Afghan Scene Magazine October 2011

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AFGHAN
ISSUE 87 - Cclober 20TT
Io| Molik: Afghon crickel's Don Cuixole
Ihe Soviel soldier who sloyed behind
Ihe Losl Keslrel
Ihe ploce lhe Wesl forgol
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www.afghanscene.com Afghan Scene October 2011
Afghan Scene October 2011
Afghan Scene October 2011 www.afghanscene.com
7 lnlroduclion
T0 Who ls Ihe Femole Army Generol?
A Kabul at Work vignette
T4 8e Scene
Pictures from the latest events and parties
T Cul of lhe Ashes
In an exclusive extract from his new book on Afghanistans
meteoric rise through the world cricket standings,
Tim Albone looks back to the start of the dream
28 Going nolive
Jerome Starkey reports on one Soviet soldier who never
went home
32 Corloons by Monu
42 Killing lhe Crones
A review of Edward Girardets new book
4 Cover feolure: Ihe Ploce lhe Wesl forgol
Braving bandits, bike crashes and bad food, reporter set
out from Kabul or the fabled Minaret of Jam, 800 km away,
on a journey that would take him through some of the most
remote territory on earth
0 Ihe Losl Keslrel
A fictional take on Afghanistan by the BBCs Jill McGivering
72 Afghon Essenliols
All you need to know about where to go in Kabul
T0
T
4
Publisher: Afghan Scene Ltd, Wazir Akbar Khan, Kabul, Afghanistan
Manager & Editor: Afghan Scene Ltd, Kabul, Afghanistan
Design: Kaboora Production
Advertising: sales@afghanscene.com
Printer: Emirates Printing Press, Dubai
Contact: info@afghanscene.com / www.afghanscene.com
Afghan Scene welcomes the contribution of articles and / or pictures from its readers.
Editorial rights reserved.
Cover photo: Jerome Starkey
lnlroduclion Conlenls
5
AFGHAN
ISSUE 87 - Cclober 20TT
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7
F
or all the boots on the ground, there
are places in Afghanistan that seem
little touched by foreign intervention,
and Ghor is one of them. Its the
place the West (save for a small detachment
of Lithuanians) forgot. Theres even a Soviet
soldier there who never went home. This
summer, Scene set out on an 800km motor
bike ride to investigate.

But theres a different sense of timeliness
here in the Afghan capital. Take these three
quotes from Western military commanders
and draw your own conclusions:

Now we can see [success in Vietnam] clearly,
like the light at the end of a tunnel.
-- Gen. Henri Navarre,
Commander French forces in Vietnam,
May 20, 1953
A new phase is startingwe have reached an
important point when the end begins to come
into viewthere is a light at the end of the
tunnel.
-- Gen. William Westmoreland,
Commander U.S. forces in Vietnam,
November 1967
Yesterdays attack [in Kabul] was a fleeting
event; it came and it went. The insurgents are
on the defensive. The performance of Afghan
security forces should tell Afghans they can
sleep well at night.
-- Gen. John Allen,
North Atlantic Treaty Commander in
Afghanistan, Sept. 14, 2011!"
editor@afghanscene.com
Several readers have commented that the previous edition of Afghan Scene did not make clear that the feature
Waiting for Massoud, and other stories by Edward Girardet was an extract from his new book Killing the
Cranes - A Reporters Journey Through Three Decades of War in Afghanistan published by Chelsea Green
Publishing company (www.chelseagreen.com) and reprinted in Afghan Scene with their kind permission.
Afghan Scene would like to apologize for the confusion. A review of Killing the Cranes can be found on p38.
Almosl oll of lhe phologrophs ond corloons feolured in Afghon Scene ore ovoiloble
for sole direcl from lhe orlisls. Mosl of lhem ore ovoiloble for commissions, here ond
elsewhere. lf you would like lo conlribule lo Afghon Scene, or if you con'l gel hold of o
conlribulor, pleose conlocl edilor@ofghonscene.com.
Scene Team
Conlribulors
Afghon Scene Mogozine is proud lo showcose work from lhe besl
phologrophers in Afghonislon
Jeremy Kelly is an Australian journalist and photographer who first visited
Afghanistan under Taliban rule in 1998. He has lived here since 2005.
His preferred method of transport is a motorbike.
Leslie Knott is a Canadian photographer and film maker who has been following the
Afghan Cricket team on their quest for world cup glory for more than a year.
The documentary, which takes them to Peshawar, Jersey, Tanzania, Argentina and
South Africa is due out later this year
www.outoftheashes.tv
Tim Albone spent three years as The Times correspondent in Kabul. He has been
following Afghan Cricket Team for more than a year. Learn more about the most
talked about sports documentary in decades, and ways you can help, at
www.outoftheashes.tv
Jill McGivering is a senior BBC broadcaster, specialising in Asia. Shes covered foreign
news for the past 19 years for the BBCs main radio and television news outlets. Her
first novel, THE LAST KESTREL (Harper Collins) came out in paperback in August
and is set in Afghanistan.
Former ASM editor Jerome Starkey is The Times correspondent in Afghanistan. He is
currently renovating a 1969 VW Beetle called Herb-i-Islami.
For more information visit jeromestarkey.com
8
Kobul at work Kobul at work
T0 TT
Who is lhe
Femole Army
Generol?
www.afghanscene.com Afghan Scene October 2011 Afghan Scene October 2011 www.afghanscene.com
Khatol Mohammadzai | David Gill
Nome: Kholol Mohommodzoi
Job Iille: Mosler Porochulisl,
ANA Generol
Age: 45 yeors
Lenglh of service: 2 yeors
lncome: 20,000 Afs per monlh
Number of medols: 75
Porochule Jumps: 500
Locolion: Mocroyon
"lf women wonl
lo work oulside of
lhe house, lhen
lhey should loke
on work which
oslonishes men."
Kobul at work Kobul at work
T2 T3
got married, I lost my husband. I have a son, who
is a student now, and very proud of me. I had
to be his father and his mother; I was the only
person supporting the family. I dedicated my life
to my career and looking after my son.
Despite being an officer in the ministry, I am a
woman, a mother and a daughter at home. When
I get home, then I am like all other women and
I clean and sweep our flat, wash clothes, cook
dishes. But I study in my spare time.
Afghanistan is a country that has been full of war
and full of problems, it has been hard even to the
men. For a woman like me, who lost her husband
at a very young age, and had no one to support
I
am a master parachutist in the army of the
Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. In early 1984,
sport and the air force were my passions and
I joined the Afghanistan National Army, because
parachute jumping was only available in the army.
If women want to work outside of the house, then
they should take on work that astonishes men.
When I jump out of a plane it gives me a special
feeling, it feels like swimming. I concentrate on
positioning myself in the sky and keeping my
balance. When I get close to the ground, I am very
careful about the landing, so that I dont break
any bones.
I was married, but unfortunately one year after I
I got the rank of General by endangering my life. Nobody gave it to me easily | David Gill
"l gol lhe ronk
of Generol by
endongering my
life. Nobody gove
il lo me eosily."
the Ghazi Stadium on National Day in 2001. I
achieved all this by putting my life in danger.
Afghans love me very much, and they always
respect me, even if they are younger or older
than me, maybe because I worked hard for my
people and served them honestly. I want to be
remembered as a woman who worked hard, and
battled to achieve womens rights, in spite of all
the gender problems for a woman. I didnt have
much money and no one to help and support me.
But I kept going despite thousands of problems in
my way.
I have performed more than 500 free jumps, in all
provinces and in different ceremonies. I have lots
of trophies and certificates for my achievements
but there are not enough places to put them, as
my apartment is a bit small, but I am grateful to
god for it, so it is fine. I have always landed safely.
I have carried the holy flag, peace flag, Air Force
flag, pigeons and flowers down with me. I brought
them down with me as a woman, as a mother, as
a daughter. "
her, life is difficult not only in Afghanistan, but
in every part of the world.
I never want to see another Afghan woman
become a widow. Even if they were to throw me
out of the plane without a parachute I would
accept it, but the life of an Afghan woman is very
difficult. The people talk about her all the time,
when she talks to someone, when she wears good
clothes, when she eats something. Every day
people put pressure on her about her morals. She
is a hero, who can ignore peoples gossiping and
bring up her children and carry on with her life.
I joined the army before my marriage, during the
communist regime. After my marriage I left the
army for a while, but after that I came back, and
stayed until the Taliban regime. Then it was the
same for me as all other women, I just stayed at
home and did nothing.
When Taliban collapsed, I was the first woman
who went to rejoin the army. I put my uniform
on and came to MOD. I was made a general at
Kabul: A City At Work is a multi-media project, led by a joint international and Afghan crew
collecting interviews, photographic portraits and video shorts of the people of Kabul in their working
environments. You can find out more at www.kabulatwork.tv
Three people much taller than scenes snapper | Matt, Melissa
and Rima at Nicks farewell
70ssoireeArielandJulesatAltai
Be scene
Shore your evenl or porly pics wilh Aghon Scene. Emoil edilor@ofghonscene.com
Afghan Scene October 2011 www.afghanscene.com www.afghanscene.com Afghan Scene October 2011
Porly scene
Porly scene
T4 T5
Chamber-made | Media man Chris enjoying a night out from ISAF Court Out | The Winners and the Runners-up at the Kabul Tennis
Tournament
Northen Exposure | Kabuls Leslie on a visit to the
Alaskan wilderness
Road runner | Superfixer Noor on the road to Jam
The Hardcore British Press Pack | P*ssing off ISAF since 2008 Dirty Diggers | Aussies Matt and JK talk Neighbours Snow-it-all | Lally at a Kabul soiree Low-down | Josh embraces gutter journalism
Ihe lncredible
Journey
Ihe glories of Afghonislon's I20 World Cup bid slorled on
lhe dusly wickels of lhe Kocho Gori refugee comp neor
Peshowor-ond wilh lhe dreom of one mon, Io| Molik. ln his
new book, Cul of lhe Ashes, Iim Albone, who spenl yeors
following Io| oround lhe world os whol hod ol firsl seemed
delusionol come closer ond closer lo fruilion, describes
Afghon crickels humble beginnings
T
8ook scene 8ook scene
T7 Afghan Scene October 2011 www.afghanscene.com
in mid-December, as Taj makes his journey
he is aware that the country is in a state
of flux. Kabul, the capital, had only been
captured on 13 November; Kunduz, in the
north, wasnt taken until the end of November
and Kandahar, the spiritual homeland of the
Taliban, has only been wrested from Taliban
control days before.
The Allied forces have a mission that, history
tells us, no one has ever successfully carried
out before to try to bring peace and stability
to Afghanistan. Taj Malik Alam has his own,
and some would say equally futile, mission: he
wants to assemble an Afghan cricket team and,
because he doesnt lack ambition or belief, take
it to the Cricket World Cup. Hes dreamt of this
day since he was a child. As an Afghan, who
has been forced by war to live his life in exile,
this return couldnt come soon enough.
Taj is full of energy; he always seems to be
moving. If he has to sit still he fidgets and
talks incessantly. He laughs easily and when
his laughter comes it is shrill and urgent. He
has a charm and, despite being overweight
and balding, when he smiles it reveals,
creased with laughter lines, a handsome, kind
and open face.
For this journey he has grown a scraggly beard
and swapped his usual tracksuit for traditional
robes. As he crosses the border, as well as
feeling nervous he feels a surge of positive
energy. He is home. And finally he feels; if the
Allied invasion is successful, Afghanistan might
see peace something that Taj, who was born
in 1975, has never known.
The border between Afghanistan
and Pakistan, December 2001
It is an encounter unlike any other. Thousands
of Taliban fighters are fleeing the unlikely
alliance of US bombers, Special Forces and
ragtag Afghan militia that is thundering down
through Afghanistan from the north. The
fighters slip away on dirt trails and mountain
passes pausing, perhaps, to gaze at Taj Malik
Alam, who is travelling in the other direction
towards the chaos.
As Taj carrying only a spare change of
clothes, a cricket bat and ball crosses into
Afghanistan from Pakistan, he contemplates
the scene: distant bombs shake the earth, the
Taliban, ousted from power less than three
months before, are scattered throughout the
countryside and Al-Qaeda, which funded the
Taliban regime, though broken and in retreat,
are still a present danger. Many of the Talibans
feared Arab and foreign fighters are roaming
the hills, seeking revenge. Taj is terrified of
coming across them and those fears only
intensify as the jagged, snow-capped peaks of
the White Mountains loom into view. He will
have to pass underneath their shadow on his
way to Kabul. Below them lie the Tora Bora
caves, a complex underground labyrinth, under
the control of Islamists. Despite dropping tens,
if not hundreds, of thousands of pounds of
bombs, the Americans have been unable to
flush out the fighters.
It is rumoured that Osama bin Laden is hiding
there. Most of the country is still lawless and,
On 11 September 2001, 19 suicide bombers
flew planes, loaded with civilians, into targets
across the east coast of America. As the Twin
Towers fell and thousands lost their lives,
Afghanistans history took another unlikely and
bloody turn. George W Bush, the American
president, declared war on international
terrorists and the country that housed them:
that country was Afghanistan.
He announced on 7 October, the day that the
American Air Force launched their bombing
raids that America would not falter in its
quest for peace and freedom. The Taliban had
been issued with a list of demands close
For the past 16 years he has been forced
to live as a refugee in Pakistan. His earliest
memories are of Soviet helicopters scouring
the skies, of brave men with nothing but
Kalashnikovs taking on one of the strongest
armies in the world, of victory celebrations
in Peshawar when the Red Army pulled out
and of disappointment when the country
was consumed by civil war. He pauses to
look up at the towering, snow-capped
mountains that mark the eastern border
of his homeland and his mind flashes to an
event three months earlier that shook the
world and changed his destiny and that of
his country forever.
T8
T
Taj (centre) with members of the team at the T20 Cricket World Cup. Reaching the tournament was the
culmination of more than a decade of dreaming | Leslie Knott
the camp was incredibly tough.
Even today, the family home is little more than
a mud hut with a tin roof and had only three
rooms; it had no electricity or water. After
a year the water and electricity came but as
his family increased (by 2001 he had eight
brothers and three sisters), the rooms became
more cramped. Tajs parents have one room, all
the boys share one and all the girls the other.
There is very little privacy.
The family has no kitchen to speak of, and is
forced to cook on a small gas cooker, often
in the dark as the electricity supply, when it
comes, is unreliable. The water supply is not
clean enough to drink: they have to boil it and
drink it as tea, which, like all Afghans, they
drink by the gallon.
There is no sewerage system, and human
waste, as well as rubbish, collects in puddles
and piles in the dirt tracks that pass for roads.
Unsurprisingly, disease is rife. As a child Taj
had malaria several times as well as typhoid.
Like many of the children who grew up in
the refugee camps, Tajs father was a fighter
who made trips into Afghanistan to battle the
Soviets. He rose to the rank of commander,
which eventually brought Tajs family a level
of privilege and relative wealth. He was
considered a freedom fighter. The family ate
well, never went hungry and had enough
money to live. However, after the Soviet
withdrawal and the subsequent civil war, the
family struggled.
Although Tajs father had no hesitation in
down terrorist cells and return all foreign
hostages neither of these demands was
met and now, in response to 9/11 and for
the security of the Western world, Bush was
launching war. As well as the fighter planes,
Bush and Britain sent in Special Forces,
soldiers who linked up with the anti-Taliban
Northern Alliance to attack Taliban positions.
Before 9/11 Afghanistan largely survived on
the largesse of terrorists. Without Al-Qaeda,
Taliban Afghanistan couldnt have existed: they
were the main funders of the regime. How it
had got to that stage reads like a thriller: it is
a story steeped in intrigue, betrayal, religious
fundamentalism and blood. Afghanistans
history had rarely been peaceful but the
last 30 years leading up to 2001 had been
particularly bloody.
Until this point Tajs life has been a tough
one marked by exile, war and poverty, but
he wouldnt change it for anything. All these
factors have combined to bring him an
unexpected gift cricket.
He has spent over half his life in the vast
Kacha Gari refugee camp in Pakistan. Here,
along with tens of thousands of other Afghans,
he sheltered from the war that was ravaging
his country. The camp, on the edge of the
sprawling western Pakistani city of Peshawar,
was, at its height in the 1980s and 1990s, a
mini-city. More than that, it was a state in
exile. Beside the mud huts, where the poor
lived, stood the palatial houses of Afghan
tribal chiefs and the elite. For most, including
Taj, daily life was a struggle. His first year in
sport with him. He wanted to see children
playing cricket in Afghanistan like he had done
as a boy in Pakistan; he wanted to take the
game to his homeland.
Taj had fallen in love with cricket early in
his stay in Pakistan. In 1987, two years
after he had arrived in the country on the
back of a donkey with his family and all the
possessions they could carry, the cricket
World Cup was held in India and Pakistan.
He was 12 years old, and in the way of boys
that age the world over he fell in love deeply
and quickly with the sport. His family was
too poor to own a TV but he couldnt fail to
notice the game.
fighting the Soviets, he believed it was
his moral and religious duty, he had no
inclination to kill his fellow Afghans. As a
result the familys income and prestige was
dissipated, and they once more struggled for
money and food.
Although they continued to live a life
of poverty, for his family and thousands
like them, the camp allowed a freedom
Afghanistan didnt: people could walk around
without having to worry about bombs and
violence, the children could go to school and,
of great importance to Taj, they could also play
cricket. It was his hope that with the American
invasion he could return home and take the
20
2T
Fans traveled across the world to support their team | Leslie Knott
23
8ook scene
22
8ook scene
without problems. As he couldnt afford any
equipment, he started playing with a stick and
plastic bags wrapped up to make a ball. There
was no flat ground on which to play as the
refugee camp was on rutted, dusty scrubland,
and to make matters worse, his father, who
dreamed of Taj getting the education war and
poverty had denied him, forbade him from
playing the game. Taj would have to wait until
his father was away fighting in Afghanistan,
then he could play cricket to his hearts
content.
Taj was not alone in his love for the bat and
ball. His elder brother, Sayed, head of the
family during their fathers lengthy absences,
and younger brothers Karim and Hasti were
also keen cricketers. Together, the four
brothers would skip school to go out and play
the game.
It didnt do them much good. When their
father returned from fighting and heard
tales of their cricket playing he beat the
brothers. He was uneducated and illiterate
and wanted more for his boys than the life
he had. Neighbours called the boys wasters
and gangsters and, as they grew older, said
it would be hard for them to find brides if all
they did was play cricket.
The brothers were poor but canny, and soon
found ways, through cricket, to make money.
One day, like many others, Taj had skived off
school to play and had persuaded his brothers
and friends to do the same. They only had one
old bat and it broke. As they were despairing
they saw a funeral procession go by the
Pakistan was cricket crazy before the
tournament, but in 1987 it reached endemic
proportions. Every teahouse and every shop
was showing live games on TV, every radio was
switched to the commentary, and on every
patch of land kids were re-enacting catches,
wickets and sixes from games they had seen. In
Peshawar the excitement hit fever pitch when
on 17 October, England and Sri Lanka came to
town, the only World Cup game to be staged
in the city. Across the border in Afghanistan,
the Mujahideen were waging war. They used
Peshawar as a staging post for attacks and
came to the city to recuperate, raise funds
and spend time with their families. The city
was less than 70 miles from the nearest Soviet
base inside Afghanistan and it was here that
England were playing.
It is not difficult for Taj to explain why he loves
cricket. It is, he says, the game of kings. For
a young Afghan refugee, with no television,
very little education and isolated from the
world at large, cricket is a window. Although
he had heard about England before cricket,
and England soon became his favourite team,
countries like New Zealand and Zimbabwe
were new to him. Other places were even more
obscure and it took him a while to figure out
what and where the West Indies were. But
Taj immersed himself in the subject, showing
the type of commitment and doggedness that
would serve him well later in life. Pretty soon
he had learnt about all the grounds and players
from the ten Test nations.
Almost as soon as Taj started watching cricket
he started playing it, though this was not
would take the best Afghan players from the
camps and challenge other teams from across
Peshawar to games of tennis-ball cricket.
And they would play for money. Often the
bets would be for 3,000 rupees (just over
20 today, but then a fortune to the boys).
More often than not, the team only had a few
hundred rupees between them, but they were
certain they would win so they would bet high.
With their winnings they would buy bats and
more tennis balls (wrapping them in gaffer
tape to add extra weight and dull the bounce).
Eventually they could even afford to lay a
concrete pitch in a graveyard outside their
house, and this became the first home of the
Afghan Cricket Club.
pitch was next to a graveyard. Taj came up
with a plan: he persuaded the players to
join the mourning, aware that often those
that attended funerals were given a small
financial gift. Taj and the players did their
part, crying and sobbing when needed and
when the funeral came to an end each of
them was given 20 rupees (about 15 pence).
It wasnt much, but when they combined
their money it was enough to buy two brand
new bats.
It wasnt long before Taj had set up a team
in the refugee camp. He named it the Afghan
Cricket Club. Made up exclusively of Afghan
refugees, they became very good. The club
Fans traveled across the world to support their team | Leslie Knott
24
25 Afghan Scene October 2011 www.afghanscene.com www.afghanscene.com Afghan Scene October 2011
Performing on the big stage | Leslie Knott
2
8ook scene
Out of the Ashes: the extraordinary rise and rise of the Afghan cricket team by Tim Albone is published
by Virgin Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing, a Random House Group Company. This excerpt is
reprinted with the kind permission of the publishers
They had given up their education for a sport.
Not only that but a foreign sport. Although
the brothers werent educated Taj claims
to have done one year of university, but
Hasti could barely write and Karim happily
confessed to having very few interests outside
of cricket they were street smart. Hasti had
a natural flair for business: he was often the
one who organised the games and the betting
syndicates. Taj would organise the brothers
he would hold training sessions, sort out
the kit and equipment and very early took
on the role of coach. Karim was always the
most talented he could hit the hardest, bowl
the best and would combine this with some
kamikaze wicketkeeping, diving across hard
earth to take spectacular catches. Between
them the three brothers formed the backbone
of the Afghan Cricket Club, a team of refugees,
playing with tennis balls or plastic bags in a
refugee camp in Pakistan.
Throughout their childhood they had only one
dream: it seemed an impossible one but it was
to represent their country in an international
cricket match. Taj was determined to make it
happen. This book tells the story of Taj and
his teams incredible journey from refugees to
international cricketing stars. "
From the start the team showed an amazing
passion and zeal for the game; they also
showed they hated to lose. During one local
competition they had bought a big cup to
give to the winners, which they assumed
would be their team, but things didnt
go according to plan and they lost in the
final. The brothers swapped the large cup
for a smaller cup they found at home and
presented it to the winning team, keeping the
big trophy for themselves.
Inevitably a fight broke out, but they never
gave up the bigger cup. By way of justification
the brothers laughed; they were the better
team and they had deserved to win, they
just got unlucky. Taj likes to say that lose is
not a word in his dictionary; it is something
unknown to him.
Their obsession with the game grew, and
soon they did little else but play. Their father
eventually tired of breaking their equipment
and beating them and eased up on them,
tolerating their endless games. They no longer
had to hide their cricket equipment on the roof
of the house, lie about their whereabouts or
sneak out behind his back. But he and those
around them still thought they were crazy.
Afghon scene
28 2
NAtIVE:
GONE
Jerome Slorkey reporls from Chogchoron on lhe fole of
o Soviel soldier who sloyed behind
educated fighters. They welcomed me and I
joined them.
It was 1984 and Russia was in the midst
of a bitter guerilla war against Islamist
insurgents.
More than a quarter of a century later,
Private Krosnaperov is better known as Noor
Mohammad. He learned the local language,
converted to Islam, married an Afghan
wife, and he still lives in Chagcharan, in
Afghanistans remote central highlands, just
a few miles from his old base.
F
acing prison, beatings and the wrath
of a Soviet colonel, Sergei Krasnoperov
said he had no choice but to abandon
his post and surrender to the enemy. It was
the second time in a year that the young
Russian conscript had been caught selling
army supplies to the Afghans and he knew
the punishment would be severe.
If I hadnt escaped they would have put
me and about six other people in prison,
he said. I had to escape and join the
mujahideen, then all the blame was on me.
I climbed into the hills and found some
Originally from Kurgan, 1100 miles east of
Moscow, Krasnoperov served as a driver in
Shindand and then a storeman in Chagcharan,
the capital of Ghor. He defected when an
officer caught him selling military supplies
to the locals | Jerome Starkey
Ihe Soviel conscripl who become on Afghon fomily mon
Gennady Tseuma, now Nik Mohammed, was born in what is now
Ukraine, and came to Afghanistan in 1983. He was captured less than
a year later after wandering away from a bridge he was guarding. The
Mujahideen gave him an ultimatum: convert or die. He now has a
wife and four children and works as a driver in Kunduz.
Nikolai was an officer in an elite parachute regiment, and claimed he deserted in
disgust at Soviet atrocities. His Mujahideen captors said he was the sole survivor of an
ambush in Baghlan province, in 1981. Born in Kharkiv in the Ukraine, he converted to
Islam and took the name Nasratullah.
30
Aghon scene Afghon scene
3T
When I joined the mujahideen I wanted to
show them what I could do, he said. Tanks
and helicopters were harassing us a lot, so I
fixed their machine guns when they jammed
and I repaired the artillery as well. We hit
many helicopters and scared the pilots, so
after a while they stopped coming.
Apart from his eyes, the 45-year-old looked
Afghan. He wore a plain white skull cap and
a fistful of beard; his face was tanned and
weathered. Even the salopettes he wore in
the height of summer - grubby blue with a
bright pink waistband and a sewn-in belt
were appropriate attire for an Afghan
metalworker.
Originally from Korgan, 1000miles east of
Moscow, Mr Mohammad has seen his mother
once since he defected. She visited him in
Afghanistan in 1994, but he said he speaks
to her and his only brother regularly by
telephone.
Under the Taliban regime, Mr Mohammad said
he was well treated, because the regimes
leader, Mullah Mohammad Omar, admired the
Russians who had converted to Islam.
However, since 2001, he said security had
deteriorated and he predicted the government
would fall when Nato leaves.
Security has got a lot worse because Nato has
put dishonest people in power, he said. They
are only thinking about about how to line their
own pockets. The warlords control this area,
and they have made deals with the Taliban. "
They have six children, aged three to 16, and
Mr Mohammad works part time for the local
electricity department, repairs lorry parts on
a metal lathe and he owns a 30% share in a
local tractor.
Life is not good in Afghanistan, but I have to
stay here because I have a wife and children,
he said.
General Boris Gromov, the commander of the
Russian Army, claimed there was not a single
Soviet officer or soldier left behind, when he
completed the Soviet withdrawal by walking
over a bridge to Turkmenistan in 1989. Our
nine-year stay ends with this, he said.
But Alexander Lavrentyev, the vice-chairman
of Russias War Veterans Committee, revealed
there are still 270 soldiers missing in action in
Afghanistan.
Since 1991 we found 29 alive, 22 of that
number returned home to the republics of the
former Soviet Union, he said. Seven decided
to stay in Afghanistan.
One of the men who stayed behind, Kasymjon
Ermatov, had a secondary school named in
his honour, after he was presumed killed in
1986. He turned up 18 years later on a visit to
Pakistan, where he was arrested on suspicion
of terrorism, rendered to Bagram airbase and
eventually flown to Uzbekistan to stand trial.
In Chagcharan, Mr Mohammad said he fought
with the insurgents against his old Russian
comrades.
Kasymjon Ermatov, originally from the Uzbekistan, was a Soviet
truck driver captured in an ambush in 1986. The army presumed he
was killed and built a school in his honour. However, he was arrested
in Karachi, where his Afghan wife had had an operation, in 2004,
transferred to the American prison at Bagram and flown back to
Uzbekistan charged with membership of the Islamic Movement of
Uzbekistan.
Private Alexander Levenets, now known as Ahmad, from Melovadka
in Ukraine, fled beatings and ritual abuse of his superior officers
in October 1984. He was given shelter and eventually introduced
to members of the Mujahideen who accepted him into their ranks.
After the war he worked as a taxi driver.
32
Corloon scene Corloon scene
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Corloon scene
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Killing lhe Crones: A Peporler's
Journey Ihrough Ihree Decodes
of Wor in Afghonislon
Journolisl Edword Girordel's KlLLlNG IHE CPANES will probobly nol be
o populor book in lhe corridors of power in Woshinglon, D.C. Ihere
ore loo mony coreer polilicions ond professionol wor-mongers who
will feel lhreolened by whol Girordel hos lo soy.
fact that the country is currently still being
occupied by the U.S.-led coalition of forces, or
ISAF (laughingly referred to by those who live
there as I Saw Americans Fighting), there is
no way of knowing how much longer the wars
will continue. (And I say this despite the current
2014 deadline for withdrawal, which I will
believe when it happens.)
When I read a book like KtC, I tend to turn
down page corners to mark passages I want
to remember or cite. This book is in pretty
sad, dog-eared shape now, and I have since
despaired of actually using all of the passages
Ive marked. Suffice it to say that it is simply
chock-full of quotable, memorable stuff, so Ill
just give a couple of examples.
First of all, why in the hell cant a supposedly
modern, forward-thinking government like ours
ever seem to learn anything from history? We
certainly followed closely the ill-fated Soviet
venture in Afghanistan which lasted nearly
ten years. Indeed the CIA was giving financial
and materiel support to the muhahideen
A
fter more than thirty years of reporting
on the nearly-continuous wars that have
torn Afghanistan apart, Girardet has
developed a deep respect and even affection
for its proud people. He has no personal
political agenda to promote here, other than a
fervent wish for an end to the wars that have
left the countrys economy in ruins and millions
of people uprooted and destitute.
I read Girardets earlier book, AFGHANISTAN:
THE SOVIET WAR, over twenty years ago, and
was most impressed with his encyclopedic
knowledge of Afghanistan as a country, as
well as the overview that book offered of
the various warlords and rival mujahideen
factions who were at the time resisting the
Soviet occupation forces. Girardet, a reporter
who has trekked over the mountains between
Pakistan and Afghanistan countless times,
built on those experiences and the contacts
he made then and in the years since to write
KILLING THE CRANES. I would like to call the
current book the culmination of his years of
experience in the Afghan wars, but, given the
handling of the Afghan issue.
Current officials of the corrupt Karzai regime
continue to line their pockets and buy
expensively lavish homes in places like the UAE
and Dubai, grabbing whatever they can get
while the getting is good, knowing the foreign
aid dollars will not last forever.
In regard to the notorious Osama bin Laden,
Girardet has his own stories to tell, like his
first meeting with that supposedly charismatic
leader back in the mid-80s. He describes him
as talking with a slight American accent as
if learned at school, and speaking with the
confidence of someone who enjoyed an affluent
background, but who also sounded like a spoiled
brat who always got his own way. The meeting
ended badly, with bin Laden shouting after
Girardet, If I see you again, Ill kill you. Dont
ever come back. Girardet was not impressed
with bin Laden as a person. In fact in the
Epiloge, he notes: The killing, or as some say,
the assassination of bin Laden on May 2, 2011
is unlikely to affect the war. He was never
that popular, even among the Taliban, and
resentment toward Arabs remains deep.
In the current issue of HARPERS there is
an open letter from former Senator (and
presidential candidate) George McGovern
to President Obama. In it he offers several
suggestions - advice, actually. Chief among
his proposals is that the U.S. withdraw its
troops - all of them - immediately from
Afghanistan and Iraq. I hope the president has
read this letter and is seriously considering
the advice therein. McGovern has nothing to
gain or lose by making what seems to many
forces from the earliest days of that war, from
even before the actual Soviet invasion at the
end of 1979. Girardet cites current Secretary
of Defense Robert Gatess book, FROM THE
SHADOWS, in which Gates maintained ...
that the United States had begun providing
financial aid to the mujahideen six months
prior to the invasion. It was one way of
undermining the Afghan communists and their
Soviet backers.
Girardet also points out how our CIA often
worked together with Pakistans intelligence
agency (ISI), since proven to be notoriously
corrupt and unreliable, in supporting the most
radical extremist groups during the Soviet
war. The Peshawar-based warlord Hekmatyar
Gulbuddin profited the most from this support.
This decision to work closely with the most
fanatical Islamic factions ... was fatal. It led
to the destruction of Kabul, and provided the
insurgeny leadership that is now fighting NATO
troops in Afghanstan. Simply put, it was the
US backing of the Islamic extremists in the
1980s that helped produce the current military
quagmire in Afghanistan.
Girardet also pulls no punches in describing the
rampant graft and corruption that existed in
the 1980s in the Paki and Afghan government
circles, and still does, as America continues to
throw billions of dollars down the bottomless
pit of the Afghan problem. He notes: As more
American diplomats and agents from this
period are entering retirement and willing to
speak openly, more information is becoming
available as to the utter incompetence of the
CIA and other intelligence organizations in their
4T 4T
Peview scene
such a radical proposal. He is, after all, an old
man. The presidents current advisors on the
wars on the other hand are all professional
careerists - not just politicians, but military
men whose careers are advanced by war.
President Obama would do well to seriously
consider Senator McGoverns suggestions.
He would also be well-served by reading this
new book, Girardets KILLING THE CRANES.
There is so much hard-won wisdom here from
a man who has spent most of his adult life
trying to present a clear and accurate picture
of what is happening in this beautiful country,
Afghanistan.
But the economy, natural disasters, other wars,
upcoming elections - all of these things press
in upon our president, clamoring for his time
and attention. It seems unlikely hell stop and
read a 400-plus page book. But I guess I can
always hope. In the meantime I will recommend
KILLING THE CRANES highly. "
- Tim Bazzett, author of the Cold War memoir,
SOLDIER BOY: AT PLAY IN THE ASA
Afghan Scene October 2011 Afghan Scene October 2011
Feolure scene
4
Feolure scene
47
Jeremy Kelly broves bondils , bike croshes ond bod food on o
grueling molorcycle expedilion lo lhe fobled Minorel of Jom in
lhe oll bul forgollen wilderness of Ghor
Ihe ploce lhe
wesl forgol
A caravan of Kuchi nomads on the move in Ghor
province, in central Afghanistan | Jerome Starkey
I
am hurtling down a glorified goat track
on a motorbike with dodgy brakes when I
spot them: a group of bearded, turbaned
men standing next to some yurts holding
two-way radios and Kalashnikovs slung over
their shoulders.
Wed been warned about bandits and the
Taliban who treat passing traffic as their
daily meal ticket. A car is taxed $2, a truck
maybe $10. The price for a foreigner on a
motorbike could be expected to have a few
extra zeros on the end of it and an extended
stay in the bottom of a well.
I have a split-second second decision to
make: Do I break my golden rule of motor
biking in Afghanistan and stop for a man
with a gun but without a uniform?
One of my colleagues, Travis, a fellow
Australian yet far more reckless, roars past
them but I crunch the anchors, stomp down
the gears, come to a halt and thrust out for
a handshake.
Salaam aleikum, I offer nervously.
Best be killed after trying to talk my way out
of trouble than shot in the back. Or at least
convince them that the absconding Travis would
be a better fit for their Thursday night fun.
Five days earlier, four of us had set off from
Kabul on another attempt at riding half way
across Afghanistan to the world heritage-
listed Minaret of Jam a 63m monolith in
the countrys west built some 900 years ago.
48
Feolure scene Feolure scene
4
Passing ancient Buddhist stupas that have long
collapsed from natural elements we come into
Bamiyan city, the site of perhaps the worlds
most heinous act of vandalism. Still, the niches
are still looking pretty damn cool.
We bed down for the night, our last for the
next seven days with running water, but not
before a courtesy visit to the provinces head
of security. He tells us that three days earlier a
truck driver had been kidnapped by the Taliban
on the road wed taken.
known for perpetrating than preventing crime -
that we were coming.
We burn through the Shomali plains north
of Kabul before ascending toward Salang
and what has been called the worlds most
dangerous tunnel. We spend a night in an
avalanche shelter at 2900m and take on the
tunnel the next morning.
Fighting against over-burdened lorries whose
drivers who could do with some lessons in
look left, look right, look bike, we get through
the 2.6km Soviet-built tunnel without falling
victim to one of the wheel-sized potholes.
Crash in the tunnel and youre in a race for your
life trying to avoid being entombed by carbon
monoxide poisoning.
Were taking the supposedly safe route to
Bamiyan province through a Star Wars-like
landscape of red ochre with swathes of
green hugging the river that follows
the dirt track.
Two previous attempts had ended in
police detention, including once under
suspicion of being foreign intelligentsia or
Australian Taliban plotting to blow up a
series of lakes. (In fairness to the Afghans,
the latter accusation was made by their
foreign mentors, who happened to be New
Zealanders).
This time we were doing it differently by
breaking another rule of travel in the wilds
outside of Kabul and telling the police more
Journalists Travis Beard (R) and Jeremy Kelly (L) on a motorbike roadtrip across Afghanistan, from Kabul
to the Minaret of Jam in Ghor province | Jerome Starkey
Journalist Nooruddin Bakhshi on a 35000m pass, on the road from Yakolang to Chagcharan in
Afghanistans central highlands | Jerome Starkey
50
5T
"We burn lhrough
lhe Shomoli
ploins norlh of
Kobul before
oscending loword
Solong ond
whol hos been
colled lhe world's
mosl dongerous
lunnel."
leprosy and have been shunned by society and
their families. Even for Afghanistan, its a grim
scene but they are cheered by our presence and
unlike their medically ignorant community
were happy to indulge them by holding their
scaly, deformed hands.
The next morning we depart at 4am as
weve got about 230km ahead of us, over
two 3400m passes including at Kirmu,
where as the mist clears we enter Ghor
one of Afghanistans biggest and poorest
We get to the gate of a small house, signposted
as a Scandinavian charity, where a barking,
chained-up dog prevents us going inside. An
affable Afghan man comes to the gate and tells
us that the caretaker is no longer there he
died three months earlier after self-immolating.
We never find out why but the man lets us in to
see Zahra and Fatima.
In their 60s, both are near blind, their hands
have turned claw-like and their noses shrunken
and missing parts. They have been disfigured by
Jerome Starkey (L), Travis Beard (C) and Jeremy Kelly (R) on a 3500m pass at dawn en route from
Yakolang to Chagcharan by motorbike | Jerome Starkey
Why didnt you tell us? we ask him.
He responds: Because you wouldnt have
come.
We head off early the next morning climbing
again over 3000m to Band-e Amir. Even after
several visits, the six azure lakes still strike me
with awe. Theres no danger in these parts,
unless you believe the New Zealand police
who thought the lakes the countrys first
national park - were in peril from a ginger
jihadi from Australia.
Its a photographers paradise yet we are on a
clock and heading further west to Yakawlang
and a short pit-stop to see two women craving
human contact.
Chagcharan at dusk | Jerome Starkey
Afghan Scene October 2011 www.afghanscene.com Afghan Scene October 2011 www.afghanscene.com
Ghor, a mountainous province in central Afghanistan, is one of
the poorestand most remote places on earth | Jerome Starkey
52
53
54
55
Weve been going for more than eight hours,
mostly without food due to it being the fasting
month of Ramadan, when I get a mouthful
of powdery red dirt. Ive crashed face-first,
lacerated my hand and ended up pinned under
my bike.
I elect to take a stint in our support vehicle,
handing over my keys to our Afghan companion
Nooruddin, who, in turn, soon ends up splayed
on the ground. Its back on the bike for me,
my hand bandaged under my torn glove and
provinces, almost ignored by NATO where the
governments writ is minimal and banditry
thrives. This is what the future of Afghanistan
may be like when the international military
ceases combat roles in 2014.
Officials estimate there are up to 200 illegally-
armed militias in Ghor and its why the police
chief has instructed us to rendezvous with a
police escort for the final seven hours to the
provincial capital, Chagcharan. Yet Im more
worried about crashing.
Militia commander Haji Abdul Rahman (C) and his deputy, Rasul Dad (L) examining a UNESCO map of
World Heritage Sites. Their men patrol the road which leads to the Minaret of Jam | Jerome Starkey
The Minaret of Jam, 63m tall and leaning precariously to one side,
at the confluence of the Haririd and the Jam Rud rivers | Jerome Starkey
"We've possed lhrough
six provinces, endured
nine croshes belween us
ond our supporl vehicle
hos experienced lwo
flol lyres, one from o live
Koloshnikov bullel."
5
Feolure scene
fade we leave Chagcharan with our destination
an estimated four hours away. Were travelling
with a police ranger carrying nine armed men
and a mounted machine gun on top. We fight
for road space with nomadic kuchis and their
camel caravans and dodge wild dogs.
After nearly five hours we come across Haji
Abdul Rahman and his band of armed men.
My decision to stop has been a wise one. Our
police escort quickly pulls up behind us and the
police warmly greet him and his band of men.
This is his patch and he and his men are going
to guide us down the gorge to the minaret.
Weve passed through six provinces, endured
nine crashes between us and our support
vehicle has experienced two flat tyres, one
from a live Kalashnikov bullet. We dont
know how far weve travelled as none of our
odometers work but we know its at least three
hard days riding back to Kabul and the bikes
and us are not up to it. Instead, we hitch a ride
on a UN helicopter to the relative opulence in the
city of Herat and then fly back to Kabul. Before
which weve loaded the bikes in a van and sent
the driver on his way.
He gets to Kabul and tells us that after passing
through Bamiyan he was stopped by the Taliban
and robbed. Three days later, on a motorbike
jolly up TV Hill, a knife-wielding bandit tries
to stab me. After reporting the incident to the
police, I am chided for going up there without
an escort. "
a stinging chest pain from slamming into my
handlebars.
Were racing against the approaching darkness,
egged on by our escorts, whom I suspect are
more worried about their empty stomachs than
they are our heads.
Reaching Chagcharan after dark, 15 hours
after we set off, we get to one of the citys two
restaurants, but the only one with food. Its
also full of sketchy looking dudes who claim
they are nomads from Helmands Musa Qala
district. The men seem convinced my tinted
$20 bike goggles are capable of night-vision.
My colleague Jerome seeks to disprove this by,
much to my chagrin, gifting them.
The two-room restaurant is also the only
hotel and we think it prudent to lean on
the police chief for some more appropriate
accommodation. He kindly allows us a room at
his guesthouse. Its simple but at least its safe,
of sorts, save for the mice and the chef who
keeps saying I love you to us.
The commander of the tiny 160-man NATO
force in the province, Lithuanian Colonel
Nerijus Stankevicius says of the Ghor police:
They need to learn the law and behave like
policemen, not like bandits with rifles.
The police chief tells us we can proceed to the
Minaret of Jam, but again it would require an
escort. So with our bikes and bodies starting to
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8ook scene
ln on exclusive exlrocl from her firsl novel, now oul in
poperbock, lhe 88C's Jill McGivering drows on mulliple
visils lo Afghonislon lo sel lhe scene for o murder, o cover-
up ond lhe sneoking suspicion of friends ond fomily lhol
lhings ore nol os lhey seem.
8ook scene
T
is taking me somewhere. He has a plan for
me. With this thought, hope rose. He almost
giggled, intoxicated with it. If he were going
to kill me, he would have done it by now.
Wouldnt he? Yes. Alhamdulillah. Thanks be to
God. He grasped this hope and hugged it to
him, a lifebelt thought. Yes. If he
A sharp rock at his toes and he was tripping,
his feet splayed. The cord closed its teeth
more sharply round his wrists, biting into the
skin. The rope jerked. Pain through his hands,
a sudden white heat in his shoulder sockets,
his arms. A rush of air on his face as he fell
forward, crashing, bouncing hard against the
ground. Air struck out of his chest, leaving him
gasping. Fine sand rose in a cloud, filling his
mouth, his nose, making him choke. The stink
of grit close to his face, a smell of dead sand
and desiccated dirt.
A pause. He was alive, breathing noisily, in, out.
His nostrils ran wet with mucus or blood. He
tried to lift his head and opened his mouth a
crack to speak. His eyes, encrusted with sand,
were trying to force themselves open beneath
the cloth. His tongue was thick. He held his
breath to listen. He heard the man, close to
him, exhale.
His head was held down, his face pressed into
the sand. A weight on the back of his head. A
foot. The hard sole of a boot. He bucked and
twisted, trying to flip over, to turn his covered
face to the man, to beg. The boot held him
firm, standing on his skull, grinding his nose
Prologue
The line was taut. The cord circles tightened
into handcuffs, burning his wrists. He was
propelled forward, dragged on the rope,
stumbling over sand and stones on the leash.
His neck craned backwards, his face towards
the sky and the glare of the sun fired the cloth
of his blindfold. His tongue flickered to his
lips, tasted their dryness. Sweat blossomed
on his scalp, trickled down his temples, stung
chapped skin.
He was sick with shock, his limbs convulsing.
The man had jumped him from behind, from
nowhere, and knocked him to the ground. He
had pinioned him, his knee hard in his back,
and bound his eyes before he could twist his
face to see. Who was he? He caught the stink
of male sweat; his own, bitter with adrenalin,
and, overlaying it, the thick meaty smell of
the man.
He stretched the tendons of his neck and
managed to move the cloth a fraction. The
material was wound tightly round his head,
pressing into his eyes, and as he lifted it, he
created a narrow slit of light at the bottom.
Light, there, below, just beyond his vision. His
eyes bulged, forcing themselves downwards,
straining towards his chin, to focus on the
paper-thin line of brightness. Was that a blur
of sand he could see, dancing with pin-pricks
of colour? His head was bursting with effort
and fear.
He tried to take control of his body, to steady
his breathing and, with it, his mind. This man
2
8ook scene
Her scarf was pulled forward, screening her
face, although the only male present was her
young son. He was squatting on his haunches
beside her, pressed against her body for
comfort. He was a thin boy of ten or eleven
with protruding ears and a scab on his chin. He
was too young to understand hed become the
man of the house.
The daughter, embarrassed by her mothers
silence, tried to take control. She leaned
forward to Ellen to whisper. You understand,
she said. A very big shock.
Of course.
The daughter pushed a dish of greasy long-
grained rice towards Ellen. It was laced with
flakes of nut and plump stock-rich raisins.
Ellen added another spoonful to her plate.
She broke off a piece of fresh ridged bread,
warm and spongy, and wiped it round,
pinching a piece of lamb and rice together
with her forefingers. She leaned forward over
the plastic cloth. It was spread out between
them on the floor, dominating the room,
covered with cheap glass dishes of home-
cooked food, a litre bottle of Coca-Cola and
a smatter of shot glasses.
She brought her hand to her mouth, pushed
the food between her lips, even though
she had no appetite. The lamb had been
marinated in a pungent sauce and she
chewed slowly. She knew the rules. They
must press food on her even after she was
sated, to show respect, and she, to show
thanks, must eat it.
into the dirt, causing a hundred minute sharp
stones to embed in his forehead, his chin. A
wave of nausea brought bile into his throat,
riding a swell of panic.
A metallic click. A gun being cocked. He
opened his mouth to shout but no word
came. The sharp stink of piss, hot and steamy.
The sudden wetness in his groin. A searing
flash of white light. Cleansing and bleaching
everything in an instant. The halo of the
gunshot Jalil didnt live to hear.
1.
The room was shabby and hot. Ellen, sitting
cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, tried to
shift her weight and ease herself into another
position without attracting attention. Her
knees were aching.
Dust hung heavy in the air, suspended in
the shafts of early evening light which were
pressing in through open windows. The
furniture was sparse. Just an old-fashioned
television on a stand, a vast dark-wood dresser,
scraped and scuffed by several generations,
and worn cushions scattered across the carpet
and against the walls.
Jalils mother was kneading her hands,
rhythmically squeezing one through the other,
back and forth. Her head was bent, watching
her fingers as if their restlessness surprised
her. The skin was papery. The veins along the
backs of her hands stood full and thick with
purple blood, part of the map of her new
shrinking self.
8ook scene
3
work. She looked round now at the faces that
mirrored his.
Jalils mother lifted her fleshless hands and
ran them through the boys hair and along
the contours of his face, as if she were a blind
woman, learning him. He wriggled, sighed,
scratched himself around the ribs, then settled
against her again and submitted to the hands
without protest.
It was Najib who told us. The corners of the
daughters mouth were tight with tension. All
this was just a week old and they were still in
shock.
The daughter leaned forward automatically to
press on Ellen the dish of meat and rice. Ellen
forced herself to take a little more. The lamb
split easily into pieces on her plate, releasing
aromatic steam. It was good meat. They must
have paid a lot of afghanis for it. Without
Jalil, money would be tight. She was very
conscious that she was the only one eating.
The family sat round her, dull-eyed, and
watched. This evening, she knew, they would
pick at her leftovers.
The daughter was educated. Some course
in management or teaching, Ellen couldnt
recall what exactly. Her neat gold earrings,
her shoulder-length bob and the tailoring
of her Afghan kameez gave her a hint of
Western stylishness.
What will you do now?
The daughter shrugged. Find work. Her tone
was lifeless.
He has a friend there. The daughters voice
faltered as she corrected herself. She was
fiddling with the fabric of her headscarf,
playing it between her long fingers, shading
her eyes. Had a friend.
Ellen looked up. The daughter was nineteen
or twenty, a little younger than Jalil. Her
nose was broad and prominent, as his had
been. Sitting so close to her mother, she
looked a younger, less broken version of her,
with clear olive skin and expressive eyes,
ringed with kohl. Shed already lost her
father. Now shed also lost her older brother,
any uncle or cousin could push her into a
hasty marriage.
His friend, Ellen asked her, is he also a
translator? The daughter nodded. His name is
Najib, she said. An old classmate of his, also
from Kabul.
And hes still in Helmand?
Yes. Maybe now he can help you instead
of Jalil. She breathed heavily. With your
reports.
The girl attempted a smile but looked away
and it crumpled. Ellen pushed a piece of lamb
round her plate with her bunched fingers,
struggling to find the will to eat. In four years
of coming back and forth to Kabul to cover
Afghanistan for NewsWorld, this was the first
time she would work without Jalil. Hed been
full of life, of talent, exactly the sort of man
his country needed. His death sickened her. He
should never have turned to the military for
4
8ook scene
portrait that looked several years out of date.
Jalil was wearing a pale kameez with a stiff
collar. His hair, usually so unruly, was combed
severely to one side, glossy and fixed in place,
perhaps with gel. His expression, straight into
the camera, was serious and subdued. She bet
he hated that picture. It wasnt at all how she
wanted to remember him.
When she looked away, she saw him as he
used to be, sitting opposite her, stooped
over his food, his long legs crossed, his back
pressed against a cushion and the wall, his hair
flopping forward over his forehead. His mother,
shyly triumphant, would have fussed over
their meal, pressing too much rich food on
them both. She and her daughter would have
cooked all day in readiness. His little brother,
adoring, would be horsing around, over-
excited. Climbing on him until he was pushed
aside and told to behave. She looked over at
the boy now. He had Jalils delicate features,
the same long black eye-lashes and large eyes
that would break hearts. Now, though, they
were red-rimmed and anxious as he pressed
his cheek against his mothers side for comfort,
like a much younger child.
She turned to the daughter. On the phone,
she said in a low voice, you said something.
About the way he died.
The daughter tutted under her breath, gave her
mother a quick glance, then lowered her eyes
to her lap. Her fingers plucked again at the
hem of her headscarf.
Ellen persisted. What did you mean? What
I could ask around, Ellen said. The aid
agencies might need someone. Or the
embassies.
The daughter kept her eyes on the plastic cloth
between them. It was dotted now with stray
grains of rice and wet circles of water and
Coke where glasses had stood.
Jalil should be here. Their visits to this small
family room, with its bare walls and peeling
white plaster, had become a ritual whenever
shed worked with him. Hed always invited her
home for a special evening meal, planned for
the end of her stay once their work was done,
and hosted by his mother. It was an honour to
be welcomed into an Afghan home. His family
had been proud that Jalil had an important
English friend who paid him well in dollars.
Without him, the air in the room was stale. She
had done the right thing in making the effort
to come, dashing from the chaos of Kabul
Airport to these hushed rooms, but their grief
was drowning her. She tore off a final piece of
bread, ran it round the congealing sauce on
her plate. Another few minutes and shed have
to head back to the airport to report for the
military flight south to Helmand Province.
The daughter had lifted her eyes to the
television and was staring at it sightlessly. The
sound was muted but the images flickered
on, splashing colour and light into the room.
From the heavy dresser, Jalils face stared out.
It was a black and white photograph which
Ellen had never seen before, framed in black.
A spray of plastic flowers sat in a small glass
vase beside it. It was an old-fashioned studio
8ook scene
5
longer. It is not honourable. This is what he
says. She looked up again and Ellen saw her
hesitate before she decided to speak. I think
he sounds afraid.
Ellen let her eyes fall to her own hands,
limp in her lap. She forced herself to face
this new thought of Jalils fear. It sat heavy
in her gut. Was it fear for his life that had
made him decide to leave? A wave of nausea
took her. She clenched her hands into fists,
resisting it, and saw her knuckles whiten. It is
not honourable for me to stay, hed written.
Honour. A cornerstone for him, she knew that.
Its my fault, she thought. His death. I
could have stopped it. She closed her eyes,
screening it all out, digging her nails into
her palms. Her breaths were coming in
short bursts in the quietness and she tried
consciously to slow and lengthen them. The
family mustnt see her distress.
A splutter of static and microphone squeal
broke into the room from outside as the dusk
call to prayer began. It filled the silence,
shimmering in through the open windows and
across the room, a young male voice of sad
sweetness. Ellen sat, rigid, feeling the blessing
of prayer wash over them, low and melodious
in its devotion. She concentrated on breathing.
The room was soft with memories.
The first time she worked with Jalil, theyd
embarked on an intense ten day road trip,
interviewing dozens of Afghans about the
forthcoming elections. What did they expect
from their politicians? Who did they support?
makes you think you werent told the truth?
They said he was killed by the Taliban when
they were out on patrol. An ambush. Thats
what they said.
The daughter unfolded her legs and brought
herself to her feet, crossed to the dresser and
opened a drawer. It was crammed with yellowing
papers. She picked out an envelope near the top,
withdrew a single sheet of thin paper and spread
it out on the floor between them, smoothing it
with her fingertips. The writing was neat, covered
in the ink squiggles of Pashto.
From him?
Across the room, her mother had lifted her
head to watch. Ellen felt the weight of the
silence, of the rooms holding its breath.
This is the last letter we received from him.
the daughter said. She traced the writing
gently with her finger. He says he is leaving
Helmand, leaving the job with the military. We
should expect him home. She paused, blinked,
continued. But he sounds upset. Things are
not as I thought, he says. Not at all. He
writes to Mama not to worry. Hell find work
in Kabul. She glanced up at Ellen. He means
some work for foreign journalists, like he did
with you. Translating. She paused. He liked to
work with you. Always when you came here.
He looked forward to it.
Ellen nodded, holding her gaze. I did too.
The daughter sighed, turned back to the
letter. Dont be angry. I cannot stay here any
8ook scene
them warmly. They sat cross-legged on
cushions in his bare front room and drank
green tea from tall glasses. Jalil translated
back and forth. Yes, the schoolteacher told
them, his voice measured, everyone in the
village knew about the elections. He was
encouraging them all to vote. But would the
politicians help them? He had his doubts.
Would they bring electricity to the village?
And then, there was the school. He shook
his head, his eyes pleading. He hadnt been
paid his salary for so long now, for four, five
months. How could he - ?
The throb of an approaching truck interrupted
him. He looked towards the window, nodded
to Jalil and, in the doorway, pushed his bare
feet back into the sandals waiting there. Ellen
sipped her scalding tea and listened to the
slam of a truck door outside, then low voices.
The man who entered with him smiled round.
He had a short beard and a brown Afghan hat
and greeted them with easy confidence. Ellen
sat up, interested, to watch. My cousin, said
the schoolteacher, and clicked his fingers to
his son to run for a fresh chai glass. Just a few
minutes later, before the conversation had
really resumed, Jalil got to his feet, thanked
the schoolteacher and ushered Ellen hastily out
of the house.
That was abrupt. Ellen watched the passing
landscape with dismay from the backseat
of the vehicle. Theyd spent several hours
driving out to find the schoolteacher and
shed left with barely half an interview.
Whats the hurry?
Theyd asked shopkeepers, housewives, farmers
and traders, piecing together material for a
four page spread on the general mood and how
Afghans saw their future.
Shed been given Jalils number over lunch in
Islamabad. A friend on The New York Times had
just come out of Afghanistan. With so many
journalists swarming through Kabul, decent
translators were thin on the ground.
Kinda young, hed said, scribbling down the
mobile phone number on a paper napkin. But
good. Smart as a whip.
For the first three days of the trip, shed
wondered. Jalil had been nervous, stumbling
over his English. He seemed shy. He was
little more than twenty and she was used to
working with older men, canny operators who
were usually ex-journalists themselves. They
could be cocky and not always trustworthy but
they brimmed with confidence and they knew
a story when they saw one. By comparison,
Jalil seemed nave.
On the fourth day, they turned off the road
and bumped along dirt to a cluster of mud-
brick houses. A boy, herding goats, flattened
himself against a wall to watch, turned to a
ghost by the fine brown dust beaten up by the
wheels. Beyond him a thin man was tugging
at a donkey whose body was rendered invisible
by a vast load of brushwood. A girl with a dirt-
encrusted face ran to the man and clutched at
his leg as they passed, her eyes round.
The schoolteacher, a contact of Jalils, greeted
8ook scene
7
Jalil pointed to his own mouth. So much of
gold in his teeth. New gold.
Ellen shrugged. So what? He had gold teeth.
His watch? Jalil ran his hand round his wrist.
Foreign watch. New. Jalil paused, watching
her reaction. Who gave him all this money?
He faced forward again. His hair was sticking
together in clumps along the top of his neck.
Ellen thought about what hed said. The teeth,
the watch. She hadnt noticed them. Jalil had.
He could be a businessman, she said. A
trader.
Jalil gave a dismissive grunt. Business? He
gestured out of the window at the emptiness
of the desert. Here?
She paused and considered. Maybe Jalil was
smarter than he looked. He just wasnt loud.
Blah, blah, she said. She was used to Afghan
men with big egos. Jalil was different. She
lifted her own hand and opened and closed it
like a mouth, as he had done. Blah blah, blah
blah.
He turned back to see and she snapped her
hand open and closed at him until they both
started to laugh, saying blah, blah stupidly to
each other as the driver swung back onto the
road and they headed through the dry, swirling
dust towards the next village.
Now, in this grieving house, the call to prayer
gave a final burst of static and came to a
Jalil was sitting in the front passenger seat by
the driver. He mumbled something she didnt
catch.
He had more to say, she went on. The late
morning sun was intense. Her head, encased in
a headscarf, was already hot. We didnt have
to leave just because his cousin came.
That man he calls his cousin. Jalil turned
back to her and lowered his voice. He is not a
good man.
Ellen shook her head. Why do you say that?
Jalil raised his hand and worked it open and
closed like the mouth of a glove puppet. Blah
blah, he said, snapping his thumb against his
fingers. He is a man to go blah blah blah to
someone. To some powerful man. He came
rushing to see us for a reason. He stared at
Ellen. His voice had dropped to a whisper.
Maybe he is going blah blah to some Taliban.
Ellen glanced out of the window at the swirling
dust, the blank brown landscape. They were in
the middle of nowhere. Oh, come on.
When she looked back at Jalil, he was
frowning.
Maybe theyre just cousins. She sighed
to herself. Shed hurt his pride. He seemed
friendly enough.
You saw his smile?
What about it?
8
8ook scene
blames me. The money was thick and greasy in
her hands. Dirty. She pushed it back into her
pocket. She and the girl stared at each other,
unspeaking.
The moment was ended by Jalils mother who
came out to them from the kitchen, wiping her
hands on a towel. Her scarf had fallen back to
her shoulders. Her hair, prematurely grey, was
clipped into a bun, dripping strands.
She embraced Ellen, kissing her on both
cheeks, then pressed herself against her
body. She smelt of rose water and spices and
her hair was dry and prickly against the soft
skin of Ellens neck. She pulled back and took
Ellens hands in her own. She clasped them,
looking up into her eyes. Her palms were hot
and firm. Her eyes looked so like his. Deep
brown with fragments of light radiating
outwards. As she spoke, Ellen read the concern
there.
Dont go, she is saying. The daughter was
standing beside them, her voice cool as
she translated her mothers words. Its too
dangerous. Dont go to Helmand, she says. Go
back to your own country and forget your work
here. Be safe.
His mother embraced her a second time. Ellen
felt the hardness of the smaller womans ribs
against her own flesh, the compact muscle of
years of labour.
I must go, she said at last. She put her hands
on Jalils mothers shoulders and lifted her
away. Ive got stories to file.
close. Silence reached into the room. Ellen
shifted her weight. It was already late.
Manana. Thank you. She placed her right
hand on her heart in a gesture of thanks
and bowed her head to Jalils mother. Ellen
unravelled her legs and rubbed her ankles to
bring them back to life. She reached forward
to gather together the scattered dishes and
help to clear them. Jalils sister protested,
pushing Ellens hands away and scolding her
softly, as Ellen knew she would.
In the dim hallway, she covered her head with
a voluminous scarf, wound the ends round her
neck to keep it in place and bent to lace up
her boots. Jalils mother had retreated to the
kitchen and only the daughter was hovering,
adjusting her own scarf nervously in folds
round her head and shoulders as she watched
Ellen prepare to leave.
Ellen gestured the girl to come towards her. In
a quick movement, she took a bundle of dollars
from her pocket, folded the girls long fingers
round the money and enclosed her hands for a
moment in the mesh of her own. Behind them
rose a clatter of dishes, shifting in the sink. A
tap coughed and water splashed onto a hard
surface. The girl hesitated and opened her
mouth to protest.
Balay, said Ellen. Yes. Her voice was firm.
Please.
The girl prised off Ellens fingers and thrust the
money back at her. Her eyes were proud. She
knows what Jalil asked me, Ellen thought. She
8ook scene
His mother was reaching up to Ellens cheek,

patting it with a cupped hand.
Ill find out, Ellen said. Tell her. Ill find out
what happened to Jalil.
His mother spoke once more as her daughter
unbolted the door and opened it. The familys
guard, standing outside in the shadows, rushed
forward, his rifle glinting in the half-light. He
escorted Ellen across the shabby courtyard to
the high metal gate set in the compound wall.
His mother had used one of the phrases Jalil
had taught Ellen in the time theyd worked
together. One she didnt need anyone else to
translate for her. May Allah bless you, shed
said. May Allah protect you. "
Jill McGivering is a senior BBC broadcaster, specialising in Asia. Shes covered foreign news
for the past 19 years for the BBCs main radio and television news outlets. Her posts as a BBC
Correspondent include Hongkong, South Asiaand the US State Department. Since being based in
London, shes travelled on assignment worldwide but most often toAsia where she covers conflicts
and pursues investigative journalism. Her first novel, THE LAST KESTREL (Harper Collins) comes out
in paperback in August and is set in Afghanistan. It draws on many reporting trips to Afghanistan
and two embeds with British forces in Helmand Province. Her second novel, FAR FROM MY FATHERS
HOUSE, set in North-West Pakistan, comes out later this year. Jill has an MA in Creative Writing and
has also written short stories and plays.
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Herat Restaurant
Shar-e Naw, main road,
Diagonally opposite Cinema Park
Mixed/Western
Le Dizan (formerly LAtmosphere)
Street 4, Taimani Tel: 0798 840 071,
0700 209 397
Flower Street Caf
Street 2, Qala-e Fatullah.
Tel: 0700 293 124, 0799 356 319
Kabul Coffeehouse & Caf
Street 6, on the left,
Qale-e Fatullah Tel: 0779 020 202,
0786 226 223, 0785 192 421
Le Bistro
One street up from Chicken Street,
Behind the MOI, Shar-e Naw Tel:
0799-598852
Red Hot Sizzlin Steakhouse
District 16, Macroyan 1,
Nader Hill Area Tel: 0799 733 468
Le Pelican Cafe du Kabul
Darulaman Road, almost
opposite the Russian Embassy.
Bright orange guard box.
Indian
Namaste
Street 15, left Lane 4, (last house on
right side) Wazir Akbar Khan
Tel: 0772 011 120
Delhi Darbar
Share Naw, Butcher St, Lane #
3.Tel: 0799 324 899
Anar Restaurant
Lane 3, Street 14,Wazir Akbar Khan
Tel: 0799 567 291
Lebanese
Taverne du Liban
Street 15, Lane 3, Wazir Akbar Khan
Tel: 0799 828 376
Hotels and Guesthouses
Kabul Serena Hotel
Froshgah Street
www.serenahotels.com
Tel: 0799 654 000
Safi Landmark Hotel & Suites
Charahi Ansari
www.safilandmarkhotelsuites.com
Tel: 0202 203 131
The Inter Continental Hotel
Baghe Bala Road
www.intercontinentalkabul.com
Tel: 0202 201 321
Gandamack Lodge Hotel
Sherpur Square
Gandamacklodge@yahoo.com
www.gandamacklodge.co.uk
Tel: 0700 276 937, 0798 511 111
Sanpo Guesthouse
(formally Unica Guesthouse)
Royal Mattress
Haji Yaqoob Square
Golden Star Hotel
Charrhay Haji Yaqoob,
Shar-e Naw.
www.kabulgoldenstarhotel.com
Tel: 0799 557 281 , 0777 000 068
Roshan Hotel
Charaye Turabaz Khan,
Shar-e Naw.
Tel: 0799 335 424
Restaurants
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Rumi
Qala-e Fatullah Main Rd, between
Streets 5 & 6
Tel: 0799 557 021
Sufi
Street 1, Qala-e Fatullah
www.sufi.com.af Tel: 0774 212 256,
0700 210 651
The Grill
Street 15, Wazir Akbar Khan.
Tel: 0799 818 283, 0799 792 879
Turkish
Istanbul
Main road, on the left, between Mas-
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Iranian
Shandiz
Pakistan Embassy Street, off Street 14
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Italian/Pizza
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Main Road, near Street 12,Wazir
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Tel: 0700 263 636, 0799 317 979
Bella Italia
Street 14, Wazir Akbar Khan
Tel: 0799 600 666
Chinese
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Tel: 0799 002 800, 0799 343 319
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Camp Gibson -Mil Base,
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Camp Phoenix, Jalalabad Road (AIB)
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His mother was reaching up to Ellens cheek,

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