Phil Halton's Blog, page 6

The Poetry of the Taliban

At your Christmas, Bagram is alit and bright
On my Eid, even the rays of the sun are dead
Suddenly at midnight, your bombs bring the light
In our houses, even the oil lamps are turned off.

On Eid, by Khepulwaak

Afghanistan is a country of poets.

“The Poetry of the Taliban” would seem to be a very unusual book, until the centrality of poetry in Afghan culture is understood. One only has to speak with an Afghan for a few minutes—be they a government official or an illiterate farmer—before they include a quote or aphorism from the large body of Persian, Pashto, or Urdu literature. Snippets of poetry or allusions to traditional stories, such as the tale of Malalai and her fiancé, are used to spice up everyday conversation. In a country with a very low literacy rate, the oral tradition of poetry recitation is a cultural cornerstone.

One of the key obstacles that prevent many people from understanding the local appeal of Taliban movement is the lack of accessible material in their own words. The bookshelves are full of western interpretation, but along with autobiographical books such as “My Life in the Taliban,” this is one of the few available sources that provide an unfiltered window into their point of view.

It would be easy to dismiss this collection of poetry as mere propaganda, but this wouldn’t be correct. It’s true that the Taliban maintain a website and are active on social media, and through these means they publish large volumes of poetry written by Afghans. We tend to view this poetry as being political, but this reflects the Western lens of primarily viewing the Taliban as a political movement. They are also a cultural movement, in through that lens, the poetry is less about politics and more about identity.

Certainly the Taliban movement are better known as extreme conservatives than as supporters of the arts. The resilience of the movement in the face of over a decade of concerted effort to destroy them points to the fact that there is a degree of appeal to their message. Part of their message is a call to return to a righteous, idealized society of the past. This idea resonates with many Afghans as it is similar to the idea behind the hadith. This body of knowledge second, only to the Quran in Islamic jurisprudence, provides a guide to “correct” living by minutely examining the life of the prophet, Muhammed (PBUM).

The conflict in Afghanistan, entirely a political one for the Western powers engaged there, is at least equally a cultural one for the afghan people themselves. The conflict has gone on for so long, in fact, it has begun to thread itself into the culture itself. I’ve already written about the incredible phenomena of “war carpets” in Afghanistan. It’s also very common to find recordings of Taliban produced poetry – recorded as rhythmic chants – for sale on DVD or simply as MP3s that can be transferred from phone to phone. These have aesthetic appeal beyond Taliban supporters, and are incredibly common as ring tones amongst Afghans from all walks of life.

Example of Taliban produced poetry on YouTube.

When the Taliban governed Afghanistan, they famously suppressed all kinds of music and targeted musicians, many of whom had previously been targeted or co-opted by the Soviet backed government. The Taliban did maintain a radio station in Kabul, but rather than playing music it instead broadcast huge amounts of poetry, sometimes accompanied by clapping or the beat of a hand drum. Mullah Omar was himself a fan of the famous poet and musician Saraji, whose works are very well known in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

“Poetry of the Taliban” contains over two hundred poems, from the period of the anti-Soviet jihad until today. I don’t recommend this book for its artistic value, as the poetry is of very missed quality, but instead because of its anthropological value. It’s important to see the Afghan people as neither solely victims nor insurgents, but as a society so thoroughly embroiled in conflict that one becomes indistinguishable from the other. 

Poetry, story and song appear throughout my novel “This Shall Be a House of Peace,” as part of the everyday lives of the religious students, farmers and even bandits. My own understanding of Afghanistan has been enriched through learning these key cultural references, and relating to them on a human level.

There will be no end to the conflict in Afghanistan until the legitimate grievances of those fighting are understood and addressed, and this book helps those who read it to understand what those grievances may be.

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The Deadly Jezail

The military might of the British Empire was not easily challenged in the 19th century, and yet they were soundly defeated during the First Anglo-Afghan War (1839-1842). This is quite remarkable when you consider that Afghanistan at the time had no standing army, and no formal military industry to manufacture firearms. Part of the reason for their victory was the feared jezail.

The jezail was a musket or rifle manufactured by hand in artisanal workshops. Many incorporated pieces of captured western firearms, but like the more famous Kentucky rifles, each was individually crafted. Many jezails were beautifully decorated as well, with magnificently engraved metalwork and inlaid brass and mother of pearl in the polished stock.

[image error]Besides their beauty as objets d’art, they were also deadly. The Brown Bess muskets of the British Army (and the East India Company) were optimized for quick loading and firing on mass. They were mass manufactured from interchangeable parts, and the musket balls were deliberately made smaller than the bore in order to ease loading as the barrel fowled, and they were not effective beyond 150 yards. Even still, the quick volleys of a dense group of soldiers armed with the Brown Bess could be devastating.

The jezail, by contrast, was a weapon suited to an individual fire. It was decorated according to the owner’s taste, and had a much longer barrel than the Brown Bess. Many were so long that they could be loaded, with the butt resting on the ground, while the user sat on horseback. Unlike the Kentucky Rifle, meant primarily for hunting, the jezail was made in large calibers suitable for warfare. When rifled and fired with a rest, they typically out-ranged the Brown Bess by several hundred yards, giving the firer a tremendous advantage. When fired from the tops of rough terrain that the British could not easily scale, they were incredibly deadly.

An element of the jezail’s design is the distinctive curved butt. Although the purpose of this is debated, it seems most likely that it was used to help control the weapon on horseback, as it could be tucked under the arm and held there.

A scrimmage in a Border Station

A canter down some dark defile

Two thousand pounds of education

Drops to a ten-rupee jezail.

                         – Rudyard Kipling

Although no longer used by insurgents in Afghanistan, the mindset behind the jezail still prevails today. Firearms continue to be handcrafted by artisans, many of which are highly detailed copies of modern weapons. A very famous centre for this cottage industry is in the Federally Administered Tribal Area of Pakistan, in a town called Darra Adem Khel. Located in the Kohat Frontier Region, the town is mostly inhabited by Pashtuns from the Afridi clan. Gunsmiths line the main street of the town, and visitors can see weapons being manufactured by hand – everything from tiny pen-guns to anti-aircraft cannons. Understandably, the town is not generally accessible to tourists.

The individual desire to decorate one’s weapon is also still prevalent in Afghanistan today. Many of the Kalashnikovs carried by Afghan National Army soldiers and the insurgents fighting them are adorned with colourful tape, stickers or are painted with folk designs.

Although the characters in “This Shall Be a House of Peace” use modern firearms captured from the Soviets, jezails make a few appearances in the story. When they do, it is most often as a symbol of resistance or Pashtun identity.

While the utility of the jezails themselves have waned over time, their spirit lives on.

 

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Karma: Blood and Bourbon

A few years ago, I was working full-time as a writer but was as of yet unpublished. I was doing technical writing to make ends meet, but it was nothing that I could point to on a bookshelf or in a theatre and say, “I wrote that – therefore I am a writer.”

I’d written two screenplays for feature films, but could find no takers for them. So I wrote a novel. And could find neither representation nor a publisher. I wrote a lot of short stories. I managed to place a few, but nowhere particularly prestigious. Given how much time and energy I was committing to writing, it was easy to start getting frustrated.

I very keenly felt the power differential between those who produced, and those who represented or published. I felt that I was forever going, “cap in hand,” in front of someone else looking for validation. I knew from my artist friends that they all felt the same way, and were frustrated themselves because there seemed to be a limited number of “gatekeepers” or “tastemakers” who decided what was good enough. A lot of interesting work was getting shut out because it was not fashionable.

And so, a friend and I decided to do something about it, and we started a literary magazine called “Blood & Bourbon.” It was never meant to be a money maker, but was a means for us to give a leg up to all the writers whose work we enjoyed and wanted to see in print. We wrote a manifesto (you can read it here) and set out to right publishing wrongs.

In a sense, this project was putting karma in the bank for us. We covered the costs out of pocket, and just focused on doing right by the writers (and photographers) whose work we had the privilege to feature. We had no motives other than that.

Amazing things started to happen. First off, we met a whole new group of great writers and artists, some local and others spread around the world, whose work we enjoyed. We built a community of people around ourselves, some of whom became good friends. We’ve built out the Blood & Bourbon team to include some awesome editors (much love to Raya, Lisa and Andrea), and are poised to grow again with this edition.

And, some of that banked karma began to pay off. I optioned a screenplay, and signed a traditional publishing deal. More opportunities started to flow my way, and it all came about through people helping other people.

We’re about to publish the fifth edition in the coming month, and we’re not looking back. Helping others is the best way to find help for yourself.

My Life with the Taliban

The Afghan and U.S. governments have been pursuing talks with the Taliban for several years now, although in 2018 they seem to be gathering momentum, perhaps leading towards full-blown negotiations to end the conflict in Afghanistan. Despite this growing entente, there is still an issue that hampers the efforts of the U.S. government – few people truly understand what is driving the Taliban insurgency. This same problem hampers military operations in Afghanistan, and tends mean that those operations create more problems than they solve.

Much has been written about the Taliban, very little has been written by them.

Those Westerners who seem to understand the Taliban the best are academics, many of whom have spent considerable amounts of time researching the insurgency from primary sources in Afghanistan. And while much has been written in English about the Taliban, very little has been written by them. That is what makes “My Life with the Taliban,” the auto-biography of Mullah Abdul Salam Zaeef, so unique.

Zaeef is a founding member of the Taliban movement and was both a minister in the government of the short-lived Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan and its ambassador to Pakistan. He was arrested by the Pakistani government shortly after 9/11, and spent several years in Guantanamo. Upon his release in 2006, he became one of the “reconciled” Taliban living a peaceful life in Kabul. Increasingly, however, he felt under threat – particularly when his house was attacked and a guard killed in 2016 – and he now lives outside of Afghanistan.

For me this book poses one question above all: do I need to be this man’s enemy? – Barnett Rubin

Of particular interest is his description of his early life, and the times leading up to the formation of the modern Taliban movement. There is an “everyman” quality to his story that would resonate with many – he was a poor boy from a rural farming community, orphaned and displaced by war. Growing up, he took the opportunity to study hard when presented to him, and later to fight against what he saw as the unjust invasion of his country by the Russians.

His description of his time as a mujahideen and a leading figure within the Taliban is unapologetic, and it is certainly true that there are many unpleasant things nestled between the lines of his writing. When he describes Kabul returning to “normal” after its capture from warring factions in 1996, we should remember that he is talking about a shell-shocked and traumatized people, subjected to many months of fighting and living under siege, who now faced the strict discipline of a theocratic police state.

The Taliban movement was simply a logical extension of the mujahideen movement.

Although Zaeef has long been considered a “moderate” Taliban, he rejects any distinction between moderates and hardliners. From his perspective, all of the founding members were equally disgusted by the anarchy that consumed Afghanistan during the civil war, and equally dedicated to creating stability if not peace. For him, and undoubtedly for many others, the Taliban movement was simply a logical extension of the mujahideen movement. Zaeef does not reflect on the excesses of that regime in any meaningful way, or attempt to justify what was done other than in the simplest of moral terms. If he has any regrets, he does not mention them.

Some reviews have complained that Zaeef does not provide a blueprint in his work to describe how to bring about peace in Afghanistan. To me, this seems too much to expect from an autobiography. A better measure might be the fact that he seems to be a central figure in the ongong discussions that are intended to lead to peace – whatever his past faults, he seems to currently be doing more for peace than most.

The most important thing that his autobiography gives us is an opportunity for Westerners to listen, and to better understand what the Taliban were, and arguably still are, trying to achieve. Once that understanding is achieved, the potential for peace will grow – but not before then.

“My Life with the Taliban” is available here.

War Rugs

One of the earliest subjects depicted in art was war. This should be no surprise, as it is a human activity that provokes great emotions. From the stelae of ancient Egypt, to the tapestries of Medieval Europe and the war artists of the 20th century, military art is widespread through human history.

In Afghanistan, one of the most common art forms that is indigenous to the country is the weaving of carpets. It is likely that some of the very earliest carpet weavers in the world were found in Afghanistan, likely starting over two millennia ago. Tribal designs rooted in different parts of the country, or amongst particular ethnic groups, are well known amongst carpet connoisseurs.

After nearly constant conflict in the country since 1979, it shouldn’t be a surprise that these two strands of history would cross and become knotted together. Afghan carpets are one of the lesser known artistic mediums used to depict war and conflict, with fascinating results. Afghan “war carpets” are one of the richest forms of war art to be found in the 20th and 21st centuries.

[image error]

The origin of war carpets seems to be in the time frame immediately after the 1979 Soviet invasion, though it is unclear exactly where in Afghanistan it may have started. Early war carpets were relatively subtle, with traditional symbols such as flowers, birds or geometric patterns replaced by images from the weaver’s reality – bullets, tanks, helicopters and mines. These early war carpets were meant entirely for “domestic” consumption, though many were made by the Afghan diaspora in refugee camps in Iran and Pakistan. They could be seen as a subtle form of resistance, as they represented the militarization of Afghan culture in response to Soviet occupation.

I bought my first war rug in a carpet shop in Peshawar in 2001, while the Taliban still held sway over most of the country. My request for that particular kind of carpet was met with a hurried stream of orders from the carpet dealer to his sons, who fanned out though the market to borrow war carpets from other vendors. We sat and drank tea while we waited, and the carpet vendor seemed a little incredulous at my desire for this very specific kind of carpet, given the hundreds of others piled in his shop.

[image error]With the fall of the Taliban, there was a massive influx of Western soldiers into the country, all with disposable incomes and a desire for souvenirs. Their presence breathed new life into the production of war rugs, and new designs became more common. The most commonly seen portrayed a stylized map of Afghanistan, often with US and Afghan flags, and a series of individual pictures of tanks, planes, and other machines of war. Many English words began to appear on the carpets as well, with mis-spellings and obscure meanings being common.

[image error]And as Afghan culture has been influenced by the heavy presence of foreign dignitaries, soldiers and aid workers, this too has been captured in the war rug’s imagery. One popular carpet design depicts the events of 9/11, with airliners shown crashing into the World Trade Centre. This event, on the other side of the world, marks the impetus for the latest war in Afghanistan, but the imagery is also a reflection of the West’s messaging to the Afghan people. In the early days of the conflict against the Taliban, Western propaganda leaflets showed the attack on the World Trade Centre to explain the reasoning behind the intervention.

The pamphlet reads: ““20th September, 1380. World Trade Center The Coalition Forces[image error] came to arrest those responsible for the terrorism against America. They also come to arrest anyone that protects them. More than 3,000 people in the United States of America were murdered in these attacks.” The “9/11” style war rugs, then, are a reflection of our own stated reasons for being in Afghanistan.

 

The latest carpet design to have become popular is the use of images of “drones,” a key part of the war in Afghanistan as well as operations in the tribal areas of Pakistan. While the Afghan diaspora in Pakistan moved there to escape the conflict in their homeland, it is interesting that this aspect of modern war unites them with those people who remained or returned to Afghanistan. The idea that carpets can be an art form that reflects current events is unusual, even allowing for the “juxtaposition of a tool of 21st century war depicted on a millennia old medium.

[image error]Another interesting aspect of war rugs is that, traditionally, carpet making has been done by women. There are few public forums in Afghanistan for women to express themselves, and even fewer that reach outside of the country. Carpets give perhaps the widest international distribution to the artistic vision of Afghan women, and one wonders if war rugs provide a female-centric view of war and society in Afghanistan.

The military draw-down in Afghanistan has created new challenges for carpet vendors, many of whom have found their sales dwindling to almost nothing. It is likely that many of the designs aimed squarely at the souvenir market will stop being produced, as the weavers “follow the market” and find new customers.

Whether they were produced to suit foreign or domestic tastes, war rugs are a unique medium for the capture of cultural stories about war. It’s only natural, perhaps, that the nearly ubiquitous nature of conflict in Afghanistan over the past four decades has been woven into the fabric of its art.

(All photos credited to Kevin Sudeith/warrug.com)

Wabi Sabi

One of the most formative experiences of my life was the five years I spent at military college. The name of the march past at the Royal Military College of Canada is “Precision.” I learned many useful things there, including self-discipline, resilience and an appreciation for comradeship and loyalty. I also gained the determination to strive for perfection.

I was an avid writer during my university days, although much of what I wrote never saw the light of day. I spent countless hours rewriting what I wrote, forever polishing work that was never quite “good enough.” Upon graduation, I stopped writing entirely.

Later in life, after enduring the set-backs and tribulations that are common to all of us, I found my way back to writing. This time, however, was different. I had learned of the concept of wabi-sabi.

It is a compound word. “Wabi”means something like “the elegant beauty of humble simplicity,” and “sabi” means “the passing of time and subsequent deterioration.” Together, they evoke the idea of the beauty found only in imperfection.

Often applied to visual arts such as pottery, the idea stands in contrast to many western ideals of beauty. Perfect form, unblemished surfaces, symmetry and consistency all play into this western ideal. A cup with wabi-sabi, however, might be imperfect: it have thumb prints from the maker in the clay, have subtle differences in the colour or texture of the surface, or even be cracked. All of these imperfections record the process of becoming, and the life of the object since.

In a similar way, my writing possesses wabi-sabi, just as my life does. In fact, the imperfections and blemishes in my life are reflected in my writing, whether I intend them to be there or not. Endless efforts to polish out the imperfections may create a work of art that is technically flawless, but therefore devoid of the imprint of the maker. I’ve come to realize that the “I” that creates is transient, shaped by experiences in ways that are unique to me. Similarly, my works are unique to the me that created them, available only in certain windows. I’ve learned to recognize the value in letting the truth of each of these stages of my life shine through my work, even if only in the imperfections.

Reading this, I realize why Zen Buddhists suggest that words are the enemy of understanding.

And so, I will leave it here.

Review: Earth & Ashes

Atiq Rahimi is one of several Afghan writers who has become well known in the West.

Born in Kabul, he studied at the Lycée Esteqlal where he learned French. After the Soviet invasion, he and his family fled first to Pakistan, and then to Paris where he studied at the Sorbonne.

Rahimi first began to work as a documentary film maker before becoming a writer as well. His first published work, “Khâkestar-o-khâk,”was published in 2000. The English translation, “Earth and Ashes,” only become available in 2003. He has since followed that with three more works in his native tongue, some of which have been translated into English and French.

“Earth and Ashes” is a remarkable tale about suffering and sorrow, that examines the anguish of a father travelling to tell his son that nearly all of their family has been killed. Travelling with the father is his grandson, the only other survivor in their extended family, left in his care while his own son went away to work.

Rahimi’s work suggests that it is sorrow that had come to shape Afghan society as a whole, as it is something that is not only experienced as an individual, but can be transmitted from person to person. A wise man in the story says:

“You know, father, sorrow can turn into water and spill from your eyes, or it can sharpen your tongue into a sword, or it can become a time bomb that, one day, will destroy you.”

It becomes clear as the story progresses that all of the characters are suffering in one manner or another, the only difference being between those who show it and those who don’t. Sorrow is seen as more than a simple feeling, it is something that takes shape over time, becomes almost a companion, and has the potential to take over one’s life.

Much of what Rahimi writes is a metaphor for the state of his country. Particularly intriguing is his depiction of a young child, Yassin, who has gone deaf after surviving the destruction of his village. Without any knowledge of the concept of deafness, he assumes that everyone around him has lost the capacity to speak. Similarly, the youth of Afghanistan who grew up in chaos and war lack any knowledge of their communities at peace. It could be argued that many of them externalize the source of the ongoing conflict, not recognizing what they lack themselves.

Many of the themes in Rahimi’s novella are similar to those I explore in my own novel, and so if you intend to read “This Shall Be a House of Peace,” you might consider looking for “Earth and Ashes” as well. It was made into a film that was screened at Cannes in 2003.

BookList Review

Writing can be a very solitary endeavour, and after spending months or years working on a novel, it can be hard to tell if what you’ve produced is any good or not. Although self-validation is important, great reviews help too.

I recently received a rare “starred review” from BookList, meant to signal “an outstanding work of a particular genre.”

You can find it on their website here, but I’ve also copied the text below.

Describing Halton’s first novel as a work of historical fiction about the origins of the Taliban does not quite cover its intense psychological and cultural exploration. By approaching the world-changing, religious-political entity from the angle of the individuals associated with its origins, Halton, formerly a Canadian military officer, radically challenges all pre-existing assumptions. The experiences of the brothers Wasif and Amin, students of the laconic mullah who is the force behind the group, anchors the events of the story. As they go from being boys to men in a short span of time, the social and psychological layers of political conflicts are revealed. Halton’s atmospheric descriptions bring to life the rugged terrain where these Pashtun men meet, talk, debate, and fight. The minimal presence of women serves as striking commentary on this divided world in a tale that is utterly nonjudgmental. Halton captures the zeal and righteousness at the root of all revolutions and gives readers a rare opportunity to gain insights that bridge cultural chasms, as he illuminates why faith and war are so intertwined for his protagonists. Halton’s debut is a must-read for all who turn to books for an understanding of worlds other than their own.

— Shoba Viswanathan

The “Russians” Left Behind

When Russia’s decade-long military intervention in Afghanistan ended in 1989, armoured columns withdrew over the “Friendship Bridge” into what is now Uzbekistan. Trailing the final column on foot was the Soviet Army in Afghanistan’s commander, Colonel-General Boris Gromov. “That’s it,” he said to a television crew filming the withdrawal, “Not one Soviet soldier is behind my back.”

We know now, of course, that this was not true.

During the ten years in which the Soviet Army was directly involved in the conflict in Afghanistan, over 620,000 soldiers served there and approximately 14,453 were killed. Initially, there were over 400 Soviet soldiers who had been captured or were otherwise missing. A Soviet veteran’s organization, the “Committee for International Soldiers,” and the Russian Cultural Centre in Kabul, have since identified that over 200 Soviet soldiers still remain in Afghanistan, at least a few dozen of whom have been confirmed as still being alive.

It is easy to forget that the Soviet Army included many soldiers who, ethnically and religiously, were more like the people of Afghanistan than those from the Russian heartland. Conscripts from the Soviet Republics of Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Kirghizia, Tadzhikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan would have found many familiar elements within Afghan culture. Their ability to blend in to society and disappear likely made desertion more feasible.

Veteran’s organizations had little ability to track down missing soldiers during the afghan Civil War that erupted after the Soviet withdrawal, or during the Taliban regime. Since 2001, the remains of missing soldiers have been identified, and contact has been made with many of those who remain alive. Each of their stories is unique.

Gennady Tsevma was born in Eastern Ukraine and conscripted for service in a motor rifle battalion. In 1983, at 18 years old, he was beaten by a drunken officer and deserted by simply walking off base. Captured by the mujahideen, he later converted to Islam, took the name Nek Mohammed, and now lives in the northern city of Kunduz.

Crippled in the leg by an injury sustained while fighting with the mujahideen against the Soviets, he is now filled with regret and fear at possible retribution from his comrades. He lives in poverty, and says that he has regretted his decision to desert almost from the moment he did it.

Khakim Bakhretdinov was an ethnic Uzbek born in Samarkand and stationed near the Western city of Herat. He was badly wounded fighting against the mujahideen and was presumed dead by his comrades. In fact, he was captured and nursed back to health. His head wound caused memory loss and other cognitive problems, but he now lives as an iterant faith healer named Sheikh Abdullah. He no longer speaks any Russian, and remembers little of his former life.

Nikolai, a former Soviet parachute regiment officer born in Kharkiv, Ukraine, deserted after becoming disgusted with Soviet atrocities. He is now known as Nasratullah, and is a police officer in Baghlan province.

Sergei Yurevich Krasnoperov was born in Siberia and was conscripted to fight in Afghanistan. He also deserted, in this case after an officer caught him stealing military supplies and selling them to the locals. He made contact with a group of mujahideen, and willingly joined them. He used his military knowledge to repair their equipment, and became a valued part of the local unit. He is now known as Noor Mohammed, and lives with his Afghan wife and six children in Chagcharan, in Central Afghanistan.

Irek Hamidullan, whose original name is unknown, was a tank commander with the Soviet Army but either defected or was captured by the mujahideen. His story is unusual, in that not only did he fight with the mujahideen and the Taliban, he continued to fight after the fall of the Taliban in 2001. He was captured by US Forces in 2009 after an attack on Camp Leyza in Khost, and accused of being a leader within the Haqqani Network. He has been held in extra-judicial imprisonment ever since.

Contrary to what one might expect, all of the former Soviet soldiers reported that they were fully accepted within Afghan society. Several said that Mullah Omar was so impressed by their devout lives that he gave them homes and businesses to ensure their well-being. Most of those who have been interviewed by Western journalists have had the opportunity to visit their families and homes in the former Soviet Union, but few have opted to return to their previous lives.

Ironically, with the collapse of the Soviet Union soon after the withdrawal from Afghanistan, many of these men felt that there was no home to return to. Many of those that have settled down and started businesses and families in Afghanistan seem very well adjusted. They may in fact have had an easier time adjusting to their war experiences than the many Soviet veterans who led troubled lives after their return.

Self-Discipline unlocks Creativity

When the average person thinks of an “Artist,” or even just a very creative person, that they don’t necessarily associate them with the idea of “discipline.”

Lots has been written about the business of being an artist, and what it takes to be commercially successful – planning, hustle and drive. Perhaps in this context, the idea of a “disciplined artist” begins to make more sense. I think that this is true, but I also think that the need for discipline as an artist goes well beyond the need to treat your work like a business.

As someone dedicated to a craft, it is not good enough to try to create only when the mood strikes. In fact, using this as your gauge seems almost destined to ensure that the mood strikes less. Building the habit of creation, in fact, is the best means to promote creativity.

After many years in the military, I have cultivated self-discipline. It is only in the past few years that I’ve come to recognize what a valuable tool it is in many aspects of my life. As a writer who works from home, it’s very easy to become distracted from my work. Social media, knocks on the door, that book sitting unread on my coffee table and looming household chores all beckon. What I use to defeat these distractions every day is self-discipline.

I’ve built a daily routine that makes it unthinkable not to spend time writing, but which also includes time for meditation, exercise, and quiet “unstructured” contemplation. By blocking off space in my daily schedule where I have time to merely think (while walking – I am an unrepentant flâneur) I unlock the creative flow that I then apply during my structured daily writing time. I try not to be overly rigid with my schedule – there has to be the space to spend time outside on an unexpectedly warm day, or to spend extra time with friends and family – but I have built a strong enough habit that not to write feels, well, wrong.

A second element of self-discipline comes into play when I am writing, but am feeling what Steven Pressfield calls “resistance.” (If you haven’t read “The War of Art,” I can’t recommend it more.) Self-discipline is what lets you lean into the discomfort and grind out the work. Admittedly, not everything that gets produced this way is salvageable, but just the act of getting some words onto the page often unlocks the mental log jam and makes the next draft easier.

The final element of self-discipline relates to working to completion. Many people start but don’t finish projects, for any number of reasons. Three unfinished screenplays in a drawer are as useful as an empty drawer. Completing a project, even though imperfect, creates a positive habit, as well as a “draft” that can become the basis of a more polished product. It can be easy to become discouraged with a project that is not working out as well as one hoped, and to abandon it. Self-discipline reminds us that if a project was worth starting, that it is worth finishing.

Whether you create full time, or in the margins of your day, develop a habit around your work. Structure the time you need to create, as well as the time you need to fuel your creativity, and you will build an unending flow of creations that will astound you.

It may be counter-intuitive, but: self-discipline unlocks creativity.