This phenomenon plays out at a micro level as well a macro level. U.S. construction and economic development projects take far too long and cost far too much, in part because we want everything to satisfy stringent U.S. and international quality standards. Our reconstruction projects are so elaborate that only those Afghans who already have wealth and power have the capacity to serve as sub-contractors; by and large, the result is that power is concentrated even more in the hands of the (often corrupt and violent) few.
Even U.S. detention facilities in Afghanistan are built to Western specifications, complete with climate control systems and electronic security. As a result, we render them virtually useless for the Afghan officials who will inherit them -- and who won't have the trained staff or the unlimited supply of electrical power to make them run. But the suggestion that the Afghans might sometimes be better off with less reeks, to us, of unacceptable double standards.
Or consider a larger and more tragic irony: by late 2009, the United States had embarked on a counterinsurgency-influenced approach to the conflict in Afghanistan: the Afghan population, we decided, was the center of gravity. Our success or failure would depend on our ability to protect the population and enable the Afghan government to provide services and thus build legitimacy. Laudable goals! But by making the Afghan population the center of gravity, we also inadvertently placed the Afghan population at the center of a big red bulls-eye. We incentivized the Taliban to combat our efforts by placing IEDs in civilian structures and targeting police, courts, governance and economic development projects. They did so, with a vengeance.
I could go on -- and on, and on -- but it's too depressing.
It's not surprising that we often fail to achieve our idealistic goals. After all, building a culture that respects human rights, democracy, and the rule of law takes time. Our own imperfect form of democracy -- rife as it still is with injustice and corruption -- took us more than two centuries to build, though we stood on the shoulders of those who drafted the Magna Carta and the English Bill of Rights. So why should we imagine that durable change could come any faster in societies that start with far less -- less wealth, less education, less tradition of democratic government, human rights, or peaceful change?
Simple failure to achieve our loftiest goals could be excused. But if our efforts to help only cause more harm, it's inexcusable.
***
Scarred by Vietnam, my parents' generation came of age with a deep distrust of American power. They suspected that American interventionism never stemmed from pure motives, and never, ever, ended well. My generation came of age at a more hopeful moment: the Berlin Wall came down while I was in college, and the notion of non-ideological U.S. engagement with the world seemed suddenly possible again.
The Rwandan genocide taught my cohort that non-intervention can be as unconscionable as meddling, and Bosnia and Kosovo taught us that U.S. military power could be a force for good. My own early career revolved around human rights work, and brought me to Uganda during the early years of the Lord's Resistance Army, Kosovo in the wake of the NATO air campaign, and Sierra Leone during that country's brutal civil war. In each case, U.S. engagement seemed urgent and necessary.
But after all the waste and bloodshed in Iraq and Afghanistan, I've lost much of my faith in our government's ability to do good. The injustice and abuse that once motivated me still does -- but I don't have much faith anymore in our ability to restore peace or bring justice.
I'd love to have someone prove me wrong. But here's my fear: the more we try to fix things, the more we end up shattering them into jagged little pieces.
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