http://www.dailytimes.com.pk/default.asp?page=2011\10\22\story_22-10-2011_pg3_5
Saturday, October 22, 2011
PURPLE PATCH: Welcome to the terror-dome —Kim Barker
I had always wanted to meet a warlord. So we parked our van on the side of the
beige road and walked up to the beige house, past dozens of skinny young
soldiers brandishing Kalashnikov assault rifles and wearing mismatched khaki
outfits and rope belts hiked high on their waists. Several flaunted kohl
eyeliner and tucked yellow flowers behind their ears. Others decorated their
rifle butts with stickers of flowers and Indian movie starlets. Male ethnic
Pashtuns loved flowers and black eyeliner and anything fluorescent or sparkly,
maybe to make up for the beige terrain that stretched forever in Afghanistan,
maybe to look pretty. Outside the front door, my translator Farouq and I took
off our shoes before walking inside and sitting cross-legged on the red
cushions that lined the walls. The decorations spanned that narrow range
between unicorn-loving prepubescent girl and utilitarian disco. Bright,
glittery plastic flowers poked out of holes in the white walls. The curtains
were riots of colour. We waited. I was slightly nervous about our reception.
Once, warlord Pacha Khan Zadran had been a US ally, one of the many Afghan
warlords the Americans used to help drive out the Taliban regime for sheltering
Osama bin Laden and his minions after the attacks of September 11, 2001. But
like a spoiled child, Pacha Khan had rebelled against his benefactors,
apparently because no one was paying enough attention to him. First he turned
against the fledgling Afghan government, then against his American allies. In
an epic battle over a mountain pass, the Americans had just killed the
warlord’s son. The Pashtun code required revenge, among other things, and now,
six days after the battle, here I was, a fairly convenient American, waiting
like a present on a pillow in Pacha Khan’s house, hoping to find a story edgy
enough to make it into my newspaper — not easy considering it was March 2003,
and there were other things going on in the world. But Farouq told me not to
worry. He had a plan.
Pacha Khan soon marched into the room. He certainly looked the warlord part,
wearing a tan shalwar kameez, the region’s ubiquitous traditional long shirt
and baggy pants that resembled pyjamas, along with a brown vest, a bandolier of
bullets and a grey-and-black turban. The wrinkles on his face appeared to have
been carved out with an ice pick. He resembled a chubby Saddam Hussein. We
hopped up to greet him. He motioned us to sit down, welcomed us and then
offered us lunch, an orange oil slick of potatoes and meat that was mostly
gristle. I had no choice, given how strictly Afghans and especially Pashtuns
viewed hospitality. I dug in, using my hands and a piece of bread as utensils.
But, just because Pacha Khan fed us, did not mean he would agree to an
interview. The Pashtun code required him to show us hospitality. It did not
force him to talk to me. Pacha Khan squinted at my getup — a long brown Afghan
dress over black pants, an Indian paisley headscarf and cat-eye glasses. I kept
shifting my position — with a bad left knee, a bad right ankle and a bad back,
sitting on the floor was about as comfortable as therapy.
Farouq tried to sell my case in the Pashto language. The warlord had certain
questions. “Where is she from?” Pacha Khan asked, suspiciously.
“Turkey,” Farouq responded.
“Is she Muslim?”
“Yes.”??
“Have her pray for me.”
I smiled dumbly, oblivious to the conversation and Farouq’s lies.??
“She cannot,” Farouq said, slightly revising his story. “She is a Turkish
American. She only knows the prayers in English, not Arabic.”
“Hmmm,” Pacha Khan grunted, glaring at me. “She is a very bad Muslim.”
“She is a very bad Muslim,” Farouq agreed.
I continued to grin wildly, attempting to charm Pacha Khan.
“Is she scared of me?” he asked.
“What is going on? What is he saying?” I interrupted.
“He wants to know if you are scared of him,” Farouq said.
“Oh no,” I said. “He seems like a perfectly nice guy. Totally harmless. Very
kind.”
Farouq nodded and turned to Pacha Khan.
“Of course she is scared of you,” Farouq translated. “You are a big and
terrifying man. But I told her you were a friend of the Chicago Tribune, and I
guaranteed her safety.”
That satisfied him. Unaware of Farouq’s finesse, I proceeded with my questions
about Pacha Khan’s deteriorating relationship with the Americans. Then I asked
if I could have my photograph taken with the warlord, who agreed. “Make sure
you get the flowers,” I told Farouq. In one picture, Pacha Khan peered sideways
at me, with an expression suggesting he thought I was the strange one. I
snapped Farouq’s picture with Pacha Khan as well. Souvenirs in hand, we left.
But we still had two more hours of bumpy, unforgiving road south to the town of
Khost, an experience similar to being flogged with baseball bats. Farouq taught
me the numbers in the Dari language and told me about the real conversation he
had with Pacha Khan. “I do not think it is ethical to say I am Turkish,” I
said.
“I do not think it is safe to say you are American. The Americans just killed
his son. Trust me. I know Afghans. I know what I am doing.” I shut my mouth,
but I still did not see what the big deal was. I had glasses. I was obviously
harmless. And Pacha Khan seemed more bluster than bullet. As we wandered around
Pacha Khanistan, calling me naïve was almost a compliment; ignorant was more
accurate. This was only my second trip to Afghanistan as a fill-in
correspondent for the Tribune, and I was only supposed to babysit a war that
nobody cared about while everyone else invaded Iraq. With my assumed swagger
and misplaced confidence, I was convinced that I could do anything. Meeting a
warlord whose son had just been killed by the Americans was nothing but a funny
photo opportunity. I felt I was somehow missing out by not being in Iraq, the
hitter sidelined for the championship game. Like everyone else, I figured
Afghanistan was more of a sideshow than the big show.
(This extract is taken from The Taliban Shuffle by Kim Barker)
Kim Barker was the South Asia bureau chief for the Tribune from 2004 to 2009
and was based in New Delhi and Islamabad
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