In Afghanistan
Herat
I wake warm in my sleeping bag, the flap tickling my nose. I hear the sound of others breathing in the room. I hear wind rustling in conifer trees. Above that I hear a dull sweet sound. Bells?
I stretch my legs, which are stiff with sleep. I can’t move them far; they soon kick into another sleeper. I try to roll over, but again not far: another body bars my way. I open my eyes and see a white ceiling. Light plays on the ceiling, casting shadows of uneven temper. The shadows dance. New shadows form as tiny shafts of sunlight pick out shapes against the white. The walls are white too, rough clay bricks with whitewash splashed hurriedly across them: a pleasing texture. Still the sound of bells, the sound of sleepers, and the sound of breezes: shuffling and thwacking sounds.
I decide to look around. There’s no furniture in the room, no furniture at all. Only rucksacks distributed haphazardly across the floor and bodies in sleeping bags curled up between them. I reach my hand out to touch the floor. It’s firm, but soft. Running my fingers in one direction they feel smoothness, backwards something rough: carpet pile. I turn my head to examine this carpet. It’s red and patterned. My spine is comfortable. I and my unknown roommates seem to be lying on a pile of soft oriental carpets.
I shuck my sleeping bag down around my thighs and crawl over several of my companions. I rest my elbows on a low windowsill. The sandpaper feel of clay bricks cuts into them.
I see a street and see square brown house-fronts and a brown dusty road. Along the sides of the street run deep drains with bright reflections dancing on the surface of flowing water. Trees with fresh green leaves edge the streams. Children with olive bottoms squat over them crapping into the water. Women, their faces and limbs obscured by blue robes, wash utensils beside their defecating offspring. The breeze carries an underlay of dung and the scent of jasmine winnowing above it.
I wake warm in my sleeping bag, the flap tickling my nose. I hear the sound of others breathing in the room. I hear wind rustling in conifer trees. Above that I hear a dull sweet sound. Bells?
I stretch my legs, which are stiff with sleep. I can’t move them far; they soon kick into another sleeper. I try to roll over, but again not far: another body bars my way. I open my eyes and see a white ceiling. Light plays on the ceiling, casting shadows of uneven temper. The shadows dance. New shadows form as tiny shafts of sunlight pick out shapes against the white. The walls are white too, rough clay bricks with whitewash splashed hurriedly across them: a pleasing texture. Still the sound of bells, the sound of sleepers, and the sound of breezes: shuffling and thwacking sounds.
I decide to look around. There’s no furniture in the room, no furniture at all. Only rucksacks distributed haphazardly across the floor and bodies in sleeping bags curled up between them. I reach my hand out to touch the floor. It’s firm, but soft. Running my fingers in one direction they feel smoothness, backwards something rough: carpet pile. I turn my head to examine this carpet. It’s red and patterned. My spine is comfortable. I and my unknown roommates seem to be lying on a pile of soft oriental carpets.
I shuck my sleeping bag down around my thighs and crawl over several of my companions. I rest my elbows on a low windowsill. The sandpaper feel of clay bricks cuts into them.
I see a street and see square brown house-fronts and a brown dusty road. Along the sides of the street run deep drains with bright reflections dancing on the surface of flowing water. Trees with fresh green leaves edge the streams. Children with olive bottoms squat over them crapping into the water. Women, their faces and limbs obscured by blue robes, wash utensils beside their defecating offspring. The breeze carries an underlay of dung and the scent of jasmine winnowing above it.
The centre of the street is filled with men. Men in white robes and dark jackets stroll hand in hand, talking to each other. A few trucks move along behind them, trailling grey exhaust. Drivers in grubby turbans call out greetings from the cabs. Old men lead donkeys carrying loads bigger than themselves, others pull ramshackle handcarts. I locate the tinkling bells on harnesses of the donkeys. The smells of dung and jasmine are joined by a medley of human excrement, rotting vegetables and vehicle exhaust.
Suddenly I hear a loud clanging. Horses' hooves beat fast on the ground, heavy bells on their harnesses offering a counterpoint to their clopping. The riders’ white robes stream out over their horses’ flanks. Their hair is covered with large, loosely wound turbans. The ends of their turbans float out too, parallel to their horses’ flowing tails. For a moment my eyes search for sabres or rusty guns; but these men are not warriors. They carry white flowers: jasmine, gardenia, or maybe white carnations? They stop occasionally and give a flower to one of the strolling men they pass. My spirit soars with happiness as I gaze down into this completely new world.
Thirty-one years and some months later, the Saturday after 9/11, I attended a peace march in Sydney NSW. Australian Muslim women, there to protest against terrorism, pass out white carnations for participants to carry on the march.
Suddenly I hear a loud clanging. Horses' hooves beat fast on the ground, heavy bells on their harnesses offering a counterpoint to their clopping. The riders’ white robes stream out over their horses’ flanks. Their hair is covered with large, loosely wound turbans. The ends of their turbans float out too, parallel to their horses’ flowing tails. For a moment my eyes search for sabres or rusty guns; but these men are not warriors. They carry white flowers: jasmine, gardenia, or maybe white carnations? They stop occasionally and give a flower to one of the strolling men they pass. My spirit soars with happiness as I gaze down into this completely new world.
Thirty-one years and some months later, the Saturday after 9/11, I attended a peace march in Sydney NSW. Australian Muslim women, there to protest against terrorism, pass out white carnations for participants to carry on the march.
Bamiyan
The entrance to the Bamiyan Valley is a narrow gorge between two rock faces. On the other side of this natural fortification the valley widens out. It is very dry; the hillsides alternate red and yellow sandstone. A green snake of vegetation edges the river but the hillsides are always deep yellow and bright red. And scattered across them are deserted forts and cities, exactly the same colour as the cliffs behind them. Ghostly evidence of prior occupation: did men and women once live and fight here? Now they are merging back into the natural world from which they were constructed.
The bus pulls into Bamiyan town. It has one street, parallel to the river. Across the river, also parallel, we see a high yellow cliff. We can make out hundreds of caves dotting the cliff, tiny holes in its surface. Carved out of the rock, completely dominating the long valley we see the two legendary Bamiyan Buddhas.
We four companions agree, without speaking, that we need to spend more than our planned couple of hours turn-around in this place. We rent a room (mud floor, mud walls, a door and shuttered window) in the main street and pool our resources. We have a “space blanket” (German) and a toothbrush (Australian); I offer my (British) water canteen. We lie down on the carpeted floor and huddle under the plastic blanket. In the morning we take turns with the toothbrush.
We four companions agree, without speaking, that we need to spend more than our planned couple of hours turn-around in this place. We rent a room (mud floor, mud walls, a door and shuttered window) in the main street and pool our resources. We have a “space blanket” (German) and a toothbrush (Australian); I offer my (British) water canteen. We lie down on the carpeted floor and huddle under the plastic blanket. In the morning we take turns with the toothbrush.
When the sun is up we climb the cliff and creep inside some of the caves. They are the solitary cells where Buddhist monks sat to meditate centuries earlier. Along the top of the cliff, completely camouflaged from the valley floor is a trench running behind battlements: the ultimate fortification. From it we make our way into the chamber on top of the taller Buddha’s head. Around the curved interior we see beautiful frescos – badly water-damaged – depicting scenes from the Buddha’s life. We look outwards to where the Buddha once gazed and see the Bamiyan Valley stretching away like a map. The river runs across the foreground, a blue ribbon with green edges. Above it is the town street with its row of one-storey houses. Behind that is a patchwork of gardens and small fields. Beyond them is desert, reaching back to sandstone hills. Beyond the hills are clouds. I feel so light I could float off the top of this sacred statue, angel-like, and survey the whole valley. But what value would a new survey be? Nothing has changed in hundreds of years.
We climb down back to the valley floor and I photograph the figures. I weep quietly for the facial features that were removed by Ghenzis Khan, who swept through the valley in 1219CE. That man drove Buddhism from the Middle East for good; as well he killed all the inhabitants of the Bamiyan Valley. For centuries the Buddhas have had no gaze because the Muslim invaders considered these likenesses of the human form an idolatrous desecration of their religion.
Centuries ago all they could manage was to chip the faces from the statues which were so huge they stood 175ftm and 115ft high. Thirty-one years after we were there the Taliban came into the valley and used high explosives to blow the figures entirely out of the cliff face. Modern technology made possible a far worse desecration.
Centuries ago all they could manage was to chip the faces from the statues which were so huge they stood 175ftm and 115ft high. Thirty-one years after we were there the Taliban came into the valley and used high explosives to blow the figures entirely out of the cliff face. Modern technology made possible a far worse desecration.
Band-i-Amir
I am sitting on a pavement constructed of rough flagstones, deep in the mountains of the Hindu Kush. Slowly I unfreeze and open myself a little to the weak spring sun. I see water beneath me: translucent, sparkling and richly deep: the colour of topaz, of turquoise, of lapis lazuli, of all those precious stones I have seen arrayed in the Tehran and Kabul markets. Around it, pinky-brown hillsides sweep down to the water’s edge. One edge is not bounded by hills. It is dammed by centuries of deposited limestone with the water level precisely topping the dam. At the bottom I see a small streams snaking away along the rock-strewn valley floor.
I am sitting on a pavement constructed of rough flagstones, deep in the mountains of the Hindu Kush. Slowly I unfreeze and open myself a little to the weak spring sun. I see water beneath me: translucent, sparkling and richly deep: the colour of topaz, of turquoise, of lapis lazuli, of all those precious stones I have seen arrayed in the Tehran and Kabul markets. Around it, pinky-brown hillsides sweep down to the water’s edge. One edge is not bounded by hills. It is dammed by centuries of deposited limestone with the water level precisely topping the dam. At the bottom I see a small streams snaking away along the rock-strewn valley floor.
The flagstones I sit on form a platform, which supports an obelisk. This obelisk contains the tomb of a Muslim pir, or saint. At the foot of the platform a stone building is under construction; it will be a guesthouse for travellers. Beside it is a one-roomed dwelling with mud walls and brush-thatch. We are staying there: guests of the innkeeper who came to meet us as we walked in over the mountains, and temporary companions for a 20-year old school teacher, who also lodges with him.
Sharing their lives for a few days has been a privilege, a privilege that puts us in touch with the facts of life. We learn that when offered a choice between “bread, yoghurt or eggs” for supper we can’t say “all of them”; if we eat them all, there will be nothing left for the next two meals. We are reminded of the function of thatch. When it snows the innkeeper climbs up on the roof and moves the twigs around until the snow stops coming through. Sent to squat behind a low mud wall, we learn what it is to live without sanitation. We are glad then of the freezing temperature and feel happy that when the smells of summer come we will be far away. I am grateful for the supply of hashish the German guys carry; it helps me ignore the below-zero temperatures and the bedbugs that creep out of the innkeeper’s blankets each night.
I have been a schoolteacher and so I am interested to meet the teacher here. He can speak a little English. He is a middle-class kid from Kabul. He has gained admission to Medical School, but he has to earn the privilege of studying by first serving two years in a country school. So he sleeps in this hovel with the innkeeper and whatever travellers come by, keeping his possessions in a tin trunk and spreading out his blankets on the mud floor.
Sharing their lives for a few days has been a privilege, a privilege that puts us in touch with the facts of life. We learn that when offered a choice between “bread, yoghurt or eggs” for supper we can’t say “all of them”; if we eat them all, there will be nothing left for the next two meals. We are reminded of the function of thatch. When it snows the innkeeper climbs up on the roof and moves the twigs around until the snow stops coming through. Sent to squat behind a low mud wall, we learn what it is to live without sanitation. We are glad then of the freezing temperature and feel happy that when the smells of summer come we will be far away. I am grateful for the supply of hashish the German guys carry; it helps me ignore the below-zero temperatures and the bedbugs that creep out of the innkeeper’s blankets each night.
I have been a schoolteacher and so I am interested to meet the teacher here. He can speak a little English. He is a middle-class kid from Kabul. He has gained admission to Medical School, but he has to earn the privilege of studying by first serving two years in a country school. So he sleeps in this hovel with the innkeeper and whatever travellers come by, keeping his possessions in a tin trunk and spreading out his blankets on the mud floor.
I follow him up onto the platform and glanced up at the hills. Down each hillside small groups walk in the morning light, mainly in single file. As they approach I realise they are groups of children, young boys. When they reach the shrine they take off their shoes and sit cross-legged on the flagstones above the lake. For three or four hours the teacher drills them orally and they write on slates. (They each have a textbook: reading at one end and arithmetic at the other.) Then they start their long walks home. I ask the teacher about their sisters. He says it is government policy for girls to go to school, but that none of the villagers send their daughters.
I look out and notice a row of tiny huts at the bottom of the dam, made from loose stones and twigs. Later in the day the innkeeper needs flour to make the flat brown bread for us. He picks up a sack of wheat grain and I follow him down to a hut. It is a water mill. Inside there is a round grinding stone turned by the current of one of the steams that falls over the edge of the dam. The stone revolves and turns our grain into flour. A cloud of pale flour dust rises to whiten the inside of the hut. The hut becomes a magical palace, the rough walls and crooked thatch whitened by an internal snowstorm. I reflect that this “flourstorm” has been blowing perhaps for almost as long as mankind had known about water wheels.
I look out and notice a row of tiny huts at the bottom of the dam, made from loose stones and twigs. Later in the day the innkeeper needs flour to make the flat brown bread for us. He picks up a sack of wheat grain and I follow him down to a hut. It is a water mill. Inside there is a round grinding stone turned by the current of one of the steams that falls over the edge of the dam. The stone revolves and turns our grain into flour. A cloud of pale flour dust rises to whiten the inside of the hut. The hut becomes a magical palace, the rough walls and crooked thatch whitened by an internal snowstorm. I reflect that this “flourstorm” has been blowing perhaps for almost as long as mankind had known about water wheels.