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 ecause
I want to visit Afghanistan,I flippantly told history professor
John Richards as he went around the class last spring asking why
we were taking "Afghanistan: Warrior and Nation Building." Though
this response was all I could think of at the time, it planted
a seed in my head that I would toy with and eventually succumb
to.
My parents had originally taken this as another fantastic whim
of mine that would never materialize. As the pieces began falling
into place, the battle lines were set. My parents, particularly
my mother, were against my foray into Afghanistan. But when I steadfastly
refused to change my opinion in the face of her arguments, it was
decided that I would be allowed to go--under certain conditions,
of course: I was to arrive by air from India, and I was to stay
for just one week, and I was not to leave Kabul.
I arrived in India late on a Sunday night; it was hot, humid, and
loud. The next morning, I awoke early and set off to the airport
to meet the only ticket agent for Ariana Airlines, the Afghan national
airline, in India. It took another full week for me to get my hands
on a ticket to Kabul.
Finally on the Ariana flight to Kabul, I found myself closely inspecting
my fellow passengers. I wondered what they were going to be doing
in Afghanistan. Some joked and laughed; others, myself included,
sat pensively.
July 15
Kabul's shabby, minimalist airport: Plane wrecks flank both sides
of the runway, along with fortifications and a string of private
jets for the different nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) and
aid organizations operating out of the city. Outside the airport,
the tail of a Russian MiG was being repainted in the new Afghan
colors.
Kabul defies expectations. For sure there are rusting tanks and
vehicles and walls sprayed with the ubiquitous bullet holes. From
the constant stream of media footage shown in the West, I was not
surprised by the destruction. Parts of the city are totally destroyed
from the civil war. And of course, there is a massive army presence.
Yet in the central areas of Shari Naw and Akbar Xan Mena, there
is no bomb damage, and the bazaars revealed an energy I had not
anticipated.
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Wide, tree-lined avenues and bustling streets convey a sense
of what Kabul must have been once--progressive, hip, a city on
the
move. I bought a guide to Afghanistan from the 1960s and one to
Kabul written at roughly the same time; they describe a place "where
tall modern buildings nuzzle against bustling bazaars filled with
colourful, flowing turbans, gaily striped chapans, and a multitude
of handsome faces." Each face I see has been etched by a conflict
that has lasted nearly thirty years. And yet, in many ways, I am
in awe of the recovery made in this relative peacetime.
I've managed to make my way to the UNFPA (United Nations Population
Fund) building, where I met Peter Huff Rousselle, the chief of
operations. He is very kind and offeres me a place to stay for
the next few nights--five in total--on condition that I take photographs
for the U.N. center. This will be good because he is getting me
access to hospitals and women's education programs that I would
not otherwise have.
July 17
I have found the people here remarkably friendly and curious; I
am often stopped in the street by an outstretched hand and fragments
of English sentences. I have been followed and stared at, and have
become accustomed to large groups of children following me around,
demanding that their photographs be taken. Some come with serious
questions, asking me my opinion of their future, what foreign troops
want and expect in Afghanistan, and what I am doing. At the moment,
I have no answers for them. I want to help in some way, but for
now, I can only observe.
Yesterday I wandered by the music corps and was invited in for
a recital. Though I had no idea what they were singing about, it
was engaging and fun to be there. I have done a lot of walking
around the city and am beginning to get my bearings here. The bazaars
are full of colors and sounds, and full of life and energy. It
is here that the city seems most alive and where people go about
their daily business.
Women walk around, their burkhas billowing in the wind and dust.
Sometimes they finger the blue fabric as they huddle over the cosmetic
stalls. Far from discarding the burkha after Kabul was "liberated" from
the Taliban, women have continued to wear them. Under the Taliban,
females could not go out into the streets unless accompanied by
a male member of the family. In practice, this is still often the
case. The women who work for the UNFPA, including the cooks, are
all picked up from their houses and dropped off after work.
The latest music from Pakistan and India blasts out from shops.
Many of the food packages dropped from U.S. planes can be found
for sale. The Afghans do not like them; they sell them in hopes
that they might purchase more flavorful food. The shops are merely
shipping containers; opened during the day and locked at night,
they often double as homes. The banks of the river have been reclaimed
by shopkeepers and made into a tented city, all constructed with
canvas covers donated from the United Nations High Commission for
Refugees (UNHCR). Passing through the market this morning, I saw
a live pelican for sale. From what I understood, it is a useful
source of oil.
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| Scenes from an Afghan journey:the rug market |
| photo: Barnaby Hall |
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Alcohol is available on Chicken Street and Flower Street too, hidden
in empty Pringles tubes and sold for $6 a can. Shopkeepers flock
to the foreigner with carpets and hats and antiques.
I was surprised to bump into a London ambulance, zigzagging between
cars, lights flashing and siren blowing. When I got close enough,
I noticed that it was a donation from the London stock exchange,
but before I could read the rest of the inscription, it found a
gap and disappeared into the chaotic traffic.
This afternoon, I begin to take photographs for the U.N. Populations
compound. This should provide an opportunity to see what all these
organizations are doing here. There are certainly enough of them,
in fact, so many that property values in Kabul have shot up, and
arriving Afghans are finding housing expensive and hard to come
by.
A third of the city is rubble, often referred to as simply the
front-line district. Walking through it one can find spent ammunition
and war debris. It is hard to describe such a place; the name Hiroshima
could be aptly applied. Yet people are moving back into these areas,
living in shipping containers. They somehow manage to make a living
from the little that is around them.
July 18
The people here have been remarkably friendly and I have already
been invited to their homes, to concerts, and for tea. I changed
some money, about fifty dollars, at the bazaar, and got a stack
of "Afghanis" six inches high; their biggest banknote
is 10,000 Afghanis and the exchange rate is 40,000 to the dollar,
so you can imagine the raw mass one has to lug around! The exchange
touts only accept the big bills if they are crisp (anything with
a crease is passed around for a good look). The problem is, I can't
hide them. When people ask for baksheesh, they point to my bulging
pocket.
There is a big Kalashnikov-rifle culture in Afghanistan: Everyone
has a gun or can get one. It scares me sometimes when a man waves
his gun around, gesticulating and playing with it in a most unorthodox
manner. I would not be surprised if one accidentally went off,
and I continue to say to myself, "I hope the safety catch
is on." I was somewhat bemused when I walked into a restaurant
this afternoon to find Kalashnikovs hanging in the place of coats
on the rack near the entrance, each one distinguished from the
other by its owner's designs and motifs, usually Bollywood female
stars, stuck to the handles.
It is funny to see these young U.S. Army punks in uniform driving
around in their Hummers, with tattoos and crew cuts, and one man
mounted on the gun. They cruise around here as if they own the
place, and I guess they do. When they pass, they look at me and
I look at them. The American embassy is a fortress, defined by
a large perimeter wall, razor wire around the top, turrets with
cameras, and youthful soldiers ducking under sandbags.
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