"No matter how many times I've visited the country, or been embedded with U.S. forces, or covered the lives of ordinary Afghans caught up in the almost 6-year-old war, I still cringe when asked – and I'm ALWAYS asked when I get back – 'How's things in Afghanistan?' Invariably I pause for a few seconds, hoping to find the magic answer as I collect my thoughts. But there is no silver bullet: 'Good,' I venture. 'And bad.' " -- NBC's Jim Maceda writes in our sister blog, World Blog

Read his complete entry

NBC's Jim Maceda was in Russia recently -- his report on the trip will air tonight, offering a glimpse into what life has become under the country's leader Vladimir Putin. Here, Jim vlogs about how the "new" Russia compares to the old, and how life has changed since he was last there.Watch the vlog

Editor's Note (5:51 p.m. ET, Monday, Nov. 13): This piece was promoted as airing tonight, Monday, but has been bumped from the rundown. It will, however, air later this week.

I guess Sen. John Warner, R-Va., summed it up when he said, in reaction to the sea change in Washington, that it's an appropriate time to review U.S. military strategy in Iraq, and 'we mustn't forget Afghanistan.' With so much focus, and so many resources spent on Iraq, many Americans, it seems, have forgotten the war in Afghanistan. And they've forgotten – at least according to some counter-insurgency experts – that we've been losing the war there. The Taliban is back, stronger than ever, while U.S. and NATO soldiers are dying at an unprecedented rate.

To assess the situation in the remote, rugged country where the 'War on Terror' began, we're launching a three-part special series. "The Haven" airs Monday - the 5th anniversary of the fall of Kabul, effectively ending the Taliban's 5-year regime.  But, five years after the collapse of al-Qaida's sanctuary, another haven has cropped up, every bit as lawless and threatening. "Jihadistan" as some call it -  an expanse of merciless land the size of Texas - stretches across Southern and Eastern Afghanistan, and over the border into the fearsome tribal belt inside Pakistan. There, in areas like Waziristan, the Taliban has free reign. We see armed fighters control the streets. Al-Qaida-linked fugitives like Mohammad Faquir – a good friend of al Qaeda No. 2 Ayman al Zawahiri – boast brazenly to our cameras about future attacks on U.S. and Pakistani forces. Teachers are assassinated, girls' schools are burned. Edicts that ban clean-shaven faces or impose tax collection for holy war are on the rise. It is like old Taliban days.

"You've got not just jihadis," explains one of our Afghanistan experts. "You've got drug dealers, you've got warlords, you've got criminals of every description. But certainly this belt is probably one of the biggest challenges the U.S. has to face in trying to stabilize Afghanistan."

Taking a closer look at that challenge, digital videographer Kyle Eppler and I take our thermals and computers on an embed with the 132nd Infantry of the 10th Mountain Division, high in the mountains of Afghanistan's Kunar province (where some believe Osama bin Laden is hiding).

Part 2 of the series, "The Hunt," reflects on what U.S. soldiers are doing right – and wrong – in the hunt for Taliban and "high value targets." They're trying to extend the authority of the central government back in Kabul, which many Afghans see as corrupt. I get a chance to talk, not only to commanders who are having to shift tactics to adjust to a more lethal enemy, but with intelligence officers who explain the challenges they face in tracking down – and taking out – the Taliban's command and control, increasingly found out of bounds … inside Pakistan.

Our third report is a profile of an inspiring American-Iranian volunteer who is truly "making a difference." Fary Moini, from San Diego, Calif., runs a school for hundreds of boys and girls in Jalalabad, Eastern Afghanistan -- once a headquarters for bin Laden, and even today, still on the edge of "Jihadistan." Fary came up with the idea back in 2002, at the beginning of the war, when she visited  - and was overcome by – poor Afghan children in refugee camps inside Pakistan. She says she had a calling, then and there, to give these kids something that would change their lives: an education.

Many fellow Rotarians, back in San Diego, thought she was nuts. Others were moved to help her find the funding. We catch up with Fary on a recent visit to her dream-come-true. We talk to students who have a new lease on life, as well as to school officials who worry, day and night, about threats from the Taliban to burn down the school – in the Taliban's world, education for females is banned by Allah.

Please join us over the next two weeks, when Kyle and I will be sending our reports via laptop. There'll be a lighter side, too. We're spending Thanksgiving Day with some 10th Mountain soldiers at their forward operating base in Jalalabad. There won't be much turkey, we're told, but it will be a great opportunity to connect with those Americans fighting a "forgotten war."

Editor's note: The broadcast aired a story Friday night by Jim Maceda about his week embedded with the Army's 10th Mountain Division in Afghanistan. Click here to read or watch it. After getting that story on air, Jim called to offer his additional thoughts on what was obviously an exhausting assignment.

Afghanistan is an intriguing assignment -- here is the world's superpower, trying to win over the people of one of the world's poorest, almost medieval countries, because they both share a common enemy: al-Qaida and its Taliban surrogates. American soldiers are dying here -- now more than 220. Billions of dollars ($12B to date) have been spent on reconstruction.

Covering this war has never been easy. And it's only getting harder. Nowhere else is a reporter's strength quite as sapped by the elements -- the almost impenetrable mountains and valleys, and the stalking presence of disease or infection. You spend as much time cleaning yourself and everything you touch as you do reporting the story.

I've been embedding with U.S. forces since long before it was called embedding. Since 1983, with U.S. Marines in Beirut, many of whom were killed in a truck bomb by a group called Hezbollah few had even heard of. On a scale of 1 to 10, the Afghanistan embed rates little more than a 2. Coming in at a 1, my embed with Chechen rebels outside Grozny, where my cameraman Kyle Eppler, and I literally "embedded" -- sleeping on the living room floor next to the local Chechen commander's terror cell.

Covering Operation Mountain Lion, embedded with the 10th Mountain Division in eastern Afghanistan, was no exception. I knew we were in for an unforgettable journey when our Chinook helicopter almost tipped over as we landed, in the dead of night, on the edge of a 7,000-foot precipice. This was to be our perch overlooking the most ambitious offensive by U.S. forces in Afghanistan since the beginning of the war.

My cameraman (once again Kyle Eppler) and I decided it was best to be with the Headquarters Company, which would command and control the operation. For good measure, Col. John Nicholson, the 10th Mountain commander, brought along a platoon of Marines to watch his back. It was a smart move. We came under attack only hours after our arrival on the mountaintop. Just as soldiers -- and the NBC team -- were settling into their sleeping bags, bursts of automatic weapons fire cut through our camp, with bullets zinging past our unprotected heads. As calmly as if he were talking to his wife about dinner plans, Nicholson called his troops into action. Soldiers jumped out of their bags and into their pants and flak jackets, grabbed their weapons and responded with overwhelming firepower. This was just a probe. Maybe two or three insurgents, testing the U.S. forces' resolve. One of the intel scouts picked up radio chatter before the attack. "Just shoot and try to injure the Americans. And God be with you." The Marines wounded at least two insurgents as they fled back into the mountains.

Kyle and I spent the night wide awake, wondering when a large group of Taliban with revenge on their minds would counterattack. The temperature dropped from the 70s to the 20s. I couldn't tell if my shivering was from the cold or my fear.

At dawn we were packing for the 4,000-foot descent down to a lumberyard in the Korungal Valley that had been a Taliban safe house but was soon to be the 10th Mountain's new headquarters. I expected the descent to be much easier than a climb. I don't remember ever being so wrong. With 50 pounds on my back (Kyle was lugging more than 100 pounds, including a car battery we would use for power) we accompanied 26 soldiers, and a platoon of Afghan Army scouts – slowly -- down the mountain, which got steeper as the signs of Taliban movement grew more evident. Two soldiers went down with dehydration. Another soldier tore a ligament. Eleven and a half hours later, we made it to the bottom, our route actually ending with an 800-meter climb up to a road above a river which we had to cross by foot.

The lumberyard did become Nicholson's new base camp. But it was the camp from hell. One standing structure with no window glass meant that every time a chopper landed with supplies or took off with the general, tons of dust flew into our "hooch" and shut down the computers we used to feed our stories to New York.

Through it all, despite the dusty, dangerous environment, the soldiers and Marines with us took it all in stride. I marveled at how the 48-year-old Nicholson could spend the same amount of time as I humping gear, eating dirt, taking incoming and punishing his body, and still find the energy to plot out the next phase of the offensive in a province neither U.S. forces nor the Afghan government had ever been to before.

It takes a long, grueling day-by-day effort to win this war... and, it seems, it's just as hard to cover it.

We didn't know what to expect as we drove into Luton, about 30 miles north of London. We knew the industrial town was ethnically mixed, with about 45,000 South Asian Muslims, some 30% of the population. We also knew it was where one of the July 7, 2005 suicide bombers had lived. The four bombers began their fateful day at the Luton train station, before heading into London, killing 56. Now we were looking for Muslims, and non-Muslims, to tell us, frankly, what life was like SINCE the attack, and almost two years to the day after the Madrid train bombings. Our story was meant to kick off a special series on the "Faces of Islam in Europe," but things were not going well.

First, it was pouring rain. Luton's streets were deserted. The townfolk who did venture out were hidden beneath umbrellas and parkas -- terrible for TV coverage. The rain shorted out our camera, which would roll and stop on its own. When we found the Town Hall and Luton's mayor -- a 31 year old Muslim of Bangladeshi origin -- he summarily 'white-washed' any tension between Muslims and non-Muslims in his town. After blaming the media for most of the ills, he sent us to another city counselor, in the Muslim enclave called Bury Park. He likewise could think of no one to talk to who could address the problems of increased discrimination against Muslims, aggressive immigration laws, police searches, security checks for Muslim job applicants, and the myriad other issues that Muslims, elsewhere, had documented in detail.

After hours of running in circles, our deadline approaching, I was close to 'putting a bullet' in our shoot and starting from scratch in another British town. We were now stuck in traffic, in the rain, behind a massive Luton city bus. In sheer frustration, I jumped from our vehicle and began to guide the bus driver, a British female who looked overwhelmed by her predicament, through the narrow but negotiable jam. A crowd (of South Asians) began to gather in the street. Perhaps to see the spectacle of a white Westerner guiding a city bus in this Pakistani Muslim ghetto? As is so often the case, it was THEN that the story we were looking for bit us in our collective behinds. A man walked out of a Halal meat shop and introduced himself to my cameraman, Steve O'Neil, who had decided to grab a few frames of 'local color' as I directed traffic. The man, Abdul Rahim Malik, turned out to be the veritable Sheikh of Luton. Not a mealy-mouthed politician, this entrepreneur owned several businesses, banks, and had opened Luton's first mosque. He offered an interview, without solicitation, to Steve. Did we want to know about the British police raids and arrests in Luton, since the bombings, that had turned up no terrorist material and had so far led to no charges? Steve replied, 'you may want to ask my correspondent who, unfortunately, is directing traffic at the moment.''

Mr. Malik was a gem. He explained, on camera, how the raids had created nothing but anger and suspicion among local Muslim residents. And this from a man who, it turned out, was a board member on Luton's Police Authority. He apologized for not being able to put us in touch with one of the families whose homes had been raided (at 4 in the morning). The police, he said, had told the families not to speak with the press. But he did recommend a middle aged widow named Naseen Imdiaz who ran a Learning Center for other Muslim women in Luton. We met Nasreen, and never looked back. She described how frightening it was for Muslims to walk the streets. Since the bombings, the whites taunted them, calling them terrorists. Her brother, Bishar, told us (also on camera) that the local politicians would only lie to us. That, in fact, relations between Muslims and non-Muslims, despite the efforts of those like Nasreen, had only deteriorated. The story was coming together nicely.

Over the years, I've never ceased to be amazed at how, no matter how lost this reporter feels, a Mr. Malik appears to guide me through it all. If ONLY our Sheikh of Luton could have stopped the rain!

Editor's note: You can read & watch Jim's story as it aired on Friday's broadcast here. 

The first deliveries of hundreds of millions of dollars worth of international relief are beginning to reach Pakistan's remote villages, if only just. On the op-ed pages, Pakistan's intellectuals are debating why so much devastation could befall a country known to straddle one of the Earth's main fault lines. The trickle of relief agents has become a steady stream of visits by UN, Western and Asian dignitaries, all seeking to be seen waving their organization's flag high over the miserable ruins.

It's called 'Week Two.' The breaking story is out of the news rundowns, and the world's media starts to reassess its presence. Many journalists, including this reporter, headed home. But quite a few of us, it seems, are still scratching our collective heads, sensing we've just covered something unique-even those of us who 'do' disasters for a living--but not yet able to nail down what made it so.

Hence, this blog posting.

In the past week our NBC News team camped out in the heart of the quake zone (there were no roofs safe enough to sleep under), filing stories for Nightly News along the way. In that time we got an up-close, ground-level look at the 80 percent destroyed city of Muzaffarabad, a view very different from what helicopter flights will give you. We drove along a long part of the quake's axis, some 80 miles, from Muzaffarabad to Ghari Hajibullah to Manserha to Islamabad. And once the road was cleared, we made it up to what had been inaccessible mountain villages, like Danna, high above the Jehlum River Valley. It was still a just a snapshot of the total picture -- even the long drive was a fraction of the 1,500-mile Himalayan fault line that convulsed in at least three South Asian nations. But it's certainly enough to convince me that I've never seen anything quite like this kind of concentrated devastation before, not even in Mexico City back in 1985, when an 8.3 monster quake destroyed thousands of buildings and killed more than 20,000.

Walking through Muzaffarabad, just eight days ago the thriving capital of Pakistan-controlled Kashmir, was like moving through a German town in WWII after a Dresden-like firebombing, except there were no bomb craters. No carbonized bodies. Only building after building spewing out their bricks. Sometimes whole city blocks were pancaked just like the homes of Muslims and Croats, after Serb demolition experts systematically blew them up during the 'ethnic cleansing' of Yugoslavia's civil war. But again, THIS felt unique. It looked, and smelled, like a war zone just after battle. But the people were still HERE, amassed and dazed, in the streets. It was as if, warned of impending house-to-house combat, 100,000 of Muzaffarabad's city folk chose to stay and watch, rather than run for their lives.

Take the New Orleans death toll and multiply it by 50. This kind of catastrophe, we all know, usually happens in poor, backward countries like Afghanistan, where towns molded from baked mud fold like so many sand castles hit by a huge wave. But a WHOLE city --think of it. A regional capital full of hospitals and schools and government offices is now a city-full of rubble. Whatever the causes behind this catastrophe, be it shoddy construction, endemic corruption, or just plain denial, its aftermath, for me, had all the elements of a nightmare: I think of the medical staff in Muzaffarabad's main hospital- 90 percent destroyed and trying desperately to save patients in a makeshift M.A.S.H. on the hospital grounds even while, within earshot, their own family members were screaming for help from beneath the rubble. I think of all those first responders, like the ones the media beat to the Gulf Coast calamity. Those in charge of emergencies here -- the Pakistani Army, the police, local government officials, ambulance drivers and fire fighters -- most of them were killed within seconds of the tremor. 

So it wasn't difficult for us to beat those first responders to places like Danna, the village some 6,000 feet up in the Kashmir Mountains. Old men, their faces still caked with blood and their wounds beginning to fester, approached us, seeking help. We were the first 'Westerners' they had seen since the quake and of course they assumed we were aid workers. Nassem Khan, an elderly man who spoke good English after years of work in Saudi Arabia, seemed to sum up the anger in Danna:

''Where are our commanders?'' he screamed at us. ''Where is the aid? You come up, why can't they come up and help?'' The short answer (unlike in New Orleans): many of them were dead.

I'll take away numerous images from this assignment, but one will haunt me for a long time to come: a little, nameless Kashmiri boy on a stretcher, just choppered into Muzaffarabad's sports stadium that served as a field hospital. A beautiful boy, no more than three years old, with large hazel eyes and hardly any skin left on his small battered face. He lay there and stared at me with those eyes, already beyond pain, beyond tears. No doubt in shock, but, somehow, beyond that, too. He just stared, expressionless. Motionless. And I looked back, helpless.