The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan

by Paul Meinhardt

  Mike had some trouble understanding the practice of counting coup so I explained the game of touch football, a favorite stress release for President Kennedy. The similarity to English football made sense to him, and so, I made my point.

  18

  REVOLUTION - SPRING, 1978

  Compared to past mishaps, my flight into Kabul in April, 1978, hardly moistened my armpits. As usual, the flight from London was on ‘Scariana’ (Arianna) Airlines, the mom and pop airline of pre-revolutionary Afghanistan.

  We didn’t know it at the time, but the revolution was fated to begin just as our plane landed at Kabul airport. As I later discovered, the airport, most of the planes, and the facilities were bombed about fifteen minutes after my taxi left the airport. The MIG’s used by the revolution did a thorough job, and it took over a week to make the airport usable again.

  Just as I checked into my friend’s hotel, near the old bazaar, all hell broke loose. We could hear the airport being blown apart. In Kabul, the ground vibrated in muffled blasts toward the direction of the National Palace.

  My first reaction was that a film was being made with Dolby sound. It was like the sense-around sound used in theaters when the film “Earthquake” was shown. It didn’t take long to realize that this was not a spectator sport.

  From the hotel lobby, we could see smoke rising as near as the building across the boulevard. Soon, continuous crackling sounds and repeated thuds were heard. We knew what was happening. We were about to experience a confrontation with impending destruction.

  For us, a real war had become a personal experience. The little band of merchant adventurers was about to age ten years in ten days. The first day of the revolution was hard to take seriously. I was sitting in the lobby writing letters during the first hours of the battle for Kabul.

  I was a war correspondent writing on-the-spot bulletins in my aerograms back home. Hopefully, the letters and I would get home safely. The experience of those first few hours of the battle was both frightening and thrilling. To distract myself, I made lists of the items I planned to purchase on this trip.

  Somehow, our middle class faith in business-as-usual remained intact, at least for the first few days. That first day was my wake-up-call, as the revolution passed through the hotel neighborhood without serious incident.

  As the hotel owner rushed to bar the doors, I helped her. “What flag should we hang from the balcony?” I asked. “Damned if I know,” she replied.

  As we ran around baring doors and draping windows, I reflected on the caravan mishaps over the last few years. How could I get so upset over nothing then, and now be so calm in the face of the exploding battle taking place just down the road?

  We knew that the fun and games were over when at sundown the lights didn’t go on. Had the MIG’s knocked out the power station, the transmission lines, or had the power been shut down as a precaution? The dozen or so guests and staff spent the night in the basement.

  MIG-17*

  The next morning all was quiet except for some MIG’s and helicopters on their dawn patrol. We were cautioned by the block-militia not to bring any photo equipment when we traveled for the remainder of the week. Otherwise, it was safe to travel as long as we had all our papers with us. By midmorning, there were no more flights or fighting, just an eerie silence.

  By early evening, the bazaar was open. The militia, with rapid deliberation, encouraged and helped the merchants open their shops and stalls. Shops and stalls remaining closed were forcibly opened by neighboring merchants. Militia women acted as proprietors until the owners returned.

  My business partner Mike’s import shop was one of the first to open. His new wife minded the shop while Mike met me for breakfast at the hotel. Mike was now an important party official in the new revolutionary council.

  He asked me to accompany him to those shops and stalls that resisted opening. “Lela, it will be much easier to persuade them to open if you tell them you are shopping today. The merchants have great respect for you,” he said. I agreed to accompany him to avoid forced openings. I told Mike, “I’ll help you, but I think they have more respect for my money than for me.”

  Smiling as always, Mike told me, “Those foreigners who aid the revolution are considered friends of the Afghan people. Those who do not cooperate will be promptly expelled. Lela, you have proved repeatedly that you are a friend of the Afghan people. Now, more than ever, please continue your progressive actions.” I smiled back at Mike and agreed.

  I thought to myself: The success of my business is largely the result of Mike’s contacts. I’m a progressive internationalist and support ‘the people’s revolution’ including this one. I’m a guest and have received the warm embrace of kinship from Mike’s people. Finally I reflected: there was no real choice as the option of refusal would likely put an end to my business.

  As Paul said, “A revolution is like a marriage. Once the passion cools, we accept it and make it work, or not. For better or worse, we resist all challenges. If there are problems, and there will always be problems, we strive to resolve and fix the faults. For liberals, divorce is an easy option, but for progressives, the only divorce is from life.”

  Pauls’ attitude about revolution was one we shared. I resolved to do whatever it took to aid our comrades.

  A few days after the revolution succeeded, Mike took me on a walking tour of Kabul. Little damage was apparent. Virtually all venues, including the airport, were open for business. The revolutionary forces were intent on a quick victory with as little destruction as possible. Apparently they succeeded on both accounts, but for how long? That was the question.

  The guardians of the old order fled into Iran, Pakistan and India.

  [NOTE: Within a few years they would return, first as Mujahideen, and later as Taliban.]

  The population seemed well prepared for this revolution. Oil lamps and candles appeared as if on cue. Charcoal heated brass samovars were brought out of storage and brightly polished. By the time this stuff appeared in the bazaar stalls, the electricity was fully restored. By the end of the week, Kabul was back to normal, at least normal for Kabul.

  During the first few days of the revolution, we had a great campout in the well protected stone mausoleum of the hotel lobby. Mike and the militia were keen on restoring normalcy and we foreign guests soon learned what was expected of us: it was to return to our various endeavors as soon as possible— normalcy was the order of the day.

  It must have been about five in the morning of the third day when we heard a tremendous whooshing sound. It was like a vacuum cleaner in my ears. The relative quiet of the last two days had not prepared us for this new intrusion of our senses.

  Following the whooshing, we experienced a nerve-shattering scraping sound, with stone and plaster crashing down all around us. Finally, an earsplitting boom and bursting sound was heard just outside the hotel entrance. Miraculously, other than a few cuts, no one was seriously hurt.

  As we learned from Mike, the MIG was on a training flight when flying geese were sucked into the intake jet. The pilots ejected safely as the MIG was on course for a deserted airport landing strip. For some reason the MIG crashed into a deserted warehouse that was slated for demolition. Before demolishing the warehouse, the MIG bounced off the hotel roof.

  We were ensconced in the basement for an hour after the noise ended. By the next morning military trucks arrived with cherry-pickers, scaffolding and stone workers. Within a day, they had the roof and stone lattice work restored to its former glory, and that was the last near miss for this trip.

  By early evening, the hotel manager provided supper for us. Mike explained to the group that tomorrow there would be a celebration in Kabul to mark the success of the revolution. In less than a week, the revolution, or coup d’état, was over. I was exhausted. The Evening Call to Prayer sounded for the first time in almost a week. It was my call to sweet, thankful sleep.

  I must have slept for twelve hours. When I awoke to the first call to Morn
ing Prayer, the sun was just peaking over the horizon. A half hour later, music was blaring from loudspeakers outside the hotel. As I was dressing, I heard a great deal of shouting from the street.

  The sounds of celebration, mostly western rock music, could be heard even with the shower running. I dressed and went down to the lobby. The hotel staff was jubilant. They were shouting, “The revolution is won; death to Daoud and his tribe of pigs.”

  As in many Middle East nations, one tribe dominates the others. Those who oppose are not tolerated. This was the case in Afghanistan. Political parties were usually along tribal lines. As far as we could see, the whole city was in motion. The entire nation was celebrating, except for Daoud’s tribe. Soldiers, merchants and everyone was milling about, singing, dancing, shouting and hugging each other.

  A dozen huge Soviet tanks decked with garlands of flowers were parked all over the main boulevard. Ecstatically happy young people, as many women as men, were putting flowers in all the gun barrels they could find while the soldiers smiled and laughed. They were pelted with so many blooms that they seemed buried in flowers.

  One old man in tears of joy climbed with some help onto a tank. With great care, he tried to insert a large flower bouquet onto the cannon muzzle while the crowd cheered. The cannon was lowered as the old man was held high so he could place the bouquet. Once this gesture was completed, everyone applauded him.

  This happy state of affairs continued for days during which I did business with the merchants as usual. I dealt with the merchants I knew from previous trips. Mostly, I was reordering items that sold well. Also, I was able to arrange for air shipments via cable orders from the States. My merchant friends were extremely generous in the sales terms they gave me.

  I believe Mike, a high government official now, made some arrangements with my merchant friends. They treated me as a beloved friend of Afghanistan. Often I was referred to as the ‘Afghan Queen of Merchants.’

  Everyone seemed overjoyed that the Daoud regime was gone. One merchant told me that, “He stole too much from the people, everyone takes a little and that’s how business gets done, but he took the bread from our mouths.” This seemed to be the consensus.

  Business was back to normal; actually it was better than normal. We did not expect to see this business climate again. I was delighted and sent a wire to Paul as soon as I could. He was more than worried. Knowing him, he would be anxious to an extreme, and I wanted to relieve his anxiety as rapidly as possible.

  By week’s end, the new government opened Daoud’s palace to the people. Previously, no one had been able to get within a half mile of the palace perimeter. Now, for the first time, thousands of people were admitted to the palace. Hundreds of journalists were taken on separate tours by the militia.

  I too stood on line talking to merchants, students, and travelers. We were all in a giddy holiday frame of mind. I had caught the victory fever as well as the others.

  Daoud’s brief dalliance with the West had cost him his life. Afghanistan was once again aligned with her primary trading partner, the Soviet Union. The Kalq party had won the day.

  The impressive, no nonsense Soviet-style uniforms of the soldiers were a welcome sight to leftists such as me. After hours of partying on the palace waiting-line with dozens of friends and merchants, we were finally taken through the palace.

  The display of palace opulence had our eyes popping out of our heads. It was like some luxurious Hollywood set except that it was all genuine. Antique oriental rugs were so huge that they seemed like wall-to-wall carpeting. The carpet pile was so thick that we would be forced to remove our shoes, if it had not already been requested. It was like walking on a cloud.

  Walls were inlaid with lapis and malachite in the same way we might use wall paper. Gold and silver wall fixtures dazzled the eye. The main entrance chandelier was bigger than my living room, sparkling with gold and crystal pendants.

  More incredible than the palace were the reactions of the Afghans. Tribal people, ragged street vendors, soldiers, students, merchants in caftans, women covered from head to toe in chadors, old hajjis in turbans caressing prayer beads, and many Westerners, all had that glazed look of astonishment that comes from a once-in-a-lifetime glimpse of the incredible.

  Kings Palace outside of Kabul BEFORE it was looted and gutted*

  One old Turcoman in full tribal dress was bug-eyed staring at the central chandelier. He stood rooted to the spot with his head tilted back. He clutched a small boy in each hand. The impatient boys pulled him forward. He laughed as he let the boys lead him to another room of treasures.

  A soldier and my friend Kit tried to help the old hajji who looked like he was about to topple over. I was more interested in the old man than the glittering chandelier. The boys led him away, more gently. We all watched as the boys in Beatles T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers, tried to coax the old man out of his trance.

  Kit said, “All these glittering prizes were taken out of the backs of the Afghan people. While this place should be a People’s Museum or Palace of the Revolution, the new revolutionary council will allow the people to loot and gut the palace. You’ll see.”

  A year later, I saw what remained of the palace and cried. The wrecked palace was cordoned off with razor wire, but there didn’t seem to be anything left to loot. Knowing the people, however, I realized they would dismantle the remains, carrying it off, stone by stone to sell in the marketplace.

  Kings Palace outside of Kabul AFTER it was looted and gutted*

  Some of the soldier guides tried to explain that all this wealth was stolen from the Afghan people. That was true, I thought; it belonged to the people. It was their heritage, their wealth. As one guide explained, “Look around you. This is the food that Daoud’s tribe took from your children’s mouths.”

  A few old men were openly crying while they exited the palace. A woman from Nuristan sat outside the palace wailing at the top of her lungs while relatives tried to console her. One of my merchant friends told me that she kept repeating that her sons had died for this wealth.

  Little did I realize, three years earlier, that my petty traveling inconveniences would be a source of embarrassment compared to the April days of the revolution. These thoughts ran through my mind constantly.

  19

  CARAVAN THROUGH TURKEY - SPRING, 1978

  Traveling back and forth to Afghanistan with the caravan, I continually ran into many of the people who sat with me during those campfire talks. Most were on their semiannual pilgrimage to their ashram near Delhi.

  We all got along splendidly. Michel and Monica were Swiss, as was Doris. Philip was the lone Englishman, in our little bus group and the only person with whom I could talk easily. Everyone else spoke German which was something of a chore for me. They spoke some English but were no more comfortable with English than I was with German.

  As we traveled, my German improved considerably, but never enough for relaxed conversation. It was like my Pashtu language skills, adequate for trading with merchants, but conversationally limited.

  The driving schedule was taking a lot out of us. We drove from sun-up until midnight. While there were four of us taking two-hour driving shifts, it was still exhausting, snacking all day, with only pit stops every two hours. Midnight meals gave many of us fitful sleep.

  I was losing weight from this daily routine, and the weight loss delighted me. My jeans kept falling off, until Philip, gave me a pair of his suspenders. I hoped to be able to buy some jeans with elastic waistbands, if I could find them. Eventually, my Afghan suppliers would make some jeans with elastic waist bands.

  In Greece, we learned that many foods in Yugoslavia were rationed or hard to get. We were accustomed to buying fresh food along the road, but in the Balkans, we would have to settle for meager rations. Milk was rationed and cheese was of poor quality, when we could find it.

  There were plenty of overpriced imported foods, but we were unable to barter for these and did not have enough money.

>   [NOTE: The Cold War and Soviet power would be in effect until 1990.]

  We pooled our funds and stocked up on food in Thessalonica. Here food was plentiful. We stocked up on canned foods, yogurt, cheese, olives, fruit and wine. Jarred fish-roe spread, teramosalata, was a great favorite, especially on fresh crusty bread. Also, we had laid in a good supply of superb Turkish coffee before crossing the Bosporus.

  Teramosalata is easily made using any salted fish roe. The fish roe is mixed with bread crumbs mashed potatoes or rice. Paul makes it at home with brown rice and unflavored yogurt. Lemon juice, balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil are added. Sometimes, chopped black olives, fresh fennel, and cilantro are also added. The mix is a matter of taste.

  I dragged a small plug-in battery-operated radio along and we were able to sample some local music. Hard rock, heavy metal was the common denominator music throughout Europe at the time, which served to lift our mood. Also, the bus had a collection of acid rock and anti-Vietnam rock. Usually I acted as disk-jockey.

  The bus had a fair library of tape cassettes, some of which I contributed, such as: Ike and Tina Turner, Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Grateful Dead, Dylan, Janis Joplin, Chicago, Who’s Tommy and Jeff Starship. Mozart’s Magic Flute was the most popular of all the classical tapes, along with Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony and Stravinsky’s Alexander Nevsky Cantata.

  Before crossing into Greece, we spent a week in Istanbul to repair the caravan and especially the bus. Most of us had business of various sorts in Istanbul. I found a number of tribal art merchants; one in particular specialized in tribal dance and musical instruments.