“Life is long and death is short.” So reads the epitaph on a gravestone in Kittery Point, Maine. We understand this in respect to the way a week can be long, and a day.
Here I am, very much alive six years beyond the life expectancy of the average Afghan man, seven beyond that of an Afghan woman. I may live another thirty years. How much does it affect a collective consciousness, this thing called life expectancy? I think of George B. Shaw’s play Back to Methuselah, in which his characters discover that the key to immortality is the abolishment of life expectancy. I wonder if longer lives are required, as Shaw’s play suggests, in order for individuals to develop wisdom enough to manage and lead our complex modern civilization. Certainly social evolution as a conscious approach to changing the course of history has had its stops and starts for both evil and good. Regardless, none of this concerted effort to extend the life of man, from the dawning of Christian Scientists and the 2nd Industrial Revolution, to control nature as if nature is God’s gift to man, to use, manipulate, rubberize and pulverize as we see fit so long as it gives us more and more time is even remotely about making way for wisdom. Rather it is a strange elixir, a perfect storm of compulsion that combines the sanctification of human life, the pursuit of comfort, fear of the unknown and the aesthetics and therefore attachment of love.
Here in Afghanistan, here in ancient Ariana there is no growing old. In fact there are only a handful of elderly (unless you count the 40 year olds who look 70). More than half of the people are under the age of 18. How is it, I wonder, to be 22 years old and know you are statistically half way through life? I look at my own youth and confess I squandered most of it. All I cared about was experience, experience, experience, try this, try that until I just knew what I wanted, the luxury of empire to treat life like a carnival ride, an all-you-can eat buffet. Why not? I had plenty of time. Here in Kabul there is not time, and yet the shroud of drought, war and the stagnating rules of fundamentalism coalesce to resist any moving forward. As Ahmad Zahir suggested in his song, God must be the most patient of all, sitting by as He does, watching this lack of unfolding, this smoldering, this stunted world where those who march in His name ironically conspire with those who anointed themselves God to make certain nothing in Paradise is threatened with Change. What is this Paradise they refer to? I warrant thee not one, but twin sons of different fathers are they, across the world, across the sky.
Meanwhile millions of people live out their long seconds and years, awaiting the quickness of death. I look to the 22 year olds for some omens of the future. In Afghanistan, university students have grown emphatic, increasingly intolerant, ripe for action if only action could be unearthed from the lorry loads of agendas set aloft by all the powerful players in this the greatest round in the Great Game of Central Asia that seems never to have ended and may never will. The students are restless because they realize that they are being forced to compose change in ways that have never been construed. They are forced to keep their nerve, to work diligently, the antithesis of their impulsive nature; they must go deeper, build change from within the very fiber of Afghanistan like seedpods awaiting that once in a hundred years fire. The earth in Kabul shakes frequently; it too is impatient. When I speak of students, I am not referring to those poor and frustrated young men who are easily rounded up to attack an outpost or center, nor those who care only to fill out the super-class wicking an Afghan fortune from the wax economy of war and occupation. Here I refer to the thousands who eagerly grasp at whatever education or society-building livelihood they can get. Most are fermenting through the public universities, but also certain private institutions, businesses and social activist centers are breading a generation of Afghan Hamlets and Antigones, youth who believe there are higher laws than those concocted by man, tradition, and God (or rather those purporting to speak for God); laws guided solely by truth, in the face of which all universal injustices are exposed and all perpetrators of injustice must by proxy be removed. The youth I speak of do not think of death and therefore will die if that is the consequence, but they are not the kind to strap bomb to chest. A true martyr does not yearn to be a martyr; these students want life, love, children, picnics, careers, but in the meantime their people suffer at the hands of greed and ideology, and they must be assuaged. These students will do what they do because they must, no differently than whatever air there is, be it hazy be it smoggy be it dusty be it thin, must be breathed.
I have never been much of a revolutionary. Ultimately I would save my own life before I willingly lay myself down upon the sacrificial, patriotic sword. I have always fancied myself a poet who belongs to no country, who therefore would not die for any country. I have seen and studied revolutions of various sorts, and they all leave me scratching my head wondering if there has been a step taken forward, or if these well meaning revolutions are doomed to be hijacked by opportunists. Is it true that all revolutions “eat their children”, as a Polish journalist once told me? Nevertheless here I am. For some reason I choose to live in this heart of Asia, one poised for revolution. Perhaps my brief year and a half as a volunteer firefighter still simmers in my blood. Ney, that was more a role I played, a rush of sorts ennobled by my society. The reason for the children of the parwarishga, for Manila, Maria, Sorab, Ali, Farzana, Alina I would walk into any flame is because I could not bear to outlive them if there were something in my power I could do to save them. And as I contemplate this condition, I notice there is now also such a stirring in my blood for the people of Afghanistan, traumatized, homeless Afghanistan.
There is a sense washing over the West and the agents of their operations (civilian and military) that goes beyond simple fatigue. The soldiers are on their fifth tour of duty, the civilians are counting the days until their six-month contracts are up and another temporary supervisor moves in. Between the lines, across their faces I perceive the shadow of too much money spent, lives lost, years gone by, and too little to show for it. This in tandem with an acute prohibition against admission of failure, let alone egregious mistakes, (after all, thousands of lives and trillions of dollars must have been for something) has fostered an attitude that sees itself left with no recourse but to place the blame on the Afghan people. Soon you will see this sentiment slipping into conversations, speeches, opinion columns, essays, and broadcasts. The “Afghans” are corrupt, illiterate, medieval, and can’t be helped because they cannot help themselves. Thus, adding insult to injury, the experts will have burdened the Afghan people with this stigma belonging solely to those warlords and drug lords and jihadis and former Soviet do-gooders and even Taliban who were empowered to run the country, who were the West’s hired guns in the beginning and still are to this day, all of whom have shifted allegiances repeatedly over the years depending on how the winds have blown. This tiny minority will have co-opted the Afghan identity, thugs who garner and retain power, and whose modus operandi is fear. Fear of getting killed, certainly, or family members kidnapped and raped, or your business attacked, your television station shut down or losing your job. The price for “protection” is complete obedience, and “honor” is the moral code used to justify all actions. If this reminds you of Goodfellas, you’re on the right track. Why the people in greater numbers join the insurgency, why they scream out against the West should not be mystifying. Who is responsible, Dr. Frankenstein or his Monster? Not only that but rather than go back into the laboratory the good doctor persists in propping the Monster up and proclaiming him a success. The Monster has become savvy, and knows now that his Master has waded too deep into Ol’ Muddy and can no longer afford to nullify his creation. He knows he can even blackmail the doctor into making more monsters to keep it company. He will shave his beard, don a suit and tie if that’s all it takes to placate the doc. But the Monster will always be a monster, because in the beginning the doctor used the wrong brain for his creation, the brain of a tireless murderer.
It was Mr. Gates who admitted as he left his post that reconstruction in Afghanistan had mistakenly not been on the agenda. Reconstruction, as illustrated by the Marshall Plan or the Tennessee Valley Authority, used to be a euphemism for the establishment and securing of democracy. That is why I believe here we have an admission that it was actually democracy that had never been a priority. Instead what we have is a modern version of post-Civil War America, whereupon the South was strapped with utter devastation, zero infrastructure, corruption, carpetbaggers, continued hit-and-run guerrilla warfare, occupation by “foreign” forces, and the supplanting of one form of slavery with another.
The difference here is the victors need not take responsibility. And who are the victors anyway? Forty-six nations with boots on the ground, anyone can point his finger in any direction. No matter, the world can always say that Afghanistan belongs to Afghanistan; the fact this is true only on paper is incidental. Thus, tiring and debt-ridden the world will move on. With a nod and a wink from the U.S. it will start the long and laborious process of packing it in. The four soldiers from Iceland, seven from Ireland, eighty from Slovenia, the five hundred Swedes, the Ukrainians, Canadians, Italians and Latvians— all will go home. The occupiers that remain will withdraw into their island fortress-cities awaiting the next call to action, and will remain as a thorn in the small of Asia’s back, just in case. The journalists will lose interest and the money will dry up and the thousand NGO’s will move on to some other gainful employment, and the Afghan people will be left to sort it out. The sharks will be swimming, still, across every border, but things will be different this time. Millions of refugees have returned, and the attention of millions of expatriated Afghans has been pulled back toward their homeland. And there are the children.
Is this good, is it bad? What should we do or not do? I have received numerous inquiries from Americans who, since bin Laden’s assassination and Obama’s announcement of military withdrawal are interested in my reaction. Historically I’ve tried, most of the time, not to respond because truthfully I’m not as much of a political animal as I might sometimes seem, and too often I merely reveal my own ignorance. It is usually better to keep to simple, personal life stories. But I believe I am changing, or I have been changed, or whatever my nature is, this part of it has been awakened. Twice in the winter months I toured my country, giving talks about my experiences in Afghanistan. I believe in all I spoke 90 times wherein close to five thousand individual Americans listened to my story. Almost never did I speak of the things I reveal here. I spoke only of hope, only of the sound philosophy of AFCECO and the true impact it is making. I shared the world of the orphans and their spirit of trust, love and solidarity. People could not get enough of it. They nodded their heads, and tears fell. They hugged me, shook my hand and looked deeply into my eyes. They were eighth graders and they were octogenarians, they were retired generals and pastors and carpenters and anarchists and ivy leaguers. Though oftentimes they could not believe their own ears, they were relieved to hear something positive. More than this I believe they were thrilled to learn something about Afghanistan that felt real. Americans know they have been kept in the dark, they know that they are spoon fed specific information that either is meant to please their own desires, those of corporate owners, sell the news or regurgitate and otherwise perpetuate the propaganda of those in power. They shrug their shoulders when news of another fraud comes to light, or even when the one shining lantern held up by millions as a banner of goodwill and wisdom by the West toward the East, Greg Mortenson, turns out to be more than an unbelievable story. While visiting with Americans I again had hope for America, because they yearn the truth. That is why I kept moving, kept scheduling engagements. I never said no, because on every occasion that I was not engaged in discourse with people, a great suffocation would creep into my chest and my throat, the suffocation that comes from the sense that at every turn, at the gas pump, in the grocery store, walking the streets, at the theater and even driving alone in my car I am being groomed, like a sheep, to see the world a certain way, to focus on insidious things, to blur the truth and feed my habits. I do not believe I am resilient enough to live in America anymore. I’d become an alcoholic so fast I’d be in jail or a treatment center or dead inside of a year. There is no boss I’d be able to tolerate, no system, because it would seem to me the same system that produced Dr. Frankenstein. I would only survive by travelling around and around the country, standing up on a box, playing a simple tune on my cittern, telling a few stories and listening to the stories of others.
Ultimately, for me to comment on bin Laden and the drawdown of forces, for me to focus on only these relatively miniscule and most politically motivated of actions as if they mean something to the average Afghan would be disingenuous. I write these words because to be silent about the truth is to contribute to the lies. So what can be done? Here I may answer:
The forces for real change, for true democracy and secularism within Afghanistan must be recognized, not ostracized, trivialized and otherwise treated like naïve children because they don’t always say what we want to hear. They must be supported and empowered. Simultaneously, we (poets, journalists, state departments, business people, celebrities, and dare I say political leaders) must hold the spotlight of truth upon the criminals in power, a light so unflinching and so bright as to force them to cower, to cease and desist. It must be held repeatedly over time, as if it will never retire, and every lie launched to repel this light must also be de-masked. Then would the criminals eventually step aside, maybe sooner than we think, because ultimately their survival depends upon foreign money, foreign rulers, and in the final analysis they must abide by the pretense of “democracy” that supposedly laid their foundation and is even written into their checkered and contradictory Constitution. There are not many different ways to interpret “The citizens of Afghanistan – whether man or woman – have equal rights and duties before the law” (Article 22) and “The state shall abide by the UN charter, international treaties, international conventions that Afghanistan has signed, and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights” (Article 7). Not to worry that it is all erased by those who presently define Islamic Law (Article 3 says: “In Afghanistan, no law can be contrary to the beliefs and provisions of the sacred religion of Islam.”) Eventually, the Light would demand that real justices be placed on the bench, whereupon an analysis by true scholars of Islamic Law would not find contradiction with the laws of equality repeatedly entered into the Constitution, thereby forcing extreme fundamentalists to either reform their religion or disburse into obscurity. Eventually, the mullahs will beg for secularism, to be unencumbered by government. This achieved, because their entire façade is based on their hijacking of Islam, the exposed warlords would then run for the hills to save their skins, and some would even be plucked to stand before a tribunal, and answer to the survivors of their murderous, sadistic deeds. Then, finally, law and order can be achieved.
The way toward peace and prosperity exists. Most everyone agrees it begins with security, but the fact is there will be no security while the house of power is rotten, and this rotten house will remain as long as the world continues to prop it up in order to avoid the embarrassment of looking beneath the paint. It does not have to be complete demolition, though there are those who say the rot is too extensive. Whatever the case, demolition or extraction, what follows will be true reconstruction; a hydroelectric plant, an agricultural revitalization program, and a coat factory using cotton that once grew like poppies do today. Then will come the real nation builders, extraction of oil, iron and copper in the north, uranium in the south, lithium and gems in the east. There is no other way out, unless the world once again can live with deserting this house, as if it were only a dark memory, a place we would just as soon forget, like an old plantation collapsing into the dust. The story can be turned around and the house saved, but there is one first step to be taken if we are to win success, and that is the illumination of the truth.
And who are we to ultimately place our trust and resources in, to usher and supervise this way toward peace and prosperity? Take a look around. The children are growing up fast, and they represent the majority by a tremendously wide margin. If we stop killing them, stop condemning them to homelessness and angry, narrow-minded ideologues, if we give them love, community, education and equip them properly, they will lead the way.
This is what the world can do for Afghanistan, and Afghans will take care of the rest.
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