I remember the first time I ever saw an Afghan man poop. It was the summer of 2010, and my platoon had taken a tactical pause in a village somewhere in rural Kandahar, where farmers harvest opium for a living and plumbing doesn’t exist. It happened so quickly I nearly missed it. As we began forming a security perimeter, one of our Afghan army partners casually slipped behind some nearby bushes, pulled his trousers down, and dropped into a deep squat. By that point, it was obvious what was going on, but you wouldn’t know it by the look on his face. He appeared calm — peaceful, even. There is nothing pleasant about witnessing another man defecate, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. Less than a minute later, he was back on the road. On our next patrol, I took a trip to the bushes myself.