The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan (19 page)

The logic of Buzkashi involves endless pursuit and battering of horses and riders. While only one toss of the carcass into the central circle is required to win and end the game, scoring is so difficult that some Buzkashi meets can last an entire day or go on for days.

While an entire clan or tribe may play against others, there is less cooperation between kinsmen and more of a fierce rivalry to achieve a single score. The ridding crop is not used so much on the horse as it is to repel other riders.

My Afghan partner, Mike, insisted I witness ‘the real Afghanistan.’ I hope not, I said to myself as I reluctantly watched. Since I usually try to resist violence and the madness of crowds, I was reluctant to attend. But I let myself be talked into attending. My friend and valued business partner insisted. I should have known it would be revolting since this was one meeting Kit did not attend.

“It will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” Mike said. “Let’s make sure of that,” I said to myself. Some of the caravan people went with us to the stadium. We were seated in the European section for our own protection or so we were told. That did not sound good.

What looked even worse were the fierce Mongolian soldiers policing the crowds. I don’t believe one soldier was less than six feet. The giants in Soviet uniform were lent as a ‘friendly’ gesture to the Afghan people.

We had heard plenty of nasty things about Mongolian soldiers. With friends like these, enemies were not needed. Talk about gallows humor; their presence had not a single element of humor. I was petrified just looking at them and tried not to.

Mike showed his official credentials and was allowed to sit with me in the European section. With the exception of our group, the Afghans were roughly treated as they were pushed into the grandstands. The European section demarcation sounded to me like 19th Century British Colonialism.

Buzkashi (mercifully not a clear photo)
*

Mike insisted that the segregation was necessary as the Afghan spectators were mostly related to the players and took an active and violent part in the Buzkashi meet. We could easily become victims of their enthusiasm, he insisted. I soon had reason to share his viewpoint.

A cousin of Mike’s spotted him and pushed toward us. The ‘friends’ of the Afghan people unslung their Kalashnikovs (rifles), and with the flat side violently pushed the cousin into the grandstands. My partner was quite upset and spoke with an officer. The officer angrily raised the palms of his hands, making it clear that my partner must not interfere.

I pulled Mike toward our seats, insisting that he stop arguing and that was the end of it. This demonstration of friendship really angered us. “They acted like we were rioters,” I said. Mike didn’t appear at all upset. Does anything ever upset him? what’s he on?, I wondered.

He replied, “The soldiers know what to expect. These games are a substitute for incessant tribal warfare. The opposing players are often bitter rivals for women or status. But I was assured there will be no violence today since both teams hail from two clans of the same tribe.” So much for assurances, I thought.

“I feel so much better knowing that,” I replied, with a touch of sarcasm. Mike laughed and explained the finer points of Bushkhazi. “The sport of polo is based on Bushkhazi, you know?” I added, “So I understand, but in their squeamish disrespect for tribal tradition, westerners use a ball in place of a carcass.”

Mike laughed, replying, “Lela, that’s your loss. Westerners lack respect for the finer old world traditions. Headless carcasses have replaced human heads, so you see we have made some concessions to modernity.” We were now both laughing as I said, “That’s a great relief, but I suggest that Afghans consider carefully before turning their back on tradition.”

As expected, both players and crowds became unruly. In their excitement, spectators left the stands and cheered their team on the field, along with TV and other media. It wasn’t unusual for players on horseback to pursue the game into the crowds, particularly when the spectators spilled onto the playing field.

Spectators often ran onto the field to grab horses and players, but not in a good way. I was told that it is a tradition for at least one rider to rush the spectators in reprisal.

As if on cue, that is exactly what happened. A horseman almost ran into the European area but was stopped by the fans on the field in front of our stand. The crowd cheered the rider wildly. The soldiers became furious, advancing in a phalanx on those spectators still on the field. Those not moving back to the stands fast enough were brutalized with rifle butts.

An hour later, a horse at full gallop dropped dead on top of the rider. The rider was leaning over to grab the goat carcass as the horse’s heart just gave out. Ambulances raced onto the playing field while the horsemen galloped around them. Again, spectators cheered wildly.

One ambulance crew was trampled as they loaded the injured player. There were as many casualties in the stands as on the fields when an out of control rider plowed into the crowd. After two hours of this mayhem, I had had enough. I told my group about my migraine and caught a cab back to the hotel.

The next morning, Mike explained what I had (thankfully) missed. He told me that before the game was over, at sunset, virtually every rider’s face showed gashes and bruises. Nearly half the players had to be carried off the field by ambulance crews. My friend insisted, for the umpteenth time that Buzkashi was a substantial improvement over the old inter-tribal warfare.

I explained that Native American Plains people have a similar release activity. They call it ‘counting-coup.’ Rivals attack each other as in a war party but use their war clubs merely to touch their enemy. No injury is involved except to one’s pride or status. If a rider touches an enemy without being touched, then he has counted coup and increased his tribal status. This practice is calculated to vent hostility without injury or death.

Mike had some trouble understanding the practice of counting coup so I explained the game of touch football, a favorite stress release for President Kennedy. The similarity to English football made sense to him, and so, I made my point.

Compared to past mishaps, my flight into Kabul in April, 1978, hardly moistened my armpits. As usual, the flight from London was on ‘Scariana’ (Arianna) Airlines, the mom and pop airline of pre-revolutionary Afghanistan.

We didn’t know it at the time, but the revolution was fated to begin just as our plane landed at Kabul airport. As I later discovered, the airport, most of the planes, and the facilities were bombed about fifteen minutes after my taxi left the airport. The MIG’s used by the revolution did a thorough job, and it took over a week to make the airport usable again.

Just as I checked into my friend’s hotel, near the old bazaar, all hell broke loose. We could hear the airport being blown apart. In Kabul, the ground vibrated in muffled blasts toward the direction of the National Palace.

My first reaction was that a film was being made with Dolby sound. It was like the sense-around sound used in theaters when the film “Earthquake” was shown. It didn’t take long to realize that this was not a spectator sport.

From the hotel lobby, we could see smoke rising as near as the building across the boulevard. Soon, continuous crackling sounds and repeated thuds were heard. We knew what was happening. We were about to experience a confrontation with impending destruction.

For us, a real war had become a personal experience. The little band of merchant adventurers was about to age ten years in ten days. The first day of the revolution was hard to take seriously. I was sitting in the lobby writing letters during the first hours of the battle for Kabul.

I was a war correspondent writing on-the-spot bulletins in my aerograms back home. Hopefully, the letters and I would get home safely. The experience of those first few hours of the battle was both frightening and thrilling. To distract myself, I made lists of the items I planned to purchase on this trip.

Somehow, our middle class faith in business-as-usual remained intact, at least for the first few days. That first day was my wake-up-call, as the revolution passed through the hotel neighborhood without serious incident.

As the hotel owner rushed to bar the doors, I helped her. “What flag should we hang from the balcony?” I asked. “Damned if I know,” she replied.

As we ran around baring doors and draping windows, I reflected on the caravan mishaps over the last few years. How could I get so upset over nothing then, and now be so calm in the face of the exploding battle taking place just down the road?

We knew that the fun and games were over when at sundown the lights didn’t go on. Had the MIG’s knocked out the power station, the transmission lines, or had the power been shut down as a precaution? The dozen or so guests and staff spent the night in the basement.

MIG-17
*

The next morning all was quiet except for some MIG’s and helicopters on their dawn patrol. We were cautioned by the block-militia not to bring any photo equipment when we traveled for the remainder of the week. Otherwise, it was safe to travel as long as we had all our papers with us. By midmorning, there were no more flights or fighting, just an eerie silence.

By early evening, the bazaar was open. The militia, with rapid deliberation, encouraged and helped the merchants open their shops and stalls. Shops and stalls remaining closed were forcibly opened by neighboring merchants. Militia women acted as proprietors until the owners returned.

My business partner Mike’s import shop was one of the first to open. His new wife minded the shop while Mike met me for breakfast at the hotel. Mike was now an important party official in the new revolutionary council.

He asked me to accompany him to those shops and stalls that resisted opening. “Lela, it will be much easier to persuade them to open if you tell them you are shopping today. The merchants have great respect for you,” he said. I agreed to accompany him to avoid forced openings. I told Mike, “I’ll help you, but I think they have more respect for my money than for me.”

Smiling as always, Mike told me, “Those foreigners who aid the revolution are considered friends of the Afghan people. Those who do not cooperate will be promptly expelled. Lela, you have proved repeatedly that you are a friend of the Afghan people. Now, more than ever, please continue your progressive actions.” I smiled back at Mike and agreed.

I thought to myself: The success of my business is largely the result of Mike’s contacts. I’m a progressive internationalist and support ‘the people’s revolution’ including this one. I’m a guest and have received the warm embrace of kinship from Mike’s people. Finally I reflected: there was no real choice as the option of refusal would likely put an end to my business.

As Paul said, “A revolution is like a marriage. Once the passion cools, we accept it and make it work, or not. For better or worse, we resist all challenges. If there are problems, and there will always be problems, we strive to resolve and fix the faults. For liberals, divorce is an easy option, but for progressives, the only divorce is from life.”

Pauls’ attitude about revolution was one we shared. I resolved to do whatever it took to aid our comrades.

A few days after the revolution succeeded, Mike took me on a walking tour of Kabul. Little damage was apparent. Virtually all venues, including the airport, were open for business. The revolutionary forces were intent on a quick victory with as little destruction as possible. Apparently they succeeded on both accounts, but for how long? That was the question.

The guardians of the old order fled into Iran, Pakistan and India.

The population seemed well prepared for this revolution. Oil lamps and candles appeared as if on cue. Charcoal heated brass samovars were brought out of storage and brightly polished. By the time this stuff appeared in the bazaar stalls, the electricity was fully restored. By the end of the week, Kabul was back to normal, at least normal for Kabul.

During the first few days of the revolution, we had a great campout in the well protected stone mausoleum of the hotel lobby. Mike and the militia were keen on restoring normalcy and we foreign guests soon learned what was expected of us: it was to return to our various endeavors as soon as possible— normalcy was the order of the day.

It must have been about five in the morning of the third day when we heard a tremendous whooshing sound. It was like a vacuum cleaner in my ears. The relative quiet of the last two days had not prepared us for this new intrusion of our senses.

Following the whooshing, we experienced a nerve-shattering scraping sound, with stone and plaster crashing down all around us. Finally, an earsplitting boom and bursting sound was heard just outside the hotel entrance. Miraculously, other than a few cuts, no one was seriously hurt.

As we learned from Mike, the MIG was on a training flight when flying geese were sucked into the intake jet. The pilots ejected safely as the MIG was on course for a deserted airport landing strip. For some reason the MIG crashed into a deserted warehouse that was slated for demolition. Before demolishing the warehouse, the MIG bounced off the hotel roof.

We were ensconced in the basement for an hour after the noise ended. By the next morning military trucks arrived with cherry-pickers, scaffolding and stone workers. Within a day, they had the roof and stone lattice work restored to its former glory, and that was the last near miss for this trip.

By early evening, the hotel manager provided supper for us. Mike explained to the group that tomorrow there would be a celebration in Kabul to mark the success of the revolution. In less than a week, the revolution, or coup d’état, was over. I was exhausted. The Evening Call to Prayer sounded for the first time in almost a week. It was my call to sweet, thankful sleep.

I must have slept for twelve hours. When I awoke to the first call to Morning Prayer, the sun was just peaking over the horizon. A half hour later, music was blaring from loudspeakers outside the hotel. As I was dressing, I heard a great deal of shouting from the street.

The sounds of celebration, mostly western rock music, could be heard even with the shower running. I dressed and went down to the lobby. The hotel staff was jubilant. They were shouting, “The revolution is won; death to Daoud and his tribe of pigs.”

As in many Middle East nations, one tribe dominates the others. Those who oppose are not tolerated. This was the case in Afghanistan. Political parties were usually along tribal lines. As far as we could see, the whole city was in motion. The entire nation was celebrating, except for Daoud’s tribe. Soldiers, merchants and everyone was milling about, singing, dancing, shouting and hugging each other.

A dozen huge Soviet tanks decked with garlands of flowers were parked all over the main boulevard. Ecstatically happy young people, as many women as men, were putting flowers in all the gun barrels they could find while the soldiers smiled and laughed. They were pelted with so many blooms that they seemed buried in flowers.

One old man in tears of joy climbed with some help onto a tank. With great care, he tried to insert a large flower bouquet onto the cannon muzzle while the crowd cheered. The cannon was lowered as the old man was held high so he could place the bouquet. Once this gesture was completed, everyone applauded him.

This happy state of affairs continued for days during which I did business with the merchants as usual. I dealt with the merchants I knew from previous trips. Mostly, I was reordering items that sold well. Also, I was able to arrange for air shipments via cable orders from the States. My merchant friends were extremely generous in the sales terms they gave me.

I believe Mike, a high government official now, made some arrangements with my merchant friends. They treated me as a beloved friend of Afghanistan. Often I was referred to as the ‘Afghan Queen of Merchants.’

Everyone seemed overjoyed that the Daoud regime was gone. One merchant told me that, “He stole too much from the people, everyone takes a little and that’s how business gets done, but he took the bread from our mouths.” This seemed to be the consensus.

Business was back to normal; actually it was better than normal. We did not expect to see this business climate again. I was delighted and sent a wire to Paul as soon as I could. He was more than worried. Knowing him, he would be anxious to an extreme, and I wanted to relieve his anxiety as rapidly as possible.

By week’s end, the new government opened Daoud’s palace to the people. Previously, no one had been able to get within a half mile of the palace perimeter. Now, for the first time, thousands of people were admitted to the palace. Hundreds of journalists were taken on separate tours by the militia.

I too stood on line talking to merchants, students, and travelers. We were all in a giddy holiday frame of mind. I had caught the victory fever as well as the others.

Daoud’s brief dalliance with the West had cost him his life. Afghanistan was once again aligned with her primary trading partner, the Soviet Union. The Kalq party had won the day.

The impressive, no nonsense Soviet-style uniforms of the soldiers were a welcome sight to leftists such as me. After hours of partying on the palace waiting-line with dozens of friends and merchants, we were finally taken through the palace.

The display of palace opulence had our eyes popping out of our heads. It was like some luxurious Hollywood set except that it was all genuine. Antique oriental rugs were so huge that they seemed like wall-to-wall carpeting. The carpet pile was so thick that we would be forced to remove our shoes, if it had not already been requested. It was like walking on a cloud.

Walls were inlaid with lapis and malachite in the same way we might use wall paper. Gold and silver wall fixtures dazzled the eye. The main entrance chandelier was bigger than my living room, sparkling with gold and crystal pendants.

More incredible than the palace were the reactions of the Afghans. Tribal people, ragged street vendors, soldiers, students, merchants in caftans, women covered from head to toe in chadors, old hajjis in turbans caressing prayer beads, and many Westerners, all had that glazed look of astonishment that comes from a once-in-a-lifetime glimpse of the incredible.