Exile and the Kingdom*

Girls from Surobi

 

Last week sometime shortly after dawn, I got into an average looking Corolla with a colleague and one of our office guards, left a still sleepy Kabul behind and drove eastwards.

 

Beyond the Jalalabad road, beyond the police check points at the edge of the city, we drove through hills that glowed orange with the rising sun and wound our way down a narrow gorge, past overturned rusted fuel tankers that hadn’t quite made it down in one piece, and old empty buses left for dead halfway down steep slopes. As we left the capital behind us, the air cleared and the sky turned a deep blue, against which mountain faces towered above us, like the resurrected souls of the dead.

 

It was around 6.30 am when we arrived in Surobi’s already lively bazaar. This is Kabul’s easternmost district, some parts of which are almost completely held by the Taliban. But in these remote parts, the distinction between Taliban and local residents becomes increasingly blurred, as many find sympathy for those they deem brave enough to continue the jihad against a foreign occupying force, whose troops are still referred to as kafirs (infidels).

 

My meeting that morning was with a former Hezb-I Islami commander, who had led hundreds of fighters in Hezbi’s struggle against rival factions and who, for a few years, joined ranks with the Taliban during the 1990s and commanded several hundred men. His father had led hundreds of fighters himself in this same district, in a bitter battle against the Russians during the 1980s. Both father and son were arrested shortly after the Taliban’s downfall in 2001 and sent to prison in Bagram and then to Guantanamo for several years (many from the area believe they were wrongfully detained, allegedly stitched up by rival commanders within Jamiat, who received a lot of US backing following 9/11).

 

After breakfast with our local host, the man who had set up the meeting, we drove out of ‘Sarobi City’ (as the orange banner at the entrance of the small district town centre boasts), narrowly avoiding some chickens and a small child lugging a large plastic container filled with water. On a street corner beside several well stocked fruit and vegetable stalls, a group of young dark faced policemen reclined on office chairs, enjoying the morning sun.

 

Some way out of Surobi, we drove across a narrow bridge not meant for cars, over a fast flowing sand coloured river. On the other side, past traditional village houses of mud and straw, fields of tomatoes and aubergines shimmered in the already fierce morning heat.

 

A group of surly looking young men greeted our car, and after it was established that we were who we said we were and that they were expecting us, we got out to walk the rest of the way to the Commander’s house, along narrow paths and more fields. I had been told that the Commander rarely grants meetings to foreigners; that he agreed to meet a woman was almost unheard of. Yet here I was, courtesy of my colleagues after weeks of skilful diplomatic wrangling, pulling my black headscarf tightly around my face.

 

We came to a compound and were led through a door in a high walled garden filled with roses of every colour imaginable, watched by a group of long bearded elders, also waiting to meet our host. We were told to wait in the visitors’ room on burgundy toshaks lining cool white walls and waited, sipping green tea.

 

The Commander walked in, a large burly man in his mid-forties with a long neatly clipped brown beard, wearing a pakool and shalwar kameez. Everyone stood up to greet him, as did I, though I didn’t make eye contact initially. For the first 20 minutes or so of our meeting we did not look directly at each other; instead we inspected each other carefully when the other was talking.

 

After a while, he relaxed. A plate of watermelon was brought in, some people left the room, and he opened up a little more. We talked about development opportunities in the district, about general insecurity and its causes, and about the behaviour of the international military forces, which has improved but you can’t undo past wrongs. He said the French forces in the area needed to carefully monitor who they awarded construction contracts to, and be extremely vigilant with regards to cross checking information prior to carrying out any operation. Nothing could be achieved, he added, with a corrupt government.

 

After some time, I hesitantly asked about his experiences in prison, afraid to pry. At this point, he became more animated. He said the 20 days or so he spent in Bagram prior to his five year sentence in Guantanamo were by far the worst; here he was treated like an animal and tortured. In Guantanamo, at least there were designated areas for prayer. I asked if this time spent in prison had ever been acknowledged or whether he had ever received any form of apology. He turned away and looked outside at the rose garden. He spent his life defending factories and roads and other important sources of income for his country from the ravages of war, he said; yet instead of being rewarded, the present government punished him. He said today was the first time anyone had come to him and asked about his experiences.

 

It struck me that a number of the people the Government is trying to reach out to in its reconciliation progamme, whether they are former factional commanders or Taliban fighters, must be suffering from some form of trauma. There are so many people out there who have known the humiliation of arrest at the hands of people who didn’t understand or respect their culture, whose dignity was ritually stripped from them through torture or any other means. In a country where honour is one of people’s most valued possessions, many are trying to live with memories of shame and mistreatment. A simple gesture by ISAF, by the Afghan Government, a genuine recognition of suffering and past injustices, an apology or two… I believe these could make the world of difference here.

 

After a couple of hours and in what was one of the most heart warming moments of the entire morning, the Commander asked if I would like to meet his father, who was next door. I was rather excited to meet a man who I knew to be hailed as a hero by many and who had led hundreds if not thousands of men against the Russians two decades earlier. I wondered what he might be like, as I was escorted by a young man to the main house.

 

It was a modest unpainted and sparsely furnished building. Women peered at me from inside one of the rooms and giggled as I walked past. I was led to the main reception area, where the mid-morning sun cast a sickly glow through dirty pastel green curtains.

 

In the corner, an old grey bearded man sat on a bed, frail fingers thumbing prayer beads. His face was a mess of lines and he had small bird eyes. I was told he could no longer walk and that I was the first foreign woman he had ever met. We spoke in Dari, though my paltry knowledge of the language and his lack of teeth made for a short lived conversation about my origins, his health and security in the district. He invited me to stay for tea but I had to leave.

 

Back in the rose garden, the Commander thanked me for coming to talk to him and welcomed me back anytime. I’ve come to learn that people here have many pasts, and one person may give you an entirely different account of the same event, seen from the other side of the fence. Whatever people’s backgrounds, everyone deserves a chance to tell their stories.

 *title taken from a novel of the same name by Albert Camus