Afghanistan I saw in June/July 1977 (Conclusions)

 

In 1977 it was the same world physically but very different in every other aspect. The stones, sand, mountains were the same but everything else changed, changed for the worse, unfortunately.

 

Iran was ruled by a King, Shah of Iran, blatantly installed and supported by the west which was to have severe repercussions later.

 

Afghanistan had a liberal government of Mohammad Dawood Khan supported by the west and the communist block. He was playing one against the other making them develop his country. Universities, infrastructure and social development was going on at a fast pace and Afghanistan was catching up. Big cities had predominant western culture while the rural Afghanistan lacked education and liberal values. Mullah was influential but controlled.

 

This mix of 2 cultures was peacefully existing since the days of the British invasions when the King was forced to keep Afghanistan backward and Russians at a distance to avoid the vicious wrath of the Brits. This wrath was something they never hesitated showing, naturally with the lives and money of its most prized possession, India, that was itself suffering absolute poverty and misery.

 

Pakistan was democratic with a popular government which was liberal and semi socialist. It had a movement going on against it for the alleged rigging in recent elections but it was believed that the PP would again win free and fair coming to power with absolute majority.

 

Fast forward another two years and everything changed. The world wasn’t the same anymore. The world might have won the war against communism in favor of liberty and democracy but these three countries and their hundreds of millions poor citizens were forced to pay the price.

 

Iran fared badly as the foreign supported untouchable Shah was toppled soon and a government dominated by Mullahs gained power. This change brought war, sanctions and extreme poverty along with a suffocating theocracy. This suffering of Iranians has lasted over 42 years with no end in sight.

 

 

By the time I returned home after a few weeks, a very harmless looking general, Zia ul Haq, a Bhutto’s appointee, had taken over declaring martial law in Pakistan. He took pains to explain that he did all this reluctantly and temporarily as he was forced into it with absolutely no ambitions or lust for power. It was only much later we realized that Zia was the most ambitious, cunning, callous and ruthless person ever to have lived in Pakistan. He ruled for over 11 long years until he died in an air accident (we are told) and probably would have been in power if still alive as he had made a very influential power base for himself.

 

Only much later it was disclosed that Zia was planning Bhutto’s removal from power and hanging with US”s support for quite some time, but very clandestinely. Forming of the right wing alliance, PNA, was also arranged by him as was the movement against rigging in 1977 elections. Interestingly the movement that started against rigging somehow silently got converted to Tehreek I Nizam I Mustafa giving the control of movement to the mullahs. Such major changes don’t happen by chance as there are certain set of dynamics that cause them. Starting with Dulles’s open announcement to use religion against the Soviets to Kissinger’s equally public threat to Bhutto was certainly at work here.

 

 

Zia started with a naïve smile hanging Bhutto and the Pakistani judiciary, together. Then he also forced a very specific religion direct into Pakistani politics and society. The prevalent majority Sufi understanding was replaced by a puritanical and militant version of Islam that was imported and forced down the throats of the nation. Jihad against the Soviets was declared an essential tenet of Islam and the country was geared to support the anti Soviet war in Afghanistan.

 

This change in policy caused an influx of $ but also backwardness, illegal arms, violence, drugs and intolerance. We are still fighting these evils getting decades behind the world and sliding even further.

 

Within a year the Dawood government in Afghanistan was ousted by communists led by Nur Taraki. A few more revolutions later the Soviets invaded Afghanistan to help communists which was opposed by the US who engineered a guerrilla war against them. US had effectively trapped the Soviets and were over joyed at prospects of striking a major blow to their cold war competitors.

 

Guerrillas fighting the Soviets were declared Mujahideen, holy warriors, and supported with weapons, money and diplomacy. Brzezinski, the NSA of US met the Mujahideen telling them about the danger to their faith due to Soviets encouraging them to resist. This drama reached its zenith when these semiliterate, maulvi trained; violent men with a medieval mentality were invited to the White House by Reagan and pampered as the equivalent of Americas founding fathers.

 

This US supported guerrilla war lasted a decade costing a million Afghan lives and many more displacements, in catastrophe for the Soviets and USSR fragmented. Interestingly Afghanistan suffered tremendously and was thrown back to medieval ages, Pakistani society was irreversibly damaged but the US won just spending a few billion $.

 

After the Soviets left Afghanistan a strange thing happened, US also left the scene leaving behind chaos and enormous stocks of arms in the hands of trained people indoctrinated with a very backward and violent interpretation of Islam.

 

I find it most amusing when people criticize Biden for leaving Afghanistan abruptly but no mention of the criminal and callous departure 3 decades earlier.

 

In 1990 Pakistan was left to deal with the armed people and their backward but violent thinking by itself, something the full might of NATO couldn’t do in 20 years decades later. Nothing could be more unfair and cruel for Afghanistan and Pakistan.

 

After the Soviets, US trained, armed and brainwashed Mujahideen came to power and the most painful period of Afghanistan started. There was utter lawlessness, violence and destruction across the country. Strange sadistic and pathological warlords formed their fiefdoms and the common Afghanis suffered tremendously.

 

It got so bad that when young, poor, seminary students with humble rural backgrounds started getting assertive against the tyranny of warlords they were considered a blessing. These were mostly from remote villages and had the typical backward mindset and simplicity. They were led by a local cleric Mullah Omar having a very exceptional leadership skills and credibility. He was honest and believed in what he professed. He can be opposed, his beliefs negated and criticized, but not his honesty, sincerity and leadership. Despite extreme economic hardships he completely finished the opium production from Afghanistan for the first time in history although opium was the main hard currency earner. His beliefs were firm and had to be adhered to at any cost.

 

These Taliban soon prevailed over nearly the whole country and a time of peace and stability started. Unfortunately these good changes were accompanied by many unwanted things backward mentality harbors. The world was shocked by their punishments, misogyny, support of international jehadis, originally created and trained by the US. The West could not understand that for a simple madrassa student, changing positions couldn’t be as easy as the US foreign policy makers.

 

After 5 years of stalemate US came with enormous firepower. Arrogance displayed knew no boundaries and the Secretary Rumsfeld publicly declared that we won’t take prisoners. Surprisingly he found killing of a large number of Afghans funny as he was smiling saying these words. Loud laughter of the journalists was even more painful talking loud about our state of civilization. And tens of thousands of Afghans were massacred, both armed and unarmed. The greatest military force was feeling proud of killing and ousting the world’s poorest and most backward country having only basic rudimentary arms. No one ever mentioned this strange occurrence in the international media raising many more questions.

 

US stayed in Afghanistan for 20 years killing another 1 million Afghanis and causing over 80 thousand deaths in Pakistan and then left handing back power to Taliban. During this time as usual a few cities were occupied and developed. Culture changed here for a very few and no one cared for the rural and remote places. The warlords in line with the US again established their fiefdoms extorting locals. Extreme corruption was imparted and lots of money making opportunities were given to some collaborators, or may I say McCauley’s kids. US forces were directly involved in corruption selling even the equipment through middlemen. In Pakistan we knew the prices of US supplies delivered here. This was a typical army of shopkeepers, unchecked capitalists or maybe the modern East India Company.

 

Most significantly the Opium trade that Taliban had stopped flourished again telling a lot about the US occupation.

 

Now the unprepared Taliban have to deal with the enormous problems planted by the 40 years of foreign meddling (we are not allowed to call it US occupation). The first gift they get is of freezing of all the Afghan reserves. No country in the world can survive that easily. Afghans appear to be on a way to pay dearly for winning a war against their occupiers.

 

Looking back at these forty some years it is very painful to see how these lovely, tolerant countries that were optimistic that with time they will solve their small problems and progress to join the world was taken back and destroyed. All this was done first to win the cold war against the Soviets and later to get advantage in the foreseeable competition against the emerging China. US was the major perpetuator and cause for most of the problems faced by Afghanistan and Pakistan. However it has the ability to call all this a kindly act and an exercise to modernize or democratize. A nation that can build and establish a narrative that by dropping nuclear bombs they saved Japanese lives, anything can be said, established and made to believe.

 

The main lesson to be learnt is that no occupiers should ever be allowed in our part of the world or influence our foreign policy. More importantly we must never indulge in other’s wars.

 

If imperialists have their way, the next jehad and 50 years of new war for the region is too obvious.

“To be an enemy of America can be dangerous, but to be a friend is fatal.”

— Henry Kissinger

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

khanmomar@hotmail.com

 

 

Afghanistan I saw in June/July 1977 (Part 4)

 

Next day I went to the bus station to get a bus for Lashkargah where I had heard of some big hydro project erected on Afghanistan’s biggest river Helmand but couldn’t find one. Water, lakes, canals and rivers have always fascinated me and I routinely cross rivers swimming while on trips while my partners would drive the bikes or cars across. I always enjoyed swimming across rivers except maybe once when I tried to swim across a  flooded Indus at Attock. After diving I felt some powerful undercurrents taking me down and the depth seemed unending. I experienced feeling of impending death and struggled hard with full strength and managed to come out alive. I was terribly scared but unable to share it with my traveling partner not wanting to appear weak or vulnerable. That was in early eighties with late Dr. Bilal.

 

Dejected I got into another MB bus and felt bad when the bus crossed river Helmand. After a few hours drive the bus stopped at a small river where many touristy vehicles were parked and many were swimming and playing in the river. It was Farah Rud the second biggest river of the region.

 

The weather was a bit overcast but hot and I was steaming in sweat in the bus and instantly decided that I was stopping here. There was a truck full of western tourists with seats on the sides of its bed in the back, I assume it must have been pretty uncomfortable. And then there were a couple of vans, one of them a hippie favorite VW. These were also hippie type and very welcoming. The group had assembled in Brussels and was heading towards Katmandu with a long stop at Kabul and then Pakistan. Instantly I jumped in the river and loved the cool water and the small growth on the side. The river was between 2-4 feet deep with water flowing slowly and gradually. With a slight breeze it got even prettier. Suddenly there was a scream and a girl close to me slipped and panicked. Capitalizing on the opportunity (I had saved a swimmer in Hassanabdal too who is now a famous neurologist in Canada) I jumped and picked her up. She was a very pretty girl in her mid twenties wearing a bikini with a fully developed figure. For the 6’2” (140lbs) 18 years old bringing her out was very big experience with lots of butterflies in the belly and many other places. Having a woman this close with her hands around my neck would stay with me for ever. She was an American and I still remember her name and the fragrance of the deodorant she was wearing that day. Much later in life after having lived in US I realized that probably this drama was done intentionally as I had noticed her extraordinary interest in me too obviously. Whatever it might have been, I loved it.

 

After an hour of swimming and a nice hero’s lunch I got on the next bus that was going to Herat. The group repeatedly offered me to join them for a few days and stay with them till Kabul but I had my own plans. I still wonder if it was the right choice.

 

Another few hours bus ride in the near identical landscape and we were in Herat. It certainly looked different with slightly more sophisticated look of the people, women driving, increased oriental features and near complete dominance of Dari, the Afghani dialect of Farsi. Historically Herat was one of major cities of Khorasan, a land divided between many countries but mostly Iran. Herat used to be a centre for learning and excellence but it was Nadir Shah’s general and protégé Ahmad Shah Abdali who forced this part of Khorasan in Afghanistan and the world accepted. Frankly it didn’t appear to be part of Afghanistan to me.

 

Herat was a quiet sleepy little town. I settled down on getting a hotel and went to see the famous places. This hotel was also full of western tourists and in the evening had great discussions and I accumulated information about Iran which was a modern pro-western country ruled by the Shah of Iran. An Irani trekker on his way to Katmandu discussing the Shah commented that in Iran if you even dream against the Shah next day you will be jailed and tortured. He considered the thought of the Shah getting deposed within his lifetime preposterous and unrealistic. I got great information about the Caspian Sea area and its unending resorts. I visited them many times since then and still find the Caspian area pretty and most exciting.

 

The city had as usual a few parks, old ruins and then many tombs. The booklet talked about a naugazza kabbar i.e. a 9 yards long grave of some super Pir, it is much after death that ordinary people acquire extraordinary features. It was always like this and would stay until we educate everyone. The first time since entering Afghanistan I had a vegetarian meal in Herat.

 

Early morning I joined a group of tourists staying in my hotel to get a bus going to Mashhad via Islam Qilla.

 

My travels to Iran are a totally different topic and I would not include them over here and end my travelogue.

Shall be concluding in the next and last episode.

Afghanistan I saw in June/July 1977 (Third part)

 

Ghazni was fascinating for me for another reason too; I had always heard from my grand parents that we are Pathans of Mohmand tribe. Although Mohmand tribe is now settled north of Khyber Pass when our ancestors came to India, the Mohmands were settled somewhere between Kabul and Ghazni. It was in the days of Bahlol Lodhi over 400 years back and our family had their shajra with them that they lost it in the mayhem of 1947. Had Hoshyar Khan sahib (my ancestor) decided not to migrate to India I might have been a local here, interesting J

 

Ghazni was a small city with unpaved roads and a long bazaar. While looking for a hotel in the bazaar I saw an old Sikh goldsmith proudly wearing his turban. I tried to talk to him in Punjabi that I had recently started learning, he understood but couldn’t speak fluently. However he helped me find a cheap hotel and I settled down.

 

After yet another meal consisting of beef I had to visit my hero, the great Mahmood who humbled India 17 times. There was a small local bus stand where strange looking Russian pickup trucks were going to the mazar 10 kms away. I settled on its deck and gradually it started filling. The dress and demeanor around made me feel that all the passengers were poor, very poor. The truck was pretty high; probably a 4x4 and suddenly someone threw a big wooden crutch on the steel floor creating loud sound. I got attentive and saw a man with one leg in his late twenties pulling himself up holding a beautiful little girl in his other arm. A fully covered young women having part of chaddar on her face followed him and they settled down on the deck near me. The little girl was around 3 years old and too close to her dad. She looked a bit weak but was active and noticed me without beard wearing western dress, something strange in that culture. I noticed the wrist of this man which was many times the size of mine and built naturally with no gym involved. He must have worked really hard all his life. At 18 years of age someone in his twenties looks old and I considered him old too.

 

 

After initial social niceties he informed me in his Pashto that his daughter had been sick and he was going to a famous pir near the mazar of Mahmood to get his prayers for his daughter’s health. He was confident that the young lady would be treated by these prayers. Upon inquiring if he had taken patient to the doctor he told that he trusted the pir more. I found out that like doctors the pirs also specialize in different specialities and this was a Pediatrician Pir.

 

His wife and daughter were also interested in the stranger that I was, and he many times told them about me. I remember he once told her that I was a Muslim.

 

At the time of payment of fare he forcefully stopped me and took out a polythene bag which was folded manifold. After repeatedly unfolding the bag he took out money and paid his family’s and my fare. I felt really bad as he didn’t have much but a very big heart, a typical Afghan.

 

Finally the truck started and after a short but very bumpy ride we reached the mazar.

 

It was a big structure but nothing fancy, said my fateha and prayed for him. I thought of the gates of Somnath that he had taken to Ghazni that were brought back after the punitive campaign of the British laying much of Afghanistan to waste punishing them for winning the First Afghan War. Tens of thousands of Afghans civilians were butchered and cities laid to waste. Later research confirmed that bringing back the gates of Somnath was yet another British trick to create divide between Hindus and Muslims. These were newly made gates only to get the favor of Hindus at the cost of communal harmony. It explains how the Indian society was intentionally and methodically destroyed by the most cunning nation to ever step on this earth.

 

The friendly passengers were very kind to me trying to do me a favor took me to the Pir just next to the mazar. The Pir was obese, something rare in Afghanistan, wearing a long beard and displaying a kind of aura and arrogance. He was sitting on a raised platform next to a window opening in corridor while the rest of the packed room was sitting on the carpeted floor. Patients or mureeds would sit across the window and he would pray loudly and then breathe out on their face. After all this hard work he would accept some kind of gift given subtly in his palm and the next one would come.

 

I was given special treatment by the Pir as I was a foreigner and he graciously shared some fruit with me. I found eating alone with many in the room strange and uncomfortable. I still can’t eat without offering others. I offered fruit to others and the Pir seeing my discomfort himself offered everyone that they politely declined.

 

In the room there were some prosperous looking people sitting at a prominent place. They spoke Urdu well and told me that they had shops in the Landa Bazaar of Lahore. Landa is a distortion of the word London. Here during the extreme destitute of British occupation used clothes imported from London were sold cheap. Even in those days Landa bazaar was dominated by Afghans who could be undistinguishable from the local Pathans.

 

These traders and Pir educated me that the great Lahori saint Hazrat Data Gunj Buksh was from Ghazni and he came to Lahore with Mahmood as his cavalryman. Later he settled outside Lahore preaching Islam and humanity converting many with his humane and egalitarian creed. I was further educated that the shrine of his father was in Ghazni.

 

It was hot in the sun and wheat crop had turned golden. I had to take public transport to the shrine and then walk much to reach there. I offered fateha and returned to the city. My hotel was a very simple one on the upper story of a building in the main bazaar.

 

After a bit of rest I went for a walk having many qahwas on the way making new friends. Everywhere I was declared a guest and served free or someone else paid for my tea by less than affording but very dignified people. Here I made a few friends my age and they invited me to attend a local wedding and I agreed.

 

Late evening we went to that wedding. It was probably the son of an affluent person and was heavily attended. I saw many ladies wearing the typical heavy red frocks and big chaddars covering themselves well. It was a joyous event and although the genders were segregated I could hear the loud music and women celebrating although could hardly understand their chants.

 

Dinner had meat and meat, and then some more meat sparsely interspersed with thick Afghani rotis and some rice. After all that gluttony there was my favorite, the Afghani qahwa. The function must have lasted longer but I left after qahwa when the typical smell of cannabis started spreading and I went to hotel as had to go to Kandahar next day.

Next morning I walked to the highway where busses plying the Kabul/Kandahar route stopped to drop and pick passengers. After a few minutes a bus stopped and I got in. The passenger dropping at Ghazni must have been an important one because his seat was at the front on the other side off the driver with a great view and ample leg space, something I need at my height. The bus had the same stench which I got used to even earlier this time.

 

 

Kandahar was 350kms from Ghazni and it was all desert with hardly any signs of life or greenery. Suddenly we came across a very old rounded building with a few trees. It was a typical sarai of older times built close to a small source of fresh water sustaining life and human activities.

 

It came out that it was a namaz stop and namaz was the most important and sensitive aspect of Islam for the Afghans. Probably they weren’t very well aware of the extra importance Islam imparts on human rights, education, soft heartedness and manners unlike the earlier religions focusing on rituals. Apparently Afghan understanding of Islam hasn’t changed much since then.

 

While most passengers were busy in wazoo ablution I went inside the intriguing structure. Inside the little sarai there was kind of a little pond in the centre and around it were pine needles scattered on the floor making it a sitting and eating place. It must be cozy in winters. I felt like I had gone back centuries in a time machine and might meet historical characters like Ghaznavi, Ghauri, Babur etc at any corner. There was hardly anyone as all the locals were praying and it was me and a few Europeans who sat here and ordered tea, I mean qahwa off course.

 

Soon the bus started again and the same boring, rather scary scenery started. The road was as good made of concrete but as long, as straight and as barren too. The scene got too monotonous and I nearly dosed of when suddenly I saw something strange. In this hot desolate part of the world, two huge men were sitting on small little Honda cub and traveling long distances. I was further flabbergasted at Japanese quality and reliability. I still feel so indebted to the Japanese showing the world that it was not whiteness of skin that made Europe dominate the world and imparting the lesson that any race that works hard and methodically can progress. Japanese were the first non-Europeans to beat the west in its own game and leave it far behind.

 

I was dozing off and on crossing the unending desert with rare interruptions of oasis having trees reached Kandahar.

 

I had heard a lot about Kandahar, the capital of Durrani dynasty, known for its pomegranates with medicinal qualities and friendly people. Later during Mullah Omar’s time it was not the capital city but the place where he resided with final authority over nearly everything.

 

Kandahar was even hotter, a bit like Multan or Sukkur in Pakistan. There was lots of dust and noise.  It had the familiar Pakistani smoke emitting rickshaws but no attractive red pomegranates in sight. Kandahar was disappointing.

 

I got a room in a hotel in the central square of the city with big glass windows making it close to intolerable. I had read different touristic pamphlets that mentioned different graves or tombs which didn’t interest me much. One of the places of interest it mentioned were some ancient ruins of a prehistoric city a bit west of the city and I went there on a rickshaw. On the way back I got a lift from local residents coming back from their farms in a brand new Mercedes, something not very common in Pakistan. They were very fine, educated and hospitable despite being unable to speak English or Urdu. My very weak pushto, which by now had improved a bit, helped us communicate as my hosts were much interested in the conditions of Pakistan. They as usual offered qahwa and took me to their office in the city. Before qahwa I was served fabulous Afghani food which had a different taste from Kabul or Ghazni. Those were probably pre AC days as despite extreme heat we didn’t see any.

Burqa or chaddar clad women were visible in the bazars along with few European girls temporarily stopping on their way to Kabul. Kandahar didn’t seem to be popular with the westerners.

 

Kabul was so different from Jalalabad, Ghazni or Kandahar. There were two different worlds living side by side in the same little country, pretty peacefully; apparently.

 

After a bit of walk around the small city the heat somewhat lessened and I felt that I might be able to sleep and I went to my hotel.

Afghanistan I saw in June/July 1977 (Second Part)

 

I felt great roaming the streets till late night and enjoying local delicacies. There were many Indian Tata busses plying on the local city routes, an unusual site for me. Many Russians were also using strange looking cars that I wasn’t familiar with. I noticed 2 peculiarities among most Russian men the first being that they were shabbily dressed and then wore a pot belly that now I know can be called Beer Belly. Most westerners were backpackers or probably hippies. Local women were wearing from most conservative to the most western and revealing dresses

 

Next day was a Friday (weekly holiday) and my friends had planned a trip to the lovely Paghman area where much of Kabul spends its weekends picnicking with families.

 

A minivan took us out of Kabul crossing many educational institutions in the outskirts of the city on the way. I still remember seeing a university and a medical college with many hostels. I was told that atheistic Russians who were enemies of Islam had built them and by spreading education they were taking the God fearing Afghans away from their beloved Islam. Along with my hosts I also cursed the communist Russians for their evil designs. Being anti communists was an integral part of our Islam, part of the fabulous work by the CIA.

 

Paghman was all orchards around a small stream where numerous families were enjoying their weekend in the shades of fruit trees. Kabul was hot in the sun but shades were fine with nice breeze.  People were friendly and kind. Ladies were mostly wearing modest dresses with confidence and composure freely interacting with men. Western clad ladies were also there carrying themselves equally comfortably and no one seemed to be bothered by other’s attires. Although we had packed food still were feasted by the neighboring families too. I loved the home cooked Kabuli food; once again meat.

The Lahori friends went to watch more Indian movies but I preferred to walk the streets.

 

I utilized the opportunity roaming in the chic part of Kabul enjoying the attention I was getting from the girls. It was nice to know that someone other than my mom thought I was attractive.  

 

A pretty, tall and slim girl with slight oriental features was having the bright red carrot juice from the same stall. She had straight hair dropping on her shoulders. A red shirt with a black skirt was looking nice on her. Despite her good height she was wearing high heel court shoes making her look taller. Somehow I felt that I was being noticed too closely, it wasn’t a very uncommon thing at that age and I started enjoying the experience. After finishing the glass I paid for two and she thanked me in Persian while offering to pay which I naturally refused. She tried to talk in Persian but I didn’t understand. I offered her a cup of tea which she accepted and we entered a fancy restaurant close by. After a bit of exchange of niceties mostly consisting of smiles because her English was as good as my Persian, the waiter came for the order. The lady probably familiar with the place started ordering generously. The computer in my mind was working fast and I realized I will never be able to pay this bill and go back home in one piece.

 

Ultimately I also ordered a few dishes and enjoyed the food. A bit later I excused myself and quietly went out and took a taxi to the hotel. I still feel guilty of this less than dignified act of mine. I have never been so unkind with women the way I had disappointed this lovely lady. If by chance she gets a chance to read these lines I apologize and owe her a dozen dinners. I hope she accepts it, nothing wrong in being over optimistic.

 

Nervous of running away I got my stuff from the hotel and went to the other part of city, the famous Shahr I Nau. With my western dress and carrying a rucksack salesmen or touts outside of different hotels welcomed me and I selected one. It had dormitories with 4 independent beds and I settled in one of them. Now came time for registration of passports and they were disappointed seeing the green Pakistani passport I was carrying. They told that this hotel was for Europeans and not Pakistanis but after a long discussion among themselves and my insistence they graciously allowed me to stay.   

 

The hotel was built like a typical upper middle class Pakistani bungalow with a lawn in front. Ahead of the lawn there was a temporary shade built with many chairs and tables beneath it.

 

There were quite a few rooms, or shall I say dormitories with 3-4 beds which were all occupied by different tourists. My 3 room mates here were from continental Europe in their early twenties. One of them was a German getting some technical training and had taken a year off to roam the world.

The one thing that I found strange, rather different in these roommates was that they would change their clothes openly infront of others without a hint of embarrassment. I got used to it but couldn’t do it myself.

 

In the evening nearly 20 of us sat under the lighted shade in the lawn and shared stories. Luckily most could communicate in English but other European languages were also used occasionally. Nearly half of the participants were young European girls and a few local Afghans, probably workers of the hotel. One of the girls brought an old glass bottle of wine with a hole in its bottom where a long hollow wooden piece was placed. She lighted the outer end and the transparent bottle was full of smoke and everyone celebrated it. A typical annoying smell spread around that I had smelled many times in Peshawar and I soon realized it was hashish.

 

I had forced myself by then to smoke tobacco in Hassanabdal as it was the manly thing to do and I had to prove to myself and others that I have grown up. I never liked it because it always caused cough and could never imagine that I could get hooked to it but hooked I did and it took 30 years and lots of coughing before I finally quit. A few years more of smoking and I would have been forced by a doctor to quit anyway.  Coming back to the story, the girl lighting the bottle had a few coughs but a happy satisfied look on her face and she gave it to the person sitting next.

 

This way the bottle with hash kept circulating till late night. Everyone was happy or maybe delighted but some were definitely ecstatic. There was loud singing and dancing. It was a new experience for me. Girls were as confident behaving naturally as men were. Some of us ordered food and openly ate without offering others, another anomaly for me. However I enjoyed the evening finding new things, rather a new and different world and went to sleep as early morning I had to visit a place I had dreamed of for a great hero of mine was buried there, Ghazni.

 

Since early childhood like most Pakistanis I had admired Mahmood of Ghazni who as I was told was a great Muslim and conqueror. Had heard of an Urdu verse,

Phir Somnath har soo tamer ho rahe hain

Ab muntazir hai alam Mahmood butshikan ka

 

His greatness lay in invading India 17 times and destroying temples and idols. The simple fact puzzled me that he went thousands of miles to Somnath for destroying idols but didn’t do anything about the huge Bamiyan statues in his neighborhood. The tragedy of 1947 was merely 30 years old and Hindu/Muslim competition was in the mind of the 18 years old. Interestingly it was the British who humiliated, looted and impoverished the subcontinent for 200 years but the Brits were not my enemy, the Hindus were. Being anti Hindu was part of patriotism of a Pakistani and Mahmood of Ghazni symbolized all this and then some extra macho.

 

At the bus station I saw many beautiful Mercedes Benz busses with German written on them. I figured out that Afghans import used MB busses from Germany at a big discount and enjoy the luxury cheaply. Always fascinated by automobiles I was excited to travel in them.

 

I got in a bus to Kandahar which would drop me at Ghazni 150 kms away. Pakistan was still using miles and metrics annoyed me, so it was 90 miles that would take 2-3 hours. The buss was plush but not air-conditioned and windows didn’t open either. There was a certain stink and I felt suffocated until the bus started moving and 2-3 vents on the roof brought fresh air. It was highly inadequate but made things tolerable. The bus was full of men and a few women with children. Women were all in a particular kind of veil, which we call “tent burqas” in Pakistan, and I had seen in certain remote areas of southern Punjab.

 

We reached the main highway and simultaneously all the men in bus took out small tins of naswar (chewing tobacco). My seat fellow also put some naswar between his gums and then saw himself in the mirror attached to the tin feeling gratified. He was a typical hospitable pashtun inviting me to have naswar and insisting on my refusal. There were small used cans of powdered milk below the seats and the passengers took them out and spit in them. So I found the main source of typical horrible smell in the bus.

 

There terrible stench of naswar and sweat made the bus ride a bit uncomfortable initially but luckily after some time this disgusting odor vanished, probably a bit like the horrific smell of the dissection hall which stopped bothering the students later.

 

 

I found the road strange without potholes; all Pakistani roads were full of then, but this road was made of concrete and not bitumen giving it a grey color. Then it had kind of concrete blocks attached to each other with a slight void creating a kind of a train like sound whenever the tires crossed them but without giving a jerk. I was told these were all made by the Russians and concrete roads cost a bit more but last much longer. In Pakistan I saw use of concrete in roads much later and that also only on vulnerable roads.

 

 

Luckily within a few hours we reached a kind of oasis with road having trees and then we crossed a familiar structure that I knew was the tomb of my hero Mahmood. A few kilometers further we were at the Ghazni stop and had to walk to the city.

Afghanistan I saw in 1977 (First part)

 Dr. Umar Khan

khanmomar@hotmail.com

Dr. Khan belongs to a Lahore based Think Tank.

25-9-21

 

 

Afghanistan I saw in June/July 1977

The First Prime Minister of United India, Barkatullah commented about the Imperialists in 1915.

”They (British) have been sea-wolves, living on the pillage of the world.

The difference in modern times was their refinement of hypocrisy which sharpens the edge of brutality.”

Afghanistan reporting confirms this hypocrisy has been further refined

 

 

Summer of 1977 was as scorching in Lahore as it always is but the political turmoil and social cleavage had made it worse. A year earlier, I had come from hostel life in CCH (Cadet College Hassanabdal) after appearing for FSC examinations. I got good results and was admitted in the premier medical college in Pakistan, KEMC where due to old backlogs the classes didn’t start till February.

 

I was very excited when classes started in mid February as we were meeting old friends and hoping to make new ones. Then the attraction of wearing an overall and carrying a stethoscope was too overwhelming for a would-be young medico. And then the most important new thing coming in our lives were the 30 gorgeous lady class fellows, this point can only be appreciated by those who have spent 5 growing years totally secluded from the ordinary society in a hostel without sighting a female while there is a deluge of hormones inside.

 

But this happiness didn’t last and the government closed all educational institutions for the elections after only a week, and they stayed closed for over 4 months.

 

Pakistan in those days was different as was the rest of the world. ZA Bhutto was the prime minister and a bunch of right wing religious parties had gotten together but didn’t seem to be offering any serious challenge to the popular left leaning ZAB.

 

Vietnam War had recently ended, bringing many changes in the society. Liberalism was high and materialism was looked down upon. Pakistan was an integral part of the world located on the famous hippie trail.

 

Lahore in 1977 was full of western tourists.  They consisted mostly of the budget traveler types but there were also many who appeared prosperous traveling in VW minivans and other land transports. Pakistan was an important stopover for the hippies on their way to Katmandu, their most coveted place. Many of the hippie movement visitors would stay in Pakistan seeing the easy availability of their requirements, mostly cannabis products.

 

Interestingly my medical school was located in the downtown of the city, close to the historic shopping district, Anarkali, the verandas of which were home to many Europeans youngsters for months. We became familiar with each other occasionally sharing stories.

 

Despite many extracurricular activities including swimming, squash and then volunteer blood collection for patients, closing of the schools was still too stressful for youngsters like me used to active lives with hardly anything to do now. That summer I read many books including Hoor and ZaibunNisas of a friend’s sister. I then got hold of Mustansar Tarrar’s travelogue, “Nikley teri talash mein” and that stuck.

 

Bored of a dull and uninteresting life something had to be done, and I decided to visit Afghanistan. The word Afghanistan holds a special meaning for all living in the Indian subcontinent and particularly to those who call themselves Pathans and I was no exception.

 

 

I was 18, recently stretched to over 6’ in height, all skin and bones but convinced of my exceptional confidence and abilities to handle any kind of situation. Friends who wanted to join me in the trip all backed out and I decided to go alone, come what may.

 

After good intermediate results I was lavishly rewarded by relatives and I amassed Rs.700, which at that time amounted to $70. (It was Rs.10 for 1 $ then). That was lot of money and expenses of the trip were already arranged.

 

I got the passport/visa arranged and took a train to Peshawar. Settled in a hotel on the GT Road just across the bus station called GTS (Government Transport Service) and got a ticket for Kabul for the next day. I could hardly sleep all night dreaming of going back through centuries of history. That night I dreamt of Babur, Ghauri, Ghaznavi and other greats whose land I was to visit.

 

Early morning I reached the bus station. It was a silver colored FIAT bus which was labeled Deluxe because it had some kind of head rests attached. Unfortunately due to the rough roads with potholes these headrests made it even more uncomfortable, so they were useless. Interestingly in those days air-conditioning was unheard of in busses or even cars and this Fiat didn’t have it either.

 

The bus was fully booked and left in time. I got a seat among the latter half, but it wasn’t bad. At that age nothing feels bad or uncomfortable.

 

The first stop was Torkham which was at a distance of hardly 55 kms and the bus had taken more than an hour.

 

We went through all the procedures of customs/immigration in Pakistan and then in the Afghan part of the border too. Language changed, traffic changed the track and even the faces changed getting a tinge of oriental features. Later I was informed about Uzbeks and Turkmans.

 

During these bureaucratic procedures I got time to observe the 50 or so passengers with me. There were around 2/3^rd girls traveling in the bus. There were many Afghan students going back for summer vacations from Pakistan and many from India.

Some were working in India and returning home.

 

The second largest group in the bus was of Lahoris visiting Kabul to watch Indian movies on large screen. Indian TV had started showing movies by then and VCRs had also arrived but most people couldn’t afford them. Bollywood was popular and people were willing to cross frontiers to watch them.

 

And then there were many European male and female back packers voraciously reading paperbacks.

 

Finally the bus left, driving on the other side of the road.

 

The road conditions were the same but the terrain had changed. It seemed like a barren plateau with little vegetation. There was hardly any traffic with only an occasional strange looking Russian car crossing.

 

After over an hour’s drive of 80kms we reached Jalalabad and stopped for lunch. I found Jalalabad like some rural town of Pakistani then-NWFP province. There were 2 stroke rickshaws emitting terrible smoke, tongas and the ubiquitous aroma of barbequed beef. People were wearing the same attire that people in then-NWFP wore. They were speaking Pashto and using Pak rupees. I saw women shopping in the bazaar fully confident, wearing the same burqa or chaddar as I had seen in rural NWFP.

 

I felt at home although the familiarity was a bit disappointing. I had Tikka lunch and loved it.

After lunch the bus was ready to go with passengers freshened after lunch and socializing started.

Most of the Europeans were young although a bit older than me and were planning an extended stay in the Shahr I Nau part of Kabul before returning home.

 

I met two Pakistani businessmen from the famous Branderath road of Lahore. They weren’t highly educated but were well informed, aware and interesting. They would visit Afghanistan every summer because it was more interesting and cheaper than visiting Murree. Additional advantages for them were the opportunity to watch Indian films on the big screen and buying imported cloth and other stuff which was sold much cheaper than in Pakistan. They were friendly and welcoming and I decided to stay with them initially. During my stay in medical school we stayed in touch and would meet occasionally. I wonder how and where they might be although I don’t remember their names.

 

After traveling half way the road entered a gorge with hairpin turns and climb. The bus stopped at a small stall among fruit trees selling fresh fruit. Plums and apricots were delicious as was the cool fresh water and breeze.

During this small stay I saw 2 Afghans riding a Honda 175 twin with typical leaking rusted exhausts stop for drinks and then left. Then there was a Sikh family in a beautiful yellowish brand new Mercedes Benz, the kind I had never seen. It was a trendsetting legendary MB 123 that changed the auto industry for ever and is still considered an icon. I felt jealous of both of them and these stuck in the mind of the impressionable 18 years old and I later bought both of them. It is interesting to note how nature and experiences make us and how we overrate ourselves as deciding for ourselves.

 

 

We reached Kabul in late afternoon. It was my first time crossing the border and that also alone and all of a sudden had a bout of nervousness and black out. I felt like rushing back home but fortunately this phase just lasted a few seconds and I was fine. I still get this feeling occasionally when I even forget my name.

 

My Lahori friends knew the city well and we settled in a cheap hotel. The room was modern with amenities and we got it at reasonable price. We settled down and decided to explore the city.

 

We left the hotel and started walking around Kabul. It was nice and clean and the weather made it even better. There was a cosmopolitan touch with people of different nationalities and features freely moving around. Women were wearing all types of dresses and speaking different languages. There were girls wearing skirts and burqas walking on the same streets. I saw a lot of oriental features and many Russians were also common as were the Russian cars. Then I saw strange noisy machines extracting lovely red carrot juice everywhere, a novelty for me.

 

I liked the weather of Kabul and the optimistic feel that I was being noticed by the girls.

In Pakistan jeans were rare then and only expensive imported ones were available in the top outlets. I was wearing a cotton trousers that I had got stitched from my favorite tailor at Raja Sahib on the Mall Road after buying cloth from Neela Gumbat.

 

After a long stroll and much of street food we came back and slept.

 

Next morning my partners took me to a market where jeans, which were still a novelty in Pakistan, were being sold but I couldn’t buy them due to my limited budget.

 

On the way we crossed a bridge over a small stream looking like a sewer and was told it was river Kabul. After watching tourist posters with a full blue river it was more than disappointing. 

 

Around afternoon the friends took us to a shopping mall, probably the first I had ever seen. It was owned by Sikhs they knew and they bought unstitched cloth for their families. There were cinemas in the mall and one of them was showing a famous movie Hawas with a lovely song, “Teri galyon mein na rakhen ge kadam aaj ke baad”. I liked the song and specially, Usha Khanna the composer, but always found watching Bollywood challenging. The Lahori friends wanted to watch the movie but I decided to keep on exploring streets of Kabul.