a while about some of the issues his people have had recently. One of the issues he raised was people stealing water in the north part of Marjeh, which the CAG promised to discuss with their bosses. Once business had been discussed, dinner was served. They began with another large rug that covered the center of the room, more like a tablecloth than a carpet, although don’t imagine a red and white checkered plastic tablecloth that you can clip over the picnic table at the rest stop on the interstate. This was dark blue/purple vinyl on one side, and the other side was dark brown and had a flower pattern embossed on it.
Men began placing dishes on the tablecloth--marinated lamb, a huge platter of basmati rice, another huge platter of chicken covered in red spices, small plates of sliced tomatoes, chili peppers, and small red onions, and a heaping platter of naan. Mr. Assef took the platter of naan, stacked several pieces, and ripped them in half, each half still larger than a dinner plate. The halves were then passed around the room. The Afghans shared silver platters of rice with a chicken wing each; Americans were served on cardboard trays that we get in the chow hall. We were also given utensils, again the same ones we get from the chow hall. I decided to imitate the Afghans and ignored my silverware, doing my best to avoid using my left hand as much as possible.
The last item served was milk, served in large bowls. The Afghans scooped the milk using white ladles, returning the ladle to the bowl after each time they drank. One of the Afghans close to me offered me the milk in a cup, and I accepted it; the Americans sitting next to me admired my bravery. The milk tasted sour, similar to plain yogurt but more sour. It tasted something like a yogurt drink I’d had at a middle eastern restaurant once, although without the spices. I drank the milk, along with the Pepsi they’d given me, throughout the meal. Once we were done with the main course, they put out fresh pomegranate halves and quartered apples. I had one of each, and on a whim tried placing pomegranate seeds and rice inside a chunk of bread and eating them together. It was quite good.
After the tablecloth had been removed, Mr. Assef asked the FET team if we would like to meet his family. We were lead across a field, into a courtyard, and then into a room in his house. His family filtered into the room; his wife, sons and daughters, sons’ wives, and a lot of children. A couple of them spoke a little bit of English, but other than that we mostly sat and looked at each other. One of the men asked me if I liked tea, and I said yes. He told someone to bring tea, and I immediately hoped it had been boiled (as I write this a day and a half later, I still haven’t gotten sick, so it must have been). A young boy, maybe 7 or 8, served myself and the Sergeant that was with me, pouring probably a quarter of a cup of sugar into the cup before pouring tea in each. It was chai—delicious, even without the amount of sugar in it. They also brought out a bowl of more food—there were almonds in their hulls, pistachios, some kind of yellow kernels that didn’t taste like corn, and a few chewy candies. I had an almond and a couple pistachios, but was mostly full.
More family members kept coming into the room; eventually the open space in the room disappeared as they filled it. One of the men motioned if he could put henna on the Sergeant’s hand, and then one of the women went to get it. I’ve seen the orange henna stains on the hands of other Local Nationals, mostly when I was up doing some of the reconnaissance missions I was tasked with over the summer. It turns an orange color and is supposed to last about a month before it fades off. They enjoy putting elaborate designs on their hands, and then also around each finger tip (it’s unclear to me why the finger tips...). This is the design they put on my hand.
I took out the laminated picture I carry around of my family. One side has all seven of us kids standing by our stockings last Christmas, and the other side is Mom and Dad. It was a big hit, and I told one of the men that spoke a little bit of English who all of my siblings were.
Too quickly it was time to go. We walked back to the COP, back through the fields and the ditches, the full moon making the trip easy. I called back to my company staff to find out there had been some confusion while I was gone. A Marine from our COP had been killed while on patrol earlier that day (a different direction from where we went), and somewhere up the chain someone had thought I was on that patrol. I assured them that I was fine, but it was back to reality.
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