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(The companion photo essay and videoclips to this story can be found here .)
I could hear Kabul, the cacophony of car horns, traffic cops yelling through bull horns, screeches, engines.
But I could not see Kabul. I could not feel Kabul.
I was sitting in the courtyard of the Serena Hotel under a pine tree. The padded outdoor chair was comfortable. The view of the rose bushes and manicured lawn was delightful.
Inside, the hotel was truly five-star quality. Quite possibly one of the finest hotels I have ever been in and the best I have ever stayed the night in.
The food was safe for even the most delicate westerners. The linens were clean. The thick terry cloth robe and slippers were perfect.
I was in a bubble. A bubble many westerners find themselves in. They live in compounds or FOBs or fine hotels. They move about the city behind tinted bullet proof glass.
They are floating above Kabul, not in Kabul. I was at the Serena to bring a little Kabul and Afghanistan into the bubble and film some of the goings on inside the bubble.
The preferred vehicle to float above Kabul in is the armored Land Cruiser .
The parking lots of the major hotels--Serena, Safi, Intercontinental--are filled with them and former British Paratroopers, SAS, US Rangers and Special Forces who ride shotgun in them.
US Soldiers can spend a lot of time in the bubble--in MRAPS. In Iraq, it took a deliberate effort from some officers to get their troops out of the bubble and out on their feet where they could gather intel, interact with the people and actually provide security to the population.
Lt. Colonel Scott Cunningham of the 1-221 Cav. made an astute point to me a few weeks ago about the bubble.
He said, if you cannot provide security to the population from
behind two-inches of ballistic glass. If you are not going to get out
of the MRAP, you might as well not leave the FOB. If you are not going
to leave the FOB, you might as well not even be in Afghanistan.
The same applies to many people in bubble. Since they never interact
with Kabul, since they live inside compounds or fortress like hotels
and move about behind plates of steel and glass--is their presence in
Kabul really necessary?
Those in the bubble, do not always choose it—it is forced upon them by
the terms of a contract, grant or insurance policy. This was case for
the person who brought me in on the mission of bringing a little
Afghanistan and Kabul inside the bubble.
My friend TB set me up with the gig, working with an elections monitoring group to shoot video.
TB used to be a writer for a weekly news magazine and would run around
Iraq old school--in Haji Mohammed's beat up Caprice Classic or General
Maza's old Range Rover. He would sit in on meetings of insurgents, run
around with infantry units in Tikrit and live the life fantastic.
He was called by his initials TB, because working with him could be
just as dangerous as the disease—he would do things like drive from
Baghdad to Tikrit in a Toyota Corolla.
Now TB is a Non-Governmental Organization fobbit, holed up in a
five-star hotel summarizing reports from people who ostensibly are in
the field, but are still in bubbles.
To make it worse, his wife works for the same NGO and they have a room together at the five-star hotel.
If it was up to TB, he would not be in the bubble.
When I first hit Afghanistan a few weeks ago my plan had been to embed
with coalition forces in the eastern provinces around Nangarhar.
Upon learning TB was in Afghanistan, I stopped in at the
Intercontinental Hotel, where the group he was working for rented an
entire floor and set up shop.
Over lunch he told me what he was doing and asked if I would be able to shoot some video and do some consulting for the NGO.
After a week with the soldiers in the Alinshang and Alingar river
valleys of Laghamn province, I got an email from TB telling me to get
to Jalalabad--specifically to a guest house called the Taj.
The security situation in Afghanistan is such that the funding
organizations and insurance companies put the staff of TB's employer in
a bubble. The upper level delegation of retired politicians,
ambassadors and foreign ministers was in an even tighter bubble of
thick, blast-proof Lexan.
The delegates were never going to get out of the bubble to see the real
Afghanistan and the real Kabul. There were not going to be able to
even cross deck into the bubbles of the long term NGO staff in
Jalalabad or Herat, for in-person assessments.
So TB arranged for me to be hired to bring Afghanistan, the staff in
outlying provinces and Kabul to them in a video presentation.
But mostly he hired me because I would bring them the real Kabul beyond
the bubble. Kabul as seen when standing on your own two feet and from
taxi cab, interviews with random Afghans without having a team of
personal protection officers with guns hovering around.
I was also tasked with filming the work of the upper level delegation for training and educational purposes.
And there I found myself surrounded by names I first became acquainted
with in youth. A network news reporter turned diplomat. A former
presidential candidate. The rest of the delegation would be
recognizable to Canadians and Irish.
They were all accomplished, intelligent and insightful people. And
some of them had no idea how to put on body armor. They were required
to wear SAPI plates when in the vehicles and were absolutely befuddled by them.
"Your body armor looks different than ours," a woman who works with the organization said.
"Because I own it."
The idea of owning your own body armor seemed foreign to her. This was
her second time in Afghanistan, but everything is pre-prepped for her
by the security/logistics company.
People in the bubble are met in the airport terminal by security, handed body armor and hustled into an armored Land Cruiser.
I was now in that kind of bubble.
The delegation rode from the Serena Hotel in a convoy of shiny and clean armored Land Cruisers to another guarded compound.
Once inside the destination compound, the bodyguards opened the doors
and let them out. They struggled out of the armor and into the large
villa where they were given a brief by the staff that worked in
Afghanistan, in compound, nearly full time.
After the briefings they finally got to meet some real Afghans.
A group of candidates for Provincial Council was brought in for a
one-hour round-table Q&A. The questions came from the westerners,
the answers from the Afghans.
They ranged from security while campaigning, to how nearly everyone
could be an independent, to what the PC members could do to thwart the
Taliban.
The Q&A was cut off at the appointed time so the delegation could
go to another part of the villa to have lunch with some Afghan election
bureaucrats.
An hour and fifteen minutes later they were struggling with the body
armor again, back in armored SUVs and rolling to the five star hotel.
That trip to the organization's Afghanistan compound was the
delegation’s only trip out of the hotel to meet Afghans. If the
delegates had their way, they would have spent more time out and
around, but the dictates of the insurance company mandated the bubble,
which made my work much more relevant.
ULTRA LOW PROFILE
At the opposite end of the spectrum from the bubble is another type of
security when traveling in a high risk environment. The bubble is all
about being hardened enough to survive and attack. My preferred
approach is avoid the possibility of attack all together.
Kabul is usually the safest place in Afghanistan and normally I would
not worry too much about being out in the streets, but in the weeks
leading up to the election the threat environment was higher, so I
stepped up my precautions to match the threat level and avoid the
threats.
The streets of the cities of Afghanistan are teaming with cars,
motorcycles and taxi cabs. The sidewalks are filled with pedestrians.
It is flowing mass of movement.
I prefer to blend in with that flowing mass and use it as concealment.
The armored Land Cruiser stands out. It is above the people. It is an
obvious target—a hard to penetrate target, but still an obvious target.
The Serena Hotel is five-star fortress. The people staying there are
obviously important and obviously worthy targets for kidnapping,
killing or a bombing. Which is why in January of 2008, the Taliban attacked the Serena .
An expensive five-star hotel and armored vehicles are a great big sign
that says high-profile target. Eventually, high profile targets are
going to get hit.
A lot of western reporters and others working in Iraq and Afghanistan travel low-profile.
A typical low-profile travel package in Afghanistan is an unarmored, well worn Toyota 4 Runner or Hilux pickup truck
, an expat personal protection officer usually drawn from the British
SAS or paratroopers carrying a pistol and AK and a local driver trained
by the security company.
When going low profile, door to door service is common and the client often wears body armor under baggy clothes.
Low-profile is safer than one would imagine because it reduces the
likely hood of being targeted. The trade off though is that if you are
attacked, you are in a soft skin vehicle. The primary defense is speed
and anonymity.
For the mission I was hired to do, bring the real Kabul inside the
bubble, I went one step further--ultra low profile. No weapons, no
body armor, no personal protection officer. I traveled by taxi cab and
on foot. Fast, anonymous and very low to the ground in the mass of
cars and crowds.
The first phase of moving ultra low profile around a place like Kabul
is getting into the mass of movement seamlessly, or the walk away.
The Serena has a horrible walk away. A person steps out of the
fortress and into a vehicle security lane then onto a sidewalk or the
street. Across the street is park where spotters could be stationed
with cell phones.
A person walking out the front or even side doors of the Serena might as well be wearing a sign that says “rich westerner”.
The Intercontinental Hotel with its lack of walls and multiple on-foot exit points has some ideal walk away points.
The Intercontinental was Kabul’s first modern luxury hotel. Built in
1969, it sits on a hill with commanding views of the city looking east
and west. It was the home of spys in the 1970’s, Soviet Officers in
the 80’s, a fighting position for various groups in the 90’s and now a
mix of journalists and working NGO’s.
At one time the Intercontinental was a swank and swinging place
complete with a disco on the top floor. But it has long since gone to
seed. On some floors it resembles a Ramada Inn that has gone so far
into disrepair that it lost its franchise license. My room had the
original 1969 furnishings.
The Intercon is used by Afghans as a meeting place. Political
operators, former Mujahadin Commanders and shady characters of all
stripe drifted through in the weeks leading up to the election.
Families rent the ballrooms for parties and weddings. Political
parties hold gatherings and press events in the ballrooms as well.
It also has the advantage of being located next to a public park that is accessible from the grounds of the hotel.
When emerging on the street and hailing a taxi on the busy street at
the base of the hill, no one can be sure exactly who you are or where
you came from. That moment of uncertainty is key. If a spotter is
looking for someone, they will not be able to dispatch a tracker or
attacker immediately with certainty. I used that uncertainty to my
advantage by emerging from the park and jumping in the first taxi I
could. Once in the taxi and in the flow of traffic and movement it is
all but impossible to keep track of a person.
Low profile is all about those extra seconds. Up close it is obvious I
am a westerner. But with a shirt bought at a market, wearing
fashionable jeans, a baseball cap and with a few days growth of beard,
I look, from a distance, like a really large ginger Afghan.
Afghanistan has been invaded so many times the gene pool of past armies
is still visible. There are enough blond, sandy brown and ginger
Afghans left over from the British and Soviet armies that a tall
light-skinned, reddish bearded Afghan is not uncommon.
A tall, light-skinned, reddish bearded Afghan with a 54-inch chest
though is uncommon. And up close, my face is obviously
northern-european. And I do not move like an Afghan.
But from the walk away of the Intercontinental, I blend in just
enough. Once I’m in a cab and on the streets—in the flow of cars and
people, I’m moving too fast and too low to be tracked. I further throw
off any tracking attempts by switching shirts and taking off or putting
on a baseball cap.
A kidnapping, bombing or other attack is usually a planned operation.
By blending in, moving fast and with no pre-planned route, it makes it
difficult for a would be assailant to execute a plan. The subtle
changes from a white shirt to a blue shirt, baseball cap, no cap make
cell phone description tracking even more difficult—giving me extra
seconds.
With the threat of a planned attack reduced the only remaining threat
is randomness—being in the wrong place at wrong time when a bomb goes
off—or random opportunity.
The only mitigation to that is SA or situational awareness and an exfil plan.
One of the last things you want to do on the streets is hook and jab
with an attacker. The better option is to shove and run or trach punch
and run. The best option is to see what is coming, change directions
and flee into the most crowded place you can, squirt out of the crowd,
dive into a taxi cab, throw some money at the driver, change shirts,
put distance between you and the threat.
To see what is coming I work surveillance detection routes or SDRs.
The heart of the SDR is around the corner double back. If you are
walking, pick up the pace a bit halfway down a block, round the corner,
pause, scan, then reverse course back around the corner, pause scan.
Did anyone else change directions with you? If so exfil because they
could be tracking you.
This is what H-JD, my fixer/interpreter did on our ultra-low-profile
filming trips into Kabul. Of course the ace up my sleeve was H-JD who
spent the past few years working as an interpreter with US Special
Forces. After so many years working with and around operators, he’s
practically SF qualified and his SA of the streets of Kabul is
unparalleled. If it doesn’t fit, he will sense it way before me.
And if he was calm in what would appear to be a dangerous situation, I
knew I was safe. Which is why the only worry I had when pressed in by
a crowd of day laborers was from pick pockets.
KHOTI GAR
Every morning and all day long they gather around a traffic circle in a dusty crumbling section of Kabul.
They are bottom rung of Kabul—day laborers looking to earn a few
Afghani. A really good day’s wage for them would be 250 Af, or about
$5 US dollars.
About 75 of them were milling around the main traffic circle at the Khoti Gar market area.
Vendors were selling vegetables, butchers had freshly skinned lamb
hanging from hooks in the open air, phone card guys walked along the
road.
In Afghanistan the retail somehow fell into a Hayekian order. Car
parts and tools are sold on one street. Business office supplies sold
on another street. All the printing shops are on another street.
Khoti Gar was mainly food. The traffic circle is where one would go to
hire cheap workers to move shovels of dirt and rocks for a day. We
were there to ask the day laborers about the elections.
TB had given me a list of questions those trapped in the bubble were
likely to ask. The interviews were pure man on the street. H-JD and I
worked through the precise phrasing to make sure very little would be
lost in the translation. This is where an interpreter like H-JD is
very important.
H-JD spent nearly five years working with US Special Forces teams. Not
only does he speak United States English colloquially and with very
little accent, he understands the western mindset.
When an American asks, “Do you think your vote will count?” A straight
interpretation into Dari or Pashto will ask something closer to “Do you
think your voted will be counted?” In the western world, the question
“Do you think your vote will count?” is shorthand for “Do you think
your vote will matter?”
H-JD picks up on that, and asks clarifying questions to ensure the
intent behind the question is part of the translation. These nuances
make H-JD one of the most sought after fixer/interpreters in Kabul.
In our interviews H-JD tested the phrasing. Just as he anticipated,
many people were confident their individual vote would be counted, but
less confident their vote would actually matter.
In Khoti Gar, the distinction was important as the day laborers pressed around us.
Westerners don’t go to Khoti Gar. They may pass through the traffic
circle on occasion, but rarely do they get out on their feet. Even
rarer is the Westerner out on his feet with a small video camera asking
questions.
Afghans are notoriously conspiratorial and skeptical. I was a
curiosity for sure, but also a cause for concern—the men were worried
about how the Taliban could target them for talking to me.
The Taliban are surely dangerous and lethal, but in the conspiracy
oriented mind of an illiterate Afghan day laborer they are an all but
omnipotent boogeyman with tentacles everywhere. And who could blame
them for thinking such, the Taliban has been able to frustrate and
stymie the United States for nearly a decade. If the Taliban and
others can thwart the power of the US, what chance does an individual
Afghan have?
The men were willing to talk. Afghans are always willing to talk but
getting them on camera took a little cajoling from H-JD. The video was
not going to be broadcast on TV, it would only be seen by a group of
Western leaders, H-JD explained. It was a difficult pitch. But we
knew if we could get one person to talk, the rest would easily follow.
The crowd pressed in on us, jostling H-JD and me. It was not
threatening or dangerous, just a cultural difference. Afghans have a
different concept of personal space than Americans. Everyone just
wanted to hear what H-JD was saying and get a look at the Westerner
with a camera.
After a few minutes the dam broke and a young man would answer our questions on camera. “Are you registered to vote?”
“Ho!” (Yes!)
“Are you going to vote?”
“Ho!” (Yes!)
It was on the next questions that we started digging into the meat of the issues.
“Do you trust the election system in Afghanistan?”
“Ho.”
The gallery of men chimed in with opinions as well.
In the western media, the man on the street interview is an orderly
operation. A cameraman and reporter set up on a street corner and
start grabbing people at random. Rarely does a crowd gather round and
join the debate. In Khoti Gar it quickly devolved into small free for
all of opinion.
The opinion expressed the most was apathy—no matter who won the election, nothing would change.
We conducted four interviews at traffic circle before we knew it was
time to move. We were drawing more and more attention. We were just
a few cell phone calls away from being an attack of opportunity.
The traffic in the circle crawled by and we stepped into the flow.
There are no traffic lights, signs or crosswalks in Kabul. There is
the occasional traffic cop in an intersection who merely offers
suggestions to the herd of cars and motorcycles. The suggestions are
mostly ignored.
Back in a cab we headed a few miles to Shar e Naw.
THE NEW CITY
There are many Afghanistans. The areas of the upper Alishang river
valley inhabited by Pashai hillmen have not changed for millennia.
Downstream 30 kilometers in Jalalabad one can buy 24-inch chrome rims
to pimp out their 4 Runner.
The same is true in Kabul.
Just a few miles from Khoti Gar is Shar e Naw, or the New City where
the day laborers are replaced with professionals wearing suits and the
vegetable carts with glass bank buildings.
Even in Shar e Naw, the businesses follow the unwritten zoning code.
Office supply stores were on one street, clothing on another and
jewelry on yet another. Computer stores sold only hardware or
software, never both.
We moved with the flow of people. In this part of Kabul people did not
stroll or meander, they walked with purpose, so we walked with purpose
occasionally ducking into a shop to ask for an interview. Our goal was
to get a cross section of this part of the city. Men who owned the
business, clerks who minded the shop and people on the street.
There were women out on the streets of Shar e Naw as well. We wanted
to try and interview at least one, but that would have to be an
interview of extreme opportunity. Even as westernized as this area is,
with pairs and trios of women wearing jeans and scarves, approaching
them would have to be delicate, in doors and out of sight.
Police were everywhere but doing little. They rode around in the backs
of pickup trucks, loitered around at corners. The only ones on foot on
the sidewalks were shopping. In front of a few office buildings and
banks security guards stood watch armed with AK-47s.
We first interviewed the owner of an office supply shop, a middle aged
man with trimmed gray beard wearing a short sleeved dress shirt and
slacks. He spoke a little English but lacked the vocabulary to express
the details of his thoughts so switched to Dari.
“Do you trust the election officials and election system?” I asked.
H-JD translated and the man leaned forward across the counter. His
answer in Dari was slow and deliberate, H-JD translated it for me in
the same manner.
“The system of elections is good. But I do not know the officials, so how can I trust them?”
I asked a follow-up that was not on the script. “Is there a person, a
person of respect who you would trust to run the election system
fairly?”
He responded without hesitation. “Ya.” No.
And that is the problem with Afghanistan in 2009, there are no credible, respected statesmen.
In the US and the west there is a stable of retired politicians,
business leaders, military officers and other public figures who led
distinguished careers and are known for their competence, fairness and
integrity. They frequently are appointed to the
bi-partisan-blue-ribbon commissions. When they agree on a final
statement it is accepted by enough people to be considered fair and
accurate.
It takes decades for those people to move up through the ranks and gain
the experience and respect required to put the stamp of approval on a
final report or proposed course of action. The British General Richard
L. Clutterbuck said it takes 30 years to stand up a civil government in
a former colony. The 30 year bench mark makes sense. The career of a
four-star General is 30 years. The career of distinguished prosecutor
or judge is 30 years. The same with police chiefs, politicians,
ambassadors and cabinet ministers.
Afghanistan has only had 8 years.
It took 30 years of war to get Afghanistan where it is now, it will
take 30 years to build the military, police and civil government.
We thanked the man for his time and moved toward New City Technology
Mall on the main thoroughfare. The glass on the shops was cleaner, the
merchandise more westernized. The sidewalk vendors selling food began
to resemble ones you would see in New York, LA or DC.
It was here that we stopped a man wearing a business suit for an
interview. He was a lawyer with a shadow beard and stylish
eyeglasses. He moved quickly through the standard questions but gave a
telling response to my last one.
“Do you think the losing candidates will accept the results of the election?”
“A real Afghan,” he said, “will accept the results and do what is best
for Afghanistan. A real Afghan will conduct himself with dignity, but
not all the candidates are real Afghans.”
Later, while having a cup of coffee and sambosa, a snack made of
vegetables wrapped in dough and deep fried, H-JD and I discussed the
notion of “real Afghans.”
THE WAY OF THE PATHANS
For centuries the words Afghan and Pashtun were interchangeable and
still are. The concept of real Afghans being Pashtuns is so strong, in
the 1968 Constitutional Loya Jirga, there was brisk debate on ensuring
that the legal definition of “Afghan” meant all citizens of within the
national borders of Afghanistan, not just Pashtuns.
Even today, Tajiks, Uzbeks, Hazara and Pashtuns will make the
distinction. Everyone may be a citizen of Afghanistan, but Tajiks,
Uzbeks and Hazaras are not Afghans, only the Pashtun are Afghans.
The only real Afghan in the presidential election is Hamid Karzai.
Abdullah, Karzai’s main rival, is half Tajik. Bashardost is Hazara.
A real Afghan would follow the Pashtunwali, the ancient code of conduct for Pashtuns, is still alive and strong.
H-JD related the story of a job he did recently on behalf of a western organization in which the Pashtunwali played a key role.
The job was working as the physical go-between during a hostage ransom
negotiation. The negotiations were handled mostly over the cell phone,
but H-JD did the face-to-face work verifying the negotiator for the
hostage takers was legitimate enough.
The first step in the negotiation was to get assurances from the
kidnappers that their western hostage would be treated as a guest and
was under the protection of the kidnappers. This placed the kidnappers
in the position of complying with the Pashtunwali—the victim would have
to be fed, cared for and protected from harm. If any harm came to the
hostage, it would be a mark against the honor of the kidnappers and
they could never be trusted again, even among their associates.
The Pashtunwali gambit worked.
Westerners often end their study of the Pashtunwali with the “eye for
eye” blood feud aspects of the code. But deeper into the layers is
basis of how these feuds are eventually resolved through Shura
(consultation) and eventually a consensus ruling by a Jirga. Accepting
the ruling of the Jirga is also part of the way of Pathans.
Accepting the results of the elections as long as there was no fraud
that would materially affect the outcome would be required by the
Pashtunwali and a real Afghan would follow the dictates of the code of
the Pathans.
Even in Shar e Naw, surrounded by glass office buildings, the Code of
the Pathans framed the thinking of a lawyer in a western style business
suit wearing stylish eye glasses.
There may be many Afghanistans and many Kabuls, but they all rest on the same foundation.
FINAL MISSION
H-JD and I made several trips around Kabul. Once the official work was over, I carried out a few errands.
As much as I enjoyed the local food, eating skewered lamb roasted over
coals, Khatakai, a delicious white mellon and mantoo, a dumpling
stuffed with meat and vegetables, I wanted some protein powder to mix
with bottled water. I also needed cash and wanted to buy my girlfriend a
locally crafted piece of jewelry.
The traffic was gridlocked so we moved on foot out of Shar e Naw to a
western style grocery store. The protein powders were prominently
displayed at the front of the store. The rest of the mart resembled a
really small super market with shelves filled with canned goods,
packaged foods and even a refrigerated dairy section.
There was even an ATM machine. My card worked just fine. The
withdrawal limit for each transaction is 5,000 Afs, or about $100 USD.
The Afs were clean and new and I made a second transaction.
I paid for the tub of whey protein and we set off toward the row of jewelry stores I spied near Shar e Naw.
I had glanced at the window displays of the jewelry stores in the New
City Mall, but the pieces looked like they came from Kuwait or Dubai.
The mall itself looks like an office building from the outside, inside
it looks and feels like middle class Kuwait—four stories of gadgets,
cell phones, jewelry and flamboyant men’s wear.
We went from shop to shop down a side street of jewelry shops and
furriers. Fur coats and jewelry were obviously allowed to mix in the
unwritten zoning code.
Afghanistan is rich in minerals, gem stones and semi precious stones.
Silver is mined in the Panjushir valley, rubies and emeralds can be
found in the eastern mountains. There is a flourishing trade in
smuggled rubies and emeralds in Nangarhar province.
I finally settled on a bracelet of silver and lapis. Lapis is a blue stone mined in Kokcha river valley of Badakhshan province.
The silver was definitely not up to the standards of the Sterling
alloy, but the Lapis had the tell-tale hair-line white fractures. The
craftsmanship was definitely Afghan.
At a few previous shops I gauged the prices on bracelets. There is no
such thing as a price tag on jewelry. It is a pure negotiation market.
I offered $40 USD. The shop keeper countered with $65. I countered with $45. He held firm at $65.
I turned and started to walk. $60.
“Ya.” No. And took another step.
“Fifty-five,” the shop keeper said.
I was almost out the door.
“Pandzos!” H-JD said, making the final offer of $50 for me. I leaned forward like I could walk at any instant and be gone.
The jeweler nodded and I stepped back in and fished my neck wallet out
from under my shirt. He put the bracelet on the counter next to a
small zipper lock bag, I handed him a crisp $50 bill. We shook hands
and he told me that my girlfriend would love such a fine piece of Afghan
jewelry.
I put the bagged bracelet in my neck wallet and shoved it back down the neckband of my shirt.
The traffic was still gridlocked. Despite the efforts of the traffic
police officer on the bullhorn yelling at drivers, the chaos would not
find an order. We walked.
I knew where we were. The Intercontinental was just two miles away.
The Serena less than a mile in the opposite direction. We were on path
to get closer to the Intercon and the one last thing I wanted to shoot
video of, a symbol of western culture that had spread across
Afghanistan.
ROLLING ON DUBS
If there is a raison d’etre for the Taliban it is to improve the lot in
life of Afghans by returning them, forcefully if need be, to the values
and ways of Islam when it was at its peak of power. The manifestos by
Sayyid Qutb and other are filled with references to the “unique Koranic
generation” of the prophet Mohammed and his immediate successors.
To the Taliban and others of like mind, the ills that have befallen
Islamic countries can all be blamed on their falling away from the true
nature of Islam. The travails of Afghanistan are because Afghans have
turned their back on the true path of Islam in favor of the west. The
cure is living like Mohammed and his followers did in the 6th Century
AD.
The Taliban pick and choose what they will accept from the west.
Technology is fine because it is a tool. The medium is allowed as long
as the message is Islam. But it is impossible to control every message
through every medium. The pervasive western message seeps in.
As H-JD and I entered the auto-parts section of Kabul I found the
ultimate symbol of how far the western imagery and message have seeped.
We stood in front of shop selling tire rims. Not just normal, sturdy,
bland rims that could survive the rutted and pot-holed streets Kabul
but shiny chrome rims. They ranged in size from the 24-inch style
glorified by American hip-hop artists and rappers, to 14-inches. There
were spinners, spokes, gloss black, machined black and every other
manner of blinging dubs.
The Taliban’s fight is not just against NATO and the Afghan military
and security services. Their battle is also against the weight of the
all pervasive western pop culture.
In Kabul, pimp my ride is winning.
There are many Afghanistans, too many perhaps. Throughout the history
of the region, no power foreign or domestic has every truly tamed the
country. The greatest Afghan rulers like Sher Shah did not even rule
Afghanistan, they instead built dynasties in India.
Hamid Karzai is often derided as being the Mayor of Kabul. But that is
all most of the Kings, Khans and Shahs ever have been in Afghanistan.
The late Louis Dupree, the undisputed expert on Afghanistan, wrote
about the “mud wall” that shielded the outlying tribes and villages of
mountains and vast desert wastes from outsiders foreign and domestic.
For every American officer and diplomat that understands the wall,
there are two who seem to have little knowledge of it as they go about
their daily Key Leader Engagements in the typical corporate fashion of
the west. The mud wall is a front, a defense mechanism designed to
keep the outsiders from ever engaging the real power brokers of the
clan. It takes weeks and months even years to break through the mud
wall.
America and our NATO allies are just the most recent in a long line to
be blocked by the wall. If there is a way to victory it is in slowly
eroding the wall built over millennia and understanding all that
Afghanistan is. That cannot be done in the bubble, behind two inches
of bullet proof glass, from fine hotels, compounds or in one sit down
with someone claiming to the Malik of a village.
It will take officers and diplomats traveling ultra low profile and living off the land and will take 22 more years.
(The companion photo essay and videoclips for this story can be found here .)
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