Battlefield Tourist

Right now I'm a bit short on time, so I'll drop you a book I wrote on the plane as I landed in Afghanistan for the first time. The reason I just thought of this is because today, the song once again, is stuck in my mind.


As I leave from Istanbul, you really do marvel at how big the city is. I've heard 13 million. I've also heard 16 million. Whichever it is, it's big. Coming in nine days earlier,
I got my first idea of the size of this great city during the day. The metro area went on forever it seemed. Leaving on the redeye out, it looked even bigger.

"...with a beautiful wife, and beautiful house..."

Leaving your family for a long period of time is always difficult, even if you are only married. Regardless, it's tough. In a way though, it's satisfying. It really gives me the feeling in my heart of exactly how much I truly love Heidi.
I would listen to Heidi on the radio long before I ever met her. Driving around the area as a local TV news photographer, when Heidi came on the radio, I'd tell the reporter to quiet and then I'd turn up the radio just to here her speak.
I remember many times thinking, and openly saying, "If that woman is half as good looking as she sounds, I'm going to marry her." I could just tell that this "rock ' roll chic" just had to be as cool as they come. Needless to say, mutual friends help spread the word, she ended up asking me out, and I ended up asking her to marry me six months later. That was almost five years ago.

...and you may find yourself on the other side of the world...

This is one of my favorite songs all of times. "Letting the Days go By" by the Talking heads. Back when this came out in the late 70's, my friend Courtney (a guy) and I would listen to this tape all the time. Can't remember the specific class, but I do remember the specific room. I remember him holding the cassette, "Songs About Food and Buildings".
The mosaic cover still stuck in my mind. And now as I fly east over Turkey heading toward Central Asia, the song pops into my head.

...and I ask myself, how did I get here?

I'm pretty sure it all started when I was young, infatuated with toy soldiers, war movies, and "playing guns" with my brother and best friend, Pat. From there, if I had any educational interest back then, I was interested in history. 90% of that interest was in World War II. I'm not sure why, maybe because of my late grandfather. He fought for three years in the war. Guadalcanal, Bouganville, and at Cebu on the Phillipines. Whatever it was, I knew (and still know) just about every picture or film ever published on the subject. All fronts. I just loved the hell out of World War II. Think I was captivated by the violence and the death. That's something I can't explain.
I remember visiting my middle school many years after graduating. I went to the library and in the middle back, lower shelf, in the same spot, were my favorite books. Wouldn't you know, in every one of them, the same check out card with my name owning at least 50%. Some closer to 80%. Obsessed.
It didn't take long after high school to enlist in the marines. Afterall, President Reagan sure had me thinking the commies were coming up through Central America while he busted balls taking down the wall.
At that time I was just 17, so I had to get my parents to authorize it. I have no doubt in my mind that they did not want to sign that paper. they did anyway and I was off to San Diego. Being from Keego Harbor, Michigan, I had no idea why San Diego and not Parris Island, but no matter, half my platoon was from Detroit. We all went west together.
I joined the Corps "open contract", which meant, or so I thought, Infantry. I was in great shape from years of soccer, motivated, and I wanted to kill commies. Of course you can imagine my dissapointment when that magic day came when Sgt. Francisco (who would later star as the drill instructor in a reality TV show) read off my job title: "Tate! 4034! You're going to Quantico!". Quantico sounded cool, but when he then said, "You're a computer operator." I almost puked. I just went through three months of hell and I'm a FUCKING COMPUTER OPERATOR! In 1985, computers were just up and coming. I didn't miss the beginning of the era, but it was new enough that I really didn't give a shit.
I tried everything to get out of that job. I looked for ways to get to jump school, dive school, I even remember asking if there were marines in Antartica.
The closest I could come was getting to tag along with my best bro, Kim (another guy), who was good enough to be a range instructor. Those are the guys with the pith helmets that teach you to kill at 500m. They were in charge of training the office marines, like me, once a year for two weeks. They were the ones that attacked your bivouac with tear gas in the middle of the night in mock assaults of your positions. Screw that, I wanted to be one of them. So the Sergeant in charge agreed to let me be an "an aggressor" with his team every Thursday night.
Next I started formally requesting to join the Marine Security Guards. These were the guys that guarded the nukes on ships and protected U.S. Embassies. Request after request denied. They said my job was too "critical" and they couldn't justify letting me leave. It wasn't long after the third denial from my company commander that I left my beloved Corps. My dreams of retiring at 37 just took a dramatic swing.

...once in a lifetime...

More than 10 years later, after college and some fun, I ended up getting a lucky break at a local medium sized TV station in Roanoke, Va., and quickly worked up to being a "one man band". That's the poor guy or gal that gets paid next to crap for not only being the photographer, but the reporter, the editor, the producer, the assistant assignment editor, and the one with the least respect among the reporters. The good thing though, I learned everything fast and I accelerated at it.
It was about this time that I really started to learn about a photographer whom I remembered about from years before, during Gulf War I. Her pictures would change the world, and I started realizing how awesome that was. She ventured into the mountains of Northern Iraq to bring the world images of starving Kurds. On the run and massed by the thousands in the frozen mountains. All running, from what they felt, was imminent death at the hands of Sadaam Hussein. The US government provoked a rebellion and failed to support it. Tens of thousands would die in the reprisal. Even more displaced to unbearable living conditions, and XX woke the world up. Her images stirred the world to action that would inevitably lead to humanitarian relief that saved thousands as the US Army and others moved in. Interesting way to show the world you "care". Now, I already read and watched more news than most small towns, so my destiny began to dramatically shift again as I decided to mix my four passions and dreams: History, news, photography, and travel.
It was also about this time, 1996, that I had grown to hate the sensationalized view of local news. I was sick of a machine that fed on creating misery. We would sit in a conference room and decide whose story was "better" than others. In affect deciding whose life we were going to ruin that day or whose misery we were going to exploit. On a local level, there is just not enough valid news to fill anymore than 10 minutes at six o'clock on most days.. That meant hours of what I call "made up news". Call it what you want.
So I left "the business" and tried to fend for myself. I decided to do high quality, consumer grade (oxymoron?) production work while pursuing the dissemination of stories that I felt merited a deeper scrutiny. Stories like HIV in Africa and the Aral Sea Disaster. I wanted to make a difference and in a world this big, that's a tough task. For me though, these stories were worldwide and everything, at least my vision, was getting clearer.
I followed a humanitarian medical brigade to Honduras and met a wonderful woman who saves thousands through her programs, Sister Maria Rosa Leggoll. Her story could inspire. That, "to me" was journalism. In the same vein as XX and the thousands of war journalists that had for years educated me, I was starting to feel a life passion.

"...same as it ever was..."

The following year, war was once again breaking out in Iraq, and this time the situation looked to be the same. Now I was the one who wanted to do what was done ten years before. So I packed my bags and headed to the border of Iraq and Turkey. I figured everyone else would follow the war, I would follow the refugees. History is a learning process and if you can't learn from history, it's a missed opportunity that many times has grave consequences.
The war came, but the refugees didn't. Good news as a humanitarian, bad news for a guy wanting to do a documentary. That's when I knew I was a different type of journalist: I didn't care. I was glad there was "no news". To have just been a witness to history. I got to explore a culture, breathe the air, and take an exciting risk. I couldn't lose. No documentary, but I was educated beyond description. Money well spent and I was still alive. My calling was loud and clear.

"Letting the days go by..."

Afghanistan, March 31st, 2004

Flying into Kabul was definatly different then anything I have ever expierienced. Not in an incredible type of way, but in a way that is more like a major culture shock kind of way.
first, the terrain coming in was incredible. From 30,000 feet it was mile after mile of brown nothing with a smattering of mud and brick structures lodged in between high, snow capped mountains. There also is absolutely no doubt that there's been a war here for more than 20 years. "Kabul International" is barely an airport. Even though the airport is open, the first thing you notice is dozens of men sweeping for mines. That gives you a quick idea of how far the country has to go.
I was met at the airport by Ahmet. He's Afghani and has been here for IHA more than a year straight. He kind of looks Chinesee, but not. Turns out he speaks 7 languages or so and is as connected in town as it gets. Unfortunately, he had to pick me up in a taxi because the company vehicle is broken.
Hitting the streets of Kabul is an adventure of its own. There a definite sense of progress and peace here, but that tranquility and hope is mixed with sure signs that this is a very dangerous place. AK-47's everywhere. Government soldiers beginning at 18 or so all the way up to old men. Add in the coalition, the UN, all the relief people, taxis, donkey carts, bearded men in strange clothing, etc... you get, well... for an American from Michigan, a little culturally shocked. That doesn't mean I was shocked. Just culturally shocked.
Worst of all is the infamous Afghani dust. I've heard about this stuff. I've heard it's hard to believe until you see it. I can now report that within five minutes of being here, that report is true. It is surely the finest dust I have ever seen as a true environmental characteristic. When you walk, dust flies. Your glasses always seem dirty, and the slightest wind causes a haze to float around that's a mixture of dust and pollution.