Burqas and Porn

There is a gender issues time bomb awaiting this country. Young men live in a society where contact with women and recognition of their equality is limited but they also have access to and a fondness for hardcore porn. If the history folders of web browsers at internet cafes are anything to go by many have progressed from bollywood fantasies to explicit and graphic depictions of highly sexed women. Indian porn (no I will not give you the link) is as popular as seeing white westerners making the beast with two backs. "Western women like it in the…", Abdullah (not his real name) says pointing at his rear. Once he realised I wasn't a Taliban spy, he showed me a clip on his phone of a horse mounting a rotund blond woman.

The system of restricted interaction between the sexes may have worked functionally to maintain a society (ignoring the analysis that our westen liberal eyes would put on the situation and leaving for another day the surprising prevalance of bachabas, or young boy buggery), but the combination of the idea of pure and distant women and the images of silicone porn stars is going to cause problems. How can the burqa'd madonna and the w.w.whore co-exist?

Men are building up unrealistic images of women which are not tempered by dialogue or interaction. Tradition and the sense that foreigners live by a different set of rules will do a bit to reduce the impact of porn on the young Afghan mind but as we know exposure breeds familiarity to the point where the ideals presented by the media are subconsciously accepted, slick editing or not. Coke anyone? Brown water and sugar.

This is particularly true of an illiterate population which stabs memorised patterns into internet keyboards. The ease with which beliefs can be transmitted when unchallenged by personal discovery and learning facilitates the extremist terrorist's indoctrination of young men. They have no other way of forming ideas about the west, westerners or even their own government. Those porn fans have no conversations with women that could present alternate models to their hardcore indulgences.

One theory about crime is that lifestyles depicted by the media are unachievable by the masses and out of frustration at the dissonance between expectation and reality people are driven to illicit measures to try to secure for themselves what they see on TV.

What happens when there is a discrepancy between the assimilated ideal of female behaviour and the reality? If in economy the gap gives rise to crime and illegality, the same could happen in the sphere of male female relationships. There could be an increase in the use of, and associated abuse and trafficking of, prostitutes; domestic violence already endemic according to the UN could rise further.


(this is a little taste of an article I'm working on.) The internet cafe I am posting this from has extendible privacy dividers.

Commander Re-education

A group of Afghan wartime commanders graduated today(a month ago) from a rehabilitation course having overcome old attitudes to women and foes, as well as developing useful peacetime skills.
To qualify for training, the commanders, some of whom had led thousands of men, had to surrender their weapons. In return, the month long course funded by the Afghanistan New Beginnings Program taught them business management, English and computers.
But perhaps the biggest transition they made was in their attitudes towards women and enemies from the past.
Abdul Khalid was a jihadi general in Balkh province. He joined the holy war leading 8 men as they hid in caves from the Soviet bombardment, but he attracted 1200 men to his side.
"At first I thought it would be impossible for women to teach us, but now I have respect for them," he said, "We didn’t know what gender was, we fought with our sisters, our women but when we go home we will behave in a good way."
Shoughla Aqdas, who taught the 20 commanders English and computer skills said, "At first we were very worried, and excited. People said they still had private weapons so at first we were very scared that they were dark minded.
"But after we taught them in class we felt comfortable. They told us that they were proud of us. We are women but they agree and respect us."
While there is a misperception that Islam encourages the denial of female equality, Abida Lewal, their human rights and gender issues teacher said she used the Koran to instil the old warriors with a sense of women's rights.
"In the first lesson I asked them if they were good Muslims, they all replied that they were," she said. Throughout the month-long course she then showed them passages from the Koran that support gender equality.
Their attitudes towards old enemies have also softened. Haji Fazel Hadi said, "We were fighting each other before. Now we are friends and we will miss each other. "
Supporters of the communist regime, and the mujahideen who fought them shared sleeping quarters and ate at the same table for a month. After the graduation ceremony they exchange laughs, bear hugs, and phone numbers. "I feel I have friends in all 34 provinces." Says Haji Fazel.
In his home province of Laghman, Haji Fazel now plans to set up a business importing cheap Chinese plastic goods. He wants Afghanistan to progress, but is realistic about his priorities. "I want to set up the business for myself, to feed my family, and hopefully help my country."
After more than two decades of war, Afghanistan needs to rebuild, and measures such as these seem like positive steps.
The head teacher hopes the country will allow these men to stay peaceful. "They were driven to fighting by the circumstances. There will be a problem again if the government and economy is not strong enough to provide jobs."

Lessons learned writing from abroad

This is a draft of what I sent the Independent.
Link to the story they actually went with
The lesson, broader stories have scope to reference specifics. Specifics, particularly regularly repeated events, are subsidiary stories or hooks, but not stories in themselves. Also the relevance to the UK/US readership should be the focus. In their article it is the headline.Any other takes on this?


A suicide bomber killed at least 12 people and injured 42 this morning when he blew himself up near the interior ministry in Kabul.
Ministry workers were arriving for work opposite the Kabul Republic hospital just before 8am when the bomber attacked.
A man had aroused suspicions and was confronted by policemen just inside a checkpoint as he approached the Interior Ministry and a crowd of workers.
Before policemen could shoot, the bomber detonated explosives strapped to his body.
"It was a suicide attack. The bomber blew himself up as ministry employees were getting off a bus at the ministry gate," said Kabul's chief of criminal investigations Alishah Paktiawal.
A stream of ambulances took casualties to several hospitals throughout the city which, according to Mr Paktiawal made a definite tally of dead and wounded difficult to make.
After the 8 September bombing which killed two US soldiers and 14 civilians, US military sources announced they were aware of a terrorist cell operating within the city targeting US and international troops.
Residents however believe that there is more than a single cell. They say the terrorists pass through security nets because they can blend in with peaceful Afghans. Checks at access points to the city are arbitrarily policed, and a bribe can secure passage.
Along with a peak in military confrontations, this year has seen an increase in these types of attack. There have already been at least 50 compared to 21 last year.
The attack comes as NATO expands its sphere of operations to the whole of Afghanistan where the US has suggested that Pakistan's peace with tribal leaders has lead to increased attacks in this country.
At a meeting in Slovenia this week, it was agreed that NATO's ISAF force will take control of American troops in the east Afghanistan, unifying the command of all coalition troops within the country.
This step comes as attacks in some areas of eastern Afghanistan have tripled since President Musharraf negotiated a ceasefire two months ago with tribal leaders in North Waziristan. Under terms of the treaty, formally signed on 5 September, Pakistani army presence in the Pashtun areas will be reduced. In exchange the tribal leaders agreed to expel foreign fighters and gave assurances they would stop aggressive incursions across the porous border into Afghanistan.
The treaty designed to end 5 years of attacks on Pakistani army and installations in the area also included the release of thousands of prisoners held for suspected links to terrorist organisations.
Hamid Karzai and Pervez Musharraf met earlier in the week with George Bush. Accusations of blame for the regional instability had been cast back and forth, though while Karzai referred to his Pakistani counterpart as a friend, Musharraf blamed him for not being in control of his country.

Suicide Bomber Sept 30

photos by Jamie Scott-Long
The deep thud of a nearby explosion shook the windows and as the senses scrambled to make sense of the sound, my eyelids flicked open. Ten to 8, wake up. The suicide bomber detonated the bomb he wore 500 meters away. We went into the garden, scanning the skies for helicopters to lead us to the site. Quiet. Last time the resounding boom was followed by dogs barking, sirens, and cars blaring their horns unaware of the traffic's cause.
Chicken street where souvenir and craft shops cater to tourists who don't come was awash with people streaming away from the incident. We walked against the current, shopkeepers still trying to entice us to buy a rug.
International troops were not hit so Afghan policemen were left use their own techniques to control the crowds. When ISAF is involved there are cordons and huge stern men with guns, people obey. Here everyone tries their luck. The officers charge, angrily waving telescoping batons or scraps of metal picked up from the road. Then they turn around and forget about the line for a while. One has a loudspeaker which he uses as a sonic gun to push people back.

A sucide bomber detonated explosives strapped to his body as workers arrived at the Ministry of Interiors to start their day.
Just before 8am as workers were getting of the bus that brought them to the office, a man known to the police charged past a checkpoint towards the crowd. Before the police officers closing in on him could shoot, he blew himself up.
The explosion shattered shop windows and ripped through flesh. The leaves on trees all fell, shredded, to the tarmac in a gruesome early autumn.


The trend of intensifying combat which has seen 2400 people die has been matched by increasing numbers of suicide attacks. Last year there were 21. So far this year there have been more than 50. More than 150 civilians have been killed in these attacks, comprising more than 80% of the casualties.

This week NATO announced that its remit is to expand to include command of the American forces in eastern Afghanistan. They have been facing more attacks since Pakistan agreed to a peace deal with tribal elders. Some say though that the motivator for the pact on the tribal side was Mullah Omar. The agreement was made formal on the 5th of September and stipulated the reduction of Pakistani military presence in return for the cessation of attacks on military personnel and installations. Thousands of prisoners originally held for their links to Al Quaeda, Taliban, and other terrorist groups were released on the proviso that they would be peaceful. Bill Roggio claims that among those released were the killers of Dan Pearl, the Journalist murdered in 2002. Musharaff's attempts to paint this as a deal with tribal elders who would co-operate against Al Quaeda ring hollow as Mullah Omar, the Taliban commander seems to have motivated the agreement and ensured tribal militants signed.

The effect has been a threefold increase in attacks in some eastern regions of Afghanistan.
Musharaf claims the treaty was aimed at increasing stability in the area, though it looks like a concession to the extremists. Effectively it will mean that the tribal border areas are even less policed, permitting the freer movement of weapons and training of fighters.

Following from their meeting with Bush, Karzai and Musharraf have agreed to hold joint meetings with tribal elders.

Pakistan is seen in Afghanistan as the source of instability. Karzai called for the closure of madrassas or religious schools where men and boys are indoctrinated with the extremist beliefs in martyrdom an a hatred for the west. Tom Koenigs told me that there is an unlimited supply of fighters all willing to die.



To Afghanis, Musharraf, a general who seized power through a military coup, has an interest in a destabilised Afghanistan. Should the government here regain strength it could make demands for the return of the land south of the British bureaucrat created Durand line. That land would allow Afghanistan access to the sea and a way of trading Central Asian resources without having to go through Pakistan.

New Faction Story

new story based vaguely on the remains of the devastated darulaman palace seen in the background of the first picture of Golden Kettle and on the mausoleum

Following the orange stream

In the twisting streets of old town Kabul, a child squats by a gutter and a small fountain of urine arcs through the medieval air before joining the steaming bright orange stream. A man, his hair and beard white with the fine dust from the flour sack he carries on his back walks up a plank into the organised chaos of a noodle and fried chickpea factory. Heat from five spark spitting furnaces brings instant beads of sweat to his head where they clot with the dust. He walks, crouched under the weight of his load, past three giant tubs of chickpeas stewing in boiling water the colour of a setting sun lingering on low lying clouds. Hands stained by years of work scoop chickpeas into a big round pan then carry them to one of the furnaces. Oil bubbles in deep vats above the wood fuelled fire. The chickpeas sizzle as they slide off the pan and into the vats.
Sunlight filters into the room through gaps between corrugated iron sheets and spaces forged as warping wooden slats separate. As flour is sifted, small clouds of powder rise and catch sunbeams, making them tangible. Hakim makes fried noodles. He loads his syringe-like press with dough then flicks his hands at the oil. The hiss is not loud enough so he scoops some oil and throws it into the fire, it roars and flares, its tongues flicking the air outside the furnace mouth singing falling flour dust. He dips the end of the syringe into the oil and turns the handle, squeezing dough through a metal plate full of little holes. The oil froths as the thin threads of dough deep fry.
Its Ramadan, so the 30 men and boys working in the intense heat have not had a drink since 4 o'clock this morning. The boys are working their way up to working with fire and scalding oil, for now some pack the peas and noodles into plastic bags and others pack the bags into sacks.
Business is conducted as far away from the furnaces as possible. At the end of the row of sacks full of little bags of chickpeas sits the seller, his worn notebook on a small table. Around him sit men in neat, ironed loose fitting clothing and crisp black headscarves. They walk in and out briskly, the steps along their paths in and out are vacated just ahead of them in series so their entrance and departure is swift.

Kabul zoo

The Kabul zoo is on the way to the bombed out west, before the river dries out and becomes a sludge of vegetable rubbish and holms where men sit on plastic chairs by plastic tables underneath plastic umbrellas selling minutes on a telephone to loved ones. At the entrance by the road, foreigners pay 20 times what locals pay, but the real moment you enter is when you go through the façade of a building that has no back. You scrabble down the rubble and bent metal and en up in front of a black bear enclosure.

The bear takes three loping steps, sniffs the bars, then takes another three loping steps back and sniffs the stone wall. Over. And over. And over. The cage itself, while not adequate, would permit a mindless stroll about ten times as long. This bear's mind has gone. It hides behind comfort routines it picked up long ago. Perhaps three loping steps is how far away mother used to be.

Huddled as far away from the public as possible and breathing at the speed of rabbits, the jakals live in a perpetual state of fear. They dart back and forth, jostling for a space behind eachother, burying their heads in corners so they can pretend that the world is just black. That would be a comfort.

Playful monkeys fare better. They have society to structure their day. Their fur may be falling out, and their muscles atrophied through lack of stimulating activities, but they seem to just be monkeys in a closed space. A male turns around and stands on his groomers back legs while his pneumatic powered penis pounds him/her. Once satisfied he turns his back and allows the groomer to pick mites out of his back.

Young ones take turns chasing and being chased. Murky moat water designed to keep them from climbing out has become a playground. The younger they are the better they are at swimming. Some grapple underwater for ten seconds at a time, emerging with a green wig of stringy pondweed. Their colossal eyebrows fold over with the weight of water.

Vultures with wide wingspans scrabble along the floor. Those with hope left jump on and off of dead tree branches, reliving for the split second they stretch their wings the sensation of flight, the sensation of control over their own movements.

The predecessor to computer games: There is a box with a disc on it. The disc spins as the old man whose hands shake as he counts disintegrating notes turns a crank. On the disc are three toy cars of different sizes. Off the disc are two metal cars, racers. When a boy who has taken another note from his indulgent father pays, the old man takes a metal car and places it on a spot and begins turning the crank. The boy twists a steering wheel on the side of a box trying to keep his car out of the path of the cars coming in faster cycles at him. I imagine there is a magnet underneath the disc and the steering wheel moves it towards the edge or the center.

Friday in Kabul

Headscarves are wound tight around heads with sunglasses nestled on invisible noses. "Al Quaeda" says Shalqullah, but when he pulls down the white cloth that bulges when he speaks, he is smiling underneath, proud to let me have a free ride on his motorbike. During the week hes an intelligence services officer, but on Fridays, he and another 40 motorbike owners come to a park where 8 football pitches, 3 cricket grounds, 10 wickets overlap. Shalqullah rents out his $600 150cc bike for 15 afs a lap of the dusty mesh of playing fields opposite the national stadium. If you know how to ride, you can go on your own, but if he can sense the shakes building inside at the thought of stalling, or crashing, on a dusty plain surrounded by football players and flying balls, hell sit behind you guiding your hands and feet.

Down one side of the park, facing the street where the infant military parades one day a year, there are stands facing away from the pitches. When the final of the national cricket competition begins, the fans sit in the shade of a fruit stall, or on a wall, in the gaps in the fence.

In Taliban days people played football, but in traditional dress. "If you wore knickers the Taliban would beat you, would kick your ass," says Ashmal, laughing. He means shorts. He doesn't laugh when he tells you what the half time show was. "they bring criminals and kill them. I can show you where the holes in the wall are from the bullets. They have a doctor to cut off their arm or hands." He is a regular in a Kabul team supplemented by the under 15's today because some members are in Pakistan, where most of the team learned how to play cricket.

They practice with tennis balls wound in electrical tape. "This ball can last us a year because we can tape it back up. The hard balls are expensive, maybe 4 dollars, so we share them and take turns buying them. The cheaper ones last maybe a day."


Kabul win the toss, and almost instantly a dust eddie a meter wide chases the umpires and captains from the wickets, whipping up rubbish to set it down in the middle of a football game. Spin Ghar will bowl first. They already played this morning to make it to the final, and the Kabul captain wants to keep his team out of the sun and tire the challengers.

Holding his hand up against the sun and squinting to keep the dust out of his bloodshot eyes Zabi points out the boundaries. Chunks of wall broken in bombings form one side, the wall itself is another. One of three goalposts he waves at marks the third and a more obvious goal is the last side of the square.

Well within those limits there are two clusters of people sheltering in the sparse shade of fruit juice stalls. There is the expectation that the crowd will move. "Good shot" he says, with his best English pronunciation, "If it hits them, then its four, unless its in the air." He explains as Abdullah, at 13, the youngest on the pitch sends the crowd scampering. With that he has reached his 50 and the team applaud and shout.

"When the Taliban were here we could not clap, or they would kick your ass!", says Ashmal. Clapping is not enough for him, in appreciation for a task he knows he can not match he picks up a stone and bangs it against a metal upright on the fence. The pitch of the metal poles is not determined by their length, but by the size and number of bullet holes.

Everyone fought over this ground. "Russies, Taliban, Mujihadin, USA, coalition. you know, Mix". War is war, bullet holes are bullet holes. Six is Six.

The thirteen year old Abdullah finishes on a flourish before one of two volunteer umpires calls him out.

Ashmal is bowled out on his first ball. He points at the floor. The surface of most of the playing pitch is irregular and rocky, but for the wicket they have lain down a cement rectangle. It is uneven and the opposition spin bowler has managed to find a place where the ball bounces low.

Halfway through his walk of shame he meets Zabi, they exchange bats and he gives Zabi the team's second crotch box. Ten steps from the wicket, at this exchange they are in the middle of a sparse crowd of bystanders, players in other games, locals taking a shortcut across the pitch, Jamie taking photos. Dodging rented motorbikes in unsteady hands just inside the boundary, Zabi makes it to the wall where the rest of the team sits.

King Amanullah's mausoleum crowns a gentle hill behind the wickets. The dome is in disrepair. Above it a flock of kites rise and fall in the gusts rushing up the hill.

On Apologies

As a child I was often guilty of false apologies. "I'm sorry you got angry"
"Im sorry you are saddened because I set my dog on your pet rabbit"
"I really am sorry youre frail and insignificant ego was dented by the expression of my completely rational and justified point of view."

Is this an apology?

Taliban Reacts to Pope's comments

The Taliban expressed their outrage at the Pope's allegations that Islam is a faith spread by the sword which blesses the arm that swings it. The furious reception to his comments referencing a 14th century emperor is not limited to the extremist opportunists waging war with the coalition in the south, east, and west of Afghanistan. Moderate mullahs of Kabul voiced their displeasure, urging calm, rather than effigy burning mobs seen in India, for fear that civil disturbance could be hijacked by the violent. The Muslim Council of Great Britain, issued soft tones of venom.

A broad swathe of Muslim leaders are angry at the Pope's comments and elements of the Muslim world are agitating further against the west, using his words to paint a picture of a decadent and contaminating belief system bent on conquering Islam.

There should have been big Cologne Cathedral size bells going off as he wrote the passage about Islam. Big bells.

Whether he choose to speed past those bells in the popemobile, or come to a sudden stop, his holy nose squashed against the bullet proof glass, to measure his words more carefully depends on whether he sees free speech as the right to manifest the direct thought to word process that is the simple manifestation of mind, or whether he sees free speech as a framework which can be efficiently used as a tool in the overall process of achieving one's aims.

In the first case he was right, if slightly deaf, to ignore the bells. Freedom of speech is just that. From a childs first gurgle to the wind winding out a dying mans throat, every utterance is protected whether it has been carefully considered or not. The drunken blurt, the angry yell, the faux pas, all deserve protection and God forbid anybody should stand in their way. No Muslim anywhere on the spectrum has the right to expect the Pope to keep his pontificating trap shut. The killing, angry protests and condemnation that meet every unsanctioned depiction of anything Muslim are simple blackmail, the tools of ideologues determined on strict control over perceptions of their beliefs.

Admittedly even in the west curbs freedom of speech. Damaging lies, dangerous truths, and incitements to violence, are all on occasion accepted as reasons for the denial of this right. And, if this addition to the rule on freedom of speech is to be taken into account, perhaps even in this goo-goo gaa-gaa sense the pope was wrong to speak out as he did. He incited violence. This wasn't the "Paki's out" incitement as we've come to expect from the BNP, not the deliberate provocation against a group of people by a member of the aggressing group. Instead it was an unintended provocation by a victim.

On the other hand, had the Pope kept his all seeing eye on the big picture which is, unless he is as sinister as he looks, to promote peace, those bells should have brought his little donkey to a screeching halt on a dusty road.

There is a war on in Afghanistan, the peaceful outcome of which depends on Afghans having faith that the coalition forces are helpers, not invaders or occupiers determined on corrupting and conquering. It is true, thank God, that the Pope's words do not represent the beliefs of everyone in the west, and it may be true that on a careful reading he had laid enough caveats to avoid strictly calling Islam an evil bellicose religion but the fact is that any token is taken as representative when the message fits.

If you are angering even the educated conciliatory European moderates, you have provided a training regime of must-read literature to the indoctrinators.

It is a difficult balance. If Islam is to be given the same place as other faiths or beliefs, it should put itself up to the same scrutiny that other faiths do.

The text of the original comments which were made as part of a theological discussion of how reason accords with faith. The angering quotation is "Show me just what Mohammed brought that was new, and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached". Even in context he is attributing violence to Islam as he suggests that while to Christians it is unreasonable to convert by the sword, Islam does not require reason or rationality. " God is absolutely transcendent. His will is not bound up with any of our categories, even that of rationality."



The question of just how wrapped up with violence Islam is, I leave for another, better educated day.

Afghanistan needs more troops

The refusal by NATO countries to commit further troops to Afghanistan is a failure both to accept responsibility and take advantage of a situation. It is essentially cutting and running from a salvageable situation. The troops already here are left stranded, unsure of their nation's position with regards to the country and with regards to them. To Afghanistan it is a shrug of indifference.

How else can the refusal be seen but a failure to make a decision? If there is no intention of staying, no intention of helping a hopeful and willing people build a country that is not the playground for extremists, then why leave any troops here at all? If there is any intention of stabilising the country by providing the security upon which development can take place, it is clear that more troops are needed.

Attacks gain intensity every day, covering more and more ground. Murderous intent is spreading beyond the southern provinces. Two days ago the governor of Paktia was killed in a suicide bomb, and when his funeral was targeted four people died. Three days earlier, a car bomber shocked the usually peacefull Kabul when he attacked a Humvee 200 feet from the American Embassy in Kabul.

These are successes for the fighters who would return Afghanistan to a land of religious intolerance, oppression of women, suppression of education, and terrorist recruitment and training. That is not what Afghans deserve. Most Afghans are happy for the coalition presence and considering the history of invaders and the strength with which they have been opposed, that fact alone is a sign of the possibilities that exist here.

It is precisely this sort of inaction that allowed the Taliban and insurgents to regroup and flourish.

The insecurity in the south has repercussions far beyond the thousands of deaths, innocent, coalition, or insurgent. Lack of access to healthcare has seen Polio cases rise six fold over the past year in the south.

As local, ethnic, and tribal militias see the stability of the country disintegrate they are more likely to stake out their own land and territorial battles will once again scar the land.

In a country of 25 million, there are around 10 million AKs. In weapons collection programs, obsolete ammunition and clumsy weapons have been collected in abundance. Few AKs or their ammunition sits in disarmament depots. These guns have for the most part gone cold, but they are still loaded. Every hint of instability brings another rifle out of the home and onto the street. In a war, it's primarily every man for himself.

That same mentality is affecting business and development. Instead of having faith that economic progress will benefit people, those in charge of administering finances are more willing to keep money in their own pockets. This is admittedly also fuelled by an attitude cemented over two decades. The fact that the same thinking is engaged in these supposedly peaceful times says a lot.

There will be effects which we feel at home. The poppy harvest this year will see Afghanistan produce more than 90% of the world's heroin. The UN estimates that figures for overdose deaths will rise along with the supply. NATO troops, unable to provide protection from drug lords and stability for farmers to develop alternate livelihoods, have decided not to focus on the poppy problem and yet it is at the centre of the instability.

In a world where instability is a source of conflict, and ideology a way of organising and categorizing fighters, access to resources is what conflict is over. The resources here are the vast revenues to be gained from the heroin trade. Stability would diminish that income for a world wide network of traffickers, some of whom are Afghan officials.


Instability is also increasing the dependency not only on the projects of foreign organisations, but on their very presence. Many of the educated Afghans, or at least the English speaking ones, are employed by UN agencies, NGOs and contractors. The economy remains stunted through fear of investment in an unsafe region, as corruption prompted by short-term mentality of war flourishes. Infrastructure projects are put on hold because contractor safety can't be guaranteed and because factions fighting for power block the development plans. As long as the instability that is at the root of these continues, there will be no outlet for Afghans employed by foreign services. As aid money gradually dwindles out, these Afghans, among whom the best will towards the west exists, will be joining the queues outside embassies, clamouring to escape.



Afghanistan is the opportunity that these leaders have to prove that they believe in their values beyond the narrow constraints of the systems that gave them power. At stake is the success of democracy, of tolerance, and freedom. If there is any belief that these are goods that apply outside Europe, the hope must not be allowed to fade.

Panjshir's weapons of reconstruction

In the south the war continues. In the north factional fighting carries on. In Panjshir the transition is being made from war to peace. The valley has an abundant supply of water and lush vegetation, and a proud history of repelling invaders. Ahmed Shah Masood led this province against the Soviets, and then again prevented the Taliban from taking hold in the 1990s.




His tanks once stopped the advancing russians so they had to resort to aerial bombardment. Now their tracks provide stability to stone walls.





The ammunition, once designed to destroy, is here used as a construction tool.






Panjshir was not welcoming to invading troops. Now the tank tracks and cogs are a doorstep to a Panjshiri house.

September 8 Suicide Car Bomber

all photos by Jamie Scott-Long

There is a man in a red shirt that reads "the world is going to hell. I'm driving the bus". He is standing just inside the cordon that separates the public from the debris of a suicide car bomb attack on an American Humvee. Its turret was blasted across the central divide, over the oncoming traffic lane, and into a ditch on the other side of the road.

The twisted remains of the armoured vehicle are being loaded onto a truck to be taken away and analysed. There is a crater six feet across where the suicide bomber's last thought of hatred triggered an explosion that would take his own life and with it those of 2 soldiers and at least 5 civilians.



It was the day of rest in Kabul. People were out walking around, standing at a fresh fruit juice stall just meters from the hole in the road. Waris tells me he bought cigarettes from a man who stood where now there is a rusted red puddle where the blood of civilians, soldiers and the bomber mix slowly in the heat with fresh fruit juice and water used to put out the fires.

Many of those injured were municipal workers cleaning the area around the Ahmed Shah Masood roundabout. A metal rubbish bin, one of many that have been littered around Kabul in the hope of creating a culture of orderly rubbish disposal, is bent in half.



Death does not make the factional discriminations made in life. At one end of the cordoned area muslim caps lie side by side with floppy camouflage hats. In the burnt trees hang a grey Army t shirt, and shreds of Sharwal Chamise.




Once the security forces and investigation teams have left, the remains of lives struggling to establish normality while cramped in a hot heavy vehicle are strewn across the road. A copy of Sports Illustrated is folded in half. Perhaps it once fit in a pocket. The celebrity gossip magazine STAR is partly charred. One headline : "Why Tom won't marry Katie". Another: "Nicole Dying to be thin". That is such old gossip.



Little plastic tubs of Apple sauce with cinnamon still have their seal-fresh foil tops on them. The little worms from a cup o noodle are shattered into tiny, dismembered curls. The top of a Pringles tube is burnt and its crushed contents are spilling out. Nearby, chemical orange cheese seeps like molten plastic out of dip tubs. The soldiers were eating starbursts. And 5 flavours of lifesavers.

Then there are signs that they are not at home. A charred packet the size of a Kleenex box is a sealed meal package. It is number 19: beef with roast vegetables.

Afghan Army scavengers collect coloured pencils. I left my pen in the car that brought me here. By my foot There is a pack of pens fused to each other. I pick them up and separate one. I take notes with a pen that belongs to a dead man. I write from notes written with the pen of a dead man. You are reading words which first spilled from a dead mans pen.








The worst bit is how quickly I adapt. When I first overhear mention of the incident I am scared to think it happened in the city I am in, at a place I was trying to get to for the time the bomb went off. By the time we get there, despite watching every car around us, I am ready for the next dose. I pause a second at the first checkpoint then pull out my ID and talk to a French soldier, he waves us past. At the next police line I see the debris and hang back from the line looking away, playing aloof. Then I am testing the boundaries, seeing if I can inch closer without the private security team noticing. When the line comes down as the soldiers move out, I march down the road towards the wreckage. I look around, at times look away. I talk to people and notice my pen is missing. I see a soldier picking up coloured pencils. How can he. Then I regret that they aren't sharpened. Then I see the pens. I take one and write. Then I use the pen to turn burnt uniforms over, looking for name tags. They are all velcroed on so have been removed.



Then we go to the hospital to see the wounded.

Reconstruction

Amid all the destruction, things are beginning to be rebuilt. link to story

Golden Kettle Photostory

Photos by Gustavo Montes de Oca

In West Kabul there is a street that rival factions faught over, taking turns occupying or bombing. A majestic palace stands on a hill looking down the long street, once perhaps a grand march or promenade. Now the palace looks like the shell whose snail died a long time ago. Decorative plasterwork has been remodelled by bullets. Round windows have turned into gaping holes by rocket attacks. Its sweeping approach road curling up the gentle hill has deep bomb craters. There are sandbags in some of the french windows. Columns start at the floor but come to a jagged end short of the ceiling. Once a place to welcome and house important people (more research to come), there is a forbidding ring of razor wire around it. Signs in four languages warn visitors not to take photos. They fear it could be used once again as a staging post for attacks; this time against the Canadian and American army bases in the plains below.

Within sight of the palace there is the wreck of a government building. Inside that wreck live destitute families. We talked to one whose previous accomodation was a tent in Kabul Stadium, but with the return of sporting competitions, they were left homeless again. They have endured two bitter winters in the shell of a building. There are no doors and no windows. Walls and roofs have been blasted apart. This is scarcely shelter.

The family of 15 live in what used to be the kitchens for the civil servant canteen. They have a dog, a rug, a quilt, two mattresses and a pillow, a television powered by a car battery, cutlery, a gas ring, a pot, and a golden kettle.




They have so little, but when we walk in, they offer us tea. Najibullah is sent to fetch water from the pump. To get there he has to clamber through a rocket hole in the wall and over barbed wire. He has to clamber over rubble and to the neighbouring ruins of a block of flats where at least 250 other people live and share the pump. There he has to fend off the other children fighting for the water, pleading with them that he needs tea for guests.

He makes the journey back while his father scavenges sugar from another family in the complex. The baby the father carries is naked, has a distended belly, and a cluster of flies around an open wound on its arm. It stops crying when both its arms are firmly around his 22 year old fathers neck, or it is cramming sugar sweets into its mouth. His mother knows its bad for his teeth, but it keeps him quiet.




Najibullah fires up the gas ring and stands guard over it while his father entertains Jamie, welcoming him onto the riased concrete platform where the red quilt is offered as a seat. The setting sun streams through the damaged walls.

Najibullah pours a little boiling water into the glass mugs to clean them. His father comes to collect the kettle and the black tea leaves. The younger generation has done its bit for hospitality, now the head of the household takes over.


Father asks if we want sugar, it is a luxury he doesn't own.As soon as any glass approaches its last sips, he tops it up, then pats the naked childs tiny bum because as his fathers attention shifted, hed begun to cry.

They have nothing, and they made us tea. In a gold teapot.

I am crying.

Speen Ghar Hotel

In Jalalabad we stayed at the hotel where Osama met journalists. These are my not so factual impressions.

Photo : Beekeepers Bike

Pimp my Bike
This here is a bicycle. All the bicycles here are the same chinese model.This one belongs to one of 90 returnees being trained in beekeeping as a source of income. It is much needed.
Bike Geeks note the brake levers connect to solid bars rather than wires, it all runs on levers and pivots. Tree Geeks note it is leaning on an orange tree. Camera geeks note Jamie's Canon 20 D in the background.

Photo: Rickshaw

Pimp my Rickshaw
We could of course afford an amoured convoy of humvees like the ones we saw on the Kabul-Jalalabad road, but this keeps things a bit more undercover. This night there was a kidnapping in the city so after finishing with the refugees, we counted ants at the hotel.

Photo: Refugee Trucks

Pimp my truck
These trucks are stopping at an encashment center aka. A UNHCR help point where refugees are given medical care, mine awareness lessons! (welcome home- watch your step), necessaries, and cash for transport and set up costs. Jamie and I rode on top of the cabin.

Drips and Drabs from the last few days

We visited a school for the blind and disabled. Click this

We rode on the roof of a truck returning 27 refugees to a land some of them had never seen but still claimed as their own. They left Pakistan because there were no jobs, and they had no land. They thought that they would find better conditions in Afghanistan. Their optimism was heartbreaking as the day before we had seen the situation they could hope for at best.

We had driven in a UNHCR convoy to a township near Jalalabad. A township is a number of houses built by the returnees on land the government gives them. Here refugees had what they all clamour for: A piece of the country they haven't seen in 25 years. This plot of land was sandwiched between a dried river bed and a minefield. The nearest village, and school, refuses to have a connecting road built. There are few jobs if any. There is a culture of asking the relief agencies for more, but surprisingly little desire to help each other or help themselves. An ex-teacher moans about the lack of a school. I suggest he teach. He laughs.

Despite these difficulties, I was surprised by how developed the site was. I had expected ramshackle huts and tents; but here, using local techniques and the few things their land has a bounty of, stone and dirt, the families had within a year, constructed their 2 bedroom houses and many had erected walls demarcating their plots. The more senior residents had even added refinements to the design like guttering and decorative patterns.

The border with Pakistan is a bustle of migrant hustle and police hassle. And dust. And flies. And deep red glasses of pomegranate juice. Women in blue burkas march out, women in blue burkas stride in. Children in Guantanamo-orange sharwal camises flood back from Pakistan. Their closest school is on the other side of the border. As they flow past they run their hands across the bars of the fence, their fingers easing off layers of dust and the black fence beneath is revealed.

16 wheeler trucks carrying mundane containers are elaborately decorated. Each Panel along the side is framed with flowers and bright coloured paintings of idyllic homes by rivers. Inside each frame fit three florid letters. MER.CED.ESB.ENZ.GER.MAN.YSU.PER.DEL.UXE.MDL.2004

We are waiting for a truck of refugees to come by so we can ride with them. We sit in an office dodging flies and nodding in agreement to the incoherent Pashto declarations of an Ex- Afghan Army soldier. He did the compulsory three years and got out. Or maybe, they let him go. His iris doesn't touch the sides of his eyes and his hands are possessed.

Our translator waits until he's comfortable with us to express his discomfort at certain traditions. He looks embarrassed when he admits his wife wears a burka. When I ask if he talks about it with her he is restored and says he does. Apparently. Its pretty hot underneath a head to toe sheet.

Drivers: You take your life in your own hands when you cross the road. You put your life in the driver's when you get in a car. You need an expression like Inshallah (if god wills) to keep you at ease.

Akmal, our driver, has a Pakistani made car, so the steering wheel is on the wrong side. To see if it is safe to overtake he has to swing the car fully into the oncoming lane. Eventually I scavenge enough Dari from the dictionary to devise a message relaying system. Apparently. Shouting woooah, is not a universal sign of danger get back in your lane. Now.

Bats

I am instantly asleep.

I wake up according to the alarm of my mangled internal ticker at one o'clock. Against the background humming of the generators of the nearby embassies, I hear the occasional high pitched pulses of bats hunting nocturnal insects. A few swoop past the window. I laugh at the thought that unlike birds which occasionally crash into windows, bats have no such concern.

Earlier we saw a bird pluck a grape from the vine and run off like a naughty child to a tree. The grape proved too much for him to swallow while balancing on the branch, so he hopped down to the floor to enjoy his spoils.

Bats. (this link goes to a post in my frivolous writing blog)

Kabul at last

Gus, wake up, look.

The plane descends and once my eyes make it past the rippling folds in the white clothes of the afghani by the window, I can see surprising greenery. I really want to see more but my eyelids have a will of their own, and so I see a time lapse snapshot of the land we're flying into. Blink. The greenery gives way to brown mountains with sharp edges. Blink. The mountain slopes are furry with mud houses. Blink. There are fighter jets and helicpters bearing the marks of the UN and the army. They all have canvas sheets over their windows to protect them from dust storms. Blink. Goodbye sir, thanks for flying Ariana.

We step out onto the stairs and the heat is immediate. I pause a moment and look around. Despite having transformed from smart to dishevelled over the course of countless waiting lounges and hours of travel, I feel iconic as I squint in the morning sun.

The city is swimming in a haze of dust, there's not enough industry yet for it to be pollution.

Like D.F. Kabul is a high altitude capital cupped by surrounding mountains. Like D.F, as the city expands, the mountains become populated. Kabul was designed to house 1.5 million, now there are 4 million inhabitants.

We climb a hill near the British embassy called Wazir-Akbar Khan. Here the rich are expanding into the hillside. The Tajikistan embassy has a solid wall built already though inside there is only a foundation and upright steel rods. A house with wraparound balconies and flower topped columns is a local military commander’s. A few houses built and designed like palaces in cramped spaces announce in English that they are for rent. The already rich are making a fortune renting out their houses to foreigners. A government worker gets $5o dollars a month. These houses go for $6,000.

At the top of the hill a child has clambered up a thirty foot billboard advertising nothing but rust. Behind him, at the highest point is a concrete diving platform a triple flip off which would lead to paralysis if not death. The pool was built by the Soviets, but there was only ever water in it for a few days. It has stood empty since the mujahadeen repelled the invaders in 1989.

Transient Vista

A series of neverending moments. Permanent nows stretching endlessly without thought of future, without knowledge of past.

Waking up on the floor after blinking , I scramble to find my phone to read the time. It's still on a meaningless setting form somewhere that must have occurred before but I can't picture. Probably another departure lounge. Whatever the clock says it's context free and doesn't help me place time. Fall asleep again, fearful of snoring, unsure what the etiquette is.

Go to the bathroom. In the first room through the door there is a series of stools facing a wall with a tap per stool. Small square swimming pool tiles in grey line the wall and creep along the floor to the stools. I've not seen a urinal like this before.

I'm still staring at the closest low stool, wondering how best to employ it in my quest for relief. A thought begins to make itself heard through the din of echoing airport safety announcements and departure times. "Take your shoes off when going into mosques."

Shoes, feet, smelly. Tap, water, clean. Do not piss here.

Wake up again, this time there's carpet under me and chart pop is playing. Theres chart pop playing everywhere, there is chart pop playing now, everywhere is now. Everywhere is now. Home, Victoria station, train, Gatwick shops, Etihad airlines, etihad bus to dubai, taxi from dubai to airport, taxi from dubai terminal one to terminal two, terminal two I can't distinguish if theres music playing into or out of my ears. Carpet floor where I am now singing along, trying not to snore.

Everywhere is now, I am now, I am everywhere. I am everywhere I have been and am going to be.

Following that flawed logic: I am pop music. You have every right to hate me.

"excuse me" What. No. I wasn't asleep. My leg spasms and kicks over a chair. Look how alert I am I pick the chair up and jump to my feet. I was just listening to the contents of my rucksack to make sure they were still inanimate, I thought id heard them speaking to each other. Yeah. Wide awake, me.

5 am. Leaving at 6

I know that in fifteen minutes an alarm clock will sound downstairs. I won't hear it, nonetheless its flesh repercussions will come up the stairs, mindful at first of their steps on slowly warping wood but gradually forgetting the care until they clatter into my room. Or at least, if the sonic disturbances had chosen me as their medium, that’s how I'd proceed to wake the traveller and his house.

I am the traveller, waiting to be woken, having been unable to sleep. Any barren patch of paper has been irrigated with ink, its furrows sprouting the words for disconnected items which combined make the harvest of everything I'm taking.

Its not my usual style but I've got lists within lists.

I know not only what I'm taking, but also where it is. Pens: outside pocket. Thermal underwear : main compartment but inside a white plastic bag. Water purification tablets : wrapped around their instructions for use in the mesh section of the toiletries bag in the on flight luggage.

I've also discovered what I don’t have. 5 pairs of underwear folded and ready : zip up pocket on the side of the rucksack which I delivered to Oscar 12 hours ago.