Although I know otherwise, I often wonder if the name "Afghanistan" comes from an old word meaning "tragedy."
Afghanistan is back in the spotlight, quickly and almost unopposed, conquered by the Taliban who envision a medieval-style caliphate. For some of my generation, this weekend's events feel like the déjà vu of a lifetime in this turbulent corner of the world. First, during the decade of hostilities that lasted for most of the 1980s, Afghanistan chained the actions of the USSR. And now, two decades later, nearly a trillion dollars and thousands of American lives later, America is learning the same lesson: This undisciplined country doesn't want to be governed.
It's easy to point fingers: Should George W. Bush have invaded the country in 2001? Will Donald Trump have to make a deal with the Taliban in early 2020? Should Joe Biden withdraw US troops so quickly? But in the end no one has the answer... that's why we always end up in the same place.
One thing is clear: the repeated failure of powerful nations to impose their will on the Afghan people reflects our ethnocentrism...our inability to understand what drives them. And using Afghanistan to score political points with US elected officials ignores the enormous loss of life due to instability that has blighted the lives of ordinary Afghans for generations.
For me, this tragedy is even more difficult to watch because I was so moved by the human interaction that I enjoyed in Afghanistan. When I watch the news, I go back to my trip from Istanbul to Kathmandu along the "hippie highway" in 1978, when I was 23 years old. It was a once-in-a-lifetime trip that couldn't be done right now. Each border crossing was a drama, each stop a lifelong memory.
On the border between Iran and Afghanistan, surrounded by abandoned VW vans dismantled by security forces in search of drugs and in front of dusty glass that tells the stories of European, Australian and American tourists who have caught drugs and are serving in Afghanistan . prison sentence - We left the backpacks on our knees (to prevent anyone from bringing anything illegal) and waited for the doctor to check our vaccinations. My traveling companion, Gene, needed an injection and I still remember the sharp needle bending as it tried to pierce his skin.
One day, while driving to Herat, Afghanistan, with the van full of luggage, the driver pulled out a knife that glistened in the sun and said, "Your tickets just went up." The Indian traveler silenced the direct noise from us Americans, and we all paid the "Welcome to Afghanistan" surcharge.
In Herat, the urban and cultural heart of western Afghanistan, we stayed on the roof of our hotel and watched the torchlit chariot race all night. Every day was an odyssey, not to visit the city itself, but to stroll through markets, gardens and informal neighborhoods. This happened shortly after the Soviet-backed communist takeover. There was a Soviet tank in the main square and restaurant menus were literally understated and labeled "Thanks to Soviet liberation."
Our bus ride was through Afghanistan on what is probably the only paved road in the entire country (AIDS project). The area was like a barren desert. I remember the monotony of the roads interrupted by cemeteries, dusty forests of tombstones piled up in the desert. Even with 50 passengers, the bathroom break only lasted a few minutes: the bus stopped in the middle of nowhere, the men walked on the left side of the road, and the women gathered on the right side of the road. Unfurling their great black robes, they squatted en masse.
The truck stops seem to have been created so that bus drivers could smoke hashish. In one, I remember a group of men crouching down and handing out a roast as they all watched a goat being skinned.
Kabul was the only real city in the country. It seemed to exist only because the county needed an urban center to govern, kind of an urban necessity in a country that doesn't really know what to do with a city. I looked at the uniformed men, who up to this point seemed to be wearing only tribal clothing.
While I was eating at the tourist restaurant, a man appeared at my table. He said, "Can I go with you?" I said, "You already have it." He asked, "are you American?" I said yes."
And then he began a trivial speech: "I am a teacher here in Afghanistan. And I want to know that a third of the people in this world eat with a spoon and fork, like you. A third of the people eat with steaks. And a third of the people he eats with his fingers. And we're all equally civil."
This encounter was one of the most spectacular of my life: like the rest of my visit to Afghanistan, it affected my ethnocentrism and rearranged my cultural furniture.
The highlight of any overland trip to India was getting out of Afghanistan through the legendary Khyber Pass. We were scared little Westerners, sitting on a bus with our luggage on our laps and realizing we were almost in India, which strangely made us want to go home. Our bus ticket came with a "security surcharge" to ensure safe transportation. This fee was paid to the autonomous tribes that 'ruled' the area between the capital and the Pakistani border. I rolled under its stone forts with wind-torn flags (nothing to do with Afghanistan) and bearded men with antique rifles and was happy to pay the extra.
As we emerged from the rugged, arid mountains of Afghanistan, a wide, open, wet plain opened up. Petrifaction continues in Iran and Afghanistan. And it has moved a billion people forward in Pakistan and India.
With this post I begin a series of photos from my trip to Afghanistan in 1978 and excerpts from my diary from 1978. In this beautiful country.) Stay with us and keep the people of Afghanistan in our thoughts and prayers.