Today, in the district of Ma'Ruf, in the District Center, in the Province of Kandahar, in southern Afghanistan,a father brought his son to the American forces. 130 kilometers from Kandahar, the nearest "hospital", although the hospital in Kandahar is closer to a clinic in the United States. 130 kilometers over dirt roads, and the father, a poor farmer, had no car.
His son,
his son was two years old.
They had a kerosene stove for cooking. There was an accident, the boy caught fire.
Over 70 percent of his body was burned.
He was two years old.
His genitals were burned.
Seventy percent.
One hundred and thirty kilometers, over dirt roads, And his father had no car.
One hundred and thirty kilometers, straight line distance.
Seventy percent.
They don't ever trust us, you know, when we first come and set up a base. Often they are afraid of us.
They've always been told rumours and lies and truth and wild make believe.
Seventy percent.
So he brought us his son.
Because what other choice was there?
If there were no Americans there.
If we hadn't built a FOB there.
One hundred and thirty kilometers, straight line, across dirt roads. I guess that would be maybe six hours in a car, if you could find a car. With your son in the back seat.
Next person who tells me we need to pull out of Afghanistan, I'm punching them in the fucking face.
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