by Rory Stewart
"Where are you from?"
"I am from Indonesia," I said. I chose Indonesia because it was a large Muslim country they would have nothing against and know little about. I suspected they did not like the British.
One of them laughed. "That is a lie ... Where is your passport?"
"In the passport office in Kabul ... I don't carry it because I don't want to lose it." It was in a money belt around my waist.
"Speak some Indonesian."
"Salamat Sore. Apa Kabar? Baik-baik saja? Ada masalah di sini?"
"Say, 'I am an Indonesian professor of history.'"
"Saya bekarja sebagai..."
"Are you a Muslim?"
"We have one God, the same God," I replied. "I am a follower of Hazrat Jesus. We have three books, you have four ... You fast at Ramadan, we fast at Lent." I didn't want to say I was a Muslim because I thought I'd be caught out. But I presented myself as a very Muslim Christian.66
"Do you speak English?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Because I am a professor."
We walked side by side for a while and then one of the men said, "Give me four hundred dollars..."
"Is this a request for zakat ?" I asked, referring to the obligatory Muslim donation to the poor.
"No," he said, confused. "No, I don't need zakat."
"Well, then, I will keep my money for a more deserving cause."
We were silent again until we reached a large group of young mullahs standing in the middle of the street. I stopped, introduced myself to them, and invited them to walk with us. I felt safer the more people I met. When I said I had been in Pakistan, one mullah gave me an impromptu Urdu examination.
"Do women uncover their heads or wear trousers in Indonesia?"
"I am afraid to say that a few women occasionally uncover their heads in the villages," I replied. Very few women cover their heads in Indonesia.
Another young mullah joined us.
"This man," the others told me, "was the Taliban head of this village."
"Peace be with you," I said.
He nodded gravely. "And also with you." He shook my hand, inquired if I was a Muslim, and, as I went through the same lengthy answer, asked, "What do you think of the Taliban? Who do you support, America or the Taliban?"
"I am a guest in your country. I am not an American or a Taliban. I cannot answer you."
"Who do you think is better, Usama Bin Laden or George Bush?"
"I am an Indonesian professor of history; I am a guest in your country. I know nothing about either of these men. My specialty is Genghis Khan ... I could tell you about him. Who do you want to be president?"
"Mullah Mohammed Omar," they shouted in unison.
"Who do you think is better, Usama Bin Laden or George Bush?" the mullah asked again.
"I know who you think is better," I replied, "but I know nothing about the subject."
"Do you know how many civilians the Americans and British have killed in this country? Thousands," said a man with a rifle, "tens of thousands."
"Have they killed them in your village?"
"No, not in this village. We have not seen an American or a British. They would not dare to come to our village because they are afraid to die and we would kill them at once. They are afraid to die because they have no God. They are pathetic and decadent and corrupt. Why are they afraid of their deaths? They have nothing to live for. But I am ready to die now. We are all ready to die now because we know that we will go to God. That is why they can never defeat us. That is why their civilization will be destroyed. This is jihad." Everyone nodded earnestly.
"In any case, we can all hope," I said. "God willing, peace will come."
"Peace will only come when all the foreigners have left this country," snapped a new arrival. "Are you a Muslim?"
I began to explain again. He spat on the ground, turned his back, and walked off, followed by five others. The Taliban head, however, took his leave gracefully, embracing me and wishing me luck. I hugged him with a show of respect and affection I did not feel.
I was left with the original three men.
"Why don't you go down to the river there and examine the spring," suggested the one who had asked me for money.
"No, thank you," I said, "I am in a hurry ... I have to get to Maidan Shahr before dark ... I must keep going."
"Go on."
"No, thank you," I said seriously. "I must keep going."
They all laughed.
"Why are you laughing?" I asked.
"Because if you had gone down there, you would have been killed," they replied.
We walked side by side in silence until we reached another village. A convoy of pickup trucks drove up behind us and an older man shouted from one of the trucks.
"That is our Commander Haji Ghulam Ahmed," said one of the men. "He wants us. We must go now and speak to him. We will catch up with you."
They didn't.
I quickened my pace, aware of tiredness and a slight tension in my muscles. My focus for the last hour had been immediate and practical. I had wanted to get to the next village. The men struck me as bullies with a strangled and dangerous view of God and a stupid obsession with death. I did not envy the government that had to deal with them.
I realized they could have killed me, but I wasn't sure whether they had wanted to or had just been winding me up—nor whether I had handled them correctly. Perhaps I had just been lucky that their commander had appeared. I hardly took in the scenery over the next hour. My emotions seemed muted. It occurred to me that being threatened by the Taliban made a good anecdote, but mostly I thought about the conversation with distaste and frustration.
TOES
I turned out of the Jalrez valley, crossed a gentle ridge, and descended. At dusk, I reached the mud compound that served as the barracks of Maidan Shahr and banged at the gate. It opened and rifles were leveled at me. I could not tell much about the men from their camouflage waistcoats, shalwar kemis, gym shoes, and Soviet belts. Their Chitrali caps, however, suggested their sympathies were with the new government, as the Taliban usually wore turbans. The men shouted questions; I muttered answers; a commander was sent for. I pulled at the straps of my pack to take some of the weight off my shoulders and looked at my feet. More questions. Finally I was invited in.
They led me into a government office built during the Russian era. There had once been glass in the windows and a number of small empty rooms branched off the main corridor. Twelve of us sat on the mud floor in one room. It was too small for us all to lean against the walls, but the others pushed me to the head of the room and asked me questions about my journey and my family. They had a gas stove and I began to warm up. I asked them about their families and, perhaps because they were away from home, they replied at length. Many of them had been refugees.
A young man with well-groomed, bouffant hair was sent to the outbuildings to cook. He returned with two large platters of rice, which we shared. The soldiers were amused by how much I ate and kept encouraging me to eat more.
"Sorry if we were rough," said the commander when we had finished. "You are wearing local clothes. You don't quite look like an Afghan—your face, your boots. We thought you were an Arab or Pakistani. Here there were many al-Qaeda looking like you—exhausted, underfed, with a pack on their back ... They even had your stare. There were thousands of them in the valley from Jalrez to Maidan Shahr only a few months ago ... We are Tajik. They were our enemy."
"And now?"
"They have gone. But this is not a comfortable area for us—we are a garrison surrounded by hostile people."
Some of the men were playing cards with a pack of forty-four. I felt tired but relaxed, cradling a hot glass of tea in my hands, leaning against the wall, joining in the chat. We heard firing in the street, and the men interrupted their game to rush outside. They returned ten minutes later to say it was nothing important.
I told them about my conversation with the Taliban on the r
oad.
"Did you meet Haji Ghulam Ahmed?" asked a young man.
I said I had glimpsed him. "Why?" I asked.
"He was the Taliban deputy minister of planning," said the young man who had done the cooking. I had noticed him because he was the only man who hadn't so far said anything and because he had tucked his shalwar trousers into his socks. "He is still the commander of this area. It was dangerous for you to walk that road. You were lucky to make it. These people are all against the American invasion."
"And you?"
"The Taliban cut off my toes." He pointed to his feet. Despite his socks, it was clear both feet ended at the first joint. He smiled slightly when he saw my expression.
"Why did they cut them?"
"Because I had not grown a beard."
He had grown one now. It was thin and scrawny, like mine, so he was called "Hazara boy."
We went to sleep in the usual tight huddle. Various people clambered over me to go squat in the courtyard during the night; someone kept his radio on, and we woke at dawn. But I slept well. I was glad to be indoors and I felt safe. The bread for breakfast was warm and the tea was sweet. I started a picture of the commander, Bismillah Faroh, and gave the men the emergency ration I had kept in my pack since Herat. It was "Menu 22: Vegetarian Pasta Al Fredo." I took out the sheet of paper that explained to U.S. servicemen how many calories were required to remain fit for fighting, and showed them the powder that, combined with water, heated the meal. They didn't understand. I was worried they might try to eat the powder, so I added the water and warmed the food for them. They all tried a little but they found the rich cheese sauce revolting.
They gave me presents for my family: a sachet of shampoo, a packet of cream cookies, and some henna with which to decorate my mother's hands. I put them in my pack. Finally, I finished my drawing of the commander and said good-bye. One of the men walked the first kilometer with me to see me safely onto the road, and said how pleased they had been to have me.
A cold wind hit me as I turned from Maidan Shahr onto the main Ghazni—Kabul road. The sky was overcast, and drab gravel and earth stretched on either side. Numbers and letters in scarlet paint marked minefields along the way. Every ten minutes or so a truck passed.
I had often been uncomfortable in villages because of the filthy, crowded cold rooms, the illiterate men, the limited conversation. The more tired and bruised I was the more I wanted to get away from such places. But that night in the barracks had felt like a homecoming, a moment of transformation. There was nothing pompous in the way the men had spoken to me. I had savored the hot rice, the firm floor, the shelter from the wind, and the companionship. I had felt how proud the men were of what they could provide and how lucky I was to share their space. They treated me as though I belonged and I had felt that I did.
Bismilhah Faroh of Jalrez
Whatever I experienced when walking would never approach the hardness of daily life in a village. But I had felt I no longer needed to explain myself to my hosts—that I was at last entitled to sit alongside them and share their food—and I loved that night and those men for it.
Almost every morning, regrets and anxieties had run through my mind like a cheap tune—often repeated, revealing nothing. But as I kept moving, no thoughts came. Instead I became aware of the landscape as I once had in the Indian Himalayas. Every element around me seemed sharper, the colors more intense. I stared, expecting the effect to fade, but the objects only continued to develop in reality and presence. I was suddenly afraid, uncertain I could sustain this vision.
This moment was new to me. I had not dreamed or imagined it before. Yet I recognized it. I felt that I was as I was in this place, and that I had known it before. This was the last day of my walk. To feel in these final hours, after months of frustration, an unexplained completion seemed too neat. But the recognition was immediate and incontrovertible. I had no words for it. Now, writing, I am tempted to say that I felt the world had been given as a gift uniquely to me and also equally to each person alone. I had completed walking and could go home.
MARBLE
Crossing a ridge, I saw a large plain, a row of concrete apartment buildings, and, on another ridge eight kilometers away, the Kabul Intercontinental Hotel. I descended into the Campanie Plain. The city's main streets were filled by telephone booths, cyclists maneuvering between ancient buses, taxi drivers, policemen in peaked caps, and stalls lined with postcards of buxom Hindi actresses. A man shouted at me. I turned and he ran to join me.
"Get off the road," he whispered. "This is much too dangerous for you. There are British and American soldiers ahead. You can't just walk into Kabul; they will arrest you. Come with me. You can stay in the mosque."
"They won't hurt me, thank you."
He looked at me, perplexed. "But you're an Arab, aren't you?"
"No," I smiled. "British."
I turned off the main road. For nearly an hour I walked through blocks of modern concrete villas with the curving balconies of Art Deco ocean liners. They were predominantly three-story houses and must once have belonged to prosperous people. Where mortar rounds had opened the walls, I could see plaster moldings inside and the stumps of mature trees in large gardens. The flat roofs, where snipers had lain, had been chipped by small-arms fire, but the scalloped decoration was still visible. The pockmarks that ran in a line across every wall—rising from left to right just as an automatic weapon moves in the hand—touched bands of green and rose-colored marble. The broad avenues lined with scorched plane trees were mostly deserted. But I heard the voices of children. Generous windows were sealed with mud bricks, and plastic sheeting stretched across some ceilings, suggesting life continued in single rooms.
I climbed the ridge into a wind that drove the dust into my eyes and passed the Intercontinental Hotel. I remembered the last time I had been there. The "Usama expert" of a British newspaper sat at a corner table, beneath the terra-cotta frieze—a piece of mystifying abstract art that before the Taliban period had been a row of Buddhas. He had reached under the filthy tablecloth to pour Pakistani whiskey into his glass of Fanta and three waiters and three stringers had stood around the table. The stringers weren't eating any more than the waiters. You needed an expense account to spend fifteen dollars on a bad kebab and five French fries. The stringers had hoped someone would lend them a satellite phone and the waiters had hoped to clear away a glass still holding a drop of whiskey.
I came down off the ridge into the center of town and passed a traffic jam composed of seven stationary white Land Cruisers. The older ones said UN on their sides and contained young foreign men and women with Afghan drivers. The newer, sleeker models with one-digit license plates and a picture of the martyred leader Ahmed Shah Masood stuck to their darkened windshields belonged to the senior Tajik military commanders. The SUVs had been stopped for a parade.
Fifty Afghan men of varying ages wearing gleaming white helmets above dirty bearded faces and dress uniforms two sizes too large were marching in a single, shambling lope, giggling a little and glancing from side to side to see how passersby were taking it. Four pairs of soldiers held hands. This was the new Afghan army established by the United States.
A platoon of armed British paratroopers in berets stood in the next street. One patrol was examining the Hobnob cookies and Minibix cereal packets in the supermarket, and another was buying antiques. While the corporal dithered between a Ghorid coin and a terra-cotta Huma bird, a beggar in a sky blue burqa tried to make him put a banknote into her cracked brown palm.
Turning into a side lane past the Indian embassy, I picked up a sheet of paper from the street. It was from a draft proposal intended for the Afghan government, written in English:
There is a consensus in Afghan society: violence must end, respect for human rights will form the path to a lasting peace and stability across the country. The people's aspirations must be represented in an accountable, broad-based, gender sensitive, multiethnic, representative government that deli
vers daily value.67
To my right I saw the hill that hid the emperor Babur's tomb. His grave lay on a terrace below a black mountain wall that rose as clean as the back of a marble throne. It faced a gentle slope, a broad valley, and the snow peaks of Hazarajat. Beside it were the shattered stumps of two giant plane trees, which may have been those Babur describes placing in the hill's garden fifteen years after his walk. Babur planted the trees when he was nearly forty. The cousins who had patronized him in Herat were dead and so was Qasim. Herat itself had been invaded by the Uzbek warlord and was never to recover. There was no one left to prevent Babur's drinking:
On Thursday 21st [April 1519] I directed that an enclosure should be made on the hill, on the brow of which I had planned out a garden. On Saturday 23rd I planted shoots of the plane and of the sycamore within the enclosure. At noonday prayers we had a drinking party. At daybreak the next morning, we had an early drinking party within the newly enclosed ground. After midday, we mounted and returned toward Kabul. Reaching Khwajeh Hassan, completely drunk, we slept there.
A decade later, Babur—who by now had conquered India—heard that his son Humayun was dangerously ill. He ordered Humayun brought by water to Agra, but the doctors were unable to cure him. A courtier said God sometimes allowed a man to live if his friend offered the man's most valuable possession. Babur replied that his own life was the dearest thing to Humayun as Humayun's was to him. He would give his life to God in sacrifice for his son's. The courtier begged Babur to retract this pledge and to offer the Koh-i-Noor diamond instead. But Babur replied that even that stone was not worth a life. According to a contemporary, "He walked three times round the dying prince, and retiring, prayed to God. After some time he was heard to exclaim, 'I have borne it away, I have borne it away.'"
