Kandahar Cockney: A Tale of Two Worlds. James Fergusson

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СКАЧАТЬ to power. The Afghans called Mazar a city. In reality it was no more than a large town, although its population was greatly swollen now by refugees from the war and by an influx of fighting men from all over the country. This was interesting from a purely anthropological point of view, a rare cross-section of the country’s extraordinary ethnic diversity. In the words of an old Afghan hand I had met in London, Mazar was like the bar scene in Star Wars.

      And indeed the mix of people I found there was extraordinary. There were Uzbeks, Tajiks, Pashtuns, Arabs, Ismaili, Hazara, Turkmen and Mongols. There were men in turbans and silk sashes, in flat caps and in skullcaps, in combat gear and in waistcoats, in robes and in trousers, in long-sleeved chapans and in shalwar qamiz, the long cotton shirt and matching baggy trousers favoured throughout the region. The women were mostly veiled, though many were not; the men were bearded and unbearded, with slant eyes and kohl eyes, brown, green and even blue eyes. There were subtleties here, ethnic and social gradations unfathomable to a stranger like me. Stopping to ask for directions it was impossible at first to make myself understood, and a curious crowd quickly gathered. Even in this ethnic melting pot my disguising beard had evidently fooled nobody. An old man was pushed forward and gave me directions in what sounded like broken Russian. It was a relief to reach the sanctuary of the Oxfam compound, its blue steel doors decorated with a small poster of a crossed-out Kalashnikov and the slogan Working for a Fairer World. The Oxfam staff rented out a few dormitory-like rooms for $40 a night. It was one of the few places that visiting foreigners were permitted to stay.

      Over the following two days I took courage and went out to explore Mazar on foot. The atmosphere of the city was strange. The streets were filled with men armed with the tools of choice in Afghanistan, a Kalashnikov slung casually over a shoulder or a rocket-propelled grenade with its butt rested on a hip, the distinctive lozenge shape of its sharp end cocked at the sky. Hi-Lux trucks roared by from time to time, the soldiers swaying in the back covering their mouths with their turbans against the dust clouds. The crowds who scattered to let them pass always closed ranks again, and normal life resumed. Almost uniquely in Afghanistan, Mazar had not been touched by fighting in recent times, not even during the Soviet invasion of the 1980s. Perhaps that was why the population seemed to behave as though the town was immune. It was a phoney war in which they had been waiting for something to happen for so long that they now believed nothing ever would. A certain defiance was detectable in the shops and markets, where business was clearly booming despite the rate of inflation in the north. The afghani exchange rate to the dollar was nearly triple what it had been a year before, yet the stalls were well stocked, the people far from starving. The main square was dotted with groups who sat around story-tellers, guardians of an oral tradition stretching back to biblical times. The wares on sale in the markets were mostly dry goods at this time of year: the melons for which Mazar is famous were not yet in season. At one or two places they even sold Murree beer imported from Pakistan. It was easier to procure alcohol here than across the border to the east, where retail outlets were tightly controlled and foreigners had to obtain a permit and ration book if they wanted to drink.

      Only once on my rambles around Mazar was I brought up short, while attempting to inspect the inside of the shrine in the city centre. An old guidebook I had bought in Peshawar described the building as the finest in the country. It commemorates Hazrat Ali, the dragon-slaying cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Mohammed, who was assassinated in 661. The original shrine was destroyed in the early thirteenth century by Genghis Khan, who thought there was gold buried beneath its pillars. The present building is a fifteenth-century replacement.

      – Not the least of its charms are thousands of white pigeons who make their home here, I read. Local belief has it that should a grey pigeon join the flock, it will become totally white in just forty days, so holy is the site.

      I had removed my shoes and was about to pass through the great south gate when a bent old man on a stick came out and began to scold me, jabbing a gnarled finger in my face. He wore the white robes of a mullah, and I backed away, grinning dumbly: I had meant no offence. But the torrent of invective merely strengthened and the inevitable crowd gathered. I raised my hands in an exaggerated sign of surrender, which some of the crowd found funny. It wasn’t clear if they were laughing at my expense or the mullah’s, although they didn’t seem to share the old man’s anger. Then one of them called out in English, the first I had heard from a Mazari resident. He was a neat man with small round glasses who spoke precisely with a slight American elision.

      – Where are you from? What are you doing here?

      – From England. Inglistan. I wish only to see the inside of this beautiful holy place.

      The man in glasses translated my answer: the mullah shouted back. The bystanders turned their heads to watch like the crowd at a tennis match.

      – He says foreigners are not permitted.

      – Please tell him that if this is true then I will leave, I said, pointing amiably at my shoes. Although, please also tell him that I have visited many mosques in many countries, and have never been forbidden to enter before.

      My translator hesitated.

      – Does it say in the Koran that foreigners may not enter? I added.

      A smile flickered across the English-speaker’s lips, and then he nodded vigorously.

      – You are right. I agree.

      He translated once again in a loud voice for the benefit of the crowd, who began to murmur among themselves, enjoying this spontaneous public debate. But the mullah’s eyes blazed. He shook his stick, spittle flecking his beard, his harangue rising to a shriek before he turned on his heel and hobbled off at speed into the recesses of the shrine. The exchange was suddenly over, and the crowd, muted, began to disperse. The man in glasses smiled and shook his head.

      – What did he say?

      – He said, all foreigners are spies.

      – But I’m not a spy, I’m a journalist.

      – Don’t worry. The mullah is a crazy old man.

      – So it’s OK – I can go in?

      But the Afghan looked uneasy, clearly afraid of the mullah’s authority, however mad he might be. I gave up and put my shoes on again, and asked him about his English. He had learned it from watching American movies on television, he said. Despite his scholarly appearance he was a soldier, on leave from the front. Tomorrow he would have to return to his unit, which was a blow because I had been on the point of offering him a job as my interpreter. Instead I asked him where his unit was stationed, but he merely smiled.

      – Perhaps the mullah was right, he said archly. Perhaps you are an English spy.

      This was a good joke, but despite my efforts my new friend refused to move beyond polite formality. All too soon he was looking at his watch.

      – You are welcome in Mazar, he said finally. This is a good city, with good people. You will be safe here.

      I watched him pad away across the square through an explosion of doves, wondering if it was really possible to learn such good English simply by watching television.

      

      Mir was already working for another group of visiting journalists when we met. He was returning with them from a two-day trip to the Hazarajat, the Northern Alliance’s southern front against the Taliban. I had been told about these English-speaking journalists by the kindly Oxfam people and was hoping they might be able to help me. My search for a good interpreter-fixer СКАЧАТЬ