From Front Lines to Family Lines E-Book

Dr Nico Mulder

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 132

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Nico Mulder (the author) was a sector/brigade chaplain in the Operational Area of Namibia for six of the thirty years of the war, wherein he accompanied several inland operations as well as transborder operations into Angola as well as the last big operation at Quito Canavale (1987-8).

This book describes the psychological impact on soldiers of the South African Defence Force war in the Operational Area (northern parts of Namibia) and in Angola. The author contracted PTSD and had to deal with the painstaking symptoms thereof. He describes his and so many other soldiers’ symptoms after these wars and he is still aware of the fact that most of his fellow soldiers, who suffer from the same symptoms are not yet diagnosed, nor treated.

Recognising the far-reaching impact of military conflicts, families are encouraged to foster environments replete with forgiveness and understanding. Coming together to identify and address the grievances and psychological wounds is not mere reflection; it is an active pursuit of healing. Through shared commitment to empathy and forgiveness, the cycle of conflict and its shadow over future generations can be thoroughly dismantled. This not merely enhances familial emotional wellbeing but seeds a fertile ground for cultivating a culture of peace.

With wars going on in several parts of the world, this phenomenon is very real and should families and governments take note of this very aspect of the mental health of current soldiers and post war veterans over the world.

Leseprobe

Dr Nico Mulder

From Front Lines to Family Lines

The Impact of the Border War on South African Homes

From Frontlines to Family Lines:

The Impact of the Border War on South African Homes

ISBN 9781069171825

Dr Nico Mulder

© NFS Mulder 2024

Copyright reserved

All Rights Reserved

No portion of this book may be reproduced or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, whether by photocopying, any sound recording, microfilming, or information preservation, without the written permission of the publisher.

The author indemnifies himself from all responsibility of any kind based on explicit or implicit advice or advice in this book based on any incompleteness, incompetence of the author and his judgment or changes after the book is written or any errors in the book. This book is written to be of help but makes no claim to absolute completeness. This manual is only brief guidelines and is not intended to be completely exhaustive. The reader of this should make sure for themselves of their responsibilities that should be complementary to these guidelines. The responsibility therefore rests on the shoulders of the user of this book.

About The Author

Nico Mulder

Nico was born and raised in rural South Africa. He did his Theological studies at the University of Pretoria with a master’s degree in theology. He also did his master’s in counselling psychology in Canada. He was a pastor and military chaplain for more than thirty years and later became a psychotherapist in Canada.

During his chaplaincy in the Northern parts of South-West Africa (now Namibia), he was sector/division/brigade Chaplain, stationed in Rundu. He was involved in several transborder operations as well as operations in Sector 10 and 20. He received the Head of the South African Defence Force Merit Medal. He did his PhD in Pastoral Theology with the theme: “The Religious Experience of National Servicemen under Operational Circumstances.” He wrote more about his findings and experiences and recent research in this book.

ABOUT THIS BOOK

Nico Mulder (the author) was a sector/brigade chaplain in the Operational Area for six of the thirty years of the war, wherein he accompanied several inland operations as well as transborder operations into Angola as well as the last big operation at Quito Canavale.

This book describes the psychological impact on soldiers of the South African Defence Force war in the Operational Area in the northern parts of Namibia and in Angola. The author contracted PTSD and had to deal with the painstaking symptoms thereof. He describes his and so many other soldiers’ symptoms after these wars and he is still aware of the fact that most of his fellow soldiers, who suffer from the same symptoms are not yet diagnosed, nor treated.

Recognising the far-reaching impact of military conflicts, families are encouraged to foster environments replete with forgiveness and understanding. Coming together to identify and address the grievances and psychological wounds is not mere reflection; it is an active pursuit of healing. Through shared commitment to empathy and forgiveness, the cycle of conflict and its shadow over future generations can be thoroughly dismantled. This not merely enhances familial emotional wellbeing but seeds a fertile ground for cultivating a culture of peace.

CHAPTER 1

PERSONAL EXPERIENCE WITH PTSD

It was a late, moonless night, and the fragile edges of my foxhole were crumbling, spilling coarse grains of sand onto my worn and dirty military sleeping bag. Every time the ground shook under the thunderous violence of 120-millimeter mortar bombs pounding the Brigade HQ of FAPLA in Caiundo, Angola, a little more of the earth threatened to bury me.

Huddled in my makeshift refuge, I battled the gnawing loneliness and fear by reading from my small, weather-beaten New Testament, the flicker of a one-inch candle casting ghostly shadows around me.

Miles away, the very thought of my family—my children and my wife waiting back in our home in Rundu, some 600 kilometers distant—filled me with both comfort and torment. Their faces had begun to blur in my memory, veiled by the haze of six relentless weeks on the front lines. It struck me hard, the cruel irony that while we had no women amongst us in these forsaken trenches, my comrades-in-arms still left their loved ones behind, their anxieties quietly festering in the shadows of our encampment.

The FAPLA brigade headquarters a merely 16 kilometres away, just on the other side of the Okavango River. We were just outside the reach of their artillery.

Dawn was still a promise whispered by the distant horizon when I climbed atop a Buffalo vehicle, my voice barely a murmur over the palpable fear as I read from Psalm 46. I investigated the sea of weary faces encircling me, their eyes hollow, silently pleading for reassurance, for salvation. After distilling the psalm’s message of refuge and strength into three terse sentences, I prayed fervently, invoking the Almighty’s protection over us all.

The day escalated quickly as Falcon—our commanding officer whose call sign echoed his sharp, piercing insight into warfare—gave out final instructions from his vantage point on the vehicle. His words were still hanging in the air when the urgent, deafening roar of Puma and Alouette helicopters filled the skies. Their formidable forms sliced through the morning mist toward Caiundo, carrying hundreds of heavily armored men ready for the fray.

As the early February floods engulfed the river, the shattered remnants of the bridge to Caiundo were visible, a stark reminder of the destruction the war had wrought. I remember Falcon talking to Captain Van Heerden via the crackling radio, his voice slightly anxious as he relayed further coordinates to navigate through this altered landscape. Falcon’s experience as a seasoned war officer allowed him a certain familiarity with the chaos of battle, yet nothing could have prepared us for what lay ahead.

Our intelligence had severely underestimated the scale of the minefield encircling the FAPLA headquarters. It was a grave miscalculation that led our platoons directly into danger’s path. The ground, once thought to be a mere barrier, erupted beneath them. I can still hear the haunting echo of the blasts that claimed the limbs of three brave soldiers from the 1 Parachute Battalion. They were swiftly airlifted to our front HQ before being transported to the military hospital in Oshakati.

Two days later after heavy rain, we bombed the bunkers in the Brigade HQ of Caiundo with bunker bombs created in plastic RPG containers by the engineers. Several Cubans, a Russian soldier and many FAPLA soldiers were killed, it seems quiet after all the small arms fire stopped and bombs went off. The Infantry soldiers walked through the FAPLA base and couldn’t find any FAPLA soldiers anymore. They retreated to the north of the Caiundo HQ next to the river where they waited for two days in the rain under bivvies (small tarps) on the Puma helicopters to pick them up and bring them back to the front HQ.

The Pumas were once again thrust into the throes of another conflict at Cuvelai. When the weary soldiers returned to the front HQ, they were gripped by a profound hunger, the kind that gnaws at the gut and clouds the mind. What was intended to be a two-day operation had unfurled into a grueling six-day ordeal, all because there weren’t enough helicopters to go around. Amidst their exhaustion, a somber revelation awaited them—three of their own would not be marching home. These brave souls lay motionless in army brown-colored body-bags, their lives forfeited in the line of duty.

The medical officer and I undertook the solemn duty of identifying these fallen soldiers. As we gingerly tagged them, the stark reality of their sacrifice weighed heavily upon us. The simple act of confirming the information on their dog tags felt monumental, a final acknowledgment of their valiant service. With heavy hearts and steady hands, we marked their names and military numbers on the bags with a black marker.

As the relentless assault on FAPLA headquarters continued, a tide of reinforcements from Menongue rushed to their aid — armoured tanks and determined soldiers arrived, ready to fortify their beleaguered comrades. In response, Falcon, the commander issued an urgent request to the air force. The atmosphere thickened with tension as Falcon relayed the coordinates, his voice cutting sharply through the radio static. Within moments, the serene sky was shattered by the deafening roar of Mirage fighters. They swooped down with lethal precision, unleashing their payload on the enemy stronghold. The earth convulsed under the onslaught, sending plumes of acrid black smoke billowing into the air, visible from 16 kilometers away — a dark omen that hovered ominously over the battlefield.

Amid the chaos, a sudden directive came through the radio, the voice of the head of the South African army piercing the cacophony of war. The order was clear and non-negotiable: "Falcon, withdraw immediately." The international community, led by the United Nations, had caught wind of the South African’s incursion into Angolan territory, and the pressure to retreat was immense. With heavy hearts, the troops were given a mere hour to dismantle their positions and erase any traces of their presence.

The withdrawal was a frenzy of activity; soldiers hastily packed their gear, their movements swift but weighed down by a palpable sense of urgency. The sun began its descent toward the horizon, casting long shadows over the land as two Puma helicopters landed. They were there to extract the officers, their backpacks, and arms. Meanwhile, a skeletal group of leaders stayed behind with the soldiers, who faced the daunting task of navigating through the dense bush back to Rundu in armored vehicles the following day.

As the helicopters lifted off, the remaining troops couldn't help but cast lingering glances back at the land they were leaving behind. The flight against the backdrop of the lowering sun was a silent, reflective journey to a clandestine base of the 32 Battalion in Angola. As they soared above the land that had tested their limits, thoughts of the conflict and the sudden retreat mingled with the uncertainty of the future. The setting sun seemed to symbolise the end of a chapter, a fiery closure to a day marked by both valor and vexation.

The choppers refueled, filling their tanks with a keen urgency, and the night swallowed their forms as they cut through the dark sky, guided precisely by the Doppler radar. They were heading to Rundu HQ, a journey that stretched over three seemingly eternal hours through the darkened heavens. When they finally touched down on the airstrip, the stillness of the HQ was disrupted momentarily by the crunch of gravel under wheels as several Land Rovers hurried over to retrieve the men from their aerial steeds. Falcon, in an assurance of camaraderie, accompanied him, dropping him off at the familiar yet somehow distant facade of their home in Rundu.

Standing under the dim glow of the streetlight, he took a moment to observe his reflection. The stench of sweat clung to him as an unwelcome reminder of the weeks spent in tumult. His uniform, once a crisp set of browns, now bore the evidence of hardware with blackened edges circling the collar, arms, pockets, knees, and long sleeves— he was undeniably dirty. His boots shared stories of dusty paths and bore the unpleasant aroma of soiled socks.

Stepping into the light of the porch, he rapped on the door—a familiar sound in an unaccustomed setting. The door swung open, and for the first time in two long months, he was gazing upon a woman, his wife. Despite his disheveled and filthy state, she enveloped him in a warm embrace, a poignant reminder of human affection that felt distant yet deeply craved.

As he stood there, on the maroon carpet of their foyer, every fiber of his being screamed of discomfort and the unusualness of his surroundings. Merely eight hours ago, the rugged terrains of Caiundo were beneath his boots, and now here he was— "home." That notion felt unsettling, uncomfortable in its safe familiarity—it was a stark contrast to the life he had adapted to, yet there was an underlying relief, a subtle acknowledgment of sanctuary in the once usual now turned unusual.

He stripped away the remnants of battle from his weary body, shedding the soiled, clinging uniform that had become more a second skin than attire. A steaming shower welcomed him—a solace that felt strangely foreign after the endless days and nights engraved in the stark grime of warfare. The heat seeped into his pores, washing away not just the filth, but momentarily, the haunting echoes of gunfire and distant explosions.

Two days drifted by until news reached the ops room that echoed like a distant thunderclap of relief: the FAPLA forces had retreated to Menongue, their ranks devastated by severe losses. The weight of this information hung heavy in the air, a mix of victory and somber reflection on the price of such an outcome.

Returning home was a bittersweet symphony. The familiarity of his surroundings now carried an air of the surreal, infused with an unsettling quiet that contrasted sharply with the constant adrenaline of combat. The presence of women, a once mundane fact of life, now stirred a discomfort deep within him. After months confined in the company of men armoured up for battle, the softness and grace of women seemed as alien as a foreign dialect. He felt a pang of disconnect a warily circling outsider in his own homeland.

In his autobiography, “Good Enough,” the author vividly recounts his harrowing experiences during 1983-4, a time that would later reveal itself as the beginning of his traumatic journey with full blown PTSD. Engaged in numerous transborder military operations, he found himself amidst the most horrendous scenes of war trauma imaginable. It was a torment that would haunt him for decades, silently eroding his psyche until a formal diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was made nearly thirty years later. The Canadian Defence Force referred to it as Operational Stress, a label that did little to alleviate the internal havoc it wreaked.

Before the diagnosis, the various symptoms of PTSD that the author exhibited were often misinterpreted as negative personality traits. It was a misunderstanding that not only affected him personally but one that cast long shadows over his family life as well. The undiagnosed PTSD manifested in ways that strained familial bonds—ways for which he couldn't then explain or understand himself. Through the pages of his autobiography, the author extends a heartfelt apology to his family. He seeks not to excuse his past behaviours but to plead for empathy and understanding against the backdrop of his traumatic wartime experiences and a childhood marked by severe trauma.

The recognition that he was not alone in his sufferings provides a small comfort. The author acknowledges that a whole generation of men who served between 1960 and 1990 underwent similar experiences, and approximately a third of them suffered from PTSD—many of whom remain undiagnosed to this day. It is with a somber tone that he reflects upon this shared, yet often unspoken, bond among his comrades, understanding all too well the silent battles that many continue to fight long after the wars are over.

CHAPTER 2

UNDERSTANDING THE HISTORICAL CONTEXT

The Role of the Border War in South African history