Afghanistan for beginners

Part 1

Loud noises over the little guest house woke me. Stuck my head out the window, to see a Russian military chopper landing in the field behind. I was in a remote part of Tajikistan. In this province, Tajik and Chinese armies had been playing war games and holding joint drills for several days now. Russia - with one of its largest military bases just close by - a long lease held over from Soviet days, to the chagrin of Tajiks – did not approve of this camaraderie and did a fair amount of sabre-rattling too. It’s all fun and games, boys and girls, until someone gets hurt. All this, in the peaceful country I was crossing into Afghanistan from.

The small-plane service was not operational. It’s run by – of all nationalities – an American. The alternative – and the only option open now – was a bone-rattling 15-hour drive along the mighty, gushing Oxus river (now named Panj), to a back-and-beyond border crossing. On the other side of the bank was the Graveyard of Empires, looking innocent and quiet with a few villages dotted here and there. I had obtained an Afghan visa the previous day in a consulate that was more shack than anything else. “Be careful when you are there,” the lady who handed me my passport said in a somber tone, "It's dangerous."

I was now in an SUV with questionable suspension on a dirt road, feeling every rut, while Tajik pop music played on the radio.

At the border was an enormous bridge spanning the Oxus. Exit formalities on the Tajik side were completed. The electrified chain-link gate buzzed open, and I stepped onto the bridge. The gate clanged shut loudly behind, and hoisting my luggage onto my back, I began to trudge towards another, similar, gate in front. This one had an Afghan flag draped over it and led into Badakshan Province. This place is part of the Wakan Corridor. It is so remote that during the Great Game, both Imperial Russia and the British Empire ignored it, while jostling over other bits of the country. More recently in this very area, the Soviet Army crossed from the USSR into Afghanistan during the invasion of 1979. Today on the bridge, there was no traffic, not another soul. It was a long and lonely walk.

I was aware that I had fewer language advantages where I was going. Speaking a little Russian and reading Cyrillic came in handy in Tajikistan. The people on both sides of this river are the same – Pamiris. Their name derives from the Pamir mountains of this region. They share a common language, also called Pamiri, which has heavy Persian influence. I’m Indian-origin; fortunately there are Persian words in Hindi. This dates back from Mughal days, when Persian was the court language. I had found it possible to understand some Pamiri on this basis. Would it work in Afghanistan, or was the dialect too different?

There seemed to be no one at the gate, which was shut despite the “Welcome to Afghanistan” sign. Crossing a remote border post during Eid weekend was perhaps not the best timing... Then a head popped up, then another, then another. Staring like I was an alien who just landed on a spaceship, three young border police let me in. They gestured to put down my bag, which was then searched. We did not speak.

Next, I had to report to a small hut which was passport control. The officer opened a ledger and began to slowly write down details from the passport. Since he could neither read nor write English, he found this task frustrating and became agitated. At this point I spoke up: “Eid Mubarak.” I touched my fingertips to my heart, which is the respectful non-contact equivalent of a handshake. That cut the tension immediately; passport officer and border police all smiled broadly and said “Eid Mubarak.” They wanted to keep my passport while I was in the country; um no…. At this point, my guide arrived, and was able to translate. I got my passport back, but only because it was needed for shopping in the bazaar.

As I was leaving, one of the border police, probably 18 or 19 years old, stood directly in front. He was searching for words, struggling, then broke into a huge smile of brown and broken teeth. “Afghanistan is COOL.” He said and gave a thumbs up. Thus began my Afghan adventure.

Part 2

It was amazing to see cars with license plates from New York, Cape Cod and the Islands, and various US states. Were you aware that there is a fourth- and fifth-hand market for cars? Cars go to die in Faizabad, capital of Badakshan. They are tinkered with, propped up, stopped up and somehow made to move until they give up the ghost. Tires are so old that any faint treads are long gone; they are puffed up like balloons and even patched here and there. There is clearly no car registration or license plate system, but whoever owns a car is lucky, for most people go about on foot.

On arrival in the village I was immediately given an enormous and delicious lunch that I could not do justice to. I had the first “bucket bath” (because no running water) since I was a child in India. Exploring the village was great fun. Everyone was extremely warm and welcoming, hanging out of their windows and inviting me in for chai. In this part of Afghanistan there was more freedom; women did not cover up like in Kabul. There was widespread literacy among the young people; I spent an afternoon with college students who recited Persian poetry from memory. They also spoke perfect English. Everyone wanted to know about Dubai, where I live. Since I was born in India and my family lives in Mumbai – the home of Bollywood - I was mobbed with questions like “Have you met Shah Rukh Khan?”

I lived with an Afghani family. The matriarch was over 80 years old but was the nimblest old lady I’ve ever seen. And one of the most thoughtful people. From what I was able to piece together, her three children had all died at the hands of the regime that was in power previously and has now returned. Living in the house were her grandchildren, spouses of two of her children and some boys who were cousins of some sort. It would be so easy – and forgivable - for them to be sad or bitter, but they chose to be kind and gracious. When this reality sunk in, that they are a patchwork quilt that came together and support each other, I thought – well that is what a true family is.

Only one of them spoke Russian and was thrilled to speak in that language. There are many cultural differences, but also many similarities with my extended Indian family. Meals were communal and eaten sitting on the floor. This is how I ate family meals as a child in India.?I declared them to be my Afghan family, and they embraced this.

I went fishing with the boys and met people in neighboring villages. It was wedding season, so an Afghani dress was acquired in the bazaar. The whole village was at the wedding. This is human nature at its most elemental: music, dance, feasts. My attempts to copy the women’s dance steps was probably quite terrible, but this gesture meant a lot to them. I met all the little girls of the village – I have a daughter of my own – and that was the best part of the experience.

On leaving the country, I saw the same border guard with the broken brown teeth. This time I went up to him and said "Afghanistan is COOL."

Part 3

Since I left, the Taliban is back in power. Speaking to the family by phone while the Taliban was overrunning their village, hearing the desperation in their voices, and being helpless was very difficult. The economic situation has deteriorated rapidly, and women’s freedoms are being restricted. Most of the young people I met – educated, cultured, full of energy and hope – have not known the pre-2003 life.

Yet, small gestures by single individuals can make a difference. Someone in the village started a school; he applied for permission from the Taliban. Those little girls I met at the wedding are enrolled. I have the honor of supporting them with a little money from time to time. An account has been opened with a microfinance bank, so it has become slightly easier to transfer funds. No one and no effort is too small to make a difference.

I am optimistic about Afghanistan; the young people I met were impressive global citizens by any standard, and ultimately they are the future of the country.