Where's Dara?

12 November 2006

There he was sitting across from me. The police chief. Just plump enough not to burst out of his fall uniform, comfortably ever so subtly reclining in his chair, perpendicular to mine. He was talking in the foreign tongue they all speak in up here—Dari (a dialect of Persian/Farsi). I was half listening, looking at his conspicuously clean desk next to him, at the note taker, and was extremely self-conscious because of the cameraman holding the digital camera filming us. (This is not uncommon. During many one-on-one meetings there is a camera stuck in my face.)

He was telling me about the background of a potentially volatile land dispute. I needed to know the information but I was just trying to judge the veracity of it. And there he was sitting across from me –again.

The last time I saw him he had laughed my question off. It was about why he had not apprehended one of his dstrict Police Chiefs accused of murder. He laughed. Yes, laughed at me. “This is not a problem,” he said. “He will report to me because I told him to come.” This was unlikely because he had complained to the Governor 30 minutes earlier that this district Chief of Police was not obeying his orders. Clearly, he wanted me off his back.

But today he wanted me intently listening to what he had to say. He requested the meeting. He had calmed the situation a few days before, avoiding a violent protest that could have blocked the main highway from the North to Kabul. Today, though, his job was different. He was assuring me all would be calm, and blaming the ‘other’ main ethnic group. I was entering familiar territory.

After he had his say, entertained my questions—somewhat—whilst answering his cell phone every five minutes—we were ushered into the adjacent room for lunch.

Now, I have been privy to a few lunches in my time in Afghanistan, with Governors, former commanders, elders, and the like. All feasts. All too much food. And all with more vegetables than this lunch. This lunch was fit for a fighting man: meat, meat, and, more meat.

Kebab—usually three pieces on a skewer, two small lamb pieces sandwiching a small piece of fat (are we getting why Afghans have short life expectancies?). A leg of roasted lamb. Half a roasted oversize chicken. Tear off pieces of the lamb and chicken, slap it on top of the rice, and pull at it with your fingers.

Rice, a staple of the Afghan diet, was on the table. Half a heaping platter for me, the other half for the Chief. My assistants shared a platter. Drenched in oil, it is not as healthy as you think. The Chief had been nice enough to give me a spoon to eat it with. He, as most Afghans do, grabbed a bunch of rice with his hands and pushed it into a loose ball and ate it. He was more focused on the rice than the bread. In every Afghan meal there seems to be at least 2 starches.

As we ate, we continued to chat. My poor assistants eating and translating. Such is the life of field staff…”Why have you not eaten much,” the Chief asked. (I had eaten most of my kabob, a bunch of chicken, half my slab of bread, and a good chunk of the rice in an attempt to not be impolite.) A little dismayed, I quickly tried to think of a witty retort. The only thing I could come up with was: “I am smaller than you, so I eat less—not everything fits!” He accepted this weak response.

A few days before, my hosts had apologized for the poor quality of the food. We had soup, some fresh vegetables, a wet bread and meat dish (laden with fat that I only picked at), and apples. Tad more interesting and healthy though not the most fabulous meal. Did the trick though. “No, “ I said, “It was perfect.”

My hosts were a group of elders—former jihadi commanders, civil servants, mullahs—representing the side of the land dispute that had wanted to protest. We had been sitting for about an hour before the meal came. They told me their winding side of the story, and when the plastic mat for the food started to be rolled out along the floor (we were sitting on cushions on the ground, as is traditional), they were marking a hand drawn map for me. “These people came here 300 years ago.” “This is pasture land.” “This is where they want to put the dam.” They explained as they drew more detail.

“We had come to speak with them about the piece of barren land in dispute. Three major tribes, fighting over a piece of what is better characterized as desert andapparently encouraged by major power brokers in Kabul. It had layer upon layer: political intrigue, systemic failure, ethnic discrimination, fraud, illegal occupation of land, and guns.

We had come to speak with the elders. All were gathered in front of a dilapidated house by the side of the main road. As we entered the lawn, some turned their heads. The Pashtuns are the most conservative ethnic group in Afghanistan. My assistant was concerned that I was not dressed conservatively enough, though I had one of my longest shirts. He made me put on the summer jacket I had with me.

The elders themselves were not dressed how I expected. Some were in the traditional shawar kameez, some in more western dress, and not all with the traditional turban. They sat in a circle on mats on the ground outside, or milling about, chatting away.

The leading mullah introduced me to each elder—approximately 20, giving me the background of each elder. It was somewhat overwhelming. Then they ushered me upstairs for a chat about land and to draw me maps.

As we left, and said goodbye, one of the elders ran up to the car and said, “Oh, by the way, if the other party does not stop building, we are protesting. And well, we know they have arms, so we must bring ours.” “But you will not be violent, will you?” I asked. “We cannot make any promises.” Bit of a whopper to be a ‘oh by the way’, don’tcha think?

Welcome to Afghanistan.