“Welcome Home,” read the note taped to the door at the beloved homestead after a long work trip overseas. “Here is your fix-it list.”

It was autumn, football season, and upon this return home, I found that nobody in the house had much interest in football, or even watching television for that matter. During my absence, my loved ones had “retrogressed” from the big-screen-surround-sound entertainment system in the people cave, to huddling in their bedrooms, streaming everything to their iPhones and laptop screens with ear buds stuffed in their heads.

Sad. I prefer people caves and TV remotes. Upon entering my sacred cavern, I found the super screen and sound system to be dead in the water. They both required a serious reset.

Prepping for a reset adventure always requires a chilled refreshment. With ice.

And automatic fridge-door icemakers are the most excellent means to deliver ice. Until they aren’t.

The fridge icemaker also required a reset.

To retrieve the tools required to reset the icemaker, I needed light. I hit the switch to the tool room and -- nothing.

The light bulbs had to be replaced.

One more.

Grabbed the keys and leapt into the truck to find light bulbs. Dead battery.

The battery had to be jumped.

See where I’m going here? My happiness is not simple.

This quaint, little abode is in northern Afghanistan. Constructed of mud, straw, sticks, and a little water. If you had extra coin, you installed rogue bars in the windows for security. No glass. Just the bars.

A modest photo of a simple home. No big screen. No ice maker. No light bulbs. No truck batteries.

In early 2011, the U.S. government was still all-in for the stabilization and counterinsurgency effort. In part, this meant that the civilian-military (civ-mil) component was to go the full Monty at the local level. The more remote, the better. We worked with rural Afghans in villages like this in some of the most distant regions in the country.

We wandered so remotely in western Herat one day, we might have crossed into Iran.

Just kidding.

I apologize for forgetting this village’s name. It’s not in my notes or memory cells. I do remember it was in northern Afghanistan, somewhere in Qal’ah-ye Zal district; a rustic little spot visited by a civ-mil team earlier that year. During that first visit, the town elders presented the first team with a list of complaints. We were the follow-up team.

Note the greenery in the background. There is a river back there and on the other side of that river was another village. Same country. Same size village. Same mud. Same complaints. Different story.

The “mil” part of our civ-mil relationship had intel that labeled the village across the river as somewhat hostile. Possibly Taliban-influenced. The “civ” part of the civ-mil relationship had no intel to dispute that. So, we didn’t venture across the river.

I don’t know if a civ-mil team ever visited the village across the river. I do know that on this day, we knew only what we knew about the village on this side of the river.  

Was this conflict explained simply as a small river separating a friendly village from a hostile village? Possibly. During that first visit, the civ-mil team learned the two hamlets were always on edge. One story noted was when the “good” village women walked to the river’s edge to gather water, the women on the other “bad” side of the river threw rocks at them.

Well of all the….

I laugh at this part of the story every time.  Has to do with “Monty Python’s Life of Brian.”

That first team, visiting months earlier, was wise enough not to judge or impose our values on the elders regarding their complaints or river feuds. Smart move. Just nod approvingly and write it down. According to the first team, the villagers’ number one need was the ability to charge their phones. They had no electricity.

Electricity is not simple. Involves power plants, poles, wires and meters.  But they didn’t say they wanted electricity per se. They simply wanted to charge their phones.

Ta-da! Solar power.

Prior to our visit, we were told that we delivered solar-powered cell phone chargers to our friends on the “good” side of the river. Our job today was to confirm delivery and roof installation. Check and check.

Why did the decision makers agree to supply chargers? Someone must have thought it was a good idea. The obvious answer is that’s what the villagers wanted. But was there another reason to provide these cool little solar chargers to an Afghan village with a lost name?

Hint: Who do you call with a charged Nokia when you have a problem?

Answer:  You call us, not the bad guys.

I can’t say if these Afghans called terrorists or called their cousins. I can say that I met them, spoke with them, tried to understand them, and sensed they did not want conflict.

They wanted to talk.

They were happy with their mud homes and simple lives and if we could give them phone chargers, we were the good guys. And if we were the good guys, so our theory continued, they would give us a call before they called the bad guys.

The sun was slipping low. We met with the elders. They confirmed the chargers worked. At least on this day, they were happy.

The act of helping a fellow human can be simple. A couple thousand bucks buys a sustainable capability for isolated Afghan villagers to communicate with the world.

At the end of this day, after tea and thanks and praise, the elders updated their list of complaints. We rose, shook hands, and walked back to the vehicles. I never saw the new list and often wonder today if they called us.

And with a wry smile, I imagined that on that new list was another simple request:

“Please teach our women how to throw rocks.”