“If you get bitten by a snake, make sure you bring the snake to the medic so they know what kind it is.”
-Second Lt. Svein Arne Henriksen
We’re on a bus transferring us from Oslo Gardemoen to the nearby military airport, seated in the back with about 40 Norwegian and Latvian military dudes. What a shock for those strapping young lads who’d loitered outside Gardemoen whistling at us, four virile young girls, to see us suddenly pile into the same transfer coach as them, check-in at the same military base, and board the same military plane to that same destination. Meanwhile, I’m chucking down painkillers and cough syrup to overcome various unsettlements. Everything about this trip is unlike any tour I’ve been on before. When we arrive at the airport, only one sign reads “Check-in / Kabul - red / MeS - blue / Meymaneh - green”, when I ask The Cables where we’re to go, nobody has a bloody clue. We don’t know the name of our destination, we don’t got no friggin’ tour manager, we don’t know the name of our transfer airport in Turkey, we don’t go through a single security check, we don’t recognize the name of the airline when the stewardess mentions it overhead — and after a nauseating airplane dinner and probably the overdose of painkillers, I endure what would be the beginning of 24 hrs of intensive, knee-shakin’ sprutræv. God help me.
Landing in Mazar-e Sharif, 29th October
14 hours of sleep and I’m still ill — chills, coughing, my lungs are about to give in — but at least after a stopover heat-sensor check in Turkey I know it’s not swine flu. My head’s dizzy in wonderment — we land and shuffled along with other soldiers, receive bulletproof vests and helmets, meet our contact Lundevold, still clutching my stomach as we endure security briefings about the nearest bomb shelter should anything happen (!), the various kinds of warning signals, and an extremely informative Q&A with a man-in-charge, about the general overview of the Norwegians’ presence in Afghanistan. Looking back on this now, it became the beginning of much myth-dispelling about what, and why, Norwegian soldiers were in Afghanistan*.
(*a friend of mine later would point out the ironies of the feminist intellectuals preaching comfortably from their offices, anti-war, pro-feminazi stances when these soldiers actually spend months risking their lives to build schools, roads, and increasing the rights and education opportunities for Afghan women)
Heading for our first concert in Kabul now. I overhear in my shaky comprehension of Norwegian that there were deadly bombings last night in the city, again…
In MeS’s pre-flight waiting locker, walls adorned with flags around the world, photos, warning signs, a cafe — first sense of that fear as an announcement in German blares in speakers, in a flash, all the German soldiers jump up and stampede out the room, sounds of packing guns, rifles, those heavy vests loaded in armory… I get a strange rush, the kind you’re supposed to hate as liberal, left-leaning academic watching some movie glorifying the military — but I can’t help it, these masses of soldiers packing up right in front of me, scooting out to war and it’s like a proud, adrenaline propelling unified run against “bad” — I don’t think we truly understand it, passive civilians absorbing it the way Hollywood sends it to us — nerves a bit jittery, and still unsure about the total itinerary in the next few days, I do feel strangely calmed surrounded by our Norwegian peers.
When it’s our turn to leave, occurs to me it’s a whole lot of effort just to hear a small band from Norway play — everywhere we go there are at least 3-5 men loading our entire PA, backline, mixer, cables and cables. Shit, bombs are flying over Kabul and we’re flying straight into the heart of it to play a Cables concert.
Two Dutchmen in civilian wear introduce themselves as the pilots for the next few days, the(ir) stewardess wears a green t-shirt that reads on the back, “DON’T PANIC — WE’VE DONE THIS SHIT BEFORE…”** As we get settled, the co-pilot asks us if anyone wants to ride up front in the cockpit. The girls look at each other, not quite understanding his English; Marte declines, so he turns to me and I can’t contain myself, “HELL YEA!” I have been flying my whole life, and like a giddy child for the first time get to sit shotgun in a military plane!
(**Days after we’re home a soldier sends us news that the second engine on that exact plane actually dies mid-air, and we’re told the stewardess with the “Don’t Panic” shirt visibly freaks out…)
KAIA is the name of the airport, a military gorge all deadset in city centre. It’s an old Russian base, and everything looks haphazard, the containers waving various countries’ flags, trash bags lining streets, construction work, barbed wire. However naïve Marte’s first exclamation about Kabul sounds, “Wow, there is dust everywhere…”, she is absolutely right — its the first thing that strikes you, the dry smell and clouds of lung stifling — dust.
Kabul - Gig numero uno, or, nummer ein?
We played three sets in the span of one night at the military club Air Force One. Not one. Not two. Three sets. By the third, drunk non-Norwegian soldiers were mouthing along to all the choruses, and at our Joan Jett cover, “I love rock’n'roll”, pretty much drunken sailor/soldier stage-diving mayhem ensued. Cameras waved at us for hours — the Finns want a group photo, the Belgians, the Italians, God the crazy Italians, the Spanish, the Portuguese, the Turkish medical team, who offer me drugs. I smile so much my jaw hurts and it’s a total photographic blitzkrieg, roll the red carpet and we’re celebrities. The Cables might never make it big in Norway but it’s reassuring that our fan base will remain strong in bleedin’ Afghanistan.
En route to Meymaneh from Kabul
Last night in Kabul. Whilst laying in bed totally alone, listening to machetes and machine guns firing from a range not too distant from our block, like bam-bam-bam… pow-pow-pow-pow… and the rest of the girls out with soldiers, I thought to myself, “if some bullets begin penetrating the wood of this here cabin, and somehow I make it alive, I will:
1) amass the entirety of Neil Young’s back catalogue
2) invest in more Circle albums, since “Parmalee” is about the only song able to put my mind at ease
3) quit The Cables
4) …and buy life insurance
5) tell my next of kin, Ben Sand, that I’m still alive when I get internet in Mazar-e Sharif”
Much time spent in bed these first few nights; a combination of sick recovery, reading articles in the Financial Times, and wondering how the hell I ended up here, the “face” of Norway. We’re told every country brings a band over about once a month, Belgian night, Italian night, etc. We’re the first girl band to ever play Afghanistan. Thinking a lot on my own situation, projecting to the future and what’ll happen come April — I can’t even get a bloody visa past June 2010, yet — here I am, we have actual Norwegian P O L I T I driving from in the city to Air Force One to support us, I am playing a concert on “NORWAY NIGHT” in Kabul, promoting Norway to international soldiers — after a PowerPoint presentation of all things Norwegian — vikings, snowboarding and Edvard Grieg, I, Ann Sung-an Lee, turn up as the motherfucking face of Norway. Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, a real poseur!
See UDI? See this photo of me & yr troops in Afghanistan? See me on the tank waving the Norwegian flag? See me play for the proud, life-sacrificing people of your country? See me represent Norway in an international showcase? Doesn’t this mean shit or are you still gunna throw me outta the country?
Always the outside observer, I’m the American who is full force avoiding American soldiers. Hell, it’s the first time I’ve felt proud of any country, and it’s Norway. I think I could legally have my citizenship taken away for that statement (irony nr. 323: my parents, Taiwanese immigrants who struggled for a green card, only to have their firstborn daughter in the US of A grow up, renounce her country of birth and join some obscure country’s army, ha!). American soldiers have strange body shapes, like lopsided versions of our European counterparts. You can spot them a mile away. They have really overbloated, pear-shaped bodies. Really tiny heads and fat stomaches, and oft that small-town accent to accompany.
Silje and Minsten (Marte) who couldn’t stop laughing when Inger Anne pointed out she looked like the mushroom in Super Mario Bros. They were nearly in tears with laughter while the rest of soldiers sat with grim looks whilst being transported in this open truck. I muttered, “I think someone on this truck isn’t taking their helmet very seriously!”…and we burst into another fit of laughter.
We truly are given the VIP treatment, accompanied throughout the trip by one big, and one small, lean mean fighting machine: Lundevold (aka Ludde), and Henriksen (aka Teddiksen). They are our dear escorts, tour managers, soundmen, lightmen, crew, bodyguards and more, making the level of threat, at least on the Norwegian camps, feel relatively low. A warm place for them in our hearts.
Breakfast typically consisted of field rations, an entire freeze dried assortment of meals packed with vitamins and calories, then heated in 5mins with just hot water. Something I looked most forward to every day — front of the line, instant military food technology. Fascinating!
The agenda of the Norwegian soldiers I’ve come to understand is quite different from the American and British. For example, Henriksen explained to me that Norwegian soldiers enter towns with a non-aggressive appearance of guns on hanging on their sides, whereas Americans would enter a town with their guns pointed out, loaded or ready to fire. I mean when inquiring about why Oslo Politi were in Kabul city, I learned they were there to train Afghan police — “cops in Oslo don’t ever carry guns!,” I persisted — and received a response, perhaps that’s why they called on the Norwegian police, to instill methods of resolving conflict without the use of weapons. — I mean shit, isn’t that like the stuff peace is made outta, Gandhi, prize-winning material — or is it totally naïve, when we’re fully aware of the corruption going about? One question I didn’t even dare raise is the influence of opium, a third of this country’s industry.
Meymaneh: just another vacation under the sun…
Few residual shell marks from Silje’s gun after being out at the shooting range today — we shot at cans with HK-47s and hand pistols upon landing at Meymaneh, one of the main Norwegian camps, a very Norwegian camp. Clean toilets, hot doctors, excellent food (the cafeteria buffet boasts imported crayfish, smoked salmon, tyttebær, strawberry salad, etc.) and a tanning roof to boot. 26+ degree weather, and we break out the bikinis and spend a relaxing two days. See, war is fun, right?
Notice the very aggressive one sandal shooting style…
Whatever non-violent, non-militaristic dogmas we might have had, have gone right out the window and we’re tank-ridin’ military babes, salutin’ to the flag, God bless Norway, heia Norge! and one more things for definite — we LOVE the Norwegian military.
Not the Americans.
Not the Spanish.
Not the Germans.
Not the Latvians. Definitely not the Latvians. (Though inclined to sympathize however obnoxious they’ve been on this trip, for being hired to protect the Norwegians à la your next-door Polack construction-worker ideal: rich, northern westernized countries hiring poor Eastern Europeans to do the dirty work.)
Not the Italians. Who the Norwegians men tell us are all gay.
Maybe the Portuguese. (Due to well-fashioned uniforms and some stunning-looking soldiers…)
Which leads me to my next point:
“The Straightest of the Straight” (and why we love them)
We, as Oslo women, are oft complaining about either your average lackadaisical Oslo rocker boy in their Nudie jeans and some obscure band t-shirt with the work ethic of a donkey’s ass, or are one cordoned off to the bar/rock industry, hence, usually conscious during the hours of 10pm-6am and only intelligible drunk, and prone to leave you naked and cold those early hours in the morning because they suddenly got some tortured artistic angst about the burden of the world on their shoulders — or regret that they’re 30+ and have done FUCK ALL with their lives, that they work shit jobs and can’t please you so therefore, will never try.
Or:
We rant about these west side types, some photographer or journalist who only drinks on the weekends — likes to watch NRK documentaries, take long walks in the park, talk philosophical — you find yourself with mildly increased knowledge but still utterly bored and unsatisfied. Whilst thinking you’re severely in need of a screw, all you can do is watch the latter’s lips move to some pontification on current politics or the state of, blah.
Well, ladies, the answer has finally arrived. Let me introduce you to:
Norwegian (or fill in country of preference) MILITARY MEN.
They are guaranteed as horny as you are, devoted, disciplined, moral, buff, sensitive, travelled, carry a strong sense of social justice, compassionate, team workers… Their level of irony, creativity or wit may be completely shot (ha) but they are that reeel old school stuff we call “good men”. Which of course begs the question — do we chicks just want a “good” guy? And whatever good might mean — even if it is just protecting women and their babies — isn’t that reason enough to call the good, good, and the ones who aren’t bad? At least their level of commitment, the discipline, is something I admire, and makes all these rocker boys we know who basically live with one arm hanging off the bar look a bit… like misfits. (Another friend joked — if Kabul is the epitome of the strongest and fittest men from each nation, I guess at Oslo Sportsbar you’ll find the opposite.)
Back to what I was sayin’ — the straightest of the straight. Everytime I’ve tried to crack a joke related to drugs or alcohol I just get a dead silencing look from a Norwegian soldier, or when I tell Ludde this is the longest I’ve been sober in about three years, he just shakes his head in half belief-disgust. Try six months to a year, or even a lifetime they tell me. I get the point. Of course, the fact that the Norwegians are the only camp with a strict no-alcohol matter is something to be revered. From all the accidents of drunk boys with big egos and guns — historically it’s not the best combination. And ain’t no laughing matter, really. So we gratefully chug down some 0.02% Becks, Erdinger, though I draw the line at Holstein — you could pretty much get a sweaty German fart in a can and there you’d have it.
Two concerts later, we regretfully leave Meymaneh and head back to MeS with only one thought in my mind: the dreaded next show, a 40 minute drive on the road, just outside MeS.
“Jag är inte sjuk, jag är bare svensk”: The Camp of Northern Lights
Before I left for this trip, I wrote in my journal, “Ann’s last will. At my funeral, I would please like the following song played: Neil Young - “Winterlong” And I’d like my friends and family to take a moment of silence picturing me dancing atop the counter of a bar in heaven or somewheres.”
For the record, at no point before hearing about this journey or the days leading up to it did I ever agree to doing this. I have no clue how I got persuaded to vest up and sit in that jeep — was it worth it? Even if they reassured us, we’d travel in a convoy, jammers would set off any bomb 100m before us, or that they had night vision googles. Was it worth it? Playing to a host of seated, boring Swedish dudes? Probably not. They were generous of course, but I have hardly experienced the level of fear as I did in that car. One moment on our way back from this camp I realized, should anything happen to us, I would probably go out in the most shameful way imaginable — with incredibly bad laks breath and a non, I mean a non-alcoholic beer in my hand. I don’t believe in God, but am happy at least Silje did some praying.***
(***Few days after we arrive home, we receive news that a bomb went off on our nearby route, possibly the original route we’d been warned about and avoided — five Swedish soldiers critically injured, their translator killed.)
A well-deserved exit: 600 beating hearts in MeS
Sometimes pictures speak louder than words. The crowd goes so far back on all sides we can’t even see faces, a huge glowing full moon hovers above, the same glittering stars we find comfort knowing Oslo is under, the cool night air blowing in our hair, our Norwegian brothers up front with “C - A - B - L - E - S” painted on their bodies. One day left, and I’m just wondering how it’s going to be explaining this to our friends back home. Well, I’m alive right? And that’s what counts. Mental note to self: tell my friends I love them, tell my boy I love him, tell my family I love them. And gosh darnit Afghanistan, I love you too.
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7 Responses to “Afghanistan or bust!: An analysis of what is socially acceptable for a lipstick-lovin’, high-heel wearin’, Norwegian all-girl band entering the most dangerous war zone on earth, at this precise moment”
Andreas Schwartz - November 22nd, 2009 at 20:13
Går det an å bli mer servil i holdningen sin til Afghanistan-krigen? Fy faen, det gjør meg kvalm å se apolitiserte musikkhipstere gå så velvillig i Forsvarsdepartementets tjeneste på denne måten. Afghanistan er et håpløst avmodernisert land og vi har ingenting å gjøre der.
Ann Sung-an Lee - November 23rd, 2009 at 14:03
Hm. It’s much easier to criticize those enduring something not easily spoken or written about, especially if its something you oppose, that then comes out of it with an attitude of something one can learn from, or something that is positive—which of course you seem to translate as “servitude” or “passiveness”—- then to actually step into a war zone, perform for soldiers, and uphold some sort of aggressive political stance.
I also think lots of Norwegians would receive an “F” in Understanding Irony.
Some of us who have travelled or actually grown up know even if I had Blitz’s latest pamphlet on the war or been brainwashed by some dictum in which I can laud comfortably on paper or in my head—that in a situation of actually being invited to war, I am a guest of certain capacities, and I feel it my role to observe and document my experience, not to FLAUNT whatever intellectuals latest philosophy on whether or not the presence of Norwegian soldiers is justified—
This particular article features the *live experience of the Cables* (hence, categorized under “live”), not my political stance on the war— this is not an academic paper.
I could also of course insert all the editorial remarks which might make you feel like this was “real”– that for a long time after we were asked to go on this trip I felt a weight of some moral dilemma pending, and that I, or should I say the Cables collectively researched everything we could possibly find and interviewed a host of people including journalists, Afghans, our friends, and people who’d also been there as artists. And still for a long time, I said “no fucking way, I am not going!”. But I am absolutely glad I did now.
I also think the idea you throw at the end of your comment that Afghanistan is under developed (and do you know why??), and therefore a lost cause, is absolutely narrow-minded, inhumane, selfish AND totally ignores the efforts of Norwegian soldiers who are doing incredible aid work. Seriously. Is that the credentials from which you believe human operations should work, to only modernized places?! Of course, nothing about this war seems hopeful but it’s a fact that the Taliban IS a sick, dangerous threat, and the international community cannot blindly stand by though the conditions of, how, what or when is definitely not anything I, let alone one person can answer.
What you may mistake for a tone of deference may not serve YOUR particular views on the war, but I reckon if you were to spend one week with any of these soldiers, particularly your own nation’s, and try preaching to them your arguments of non-involvement, you would encounter quite a bit of resistance. And you might realize Norwegian soldiers aren’t unintelligible sheep, that in a face-to-face dialogue you would have most interesting, thought-provoking conversations you’d ever have on the war. So if you don’t foresee yourself showing decency to those who simply want to describe an exciting, yet terrifying experience; OR of even having the decency to respond to my article in English, then I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.
Tim - November 24th, 2009 at 00:36
Snap. Keep your ignorant ass comments to yourself Andreas, this isn’t YouTube.
David (deetee) - December 14th, 2009 at 21:19
Anne,
Thanks for your diary. Very interesting and an amazing adventure for you.
My personal views on the war are probably similar to yours.
What most people seem to forget is that in a democracy soldiers don’t get a choice, they do whatever dirty job the politicians tell them to.
I reckon seeing a lipstick-lovin’, high-heel wearin’, Norwegian all-girl band were very welcome distraction from the joband will have put some smiles on a lot of faces out there. Good for you for having the courage to go out there and do it.
Ann - December 15th, 2009 at 00:26
Cheers David!
Philip(pa) - August 3rd, 2010 at 22:38
Ann - I only just got back from the sandbox, and only just saw this. (I was trying to figure out if you had any upcoming concerts listed anywhere so I could stand in the front row throwing bottles at you people)
..it’s interesting to see your take on the trip, and the work we did. I’m glad you got something out of it, I know we had a hell of a lot of fun having you over, so.. thanks again for dropping by and playing us some proper music and rocking out down there.
P.S. Tell Inger thanks as well, for letting me borrow her dress.
Ann Sung-an Lee - August 8th, 2010 at 14:03
Phillippa! Thanks for the kind words, and I’m happy to hear you got home safe. Many thoughts out to you, and I’m sure Inger would let you borrow a dress anytime. You looked so damn fine!:)