From: "Jaclyn Rosebrook-Collignon" <jaclynr-AT-free.fr> Subject: Re: an aid worker's story from Afghanistan Date: Sat, 6 Oct 2001 01:39:17 +0200 Thank you, Thomas. A very "singular" and an "interesting" point of view that has opened some new "lines" of reflection. Where was this published originally? Jaclyn ----- Original Message ----- From: "Thomas Palakeel" <tjp-AT-hilltop.bradley.edu> To: <postcolonial-AT-lists.village.virginia.edu> Sent: Friday, October 05, 2001 4:27 PM Subject: an aid worker's story from Afghanistan > > A Last Road Trip Through Premodern, Postmodern Afghanistan > > > > September 30, 2001 > > > > By JOHN SIFTON > > > > > > > > > > I got my last haircut in Kabul, but Sept. 11 found me > > standing on John Street in lower Manhattan with about 20 > > volunteer rescue workers, amid masses of scorched paper and > > debris, watching fires burn near where the World Trade > > Center used to be. A recently returned humanitarian aid > > worker, I had rushed downtown when the towers collapsed. > > Brushing dust and ash out of my hair -- still short from my > > haircut -- I felt the low-level shock that came often in > > Afghanistan, the kind of shock I felt when I saw dead > > bodies, starving children, Taliban enemies hung from > > lampposts by cable. I marveled at the fact that I was > > feeling this familiar emotion in the financial district of > > Manhattan, an unusual place to be in shock. For a moment I > > felt that I had somehow not escaped Afghanistan, that I had > > brought its disaster home with me to New York. > > > > I have spent most of the past year working in Afghanistan > > and Pakistan for one of the international nongovernmental > > organizations that implement humanitarian aid programs for > > people suffering or fleeing from Afghanistan's multiple > > crises: civil war, persecution by the Taliban and by > > anti-Taliban military forces, economic stagnation, severe > > drought and food and water shortages. We were the welfare > > state for a failed state. > > > > Of course, everything has changed now. Relief workers from > > international groups and the United Nations have been > > evacuated from Afghanistan in response to an expected > > military strike by the United States. Humanitarian > > operations have been severely curtailed, and an increasing > > number of refugees are pouring out of Afghanistan into Iran > > and Pakistan. ''The country was on a lifeline,'' one of my > > colleagues said, ''and we just cut the line.'' > > > > Like many countries suffering from political instability, > > Afghanistan is a complicated and weird place. In some > > areas, there are few traces of modern life. Goods are > > carried by donkey or camel, and oxen plow the ground. Old > > men with long beards sit beneath trees, fingering prayer > > beads, their skin brown and wrinkled. Many rural people > > live as their ancestors probably did 400 years ago: iron > > pots over the fire, clothes they made themselves and babies > > delivered by candlelight. > > > > In other parts of the country, life is more complicated. > > Taliban troops speed around Kabul in their clean new Toyota > > pickup trucks, tricked-out, hip-hop ghetto rigs. On the > > sides they have painted pseudo-American phrases: ''City > > Boy,'' ''Fast Crew,'' ''King of Road.'' Inside, young > > solemn-looking Taliban men sit in their black holy dress, > > sporting Ray-Bans. > > > > The juxtapositions can make your mind reel. Donkey carts > > carrying computer equipment. Hungry children digging > > through garbage piles using shovels from a Mickey and > > Minnie Mouse sand-castle set. > > > > The number of people displaced from their homes is > > enormous. Populations of the desperate roam around, begging > > for money and scraps of food. People eat wild plants, > > garbage, insects and old animal parts discarded by > > butchers. In one camp, an old man showed me a bowl filled > > with rotten cow bowels, grass poking out in places. ''This > > is what we eat, sir!'' he said, wiping away tears with his > > fist. > > > > I often had a strange feeling in Afghanistan, a sort of > > temporal vertigo. It was impossible for me to get a proper > > sense of time. Like many former cold-war battlefields, > > Afghanistan is partly frozen in time; most of its urban > > buildings and infrastructure were completed in the 1960's > > and 1970's during the height of Soviet and American > > spending on foreign aid to the developing world. The > > telephone in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Kabul is > > one of those heavy models from the 1960's; in a pinch, you > > could probably knock someone out with the handset. There is > > an old telex machine in one of the offices, sitting dusty > > in the corner, making you think it's 1976. Then you see the > > American and Soviet military remnants from the 1980's: > > broken old Soviet tanks painted and lined up in town > > squares, a mural on a wall in eastern Kabul showing a holy > > warrior with a Stinger antiaircraft launcher on his > > shoulder. And still there are antique doors on some > > buildings with designs from the 13th century. History > > presents itself in a disorderly montage, like one of those > > heuristic displays in natural-history museums -- dinosaurs, > > the bronze age, the renaissance, space travel -- rearranged > > at random: pre-cold-war, post-cold-war, cold war, Buddhist > > antiquities, Kalashnikovs. The timelessness of this jumbled > > history made me feel like an old museum curator: > > time-transcendent, fascinated and lonely. This is perhaps > > why I felt so crazy at times. > > > > > > > > Taliban troops and police are always easy to spot. They > > have black flowing robelike clothes, long hair and big > > silky black turbans with long tails running almost to the > > ankles. (These accouterments are meant to identify them as > > direct descendants of Muhammad.) They are often tall and > > imposing, even impressive. ''The Taliban troops are like > > gangsters,'' a colleague told me when I first arrived. > > ''Tough guys.'' But there is often a particular dandyism in > > them; many wear black eyeliner (part of the > > descendant-of-Muhammad costume), and their hair is long and > > curly. I once saw one buying Prell shampoo at the bazaar. > > They carry themselves like supermodels. > > > > The reputation for religious conservatism in the Taliban > > obviously doesn't come from their foppish troops. It comes > > instead from the leadership in the southern city of > > Kandahar, who founded the Taliban in the early 1990's. They > > are considered mullahs now, but 10 years ago they were > > essentially no more than a collection of seminary teachers > > from the rural south. These ''original Taliban'' are the > > ones who present the decrees barring women from work, > > making men wear long beards and prohibiting me from > > entering the country with ''pork products or lobsters'' (as > > one recent decree dictated). These are the people who > > proudly call themselves ''the Mosquitoes of Islam,'' > > proclaiming, ''Islamic faith is a bright light: we seek to > > be so close to it that we catch fire.'' > > > > In urban Afghanistan, crime was rare (one of the > > seldom-mentioned upsides to Taliban authority), and > > expatriates were treated with a good deal of respect by > > government officials and the military. ''He who believes in > > Allah and the hereafter shall perform good service for his > > guests,'' reads a sign in one small government office in > > the north. This is a telling poster. It might seem strange, > > but aid workers were considered guests of Afghanistan, and > > the title bestowed a special status on us. Even if we were > > seen as an enemy of sorts (perhaps by a particularly grumpy > > mullah), we were guests -- distrusted and carefully > > examined, but still welcomed. > > > > In our humanitarian work, my colleagues and I interacted > > with neither the black-robed troops nor the mullahs from > > Kandahar. We dealt mostly with the ''new Taliban'' -- the > > civil servants who in recent years have appeared from > > between the cracks to run the country for the predominantly > > illiterate and uneducated ''original Taliban.'' These > > people form the real bureaucracy of Afghanistan. Though > > they now sport the same flowing black turbans and long hair > > as the troops, many were ordinary municipal leaders a few > > years ago, local politicians. For the most part, they are > > opportunists who saw the direction the wind was blowing > > when the Taliban took power and adjusted accordingly; they > > grew out their beards and put on black robes and became > > Talibs. > > > > Of course, these new leaders' commitment to the moral > > righteousness of the Talib movement is questionable. Many > > seem fascinated by Americans and the West, eager to learn > > more English, more American phrases and more about America. > > (One afternoon, a Talib in Kabul kept me in his office for > > an hour to go over some English grammar rules and ask about > > New York and the ''Hollywood movie company.'') Still, the > > new Taliban follow the orders of the Taliban leadership. > > The decrees are enforced. > > > > > > > > The summer wind up in Mazar-i-Sharif in the north is just > > absurd -- you feel as if you are on another planet. The > > temperature is usually well over 100 degrees and the wind > > blows about 40 to 50 miles an hour almost every day, > > raising huge clouds of dust that hang hundreds of feet over > > the desert. You feel as if you're standing in front of a > > space heater in a dusty attic at the height of summer. Your > > nostrils fill with dust and dry up; your eyes turn to red > > slits. You have to wrap a turban around your head and nose > > and drink a great deal of water. It is a war against > > desiccation. > > > > On a particularly windy and hot day in June, some > > colleagues and I took an almost insane trip from > > Mazar-i-Sharif west into the scorching Iranian Plateau, to > > a province called Jozjan, to gather some information about > > the drought crisis areas there. > > > > We started out at 5 in the morning to avoid some of the > > heat and drove for hours through the desert -- or what I > > thought was desert. I learned later that it was, in normal > > years, productive agricultural land. The heat and dust were > > intense. The car rocked in the wind, and sometimes > > visibility was reduced to only a few car lengths. To pass > > the time, the young Afghan staff members told me about > > their time in the jihad when they bombed Soviet > > installations from the mountains. I recited hip-hop verses > > at the request of one of the young Afghans, who wanted to > > know ''about the African people with black skin in > > America'' who ''sing, but without music, like shouting.'' > > We drank huge amounts of water. > > > > We arrived in a small village called Aqchah, a dusty and > > extremely windy trading town. We stumbled out of the car, > > clothes soaked with sweat and filthy from the dust, and > > walked into the local Taliban office to ''check in.'' (One > > must indulge in this courtesy in order to avoid problems > > later.) Then we sat for an hour with the entire village > > leadership -- 15 or so men with long beards who argued > > among themselves about what sorts of aid projects might > > keep more people from leaving town for the city. (We had > > this sort of meeting all the time.) > > > > We drank a lot of tea. The men spoke in Persian, and my > > interpreter just filled me in on essentials. In the next > > room, through the doorway, a man with a large knife stood > > cutting fat from a sheep carcass hanging from the ceiling. > > Every so often, the man would come halfway into the doorway > > in his blood-stained apron, knife in hand, join the > > conversation briefly, make a point and then go back to his > > butchering in the next room. The others listened to him > > with respect, but I never found out why. Our meeting > > finished when the tea ran out. > > > > We drove through another desert -- a real desert -- to > > arrive in the capital of Jozjan, Shiberghan. The trip took > > about three hours. We arrived dusty, wind-blasted and > > spacey. We staggered into the local Taliban office -- a > > bombed-out building without windows -- to check in. The > > local liaison official for international relief workers in > > Shiberghan was about 22 years old. We were invited into his > > office, a room facing the courtyard with no furniture, just > > a rug on the floor and a phone. After the regular > > introductions, the young official explained that he would > > need to ''ensure my safety'' by supplying me with guarded > > accommodations. I insisted that this wouldn't be necessary. > > I told the official that I did not fear for my safety. I > > even flattered him and said that I was sure that his city > > was exceedingly safe. Still, after 15 minutes, he stood up, > > put on his black turban and left to go secure my lodging. > > > > We had to wait for more than two hours. We got bored. I > > examined a curious calendar on the wall that displayed a > > map of Afghanistan surrounded by planes, tanks and ships > > all labeled ''U.S. ARMY'' and all pointing missiles toward > > the center of Afghanistan. Various Taliban functionaries > > came and went -- new Talibs mostly. Finally, the official > > returned to inform me that I would be staying at a hotel > > reserved ''for foreign dignitaries'' (this is how my > > interpreter translated it) called Dostum's Castle. It was > > obvious that this was an honor, so I made an effort to > > thank him profusely, despite the fact that I did not want > > to go. I insisted, however, that the Afghan staff accompany > > me. He obliged me at least on this point. Off we went. > > > > Dostum's Castle. What can I say? It was chintzy > > Soviet-style public architecture combined with low-rent > > Miami design: long frosted-glass windows and a faux marble > > facade. There were peacocks on the front lawn -- peacocks > > -- and a swimming pool filled with algae-plagued water. > > > > Inside, it was like ''The Shining.'' We walked down long > > wide corridors with dark red carpeting; each of the > > hotel-room doors had a padlock on it. We were the only > > guests. The air-conditioner in my room sounded like a > > Harrier jet, and there were bullet holes in the furniture. > > > > The bathroom in our room didn't work, so we had to go down > > two floors to use another one. On the landing of the stairs > > two floors down, there was a large landscape painting, > > about 16 feet by 12 feet, of a pond, some flowers, a forest > > and a few animals. The heads of the three animals had been > > cut out of the painting to comply with Taliban aesthetic > > restrictions: the creation of images of living beings is > > forbidden under the Taliban's kooky interpretation of > > Islamic law. This left a decapitated deer standing by a > > pond and a headless beaver sitting on a tree stump. > > > > I considered the piece as I stood on the landing. A > > terrible painting in the style of Bob Ross, done entirely > > with two shades of green and one shade of brown and then > > vandalized by Taliban police trying to ensure its innocence > > before God without destroying it altogether. In its own > > way, I thought, it is a post-postmodern masterpiece. But > > surely I could add still more to this artwork. I could buy > > it from the Taliban, sell it for a fortune in New York and > > give the money to the Afghan opposition. Yes. Participatory > > political art. It just might be crazy enough to work. How > > much would a rich New York liberal with a sense of irony > > pay for this, this bad art, vandalized by the Mosquitoes of > > Islam and then sold to raise money against them? A new > > school: censorship as an art form unto itself. Politics as > > art. Art-dealing as art. I could be rich. > > > > I was still chuckling to myself when one of the Afghan > > engineers came down the stairs. ''What are you laughing > > about?'' he asked. ''I don't know,'' I answered. > > > > > > > > the next day was a nightmare: human suffering on a shocking > > scale. Displaced persons without enough food to eat were > > drinking water taken from muddy ponds -- mud really. > > ''They're drinking mud,'' I said into my tape recorder. > > ''They're drinking mud.'' I remember one particular > > experience especially. We were in a windy camp for > > displaced persons, and a man was showing us the graves of > > his three children, who had died of disease on three > > consecutive days: Thursday, Friday and Saturday. It was > > Monday, and he had buried his last child the day before. > > After he described all this, we stood around the graves in > > the strangely loud silence of the wind, hot as an oven, and > > the man absent-mindedly adjusted a rock atop one child's > > grave. > > > > It was a very emotional moment, yet I didn't really feel > > sad. I was just fascinated by the realness of it all. You > > look out an office window, and you see a displaced family > > living in a bombed-out school, sleeping on the balcony and > > cooking some birds they caught, doves. This is their life. > > They can't change the channel. > > > > There are no channels, in fact. We are ''off the grid,'' > > not linked up with the world's information sources or any > > of its culture. There are no telephones outside the cities. > > There is no television reception. We have no access to > > ''entertainment.'' There are no theaters, films, galleries > > or circuses. The Taliban has even banned music. All this is > > in contrast with the Western world, with its many > > reality-altering and distance-distorting mechanisms: > > television, cellphones, the Internet. Again, there seems to > > be a time warp. Sometimes it feels as if we have been > > brought back not just to a time before modern entertainment > > but to a time before art -- a time in which reality was > > just more real, a time without images and ideas and > > representations, only actual events. > > > > And yet moments here often seem cinematic to me. I > > constantly see things as scenes. Here we are walking in > > Kabul, near some women in their concealing blue burqas; > > goats are running by and an ancient Soviet tank lies gutted > > by the side of the road. Here we see the schoolchildren > > running by in their little Taliban uniforms, black turbans > > hanging to their knees, yelling to me in robot English: > > ''Hello! Hello! How are you?'' And here we are at the U.S. > > government club in Peshawar, over the border in Pakistan, > > sitting by the pool with some Belgian journalist, drinking > > Grand Marnier and orange juice and talking about German > > novels. I feel outside myself seeing these scenes play out: > > absurdities that seem so normal while they're happening. > > > > There is a propensity among some aid workers (usually > > younger ones) to work endless hours during a crisis. You > > cannot take a break, it is argued, when children are > > hungry. You cannot sleep, have a beer or lie in your bed. > > You have to act. And so you work endlessly. And then, > > inevitably, you crack: you go nuts, start acting righteous > > and weird, and your colleagues come to despise you. > > Ultimately, your organization evacuates you on > > psychological grounds -- a procedure churlishly referred to > > as a ''psycho-vac.'' You end up back home: unemployed, > > asocial, crazy, useless and pathetic. > > > > I remember a story that a friend told me about an aid > > worker she worked with in Albania. During the Kosovo > > crisis, they were working together in a huge new refugee > > settlement across the border with inadequate sanitation > > facilities. > > > > ''We had to get 5,000 latrines built, like immediately. But > > I'll tell you, he was gone, man -- his brain was fried by > > trauma. He had been at Goma'' -- in the Congo -- dead > > bodies and hacked-off limbs in a pile, and they had to > > clean it up. I guess he was scarred. Anyway, he got like a > > pound of pot from some Albanian mafia playboy in Tirana. He > > would drink huge amounts of that terrible instant coffee, > > Nestle's -- I think they put speed in that stuff. He was > > high all the time. He didn't talk to anyone. He just drank > > that crank coffee and smoked pot. He worked like a madman. > > But we did it, man. We built those 5,000 latrines. They > > psycho-vac'd him a little later though. He lost it.'' > > > > > > > > Just a few weeks ago, on an unusually cool summer evening > > in southeast Afghanistan, I was sitting with some > > colleagues at an outdoor restaurant above a small pond > > beneath the beautiful mountain ranges southeast of Kabul. > > We were enjoying a rare night of relaxation away from the > > madness of our work. We sat on carpets, drinking tea, > > waiting for food and enjoying the evening sky. > > > > The pond below was unnatural -- the result of a small > > hydroelectric dam built by Soviet contractors decades > > before -- but it was pretty enough, and we were enjoying > > the scene. We had come to have some fried fish, a rare dish > > in this landlocked country. > > > > We watched as a young boy climbed down to the pond to > > retrieve our dinner, some fish previously caught but still > > alive, swimming in a burlap bag laid in the water. In > > Afghanistan, dried to the bone by three years of drought > > and enduring a decreasing food supply, the sight of both > > fish and water was strange. > > > > Some Taliban troops appeared from the nearby road. ''We are > > here for fish!'' they announced in Pashtu. (My interpreter > > told me this later.) They sat beside us. My colleagues > > stiffened. > > > > ''Is he a Muslim?'' one of the Talibs asked, indicating me. > > (He appeared, incidentally, to be very stoned.) My > > interpreter answered in the negative. ''Christian?'' the > > Talib asked. > > > > My interpreter turned to me. ''Are you a Christian?'' he > > asked. > > > > ''Basically,'' I answered. > > > > My interpreter translated this, somehow. > > > > Questions began > > to fly: ''Is he an American?'' the Talib asked. ''Where is > > America? How close is America to Saudi Arabia? Are there > > Muslims in America?'' > > > > My interpreter turned to me again. ''These are very > > uneducated peasant people from the south.'' I nodded. > > > > ''Is this a problem?'' I asked. ''Should we leave?'' > > > > > > ''No. They are bemused by you.'' > > > > The Talibs ordered some fish. Although we had ordered our > > dinners first, the owner gave the Talibs our fish and > > started to cook some more for us. The Talibs ate with > > gusto, spitting bones onto the floor, fish catching in > > their beards. When they finished, they rose and went to the > > next room for prayers. > > > > Our fish arrived. We began to eat, but soon the Talibs > > returned and sat down with us. ''Which province are you > > from in America?'' one of them asked. I told them I was > > from New York. ''This is a place with many black people, > > from Africa, is this right? Very dangerous.'' I tried to > > explain that this was a misperception. > > > > One Talib began to help himself to our fish, taking it from > > our basket as though he hadn't just eaten. ''The black > > people are very dangerous,'' he said. ''I hear that they > > are very tall. How tall are they?'' > > > > I tried my best. There is only so much that can be > > translated from one language to another, from one culture > > to another. > > > > After a while, the Talibs rose to leave. Amazingly, the one > > who had stolen from our bowl of fish wiped his hands on my > > turban, lying untied on the ground next to me. Then he > > started to leave, but turned back, and a smile came across > > his face. > > > > ''God bless America,'' he said in English, inexplicably. > > > > > > John Sifton is a human rights attorney and humanitarian aid > > worker. The views expressed here are personal reflections > > and do not represent the organization for which he worked. > > For security reasons, it is not named here. > > > > http://www.nytimes.com/2001/09/30/magazine/ > > 0AFGHAN.html?ex=1003207913&ei=1&en=8cc979e1e9eca719 > > > > > > > > > > > > --- from list postcolonial-AT-lists.village.virginia.edu --- > > --- from list postcolonial-AT-lists.village.virginia.edu ---
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