Nasir Shansab's Blog, page 4

Interview on Local Kabul TV

Yesterday began with a rare note of civility and pleasantness in this usually angry and oppressive place.

Ariana TV, one of several local Kabul television networks, had invited me to speak about my recently published book, Silent Trees. The station’s studio was the setting for the 8:00 a.m. program. Discussing a book was probably somewhat offbeat for them. Normally they focus on interviews with government officials on political matters or, on occasion, some important private-sector powerbrokers keen to tell the program’s viewers what they do to improve the economy.

So, discussing Silent Trees and why I wrote it and what I hoped to achieve with it was somewhat of a new experience for the station and the programs two hosts.

The male host asked the first question which, I admit, took me by surprise. He knew that I lived in the United States and wrote mainly in English. Yet, he asked why I had not written the book in Farsi—he actually used the word “Farsi.” I should explain. Eager to make a distinction between Iran and their country, most Afghans call their version of Farsi, “Dari.” Dari or Farsi is spoken by about 35 percent of Afghans, Pashtu being the majority language.

Unprepared for the host’s question, I had to improvise a fitting and non-offensive response. I didn’t want to say that it didn’t make much sense to write in a country’s language where 80 percent of the population was illiterate and where, even among a majority of the educated class only a small minority would care to read fiction or would have any appreciation for fictional creations.

So, I said I lived in an English speaking country and I was writing primarily for the American public but added that I would like to see the book being eventually translated in other languages, including Farsi and Pashtu.

The female host, a young attractive woman, her lips and fingernails colored in bright red, held the book in her hands and laughingly said, once she had improved her English, she would translate it into Farsi. It was a deal, I said and we all laughed. From then on everything was smooth sailing.

Their other questions dealt with what I wanted to explain with the book and what had moved me to write it in the first place. I leaped deep into my memory, trying to retrieve some of what I had learned at Johns Hopkins about about the essence of a novel and why authors engaged in writing fiction.

It was easy to say that fiction was essentially storytelling and that it was considered utterly deplorable if a writer of fiction engaged in very much explaining of things. A much more sensitive topic to discuss with my hosts was the subject of creation. While in modern, secular societies it is considered a normal process for a writer to create characters and make them as real to life as possible, in the conservative, Moslem world it could be construed as something offensive, even harmful . For them, only God can create life. Anything else that tries to mimic the process—-no matter how elementary, such as painting a human face or creating an imagined human being—could be construed as blasphemy, with all the horrors that goes along with that judgment.

The reason that motivated me—perhaps even forced me—to write the story was a touchy one But since the answer to the question was outstanding, it needed to be addressed.. So, I said in countries were political power was unchecked and laws were what the powers to be wanted them to be, those who hold power and those who oppose them both get destroyed. The real tragedy, however, was that the process destroys everything, and everybody, including a populace that had nothing to do with the hidden and deadly fight for power. “Just look at this country,” I added. “If there was a message that I wanted the story to show, it was this all-destructive end to dictatorship.”

As I said earlier, the atmosphere was jovial enough that I was forgiven any blunders I may have committed during the interview. My two hosts didn’t object to my critical view of Afghanistan.

The interview must have gone well. When I went out of the studio and walked through the maze of doors and barriers—the numerous doors and the labyrinth of gangways are constructed to render it difficult for insurgents to attack the facility and give the occupants a chance to flee if an attack took place—the many guards and officials who had apparently watched the program, smiled cheerfully when we shook hands.

Leaving the heavily fortified building, I felt elated. It had been a very long time sinceI had seen so many smiles in Kabul. where normally distrust, coldness, and denial governs.

A Dinner in Kabul

Upon my return to Kabul, I invited a well-known Afghan TV personality to dinner.  I first met him years before in the United States, where he had settled down.

In 2003, he, along with many other Afghan émigrés had returned to his country of birth with high hopes to help alleviate the indescribable misery that gripped the Afghan people. He felt, as he put it, an intense urge to contribute to the recovery of the devastation that Afghanistan had sustained during decades of civil wars and two invasions—the Soviet invasion on December 25, 1979, and the U.S. invasion in October 2001.

However, instead of renewal, a vast and debilitating corruption settled in over the country as most of the new political leaders jealously and hungrily kept the newly burgeoning economic activity to themselves and their families. Refusing to engage in corrupt practices and joining one of several alliances that were formed around the powerful and influential personalities, he, saw his dreams to take part in the reconstruction of Afghanistan dashed. Trying his luck with the burgeoning media activity that had evolved alongside  the growing international presence in the country, he now has his own talk show on one of Kabul’s local TV stations. His program is quite popular and frequently critical of President Karzai’s government.

My guest confirmed that many, if not most people, now understood that after 2014, the Afghans themselves would have to fight their own war. I asked him if he thought that Afghans were aware that, once most foreign troops had withdrawn from Afghanistan, the country’s economy could easily collapse and then push the country into another civil war.

He fell silent for quite a while, looking down on his plate and slowly cutting his thick, juicy filet minion. I wasn’t sure whether he didn’t want to answer or couldn’t answer. At last, he looked up from his plate. His normally alert eyes looked tired. His response was to ask a question of his own, “When have you seen Afghans react to their conditions rationally and timely?”

I sensed a measure of irritation in his voice. Had I pressed too hard?  I was prepared to let the entire matter drop. “You’re right,”  I said, “That’s one of many problems the Afghans have. As a society, they fail to understand their potential and limits and seem to have a complete disregard for time.”

“That’s exactly right,” my guest said, his eyes growing lively again. “But to get back to …”

At this point another Afghan expatriate entered the restaurant. Seeing us, he came over to our table. After we had gone through the somewhat long-winded Afghan greeting ceremony, I invited him to join us, more for the sake of being polite than actually wanting him to sit at our table. He eagerly pulled one of the two empty chairs and sat down.

I had been enjoying the frank talk with my guest and wanted to continue it. But realizing that in Afghanistan trust went only so far, I knew we couldn’t continue our conversation.

In any event,, my guest and I had almost finished our dinner. We rushed through our desert, a tasty chocolate-filled pancake. I paid $189.00 for our two dinners—an amount I felt way out of proportion in a poverty–stricken city—and we both left.

 

 

 

 

 

How do Afghans perceive their future, one year ago and today?

Arriving in Kabul on December 30, 2012, I was eager to find out what had changed since the last time I had arrived almost exactly one year ago.

During that very long visit—I had planned not to exceed two weeks but lasted till the end of April—I spoke with Afghans from almost all walks of life, government ministers and employees of all levels of import, parliamentarians, journalists, judges, military officers and soldiers, as well as shopkeepers, and laborers.

Their understanding what might be in store for them in the future was as similar in some ways, yet varied, reflecting their position in the political regime, professions, level of wealth, and education. The one common thread in all of these diverse thought was a deep sense of puzzlement over “America’s design” and their inability not just to understand, but to do anything about it.

When I asked people with power and influence—from both the government and private sector— about the withdrawal of international combat forces from their country by the end of 2014, they almost uniformly expressed disbelief that it would happen. Most concurred that Europeans, Australians, Canadians, and even the Turks could and probably would withdraw their troops but, they said with a knowing smile, that the U.S. would stay on and protect the Afghan regime from the insurgents. Despite their obvious and strong desire to see the U.S. military presence continue in significant numbers and as an actively fighting unit, I could not help noticing that they weren’t sure whether to be happy that, as they believed, the U.S. would continue to fight the insurgents or instead be dejected by a continuing,heavy American military presence.

A majority of Afghans last year felt an acute insecurity about America’s endgame. I gained the conviction that they entertained strong doubts about America’s true plans and felt that the U.S. was playing its own game, whcih they resignedly professed that they couldn’t understand and mistrusted. As one of them said, “America is using us for its own purposes, not to help us find peace.”

Most of the less fortunate Afghans, a vast majority that never saw an improvement in their lives over the past decade but saw those in positions of power assemble massive fortunes, expressed similar feelings, but more often than not with clear expressions of hostility towards America. Others would resignedly say that Afghanistan is merely a pawn in the geopolitical battle of the rich nations; nothing would be done to improve the lot of the Afghan people.

The most astounding view I encountered was that the simple folks, the disheveled mass thatcrowds Kabul’s streets and walk somewhat aimlessly about the rundown city, expressed almost uniform animosity towards both the U.S. and the Karzai regime and openly wished for the return of the Taliban, albeit a somewhat reformed and more humane version.

When I heard what I heard and saw what I saw in that terribly cold winter of 2012, I began to wonder where the American administration and, yes, even the media, got their information. There have been, after all many reassuring pronouncements and columns that proclaimed that the death of over 2000 American soldiers and the loss of half a trillion dollars had not been in vain.

Although, I was reluctant to agree with those cloudless descriptions of the war in Afghanistan, I have always been ready to give those who should be in the know — reporters in Afghanistan and our government officials– the benefit of the doubt, sometimes questioning myself, wondering if they knew something that I didn’t.

While my disagreement in 2012 with the bulk of reports in the American media bothered me, I kept my opinions largely to myself.

Now I have returned. What will I find during my present stay in Kabul.

2013 marks the beginning of the first year of the remaining two of America’s combat role in Afghanistan. What will the Afghan political and economic leadership think now? Is it still convinced that America will stay to fight the insurgency or have they accepted the idea that they will have to do their own fighting after 2014? And do they think they can prevail?

Welcome to the Land of Silent Trees

SILENT TREES was in the making for a long time. In a way, the story has always been with me. In Afghanistan, when I lived there, experiencing political oppression was an everyday affair. It hurt badly and constantly.

Even when it wasn’t directed at me, watching it happen to anyone was painful and distressing. An acquaintance of mine back then was a rich and influential man. He had extremely bright eyes, was energetic and full of ideas as to how our society should be reorganized and political power brought under the control of the populace through pluralistic institutions. He lived in an elegantly furnished house and often had guests over for dinner. His influence, however, had less to do with his wealth and active social engagement. It had more to do with what he said and wrote. He was a fierce critic of the political system and promoted democracy and human rights. One day, without warning, he was imprisoned. As was often the case, people refrained from discussing his ordeal. He had angered the powers that be and the prudent thing was to forget he had ever existed.

Many years later, I met him again. I was in my office when he entered. His sudden, unexpected appearance shocked me, and I needed several long moments to get hold of myself. He had aged almost beyond recognition. His back was bent and he walked with small, unsteady steps. When he sat down and we waited for tea to be brought, he asked me in a weak voice whether I was doing alright. I thanked him and asked him the same question. He looked down at the coffee table and remained silent for awhile. Then, he looked at me and said, “It is God’s will that I’m alive and here. That means I’m doing fine.” He drank his tea in silence and left. After he left, I was distraught for many days, thinking about what he must have gone through in prison, broken to an extent that he was merely a shell with no life left in him.

Writing Silent Trees forced me to reflect on my life in Afghanistan and relive what I had encountered and seen others experience. The writing process was painful but also exhilarating. The pain was in the past, the exhilaration in the present. I had survived the arbitrary nature of power held in the hands of dictators and murderers. My children and I are safe and live free lives in a country where the will of law prevails. And I have gained the freedom to tell others how fortunate we are in America and that we should never lower our guards in defending the freedom we have.