| | Eyes Wide Shut on Afghanistan's Rifle Range TIME
05/08/2007
By Aryn Baker
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Ahmad Shah can't close one eye at a time. That wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that he's been an officer with the Afghan National Police for three years, and he still can't shoot straight. On the firing range at Camp Naray, a U.S. Army base in Kunar, eastern Afghanistan, his police chief, exasperated by Shah's wild shooting, finally holds a hand over his left eye, and for the first time all day, his bullet hits the paper target. His audience of U.S. soldiers and Military Police instructors let out a cheer, but Master Sergeant Rouben Meraz throws up his arms in exasperation and turns to the police chief. "Are you going to be there to cover his eye in combat?" The chief nods, and the group bursts into laughter. "It's not funny," Meraz barks. "I can't let him be a police officer if he can't close his eye. He'll die."
For the past three months Meraz, and his squad of MPs from Fort Lewis, Washington have been training local officers in the basics of police work. "We have to explain to them that they can't take bribes," says Meraz. "We talk about domestic violence, and they just don't get it. They are like, 'Why shouldn't we let a man hit his wife?' "
But training in basic skills, like shooting, is even more important these days. Over the weekend 13 Afghan National Police were killed ? five by a roadside bomb in Ghazni, eastern Afghanistan, and another eight in a gun battle in the west. In contrast to the considerably more impressive Afghan National Army, the national police are routinely derided for their ethnic factionalism, inexperience and corruption. But with programs like Meraz's, that is starting to change. Already more than 250 officers have passed his nine-day training course, and he's expecting several hundred more. "Before people were reluctant to join the force," he says. "The police weren't popular with the locals. But these guys are making a difference. Now people trust them. Now they feel safe." The training, combined with logistical support from the U.S. army, has turned the police into a credible security asset. "In order to leave this place one day, we need to take these guys on, train them and supply them," says Colonel Mike Howard, in charge of the 3rd Squadron, 71st Cavalry Regiment of the 10th Mountain Division in Naray. "When you have no hope, when you have no chance of hitting what you are shooting at, when you have no fuel to put in your truck or ammunition to put in your gun then you have no motivation to be a policeman. You may as well just guard the station."
But until Shah can prove that he's not a danger to himself, or his fellow officers, Meraz won't let him graduate. "I can't have this guy aiming at a bad guy, and hit a child instead," Meraz tells the chief. "Let's make a deal. We will train him on the pistol and he can be a clerk. If that doesn't work, he can be the cook." Even with a second chance, Shah looked perilously close to spending the rest of his police career in the kitchen. After his first round on the pistol he pushed himself to his knees, gun in hand and finger still on the trigger, ignoring the basic rules of gun safety. Trainers scattered in all directions. "Dude, if I'm going to get shot, I want it to be down range," muttered one.
Shah eventually passed, hitting the target for 18 shots out of 20.
When the next batch of trainees from nearby Ghaziabad police station showed up, one officer was missing the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. Rahmatullah, who only has one name, had picked up a mine as a child, thinking it was a toy. When he first went to the Jalalabad Police Academy, the U.S. soldiers there told him to go away, that he couldn't shoot without any fingers. "But I said give me a chance," he says. "I'll show you." Now he wears his uniform proudly, even if its loose folds are tightly cinched around his spindly frame with a worn leather belt. Rahmatullah took to the sharpshooting practice with ease, flinging himself into firing position with a fluid grace, and squeezing off three near-perfect rounds with his ring finger on the trigger. His trainer, PFC Blake Jones, adjusted his rifle sights, and Rahmatullah fired again. Jones handed him the paper target, neatly marked with three holes over the bullseye. "You did good man, real good." Rahmatullah beamed. "We have guys that complain 'I'm sick,' or 'I'm tired,' but this guy, he wants it," says Jones. "That's the kind of stuff that actually makes me feel we are doing something here that's worth it."
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