Kabuli Wala

They ask for 250 Afghani (Afghan currency)
You bargain for 100 Afghani.
They agree on 150, you go!

Taking a taxi in Afghanistan is much like buying carpets in Karachi. Somehow the driver and commuter both know the price they will agree upon. One bright morning, looking for a taxi, we met Rehmat who had grey hair, a short beard and a warm heart. Rehmat was the epitome of optimism. “Wherever you find yourself in Kabul, give me a call. I will meet you in the next 10 minutes.” Rehmat upheld his end of the agreement till the last day of our stay in Kabul. “But please don’t call me after the Maghrib prayers. For that is when I am with my family.” I saved his number as Kabuli Wala. Whenever we called he arrived with an energy drink – widely consumed in Kabul – for me and naswaar for my cameraperson.

Kabuli Wala would help us persuade locals and Taliban to let us interview them. He would happily hold camera lights for us, in fact, would also turn on his mobile torch to add some light, just in case. His hospitality towards us was without greed for money or any favour. From the hustle and bustle of Sara-i-Shehzada where money changers and launderers were to be found on narrow footpaths and inside a three-storey building, to the largest prison of Afghanistan Pul-i-Charkhi which has since been emptied; from the flower scented Gul Faroshi street to Shar’a-i-Nau that leads to the presidential palace; from Kabul’s famed Chicken Street that offers gemstones and antiques and was hugely popular in the 1960s and ’70s among Hippie Trails visitors to Wazir Akber Khan Road which is named after the 19th Century Afghan chief and home to many diplomatic missions, Kabuli Wala was our constant guide. I never heard a ‘no’ from him except on the last day when I hugged him to bid farewell and tried to drop a tiny sum of money in his pocket. That was the only time he said ‘no’ to me. There were tears in his eyes. I was left embarrassed and speechless.

I wish to meet our Kabuliwala again.

The cost of war

Frantz Fanon says in his masterpiece, The Wretched of the Earth, “National liberation, national renaissance, the restoration of nationhood to the people, commonwealth: whatever maybe the headings used or formulas introduced, decolonisation is always a violent phenomenon.” The history of Afghanistan has been marred by intrusions and withdrawals. They say if you want to assess the real consequences of war go to the hospital(s) rather than the battlefield. Our team was given exclusive access to the physical rehabilitation centre of the Red Cross (ICRC) in Kabul. Only three people there at the time could walk using both their legs, I, Fazl Hussain and Alberto, the director of the facility.

“Providing artificial limbs is not an issue. The real issue is getting the wounded back to life. With a limb they lose a part of their mind, psyche and their self. The trauma of losing an organ can kill you faster than the wound”, said Italian-born Alberto who has seen five regime changes in Afghanistan. Alberto is fond of reading literature, especially George Orwell and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I could see hope and despair on his face at the same time. While we talked, his staff kept reminding him about the food shortages. They said they had enough artificial limbs for the patients but not enough meals.

Inside the facility I saw many Taliban officials, Afghan Army personnel, police and fighters from the north of Afghanistan. Those who had fought against each other were now lying side by side. “Disability flattens all differences”, said Alberto.

All wars in Afghanistan have been ruthless. None was spared. Alberto introduced us to an elderly man covering his face with a Pashtun cap. He had fought with the Northern Alliance in the ’80s and twice stepped on a landmine. Lucky to survive on both occasions, he had lost both his legs, arms and an eye. He refused to talk to us and said something in Dari that a worker refused to translate. We knew he despised us and moved on.

“They (Afghans) are very strong, more than anyone might think of,” said an official. Some of the officials told us that previously they used to engage female patients with sports activities like basketball and football as their physiotherapy but these sporting activities were halted by the new regime in Kabul.

The prison break

A few days before we left Afghanistan, we decided to take a calculated risk and visit the largest prison of the country, Pul-i-Charkhi. Our request for permission was turned down by the Emirati Ministry. Concrete blocks were laid all the way to the gate of the prison, ending at the one kilometre-long barricaded boundary wall with a thick iron barrier which is balanced by weights on one of its edges. Before our car stopped, a thin-man carrying an AK47, wearing a turban and a waistcoat over his shalwar qamees approached.

I saw many Taliban officials, Afghan Army personnel, police and fighters from the north of Afghanistan. Many who had fought against each other were now lying side by side. “Disability flattens all differences”, said Alberto.

“Shakl say lagta hai sarhad paaar kay ho” (You look like you are from across the border), he said with a smirk.

“Lagta hai aap bhi aatay jatay rahay hein” (It seems like you’ve been to the other side as well), I said.

We both laughed.

“Long story”, I realised that he was the only one who was going to get answers to his questions.

“Will you let us do our final story in Kabul?” I tried to take advantage of the congeniality.

“You are smart… but a little impatient as well,” he quipped. I knew then who was in charge.

“Why don’t you use this wireless set and ask the emir, else we return,” finally my cameraperson Fazl interrupted.

After almost an hour, he walked towards our car. The Kabuliwala was restless with excitement.

“Get off the car,” the man signalled.

“At least you can let us leave without further bother,” I started.

“Shut up. You are going inside,” he said. For the first time, I didn’t mind the words.

Behind the walls, the place seemed as vast as the distance from Kabul to Pul-i-Charkhi. The roads are snaked by empty hangars and small blocks of two-storey buildings. Under a shade outside the Administration Block, the prison in charge was waiting for us along with at least a dozen people. We were asked to sit in front of him.

“Talk to me and no one else here,” the emir directed. He was signing some papers. “When the prison break came, there were around 10,000 prisoners here. The previous administration had burnt the record room down. That is enough information for you. While I sign these documents, you do the coverage. Do not leave without having lunch with us,” he said.

Taliban fighters who had once been imprisoned at Pul-i-Charkhi escorted us to take a look at the empty prison cells. The smallest cell was 4x2 feet and the largest almost half of a squash court. Washrooms were not separated. Instead, there was a ground-leveled toilet seat within each cell. No wonder there was a stench and it was hard to breathe. Touching the iron bars of cells, as we walked past, our escorts recalled the tales of torture they had been through.

“They used to drag us by our hair. Then they would shave our heads and beards. There was no mercy. Is that in accordance with International Law, let alone Islamic Law?” said one, his eyes turning red.

Fire in the ashes

Alarm clocks have almost always failed to work for me. The boisterous knock on the apartment door, however, was more than enough to raise me. I was still in bed and felt almost paralysed. The door opened with a bang; in came Fazl.

“We are late. The driver showed up an hour ago,” he said.

“Fine. But you didn’t have to shout. I almost had a heart attack,” I protested

One my way back, I made a call to the Ministry of Information again asking for access to the Pul-i-Charkhi prison. I was told no media had made it there. I finally told him that I had. The call was disconnected without a response. Kabul has changed. One suspects, however, that there’s still a fire smouldering under the ashes.

— Concluded.

The writer is a Geo TV broadcast journalist