Good Intentions

This poem was inspired by reading Rory Stewart's book "Can Intervention Work?" when he looks at the lost hopes and false dreams of Afganistan and the West:

"Governments have become ever worse at acknowledging failure. Partly it is the absence of anyone to challenge policy. In the nineteenth century we had many deeply knowledgeable officers, who’d spent their whole careers on the ground in British India, and on the Northwest Frontier, working with local communities, in local languages, who had learnt through long experience what could and could not be done, and were not afraid to disagree with government policy. Today, by contrast, our officials live much more isolated lives, know much less about the countries in which they serve, are much more memorized by abstract jargon, and find it more difficult to challenge policies, even when they sense that they are wrong."

In Afghanistan, more troops, more aid workers and agencies, and more money is pumped into the country without any real understanding of the people, or the culture. Virtually no one even speaks their language. And the terms of stay are usually so short - 2-3 years - that there is no time to do so.

Good Intentions

Peace keeping they call it, marching as to war,
No lessons learned, mistakes as made before
Every more soldiers, sent to fight the foe
Afghanistan: we just cannot let it go.

When we came with arms, Taliban did flee
But it was a hollow, hollow, empty victory
Soldiers sent as if to die, soldier’s death to praise
And always evermore, expectations raise

We see this heaven sent, as if by call of God
But where the bombs now fall, empty dust is trod
Might on side of right, deluded so are we
And international aid comes, full of charity

New generals come and go, but victory on the wane
Aid workers, financiers: they will still remain
Always one more hope, that we will prevail
But in the end is empty, and promises do fail

Behind armed barricades, here’s a happy throng
None speaks the language, joins the Afghan’s song
Never giving up, like leeches we still cling
Never understanding what the Afghan’s sing