The First Slap of War:
An Uncompleted Tour of My Homeland

Samangan Province
[Photo courtesy of Department of Geology & Exploration, Kabul Polytechnic Institute]
"A view of a stream in the northern province of Samangan."


By Daud Saba
Oct.-Dec. 1999
Lemar-Aftaab

The last midterm exam was over heralding the summer vacations. We were out from school, Lycee Naderia, in Karta-e Parwan, rushing home. The baking sun of July hung over Kabul's blue sky. The gleaming hot and dry air at the foothill of Mount Aasmaei seemed to be still, bringing every pedestrian to the brink of exhaustion. But for my cousin Zalmai and I, these were moments to re-examine our strength and determination and test our endurance in the harsh arid summer of Afghanistan. For us, passing the last midterm exams was a great accomplishment worth celebrating. It was a time of jubilance and preparation for a journey that we dreamt for almost a year. We walked joyfully for some twenty minutes to the bus stop in Shahr-e-Ara and waited for a long time for the bus to arrive. In that busy station, somehow we managed to hang on to an overcrowded blue Tata Milibus and headed home-- a routine we had every school day.

By the time we arrived home, it was two o'clock. Escaping from the noon's heat, every one seemed to be resting in the cool basement of our Khair Khana house.

"Let's not waste the time, we have a good opportunity to discuss the details of the trip right now," I said.

"Yes. We have to plan carefully to fulfill our dream. But I am not sure whether our parents will let us go," replied Zalmai.

The most difficult task for us was to convince my parents to give me permission. If I could go, Zalmai would perhaps be allowed to join me. We began preparing ourselves to convince my parents to let us materialize our dream.

After a nap, when everyone was up and refreshed, we decided to inform my parents of our cross- country trip to be started in two days. Our request was like dynamite, igniting the unbearable opposition of my parents.

"Are you guys crazy for choosing this hot season for such a stupid trip? What does it mean to see the country? Haven't you been in the villages in Herat? They are all the same, everywhere," my mother continuously recited.

My father started, "Summer time is an extremely inappropriate season for any kind of trip in Afghanistan. Besides, there are news of armed attacks and looting of buses, traveling in the country. I believe you guys are too young and inexperienced for such an adventure. If you are asking for my permission, I do not permit you."

While we were numbed by his long boring speech, he emphasized his objection by saying, "The rest is your own responsibility."

He left the room to join the collective prayers in the mosque. We looked at each other in resentment for not being able to argue at all.

"But we were not allowed to intervene while they were talking to us!" I explained.

"Forget about it. It is always the same," Zalmai replied.

But fortunately, the tough experience of hearing my parent's objections was over. After a brief discussion, we decided to prepare everything and then inform our parents of the trip. We knew they would not be happy with our plan, but they would not impose their decisions on us, either. We were extremely annoyed by my parent's objection. To rebel, we quietly sneaked into my room and started to chat about the plan and reached a decision.

Zalmai returned home. Fortunately, the next morning, my mother told me that they were only worried about our well-being, and if we were so keen on the trip, we could go only up to Herat, and return from there by air. I immediately informed Zalmai of the good news. Our determination seemed to have worked.

On Monday the 18th of July 1979 (28th Saratan, 1358 H.S.), at dawn, we quietly packed our bags and ran out of the house. The morning breeze from the north was refreshing our jubilant minds with the aroma of wild shrubs from the nearby Khair Khana Mountains. At the bus stop close to our house, we took a cab to Sara-e Shamali, where we boarded a minibus to Chaikar.

At around ten o'clock in the morning, we were passing the scenic vineyards of the Kohdaman Valley and enjoying the freshly hand picked grapes in the town of Saraye Khoja. We were in a chaikhana (tea house) in down town Charikar to have grapes and fresh panir (cheese) with green tea. We did not have any detailed or large-scale tourist map and travel routes of the area. The only map we had was a very attractive tourist map of Afghanistan with many scenic pictures of the country, published by Afghan Tour Agency at a very small scale. So we had to depend on the locals for information. We asked the tea house owner about the major attractions of Charikar.

After an hour of sight seeing and purchasing the very famous Charikari hand made knives (the Afghan version of the Swiss army knife), we took a truck to Ophiane-Sharif, a pilgrimage site a few kilometers to the northwest of Charikar, overlooking the vast Shamali Valley and Jabal-o-Saraj. By the time we arrived there, we were very tired. But, it was an unforgettable site seeing of the country we had seen for the first time.

Knowing we were outsiders, locals were very kind and generous towards us. Resting under the shade of an old wall nut tree, we chatted for a while with an old shoemaker. From that vantage point, under the afternoon's bright sun, the greenery of the valley and the intermittent glow of the water channels at the foothills of Shamali were a very fascinating scene.

After having a refreshing snack of fruits and nuts, we took a small four-wheel truck to Jabal-o-Saraj, a town at the mouth of the Salang Pass to the south. By the time we reached Jabal-o-Saraj, the sun made its way to the west over the mighty Hindu Kush, running North-South in this region.

Under the gloomy shadows of the mountains, the muddy walls in the town were sleeping into the silence that was broken only by the grumbling arrivals of few lorries (trucks) from either directions of the highway to spend the night there.

The earth-fresh scented cool breeze from the Salang was revitalizing. Tired and thrilled, after a long day outdoors, we took refuge on a small red rug, covering part of the only bench of the small samawar facing the highway. The appetizing aroma of kabab mixed with the smoke was filling the interior of the samawar with a perfect warming effect. Enjoying the kabab, we asked for some hot green tea and soon we were asleep under our shawls.

At dawn the next day, with the change of the light, the whole scenery looked different. Stepping out, we appreciated the mightiness and the beauty of the Hindu Kush, welcoming the first golden messengers of the sun for their illumination of the silvery bright blue shades of the great mountains hanging over the muddy town. Back in the Samawar, we asked for hot milk, kishmish panir (sun-dried raisin and cheese) and freshly baked naan (hot bread) for breakfast. Having had a tasty breakfast, we were ready to move forward and continue our journey up towards the snowy peaks of the Salang Pass.

Leaving behind the town of Jabal-o-Saraj, we were entering the beautiful valley of southern Salang, embracing a system of winding and bending tunnels and passages to create a serpentine impression meandering into the unforeseeable twists of the valley. Aboard a Russian made pick-up truck, heading towards Pul-e Khumri, we were constantly looking at the changing scenery and the breathtaking beauty of the Salang gorge. The mode of transportation with its slow traveling speed and frequent stops provided us with a better opportunity to enjoy the nature along the way. The fabulous scenery of the valley was creating a completely new perception of our country. Frequent stops made by our vehicle to cool off the engine gave us every chance to jump out of the truck and get in touch with the unspoiled nature of the valley, creating unforgettable memories for both of us.

Khinjan, a beautiful village at the foot of the Salang Pass greeted us with fresh "toot" (mulberries) and cool water and an unforgettable overlook at the southern valley of the Salang. The broad leafs and garden fresh aroma of alpine weeds growing along the highway and at the foot of the valley was quite fascinating. Truly, they were not weeds but beautiful flowers grown by Mother Nature in the wrong place! We could hardly spot any one around. The few residents of the Khinjan village might have been busy doing their own chores. Imagining the chilling winter of this village, we were surprised with the stamina of these people and their strive for survival in such a harsh and inhospitable environment.

Land is extremely scarce in Khinjan, as is the case in most valleys in the Hindu Kush. All that is available to work on is the narrow strips of steppes at the foothills covered with a thin layer of poor sandy soil, which could be cultivated during the short summer time. A few mulberry trees on the steep slopes of the mountains below the snow line are the luxurious elements of life here. Later in life, I got acquainted with some locals of the area and found out that the people were indeed very poor, but real survivors among Afghans to be proud of.

While we were enjoying the drive over the meandering root along the edges of the hanging Salang valley, our vehicle was struggling hard to overcome the challenges of the beholding forces of the Salang Pass. After an hour we were at the mouth of the highest tunnel of the world, the Salang Tunnel. Here, we had ten minutes to look down at the valley behind us and once more see the winding highway running down the slopes like a thriving snake to the bottoms of the deep gorge. The noise of the cool wind gusting through the tunnel emphasized the power and greatness of the pass. The azure-blue sky and the sparkling silvery snow cover on the slopes of the bluish-gray mountain peaks created a soul-freeing mood in us. In those short moments, to our eyes, the soothing warmth of the golden sunrays pouring on the snow sprinkled granites enhanced the beauty and majestic grandiose of the Salang Pass to an unsurpassed quality.

Entering the dark and cold tunnel, we were occasionally faced with the lack of oxygen resulting from poor ventilation, which in later years caused many passengers to suffocate to death. The freezing water oozing through the ceilings, smog and poor illumination of the tunnel was a big disappointment for us. Thankfully, our pick-up truck made its way out of the lengthy dark tunnel with no technical problems or any sign of illness in us. Seeing the blue sky and the blinding sun reflections of the snow covered mountains north of the tunnel was a sigh of relief for us and a few other passengers of the pick-up truck. Right in front of our eyes, another window was opening to unfold the cascading beauty of a country we had not seen before.

Standing at the northern entrance of the tunnel, we were overlooking the northern valley of the Salang Pass, winding its way through a narrow gorge towards Dushi. At this lookout, every one had a sip of the vivid cold and gaseous water rushing towards us from the top glaciers through a narrow stream on its way to the bottom of the valley to join the Salang river.

Water so cold that we could not retain our hands for more than a minute in it. Looking overhead, I was amazed at how we were close to the peak of the mountain that accommodates the main tunnel. At the same lookout, facing north and to our right we were seeing a beautiful lush-green U shaped valley, formed by recent glaciers in the Hindu Kush. For an adventurous student of Glaciology in Afghanistan, those valleys would be the most interesting objects to investigate. However, today I don't know how densely the area is laced with mines and other explosives. Would my generation be able to walk into those valleys without the fear of loosing a leg?

Passing through the cool gorge of the North Salang valley, our next stop was the pistachio green valley of Dushi, a tranquil valley of velvet green rice fields and multiple water channels. Though it was not more than half an hour we halted there, the pleasant memories of the peaceful valley created in me a desire to return. I was back in Dushi twice in later years, but that was after the devastating war. Now it is a dream of mine to be there and roam around with peace of mind and the freedom of a traveler in my own country, a right that my generation lost for an unforeseeable time to come.

It was almost noon when we headed towards Pul-e Khumri. Passing from the outskirts of the Dashte Kelagai, we were looking at the very familiar environmental features, the hot and dry deserts we visited many times on our frequent trips along the highway between Herat and Kabul. Traditionally in Afghanistan, little attention is paid to the nature of deserts in comparison to any other geographical feature. This is true for government circles as well as public. I recall how little we were taught on deserts in general and on deserts of Afghanistan in particular in school.

Presently, I think other than our Kuchis (nomads) who criss-cross these regions frequently, no one else is really aware of these vast parts of our country. What kind of animals live there and what kind of vegetation is out there? Generally speaking, no scientific data exists on our deserts other than some speculative work in the geology of these entities. There is a potent source of natural wealth and richness in our deserts that we Afghans should explore by ourselves. So, in our journey we complied with the traditions and did not pay any attention to this beautiful piece of the land we were traveling through. At around two o'clock in the afternoon, we were in the town of Pul-e Khumri to stay overnight.

If I had a choice to live in my own country, I would have lived many years of my life in Pule-Khumri. This was the first lively and green town I saw in Afghanistan. It is located in a comparatively narrow valley of Pul-e Khumri, walled from the east by a beautiful blue mountain chain and from the west by a continuous chain of hills, called Dahana-e Ghori. Nature provided everything necessary to live a comfortable life here: a town right at the cross road of all northern provinces of the country, plenty of running water right at the middle of the valley, which has been cleverly exploited for power production and irrigation, plenty of lime and clay at the same geological setting for cement production, plenty of coal just ten kilometers from the town and a very welcoming and cultured people.

In such an atmosphere, business was booming, food markets were full of commodities and seasonal fruits and vegetables. Happy faces were seen in every corner of the town. We enjoyed the rest of the day roaming in the bazaars, feasting on figs and melons and looking for unusual things we had not seen before. For the night, we had already reserved a room in a modest lodge in the core of downtown. The only disturbance we got was from the mosquitoes; otherwise, it was the most pleasant part of our journey.

Unfortunately, in recent years, the over development of the resources without an appropriate planning followed by fighting devastated the beauty and harmony of the nature and the natives' lives in the town. It was later in 1993, that I spent two months in Pul-e Khumri and witnessed how the nature had been devastated in the region.

Next morning, at around nine o'clock, we boarded a minibus to Mazar-e Sharif. Although it was a beautiful and pleasant part of the trip, it was not as rewarding as the previous sections. We were more tired, and the bus was traveling at a higher speed. Other than Tangi-e Tashqurghan where we halted to shop for local figs, which the town is famous for, we did not stop at any other location. Besides the aromatic fresh figs of the valley, Tangi was the most fascinating scenery on our way: overhanging cliffs forming a narrow gorge, cut through the brick red mountains by a vivid water channel, suddenly opens to a wide green valley of orchards and gardens named Tashqurghan. Exploring the grandiose and beauty of this valley required at least few days that we could not afford at that point.

After the heavy feast of fresh figs at the roadside, we were back onboard the minibus heading towards Mazar-e Sharif. Soon we were in Chashma-e Shir, a beautiful steppe of rice fields on both sides of the highway. By this time, it was peak noon. The weather was very dry and hot and we were almost worn out. Occasionally, we would look outside through the windows of our bus to hunt for attractions, hoping to reach Mazar-e Sharif for a cool place to rest and prepare ourselves for the more challenging trip to Faryab via Jozjan and subsequently Badghis and Herat. At around two o'clock, we were received in Mazar-e-Sharif by a family friend and went to Dehdadi, a suburb to the west of the city.

We spent two more days in Mazar-e Sharif, visiting the beautiful blue green jewel of the city, the Shrine of Hazrat Ali at the center of downtown; surrounded by shops and crowded restaurants from all four sides, creating a rectangular plan. We were very interested in visiting the ruins of Balkh, the most ancient city of Central Asia, twenty kilometers to the northwest of Mazar-e Sharif. But rumors of rebel uprisings made us think twice and listen to the locals' advice.

Thus, we canceled our trip to Balkh and booked our tickets directly to Sheberghan, the center of Jozjan province. Besides the kindness, hospitality and warm reception of our Mazari people, the unforgettable memory I have from Mazar-e Sharif is the interesting habit of the people in the bazaar; of the way they guide strangers to the unknown directions and corners of the city if asked. For them, everywhere one asks is "just over there", creating a sense of closeness and short distance to the destination. Before we got used to this, we were frustrated in not reaching the places we expected to be in two to tree minutes, as they promised us.

Next morning, we were on board a bus to Jozjan, sitting right behind the driver's seat to see the best of the scenic journey. We were happily chatting on different fantasies to be materialized on our way. At least we were close to the wildest part of our journey; the rough dirt roads crossing deserts and mountainous terrain of the Band-e Turkistan in Faryab and Badghis provinces leading to Heart; but we never thought of another wild scenario to happen. Departing from Mazar-e Sharif, initially everything was going quite well. Seemingly, there weren't any recent incidence of sabotage on the highway from Mazar-e Sharif to Sheberghan about which any one could inform us. But, we were unlucky enough to get the first slaps of the war.

After more than two hours drive from Mazar-e Sharif, by the vicinity of Aaghcha District, it seemed that two locals were standing on the road to hitch hike. As the bus approached them and came to a near halt, one of them signaled with his hand for their other four companions to rise from a ditch a few meters from the roadside. Suddenly the picture changed. Seeing their rifles every one started to panic, including the driver. We two were shocked! They ambushed the bus as soon as the agitated driver brought the bus to a full stop.

Two of the men got into the bus, searching under the seats, then started searching some of the passengers and continued working their way from the back to the front of the bus. Before the searching team of two reached our seat, the man standing at the door with a seemingly old pistol in his right hand, turned his face towards us and asked who we are and where we are heading.

Are we "maktabis" (students)? We were scared to death. We had heard a few stories of this kind, but had not seen them with our eyes. We were too shunned to reply, so the guy suddenly started to slap my cousin's face, who was sitting closer to him at the isle.

"You bad". Shouted the man. And then pulled himself towards me and slapped me a few times. Fortunately, an elderly sitting behind us stood up and interfered. Grabbing his hand, he politely asked him to spare us from more penalties at this time and the stranger did so! What happened in the back seats, we didn't see. As we were spared from our penalty, we realized that the passengers had already collected some donations for the cause of "jihad" and we of course put our share in it. This happened very quickly and they rushed out of the bus with the money in their pockets. In a few minutes, they vanished behind the bushes and our bus took us to the end of our journey to the town of Sheberghan. We arrived exhausted and fearful, while being received by a relative of Zalmai.

We couldn't understand what had happened at that time. Later, I found that those kinds of incidents were a routine fear-mongering tactic of the rebels to get a ground and sabotage the normalcy of the highways' traffic, successfully. In a few months, all the highways of the country were in their control and traffic had to be guarded by military convoys. Unfortunately in this process, many poor and ordinary people who could not afford air transportation lost their lives and were victimized by these tactics. The normal life of Afghans was in disarray and the country was engaged in a full-fledged war and chaos. We spent two weeks in Sheberghan. Accompanied by a relative working with the Afghan Gas Corp., we mainly visited the oil and gas wells and development projects run by the government. Here I became interested in the earth sciences and became aware of its importance for our country. We toured many times to well sites and on the way became acquainted with the beauty of Dasht-e Laili's dunes and brackens and sand-blowing winds.

We had many interactions with the locals and found them very kind and helpful. It was the season of melons, but we had our feast on other fruits like grapes, apples, pears, and peaches, as well. Busy seeing the growing Sheberghan's city and suburbs, two weeks passed and we had to prepare ourselves for a flight to Kabul and leave our uncompleted journey to be completed in the unknown future-- a time that has not come yet!

Author's Notes:
  1. Later in life, I met many people from this Tashqurghan and established everlasting friendships with them. I found of all other Afghans, these people were extraordinarily friendly and kind, and at the same time, hard workers. One of those friends is Dr. Toora, son of a peasant farmer from Tashqurghan, who is now an internationally known microbiologist with multiple inventions in microbiology; he is a friend and a passionate countryman that always inspires me and makes me hopeful for a brighter future for our country.
  2. It was 1993 when I again visited Mazar-e Sharif. A time when many Kabulis took refuge there to save their lives form the blind bombing of Kabul by Mujahedin factions. Unfortunately, this time I was faced with a brutal and harsh reaction from a few residents of Mazar-e Sharif who saw us as refugees. A resident personally abused me as " Kabuli refugee" who allegedly "made his life more expensive and his city smaller for him to live." I was shocked and could not believe my own ears. I was visiting a friend who moved there with his family from Kabul two months earlier, and experienced the same kind of behavior in that period. It was very sad to see the kind of a mood was imposed on the soft spoken and kind people of Mazar-e Sharif by the harsh economic conditions and heavy military presence of uncontrolled militia in the city, promoting a false sense of power over others. No offense is meant towards any of my beloved countrymen, specially, Mazaries, whom I admire for their "Ayari". I wanted to express a fact about the change of mood from a friendly and soft one to a harsh and unfriendly one, promoted by warmongers in our land in the past ten years. Unfortunately, this is a phenomenon all over our country hurting our people's feelings, everyday. This is a reality. We should have the courage to face it and to cure it!
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About the Author: Daud Saba

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