A month has already elapsed since my arrival in Kandahar, yet I feel that I have not yet arrived.
Nothing we learned during our 10-month training period we went through prior to deployment could have prepared this cliche-ridden mind for such a violent culture shock.
Of course, all this has a prelude. First, having to leave my beloved Montreal, my beloved Quebec. An impromptu radio interview. One last Friday night out on the town, with good drinks and great company. Then, the perfect conclusion to a perfect night, the details of which I'll keep to myself.
Last Saturday night in Valcartier, knowing the camp will be dry, I enjoyed a few last drinks until last call and went to bed, without going to sleep.
One last Sunday. Deployment Day, spent with friends and family. The scene happens in 3rd Battalion, Royal 22nd Regiment's garage. Two hundred hyped soldiers, ready to take on the challenge bestowed upon them by their country. The atmosphere was tense, as if there had been a violent clash between mixed feelings.
Excitement -- mine and that of my comrades -- and sadness, that of our loved ones, having to painstakingly let us go do our job. But chief among this emotional maelstrom was a keen sense of pride which overwhelms everything else as we were finally on our way to the airport.
The first three weeks were, in essence, a difficult adaptation period. It is during this period that all we take for granted becomes suddenly fragile. Be it the water, undrinkable everywhere except in bottles imported from the United Arab Emirates. Be it food, which is abundant and various for us, but limited to mostly bread, rice and tea for the Afghan workers we see every day. Be it the heat, comparable to standing all day long in front of an open stove. Be it this somewhat phantom menace, forcing us to wear protective gear and confirmed by the too-frequent firefights we hear almost every day in the distance.
The first contact with the Afghans, whose culture and social rites are the complete opposite of ours, have been very courteous. A lot of cliches and preconceived ideas have fallen as time went by. Instead of the somewhat backward, angst-ridden people I had been led to expect, I discovered a generous, welcoming people with a strong moral code.
An example of this is this old carpenter whom, while visibly poor and obviously aware of our relative wealth and well-being, doesn't shy away from sharing a loaf of bread with us every morning. This daily scene has become for me a symbol of a mutual will to get closer, to sincerely befriend a country which, after too many years of often-fratricide wars, deserves a chance.
Coming to Kandahar, and hence becoming a part of it, comes down to breaking a wall. A wall constructed with cliches and wrong ideas, but torn apart by discovering otherwise.
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WHO I AM
Martin Forgues
I'm a 26 year-old journalism and political science student at Concordia University, and serving member of the Canadian Army Reserve since 1999 at the Montreal-based Regiment de Maisonneuve, holding the rank of Master Corporal.
Having previously served in Bosnia-Herzegovina in 2002, I'm currently in Afghanistan as a member of the Provincial Reconstruction Team, based at Camp Nathan Smith in Kandahar City.
As an infantry soldier, I'm part of the Force Protection Company, charged with the PRT's security, and will do so until I'm homeward-bound, in March 2008.
