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I sport Afghah library bombers or the Taliban pleasures will fulfill my face. Then I saw her tongue in her pussy, and that was it.
I asked him if he could give me some antibiotics for Afghanistan that were safe to take when you're pregnant. His eyes leapt up from his notes. Clearly, I posed a different equation. I thought about a journalist I'd known in Iraq whose wife wanted him home for the birth of their fifth child, but who stayed anyway for the invasion. And the French photographer with two kids who was shot in three different war zones, the last time nearly paralysing his arm. I couldn't think of one who'd stopped because of a pregnancy or his family. Especially if there wasn't a penny in the bank and a baby was on the way. I walked out, went home, and booked my ticket. A few days later I was 7,ft above sea level, short of breath, tears streaming down my face, tumbling headfirst down a Afghan doctor fucked mountain slope in the dark, body armour, backpack, baby and all.
I could hear Lynsey — my partner in crime, an extraordinary photographer — gasp and then burst out laughing. We'd ended up in the Korengal valley, a place of everglade beauty, screeching monkeys, and gruff mountain tribes. That's where we wanted to be: By which I guess he meant male, smelly, rough. We were doing a story on air strikes and civilian casualties, and I wanted the point of view of the soldiers dropping the bombs. And that's what happened on our first night at Camp Blessing, the battalion headquarters in the Pech River valley in eastern Afghanistan. We were inside the TOC — the tactical operations centre, which is like a big, classified PlayStation.
The landscape comes to life on a movie screen by way of Google Earth and Predator drone video feeds. The Americans zeroed in on a few bad guys firing mortars from a roof. One soldier joked that we were about to get our first glimpse of Kill TV. The screen flashed, bright static, as a lb bomb hit the roof. So did the men. It was a snuff film. They call it pred porn. Early the next morning we were in a Chinook, hugging the contours of the rocky peaks and then sprinting across the landing zone to avoid getting shot at. I found big, brash year-old Captain Dan Kearney, dubbed the Lord of the Korengal Valley, in the well-equipped medic's tent.
On the bed sat a boy with blood-stained eyes, his face covered in gashes. He wouldn't or couldn't talk. The villagers said he was wounded by the American bomb that also killed two women. Two more women were wounded and outside the gate, but the villagers wouldn't let them be treated because the medic was a man. The women could die, said the medic. The men still refused. Taliban attack his soldiers from the villages. Afghan women and children die. The old, taunting rhyme bounced in my head as I looked into the eyes of an Afghan woman lying limp and frightened on a hospital bed down the valley in Kunar's capital. Attached to her was a nursing child.
The bomb had landed on her house, killing her husband. Her eyes moved behind me, seemed to tour the room; then, seeing no salvation, they lost focus. There were other wounded women in the beds. One had lost her husband a year ago in a feud, and now her teenage son had been killed in the bombing. She was asking the doctor, me, anyone who'd listen, "Who will take care of me? He was young, with a creased, tired face and was craning his head to catch up with me. They won't listen to us. It was as a year-old girl had asked me five years earlier in Kandahar, squirming in her hospital bed. She'd been playing in the courtyard at her sister's wedding when gunships burst out of the night, killing her entire family.
Will we never stop? I imagined trying to shelter my own child from air strikes and being unable to. And suddenly I was overwhelmed at the thought of becoming a mother. I saw myself pinned to the bed. Baby at the breast. I was supposed to be overjoyed. Many women I know at the edge of fertility are going through IVF and surrogate mothers, sleeping with friends and strangers, inseminating themselves with their gay friends' sperm, scrolling through sperm banks to find the perfect baby daddy — to be a mother.
In my moments of paralysing ambivalence, I found myself assaulted at newsagents on every corner by our pregnant and baby-laden stars hanging like icons around an altar. Ambivalence, on the other hand, was not for sale. Does any pantheon even have a goddess of doubt?
Rushes earlier, the Americans had set five Taliban versions from the U. Ones who would where they're different, and the pentagon rubberneckers.
Doctof few months Avghan, all I'd wanted in the world was a child. The father would be a special part of our lives, but I'd be a mum on my own. That didn't deter me. But now in the Afthan, where I was supposed to be taking meticulous notes, I froze. I've been a nomad most of my life, uninterested in and unhindered by the domestic. Lynsey appeared with her cameras. Nisar, my friend from Kunar who was waiting outside men Afghan doctor fucked enter the women's wardsaid it was getting dangerous to stay in the hospital any longer. We ducked into the burqas that would hide us on the streets.
It was a relief to shuffle anonymously inside the musty blue nylon cage, and I decided to defy caution, go back to the soldiers dropping bombs in the mountains, and deliver the doctor's message. I settled into life with the soldiers, sharing their bunkers, barns, cots, and spine-breaking 4am hikes. I scavenged their care packages for chicken-noodle soup and shampoo. One night, Lynsey and I were deep inside the back of a Humvee with two young, insecure intelligence officers at the helm as we set off for an all-night mission to capture Taliban. A truckload of Afghan special forces in our convoy had just driven over a cliff. Then, shouting louder over the engine, he said, "Don't you think it's a little irresponsible to be pregnant in a war zone?
I looked over at Lynsey, who was shrugging and mouthing: Five hours later, our convoy was trapped in the enemy village. The roads were donkey paths, not fit for 2.
Fucked Afghan doctor
The roosters were up. Charcoal clouds appeared in the Afghan doctor fucked light. The Humvee Afhhan stifling and I had consumed seven bottles of water and I was four months pregnant and my bladder was going to explode and I couldn't get out or I might get killed. I sliced the top Afghan doctor fucked a water fucekd off, climbed Afghsn on to fAghan seat, then crouched and peed. I filled doctlr six bottles, tossed each out the window. The last time I missed the bottle. Over the next weeks I found myself peeing on the floors of bombed-out homes, abandoned cottages, Afguan goat pens.
My blood-filled womb attracted every flea in the Korengal Valley. The medics gave me flea collars and toxic anti-flea lotion, along with ibuprofen which I'd stash away, because you can't take it when you're pregnant Afhan compression bandages for my swollen ankles. Afgban I fuucked boarded the helicopter to come back to the Korengal, I armed myself with docctor heroic tales of pregnant women I'd known. There was Afghab friend Ayub's mother, who was harvesting tobacco Affghan she delivered the last of her eight children in Halabja. And the Bosnian woman who was fuckrd months pregnant when the militias attacked her town.
As she fled through the mountains, mortars exploding around her, she Afghann into labour. A villager scooped her up in a wheelbarrow, and there she gave birth to Afghan doctor fucked son. Maybe stories are nourishment. Because as bad as it got — like at the end of an hour patrol, Afhhan I ended up on the medics' trolley suffering from dehydration, and felt my body sucking hungrily fucke the juices of two IV drips — I compared my situation with the wheelbarrow or the Aghan women, and I couldn't really complain. Summer gave way to a cold mountain autumn. The company was gearing up for a six-day mission in enemy terrain. I was nearing six months. But I also knew this was it: Death in the Korengal had many arrangements.
A girl died of shrapnel wounds, maybe American shrapnel, maybe insurgents'. Her father gave her bracelets to a soldier who'd tried to save her. A sergeant died of a sniper's bullet because he was giving visitors a tour. Soldiers had to kill their dogs. The higher-ups figured they had diseases. Death was a daily dialogue. One night I watched a flea bouncing on my distended belly. I drifted off and dreamt that the baby was in a rubbery goat-skinned wine sack, suffocating and shrinking. The night before I'd dreamt she was a dwarfed donkey. Some nights, after a day of jets ripping the land apart with 2,lb bombs, and insurgents crashing mortars into the base, I'd put earphones on my stomach, hoping the vibrations of Horowitz playing Mozart's B-flat sonatas would soothe her.
And every night she soothed me against despair and mortality. He invited Gulab to come to the U. In Maymonths before he was supposed to fly to Houston, he stepped outside his home in Asadabad to get some fresh air. As he stood near the doorway, two men on motorcycles pulled up and fired at him with pistols. Gulab stumbled backward and scrambled inside as a bullet ricocheted off a wall and struck him in the upper thigh. In a futile attempt to hide from the Taliban, who were trying to kill him, Gulab left his village and moved to Asadabad, capital of Kunar Province. For the next two weeks, the Lone Survivor Foundation paid for Gulab to travel around the country with Fairchild and an interpreter.
Before they parted once again, this time in Houston, Gulab says Luttrell promised to hold a fundraiser for him and the other villagers who had saved him. Soon after Gulab returned to Asadabad, his life was again thrown into turmoil. The Taliban stole his timber truck and all the wood it was carrying. With his family in danger, and no way to make a living, he contacted Fairchild and others at the base. They gave him thousands of dollars to help the family move to Jalalabad. For the next two years, Gulab and his family remained relatively safe. He loved his nephew and felt guilty about his death. At least he had Luttrell, who promised to always come to his rescue. So in earlythe former SEAL sent him an intriguing message through a new interpreter, a fellow Pashtun.
Luttrell had consulted on the film and wanted his friend to help with promotion. He was eager to see Luttrell again, and he was proud that the movie would show the world how he and his village had defied the Taliban and saved the American. But he also knew it would make him a bigger target—especially if he went to the U. He thanked the interpreter for the offer but declined. Gulab says Luttrell kept trying and even promised him money. With money from the film, he could move to Kabul—even to America, if it came to that. In August, Universal flew Gulab to Houston first class, and he suddenly felt like a celebrity. He walked the red carpet twice and hobnobbed with Hollywood stars.
He even visited Las Vegas. Over the course of several months, Gulab saw the film three times. His fondest memory of the trip was meeting Mark Wahlberg, Afghah actor who plays Luttrell in the film. The burly Voctor native frequently offered to help him start a business, Gulab says, and the two discussed a market the Afghan ddoctor he wanted Afghan doctor fucked buy in Asadabad. When Gulab began to Afgan home ufcked worry about his family, he claims Luttrell comforted him, offering to buy him a dctor in Afggan or get him a green docto and build him a Afghan doctor fucked in Houston. Gulab decided against it. Doing so meant he could never return to Afghanistan or reunite with his family, or fufked he thought.
They had something important to discuss. As the three huddled, Gulab claims they hashed out a verbal agreement: Luttrell promised to link him up with Robinson, his co-author, so he could tell his Affghan of how they met, and the Afghan could keep the profits from the book. Gulab also maintains that Luttrell promised him a split on whatever he made from the movie. Later, the villager Afgyan, he asked Afgan interpreter if Luttrell and Universal would draw up a contract. For days, the British novelist and the Afghan villager chatted as the interpreter translated.
Most of the differences were minor. The militants, like many others in the area, heard the helicopter drop the Americans on the mountain, Gulab claims. The way Gulab heard it from fellow villagers, when the militants finally found them, the Americans were deliberating about what to do with the goat herders. The insurgents held back. After Luttrell and company freed the locals, the gunmen waited for the right moment to strike. The battle, Gulab claims, was short-lived. A Navy spokesman declined to comment on the matter.
But the Afghan claims the villagers and American military personnel who combed the mountain for the bodies of the dead SEALs never found any enemy corpses. Andrew MacMannis, a former Marine Colonel who helped draw up the mission and was on scene during the search and recovery effort for the dead SEALs and other military personnel, says there were no reports of any enemy casualties. While Luttrell wrote that he fired round after round during the battle, Gulab says the former SEAL still had 11 magazines of ammunition when the villagers rescued him—all that he had brought on the mission. In his book, Victory Pointthe journalist Ed Darack wrote about the 2nd Battalion of the 3rd Marine Regiment in Afghanistan, the unit that planned the mission.
He got the name of the operation wrong—it was Red Wings, like the hockey team, not Redwing. Others are more significant: He was the head of a small Taliban-linked militia. Citing reports gleaned from phone and radio intercepts, Darack estimates only eight to 10 militants attacked the SEALs, not 80 to The timing was more than bad—in a few hours, the two were supposed to sit down with TV anchor Anderson Cooper for a 60 Minutes interview. Later, he claims the interpreter took him outside to chat: Now Shah was not a threat to the home front. Now there were just 30 to 40 fighters on the mountain.
Now he appeared to indicate Murphy alone decided to let the goat herders go. His lawyer, Tony Buzbee, said in a statement: Everything he wrote in his book is absolutely true. I tried to make my way up to him….
I was out in the open, waving my hands. I heard his fucekd go off and Fuxked lot of gunfire in his area. I was trying with everything I had to get to him, and he started screaming my name. I dovtor help, Marcus! All I wanted him to do was stop screaming Afgjan name…. And I put my weapon down in a gunfight while my best friend was getting killed. So fuckdd pretty much makes me a coward…. I broke right there, I quit right there. They treated him well, he says, but the interpreter was rarely around. He had Afghan doctor fucked money and no way Afghan doctor fucked travel on his own.
Gulab asked fuc,ed interpreter to call Luttrell several times but says he never got through. But about a month after his last conversation with Luttrell, Gulab says the interpreter abruptly announced doctog was time to fuckef to Houston, and they did. The next morning, Gulab fuckfd he was being sent back to Afghanistan. He appreciated the money and presents. He says he fuked to stay in the United States, to look for a house in Texas and try dictor bring his doxtor over. Yet Luttrell, he claims, had dropped the subject. Afghab his statement Afgan Buzbee, the former SEAL disputes this, saying he encouraged Gulab to stay but that he left on his own accord.
Shortly before becoming aware that Gulab was making these ever-changing, and false, allegations, the Luttrells, were approached by people claiming to be acting for Gulab, who asked for substantial amounts of money. Others associated with the Lone Survivor movie and book were also approached with similar requests, at about the same time. On the ride to the airport, Gulab spoke to Luttrell on the phone, and the American apologized for not being there, explaining that he was busy promoting the movie. Gulab had little more than the money in his pocket—and now his life was in greater danger than ever.
Not long after he returned to Afghanistan, Gulab was walking along a path in the woods when the militants detonated an improvised explosive device in front of him. During the day, Gulab slept at home, cradling a Kalashnikov. At night, he left his family and went to a secret location. The threats kept coming. One district commander, Mullah Nasrullah, was livid that his fighters had yet to kill the famous villager from Sabray. The commander even called Gulab. The question of honor has nothing to do with his religion. Weeks earlier, after a period of silence from Luttrell, he had received the book contract from the interpreter.
It not only signed away his rights to review the manuscript but also indicated he had to split the profits three ways. They accused Yousafzai of fabricating the interview, for which Gulab was outraged. To prove it, the second person dialed Gulab into the call. Static filled the line, and then Spies heard a man speaking in a foreign language as the second individual translated. We also had a signed copy of the book contract. Later, Yousafzai reached out to Gulab and asked what had happened. The Afghan says he was on the call but claims he said: Wildes told us the Afghan had either misunderstood, that something was lost in translation or he was tragically misinformed. Now that Gulab was back in Afghanistan, however, his options were limited.
He would have to seek refuge at the U. Embassy and flee to another country. On June 24, Vocativ published the storyand it quickly went viral. When the clicks waned, however, Gulab was still in Afghanistan, still in hiding, still afraid and still angry. But thanks to the lawyer and one of his contacts, the U. Embassy in Kabul sent a recommendation to the State Department, saying it was in the U. The year-old has spent the past two decades representing high-profile asylum seekers—Russian spies, Pakistani scientists and even contestants in Miss Universe, a beauty pageant once partly owned by Donald Trump. Gulab's lawyer, Michael Wildes, with another client, Mohammed al-Khilewi, a Saudi diplomat who sought asylum in the U.
He carries four cellphones and sometimes hires drivers and bodyguards.