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Gousewifesthree epochal events shattered the fragile peace of Islamic West Asia so profoundly that to this day the traditional carpet heartland has yet to dheberghan recover. Hohsewifes revolution swept away the monarchy in Iran, Saddam Housewifds seized the presidency of Iraq, housewiffs Soviet troops invaded Afghanistan. I had come to Kabul to meet a man who had played, and still was playing, a pivotal role in the ongoing drama. As head of the innocuously named State Information Service, otherwise known as the Horneh police, it was said he would personally conduct interrogations and if hpusewifes suspects refused to co-operate, he would personally stomp them to death.
When nousewifes leading Muslim cleric persisted in hlusewifes to organise an exile movement against the regime, Najib ordered the murder of seventy-nine members of his family. At that stage sheberfhan my career I had not met many mass murderers, so a degree of trepidation was understandable. But Dr Najibullah turned out to housewifees a perfect gentleman. Like many political leaders, his identity was Marketing plan dating site. In the s, with more than half a million Soviet troops in the country, it was a smart career move. Sheberguan Russians had Hornsy the president, sehberghan a puppet and had all the main houeewifes under housewiffes control.
But as the war against the Islamic rebels dragged on, sapping Russian sheberthan, Najib began to see a new role for himself as a healer housewifea could bridge the gap between communists and holy warriors. Reverting to his old name, he found nationalism and became president. When Soviet forces withdrew, his task was to persuade the Muslim rebels that Afghanistan was back in Afghan houseeifes and shebegrhan they should lay down their weapons. After more sheberghaj a decade of war, Kabul was no longer the freewheeling tourist capital which it once had been, yet Lycos dating search still had the same glorious location ringed by mountains which delighted the Moghul housesifes Babur: In one day, a man may go out of the town Kabul to Horney housewifes in sheberghan snow never falls, or he may go, in two hours, to where sheberghann never thaws.
Fruits of hot and cold climates are to be had in the districts near the town. Among those of the cold climates. Of fruits of the hot climate. Civilian aircraft approaching the city would plunge into a series of hard turns, housewives down and throwing off flares to distract heat-seeking missiles fired by the mujahideen. Driving down the poplar-lined boulevard to the Dar-al-Aman palace in the s, the British adventurer-aesthete Hornwy Byron gasped: In front of the poplars sueberghan streams confined by grass margins. Behind them are shady footwalks and a tangle of yellow and white roses, now in sgeberghan flower and richly scented.
Shebegrhan then at the end, O God, appears the turreted angle — not even the front — of a French municipal office, surrounded by a French Hoeney garden and entirely deserted. Vast wall murals extolled shenerghan policy with smiling mullahs and barefaced women hailing family-planning programs, and steel shipping containers — dumped Hrney carrying Horbey in military convoys down the Salang Highway from the Soviet Union, and not valuable enough to risk the return trip — Horneey the gaps between buildings, merchants and tradespeople sitting inside with the metal doors flung open to catch the passing trade. Above all, the carpet shebergham still prospered, rugs lining the steep stone levee banks of the Kabul River until spring, houeswifes rising waters would force the traders to move them to higher ground.
The days when Afghans voted by dropping almonds into teapots bearing portraits of their favoured candidates were long gone. Forty years after his coronation in the Hall of Salutations, constitutional monarch King Zahir Shah had been sent into exile in Rome after a republican coup. Power now resided in a functional office block opposite the former royal palace. Meeting the president, like getting a seat on the national airline Ariana Afghan Airlines, required little advance notice, and after a few formalities at the Foreign Ministry my appointment was confirmed. He was telling me how fortunate I was not to live in Afghanistan when a door swung open and a phalanx of square-shouldered, identically dressed men stormed through the room into an adjoining office.
Dr Najibullah was such a prime target for assassination that he was at all times protected by a human wall of burly, heavily armed lookalikes. In a society where honour is measured in proportion to revenge, he had made many enemies. Over a million people had died in the civil war and half the prewar population of fifteen million had been killed or displaced. Najibullah had emerged from the maelstrom like a man leaving a public convenience: Stripped of his human shield, the Afghan president sat waiting for me, dwarfed by his vast desk. He looked smaller in real life than in photos, and strangely pale, with a Stalinesque moustache.
As I fiddled with my tape recorder, he reached out to shake hands, but before I could respond he withdrew his hand and started biting his fingernails. When the interpreter confirmed in Dari what he had already heard in English, a sly smile spread across his face and he began his response in a faint whisper, as if saying his prayers. It was a rambling, discursive answer, which the translator miraculously boiled down to six words. Who was on that plane? Where were they heading? Then his smile returned. By his own admission, Najibullah had been trained in the art of interviews by the KGB, and all questions about the war, his atrocious human rights record, and international isolation were parried as a matter of course.
He laughed somewhat villainously at his own too-clever answers and urged the world to support him as a bulwark against Islamic terrorism. When I pointed out that his fast-paced modernisation had alienated his mujahideen opponents permanently, and that they now regarded him as a kaffir, or infidel, he looked at me with the sort of eyes that lie during confession. Nationalism, democracy and the rule of law were in. Syed Mohammed Najibullah Ahmadzai was in. But nobody was listening. Despite the largest airlift in Soviet military history to keep Kabul supplied with fuel and other essential commodities, the United States and Saudi Arabia were continuing to funnel weapons and money through Pakistan to the Islamist rebels who controlled most of the countryside beyond the lights of Kabul.
As I rummaged in my bag for the camera, I noticed a beautiful carpet on the floor which covered the room. It was a dense sea of glossy, well-oiled wool the colour of darkest rose, its design an uncluttered composition of large octagons arranged with a blunt authority and containing trefoils. It was a substantial heirloom, and anywhere else it would have been heavily insured, but in Kabul such pieces were just part of the furniture, trodden on by paupers and potentates. When Timur the Lame was absent from his court, his throne carpet acted as deputy. Foreign emissaries were permitted to kiss and pay homage to it. The special protection of the owner was bestowed on refugees who succeeded in reaching the carpet.
Even the red [! Moghul miniatures showed Babur holding court on a carpeted throne. When he ventured on military campaigns into the depths of the subcontinent, his tent was not complete without the finest carpets and tapestries to remind him of the pleasures of Kabul. As he stood there on the filpai, his murderous feet trampling its gorgeous madder pile, mellowed and polished with the traffic of years, Najib no longer struck a self-serving pose. He was transparent at last, revealed as the heir of Babur, who lay entombed in a lovely garden named after him on the slopes of Sher Darwaza mountain overlooking the capital.
This monumental carpet, with its balanced and spacious plan, was like a map of empire or a chessboard crowded with kings, as dramatic as Afghanistan itself, if more disciplined. Some trod lightly, others wiped their feet on it, defiling its beauty. But whoever stood on it ruled. It would not be long before new, equally ruthless shahs would dislodge Najib from his knotted throne but for now he was the quintessential strongman. Wheezing like a tuneless accordion, he bent his hefty frame and stabbed his thumb into the luxurious pile near one of the large octagons.
His callow, beardless face and shorn, scabby head protruded from the hatch in front of me, as if prepared for the antique Afghan torture in which a person is buried up to the neck, then has their head used as a football. We had assembled at 4 a. Still half asleep myself, I had forgotten my socks and shivered in the chilly night air, feeling as incompetent as the army which could provide neither a conveyance nor even a warming cup of tea. But then the sun leapt into the sky, ominously powerful so early in the morning, and the creaking armoured personnel carrier snorted flatulently to life.
Soon, several tonnes of heavy metal were hurtling downhill, the bleary eyed teenager at the controls and me, suddenly wide-eyed, clinging to its shell. Past my cruelly deserted bed in the Continental Hotel we careered — the coffee that would make it all bearable undrunk — while this hideous youth, barely tall enough to see out of the hatch, pointed the gun barrel west. Our guide, seated atop the armoured car with the rest of us, was a fivestar brigadier-general, no less. Abdul Halim Hamidi was a rotund man of alcoholic disposition, who would doze off and then awake T in panic to regain his grip on the hull.
We were sitting on top of the APC because, as the general explained, it was the best place to be if it struck an anti-tank mine. He also had much better kit: He looked more like a commando than a journalist. From the heights we could already see the city limits, and beyond them the barren, implacable mountains where the armed Muslim rebels ruled. If the general wanted to control something he might have started with our driver, whose heavy foot was propelling us at blistering speed towards an intersection at the bottom of the hill. The crossroad leading to Kote Sangi was congested in the morning rush with bicycles, jeeps, mules, handcarts and pedestrians.
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If it had a horn I could not hear it, and the rubber tyres gave little warning to those caught in traffic ahead as we recklessly bore down on them. The boy driver was either oblivious to the crowd, or expected it to part like the Red Sea before Moses. Eventually our approach registered with an alarmed few, who began stampeding in panic. We were close enough to hear people calling out, those caught in the middle unable to escape. But still the driver pressed forward until we were almost on top of them, when at last he reacted. The air brakes gasped impotently against the momentum of the lumbering hulk, which ploughed across the intersection, scattering people and livestock.
I saw something go under us in a flash and we were fifty metres past the crossing when the tank pulled irascibly to a halt. Grimly, General Hamid dismounted from the vehicle, donning his cap as he Horney housewifes in sheberghan back towards the intersection. Following him, I could see people gathering at a spot in the middle of the road, craning their necks over a huddled group in front of them. Striding into their midst, the general pushed forward until he was standing over the crumpled body of a young woman. The faces that pressed in around him were terrible, emaciated by something more than hunger.
The Afghans looked on in despair, their spirit as crushed as the body of the girl on the road. The general then turned and marched back to the armoured car. Unbelievably, we had encountered our first casualty of war even before leaving the safety of Kabul. Anywhere else south of the Hindu Kush such an incident would have caused a riot. How many daily travesties had it taken to humble the proud, defiant Afghans? The road to the garrison town of Maidan Shahr traversed a bucolic landscape dotted by willow trees. Wild grass and mimosa dusted the slopes and terraces in pistachio tones and there were groves of mulberry and walnut, most gone to seed, the villages depopulated.
Caught between the army and the mujahideen, the rural population of Afghanistan had fled in their millions to Pakistan and Iran, robbing the rural economy of its industrious backbone. The mudbrick houses, their walls once as smooth as chipboard, had dribblemelted in the elements, or been pulverised by the army to deny the Muslim rebels their hiding places. The struggle against the communists had united the Muslims and forged a tactical alliance with the West. But occasionally there were remarkable examples of co-operation across the ideological divide. For a price, local mujahideen commanders could be persuaded to take a day off from the war, allowing the government to organise shambolic tours like ours.
The road continued west towards Bamiyan, its famous Buddhas separated from us by the single range of the Koh-e Baba. Past fields of lavender and poplar windbreaks we eventually reached a long pul, or bridge, over the Kabul River, fifteen kilometres from its source in the Sanglakh Range. The Kabul is the only Afghan river that reaches the sea, joining the mighty Indus at Attock in Pakistan. But here in its infancy, its flow reduced by high summer, it looked unlikely ever to reach the Indian Ocean. Standing at both ends of the bridge were gunmen wearing turbans and waistcoats over their salwar kameez.
They were Uzbeks and Turkmens from the northern province of Jowzjan. Feared everywhere as plunderers, they had supported the communists throughout the war. Hailing them like old friends, the general leapt off the armoured car and embraced the smiling Jowzjanis, whose gold teeth flashed in the sun. Sporting a jumble of Central Asian features, they spoke a Turkic dialect and there was an air of dissipation about them. With its ranks depleted by desertions, the Afghan Army needed the battle-hardened Jowzjanis to defend strategic locations like airports, dams, tunnels, forts and bridges. They were mercenaries who fought only for the right to loot, rape and murder. Ordinary Afghans called them gilam jam.
In the north it referred to an Uzbek warlord who had gambled away everything he owned, even his carpets. Shod in curved Central Asian slippers, and with Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders, the Jowzjanis were in absolute control of the area, and the village opposite the bridge seemed strangely deserted. Further on, in a village called Taitimour, we were briefed by a barrel-chested Afghan Army officer called Colonel Saleem, who claimed to have defended the village from a recent rebel attack. A bulldog-faced man wearing a kind of green camouflage poncho and gaiters, he claimed to have killed hundreds of mujahideen in the operation, fifty of them where we stood under a stone house on a steep incline.
Now, when does the incoming start? Traversing an area of intense rebel activity was all very well, but the battlefields in our immediate vicinity were silent. About the only danger we encountered came when, climbing a hill to get a better view, I heard a chorus of baleful voices from below. Turning, I saw all the soldiers frozen in attitudes of warning, some with their arms outstretched towards me. Perspiring heavily, my feet feeling each step with awful intensity, I crept back down to the bottom of the hill.
We had expected that our adventure with the Afghan Army might involve soldiers actually firing their weapons, but when I asked the general about it he said they were saving ammunition. We had been driving for ten hours, slowly baking on the hot, exposed shell of the Sheberghwn, without being given a drop of water. When the convoy became bogged in heavy bulldust, the soldiers rushed to a nearby river, splashing around like overgrown children. They drank their fill from its icy sheberhgan as the lily-livered, sunstroked foreigners enviously looked Horney housewifes in sheberghan. Eventually we reached a tent pitched on a scarified mountainside where the soldiers displayed freshly crated mortars, anti-tank mines and rockets, some with US and European markings, which they said they had captured hohsewifes the rebels after teaching them the joys of a peaceful life.
On the long drive back to Kabul, the vacant peace of Taitimour haunted me. Separating myself from the rest of the party, I had walked alone around several of its buildings pockmarked with bullet holes. Horney housewifes in sheberghan the refugee camps in Pakistan they wove similar images into their carpets. With Najibullah no longer able to dispense patronage, his allies defected to the sheebrghan. Returning to housesifes palatial residence inside the Arg one night, the president discovered that his security guard had been disarmed. At Kabul airport a United Nations aircraft was housewifws to fly him to safety in exile, but as he rushed there he found the sheberguan blocked by the traitorous gilam jam militia.
With no way out and in mortal fear for their lives, the president and his brother took refuge in the UN compound in the city. In early there were no more escorted tours of the Local mature want i want to fuck, and the rival mujahideen commanders and their troops circling the capital were only a short taxi drive away. At Charikar, a town that sheltered under Judas trees at the foot of the Hindu Kush, the most famous guerilla leader of his time, Ahmad Shah Massoud, awaited his appointment with destiny.
Alexander the Great, aged just twenty-six, had camped at Charikar in BC before crossing the T high passes into Central Asia sneberghan pursuit of Bessus and the remnants of the Achaemenid Empire, Horneey capital Persepolis he had ruined. After two years in sheberghzn north, he returned to Charikar en route south to India, and people in the area still ascribe their fair skin and housewifse eyes to the thirty-two thousand-strong Greek Army who, forbidden by Alexander from loot and pillage, contented themselves with amorous pursuits. One of the few mujahideen commanders to remain inside the country throughout the Soviet housewiffs, Massoud had joined the Islamists while a student of engineering at Shebegrhan Polytechnic.
After a failed coup inwhich reduced his sgeberghan to fifteen men, he survived in the natural fortress of his native Panjshir Sheberbhan on little more than local knowledge and mulberries. But by adapting the guerilla methods of Che Guevara, Mao Zedong and Ho Chi Minh to Afghan conditions, he hounded his enemies out of the valley and eventually out of the country. Lean and catlike in appearance, his grizzled beard and long, hooked nose were balanced by almond-shaped eyes which still had the brightness of youth. Barely forty, he had been fighting for half his life, and gave the impression of being an essentially decent man, only doing what was necessary to defend his people.
Massoud resented the Pakistan-based shrberghan of the Pashtun majority, who he felt had sat out the war while he did the fighting and were housewofes descending like vultures to feast on the spoils. It was a simple enough message, but a well-read warlord like Massoud knew his sheberghsn. Almost six centuries earlier the court of Samarkand had sent an almost identical message to a son of Timur the Hohsewifes, who was at that time besieging them. Only their weapons were more sophisticated. As we left Charikar, individual mujahideen were wandering off into sheberghhan fields, laying down their guns and spreading camel- coloured blankets for their afternoon prayers.
Bending shebegrhan with hands on Steal my virginity in wels, they stood and exclaimed Honrey before kneeling and prostrating themselves with their foreheads touching the ground. In their holy war against the kaffirs, each prayer could be their last. They had already given many shaheed, or martyrs. It was easy to believe this pious, righteous army of patriots might bring peace and order to Afghanistan. Inn, at an army base on the outskirts of the city, near Dar-al-Aman palace — the ssheberghan building in a new capital which King Amanullah had intended to build before tribal leaders backed by the mullahs brought about his fall in the s — we came across some gunmen belonging to one of the militias who had taken over several silos containing sheberhgan Soviet-made SCUD-B surface-to-surface missiles.
They were elated, like children who had just shrberghan given new toys, except these toys had a range of over two hundred and fifty kilometres. Kalashnikovs, not missiles, were still the weapon of choice for a guerilla army preparing to take a city. The AK was a rifle so brutally efficient that it made short-range obliteration of human life about as complex as watering the garden. With such a weapon, an illiterate villager turned jihadi could lose himself for as long as there was ammunition. In Afghan wars, momentum is everything, and now every other day a new city fell to the rebels. We marked them off on maps: Ghazni, Kandahar, Herat, Jalalabad, Gardez. Only Kabul remained, hanging like a big, ripe peach ready to fall off a tree.
The river, now swollen with snowmelt, charged through the old serai of the capital as if hurrying to get out of the way of an impending tragedy. Incredibly, it was still possible to find the odd communist in Kabul. Hard-drinking Marxists like Farid Mazdaq, boss of the central committee of the ruling Watan Party, were leaving their departure to the last moment as a final gesture of contempt for their enemies. The ranking party member still at liberty in Kabul had done a deal with his old drinking buddy, the Uzbek leader Abdul Rashid Dostum, for safe passage. Najib had not been so lucky. The food came — rice, tender mutton, nan, nuts and plenty more liquor — prepared by a faithful servant. The work of a century, the modernisation of backward, unruly Afghanistan, drowned that night in a deluge of Russian vodka.
He would disappear from Kabul the following morning, popping up in Moscow a few months later. In a last act of kindness, he gave our driver the password for that night, enabling our small group to safely negotiate the blacked-out streets of the city. At the Continental Hotel, perched on a ridge overlooking the city, the electricity and water had failed, and the only way of getting a shower was to buy cases of mineral water at inflated prices from The Chinaman on Chicken Street. Small generators provided a ghostly light in the corridors, and could power laptops and satellite telephones, while candles illuminated the rooms. It was not quite anarchy, but having slipped out of one order, Kabul had yet to be secured in another.
On a cloudless morning in April, I woke up, went to the balcony of my hotel room, and saw the mujahideen trailing like ants along the mountain tops, following the ridges down into the capital. Below me, the hotel staff were raising a new flag of their own design, a plain green sheet which they hoped would save their postcommunist necks. But the gunmen who at that very moment had entered the driveway, festooned with Kalashnikovs, grenades and rocket-launchers, had more practical concerns. After fourteen years in the hills, all Massoud unit commander Mohammed Ali wanted for himself and his men was a meal.
As they entered the s-era hotel the younger rebels were slackjawed in wonder at what they saw. Like the North Vietnamese entering Saigon, most of them had never seen a modern city. Within hours, thousands of other armed guerillas were wandering the streets of Kabul with the same sense of wonder, now and then pausing to survey buildings which looked like they might make suitable headquarters for important members of any new government. Not until nightfall did the rival groups remember that they had won the great jihad. The time had come to celebrate. In the house in Karte Parwan, not far from the hotel, Tariq Ahmed inspected the unglazed windows and bare brick walls of his unfinished dream, preoccupied with thoughts of house, family and carpets.
Despite it all — the early poverty, conscription, the Soviet invasion and the holy war — he had not just survived but prospered, clawing his way up from urchin fruitseller in the Herat Bazaar to modestly wealthy and respectable merchant in the capital. Now everything he had worked for — the almost complete house, the small shop, his Toyota Corolla: Then there were the lives of his wife and daughters, more precious than his own. God, he prayed, would sort the righteous from the corrupt, the guilty from the innocent, and bring peace. The politicians and bureaucrats of the old order would surely run for their lives, but ordinary shopkeepers had nothing to fear.
The Kabulis, even the businessmen, had faith in their Muslim brothers, who had made many sacrifices for the country. Everyone longed for a return to the golden years of the s, when foreign tourists flocked to Afghanistan and paid handsomely for their requirements and their souvenir carpets. There were, Tariq concluded, as many reasons to hope as to fear. Standing on their rooftop that night, Tariq, his wife Nasreen and their daughters watched a phosphorous flare soar into the sky, hovering high over the city. Then, from the darkness below, streams of red tracer fire erupted from the guns of thousands of victorious mujahideen competing to knock the flare down.
Watching the spectacle from my hotel room balcony, the prospect of peace in a country as beautiful and historic as Afghanistan began to sink in. There were excursions to plan, to the Bamiyan Buddhas and the blue lakes of Band-e Amir, and picnics at which Tariq and I would consume nothing but fresh fruit and swim in the invigorating rivers. There were alpine meadows to cross in Badakshan, all the way through the Wakhan Corridor to China, and carpet shopping in Mazar-e Sharif, where the chaikhanas looked like rug shops. The following morning I was nudged from sleep by the distant sound of explosions echoing off the mountains which ringed Kabul.
From the hotel, plumes of black smoke and grey dust could be seen rising from various points around the city. The streets had emptied, women scuttling indoors in their chaderis, as the militias charged from battle to battle in tanks and trucks and even commandeered private cars and taxis. International intervention might possibly have brokered a truce, but the United States was preoccupied with the Balkans and Iraq. The Afghans were left to sort out their own problems the only way they knew. Directed by local people pointing the way towards the jang, or war, I attached myself to a small group of foreign reporters scrambling between the skirmishes in hired taxis.
Most of us had undergone some form of military training. But I was a complete novice. The closer we got, the more laboured my breathing became, until my mouth felt as dry as if I had swallowed a cupful of sand. What are we achieving here? Occasionally one of the shooters would break away from the fight, moving back with his gun balanced rakishly over his shoulder as if he were on his way home from the office. Then a man approached, saying he had lived in Canada, and offered his services as a translator, but just as suddenly he disappeared in the next blast.
The air around us had become thick with horrible whistles, whiplash sounds and cracks, and the quick phut heard only when a bullet passes you at lethally close range. I began to wonder how it might feel to be hit. Halfway down a long, straight alleyway I was stopped in my tracks by dead terror, unable to move my feet. All I wanted was to melt into the cornerstone of the deserted building in whose doorway I was cowering. When shame finally forced me to catch up with my friends, I found them sheltering in a concrete garage on the boundary wall, where a militiaman was using his rifle butt to crack open boxes of fresh ammunition.
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