The Great Game

There are a lot of things that are hard to know or understand, and when you, or your government, has to act in the absence of knowledge and understanding, the results are usually disappointing, to say the least.  But there are a lot of things that are easy to know and understand, but the government evidently doesn't want to bother trying, but prefers to act in the dark.  A splendid example of this is the Afghan War, which has been going on for quite some time now with pretty pathetic results.  I think that Afghans, in all their ethnic versions, are perfectly good people and are to be admired, in Afghanistan. But they make pretty bad immigrants to the West, or just about anywhere else.  They're adapted to their own culture, you see, and by definition don't fit into other cultures.  In like manner, when we, or the Russians, or the Brits, or Alexander the Great, for that matter, try to impose a non-Afghan culture, with all its alien ways and values, on the Afghans, they tend to be annoyed at best and to go berserk at the worst.  Right now, they're pretty much berserk.

These arcane facts were well known to Kipling. He wrote:

THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East 'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast, An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased    Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.     Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,     Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,     Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,          So-oldier ~OF~ the Queen! Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day, You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay, An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:    A soldier what's fit for a soldier.     Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . . First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts, For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts -- Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --    An' it's bad for the young British soldier.     Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . . When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt -- Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout, For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,    An' it crumples the young British soldier.     Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . . But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead: You ~must~ wear your 'elmet for all that is said: If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,    An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.     Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . . If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind, Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind; Be handy and civil, and then you will find    That it's beer for the young British soldier.     Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . . Now, if you must marry, take care she is old -- A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told, For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,    Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.     'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . . If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! -- Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er:  that's Hell for them both,    An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.     Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . . When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck, Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck    And march to your front like a soldier.     Front, front, front like a soldier . . . When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch, Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch; She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,    An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.     Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . . When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine, The guns o' the enemy wheel into line, Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,    For noise never startles the soldier.     Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . . If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white, Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,    And wait for supports like a soldier.     Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . . When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains    An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.     Go, go, go like a soldier,     Go, go, go like a soldier,     Go, go, go like a soldier,          So-oldier ~of~ the Queen!

And here, Devika Patel discusses our own failure to win the Great Game, and recommends that we take our ball and go home.