a good decision

Hello again. Not much has happened recently, so not much to report on.

Today is a national holiday in Afghanistan as it is "Islamic Revolution" day. A day that celebrates the Communists fall in Kabul to the advancing Mujahadeen.
There was to be a large military parade in the centre of Kabul today to celebrate this. I thought it would be an interesting event to witness and wanted to go.
However, speaking to Kabulis we can find no-one interested in escorting us. Many are not interested, many are rather ambivelant to the actual value of celebrating a day that led to the ruinous civil war and the rise of the Taleban and many simply think it is a prime Taleban target and will stay as far away as possible.
This morning we mulled this over and decided the security issues were too risky. It could be a Taleban attack, it could be the crowd getting excited about the defeat of the Russians and deciding any European would be a good target - whatever, we went to the Kabul Coffee House for a cup of coffee instead.
As we sit around chatting a phone rings, it is one of our senior Afghans asking if we are at the parade as it has been a Taleban target. At the next table another phone rings and then another. Soon the whole place is buzzing with rumour.
We decide it would be a good idea to get straight back to the house and remain there for the rest of the day. As it turns out, we walk back through the streets of Kabul, all this area is quiet and just another day. When we get back we hungrily work our way through BBC, Al-Jazeera and CNN news. No-one has too many details but it appears 1 dead and 11 wounded is the tally. In terms of injuries and death, not bad. In terms of credibility the Government of President Karzai has been dealt another very deadly blow. The Taleban are able to attack him in his stronghold in Kabul surrounded by his own military and police.
The foreign forces have been told they have to leave Kabul by August this year, and the Afghan Army and Police force will take over the security of the capital. They have a lot to learn in a few, short months.
Finally, your Kabul correspondent is leaving Kabul for the last time on Thursday to fly to India for a well earned break and then home. This may be the last missive for now, so thanks for reading, thanks for the comments, they are important to me. Thanks for being there. I hope I have entertained and educated a little and you feel you know this far off place, that appears in all the bad news sections, just a little better than you did. It has many bad points, many good points, the attitudes I will never really understand (or accept), but we all deserve a good chance in life and so many here are dealt a pretty poor hand.
Landmines are bad, make no mistake about that. They silently sit under the ground waiting for anyone, no distinction between age, race, creed. Then they kill or maim. They are now banned in many countries and Inshallah countries like Afghanistan can hope that one day they will be rid of this menace. A day when adults and children will be able to walk on the very earth beneath their feet, safe in the knowledge they will not be another victim.

a day out in the country

In Afghanistan there are areas where the Government holds little or no sway. Some of these areas are hostile, like Helmand and Kandahar. Some are not hostile; but they are controlled by their own people and have their own laws. One such place is the Panjshir Valley just North East of Kabul. It is controlled by the Governor of Panjshir and his own militia. Anyone entering the Panjshir needs the agreement of the Governor; otherwise the likely outcome is kidnapping or murder.

To appreciate today’s story, first I will give a brief history lesson, so please bear with me.

On the 9th September 2001, an assassination took place in Afghanistan. News did not get to the outside world until the 10th September. If you look at a newspaper printed on the morning of September 11th you will see this was about to become a big story. However a bigger news story of world-changing events later that day diverted all attention. These two events were inextricably linked though, if only that the same organisation carried out both. The man assassinated was General Ahmad Shah Massoud. He was born and raised in the Panjshir Valley and became its Governor. He came to prominence as a leader of the Mujahadin fighting the Soviet forces. The Soviets openly admitted he was the toughest of their adversaries in Afghanistan.

I am told the Soviet tanks rolled up the Panjshir valley in all out assault, supported by fighter planes and helicopter gunship’s on eight separate occasions, and each time they were repelled. The Panjshir was never taken by the Soviets and Massoud was seen as a hero.

After the Soviets left he was Defence Secretary in the short-lived Government which then fell to the Taliban. Again he retreated to his homeland valley and defended the Panjshir from the Taliban, who also failed to enter.

On 9th September 2001, two Al Qaeda suicide bombers posing as journalists met him in Northern Afghanistan. They carried a bomb hidden in a video camera. He died from the injuries caused by this bomb. It is reputed that Al Qaeda murdered Massoud (who was a constant threat to the Taliban) to gain favour with them knowing that in a few days the USA would be demanding the Taliban hand over Osama Bin Laden and his followers (which history tells us, they did not).

Due to his resistance to the Soviets and the Taliban he is now officially the “Hero of Afghanistan” and his picture is on hoardings all over Kabul, a central circle is named after him and his picture is also openly displayed in the windows of many vehicles. Although the true depth of his popularity amongst all Afghans is somewhat questionable.

This brings us to the purpose of this history lesson.

Last week, I accompanied a colleague into the Panjshir Valley to visit the tomb of General Massoud. We gained permission from the Governor through my colleagues contacts and he was allowed to take a Horaji in, provided we took no armed guards and travelled in a standard vehicle with no armour to visit the tomb and do not go beyond this point.

As we approached the Panjshir Valley we came to a checkpoint operated by the Governors militia. This was the limit of the Afghan Government and Foreign forces jurisdiction. From here we were in the hands of the Governor and his men. We were allowed to pass and headed into the valley. The scenery was breathtakingly dramatic. The entrance to the Valley is a gorge that is literally a one track road and river wide; with sheer cliffs either side. So narrow is the entrance that the rock face is cut back where the roads clings to the side. The road literally sits between the solid rock and the river with the rock overhanging. It is easy to see how this valley was defended against the might of the Soviet Army and how the General and his successors have been able to maintain autonomy. Even the might of the ISAF coalition forces would struggle to enter without permission.

As you wind your way up the valley the scenery becomes one of a beautiful wide, flat and green landscape. Either side of the valley floor with the fast flowing, shallow, cold, mountain fed river are towering, sheer rock faces that stretch up to their snow capped peaks, hundreds of feet above. The valley is fertile and appears to be capable of comfortably sustaining itself.

As you enter there are numerous small, dilapidated mud dwellings across the river that are now abandoned. During the Taliban era these houses were built by refugees (IDPs) fleeing the Taliban as the Panjshir Valley became a safe and impregnable centre of resistance.

The further up the valley you go the wider it becomes and small villages appear. The river is central to the valley and its life with a complex network of concrete and mud culverts channelling the fresh mountain water onto the lush fields.

Across the river are a number of footbridges enabling both banks to be inhabited with the typical small mud brick houses and to the land to be cultivated.

For the first mile or two of the valley the banks of the river and the fields around are testament to the Soviet tanks that tried to invade. Old wrecks of troop carriers and tanks litter the landscape, some even in the river itself. Rusty hulks sit in silence, inactive, stripped of anything that can be removed and sold complete or as scrap.

We eventually reach the tomb of Massoud which is a large and unfinished affair. It is a shame but the scale of the tomb was too grand and the money ran out whilst still only a third finished. Although officially the “Hero of Afghanistan” the Government refuses to cover the cost of completing the tomb and it shall remain unfinished until a benefactor is found.

However, we talk to the guard and he allows us entry to the tomb and, rather surprisingly, allows an Infidel to go inside where the grave itself is. This is a large concrete room below the tomb, decorated simply with two carpets hung on opposite walls depicting the Nabawy mosque in Medina and the grave in the centre, draped in the flag of Afghanistan, a vase of flowers and headstone of black marble.

I sign the visitor’s book and look through the pages; only two other Westerners appear in the book, so this is truly a rare privilege and honour.

Once we have finished we get back into the car and head back out from the valley. On the way we stop at a restaurant and have lunch of rice and salad (just for a change), sat by the river with the rushing sound of the water tumbling over the rocks and boulders. (Don’t ask about the toilet!).
As we leave the Panjshir I realise that in all the time we have been there we have not seen either a policeman or a soldier. If anything, it appears to be more peaceful than in Kabul. It has been a truly memorable and exciting experience, I wonder how it would have been if we had not cleared our little journey with the Governor?

Its party night!!!

It is Thursday evening in Kabul and tomorrow is Friday. The only day of the week most of us can have a lie-in. So Thursday evening is the main evening for ex-Pats to go out on the town. Of course, when the town is Kabul, the choices are somewhat limited. So, we wander round the corner to the bar in the next street, go through all the security gates, searches and metal detectors and find a seat at the bar. The bar is staffed by Afghans with strict rules that alcohol can only be sold to Horaji's. The staff are always pleasant and, there being so few bars, seem to know everyone in their clientèle. Waiters also hover dressed in white shirts, ties and black waistcoat and trousers. The atmosphere is relaxed and convivial, just as any bar may be in the West on a Friday evening.

It has been a cold and wet day. Most people are wearing jumpers, the men in combat trousers and jeans, the women in trousers, jeans and the odd ankle-length skirt, scarves draped carelessly around their shoulders, waiting to be put on as they leave the confines of the bar. The ages range from early twenties to your narrator (who invariably seems to be the oldest around). Most people my age are too senior in their organisations to hang around in bars, but a few of us old nobodies do exist. Nearly everyone smokes and the air in the room is thick. All around are conversations in many and varied languages and accents. Of course, English dominates (with British, South African, Australian and American accents) but, as I go to the bar for a round of drinks, I pick up others in French, German and, what I suspect is, Albanian. Most of the people here that look as big and scary as these guys are generally Albanians or Kosovars!! Any conversations between different nationalities use English as the common tongue. The people come from all over the globe, Europeans, Orientals, Africans, Americans, Asians and Antipodeans. they are all here and represented to varying degrees.

All the people are in small “work groups” of about 5 or 6. As new people come in there is much greeting and kissing of cheeks, except for us. We are a group of three men who, to all intents and purposes come from a completely different planet, but then we have a reputation of being dull, miserable and unfriendly and basically, have no friends!!

Although it is the busiest night of the week the bar is barely half full as many Embassies, Govt. Departments etc. nd NGOs, still do not allow their staff to frequent such places since the Serena attack.

We order our drinks and spend the evening chatting, the crowd begins to swell and for half an hour it is almost busy and then; the crowd begin to leave. Groups of 4 or 5 start to go, one after the other and a rumour begins to spread around the room. People are animated and excited something is up in town and we have to know what it is. I wander to the bar and overhear a conversation of a party tonight in a UN guest house.

A party on a Thursday night is the ultimate goal for the ex-Pat community and a party in a UN guest house means there will be music, free drinks and a late night. All we need to know is which guest house and where. I stand at the bar and piece the story together, I get the street name and find out there is a guest list and access is strictly by invitation. Now, at this point you may feel a little downhearted the phrases “guest list” and “strictly by invitation” may put you off, but this is just a ploy. The guest list at the gate is controlled by the guards who speak little English and definitely do not read and write English. We have been told by “those in the know”, look at the guest list like you are searching for your name, pick a name and sign next to it and walk in boldly. Heck, its worth a try, surely.

We call up our driver and he arrives at 11.30pm to take us to the street the party is in. OK, we don't have the exact address, but when we get to the street there will be a group of Land Cruisers around the gates to the party and we can walk up boldly.

Only two of us go and we sit in the back of the car chatting excitedly like a couple of schoolboys about the gatecrash an “adults” party and wondering whether we can pull it off!!

As predicted we get to the gate and are presented with a guest list. Now, I have been told I bear a passing resemblance to the BBC correspondent in Kabul – Alistair Leithhead, so when I see his name on the list and no signature, I can't resist it and sign next to it. “Tonight Matthew I am Alistair Leithhead”. There is some irony to this which I shall explain later.

We walk boldly in and head for the bar. The drink is flowing freely, the music is LOUD and disco. The house and gardens are HUGE, typically UN. A barbecue has been lit and people stand outside around it, with many more inside. People are laughing, dancing, drinking and having a great time.

Everywhere is the strong feeling of “release”. People who have been cooped up behind walls and guarded in compounds and guest houses for months and are only allowed out with Close Protection Guards have found a safe place to go. (It is generally felt the safest place to 'go out' is a party as these are not at fixed locations and so are unlikely to be attacked by the bearded ones, as by the time they know it is happening, we are gone).

As the evening progresses the music shifts from Abba and Michael Jackson to 'garage' and 'house' and the dancing becomes stranger (to these old eyes anyway, but I gamely give it my best shot).

We finally call our driver at 3.00am and leave at 3.30am as the party begins to wind down and the beer runs out. The downstairs of the house is pretty well trashed. Cans, bottles, spilt drinks, cigarette ends everywhere littering the floors and furniture and as for the state of the toilets. Well, maybe they have been visited by drunk schoolboys who had lost their sense of direction (if you get my drift).

Of course we come back to a house with no electricity and running water so the final events of the evening are conducted by torchlight and with shiny clean teeth I head back to my bed.

And that is our Thursday evening story, oh yes, I nearly forgot. I managed to keep up a conversation with a Swedish woman for 15 minutes who thought I was Alistair Leithhead and was telling me how much she had enjoyed lunch with me the previous Friday afternoon in the Kabul Coffee House. In the end I had to come clean and tell her I was not he. Fortunately, she found it funny and then, I think she went looking for the genuine article. But maybe he could not get in, after all I was already inside and this one must be an imposter!!!!

Chocolate fountains

It has been raining for 4 days here in Kabul and the city is transformed. So we have good news and bad news. The good news being the dust is now settled with the constant wet; however, this brings problems of its own.
As you know many of the roads in Kabul are not tarmaced and the soil is extremely fine. This has led to the rain turning the streets in a filthy mud bath. There is no vegetation on the soil so it is not possible to walk on the grass, just mud.
If you have ever dipped a marshmallow in a chocolate fountain you will understand completely the colour, texture and consistency (unfortunately not the taste) of the mud that is now ankle deep on the streets of Kabul.
It also has the ability to stick like glue, so everything is now coated in the mud. Every vehicle is plastered, every person is coated from the ankles down and every dog is now a fluffy ball of sticky brown goo.
It also is extremely slippery and difficult to walk or drive on. All along the dirt verges there are abandoned cars and lorries where people parked one evening in the dry and have not been able to move it since, as the mud has got thicker, deeper and ever more slippery.
The sight of wheels spinning and a huge spray of mud being thrown into the air is commonplace as the lorries struggle to get a grip on the verge and get back onto the road.
The sight of women with limited vision in their burkha’s trying to pick a route down the street through the mud and puddles, holding the hem of their burkha above the mud in a pair of heeled shoes or plastic sandals is tragically comical. Their plight is made worse by the burkha that does not let them see the ground beneath their feet and they constantly end up walking into the deeper and wetter sections.
Small children are out getting the bread for the family in brightly coloured trousers that simply are brown from the knees down with muddy brown toes sticking out from their plastic sandals.
Unfortunately a change of footwear for each season is beyond the pocket of most Afghans and the same sandals or shoes that got them through the bitter winter and the hot summer will now get them through the wet and mud of Spring.
So we are now watching the weather forecast for the sunshine that will soon follow and dry up the ground very quickly, leaving us with the deep ruts and puddle holes to negotiate through.
However, the softening of the ground is welcome for the demining effort.
As you can imagine, when you are digging for a landmine by hand, digging soft ground is far preferable to hacking away at hard baked earth, when it is easier to set it off and cause very serious damage to yourself. The ability to gently scrape away the soil is a real bonus for a deminer. So, he may be wet, he may be covered in mud, but he is much safer and in the end that is so much more important. In fact, between the frozen ground of Winter and the hard baked ground of Summer, this wet period is the safest and easiest for the deminer in the field.