Uncle Sugar Goes to War

PETAVAH, Afghanistan -- When American soldiers and Marines invaded Iraq in 2003, GIs riding in Humvees and on the backs of trucks tossed candy to waving children. It was like Paris 1945! (Without the flowers and wine and women, of course.) But it was grand -- the kids loved America. So much so that soon there were clouds of children swarming around armored vehicles. Inevitably someone was run over, and soon the word came down from the brass: No more throwing candy to kids. And the kids turned to throwing rocks at us.

In a large field near the center of the village, the paratroopers' four armored trucks pulled into a circle, watched intently by a growing and jostling crowd of kids, white-bearded elderly men and a few self-appointed young Afghan law-and-order guys with mulberry-branch switches to beat the kids back. This was going to be the equivalent of a one-hour, all-you-can-carry free shopping spree at Walmart. Except that women, of course, were confined somewhere indoors.

Under the armed and unsmiling gaze of the paratroopers, a few elders were beckoned forward to unload the trailer. Sacks of corn and rice, containers of cooking oil, plastic sandals, cooking pots and other goodies piled up on the ground as the crowd's agitation rose to a fever pitch. Suddenly a young girl bolted from the crowd, scampered between two paratroopers and made off with a bag of -- what? Anything! She raced away clutching her prize with the mulberry-stick men whacking the air behind her. Then another kid broke from the crowd, and another. The paratroopers swiveled this way and that, but now they were laughing as kids, and then men, scooted past them, and there was pandemonium inside a cloud of dust that enveloped the mountain of H.A. In a few moments it was all over, with people carrying off armloads of H.A. and a few dogs and toddlers disconsolately picking over the bits of torn bags and broken sandals that were left.

On the long ride back to base, an officer voiced my thoughts about the whole thing. "I didn't see any starving kids, and I didn't see anybody who didn't already have sandals. So what was the point?''

More important, what was the effect? Uneasily, I remembered accompanying a Marine officer through villages in Iraq's Anbar Province. He'd pull out a handful of candy as kids crowded and jumped. Then he'd ask, "Who'd like a soccer ball?'' and he'd summon an aide and hand out a few balls. In the distance, I noticed men who'd just brought their kids to school standing in the shadows, glowering at this scene. Their resentment seemed palpable, that their kids were crowding around an American handing out presents that they couldn't afford for their own children.

Here in Afghanistan, a different war but the same American impulse of generosity. And to what end? I put this question to an American officer, a man who works closely and professionally with Afghans and whose opinion I respect. "The feedback we get from Afghans,'' he said, "is that this kind of give-away makes them feel like dogs."