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February 23, 2002
ARTICLE: The road to Kabul
In the hospital were two Arab women, so the Chief of Security of Jalalabad informed me. Many of the Arabs in Afghanistan had either married Arab or Afghan women. Where are these widows and, perhaps, children? Some had asked other men to marry them but these offers were seldom acted upon. It was a problem that needed investigating by human rights groups.
With this on my mind, I set off for Kabul with a driver who could not speak English and his two brothers (who could have been his cousins or friends). They were the heavies. What I really needed was an interpreter, but who can afford a hundred bucks a day? (The sum western journalists were paying.)
About forty minutes out of Jalalabad, we had to make a short detour off the road. Road is perhaps a euphemism, as there is almost no tarmac. The way is sandy and stony with dips and shallows; vehicles traverse the width of the road to avoid potholes, throwing up showers of blinding dust. The detour was due to a bridge over a nullah being broken.
As there was equipment and a number or workers involved, I thought that this was a major road reconstruction. When I saw a number of bombed-out buildings among the kuchi houses, I realized this must be the village where over 200 nomads had died from the American bombing, and that the bridge must have received a direct hit. I had wanted to visit the village, but had been warned that most likely I would be stoned. I took a couple of photos, making my companions nervous. A child came into view and quickly ran away. Children normally clamour to be photographed.
There are two sections of the road that are ready-made for ambush — two gorges which have seen the defeat of more than one army. The last time I had travelled this route, in 1992, the first gorge, known at Tangi Abreshom, was filled with the debris of Russian tanks, armoured carriers and trucks.
As we passed over the upland plain, between the gorges, and drove into a tunnel, Saifullah suddenly said, “No problem”. Oh, dear! I have lived out here long enough to know that whenever someone says ‘no problem’ it means the opposite!
We survived the gorge and came out onto an upland plateau and an army camp, albeit a very bombed-out one, having been used for twenty years by different forces . No wonder the scrap metal business is a going concern. In Islamabad at a certain guest house, a party of Central Asians are very much into scrap metal.
All along the way, most of the road workers were children. Some could not have been more than six or eight. Some were girls. Most waved down vehicles in anticipation of money. Some saluted, others did a little dance.
The main drag into Kabul is lined with military barracks and bombed-out buildings. One newly bombed edifice was the scene of a plane crash or a very large bomb, according to my companions. It looked it.
As we drove farther along, surrounded by the mountains of Kabul, we began seeing the international security forces in jeeps. Just before the second checkpost, large blocks of flats were resplendent with dish antennas, glassless windows, and washing hanging from the broken window sills.
At the checkpost, an eager guard thrust his head through my window, pointed the tip of his bayonet to the side of my neck, and with his other hand, holding a lighted cigarette (I am not sure which offended me more, the bayonet or the cigarette ), gestured to the few inches of dark glass on the windscreen. Only the day before, a decree had gone out about vehicles not being allowed to have dark glass, but this was only a sun shield.
A stop at one hotel was fruitless — filled to capacity with journalists. The manager, sharp and shrewd, sent me on to another. As I pulled up outside this other hotel, a young man quickly came towards me. His obvious eagerness made me wary. “You are an interpreter?”
“Yes, yes!”
A variation on a theme. In the old days, travelling meant being accosted with the words, “You want guide?”
I marched into the hotel. I didn’t like the manager, sharper and shrewder than the previous one. I did not like the interior either. I have an impression of brown everywhere - carpet, walls, worn and bedraggled. Single room, no hot water, I was told. Double with hot water. I looked at the room. Four beds covered by dirty bedding on a threadbare carpet — bathroom in the hall. I turned away.
“You don’t like?”
“No! Nor your thirty-five bucks a day!”
War gouging is everywhere thanks to journalists, and the Americans paying exorbitant wages to those working at the airport. They have put all expats at risk, as everyone thinks they are loaded with gold. Kabul had changed since 1992 and ’96. So much more had been bombed. But, the inhabitants were the same resilient people I had seen before. Women almost universally still wore ‘ burka’ and everywhere there were children driving donkey carts, men pushing handcarts and numerous cyclists. Beggars were everywhere. Never before had I encountered a beggar inside Afghanistan. For most it meant survival. Traffic had increased a hundredfold. Kabul was dirty and polluted. Yet, when it snowed, its old magic and beauty were manifest.
The euphoria I had heard about in the days after the defeat of the Taliban appeared to be over, but the optimism was still there. The city was bustling, in spite of lack of electricity, heating, water, difficulty in travelling, a ten o’clock curfew and incidents of robbery and murder in spite of the international forces. Security, as I had experienced in Jalalabad, is limited only to the towns and is extremely fragile.
And, where is the money that was promised? NG0’s are coming in, but the first priority seems to be office space, vehicles, computers, etc. The ordinary people are not yet seeing anything. The rush for Kabul is on, but what about the Afghans?
One story from Nancy Dupree, the foremost authority on Afghanistan, may illustrate the current situation vis-a -vis aid to Afghanistan. Many come seeking her with bundles of dollars to spend. One person asked: “What do I do? I want to build roads.” “So build them!” replied Nancy, ever forthright.
“But who will build them?”
“The Afghans!”
“But they can’t do it!”
“Where has courtesy gone?” asked Nancy.
I can’t help wondering who is going to benefit from the aid that appears to be pouring in but still seems to elude those who need it— the Afghans.
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