Although I know otherwise, I often wonder if the name "Afghanistan" comes from an ancient word meaning "tragedy."
Afghanistan is back on the front page - fast and almost unopposed, dominated by the Taliban, who dream of a medieval caliphate. To some of my generation, the events of this weekend feel like déjà vu of a life spent in the face of this troubled corner of the world. First, during a decade of war that lasted much of the 1980s, Afghanistan was blockaded by the Soviet Union. And now—two decades later, nearly a trillion dollars and thousands of American lives—the United States is learning the same lesson: this fiery country does not want to be ruled.
It's easy to point the finger: Should George W. Bush have invaded the country in 2001? Should Donald Trump make a deal with the Taliban in early 2020? Should Joe Biden withdraw American troops so quickly? But in the end, no one has the answers... that's why we're in the same place.
One thing is clear: the repeated failures of powerful states to impose their will on the Afghan people are a reflection of our ethnocentrism... our inability to understand what drives them. And using Afghanistan to score political points among American voters ignores the enormous human cost of the instability that has cost Afghans daily for generations.
In my case, this tragedy is hard to imagine because I was deeply moved by the personal relationships I had in Afghanistan. When I watch the news, I catch myself reminiscing about my journey in 1978, at the age of 23, along the "hippie road" from Istanbul to Kathmandu. It was the journey of a lifetime, which is impossible to do now. Each border crossing was a drama, and each stop was a memory for a lifetime.
On the Iranian-Afghan border, surrounded by abandoned Volkswagen trucks, drug-searching guards tell stories of European, Australian and American tourists who were caught using drugs, were imprisoned and extorted money from Afghans from ruined and dusty shop windows. . - We kept backpacks on our knees (so that no one planted anything illegal) and waited for the doctor to check our vaccinations. My fellow traveler Jane needed an injection, and I still remember bending the thin needle in an attempt to pierce her skin.
On the way to Afghanistan, on the way to Herat in a crowded minibus, the driver stopped, took out a knife sparkling in the sun and said: "Your tickets are getting more expensive." The Indian traveler stifled the good cheer of the Americans, and we all paid an additional fee to receive in Afghanistan.
In Herat, the urban and cultural center of western Afghanistan, we stood on the roof of our hotel and watched torch carts play at night. Every day was epic, not for sightseeing, but just for walking around the markets, parks and cottages. It happened after the communist takeover with the help of the Soviet Union. A Soviet tank was parked on the main square, and restaurants literally hung out price menus and a note: “Thanks to the Soviet liberation.”
Our bus ride through Afghanistan was on what was supposed to be the only paved road in the entire country (foreign aid project). The land was like a barren desert. I remember the monotony of the road, dotted with cemeteries, the dusty forest of tombstones in the desert. Even with 50 passengers, the breaks only lasted a few minutes: the bus would stop in the middle of nowhere, the men would walk on the left side of the road, and the women would gather on the right side of the road. Their large black clothes were exposed and they sat cross-legged together.
Truck stops seemed to have been created so that the bus driver could smoke weed. In one I remember a group of men sitting on their hip and everyone watched as a goat was skinned and smoked.
Kabul was the only real city in the country. It only seems to exist because the county has to have an urban center to run it, a kind of urban necessity in a country that doesn't really know what to do with a city. I looked at the people in uniform, and so far it seemed like they only wore tribal clothes.
As I was sitting and eating in a tourist cafe, a man appeared at my table. He said, "Can I come with you?" I said, "You already have." He asked, "Are you an American?" I said yes."
And then he delivered a heartbreaking speech: “I am a teacher here in Afghanistan. And I want you to know that a third of the people in this world eat with a spoon and fork like you do. chopsticks. And a third. People eat with their fingers. And we are all equally polite."
This meeting was one of the most influential of my life: like my other visits to Afghanistan, it overturned ethnic bigotry and rearranged my cultural furniture.
The most important journey to India by any land was out of Afghanistan through the fabled Khyber Pass. We young Westerners were scared as we sat on the bus, carefree on our knees, realizing that we were almost in India, which, oddly enough, felt like coming home. Our bus ticket had a "security surcharge" to ensure a safe journey. This tax was paid to the autonomous tribes who "ruled" the area between the capital and the Pakistani border. Walking under their stone forts, bearded guards, armed with wind flags (nothing to do with Afghanistan) and badass rifles, I was more than happy to pay that small extra.
From the rugged and barren mountains of Afghanistan to the vast wet open plains. The rocky lands of Iran and Afghanistan are left behind. Again and again a billion people scattered across Pakistan and India.
With this post, I begin a seven-day series of photos from my trip to Afghanistan and excerpts from my 1978 diary. (I am writing this article from a hazy memory; Voices Coming diligently writes every night about daytime adventures in this wonderful land.) Stay tuned and let's remember the people of Afghanistan in our thoughts and prayers.