Strong Hope: First 24 Hours

Plus, A Few Legends Retire

When I arrived at Strong Hope after a two-hour flight, I wasn’t in the best of moods. I was picked up at the Salt Lake City airport in a nondescript white van by a nice enough lady who answered a few basic questions.

Before my arrival, I’d done practically zero research into what to expect. My psychologist had provided a few choices. I asked my wife’s opinion, and she suggested Strong Hope, so I went there. Boom.

Little did I know there were other options that had far better amenities. Now, I don’t regret going to Strong Hope, but I’m not sure I wouldn’t take the 5-star resort experience if I had to do it all over again.

I don’t remember much from the first 24 hours other than panic. When I walked into the Strong Hope’s doors, all of my past accomplishments disappeared. I was no longer Lt Col Will Selber, a graduated squadron commander who turned down opportunities and promotions. I was just Will, another part of the human wreckage that washed ashore from America’s latest, longest-lost war.

Once they took my bags away to be searched, I had to wait for nearly 3 hours in a waiting room. I hate waiting rooms. Loathe. Despise. I hate waiting, period. If I need to wait, then why did you tell me to show up at this time? Worse, they were blaring some type of Home Shopping Network shit on the big screen.

I lasted 10 minutes before I knocked on the door.

“Sir, we will be with you in a minute.”

“That’s great, Ma’am. I just want to warn you: if you don’t turn this shit off, I’m going to grab the first heavy object I can find and break your nice big television.”

Then, I gave them my patented crazy eyes face.

GCV sent Kate K this lovely selfie not too long ago

And, to their credit, they immediately turned it off.

After a few hours, I finally got searched. They took away any type of drawstring because they feared I might kill myself. I’ve never been suicidal. No disrespect to those who have suicidal ideations. I’m just far too self-involved to punch out.

The technician put all of my belongings into a brown paper bag. Just some shoes, shirts, underwear, and the basics. They limited me to only four books, which caused a lot of aggravation, as the lovely Charity could attest. Luckily, I decided to read Tolstoy’s War and Peace. A wise move, but after the 20th dancing scene, I wanted to tap out.

When I walked up to the 4th floor of the SLC Behavioral Health Clinic, it was 4 p.m. I put down my stuff inside my room, which I would share with my inbound roommate, “Jack.” But for the first day, it was all me.

The room was suicide-proof. There were no sharp edges anywhere. The bed was attached to the wall. The bedding was crap because they didn’t want anyone to hang themselves. Although our program was designed for active duty service members, the mental hospital was designed to house many of SLC’s more impoverished population.

I had one towel. It was barely sufficient to cover myself. I’ve used horrible towels before throughout my travels, but this was worse than anything at any American post, base, barracks, etc.

Every 15 minutes, someone checked on all 20 members of my floor to make sure nobody killed themselves. I had no privacy anymore. While they would ask from outside the room if you were showering, they would eventually walk into the bathroom if they didn’t hear anything.

Most of the guys on my floor had been there for weeks. I was the new fish. They were all nice enough to me, some more than others. Most knew that these moments were hard enough. However, all of these guys knew the type of men who sauntered into the places.

These were violent, lethal, and dangerous men, so, of course, I fit right in.

I have been airlifted into some pretty sparse and intimidating areas. Village Stability Platform Ghorak was the most barren. It consisted of just a few Afghan houses with mud walls and some guard towers. All of our resupply was either airdropped or came in quickly via rotary assets.

There were parts of Baghdad that scared the shit out of me. Doing dismounted combat patrols in Doha, Baghdad, was fucking awful. Let’s just say the only prayer I ever uttered was before dismounting, “Dear G*d, just make it quick and painless.”

Remember: anyone who says they weren’t scared in combat is either full of shit, drunk, trying to get laid, or never went.

As scared as I was in Iraq and Afghanistan, it paled in comparison to that first day at Strong Hope. I was totally overwhelmed with a deep sense of foreboding doom. That would eventually dissipate once I leaned into the program.

But that first 30 minutes was a complete mind-fuck. I had gone from dictatorial-like powers to no power. I could leave if I wanted to, but nobody left, though a few almost got kicked out.

How did I make it? I leaned on those to the right and left of me, just like downrange. I’ve fought alongside some real killers. Men whose heroism on the battlefield takes your breath away.

But the band of brothers I made at Strong Hope, well, they are some of the most heroic men I’ve ever seen. There was no running, no hiding. There was only you and the truth. If you had the courage to face it, then you could get better. But you had to say it. And that, my friends, is a very difficult thing to do.

You have to get a combat veteran to open up. And that’s hard to do.

We’re trying to do something similar—granted on a much smaller scale—with our Moral Injury Support Group. Please think about forwarding this to someone. It’s a year’s worth of free Moral Injury support for any active duty or retired servicemember. Unfortunately, this time, we are only going to focus on Americans, but that will change in the future.

Here’s the link. Send it to someone. Please.

---

Weekly (w)Rap

It's been another busy week. However, I’m on the road, so I’m not going to upload all of our podcasts because the pool at my hotel looks really nice, and I want to get some sun! Plus, I’m retired!

Aqsa Rahmani

had another delightful column this week.

Some people think that girls should only be at home doing chores, but Taiba and I believe that girls can be so much more than that. We can be students, dreamers, and achievers. We can chase our dreams and make a difference in the world. It’s so important to show these girls that they can have dreams and that they can reach them, no matter where they are from.

Read the whole thing.

Shir Aqa Sarbaz returned with another beautiful poem.

Beautiful Childhood 

Amazing dreams 

Fruitful love 

Tasty Ice cream 

Being supported all the times 

that is what I know from my childhood dream

Read the whole thing.

1Lt Shir Zad Sarbaz wrote an excellent first of what will be a two-part essay on his life.

Here comes the real struggle: balancing the career and personal life of an armed forces officer. Like anyone else, I never thought about sharing my life with someone else, and I was scared of how I would maintain the balance. I have one heart, and it was already filled with love for my nation. My fiancé, who is now my wife, is profoundly understanding, and it was significantly easier for me to maintain the balance. 

I was at the peak of meeting new people, making connections, and helping my countrymen. Everything was working according to my plan, and then one day, the Taliban took over, and like anyone else, they surprised me, and I narrowly escaped death. 

Read the whole thing.

Helai Murshjid had another haunting essay on the perils girls face in Afghanistan.

After a while, she talked to my mom and said that she agreed to marry the son of my father’s friend. It was highly scary and horrible, and I think I can’t explain it by words. Not only my sister, but more than a hundred Afghan girls become the victims of these scary marriages. I have seen many of our relatives who got married with old men. Or some of them skipped and then the Taliban found her and killed her. It’s very tough, very tough. I hope that one day,I will be able to change this all and punish all of the people who ruined a young girl's life.

That’s how my 18-year-old sister is now married to a very busy family with many responsibilities and chores. 

Read the whole thing.

I wrote a little something, something on Flag Day too.

I’ve also served alongside scores of other allied nations in combat, including the Iraqis, French, Canadian, English, Australian, Kiwis (New Zealand), Koreans, Belgians, Germans, Polish, Swedish, Italian, Bulgarian, and Spanish banners (to name just a few).

Serving alongside such incredible soldiers was the honor of my life. However, it was nothing compared to serving alongside my Afghan brothers and sisters. As I said during my retirement speech, fighting next to my Afghan allies was the highest honor of my life. They are my people.

Read the whole thing.

We also had a great episode with Bilal Sarwary, one of Afghanistan’s leading journalists.

My brothers in arms, LTG Alizai and Benjamin Parker, Senior Editor at The Bulwark, came by the Tales of the ANSF studios to discuss the Afghan National Army's last few years.

I wrote a few Morning Shots pieces for The Bulwark on Israel.

Then, in April, an Israeli airstrike killed two Iranian generals near its consulate in Lebanon. In response, Iran shot 300 ballistic missiles and drones at Israel. Yesterday’s work by Israel was a far more devastating attack than the Lebanon strike, so the Iranian response against Israeli interests in the region could make the April salvo look small.

While it’s anyone’s guess how close we are to a full-scale regional war, we seem to be inching closer and closer to it, by the day and sometimes by the hour.

You can read both pieces here and here.

I also wrote one of my best pieces for The Bulwark. Seriously. Top 5.

War is corrosive. It destroys everything it touches. However, it is also a force that gives us meaning. It can intoxicate us. Once a war starts, it often has a logic of its own. It’s not controlled by bureaucrats cranking out the best policy paper. It’s fought on the ground with ruthless violence spurred by vengeance and anger.

But it can also unite people around a noble idea. War isn’t just against an enemy; it can also be for something.

That’s war’s paradox. Something Israel knows far better than we do.

Read the whole thing.

And if you can’t get enough of me, I also appeared on Generation Jihad and wrote four daily rants. Here’s the most important one.

I wanted to reflect a bit because last night, we hit 100 paid subscribers. And the guy who took us to 100 is one of the best Chief Master Sergeants in the United States Air Force. Respect, brother.

We’re incredibly grateful for all of our first 100 paid subscribers. We’re happy for our free subscribers, too. We need anyone and everyone. Send it to your friends—shit, send it to your enemies. I’m happy to piss someone off on your behalf.

GCV+F isn’t a family. It’s an andiwalaan. That’s Pashto. It means your tribe, but more specifically, “your people.” It’s our people. Those affected by war.

We’re building a powerful andiwalaan. We’d love for you to be a part of our tribe.

---

Congrats to Chief Cheney and Lt Col Gray

This week, the United States Air Force retired two legends: Chief Julia Cheney and Lt Col Marvin Gray. They served for nearly 60 years between them. I hope to lure both of them onto our show in the future.

Chief Cheney finished her distinguished career as the Senior Enlisted Leader for the 480th Intelligence Surveillance and Reconnaissance Group in beautiful Augusta, Georgia. My bro, Marvin, enlisted in 1992 as an Airman and rose to become a squadron commander. I will write more about him very soon.

To Chief Cheney and Marvin’s families: G*d bless you. We’re all indebted to the sacrifice you gave serving alongside Chief and Marvin.

On behalf of a grateful nation, thank you.