The Sewing Circles of Herat: My Afghan Years. Christina Lamb
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in Marks & Sparks, and the biggest challenge finding a way home after missing the last train back from a concert at the Rainbow Theatre. Even at university, the only issues we could find to protest about were rent increases and the investments of Barclays Bank in South Africa’s apartheid regime. I had read Hemingway, got drunk and melancholic on daiquiris, and longed for a Spanish Civil War of my own.
But for me Afghanistan was more than that. It was about being among a people who had nothing but gave everything. It was a land where people learnt to smell the first snows or the mountain bear on the wind and for whom an hour spent staring at a beautiful flower was an hour gained rather than wasted. A land where elders rather than libraries were the true source of knowledge, and the family and the tribe meant far more than the sum of individuals.
When I returned to Thatcherite London where the streets were full of people rushing, their faces seeming to glitter with greed, Afghanistan felt like a guilty secret, my Afghan affair.
At a dinner party in north London, I listened to friends bragging about buying Porsches with their bonuses and sending out from their offices for pizzas and clean shirts because they were clinching a deal and could not leave their desks. I wanted to tell them of a place where every family had lost a son or a husband or had a leg blown off, almost every child seen someone die in a rocket attack and where a small boy had told me his dream was to have a brightly coloured ball. But, when I began to talk about Afghanistan, I watched eyes glaze and felt as if I was trying to have a conversation about a movie no one else had seen.
Over the next few years, I moved to South America then North, to South Africa then southern Europe, and found new stories, friends and places. Yet like an unfinished love affair, Afghanistan was always there. Every so often I got a call from people from those days and, to my shame, would see the message and not reply. Occasionally I saw a deep enamel blue that reminded me of the tiled mosque in Mazar-i-Sharif, ate an exquisite grape that reminded me of Kandahar where locals boasted they grew the sweetest in the world, or smelled a pine tree that brought back the horse-drawn tongas jingling along the avenues of Herat. My travels took me to remote parts of Africa and, lying under a star-sprinkled sky in northern Zambia, I suddenly remembered years before sleeping in the Safed Koh, the White Mountains near Jalalabad, silenced by the immensity of the heavens and a commander telling me that every star is a dead mujahid.
I returned to Pakistan whenever there was a change in government or military coup, which was often. The refugee camps into which a quarter of Afghanistan’s population had poured were bigger than ever and people talked of a sinister new group called the Taliban led by a mysterious one-eyed man.
My Afghan friends were still there, life passing them by. The dashing young guerrillas had turned into balding middle-aged men with potbellies and glasses, left adrift by the West’s abandonment of their cause. Increasingly contemptuous of Pakistan where they had to live but which they blamed for all Afghanistan’s woes, one old friend called Hamid Gilani told me with glee that an Italian restaurant called Luna Caprese had opened in Islamabad and suggested we dine there. When I arrived, there was an open can of Coca-Cola at my place. ‘It’s special Coke to drink a toast to the old days,’ he laughed. Lifting it to drink, I realised he had filled it with illicit red wine.
Behind Hamid’s glasses I could see crescents of tears rimming his eyes. ‘Seeing you cleans my heart’, he said. ‘You have a husband, a baby, a job and a home and I salute you. I am a man who has given his youth to the struggle for a place that no longer exists.’
Suddenly on September 11th all that changed as half a world away two planes smashed into the World Trade Center and another into the Pentagon. Danger had come out of a clear blue sky and nothing would be the same again. Watching the horribly compelling scene over and over on my television, holding my two-year-old son Lourenço who kept shouting ‘Mummy, plane crashing’, I listened to the pundits pontificate on who might be responsible. That the planes had been hijacked by suicide bombers immediately pointed to the Middle East. Saddam Hussein, Washington’s arch-enemy, was top of the list of suspects. But there was another name. That of Saudi-born terrorist Osama bin Laden. Not only had he repeatedly vowed war on the West, but, said one expert, he had even sent a message from his lair in Afghanistan to an Arab newspaper a few weeks earlier saying that he was planning a spectacular attack.
Afghanistan. It was as if a ghost had walked across my grave. As the map came up on the screen to show viewers the whereabouts of this forgotten country squashed between Iran, Pakistan, the – stans of central Asia and one thin arm just touching China, I instinctively clutched at my neck for the silver charm I used to wear on a chain. The charm was a map of a far-away country with the words Allah-o-Akbar, God is Great, etched across it in lapis lazuli, and it had been given to me years before by a tubby commander with a short beard and twinkling eyes called Abdul Haq with whom I once used to eat pink ice-cream.
Twelve years had passed since I had last breathed the air of Afghanistan. In that time large parts of its capital had been turned to rubble in fighting, tens of thousands more people killed, the regime of the one-eyed mullah had locked away its women, hanged people from lampposts, smashed televisions with tanks and silenced its music, and for the last few years even the rains had stopped. Would I still find the cobalt blue of the mosque in Mazar-i-Sharif where the white doves flew, the smell of pines on the hot Wind of One Hundred and Twenty Days in Herat, the same burst of sweetness on the tongue from the grapes of Kandahar?
On my desk next to my computer, the holiday faces of my husband and son smiled out trustingly from a snapshot in a yellow frame and in my drawer were thick files of invoices for mortgage and utility bills, nursery fees and guarantees for all manner of electrical appliances. Did I really want to return to that unforgiving land of rocks and mountains stained by the blood of so much killing, or a place inside me when I was young and fearless with all my life and dreams ahead of me? And if I did rediscover that person would I destroy everything I had? The dreamcatcher seemed to know.
‘The evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones.’
SHAKESPEARE, Julius Caesar
THE INSTRUCTIONS FROM the commanding officer were clear.
‘You must become so notorious for bad things that when you come into an area people will tremble in their sandals. Anyone can do beatings and starve people of food and water. I want your unit to find new ways of torture so terrible that the screams will frighten even crows from their nests, and if the person survives he will never again have a night’s sleep.’
I listened in horror. We were sitting at a table in the orchard of the Serena Hotel in Quetta in early October and the evenings were just starting to turn cold. There was a homely scent of apples from the trees all around and the sound of water trickling through narrow pebble-filled canals crisscrossing the orchard. Up above, the Milky Way cut a dusty path through a sky sprinkled with stars. I remembered long ago, on a chilly mountaintop in Paktia, a mujahid telling me that this was the trail left by the Prophet’s winged horse Buraq as he galloped towards the heavens.
Sitting at the table with me were Jamil Karzai, the young nephew of an old friend Hamid Karzai, who handed me a letter that I did not open till later, and three people Jamil had brought to talk to me. All three had been members of the Taliban but it was one in particular who was holding my attention.
His name was Mullah Khalil Ahmed Hassani and he was a small thin man who seemed anxious to be liked, with the pinched face and restless hands of one whose darkness hours are constantly haunted. His eyebrows were unusually highly arched under a gold-embroidered Kandahari skullcap that perched rather than fitted on his head, and as he spoke shadows played in the dark recesses of his face. He looked like a torture victim. Instead, as a member of the Taliban’s feared secret police, for the previous three and a half years he had been one of the perpetrators charged with carrying out the commanding officer’s instructions.
Aged thirty and married with a wife and a one-year-old baby