The Guardian’s religious affairs correspondent Riazat Butt is spending two weeks travelling through Afghanistan with army chaplains. This is the first of her series of articles about the ministry of chaplains in the frontline.
Few things stay spotless in Camp Bastion, Britain’s dusty and parched military base in south-western Afghanistan. An exception perhaps is a monument, topped by a cross made from discarded shell casings, which sits in a 300sq ft area. It is the focus for an unhappily frequent occasion for servicemen and women – a vigil for soldiers who have fallen in the line of duty in Helmand province.
Last Wednesday evening, thousands of troops gathered to remember Lt Daniel John Clack, C Company 1 Rifles, in a 30-minute ceremony that wove together Christian and military liturgy. For many in attendance, the vigils will be their only regular exposure to religion whether on deployment or in Civvy Street.
Sergeant Ryan Coleman of 78 Squadron says: “Even if people don’t actively practice it they may think about it, especially at times like vigils. For some people it might be their only visible practice of religion. You have everything here – from people who think there’s nothing there, those who don’t practice but it is a part of their life and there are those for whom it plays a bigger part. I would be disappointed if you just dug a hole and dropped me in.”
The monument bears the Kohima epitaph – “When You Go Home Tell Them Of Us And Say, For Their Tomorrow We Gave Our Today” – and brass plaques adorn all but one side of the monument, listing the names and ranks of those who have died since 2006. Of the 379 troops killed since British military operations in Afghanistan started in 2001, 303 have died since 2006. There have been 32 deaths this year. The 2011 plaques on the Bastion monument have yet to go up.
Vigils are held simultaneously at the larger British bases and, where possible, at the smaller ones too. For a collective activity, it is also a lonely and sobering one.
Petty Officer Hamish Burke says the only time religion enters his life is when he is in theatre – the British military’s area of operations. He is not baptised and does not go to church – neither does the rest of his family – and he only went to midnight mass at Buckfast Abbey because he wanted to go to Buckfast Abbey. He married in a registry office and says he doesn’t “even have the bare minimum religious affiliation”.
I feel a bit ill-placed to go to a full service. I wear a combat cross dog tag. A lot of the guys wear them whether they’re religious or not. For some people they’re happy, on a subconscious level, to take anything that helps.
Right at the start of the vigil they talk about what that person left behind. While you think about that, you think what you have to lose yourself. My little boy is 14 months old. It’s a time to reflect on where you are and what people back home are going through.
The vigil is closure for the guys. More so for the guys that worked with him. The guys can’t afford to dwell on what’s happened. They get back on the horse. They get straight back out. It’s a proper service, a proper send off. You’re not going to the funeral, you won’t get the chance. Only in rare circumstances maybe. It’s your chance to say goodbye. For the unit, it’s about picking up and moving on.
Corporal Fraser Macdonald, also from 78 Squadron, says the nature of the vigil makes for easy attendance. “Out here the vigil is five minutes’ walk and it’s compulsory. Some people have got beliefs and say prayers, others are just blank. Back in the UK I wouldn’t go out of my way to go to one unless they were a close friend or in my regiment.”
The more institutionalised aspect of religion is also present. There are two churches in Bastion and they are as traditional a place of worship as they can be amid a combat environment. All Saints and St Michael’s Garrison Church has communion wine – the only alcohol on the base – and votive candles. But the military association is never far away. The bibles have camouflage covers and, again, the cross is made from shell casings. Camouflage netting protects the tidy smoking area – which is at the rear of the church – from the sun.
Padre Alice of Joint Fires Group says: “People who come find their faith challenged – whatever their faith – when you test it. Witnessing inhumanity and indecency is very challenging. What people are asked to do here can lead to big questions. I’m not suggesting everyone will become an evangelical Christian but people start to ask questions and that’s a start. What all of us would prefer is a thought-through faith. This is a place where people do that for the first time.
“Religion doesn’t have the cool factor. It’s the culture they were brought up in, their age. But people can go from nothing to believe they have found the absolute answer. There’s no support for them back home on this because society does not encourage people to explore their faith in a meaningful way.
“Obviously any minister will tell you that they would love to have more people come to church. A lot of people brought up now know nothing about church other than marriages, funeral or the TV. But it would be foolish to expect our guys to come to church.”
It is the vigil that touches the soldiers in a way that a church cannot – providing a moment of reflection, thanks and an experience that binds as much as it isolates.
Names have been changed.
See also:
Baptism at Camp Leatherneck in Afghanistan
Riazat Butt visits the US camp in Afghanistan’s Helmand Province – and notes the differences between the American and British military’s approach to religion
http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/blog/2011/aug/23/religion-afghanistan?intcmp=239
Photo gallery at:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/gallery/2011/aug/23/religion-afghanistan?INTCMP=ILCNETTXT3487
Life as a humanist with the armed forces in Afghanistan