Dispatches

Prologue:

For several thousand years, Afghanistan’s northeastern Wakhan Corridor has served as a conduit for warfare, trade, and travel between China and points west. The famous Chinese pilgrim, Xuanzang, crossed it in the 7th century while returning to China from India. Marco Polo followed it in 1271 en route to Kubalai Khan’s court, Coleridge’s famous “Xanadu”. And, more recently, two of the twentieth century’s greatest explorers of Inner Asia, the Hungarian-British archaeologist Sir Aurel Stein (buried in Kabul) and the indefatigable mountaineer Bill Tilman, both passed through the Wakhan.

Today, the Wakhan remains one of world’s most remote places, uncrossed by any permanent track save those left by the nomadic Kyrgyz pastoralists, who move seasonally from one side of the high plateau to the other, much as their ancestors have for hundreds of years. A quick glance at a map of region shows how the Kyrgyz have been able to maintain their nomadic lifestyle despite the nearly 30 years of warfare that have ravaged the rest of Afghanistan. The eastern end of the Wakhan is known as the “Pamir Knot”, where Asia’s great ranges meet in a spectacle of tectonic fury. To the north lie the Pamirs, which run southeast from Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan. From the east come two of China’s main ranges, the Tian Shan and the Kunlun. The Karakorum jut up from the southeast. Finally, the southern border of the Wakhan is framed by the Hindu Kush range, which stretches across Afghanistan and effectively divides the country in half, topographically and culturally. The Afghan Pamirs, hardly worth fighting over, had been left alone, and the Kyrgyz with them.

What a map cannot tell us is why, especially today, the Kyrgyz have chosen to remain in their high refuge, given the incredible difficulty that comes with trying to pursue a pastoral lifestyle at 15,000’. Winter lows routinely plummet to forty below. Illiteracy remains the norm. And, perhaps most shockingly, one-in-three women die in childbirth. This is the question that I have come to Afghanistan in an attempt to answer. And, just perhaps, to score some virgin summits in the Afghan Pamirs along the way.

29 May 2006:

Plenty of excitement in Kabul today. US troops somehow managed to run over a small Toyota Corolla this morning, killing most if not all of the occupants, a family of 6. Unsurprisingly, this sparked protests throughout the city, which soon turned to riots. Although the actual incident occurred several kilometers away, a large group of protesters began to move towards the US embassy, which is about 6 blocks from our house. We could hear sustained gunfire a couple hundred meters away as Afghan police and soldiers sought to disperse protesters, mostly by firing in the air. Wisely, US and ISAF (International Security and Assistance Force) troops stayed away from the fray, as their presence would only have aggravated things. The situation was tense for awhile, as we watched numerous vehicles filled with Afghan families making haste to leave the city for what one respondent vaguely referred to as "the hills", meaning anywhere outside of Kabul.

We - Whitney Azoy, the director the institute at which I am a guest and an old friend, and I - set about making preparations to leave. Where we might go was unclear. The first thing to do was to minimize our presence, so we drew the shades and posted a picture of Ahmad Shah Masood (see Dispatch 1) on the front gate of the compound, the one facing the street. We also put on native garb, meaning shalwar kameez, the traditional tunic and baggy trousers of Afghanistan and Pakistan. Rounding out our disguises were pakools, Chitrali hats that are rolled up on the edges and sit high on the head; journalists' vests, the kind with all the pockets that are a key fashion accessory in Kabul; and dastmaal or scarves draped over the neck. Since both Whitney and I sport beards, we thought that we might actually have a shot at, from a distance, passing for locals. Plus, Whitney speaks fluent Persian and is often mistaken in conversation for being an Afghan, or at least a Tajik. I, on the other hand, have no such ability and so planned to pretend that I was mute. We also threw together "grab-and-go" bags containing our passports, money, and other essentials. If this all sounds very half-assed, well, it probably was.

Our Afghan staff were remarkably helpful. On numerous occasions they ventured into the street to assess the mood. The man in charge of maintaining our house, an Afghan Tajik named Hazrat Gul, returned grim-faced after one of these forays, having heard that a khoregi (foreigner) had been dragged out of a car and severely beaten just a couple blocks away. "To my last breath," he told us, "I will allow no harm to befall you." He meant it and I recalled the old saw that Afghans are either your best friend or your worst enemy. But, while solidly build and nicknamed "Palawah" (vaguely, "champion wrestler"), Hazrat Gul stands 5'3" and, more importantly, was unarmed. Accordingly, we deemed it prudent to reconniter escape routes from the back yard and found a wall that we might be able to shimmy over and into the Japanese ambassador's compund. We also hacked off a lock that the landlord had left on a door in the basement, one that led into a dusty room filled with various household detritus where we might be able to hide.

In retrospect, this all sounds very dramatic but at the time the threat seemed real enough. What really tends to aggravate these situations are the rumors (usually jingoistic and one-sided) that run wild after any incident, the bazaar equivalent of Fox News. In this case, the story was that US troops, as a result of reckless driving, had killed a family (true). Furthermore, the soldiers were drunk at the time (unlikely, as this occurred around 10 am, and all US forces are strictly prohibited from consuming alcohol). And, most inflammatory of all (and this was what had us really concerned), was the report that they had fired into a crowd of civilians, killing 50 protesters (a wildly inflated number; credible reports claimed one casualty). But truth is what you choose to make it and had all of this been accurate, or had the rumors been allowed to fester, Kabul very well might have reached the tipping point. The real barometer of the potential severity of the situation was that we could see the usually unflappable Chinese prostitutes in the brothel across the street hastily packing. Where they planned to go, I have no idea but if they, despised as they are, planned to cast their lot on the streets, we were really in trouble.

The Afghan authorities mounted a surprisingly effective response and by mid-afternoon, calm had been restored, with only a few shops and buildings ransacked. By 5 PM, Whitney and I were sitting in front of the television, watching a James Bond film and enjoying a couple Heinikens. And then we went for a swim in our backyard pool.

Ted

May 21st:

Amazing day here in Kabul - met Masood Khalili, who was Ahmad Shah Masooud's right hand man and who was sitting next to him when Massoud was blown up on 9 Sept 2001 by al-Qaeda assassins, supposedly as part of the grand plan for 9-11. Masooud was one of the most effective commanders in the jihad against the Soviets though, unfortunately, not one the US, through it's Pakistani proxies, chose to support. He was also one of the few commanders to offer any effective resistance to the Taliban as they pushed northward and is probably more responsible than anyone else in Afghanistan for keeping the country from falling entirely to the Taliban. Masooud's memory is still very visceral here in Kabul, as evidenced by the large (maybe 30 feet tall) portrait of him hanging from the terminal at the Kabul International Airport (and hence one of the first sights to greet the visitor), the "Great Massoud Road", and various monuments located arouund town. His grave in the north has become a popular pilgrimage site where, in the paradoxical tradition of Islamic shrine pilgrimage (ziyara), women visit in the hope of conceiving.

Masood Khalili, who survived his commander's assassination, though with horrible injuries (see Steve Coll, "Ghost Wars", for a description of this incident), is known here as the "shaheed-i zin" or "living martyr" and possibly carries more respect than any other government figure, despite his seemingly lowly position as ambassador to Turkey. While paying court to Khalili, we also met various figures including the mayor of Kabul (the actual one, rather than Afghan president Hamid Karzai, who is derisively known as such, given that his writ hardly extends beyond Kabul), a famous Sufi (Islamic mystical sect) pir (master), and a Tajik general. Khalili called the minister of the interior and the govenor of Badakhshan on my behalf and wrote several letters of introduction. He also offered to have his eldest son accompany me north into Afghanistan's Wakhan Corridor.

If Diogenes came to Kabul, he would likely find his way to the mayor's office. The mayor, who held this same position 27 years ago, has a reputation as one of the few honest men in municipal government and, in all likelihood, the Afghan government period. He was there to complain to Khalili about the extent of graft among the city council members and solicit his help in curbing it. In response to the mayor's plea, Khalili promised to look into the matter but, for the time being, advised the mayor that "there are two to whom it is most important to remain honest - yourself and God." Later, I was told on the street a story about the mayor. A notorious local businessman, keen to build a large hotel upon a plot of city-owned land, had offered the mayor $100,000 to expedite the requisite permissions. The mayor replied, "I have a better idea. Take 20% of your offer and hire someone to kill me, as that is the only way that you will gain my cooperation."

After tea, we retired to Khalili's prayer room, built by his father, Khalilullah Khalili, the renowned 20th century Afghan poet. There, Masood recited several poems by Jalaladin Rumi, perhaps Afghanistan's most well-known poet (13th century) and himself a Sufi. Later, inevitably, the conversation returned to more temporal matters and specifically Afghan politics, where Khalili stated, "In Afghanistan, power needs to be feared and respected, not in the beginning loved."

After a couple idle days spent recuperating from 4 days of non-stop travel to get here, I was anxious to have a look around Kabul on foot, having already seen the major historical sites (most in varying states of disrepair, as they had served as defensive fortifications during the civil war) by car the previous day. Since most westerners here are confined to their barracks and travel, when they do, by car, the average Afghan is very curious to talk with visitors. English, in the areas abutting the expat district, is fairly widely spoken, as many Kabulis are repatriated former refugees who spent time in Pakistan and learned to speak it there. Without exception, everyone I spoke with, either in English or my halting Persian, was unfailingly polite and gracious. I stopped counting after my 20th cup of tea. Most asked the usual questions: where are you from, what is your wazifa (purpose here), how long will you stay, do you like it here, etc.

On my way back home, I rounded the corner and nearly stumbled into a be-burqa-ed woman with a small child, maybe 2 years old, in her arms. As I was fishing in my pocket for small change, she began wailing and thrust the child into my face, where I could see that, if it wasn't dead already, it soon would be, emaciated and with glazed, lolling eyes. I gave her 500 afghanis, about $10, and continued on, no longer aglow from the day's experiences. I can't decide whether I hope to see them again tomorrow or not.

Ted