Captain Cat's Diaries

Notes from a tribal gathering

 

…So back to those querulous tribesmen up in the Kurram Agency. After a couple of weeks, the Deputy Governor managed to arrange a meeting between the Shi’a Turi tribe and the Sunni Bangash tribe, to try to find a peaceful settlement to their long-standing dispute.

 

A word on this particular sectarian conflict: tensions between the Shi’as and Sunnis flared up back in the 80s when the Zia government in Pakistan introduced fighters to the Kurram Agency in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA), in order to quell Shi’a influence on the main weapons supply route between Afghanistan and Pakistan.

 

The two sides now accuse each other of not allowing the other to travel freely through the areas they inhabit and control. Thus the Turi tribe tend to take out any hapless Bangash tribesman from Boshara who tries to travel across into Afghanistan to northern Paktia and onwards to Kabul, and likewise the Bangash spare the Shi’as no mercy en route to Peshawar in Pakistan.

 

It should also probably be noted that the Taliban (who are Sunni) have increased their activities in this area, establishing bases along the border with Afghanistan. The Shi’a Turis use this information a lot when trying to garner support from the Afghan authorities and US military to support their cause.

 

A word about tribal disputes. According to Pashtunwali, the Pashtun tribal code of conduct, if a weaker tribe wants ‘help’ (read ‘hitmen’ in most cases) from other tribes in a particular area, the tradition is for the tribe in question to slaughter a sheep in offering to the stronger tribe. A number of poor sheep have met their end in recent weeks as the Bangash have sought the help from fellow Sunni tribes this side of the border here in Paktia, where I am based.

 

Back to the story: on Tuesday morning after a heart stopping journey on a Blackhawk (courtesy of the US military) skimming effortlessly in between Paktia’s frosted peaks, we landed at a small military base up in the northeastern part of the province and set off with the Deputy Governor and a posse of parliamentarians from Kabul to a large meeting room perched on the side of a hill.

 

After about an hour chatting outside waiting for the Turi and Bangash tribal representatives to show up, we took off our shoes and went to sit in a large circle on the floor, as is the tradition in jirgas (a tribal gathering to solve a dispute). The Deputy Governor motioned for me to sit beside him, and as I sat down, I became very aware that amidst the hundred or so tribal elders filing in, I was the only woman in the room.

 

And so, as happens in jirgas over endless cups of green tea, the more respected elders and tribal leaders take the floor and present their side of the argument. The discussion went back and forth between both sides for some time. A couple of hours into the jirga, things suddenly got a little heated (by which point I was in dire need of two hip replacements and longed to stretch my legs out in front of me, which would have constituted something of a cultural faux pas).

 

One prominent parliamentarian and former jihadi commander held up his hand piously, and ordered the gathering to quiet down. He then started to bellow angrily, spluttering into his long black beard, stating that as the key Bangash representatives hadn’t turned up, the outcome of this particular meeting was void. I watched this man caught between dust-filled sunbeams on the faded carpet as he appeared to chastise his onlookers, and imagined him leading troops of men through once wooded hills armed with Kalashnikovs.

 

Commander Daoud

 

This man, Commander Daoud, is not a particularly nice man. He was one of the people in this province responsible for widespread vote rigging in his area of influence in Zazi Aryoub district. A short while after the jirga as we waited outside still hopeful that the Bangash would turn up, this burly man who towered above everyone else beckoned to me to join the large circle of tribal elders he was communing with. I looked at him incredulously. “Me?” I mouthed as I raised my eyebrows questioningly, pointing at myself. He nodded and I walked over.

 

I was instantly encircled. Thankfully my young colleague had come with me in order to translate. “The UN is meddling with our election! This is nothing to do with you! You foreigners should keep your noses out!” I tried to explain the UN’s role in the election, and that of the Independent Election Commission, and the Election Complaints Commission, but somehow it all got lost somewhere between him brandishing his walking stick at me and then storming off. Well, limping off really.

 

The next morning as we waited at the military base waiting for our ride back to Gardez, he hobbled up to me in what I believe was an attempt to apologise for his behaviour the day before. Apparently he had been more receptive to my other colleague that morning, who had been able to have a more rational discussion with him. However his words were lost, swept up in a sudden whirlwind of noise and dust as our helicopter landed, and we parted ways. I turned and watched as Commander Daoud hobbled back down the hillside, followed by his faithful former jihadi fighters.

All along the watchtower

 
 The view from my bedroom at dusk

This evening I sat in my usual spot in the narrow doorway of my room with Mabel and her skittish kittens, and watched as the sky turned a dusky deep pink above the mountains. The only thing standing between those mountains and I are coils of barbed wire which line the crumbling brick walls around my prison of a home. They stand out so black and sharp in this half-light. The empty watchtowers perched at the corners of the compound are as already as black as the night that’s about to fall. I’m filled with such longing to fly beyond these razor walls that it almost hurts.

 

I could actually close my eyes and draw the view from this room I’ve seen it so often.  In front of me just off to the right, beyond clumps of grass that we tried to grow earlier this year, there’s a rickety wooden hut covered in weathered, lichen green paint where Nemat, the houseman, does all of our ironing.  Nemat’s eyes almost disappear beneath his bushy brows when he smiles, displaying a row of crooked browning teeth.  I am embarrassed by the way he sometimes bows his head as if in deference when I walk past, his hand to his heart in that beautiful way the Afghan people have when they meet each other.

 

To my immediate right, a narrow barren yard stretches past another similar hut (which is used for nothing at all) and a makeshift tennis court. It comes to an abrupt end at yet another wall and a latrine, above which one of these empty guard boxes sits precariously. Way over in the far corner of the yard, past an unassuming vegetable patch where tomatoes refuse to grow, a once formidable bus now squats in a rusting heap, grubby yellow paint betraying a glorious past. I call it the ‘love bus’, I’m not sure why. I imagine it in bygone days bumbling along a large open highway full of hippies, music blaring from its open windows.

 

The Love Bus 

 

This whole place is bound by high walls and barbed wire, over which you can’t see unless you climb up to one of these guard boxes, which I do sometimes. The other evening I sat up there and watched a full moon rise over shadows of mountains. I sat on sand bags and called my father and tried not to cry as I told him cheerily how beautiful the night sky was.

 

And just when I feel I can no longer carry the weight of this confinement, this bizarre life in someone else’s war zone a million miles from home, a magical moment comes along and lifts me sky high above these jagged walls. I walk into my office and my three Afghan friends and colleagues, my companions these past 18 months in this remote little outpost of the Southeast, who have taught me more about this country than anyone ever could, embalm me in their gentle teasing, love and friendship, and I am soaring again.

 Nemat, faithful houseman

Conflicted

It's never a good idea to write when you're angry, and I'm fuming. The head of the UN is making us all look like fools, I feel humiliated and angry that I have been put in this position, that I'm being forced into making a decision about staying on and working here (though I wonder whether I should be jeopordising an opportunity to put myself through law school next year if I leave - at least this is a tentative future plan).

Anyone following this saga has no doubt seen the very public argument between the head of the UN mission here and his deputy who was sacked a few days ago 'in the interests of the mission', because he didn't think we should be supporting these elections. Of course we shouldn't.

The other day I sent a letter to my head of office who was on her way to Kabul for a heads of office meeting. She asked us if there were any issues we wanted to raise. I wrote that I wanted to know what the UN's official response was going to be to the issues of widespread fraud throughout the country, and what our 'line' should be to the people with whom we have spent months and years building relationships, people who now trust us and come to us for help. 

Over the last few weeks since the elections, we have been working hard to get people's perceptions of the process, particularly from Provincial Council candidates. We have carefully collected and recorded incidents of fraud and passed these on to HQ.

A lot of people in the Southeast region are angry and want to see how our organisation will respond. We have been told in no uncertain terms that the local population will no longer respect or support us unless we speak out strongly against this fraudulent election.

It is incredibly demoralising. I had no interest in these elections in the first place, how can elections be held in the middle of an insurgency? How can they be monitored? How can those crooks working close to or for the 'Independent' Election Commission be held accountable? So much of the actual work we do here can be useful, but everything is being eclipsed by these wretched elections, and they are wretched in every sense.

So yes, I want my boss to ask the head of this organisation how, in light of our mandate - which was to support an election that was free, fair and transparent and given that it was none of these - how he intends to uphold our credibility, and how he views the damage to our reputation, particularly in light of the dismissal of his deputy?

Yesterday I met with 30 Sunni tribal elders from the Kurram Agency across the border in Pakistan. They want the Afghan government to help them. At the moment they are trapped, their villages are surrounded by a dominant Shi'a sect who are refusing to let them pass through to northeastern Paktya to get supplies and medical assistance. I met with the provincial Governor afterwards and we are setting up a meeting in a few days with Shi'a tribal elders to hear their side; we will hopefully then bring both sides together to negotiate some form of settlement.

The other week I was in Khost to speak to the deputy governor and elders from two warring tribes following a land dispute, which has already resulted in a number of deaths on both sides. I got UNHCR involved to deal with displaced families and am (still) working on getting local security forces to the area.

I have no idea whether any of these efforts will pay off in the long-term, or whether we do add any value here. I hope at the very least we don't make things worse. But being that bridge and having people come to ask us to mediate is incredibly rewarding and I am proud to work for this organisation in so many respects because I am convinced we can do a lot of good. Yet I am now forced to think about resigning over this stupid election, when it represents so little of the actual work we do here.

[...]

I just had to duck under my desk because I'm hearing a lot of gunfire right outside my office. More later.

[added afterwards - it was actually a wedding, but my insides have already turned to jelly. Urgh. We use confetti in the UK, maybe the Afghans could have a think about that. I was interested to note my reaction in that I didn't run for the bunker or put on my flak jacket or helmet which are here beside me, but hovered around the window looking for someone to tell me what was going on. Duh.]