I’m off to East Africa for most of October, so in light of Obama’s effort to reevaluate Afghanistan, I thought I’d repost some older stuff from my visit there in the winter of 2007.

Our nation, as a whole (particularly policy-makers), seems unable to acknowledge that Afghanistan is actually populated by real people (if you go by NBC Nightly News and Richard Engel, you’d be excused for thinking it’s only women in burqas and knife-wielding Taliban men…).

But Afghanistan is much more – and until we see it as that, our “new strategy” will continue to be simply an effort to pump more arms, weapons, and firepower into a nation torn apart by three decades of war.

See you at the end of October with some (hopefully) interesting posts about Africa…

November 2007

My driver, Durrani, parked the white Land Cruiser next to a roadside market.

Corrugated metal and mud brick shelters line the road, showing their wares for sale to the customers descending down from the mountain villages. Cattle, donkeys and goats on the road far outnumber the cars. Unlucky goats hang upside down with their severed heads perched on the ground beneath the bodies, rotten wooden crates display red onions, and bunches of grapes are piled on a makeshift platform. Every stall has prominent posters of Ahmed Shah Massoud, the “Lion of Panjsher,” hero to all ethnic Tajiks, and probably the majority of Afghans.

There are men everywhere, of every age. A line of three old men, their long white beards reflecting the bright winter Afghan sun, sit in chairs, watching the daily events unfold. Long wrapped turbans sit atop their heads; other men wear the traditional pakol. Their clothes are long and baggy: it’s difficult to tell if they are wearing a salwar kameez or just long robes. Young boys work right alongside their fathers, watching and learning the family trade of butcher, baker or grocer.

There are but a few women scattered, but their faces are buried beneath the light blue screen of their burqas, only their hands and feet visible. They are never alone; if there is not two or three walking together, than they are accompanied by their young children.

I haven’t been out of the car yet, other than inside the United Nations compound or at the tightly guarded and barricaded guesthouse: I only arrived in Kabul the night before. But here in rural Afghanistan, Durrani and Fahd jump out, eager to grab breakfast after a long, winding drive along the valley through the desolate mountains of the Hindu Kush. The only trees are lined along the river bottom, interspersed with gutted and burnt Russian tanks.

“Massoud pushed the Russians into this river. In the springtime, it is very high,” Durrani tells me. “The Russians are afraid of this river.” He says the word afraid like he himself fears its power.

Durrani points to the gathering of stalls and shops. “We will go here to a poor restaurant for kebabs.”

Fahd mumbles something in Dari; he feels more comfortable with his native tongue than his own broken English.

“He says ‘It’s okay,’” Durrani assures me. “You look Afghan, I look from California. No one can tell. You had this beard in America or you grow it just for Afghanistan?”

“Just for Afghanistan.”

“Good idea. But we like Americans, cause they want to help Afghanistan.”

I feel a little reassured, but highly doubt I blend in as much as Durrani says I do.

According to the mainstream American media, as a white middle-class American from a Christian home, I shouldn’t be here unless I’m toting an M-16 and military fatigues. Despite the fact that not one single terrorist act has been perpetrated by an Afghan outside of their national borders, the drone of anti-Muslim sentiment since the events of Sept. 11 have attempted to convince me and every other American otherwise. This is supposed to be where Westerners are beheaded simply for being an “infidel.” According to conventional wisdom in Christian America, this is the land where reason and logic are laid to waste by the mad ravings of a false prophet and the Qu’ran.

But this is Panjsher. This is where the Russians lost the war, their rusted tanks lining the river and hills, monuments to the spirit and determination of the Panjsher people. This was the last remnant of Afghanistan that never fell to the oppression of the Taliban, where the mullahs that imposed their conservative religious ideology were thwarted in the narrow mountain passes, finally using Al Qaeda to do their dirty work in the September 9, 2001, suicide bombing-assassination of Massoud. This is not the south, where in places like Kandahar and Hilmand the insurgency is growing and the very real threat of the Taliban’s return is frightening even the locals.

Yet despite the absence of the Taliban, this remains one of the most conservative areas in Afghanistan. They have their own mullahs who rule what is moral and what is haram, or forbidden. No women walk in public without covering herself in the burqa.

An old man with a bushy beard that matches his grey pakol is roasting skewers of meat in front of a dilapidated mud brick building. Durrani approaches him with the common greeting: Asalaam alaikum. The old man smiles and returns the reply; I repeat after Durrani and get a similar response and smile.

We enter the mud house through a small door. The high mountains of the Hindu Kush rise up from the side of the road, so the house has been built into the hillside. The entrance has been dug out, the rest of the room leveled about three feet higher. The dirt platform is covered with a carpet.

I drop my shoes on the dirt dugout and step up onto the carpet. We sit in a small circle as a young boy brings over a roll of weathered cloth, unfurling it in the middle of us on the ground: it will serve as the table.

Despite the cool mountain weather, flies abound. There is no door and a small window, letting in the light. Inside, the plain white-washed walls have the obligatory posters of Massoud.

The old bearded man brings over three glass mugs, throwing a fistful of kernel-sized sugar into each cup. One of his sons brings the teapot and pours us each a cup. Another son brings us three long, diamond shaped pieces of flatbread pulled from a wooden box I just watched him throw the last customer’s leftover bread into.

Outside three powder-blue burqas pass by on the street. The smooth yet guttural Dari language flows between neighbors, friends, family, tribe. Young men come in and out of the room; each one greets us with a simple Salaam, which we all return. They bring plastic bags of goods: one has used winter coats, just in time before the first snows arrive. The man’s sons each claim a coat, trying them on and complimenting each other. The youngest receives the last one, three sizes too big; I wonder what the old man’s daughters will get.

Another son brings over a handful of metal kebabs, each with two pieces of meat and one piece of fat.

“This is very good cow,” Durrani says, then laughs and asks “You have restaurants like this in New York?”

The laughter eases my nerves. “New York has Afghan food, but not exactly like this.”

Durrani and Fahd both laugh. We tear off the flatbread and pinch the small pieces of beef, pulling them off the skewers. There are long green peppers served as well, and a small plate of powdered spice. They sprinkle the spice over their kebabs.

Fahd says something to Durrani that makes him laugh.

“Do you know what he said?” Durrani asks, then answers without waiting for a reply: “He says if you eat a kebab, you will make sexy time with your wife tonight two times.” They both chuckle.

I stifle a laugh, mostly because I thought the Borat character from the movie was just a stereotype; I never thought I would actually hear the words “make sexy time” used seriously.

I’m desperate to connect with these men, as I will be spending the day with them and entrusting my life to them. “Really?” I reply smiling. I reach over and motion that I’m taking all of the skewers. “I’ll take them all.”

Both men laugh heartily. Good start, I think.

As I tear the flatbread I stare at the kebabs and the tea. Where do they store this meat? When was the cow killed? What part of the cow is it? Did they boil this water? How sick am I going to get from eating this?

How can I say no?

Durrani and Fahd dig in, neither talking, eerily quiet.

Screw it, I decide. I’m not going to be rude. I’ve got some medicine in the car up the road. Hopefully I can get to it before I get too sick. I dig in.

The meat is seasoned perfectly, spicy and strong. The tea is hot and very sweet. I gorge myself on six or seven kebabs.

After we finish eating, Fahd leans back against the mud wall, pouring himself another cup of tea to mix with the lump of sugar still at the bottom of his mug. I do the same.

Durrani lights a cigarette. Then the talking begins.

“What you think about Bush?” Durrani asks.

I crinkle my nose. It’s too early for politics. I’m not sure what I should say. “Eh,” I say absently. “I don’t like him.”

Durrani laughs. “Why not? He is very brave man! Fahd laughs at that without any translation. I know his English is better than he lets on.

Durrani continues: “You know he came to Afghanistan for two hours! He landed in helicopter at Baghram and stay for two hours, then leave!” They both laugh again.

My nerves are relaxing more. I stare outside the window as another pair of blue burqas wanders by. I feel strangely safe, despite my surroundings. There have been no uncomfortable stares, no unfriendly looks.

Durrani goes on: “Just like you with Bush, we don’t like Karzai. Bush is fucking Karzai or Karzai is fucking Bush: we don’t know which one!” They roar with laughter.

As we walk back outside, just thirty minutes later, I feel infinitely more comfortable. We again walk past the old men with the long white beards and cloth-wrapped turbans sitting down.

I greet them and nod my head: “Asalaam alaikum.”

They nod and answer back: “Wa-alaikum asalaam.”

Durrani turns to me. “See these men? They are very brave men. They fought in the war against the Russians. They are very brave. They will fight you face to face.”

I have no doubts.

We head back to the white Land Cruiser.

“Get in,” Durrani says. “We’ll go up the road. We can buy some grapes and go to the river and eat them. Very good grapes up here.”

Durrani leans a little closer and says quietly: “And sometimes, we take these grapes and make wine.”

He laughs and gets in the car.