A decade on I’d had enough. There was a moment in Iraq, when I was taking photos of rockets in the night sky, and I suddenly realized I didn’t want to be there. The world doesn’t need another picture of a burnt-out tank in a desert. Or at least, not from me. I wanted to change the way I did things, to take control, to choose where I went and what I did. In the past, not so very long ago, when Elizabeth was alive, men used to go off to battlegrounds and fight it out. It’s not so neat and tidy any more. War’s the little kid still holding on to his mother’s hand after her head’s been cut off with a machete. It’s the father laying his dead child down to be buried by a bulldozer before disease begins to spread. It’s refugee camps, starvation, cholera.
There’s more to Afghanistan than conflict, but that conflict’s linked to everything else, to the war widows begging outside expat restaurants, the little boys forced to work instead of going to school, the heroin addicts who can’t see any other way out. Those are the things I decided to photograph, the bits outside the news, not extreme enough to make it into the papers, but miserable enough for the people who have to live them. I wasn’t quite sure what I’d find in Kabul, but I knew there’d be stories to tell. I caught a plane to Dubai, then another to Kabul, flying for hours over red-ridged mountains, peaks of snow and shadowed valleys, hard, secretive terrain, making me think of the men who’ve hidden there on and off for decades, waiting to outwit their enemies. When the mountains turned into flat, unforgiving plains, I knew we’d almost made it. Soon, the dusty earth was criss-crossed with the straight lines of a brown grid, dotted with little spots of greenery. As the plane descended I saw houses within the squares of the grid, each huddled within the walls of its own compound. Hangars painted the colour of sand, a mass of military planes and helicopters, then the runway, the landing crunch.
Here we go again, I thought, and covered my hair with a scarf.
Airports in war zones are misleading, the last scraps of normality almost clinging to them, a no-man’s-land between the fighting and the rest of the world, where the right papers can still get the right people to the right places. A place where there are queues and rules, neat rows of seats, adverts for Coca-Cola. As soon as you step outside, though, you hit reality. At Kabul International Airport the arrivals hall was almost deserted, with just a few grim-faced private security guards waiting to pick up embassy passengers. As soon as I stepped outside, my rucksack on my back, camera bags on the front, I was hit by a wave of hard, dry heat. They don’t let cars near the airport for fear of suicide bombers, and so the taxis were a long walk across the car park. Every step of the way I felt watched. Finally I made it, found a cab, told the driver where I wanted to go and settled myself in for the ride into town.
I was ready for big changes in Kabul, but there was one thing about it that was exactly the same: the smell of shit. The first time I was there, I’d thought that the air would be fresh at such a high altitude, but it wasn’t then and it wasn’t now. As I drove from the airport I could see ditches full of human waste drying in the sun, ready for the wind to lift into the air and swirl around the city.
It was much busier than it had been in 2001 – more traffic, more people on the streets. The city was spreading up into the hills, clusters of mud-brick houses that looked as if they’d been thrown onto the mountainsides next to blank, flat-fronted buildings surrounded by walls topped with spikes – the homes of warlords.
There were still plenty of pitted walls and metal rods sticking out of blasted cement. Children played among the ruins of abandoned blocks of flats. But there was a lot of new construction too. As we bumped along the potholed road, we passed endless plate-glass buildings, shiny and enormous.
“Wedding halls,” said the driver.
Outside them stood a bizarre collection of palm trees, pyramids, a replica of the Eiffel Tower stretching high into the sky. On the top of the buildings were neon signs in Dari and English – fancy names like Sham-e Paris or Kabul Dubai. Stretch limousines, garlanded with flowers, slid up to park outside. It looked more like Las Vegas than Kabul.
Dusk was falling, flocks of birds wheeling and swooping in the sky. As it grew darker, more lights came on in the hills, and wood smoke began to hang in the air.
The taxi drew up outside the guest house that Faisal had found for me in the north of the city. In my room, I dumped my bags on the floor and looked around. It was pretty standard: a single bed, a desk, a rickety wardrobe, all made of cheap wood. A plastic bucket for laundry. Dirty white walls, a thin blue carpet. There was, at least for the moment, internet access. I switched on my laptop and got myself online.
Faisal and I met the next day at a chaikhana in the old city, on the first floor of an ancient building, sleepy fans rippling the air. As usual, I was the only woman in the place, my foreignness making me an honorary man. He was on the balcony, waiting. He looked very well, prosperous and smart.
When he saw me he smiled.
“Jo,” he said. “I am so pleased to see you.”
I wanted to fling my arms around him and give him a hug, but I knew that even shaking hands would make him uncomfortable, so I just smiled.
“I’m very happy to see you too, Faisal,” I said.
“Are you well?”
“I’m very well.”
“And your family?”
Faisal knows I don’t have any family. It was his way of asking if I was married. I never quite knew what Faisal thought of that side of my life. Unlike his sisters he was far too polite to say.
We ordered tea.
“Your children, Faisal, how are they?”
He dug in his pocket and brought out pictures of a boy and a girl, aged about six and eight.
“They’re beautiful.”
“You must meet them, and my wife, Sonia.”
“Of course.”
I thought of Leila and Shushila, giggling as they painted my nails. “How are your sisters?”
He hesitated, then said, “They are OK.”
“I’d love to see them too.”
“Perhaps.”
Faisal had achieved what he’d wanted – qualified as a doctor, and a good one at that. He’d become a consultant at one of Kabul’s hospitals and so was too busy to help me again, but I’d emailed him to ask if he knew anyone who could. He’d been a bit stumped at first when I’d said I’d prefer a woman, but now he had a suggestion.
“Her name is Rashida. She’s the daughter of one of my colleagues, who’s also a very good friend. She’s just graduated in journalism and is looking for work. It would be good experience for her and I think she would be useful to you.”
“Great!”
He hesitated.
“What?”
“You know she won’t be able to do all the things a man can do. You’ll need to be accompanied by someone if you want to go to certain places.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “We can take a driver – we’ll need one anyway. And I’ll figure out the rest.”
“I know!” he said, with a smile.
“So when can I meet her?”
“Let’s try tomorrow afternoon. I’ll find out if she’s available. There’s a place called the Flower Street Café. I go there sometimes with my European colleagues.”
“I know Flower Street,” I said, remembering the stalls selling dusty bouquets of plastic roses.
“Actually, it’s not there. It’s in Qala-e Fatullah, near the guest house. They will give you directions. Let’s meet there at three.”
The next morning I went to the café, down a dusty, empty street. The guest house had insisted on a taxi, which in the end I was pleased about, because the blank concrete walls didn’t suggest any café to me. When we stopped outside a metal door, I sat for a moment wondering if we were in the right place, then saw a hand-painted sign.
I got out of the taxi and knocked on the door. A peephole slid open and a security guard looked out at me.
“Flower Street Café?” I asked.
He grunted,
and let me in. I stepped into a little courtyard where another stern-looking security guard stood, a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. He pointed to my bag.
“You have gun?”
I shook my head and opened the bag, nervous about my camera equipment, but after a quick check he nodded and I went through another door.
A tiny path led to a garden, with roses and a patch of lawn with tables placed around it under cheerful red umbrellas. At the far end was a gazebo wound about with grapevines, where people sat, deep in conversation or typing on laptops. I couldn’t see Faisal so I wandered into the house. It was even busier than the garden, filled with more expats at work, frowning down at screens, phones next to them, cups of coffee to hand.
Returning to the garden, I picked a table in the shade and ordered a mango smoothie from the friendly waiter. A few minutes later, Faisal arrived.
“This is Rashida,” he said. “And this is her brother Ahmed.”
Ahmed had clearly come to suss me out. I decided the best strategy was charm.
“Hello,” I said. “It’s great to meet you.”
He just nodded, but Rashida smiled. “I’m very pleased to meet you too.”
There was a pause while the waiter came to take their orders, then we got down to business.
“Rashida, Faisal told me that you’re looking for work. I’d love it if you could help me,” I said, making sure I looked at Ahmed as well as her.
“What would she be doing?” asked Ahmed. “What do you hope to photograph?”
“I want to look at what the war means to ordinary people.”
He looked sceptical.
“I don’t want to photograph ISAF forces,” I said. “And I’m not looking for Taliban.”
Both he and Rashida looked rather startled.
“Really,” I said, quickly. “I just want to talk to people and take their pictures. Faisal will tell you, I’m always very careful. I don’t take unnecessary risks.”
Faisal nodded. “She doesn’t.”
“Rashida, do you think you can help me? Would you be interested?”
She and her brother exchanged glances, then she nodded. “Yes, please.”
Twelve
ELIZABETH WILLOUGHBY’S DIARY
7th January 1915
A photographer came to visit today. His pictures will be made into postcards to be given to the patients to post home to their families and sold in town. I find it rather strange to imagine them next to pictures of the Aquarium and the Palace Pier, but I suppose there is no accounting for taste!
Mr Fry was a small, dapper man, accompanied by an assistant, Mr Cartwright, whose job seemed to be to carry the large amount of equipment while Mr Fry made sure each portrait was exactly how he wanted it.
We had taken a great deal of trouble over the preparations: orders had come from the very top to make a good impression, and so the patients were dressed up, beds smoothed, flowers picked and well arranged, but Mr Fry began to fuss about, getting us to move the beds a fraction of an inch here and there, then back again, saying that his photographs must reflect the fact that the Pavilion is a military hospital, and thus have what he called “perfect lines”.
I was anxious about moving the beds with the patients still in them, but remembering Colonel MacLeod’s instructions to make a good impression, I directed the orderlies to do as he said. Once they were in position, Mr Fry looked at them for a long time, squinting, his head cocked, then turned to me and asked if I could smooth the blankets, as they were a little creased.
Although slightly indignant at his suggestion that the beds might be anything less than perfect, I began to do as he said.
Hari was suddenly at my side.
“You’re not meant to do things like that,” he muttered. “Remember?”
“Oh,” I whispered, startled. “Yes. Of course.”
As the orderly worked his way along the row of beds, patting down the covers and making them smooth, I turned to Hari and whispered my thanks. The ghost of a smile flitted over his lips and he gave a little shrug of acknowledgement.
In the meantime Mr Fry had turned his attention to how we should compose ourselves. The patients were to sit up straight in bed, their hands crossed above their blankets, looking straight ahead, not at the camera, which Mr Cartwright was patiently positioning towards the other end of the room. Mr Fry carefully picked out six staff and ushered us into position next to the patients’ beds.
It was a fresh day, but not cold, and so some of the patients were persuaded to pose in groups in the gardens: Sikhs together, then the Gurkhas, Dogras and Pathans. I was reminded of school, as Mr Fry posed them as if for one of those ghastly end-of-term photographs, some sitting in front, the others standing behind, and thought of Miss Hewitt chivvying us into position as we shivered with our lacrosse sticks, the wind blowing in gusts off the sea.
I had not expected to be included in the pictures of the operating theatre, as usually I have so little to do with it, but Mr Fry wanted a woman to make it look less austere. I stood between the British doctors and Hari and tried to look as if I belonged.
When Mr Fry had finished, I turned to Hari, who had been as awkward in front of the cameras as me, and confessed that I was pleased it was over, and that I had found it hard not to feel self-conscious.
“My worry is what they’ll be used for,” he said.
I asked what he meant, and he said his guess was that the postcards would be used for recruitment. When the patients sent the postcards back to their families everyone in India would think how marvellous the hospital was, and be grateful and send more sons to fight.
I thought about it for a moment. “Well, our hospital is rather good. And we do need more men at the Front.”
“I have a theory,” he said. “Do you remember our conversation about the efforts being made not to offend the men and keeping everything separate?”
I nodded.
“And have you heard of the Indian Mutiny?”
I nodded again. Robert’s grandfather died in the Siege of Delhi; he told me all about it.
“And do you know that it was started by a rumour that the cartridges to be used by the East India Company Army were greased by pig or cow fat?”
I said yes, eager to show off my knowledge. “The sepoys had to bite them to release the gunpowder, and that was offensive to Mohammedans and Hindus alike.”
Looking somewhat surprised that I knew about it, he said his theory was that the British had learnt from their mistakes: now they knew that they had to get these things right. With thousands of Indian soldiers at the Front, the last thing they wanted was another mutiny. What they did want was more men, to carry on with their campaign, and so it was vital to show that good care was being taken of the Indians already here.
“They’re not making postcards of the other hospitals, are they? They chose the Pavilion because it looks so impressive.”
Perhaps Hari was right: that nothing is as simple as it seems, and everything good is done for other reasons, but I was not so sure.
“I nurse the men because I want to make them well again, I want to make a difference. Isn’t that what everyone wants, really, in the end?”
He stood very still for a moment, thinking, then smiled. “Of course: that’s why I’m here too.”
I smiled back, relieved. I don’t know why, but somehow I want Hari Mitra to think well of me.
He was looking at me rather oddly, as if he was trying to puzzle something out, then said something strange. “I’m not… not always very good at…”
“At what?”
“I mean, I don’t always see the best in a situation, in people. It’s a fault I have, I know.”
I was surprised at the intimacy of his confession.
“You… you’re the first person since…”
He broke off, then took a breath, as if he were about to say something else, but then turned and quickly made his exit. I was left there, standing, unsure as to what had just happened, and wh
at he had meant to say. I am still wondering now.
Thirteen
In the first few days that we worked together, Rashida seemed nervous, and I worried that I wasn’t going to get what I needed. I didn’t want to push her, but perhaps Faisal’s fears about employing a woman had been right. She was so unassuming that it was hard to see how she’d ever manage an interview.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. “You seem uncomfortable.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. I’ve been trying to understand what it is you want. What’s your story? I don’t want to get it wrong.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I don’t know quite what it is yet. I’m trying to figure it out. I just want to talk to as many people as I can, and see as much of Kabul as possible.”
“OK,” she said. “I’ll make sure that’s what we do.”
After that, Rashida took me all over the city. On the advice of other Westerners at the guest house, I hired Bazir, a driver with a firm called Kabul Cars. Against their advice, we didn’t always use him, but walked the streets, too, rising at dawn to see the city waking up, watching the bazaar open, vendors wrapped in blankets against the morning chill, frying food to sell to other early risers, smoke hanging in the air, the smell of fat mingling with baking bread and exhaust fumes from cars revving their engines in the cold. I got great shots of little boys running with long loaves back to their families, old men’s turbans turned to gold in the early-morning light.
Once Rashida got started, I realized I’d underestimated her. We talked to popcorn sellers, taxi drivers, kite-flyers, blacksmiths, butchers and people outside cinemas waiting to go and see the latest Bollywood blockbuster. There was a quiet intelligence behind her unobtrusiveness, an awareness of when to let others speak. As a translator she was careful not to interrupt or impose her own opinions onto what people were trying to say.
I took to going to the Flower Street Café in the afternoons, after Rashida had gone home. I liked its sense of calm, a welcome respite from the vague tension I always felt on the streets. It also served the best coffee in Kabul and the waiters were happy to leave you for hours, seeming not to mind that the place was an unofficial office for international freelancers.
The Repercussions Page 5
