Last night, president Obama announced that Osama Bin Laden the leader of global terrorist network of Al Qaeda responsible for many atrocities against people all over the world and responsible for the September 11 attacks on the U.S. was killed by U.S. anti-terror operatives in Pakistan.
The helicopters that took the U.S. team to Bin Laden’s compound near Pakistani capital of Islamabad took reportedly off from bases inside Afghanistan.
Osama Bin Laden came in early 80s at the heights of Cold War to the Pakistani city of Peshawer, to wage Jihad against the Soviet occupied Afghanistan. He financed, trained and lead bands of Arab and other international Islamists who wanted to channel their destructive energy against the “infidel” Soviet backed Afghan government, and so against the people of Afghanistan. He set up bases inside the country and high jacked with help of Afghan warlords the cause of anti-Soviet struggle into destruction of a Islamic country and an Islamic nation of Afghanistan. He provided the necessary funds, among others, to the most extreme groups among Afghan Mujaheddin, and later joined the Taliban. It was Osama Bin Laden who bestowed upon Mulla Omar, the title “Amir ul Momenin” (commander of Faithful), a title once used by the original Islamic Khalifs. Throughout this time, his actions and operations were controlled, observed and coordinated by the Pakistani military intelligence ISI. He was closely associated with the Taliban leadership, including the Haqqani network. ISI helped coordinate the use of Al Qaeda’s specially trained units in the ranks of Taliban to subjugate the majority of Afghan people to the harsh and barbaric rule of the medieval Taliban ideology. Bin Laden provided the needed ideological guidance and the funds necessary to finance the Taliban campaign. In return, he enjoyed absolute freedom of movement and action, and was so able to build his deadly terror network of networks and plan his attacks, including the September 11 attacks.
Beside American people, no other nation has suffered more at the hands of Al Qaeda and its leader Bin Laden than the people of Afghanistan yet there are in U.S. media no commentaries from Afghan officials of the allied Karzai government, no interviews with Afghans regarding the death of Bin Laden, or any reporting form Afghanistan in this regard.
However, the U.S. news channels are dominated by the Pakistani officials, diplomats, journalists and experts who comment in such a way on the operation as if Bin Laden was not found and killed only few miles away from Pakistan’s capital but that it were the Pakistanis working with U.S. who helped find and kill him. His million dollar house was built reportedly in 2005, during the ongoing Operation Enduring Freedom in neighboring Afghanistan. He was not hiding in the “lawless” tribal belt on the Pakistani side of the “Durrand” lane separating Afghanistan from Pakistan but was openly “hiding” in a mansion with multiple security barriers around it, not too far from a Pakistani military academy.
As is the case with Taliban and Haqqani networks, ISI and the Pakistani military decided that Osama Bin Laden could be useful for their national and regional interests. They played long with the fire of supporting and tolerating extremist groups in the hope of using them as proxies against Pashtun and Baluch autonomy movements in Pakistan and against their historic nemeses India and Afghanistan. They lost in process their total control over the monster they helped create. ISI did a good job of selling its agenda as inline with the American strategy in the region.
It’s true that many people in Pakistan have been victims of Islamists. That doesn’t change the fact though, however, that Bin Laden lived in suburbs of the Pakistani capital, among many retired Pakistani high ranking army officers, and well protected in a million-dollar mansion built in 2005.
Most Afghans share with American people the joy of Bin Laden’s death. His death is good news for the Afghan people who suffered so much at hands of his deadly organization and through his stone-age allies, Taliban, for so many years, and continue to suffer the burden of the Al Qaeda, Taliban, Haqqani and Hekmatyar terrorist attacks. All of these enemies of humanity, after their deadly attacks against Afghan people and U.S. and coalition forces on Afghan soil, return to the safety and impunity of their sanctuaries inside Pakistan, and as we know now, some of them not in the “lawless” tribal areas of Pakistan but very close to the Pakistani center of power.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Monday, July 27, 2009
Pashtoon Cultural Nationalist Movement
A good friend, Nushin jan Arbabzadah, asked me the following questions:
“….where do you see the place of the Taliban within the Pashtoun culture? People often equate the two but my impression is that the Taliban is in fact opposed to traditional Pashtoun cultural and religious values. And one more question, how come there never has been a real, strong Pashtoun cultural nationalist movement? Over the last three decades, the Pashtouns' leadership, from Taraki to Mullah Omar, have joined supra-nationalist movements. I am just curious why. Sorry for bombarding you with questions but I know that you know a lot about these things so it would be great if you could share your views with us….”
Bellow is my response. All your comments and suggestions are welcome.
Pashtoon Cultural Nationalist Movement (PCNM)
PCNM issue has been always political, and hence difficult to become strong in both homelands of the Pashtoons, Afghanistan and in what is now Pakistan, but for different reasons.
A Pashtoon cultural nationalistic movement (PCNM) is needed and possible in future of the country, but we'll be very lucky if we see it in our life time.
This PCNM, however, has to be based on a new and just relationship between all the ethnicities of Afghanistan, and on a new and inclusive national vision in which all Afghans with their different cultural and linguistic values can share . Pashtoons have to recognize past injustices done in their names. They have to accept and acknowledge that many non-Pashtoons have the right of telling their side of our story, and that not every search for a non-Pashtoon Afghan identity is against Pashtoons. Of course, the same goes for the non-Pashtoons. They might have now even a bigger responsibility: not responding to past real and perceived injustice with injustice, to help their countrymen now suffering the most back on their feet, to help their "older" Pashtoon - at times unfair, but nonetheless - brothers and sisters in times of their greatest suffering.
In the moment, any attempt at PCNM will be seen by the local Pashtoons as irrelevant, and by the non-Pashtoons as just another attempt at Pashtoon dominance.
I hope I could provide some reasons for lack of PCNM in the past, and some hope for a future Pashtoon Cultural Nationalistic Movement. Needless to say that all the above mentioned is my subjective view. Many of my fellow Pashtoon and non-Pashtoon Afghans will disagree with me and I'm open to suggestions and corrections.
“….where do you see the place of the Taliban within the Pashtoun culture? People often equate the two but my impression is that the Taliban is in fact opposed to traditional Pashtoun cultural and religious values. And one more question, how come there never has been a real, strong Pashtoun cultural nationalist movement? Over the last three decades, the Pashtouns' leadership, from Taraki to Mullah Omar, have joined supra-nationalist movements. I am just curious why. Sorry for bombarding you with questions but I know that you know a lot about these things so it would be great if you could share your views with us….”
Bellow is my response. All your comments and suggestions are welcome.
Pashtoon Cultural Nationalist Movement (PCNM)
PCNM issue has been always political, and hence difficult to become strong in both homelands of the Pashtoons, Afghanistan and in what is now Pakistan, but for different reasons.
- In Pakistan, the genuine PCNM has been often suppressed for its obvious anti-colonial, later anti-Punjabi stand. It has been basically a minority protest and liberation/autonomy movement.
- In Afghanistan, however, Pashtoons had been until recently, at least nominally, the majority and the pillars of power. They had been, or have been perceived by non-Pashtoon Afghans as, the dominant ethnic group. Any attempt of a revival of PCNM has been tainted by this fact.
- Since in the past the political power in Afghanistan has been in the hand of Pashtoons (ironically many of the Pashtoon power elites were even not able to speak Pashto!), and their Pashtoon ethnic belonging has served mainly their hold on to power, any official attempt of a cultural revival by the Pashtoon elites has been necessarily hegemonic and exclusive, or perceived as such by non-Pashtoons which amounts to the same (btw, nothing unique in a not-fully-democratic multi-ethnic country, as in comparable examples of say Yugoslavia, Russia, Turkey, Indonesia, China etc.)
- The few non-governmental PCNM attempts have been also political and were/are aiming at strengthening the supposedly traditional 'right' to Pashtoon dominance in Afghanistan (Afghan Melat etc.), or were perceived as such by non-Pashtoons which amounts again to the same.
- The Pashtoon centered Afghan national identity has failed to represnet a genuine natioanl identity for all Afghans (as also all the recent and exclusive attempts for a new national identity by other ethnic, linguistic and religious entities will fail). Curiously, the majority of Afghans, Pashtoon or non-Pashtoon, do suscribe to an Afghan identity, but pressed further, it will turn out that most see their particular cultural, lingusitic or religious entities as being, or as deserving to be, in the center of that perceived identity.
This in turn has made any attempts at PCNM to be perceived as a contra-national identity in the muti-ethnic, muti-linguist Afghan society. - The presence of Pashtoon personalities in supra-nationalist movements from extreme left to extreme right has served, or has been perceived to serve, Pashtoon dominance , but it hasn't contributed (as you correctly mention) to a strengthening of PCNM for the obvious and by the actors stated reasons of a supra-nationalist ideology (internationalist, national-democratic - or "communist", to use a Western cliché - and Isamic/Jahadist/Pan-Islamic).
- The deeply tribal, conservative and traditional lifestyle of the majority of traditional Pashtoons has been always suspicious of any "modern" attempt of a PCNM (always a project of Pashtoon political elites and "intellectuals"), as it is the case with any form of modernization that threatens the tribal thinking, values and the traditional desire for autonomy.
- A Pashtoon is loyal first and foremost to himself! (like most people with tribal mentality, but Pashtoons have persevered this evolutionary thread amazingly intact into modern times)
His commitment to any cause outside his individual existence is very conditional and limited, and to the extent he identifies that cause as beneficial to his survival. In the later case, he fights to death for it!
The famous anecdotal, and certainly derogatory, statement (supposedly by a former British prime minister) contains a big chunk of truth, not just about Pashtoons: "You can't buy Afghans, but you can lease them!" - I know this is a controversial historic issue since there were other Afghan ethnicities too participating in the struggle for Afghan independence without being always acknowledged by the Pashtoon "nationalists", and many Pashtoons were serving colonialists.
- While all the Mujahedeen groups (the famous 7) were dependent on, directed, used, financed and controlled by Pakistanis and their ISI, Pakistan gave preferential treatment to the Pashtoon dominated groups for obvious political reasons. It started with G. Hekmatyar with his "federation" fantasies for Afghanistan and Pakistan, and Haqqani, both Islamic zealots and Pashtoons.
- This Pakistani policy culminated in creation of Taliban, a group exclusively recruited from among the Pashtoons. See how successfully the Pakistanis (may I say: the loyal servants of Britain!) used Pashtoons for their own political agendas! Pakistan turned the once so feared Pashtoon weapon against Afghans, including other innocent Pashtoons. This, however, happened under an Islamic flag. The Pashtoon Taliban in Afghanistan, and now in Pakistan, morphed into bizarre monsters, a blend of Pashtoon tribalism, Islamic ideology - anti-modern, anti-former-Mujahedeen, anti-non-Pashtoon, anti-Shia, anti-Iran, but Al Qaeda-, Saudi-, Pakistan- and ISI-friendly! (However, Pakistan itself will certainly pay a high price for creating this monster.)
- Through this betrayal of Afghanistan, Taliban have harmed the Pashtoons in Afghanistan the most! They made the majority of the Pashtoons pay for the crimes of Taliban until toady. The helped deepen the ethnic and religious divide to new depths. They discredited all the Pashtoon causes, including the legitimate ones such as a healthy PCNM, in eyes of the non-Pashtoon Afghans and the world. As result of Taliban's actions, some narrow-minded Afghans regard all Pashtoons guilty by ethnic association. Of course, the mostly effected civilian victims of the conflict in Afghanistan, now mainly Pashtoons, pay the price with their suffering.
- The current Afghan government, an artificial and corrupt system of different elements (but certainly with many good individuals in it), although with significant formal Pashtoon presence is eyed by most Pashtoons (and non-Pashtoons alike) with suspicion. The national and international reconstruction and pacification efforts are failing mostly in the Southern Pashtoon homelands.
(I'm generalizing now gravely)
Nonetheless, Pashtoons could once claim, and rightly so, to be at the forefront of the fight against British colonialism, and for Afghan national independence. Afghans in general, Pashtoons in particular, took, and still take, pride in their anti-Pakistani stand too, as they perceived their conflict with Pakistan as continuation of their anti-colonial struggle. That has been an often unmentioned justification of Pashtoon dominance in 20th century Afghanistan (partially accepted, unwillingly or willingly, by non-Pashtoon Afghans).
Conclusion
A Pashtoon cultural nationalistic movement (PCNM) is needed and possible in future of the country, but we'll be very lucky if we see it in our life time.
This PCNM, however, has to be based on a new and just relationship between all the ethnicities of Afghanistan, and on a new and inclusive national vision in which all Afghans with their different cultural and linguistic values can share . Pashtoons have to recognize past injustices done in their names. They have to accept and acknowledge that many non-Pashtoons have the right of telling their side of our story, and that not every search for a non-Pashtoon Afghan identity is against Pashtoons. Of course, the same goes for the non-Pashtoons. They might have now even a bigger responsibility: not responding to past real and perceived injustice with injustice, to help their countrymen now suffering the most back on their feet, to help their "older" Pashtoon - at times unfair, but nonetheless - brothers and sisters in times of their greatest suffering.
In the moment, any attempt at PCNM will be seen by the local Pashtoons as irrelevant, and by the non-Pashtoons as just another attempt at Pashtoon dominance.
I hope I could provide some reasons for lack of PCNM in the past, and some hope for a future Pashtoon Cultural Nationalistic Movement. Needless to say that all the above mentioned is my subjective view. Many of my fellow Pashtoon and non-Pashtoon Afghans will disagree with me and I'm open to suggestions and corrections.
The End
Sunday, January 4, 2009
The Last Visit In Kabul
The fifth or sixth of at least hundred rockets whistled over his head……
He always wondered where from his father took the power to stay so calm? By now, he had already his first signs of weakness.
He had arrived the day before on board of an Aeroflot flight from Tashkent, his last layover on the way from Berlin to Kabul.
Unlike the Kabul residents, he was blessed to not witness almost every day the cruelty of an undeclared noise that was raining on the city he had just entered for the last time. All he knew, or wanted to know, about that place was some broken pieces of news in the German newspapers he read. The news about his country sounded so far, so unreal, that he wasn’t really touched by it. He had successfully forgotten his now nightmarish country of his childhood and adolescent years.
But his last summer visit in Kabul was a grave reminder of things he hoped to forget: war and chaos in order of things. He could see it at the firmament, he could swear, he saw a blood and dust sky. The Kabul skies of his childhood were no more…….
He stayed at his parent’s apartment in Microrayon Three and at his in laws in Microrayon One during that last visit to the “no man’s land” of his imagination. The dust and the heat were reminders of a place he wished didn’t exit. It were travels to a present, to a place, he had already left forever.
He loved his parents and his family tough, and they were in Kabul. But of all places on earth, they had chosen Kabul?! How could one live there?
He knew he was unfair. Kabul had chosen them. But, could they not see what he read in those German newspapers?
And his dad! The Buddha, he always thought. The calm man who, while a rocket was passing by, just said: all will be fine, my son. And nothing really was fine.
During all his summer visits, day or two after he arrived, he got sick. It always started with his stomach. There was a hidden connection between the rockets and his stomach. He had learned form Kabul friends that if one hears the sound of a rocket, one is safe. But, what if I one doesn’t hear that sound? He thought.
He could not help them if something happened……He was the young son, husband and father who was supposed to protect his family. But he had become the concern of his family. They wanted him to go away as soon as he came to visit. They couldn’t promise protection. Protection for him!
His stomach again……
His mother in law had the medicine ready for him. It was a whitish liquid, prepared from a powder in a small Soviet made nickel can with black handle, which she had always ready for him. She seemed to never run out of that whitish drink. It had become tradition that he was always welcomed with a drink from that Soviet nickel can. Her eyes were demanding. He knew he had to drink that whitish drink; it was a must! He appreciated it tough.
His father in law, an important man, was projecting still his authority on him. He seemed to keep the dignity of a flag bearer on the sinking ship that he felt could not be saved anymore. He wore his dark suits and smoked his elegant Kent. In his presence, things resembled normality. Once the treatment with the whitish liquid was over, he was offered another liquid, this time by his father in law, one far more pleasant than the previous one: Czech Pilsner Urquell!
His father in law seemed to never run out of those liquids either and he enjoyed dinking those beers with his son in law. He was tired too. Tired from too much work that seemed to never end and that he had to bring home with him, after a 12 or more hours work day at his ministry and meetings.
Yes, he was a minister in a government without a country. His clinics were blown out, destroyed. His doctors killed, his nurses running out or staying home.
And he……, he tried to keep the appearance, and flew on board of old and shaky Soviet built helicopters to far away places to assure his unthankful people of a government that really seemed to care for them! He had on board with him his doctors and mobile clinics that were supposed to replace the destroyed ones, and he had medicine with him…….
The so much needed medicine!
He wondered about him too: Where did he get the power to pretend?
To him, the young student, the place didn’t mean anything anymore, except for those old and young women and man he deeply felt for. He felt ashamed that he felt so. But he couldn’t help it.
He never admitted to himself that he didn’t want to return to this godforsaken country.
It seemed that his loved ones who stayed in Kabul, all of them, did so out of a loyalty. But, loyalty to what? To an imaginary homeland? To a system that had gone wrong? To an idea of how things supposed to be?
No! They stayed there out of loyalty for each other! They felt ashamed just by the thought of leaving the city while others were still trapped in it; others who in turn felt the same shame to leave too. They maintained the love the city had long stopped giving them back.
Loyalty and love become more insane in times of war, he thought.
It was a matter of respect to the holders of the wake that he didn’t dare to tell them he didn’t like to return to Kabul! It seemed to him that all his family just hold a dead wake in that vast graveyard his country had become. A dead wake over corpses which were dead long before they were alive. He smelled the sweet smell of the death. His family seemed to not smell it. They just pretended. And he pretended too, at least for those few weeks of his last visit.
Only his stomach……his stomach was honest; it reminded him that things were not what they appeared to be.
He was happy that he would leave soon again. And he was saddened by the feeling of his happiness……
He had just realized that some of those loved ones remained there, in Kabul, so he could leave! They all had to stay so few others could leave.
As if they had to keep the dead wake so others could live……
The End
He always wondered where from his father took the power to stay so calm? By now, he had already his first signs of weakness.
He had arrived the day before on board of an Aeroflot flight from Tashkent, his last layover on the way from Berlin to Kabul.
Unlike the Kabul residents, he was blessed to not witness almost every day the cruelty of an undeclared noise that was raining on the city he had just entered for the last time. All he knew, or wanted to know, about that place was some broken pieces of news in the German newspapers he read. The news about his country sounded so far, so unreal, that he wasn’t really touched by it. He had successfully forgotten his now nightmarish country of his childhood and adolescent years.
But his last summer visit in Kabul was a grave reminder of things he hoped to forget: war and chaos in order of things. He could see it at the firmament, he could swear, he saw a blood and dust sky. The Kabul skies of his childhood were no more…….
He stayed at his parent’s apartment in Microrayon Three and at his in laws in Microrayon One during that last visit to the “no man’s land” of his imagination. The dust and the heat were reminders of a place he wished didn’t exit. It were travels to a present, to a place, he had already left forever.
He loved his parents and his family tough, and they were in Kabul. But of all places on earth, they had chosen Kabul?! How could one live there?
He knew he was unfair. Kabul had chosen them. But, could they not see what he read in those German newspapers?
And his dad! The Buddha, he always thought. The calm man who, while a rocket was passing by, just said: all will be fine, my son. And nothing really was fine.
During all his summer visits, day or two after he arrived, he got sick. It always started with his stomach. There was a hidden connection between the rockets and his stomach. He had learned form Kabul friends that if one hears the sound of a rocket, one is safe. But, what if I one doesn’t hear that sound? He thought.
He could not help them if something happened……He was the young son, husband and father who was supposed to protect his family. But he had become the concern of his family. They wanted him to go away as soon as he came to visit. They couldn’t promise protection. Protection for him!
His stomach again……
His mother in law had the medicine ready for him. It was a whitish liquid, prepared from a powder in a small Soviet made nickel can with black handle, which she had always ready for him. She seemed to never run out of that whitish drink. It had become tradition that he was always welcomed with a drink from that Soviet nickel can. Her eyes were demanding. He knew he had to drink that whitish drink; it was a must! He appreciated it tough.
His father in law, an important man, was projecting still his authority on him. He seemed to keep the dignity of a flag bearer on the sinking ship that he felt could not be saved anymore. He wore his dark suits and smoked his elegant Kent. In his presence, things resembled normality. Once the treatment with the whitish liquid was over, he was offered another liquid, this time by his father in law, one far more pleasant than the previous one: Czech Pilsner Urquell!
His father in law seemed to never run out of those liquids either and he enjoyed dinking those beers with his son in law. He was tired too. Tired from too much work that seemed to never end and that he had to bring home with him, after a 12 or more hours work day at his ministry and meetings.
Yes, he was a minister in a government without a country. His clinics were blown out, destroyed. His doctors killed, his nurses running out or staying home.
And he……, he tried to keep the appearance, and flew on board of old and shaky Soviet built helicopters to far away places to assure his unthankful people of a government that really seemed to care for them! He had on board with him his doctors and mobile clinics that were supposed to replace the destroyed ones, and he had medicine with him…….
The so much needed medicine!
He wondered about him too: Where did he get the power to pretend?
To him, the young student, the place didn’t mean anything anymore, except for those old and young women and man he deeply felt for. He felt ashamed that he felt so. But he couldn’t help it.
He never admitted to himself that he didn’t want to return to this godforsaken country.
It seemed that his loved ones who stayed in Kabul, all of them, did so out of a loyalty. But, loyalty to what? To an imaginary homeland? To a system that had gone wrong? To an idea of how things supposed to be?
No! They stayed there out of loyalty for each other! They felt ashamed just by the thought of leaving the city while others were still trapped in it; others who in turn felt the same shame to leave too. They maintained the love the city had long stopped giving them back.
Loyalty and love become more insane in times of war, he thought.
It was a matter of respect to the holders of the wake that he didn’t dare to tell them he didn’t like to return to Kabul! It seemed to him that all his family just hold a dead wake in that vast graveyard his country had become. A dead wake over corpses which were dead long before they were alive. He smelled the sweet smell of the death. His family seemed to not smell it. They just pretended. And he pretended too, at least for those few weeks of his last visit.
Only his stomach……his stomach was honest; it reminded him that things were not what they appeared to be.
He was happy that he would leave soon again. And he was saddened by the feeling of his happiness……
He had just realized that some of those loved ones remained there, in Kabul, so he could leave! They all had to stay so few others could leave.
As if they had to keep the dead wake so others could live……
The End
Nobility
His mom was always proud of her heritage. She was "noble by birth". She was a sardar. He saw that. When she spoke of her mother and her nobility, or when she spoke of her father, the deposed mayor of the summer capital of the deposed King Amanullah, her eyes sparked. It wasn’t false pride.
And her stories…he loved them. They were stories from not too long ago. They were full of proud and beautiful women, funny cousins, loving nannies, loyal servants and goofy carriage drivers, patriotic uncles, good and bad kings and queens, and noble and vicious sardars. And they seemed to have happened centuries ago.
Sometimes she recited a poem or two by Saa’di saheb. He didn’t really understand the verses, but he wondered why she was calling this Saa’di, a poet, not a sardar or holy man, always saheb.
The storytelling took place in his mom’s tailor shop. The shop was on the street level, adjacent to the apartment they had built and lived in. She used to work until late hours of the night, her store windows being sometimes the only illuminated ones in the whole block.
After finishing his homework and supper, he would go down to the shop to bring his mom her can of strong, hot black tea, and to listen to her stories. By then, her two employees had gone home. She was working on this wedding gown that had to be done by the next day or that dress that needed the last corrections. He helped her sometimes and pretended that holding a side of a gown that she was zipping through the machine, or holding the candle so she could burn the corners of a dress to give it the new fashionable curly style, made him an indispensable aide to her. She didn’t mind. And he was rewarded with her stories.
When his hand on aid was not needed, he read to her from the new issues of the two or three Iranian and Afghan magazines, Zan-e Roz, Etla’at Haftagee and Jowandoon that his sisters had subscribed. She corrected his many mispronounced words with a warm smile and without interrupting her work.
He didn’t mind her corrections.
He loved those moments…..in those moments he had his mom all to himself.
Sometimes his youngest, not by much older than him, sister annoyed him with her visits, usually to discuss her next birthday party with his mom or to get money from her for the notebook she needed for school, and sometimes his other, the little older, sister came running down to share the latest Indian song broadcast from Radio Ceylon on her transistor radio, to which she seemed to be glued since he was old enough to become aware of her existence. But, they usually left as abruptly as they had come down to the store. Soon the youngest sister would be on the phone anyway, humming and reciting the poem of the latest Ahmad Zahir song with one of her many classmates.
He didn’t mind his siblings being busy with their own lives.
During the day his mom was occupied with her, at times, crowded store. The customers were almost all women. Some had their cars with husbands or chauffeurs waiting outside, and some were women who could finally afford their first hand-tailored dress. And then, there were the block night watch, the shopkeepers, the beggars, and the many, many salespersons who were coming to the store to conduct their businesses, or who were just peeking through the door curtains to say salaam bibi.
His three uncles often came by the store to say hello, before or after visiting his dad at the apartment. They checked on their younger sister whom they always addressed respectfully with shoma, instead of too which would have been more customary when older siblings addressed their younger ones.
He also thought about those uncles in another regard. While his family car, driven by his older brother, a Kabul University law student, was an English Vauxhall, one of only two Vauxhalls in Kabul as far as he knew, two of the uncles rode bicycles. They drove bicycles and they were 'sardars'? he wondered.
His mom used to buy a lot. Most of it was some sort of food; as if she was afraid her family would run out. Rice from a semi nomadic woman from the Laghman province who not only tended her herd, but also delivered the sacks full of rice with her sons to Kabul customers on her spring visits, dried meat from another nomad, vinegar from a man who had his commodity in a sheep skin bag on his back, quroot from an Hazara woman, cheese from an old man shouting aashawa paneer, aashawa paneer, fresh tomatoes, eggplants and other vegetables and fruits from man who had their products on the back of donkeys or on hand or donkey driven carts. They always stopped at the store, sometimes just to chat for a little while with his bibi. They were offered a cup of tea or a glass of cold water and kept moving, singing aloud their products’ praises for the next customer.
She also had to keep an eye on the house, tell the cook what he should prepare for lunch or dinner, or go to the kitchen herself for half an hour to quickly cook something when the cook wasn’t there, or if they had no cook at that time. Then the kids would come from school, college, or work, joining their dad who was now retired; they would all be hungry soon and want a warm meal on the large dinning table. His mom usually ate lunch at the store with her employees. She sometimes joined the family at the dining table when the store wasn’t very busy, and her longtime assistant Mehrohjan was in a good mood and didn’t mind being left alone with the teenage Hossain, the shop intern.
His mom was a noble and smart businesswoman. Noble because she treated all her customers and business partners with the utmost respect, regardless of who they were, a respect that perhaps only hard working people have for each other. And smart because she got the best deals and prices for the clothes she made and the things she bought from others. The best deals sometimes included price discounts she gave certain customers who otherwise could not have afforded hand-tailored clothes for the regular, higher prices.
Yes, that was his bibi, a woman proud of her heritage, he saw now, because she herself had a proud, noble and self-conscious soul.
He remembered one occasion when his mom took him along to a visit to the Laghmani rice woman. The women had kept inviting his mom to her tent. His mom was a very busy wife, mother of nine demanding teenage and adult children, a respected host or guest of many and never ending extended family gatherings and events, and a busy tailor shop owner, but she could no longer deny her equally proud and noble Laghmani rice woman a visit.
The Laghmani rice woman lived with her family at a nomad’s tent camp outside of the Taimani district. He couldn’t recall now if they drove there or if they took the long walk to the campsite, but he vividly remembered the visit.
The tent was a usual, old, black, and patched Kochi tent. The small camp was clouded in a fog of smoke from burning branches, smells of animal wastes, of boiling milk and fresh chapatti bread.
He was mesmerized by that wild and crystal clear symphony of plants, animals, and humans.
The Laghmani rice woman’s eyes were sparklingly thankful for his mom’s visit and she and her family welcomed them inside the tent.
Of all the palaces and castles his mother had built in his young imagination with her noble stories, this tent was the most majestic place. This tent was the most real palace the queen, his bibi, and he, the prince had ever entered in their lives.
The End
And her stories…he loved them. They were stories from not too long ago. They were full of proud and beautiful women, funny cousins, loving nannies, loyal servants and goofy carriage drivers, patriotic uncles, good and bad kings and queens, and noble and vicious sardars. And they seemed to have happened centuries ago.
Sometimes she recited a poem or two by Saa’di saheb. He didn’t really understand the verses, but he wondered why she was calling this Saa’di, a poet, not a sardar or holy man, always saheb.
The storytelling took place in his mom’s tailor shop. The shop was on the street level, adjacent to the apartment they had built and lived in. She used to work until late hours of the night, her store windows being sometimes the only illuminated ones in the whole block.
After finishing his homework and supper, he would go down to the shop to bring his mom her can of strong, hot black tea, and to listen to her stories. By then, her two employees had gone home. She was working on this wedding gown that had to be done by the next day or that dress that needed the last corrections. He helped her sometimes and pretended that holding a side of a gown that she was zipping through the machine, or holding the candle so she could burn the corners of a dress to give it the new fashionable curly style, made him an indispensable aide to her. She didn’t mind. And he was rewarded with her stories.
When his hand on aid was not needed, he read to her from the new issues of the two or three Iranian and Afghan magazines, Zan-e Roz, Etla’at Haftagee and Jowandoon that his sisters had subscribed. She corrected his many mispronounced words with a warm smile and without interrupting her work.
He didn’t mind her corrections.
He loved those moments…..in those moments he had his mom all to himself.
Sometimes his youngest, not by much older than him, sister annoyed him with her visits, usually to discuss her next birthday party with his mom or to get money from her for the notebook she needed for school, and sometimes his other, the little older, sister came running down to share the latest Indian song broadcast from Radio Ceylon on her transistor radio, to which she seemed to be glued since he was old enough to become aware of her existence. But, they usually left as abruptly as they had come down to the store. Soon the youngest sister would be on the phone anyway, humming and reciting the poem of the latest Ahmad Zahir song with one of her many classmates.
He didn’t mind his siblings being busy with their own lives.
During the day his mom was occupied with her, at times, crowded store. The customers were almost all women. Some had their cars with husbands or chauffeurs waiting outside, and some were women who could finally afford their first hand-tailored dress. And then, there were the block night watch, the shopkeepers, the beggars, and the many, many salespersons who were coming to the store to conduct their businesses, or who were just peeking through the door curtains to say salaam bibi.
His three uncles often came by the store to say hello, before or after visiting his dad at the apartment. They checked on their younger sister whom they always addressed respectfully with shoma, instead of too which would have been more customary when older siblings addressed their younger ones.
He also thought about those uncles in another regard. While his family car, driven by his older brother, a Kabul University law student, was an English Vauxhall, one of only two Vauxhalls in Kabul as far as he knew, two of the uncles rode bicycles. They drove bicycles and they were 'sardars'? he wondered.
His mom used to buy a lot. Most of it was some sort of food; as if she was afraid her family would run out. Rice from a semi nomadic woman from the Laghman province who not only tended her herd, but also delivered the sacks full of rice with her sons to Kabul customers on her spring visits, dried meat from another nomad, vinegar from a man who had his commodity in a sheep skin bag on his back, quroot from an Hazara woman, cheese from an old man shouting aashawa paneer, aashawa paneer, fresh tomatoes, eggplants and other vegetables and fruits from man who had their products on the back of donkeys or on hand or donkey driven carts. They always stopped at the store, sometimes just to chat for a little while with his bibi. They were offered a cup of tea or a glass of cold water and kept moving, singing aloud their products’ praises for the next customer.
She also had to keep an eye on the house, tell the cook what he should prepare for lunch or dinner, or go to the kitchen herself for half an hour to quickly cook something when the cook wasn’t there, or if they had no cook at that time. Then the kids would come from school, college, or work, joining their dad who was now retired; they would all be hungry soon and want a warm meal on the large dinning table. His mom usually ate lunch at the store with her employees. She sometimes joined the family at the dining table when the store wasn’t very busy, and her longtime assistant Mehrohjan was in a good mood and didn’t mind being left alone with the teenage Hossain, the shop intern.
His mom was a noble and smart businesswoman. Noble because she treated all her customers and business partners with the utmost respect, regardless of who they were, a respect that perhaps only hard working people have for each other. And smart because she got the best deals and prices for the clothes she made and the things she bought from others. The best deals sometimes included price discounts she gave certain customers who otherwise could not have afforded hand-tailored clothes for the regular, higher prices.
Yes, that was his bibi, a woman proud of her heritage, he saw now, because she herself had a proud, noble and self-conscious soul.
He remembered one occasion when his mom took him along to a visit to the Laghmani rice woman. The women had kept inviting his mom to her tent. His mom was a very busy wife, mother of nine demanding teenage and adult children, a respected host or guest of many and never ending extended family gatherings and events, and a busy tailor shop owner, but she could no longer deny her equally proud and noble Laghmani rice woman a visit.
The Laghmani rice woman lived with her family at a nomad’s tent camp outside of the Taimani district. He couldn’t recall now if they drove there or if they took the long walk to the campsite, but he vividly remembered the visit.
The tent was a usual, old, black, and patched Kochi tent. The small camp was clouded in a fog of smoke from burning branches, smells of animal wastes, of boiling milk and fresh chapatti bread.
He was mesmerized by that wild and crystal clear symphony of plants, animals, and humans.
The Laghmani rice woman’s eyes were sparklingly thankful for his mom’s visit and she and her family welcomed them inside the tent.
Of all the palaces and castles his mother had built in his young imagination with her noble stories, this tent was the most majestic place. This tent was the most real palace the queen, his bibi, and he, the prince had ever entered in their lives.
The End
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Cultured!
Oh, we were the cultured ones! he had realized. It was a deep insight. He had seen that uncle mixing Dry Gin with tonic, garnished with a slice of lemon! And the uncle did it in Kabul! At that time! Now, that was culture. There was no doubt in his mind.
It took him another 20 or so years to drink a gin as it was supposed to be drunk. But nonetheless: Cultured, he was. He didn’t really know if he liked gin at all and didn’t drink it often anyway. Now, on a higher level of that cultural plain, he preferred wine. Not any wine, but Cabernet Sauvignon if available, of course. Merlot did serve as second choice. The year and origin was important, but he soon learned to live with unimportant variations.
Unimportant variations! It looked that he was becoming increasingly tolerant towards those variations in his convictions. He didn’t see a threat to his belief – that he was cultured – in those variations. Moreover, he saw this quality of his as a sign of the higher culture in himself.
Or…... was it really so?
He felt no need to ponder upon this “unimportant”….. (You know what!)
He remembered a definition of culture by a mighty authority that wasn’t just authority to him that culture is the sum of all products created by the hands and heads of humans.
Hmmm….he didn’t feel the need to ponder upon this one either.
He remembered though last night’s wines. Yes, wines, because there were two of them involved. One was an already the day before opened Burgundy, 10 years old and with a soaking cork, and the other, a Merlot, California grown and without a year declaration on the label that he had opened last night.
The first one could afford one glass only before it went empty. It was sour and almost vinegary but his unimportant variations helped him to finish the glass, or almost finish it. The last sip, he didn’t drink because she said to him how could you drink this? It tastes so bad! after she had attempted to drink from his glass but was uphold by just the smell of the old Burgundy. From the second bottle, the Merlot, he poured two glasses for both of them.
She liked that one and made even a very complimentary comment about it. He was reluctant. His cultural taste was just questioned by someone who knew definitely less about wines than he did. But he decided to not say anything and took his first sip.
It was a very good wine.
The End
It took him another 20 or so years to drink a gin as it was supposed to be drunk. But nonetheless: Cultured, he was. He didn’t really know if he liked gin at all and didn’t drink it often anyway. Now, on a higher level of that cultural plain, he preferred wine. Not any wine, but Cabernet Sauvignon if available, of course. Merlot did serve as second choice. The year and origin was important, but he soon learned to live with unimportant variations.
Unimportant variations! It looked that he was becoming increasingly tolerant towards those variations in his convictions. He didn’t see a threat to his belief – that he was cultured – in those variations. Moreover, he saw this quality of his as a sign of the higher culture in himself.
Or…... was it really so?
He felt no need to ponder upon this “unimportant”….. (You know what!)
He remembered a definition of culture by a mighty authority that wasn’t just authority to him that culture is the sum of all products created by the hands and heads of humans.
Hmmm….he didn’t feel the need to ponder upon this one either.
He remembered though last night’s wines. Yes, wines, because there were two of them involved. One was an already the day before opened Burgundy, 10 years old and with a soaking cork, and the other, a Merlot, California grown and without a year declaration on the label that he had opened last night.
The first one could afford one glass only before it went empty. It was sour and almost vinegary but his unimportant variations helped him to finish the glass, or almost finish it. The last sip, he didn’t drink because she said to him how could you drink this? It tastes so bad! after she had attempted to drink from his glass but was uphold by just the smell of the old Burgundy. From the second bottle, the Merlot, he poured two glasses for both of them.
She liked that one and made even a very complimentary comment about it. He was reluctant. His cultural taste was just questioned by someone who knew definitely less about wines than he did. But he decided to not say anything and took his first sip.
It was a very good wine.
The End
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
President Obama
Once in a while, we get to really witness history revealed before our eyes in its good tendencies. The election of president Obama is one such historic event that needs to sink first to be fully appreciated. It is historic because it offers hope for future.
It is good for the country and for the world. All limitations of democracy and liberalism aside, this is an example of the possibility of a better world in progress.
The world is definitely better off with him as president than with any other available alternative.
We should welcome the presidency of Barak Obama and help it succeed.
It is good for the country and for the world. All limitations of democracy and liberalism aside, this is an example of the possibility of a better world in progress.
The world is definitely better off with him as president than with any other available alternative.
We should welcome the presidency of Barak Obama and help it succeed.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Clash of Cultures
Obama, is he a sexist? He did do the remark about the putting lipstick on a pig! Do u really believe this? He’s not prepared? He was never president. Oh really? Is this the problem? He wants to tax the rich? Oh really, tax all people? Is this the problem? He is black, not the typical black who can trace his ancestry back to a slave. But is that the issue? And there is the “drill, baby, drill”! Yes, that really solves our problems? Do u really believe this? The Wall Street is corrupt! Greedy CEOs, hah, we found them, we know how to fix the problem of financial collapse! More government! No new taxes, the tax payers just were burdened by new taxes! Who needs new taxes? Really? Who really needs Democrats for tax increases! And security, terrorism? Can we ignore that? Obama will not fight thoroughly the fight, really? Do you believe this?
No, really not. We are too intelligent to see pseudo issues as issues. But……
But what’s the problem? Really? I’m not an economist, and no need to be one to know, that there is no easy solution to the current financial crisis. My friend, the economist helps me understand, that market is far more complicated then to always be blamed or praised for its results. And oil prices will not go down because we drill more and more. Demand and pure speculation have driven the prices high. Why blame the oil companies for wanting to make more profit? Housing crisis? We all wanted the quick buck, some more than others.
I know that sounds like one more liberal comment, but I will make it anyway:
Here is why I think McCain and Palin should not become the leaders of this nation:
1. He is too old and frail. This is no disrespect, it’s just a fact.
2. He was a staunch supporter of a deregulation he helped establish, and that many economists blame as one cause, among other causes, for the current breakdown of the financial market. He has offered no new policy; no one probably has a silver bullet available anyway. But why would McCain be the better one to help fix the problem? No new taxes? Really? What if we don’t bail out? Again, some economists say it has become a necessary step, not ideal, but necessary. Bail outs are tax increases! Wholesale tax increases. If I’m wrong, please correct me. The bottom-line is that society has to shoulder the common burden. But would it not be just that burden is distributed as is the wealth? Greed and speculation are not the only motives for profit chasing, but they are facts of life. Most capitalist, small and large, know that they need others to survive. And they do act responsibly. Most people have agreed with the system of free market because it is the best of the possible worlds. But can’t it be adjusted? Reformed? Limited? Controlled? Balanced? By itself, and by the government that responsibly acts on behalf of the tax payers, all of them, not just some?
3. He wants to continue an already lost war to the victorious end. Oh, really? How do you win a war that’s already lost? How do you win an insurgent and guerilla war anyway? You can’t. You are a winner if you don’t lose. And losing is the end of that war if you don’t stop it right now. Some wars need not be fought to the end to be victorious. Again, as the old wisdom says, it’s easy to start any war, but difficult to end it. The Iraq war is not an exception. Only the failed strategy has to change.
4. To win, McCain has to sell out to the religious right. He has done already so by picking a religious fundamentalist as his running mate. Mrs. Palin represents that tendency in American history that was always present but never dominant in the modern political arena. She doesn’t even have the pseudo modern outlook of the new cons who at least want to shape a new world. She does not understand the world because she had only hers. She is convinced that nothing is wrong with that world. She just wants to bless the rest of us with it. Our political leaders in Washington send the soldiers to Iraq knowing that they do God’s work, she said two months before her nomination. Really? Do you believe this? I think she does believe it! Do you really want her as vice president, or worse as possibly the president of the militarily strongest government of the world? Really? A woman who says that she can see Russia from her Alaskan state on some days, no joke by the way, and gives that as a testimony for her foreign policy qualification, could soon make decisions that will be shaping the world of tomorrow. Do you really want that? Really?
The alternative is not ideal. Many points against it are being made, factual ones and assumed ones. But at least we do have an alternative in this real clash of cultures!
What makes these American elections a truly historic one is the possibility of the country to make her worse conservative and reactionary step backward if McCain/Palin are elected. It’s historic also because it could show the world that this country has the potential to change and to make progress towards a new direction. Big political changes have always stemmed from bold visions. That’s why they were belittled by some witnesses as too idealistic and unrealistic. By any standard, the American founding fathers were idealists and unrealistic, but their vision has kept this American dream alive, despite so many nightmares in the history of the nation.
These American elections are a clash of cultures. It’s clash between a culture of “ we don’t need the world” vs. a culture of “the world is one world”. It’s a clash of culture of raising fear of everything different and alien with the culture of acceptance of difference and divergence as enriching. It’s a clash of culture between “I’m proud to be proud” and the culture of “I’m proud because I made the world a better place”. It’s a clash of culture between “I give a damn about what anyone else thinks” with the culture of “it matters to listen and respect each other”. It’s a clash between the culture of “I’m proud of my ignorance because I am powerful” and the culture of “knowledge and wisdom are liberating and universal”. It’s a clash between a culture of “I matter because I am an American” and a culture of “Americans matter to the world because they feel and act responsible for the humanity at large”. It’s a clash between a culture of “either my way or highway” and the culture of “let’s find and cultivate the common ways of humaniy”. It’s a clash of culture between “terrorism is what I define it to be and fight” and the culture of “all humanity has to come together to fight terror, hunger, poverty, global warming and natural disasters”. It’s a class between a culture of “country first!” and the culture of “humanity first!” It’s a clash between the culture of “drill, baby, drill! And fight wars for oil” and the culture of “find and cultivate new alternative energies and make them available to the whole world to a fair price and fight global warming with global effort”.
It’s a clash between McCain/Palin culture and the culture of Obama/Biden.
No, really not. We are too intelligent to see pseudo issues as issues. But……
But what’s the problem? Really? I’m not an economist, and no need to be one to know, that there is no easy solution to the current financial crisis. My friend, the economist helps me understand, that market is far more complicated then to always be blamed or praised for its results. And oil prices will not go down because we drill more and more. Demand and pure speculation have driven the prices high. Why blame the oil companies for wanting to make more profit? Housing crisis? We all wanted the quick buck, some more than others.
I know that sounds like one more liberal comment, but I will make it anyway:
Here is why I think McCain and Palin should not become the leaders of this nation:
1. He is too old and frail. This is no disrespect, it’s just a fact.
2. He was a staunch supporter of a deregulation he helped establish, and that many economists blame as one cause, among other causes, for the current breakdown of the financial market. He has offered no new policy; no one probably has a silver bullet available anyway. But why would McCain be the better one to help fix the problem? No new taxes? Really? What if we don’t bail out? Again, some economists say it has become a necessary step, not ideal, but necessary. Bail outs are tax increases! Wholesale tax increases. If I’m wrong, please correct me. The bottom-line is that society has to shoulder the common burden. But would it not be just that burden is distributed as is the wealth? Greed and speculation are not the only motives for profit chasing, but they are facts of life. Most capitalist, small and large, know that they need others to survive. And they do act responsibly. Most people have agreed with the system of free market because it is the best of the possible worlds. But can’t it be adjusted? Reformed? Limited? Controlled? Balanced? By itself, and by the government that responsibly acts on behalf of the tax payers, all of them, not just some?
3. He wants to continue an already lost war to the victorious end. Oh, really? How do you win a war that’s already lost? How do you win an insurgent and guerilla war anyway? You can’t. You are a winner if you don’t lose. And losing is the end of that war if you don’t stop it right now. Some wars need not be fought to the end to be victorious. Again, as the old wisdom says, it’s easy to start any war, but difficult to end it. The Iraq war is not an exception. Only the failed strategy has to change.
4. To win, McCain has to sell out to the religious right. He has done already so by picking a religious fundamentalist as his running mate. Mrs. Palin represents that tendency in American history that was always present but never dominant in the modern political arena. She doesn’t even have the pseudo modern outlook of the new cons who at least want to shape a new world. She does not understand the world because she had only hers. She is convinced that nothing is wrong with that world. She just wants to bless the rest of us with it. Our political leaders in Washington send the soldiers to Iraq knowing that they do God’s work, she said two months before her nomination. Really? Do you believe this? I think she does believe it! Do you really want her as vice president, or worse as possibly the president of the militarily strongest government of the world? Really? A woman who says that she can see Russia from her Alaskan state on some days, no joke by the way, and gives that as a testimony for her foreign policy qualification, could soon make decisions that will be shaping the world of tomorrow. Do you really want that? Really?
The alternative is not ideal. Many points against it are being made, factual ones and assumed ones. But at least we do have an alternative in this real clash of cultures!
What makes these American elections a truly historic one is the possibility of the country to make her worse conservative and reactionary step backward if McCain/Palin are elected. It’s historic also because it could show the world that this country has the potential to change and to make progress towards a new direction. Big political changes have always stemmed from bold visions. That’s why they were belittled by some witnesses as too idealistic and unrealistic. By any standard, the American founding fathers were idealists and unrealistic, but their vision has kept this American dream alive, despite so many nightmares in the history of the nation.
These American elections are a clash of cultures. It’s clash between a culture of “ we don’t need the world” vs. a culture of “the world is one world”. It’s a clash of culture of raising fear of everything different and alien with the culture of acceptance of difference and divergence as enriching. It’s a clash of culture between “I’m proud to be proud” and the culture of “I’m proud because I made the world a better place”. It’s a clash of culture between “I give a damn about what anyone else thinks” with the culture of “it matters to listen and respect each other”. It’s a clash between the culture of “I’m proud of my ignorance because I am powerful” and the culture of “knowledge and wisdom are liberating and universal”. It’s a clash between a culture of “I matter because I am an American” and a culture of “Americans matter to the world because they feel and act responsible for the humanity at large”. It’s a clash between a culture of “either my way or highway” and the culture of “let’s find and cultivate the common ways of humaniy”. It’s a clash of culture between “terrorism is what I define it to be and fight” and the culture of “all humanity has to come together to fight terror, hunger, poverty, global warming and natural disasters”. It’s a class between a culture of “country first!” and the culture of “humanity first!” It’s a clash between the culture of “drill, baby, drill! And fight wars for oil” and the culture of “find and cultivate new alternative energies and make them available to the whole world to a fair price and fight global warming with global effort”.
It’s a clash between McCain/Palin culture and the culture of Obama/Biden.
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