By Terence Odlin
Jan-March 1999
Lemar-Aftaab
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I first visited Afghanistan in 1971 and in 1972, during a long trip
through the Middle East and the Indian subcontinent. Although I had some
idea of Afghan geography and history, I was shocked to find how little I
actually knew. Even so, the overall experiences I had were positive. In
1978, I received an M.A. in linguistics and was offered an English
teaching position at Ferdowsi University in Mashhad, Iran. I gladly
accepted, in part because of the travel opportunities in Iran and
Afghanistan (the drive from Mashhad to the Afghan border takes only an
hour or two). Indeed, I was able to visit Afghanistan for a third time,
in January of 1979. This trip was the most memorable, but also the
most disturbing.
"Political earthquake zone" was the expression that a friend of
mine used to describe the region between Tehran and Kabul at the time. In
April of 1978, the Khalq Party staged a coup bringing a Communist regime
to power in Kabul. Throughout the same year, demonstrations against the
Shah took place in Iran, and from October onward, strikes along with
clashes in the streets of Tehran, Mashhad, and elsewhere overshadowed
most other activities. It became increasingly clear to the faculty at
Ferdowsi University that there would not be an academic year, and some
administrators did their best to make arrangements for a peaceful
departure of foreign staff, including those of us who had been recruited
through Georgetown University. Though it had no legal obligation to do
so, Georgetown agreed to provide us with plane tickets for travel
between Kabul and the United States. While these arrangements were being made,
Mashhad exploded, with two or three days of very serious fighting
between
armed civilians and the Shah's troops. In the first week of January,
most
of the foreign English teaching staff boarded a bus for Afghanistan.
Before reaching the border, we noticed what seemed to be a
common
practice of letting some Afghans off the bus early. These individuals
could not afford passports and could not, therefore, return home by
crossing at the border checkpoints. I was struck by the pragmatic
solution to this problem (the border officials no doubt knew all about
the practice) and by the physical stamina of the Afghans, who seemed
used
to walking long distances. I would later see other examples of the same
gritty perseverance. At the border, there were consular officials from
the
American and British embassies to help those who did not have their
passports, which were in government offices in Mashhad paralyzed by the
strikes. The Iranian and the Afghan border officials also proved
helpful,
and so the crossing went smoothly despite a number of delays. By
evening,
our bus had arrived in the city of Herat. The fragrance of the cedar
trees on many streets welcomed me back.
I have seen quite a few cities, but Herat is one I feel
especially
fortunate to have visited. In early 1979, much of the beauty of
traditional Islamic civilization was still untouched, and while Heratis
were long used to seeing travelers, tourism was certainly not an
"industry." Often friendly, the townspeople encouraged me to take
pictures of them or their children as well as of everyday activities
such
as baking bread. I spent four or five days roaming through the streets
and monuments, bargaining for souvenirs, and talking with many people.
Before going to Iran, I had taken an intensive Persian course (at the
University of Texas at Austin), which made my third trip to Afghanistan
much more illuminating. Although I could only converse at a fairly basic
level, it proved to be enough to answer various kinds of questions and
ask some myself. It was interesting to find that some of the people I
spoke with were, like me, non-native speakers of Dari (the Afghan
variety of Persian). Shopkeepers invited me to have tea, and some of the
conversations we had I remember to this day. There was real pride in the
fact that Alexander the Great had founded a city where Herat stands
today, and some people believed that Alexander had been a Muslim (which,
of course, is chronologically impossible). The Heratis were also
interested to hear about events in nearby Mashhad, and some were no
doubt
sympathetic to Iranians who wanted to see the Shah depart (and he did
indeed leave Tehran for North Africa that January). Not surprisingly,
though, the main concerns of Heratis seemed to be closer to home.
One of the Persian phrases I knew proved useful in the police
state
environments of both Iran and Afghanistan: Az siyasat besyar nemidanam
('I don't know much about politics'). Most Afghans were naturally
reluctant to say anything about the regime, but some did make their
feelings quite clear. The Communists had required that every shopkeeper
have a red sign with the Khalq party insignia over his shop. Perhaps the
Khalqis wanted to create the Soviet style illusion that "Party and
People are one." In any case, the edict caused real resentment, in part because
of the expense it incurred for every merchant. Another propaganda stunt
of the Khalqis was no more successful: the Party sponsored an evening of
folk music to attract Heratis, though foreigners were also permitted to
attend. The music itself got a good reception, but a play staged did not
have the effect the actors had expected. The plot was very transparent
even for those who knew little Dari: a cruel landlord exploiting his
peasants meets with his just deserts when Khalq revolutionaries seize
his
land. While the audience cheered the Khalqis firing their guns, they
also
cheered the landlord's thuggish deeds-anything dramatic got applause.
When this excursion into socialist realism had ended, the actors tried
to
get the audience to cheer the Khalq regime, but the response to their
exhortations was decidedly unenthusiastic.
After Mashhad, Herat appeared tranquil, but the calm did not
seem likely
to last for long. As in Iran, reports traveled quickly by word of mouth.
It was said that an uprising in the bazaar in Kandahar had been put down
by an air strike and that Russian pilots had participated in the raid
(and perhaps in the April coup as well). It was also said that the
mujaheddin guerrillas were attacking buses in various points of the
country.
Still another report maintained that the Khalqis had expelled UN
archeologists from the site of a 15th century madreseh (school) near
Herat to discourage Westerners from staying around for very long--and in
fact one of the Americans from Ferdowsi had earlier been tailed by the
secret police who thought that he was spending too much time in Herat.
The madreseh, which Tamerlane's imperial family had founded, was leveled
during another imperial epoch, the so-called Great Game between Britain
and Russia in the 19th century. In 1837, the Afghans were still on
friendly terms with the British. and a young officer named Eldred
Pottinger helped to defend Herat from Persian attackers egged on by the
Russians. When the Persian siege failed, the aggressors retreated to
Iran, but the madreseh was a permanent casualty: Pottinger thought it
essential that the roof be taken down to allow for a clear field of
fire. Only the minarets were standing in 1979.
On leaving Herat for Kabul, I wanted to see as much of the
countryside as I could in daylight, and so I opted to break the long bus ride with
an overnight stay in Kandahar. The hotel I found there was comfortable and
had delicious food as well. After dinner I heard music down the hall and
went to listen. Afghan folk musicians were performing at a reception
hosted by the Governor of Kandahar Province. Along with Afghan Khalqis
and some Sikhs (who were probably leading merchants in Kandahar) were
assorted guests from Eastern Europe. The vodka was certainly flowing.
The Governor, a young bearded fellow in a three-piece suit, proved unsteady
on his feet: after falling, he had to be helped up. When the music
ended, the Governor launched into a speech in Dari. While he drunkenly slurred
along, I was surprised to find how much I understood even though my Dari
was not very good. The reason was obvious. The slogans the Governor
strung together consisted largely of the Marxist-Leninist vocabulary
available in many European languages including English, French, and
Russian: imperialist, capitalist, proletarian, and the like. It seemed
all the clearer why the reception was guarded by a well armed security
detachment: few ordinary Afghans would understand the Governor's
foreign sounding claptrap, much less approve of his drinking. As he
ranted on, his rhetoric grew more vitriolic: prominent among the enemies
he denounced was, of course, the USA. The head of the security unit, who
had earlier invited me to listen to the music, started to look nervous,
eyeing me and probably thinking that I might understand too much of a
speech not intended for the ears of Westerners. He went over and
whispered to the proprietor of the hotel, who then came over. The owner
said that I looked tired after a long day of traveling and that I might
want to retire for the evening. The hint was clear, but I played along,
asking if there would be any more music. "No more music," he replied. I
was glad to be able to make an exit-albeit that the music did indeed
start again later. I also felt relieved that no one had offered me a
drink.
The next morning, I continued on my way to Kabul. More snow
appeared in the higher elevations, and by the side of the road were the skeletons of
wrecked buses. The rough weather made me think of highway accidents, but
I still wonder if any of the buses had been attacked by guerrillas. In
Kabul, I stayed one night at a fairly dreary hotel, the same one, I
believe, where a couple of months later the US ambassador Spike Dubbs
was taken by kidnappers and killed during a shoot out in very murky
circumstances. Although that incident had not yet come to pass, there
was a distinct tension in the air. My own paranoia had increased after the
night in Kandahar, and when I moved into another hotel the next day, I
met up with colleagues from Ferdowsi and heard yet more reports,
including stories of buses being attacked. As much as I wanted to go to
Jalalabad to see some Buddhist shrines, it did not seem safe-despite
some half-hearted assurances from an official at the tourist office. Even
with the palpable tension, though, there was a certain unreality to the new
regime. The curfew nominally in force was easy enough to break, as I
found when I went to a well known Indian restaurant which was open,
strange to say, despite the curfew (with me as the only customer). I
have wondered whether the militiamen in the streets thought I was a Russian
and somehow exempt from the curfew. If so, I might have been in greater
danger from Afghan civilians whose resentment of Soviet influence was
growing by the day.
On my final morning in Kabul, I looked out the hotel window and
saw an everyday sight, yet something I have not observed since: a turbaned man
with his camel plodding along on a city street. A stock image, perhaps,
but also a reminder of how Afghans had managed to travel for centuries.
On the way to the airport, a more modern and grim image appeared: a
Soviet tank on a pedestal. At the airport, the security checks showed
how tightly the Khalq regime sought to control comings and goings, with
Afghans having the most to worry about at the checkpoints. Holding an
American passport, I found it fairly easy to get through the
checks, and a personage from Russian television seemed able to come and
go with no difficulty. As the Paris bound plane I was on, took off, I
felt a tremendous relief, albeit with a melancholy sense that there were
probably many Afghans who wished they could also escape. My last views
of Afghanistan were the snow-capped peaks of the Hindu Kush. Amazingly,
there were houses several thousands feet up on the slopes of some of the
mountains. What hardy people must live at such high altitudes, I
thought.
People not easily conquered.
As 1979 went by, the tremors in Afghanistan grew ever stronger.
The
Dubbs murder suggested that the Khalq government was either unwilling or
unable to have stable relations with the West. Around the same time, a
bloody uprising took place in Herat, with Heratis looking for-and
finding--Russians to torture and kill. Before the year ended, power had
slipped away from the Khalq regime and replaced by its Communist
rival, the Parchem faction, massively supported by the Soviets in their
full scale invasion of Afghanistan in December of 1979. That support did
not, of course, change the outcome of the Afghan War, which had started
with popular resistance to the Khalqis. However, the victory of the
resistance came at a horrific price. It saddens me greatly to compare
the
pictures I took in Herat in 1979 with a photo in the October, 1993
National Geographic Magazine showing much of the same city in ruins. And
more
depressing still is the fact that the Communist collapse in 1992 has not
meant an end to the warfare in Afghanistan. The fire and poisons that
began erupting twenty years ago have yet to subside.
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