instruction:
Write a question from the passage such that it identifies a character (a person or a thing) in the passage.
question:
The black-and-white aerial footage shows a line of purported Taliban insurgents slowly walking along a path in a lightly forested desert in Afghanistan's western Farah province. Suddenly, the screen flashes to white as the men disappear in a fireball the result of a bomb dropped from a U.S. MQ-9 "Reaper" drone.
"Taliban fighters on the run following Afghan-led offensive in #Farah province, #Afghanistan. Video shows U.S. airpower (MQ-9s) in support," declared a short message accompanying the video, which was posted on the official account of the U.S. military in Afghanistan. Subsequent footage showed more Taliban scrambling, in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid the airstrikes.
The Pentagon footage was released Wednesday, as U.S., NATO and Afghan government forces were locked in a fierce battle with the Taliban for control of the capital of Farah, which borders Iran.
The tweet was unusually graphic. While the U.S. military often releases footage of buildings or vehicles being destroyed, it does not as frequently distribute videos that show individuals being bombed.
Less than 24 hours later, the U.S. Air Force posted its own Afghanistan-related tweet that raised eyebrows this one referencing a viral audio clip that has sparked a lighthearted online debate among those who hear the word "Laurel" and others who hear "Yanny."
"The Taliban Forces in Farah city #Afghanistan would much rather have heard #Yanny or #Laurel than the deafening #BRRRT they got courtesy of our #A10," read the Air Force tweet.
The Air Force has since apologized and deleted the tweet, saying it was sent in "poor taste." The USFOR-A tweet remains.
In a statement to VOA, a Pentagon spokesperson said the tweets do not represent a new social media strategy.
"As with any other organization, the post was an attempt to bring awareness to a major/ongoing organizational activity by tying it to references or conversations already trending with their established audiences," said Lieutenant Colonel Kone Faulkner.
answer:
Who was the Pentagon spokesman?

question:
Once, while grating potatoes to make potato pancakes, I had a Proustian moment. I can't lay claim to much in the way of literary knowledge, but I do know that Proust's 'Remembrance of Things Past' was prompted by his biting into a pastry and feeling a sense of overwhelming pleasure with no recognizable cause. In my case, I was instantly transported back to the grandmother's kitchen as she and my mother grated potatoes in order to make 'poutine rapee', also known as 'poutines'. People will immediately flash to the Quebecker ethnic food known by the same name. However, in spite of all the Franco-culinary posturing, this is really only French Fries with gravy and, oh yeah, can I have some cheese curds on that? One etymological source indicates that 'poutine' really means 'mess'. If you come from my part of the country, the Quebecker poutine is just another entry in the long list of dishes that will cause you to keel over from a myocardial infarction while shoveling a foot of snow out of the driveway shortly after you've retired; sometimes before. Nope, poutines as I know them are a different creature entirely. They seem to be more of an Acadian thing and none of my friends had even heard of them, much less eaten a single one. Because of the work involved, my mother only made poutines for special times: Christmas, say or Easter. My mother would borrow this grater that was about two feet long and she and my grandmother would set to work. Generally, they started off with an enormous paper sack of potatoes, about 25 pounds or so (We used to buy potatoes by the cartload and store them in a wooden bin in the basement. Because we were cheap labour, the kids would be sent down to retrieve a few for the family meal. It was creepy to descend into the dank cellar, feel our way through the dim obstacle course formed by my grandfather's thousands of tools and bits of wood and locate the bin. After a time in storage, the eyes on potatoes began to sprout pale tendrils and it didn't take much imagination to visualize all kinds of unpleasant creatures waiting to bite our hands as we groped around in the bin. I never worried about the monsters under my bed; just whatever was waiting for me in the potato bin.).
answer:
Who borrowed the grater?

question:
The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy.
answer:
Who might have been forming judgments about the speaker?