by Ken Gibbs
The year was 1988. The war between the Afghans and the occupying Russians was drawing to a close and the United Nations was anxious to know what sort of assistance would be required as soon as the Russians finally withdrew. It was reasoned that a first-hand look would be the best way in which to assess the most urgent needs and Prince Salahaddin was asked to co-ordinate an undertaking that became know as Operation Salaam to gather information from inside and all over Afghanistan.
Six groups were set up to visit various different areas – all of them being guided by the Mujahedeen. One of the groups crossed the country from east to west travelling on mules. For whatever reason, I was included in a group which was given the task of visiting the area around and to the west of Assadabad, some 50km north of Jalalabad in the east of the country.
Setting up the visit was cloaked in secrecy since we were uncertain whether the Russians would wish to target us if they got to hear exactly where we intended going. When we arrived in Peshawar, I immediately went to the local UNICEF office since it was expected of me to check in with my colleague, Nazar Memon. After all, we were both heads of sub-offices and had known each other for some considerable time. We even were able to compare notes about drug smuggling by local UN staff – but that is another story, for another time.
Nazar was somewhat surprised to see me since he had not been forewarned but, being the calm sort of person he was, asked for how long I would be staying – and what was I doing there anyway ?
“Well, er, you see it’s like this,” I started, “but I’m actually not allowed to tell you nor anyone why I’m here. You don’t even see me!”
Nazar’s face showed that his mind was racing, and you could almost hear his thinking, “Perhaps it’s an audit ?” or “He’s undertaking an investigation of fraud” or something similar. But he hardly missed a beat and said, “Is there anything I can do for you ? Book a hotel, or arrange your flight back to Quetta?”
“Well actually yes, Nazar, there is one thing you can do for me – let me have a car without driver.”
He blinked. Luckily we go back a long way the two of us, so he just said, “OK, but do me one favour. When you have finished with it, just tell me where it is and where I can find the keys for it. Still in running condition, for preference !” He didn’t even ask for how long I would need it nor where I was likely to be going with it. Now there’s trust for you.
Food. What we really needed was food because little or nothing was going into Afghanistan; there were – we believed – very few people there; and we had heard that the Russians or collaborators had been implementing a policy of scorched earth. If we were to be the guests of the Mujahedeen, we did not want to use what little food they had to feed us. What we didn’t use, we would leave behind – so we bought heavily. As far as other necessities were concerned, as we would be working with people who had limited access to hot and cold running water, scented soaps and shampoo came very low on the list.
Pharmaceuticals ? We asked but were told that beyond headache pills and anti-diarrhoeals we probably wouldn’t be there long enough to warrant taking a huge medicine chest. “What if one of us steps on a mine inadvertently ?”
“Well, the Afghans have a way of dealing with that, and they all have it.” We were perplexed at this reply until it was noted that the opium poppy grew widely and opium was used by many people. When they received a mine injury, they used opium and took the person out to Pakistan or Iran immediately for medical attention. So, that solved that potential problem ! Most reassuring.
It only remained to obtain something to keep one warm. The custom was to wear a cloak made of a rectangular material which is wrapped around and the excess tossed over the shoulder. In Pakistan, some excellent woollen cloth is produced so I thought to kill two birds with one stone, as it were. I would buy a cloth which would be warm and useful as camouflage – to lie under if we were attacked from the air - and would have the material made up into a sports coat on return. Assuming we returned, that is.
We had radio equipment with us but did not test it for fear of alerting people to what we were about to do. So, after a final check that we had all the basic necessities, I abandoned the car at the main hotel and left an envelope with a note and keys in it for delivery to Nazar a day or two later, and we set off with three other UN cars heading for the tribal areas on the Pakistan – Afghan border just south of Chitral. We would have liked to take the cars with us but had been advised that a) they were far too visible and b) the only access to Assadabad was through an un-swept minefield.
Most encouraging that. If the cars couldn’t, then could we. . . . . . ?
There were seven expatriates in the group made up of a range of nationalities from Europe and Asia. Rather embarrassingly, there were three British nationals in the group. It should be noted that these staff all came from different UN agencies and had been selected for their specific expertise so that a broad picture could be built of conditions in the area covering health, food, security, transport, industry and so on.
Travelling through one of the towns in the tribal areas made us think that we were passing the local arsenal. Every different type of gun from AK47s to Bofors heavy machine guns was on display and for sale. It seems that gun making is the primary source of income in this area. It is said that they can copy any gun in the world so well that you will be unable to tell the difference between the copy and the original. Until you fire it, that is. Some of the steels used, leave something to be desired.
Soon we began to climb steeply with mountains seeming to tower above us. The roads were very poor – naturally, since road making equipment is never seen in this area. Eventually, we reached a small plateau just below a shoulder with a view into Afghanistan. There seemed to be quite a lot of people here whom we assumed were to meet us. Our egos were a little dented when we were told that they had nothing to do with us, it was a major point of entry and this is where people tended to meet with each other. Naturally, with a group of foreigners, some interest was aroused but they were told nothing so it was assumed that we were there to meet a group coming out of Afghanistan.
After hurried farewells to our drivers and ‘external’ co-ordinator who said we should get back within five days if at all possible, but we should speak on the radio at least once a day, we then set off down the steep sided ravine into Afghanistan.
Afghanistan at last! I breathed the fresh air deeply savouring the moment I had anticipated for many years, my first impressions of a country so steeped in turbulent history. The surroundings were grand enough to fit my mental picture of this fabled land, and I could see many miles away, mountains that rose far higher, leading into Nuristan or what was once called Kaffiristan, the Land of the Unbelievers. What good fortune to have been picked for this trip !
In fact there was a reasonable road to follow and we wondered again if it would not have been possible to have brought the cars with us. It would have made the trip so much quicker. I asked our main guide who was imaginatively named ‘Engineer’ (Mohandes in Dari) what the condition of the roads was like ahead of us to which he replied, “Just wait and see for yourself.”
After well over an hour of hard walking, the mountainside gave way to a gentler incline and ‘Engineer’ called a short halt for a rest. As we were all carrying everything we needed including the heavy radio, the rest was welcomed. Just before we were to start again, ‘Engineer’ said that we were about to enter the minefield and would we kindly keep to the path and avoid any circles of stones which mark the position of an unexploded mine ? Thank you. We didn’t need to be told a second time.
Later, we asked how they knew that the path was safe ? “Well,” said ‘Engineer’, “we drive the animals through the minefield ahead of us. Those that don’t make it are eaten as kebabs, but we do have to be careful to avoid the bits of shrapnel. . . .”
As the road became level at last, we found ourselves in what had been an agricultural plain in a flat wide valley of the Kunar River which stretched from Jalalabad to Assadabad, a distance of some 50 kms. One could still see where the irrigation channels had led water from the river to the fields but here, nothing cultivated grew. I asked ‘Engineer’ why there were no crops at all here in an area which potentially could produce a huge harvest ?
“All the men are off fighting the war, and the women are either in the high mountains or are in the camps. Besides, the Russians used to sew mines in the channels so when we came to do the annual cleanout. . . . .” His voice trailed away as if he could still see some of his friends who had been caught this way.
We walked in silence for some way before we reached the bridge over the river. On one side there was a tank, derelict; no doubt the victim of action some time before as rust seemed to have won the day. The surprise was that the bridge had been left intact. Perhaps the Russians had needed it for a strategic withdrawal. Whatever the case, it was a welcome sight not to have to consider swimming the river or crossing on a makeshift raft.
I had bought some second hand German-made boots in Quetta some weeks before and I was beginning to realise that I had done the right thing. We were going to have to walk a long way, and having stout footwear was going to be useful. Not only do armies march on their boots but so, too, do United Nations staff !
Assadabad was some 5 hours’ walk from the border crossing and we had some way still to go. Shortly, the road entered a wooded area with leaves almost all fallen from the trees. Through them we saw a building which looked to be of some former industry and I asked ‘Engineer’ what this might have been?
“A timber mill,” was his reply. We decided to investigate on the basis that after the war, anything that could provide employment should be noted since it represented a resource.
The technology levels recalled Britain in the late 19th century. Machines were driven by unprotected belts and one could envisage some horrifying accidents as a result. No matter, the place was still apparently productive as we saw recently sawn timber and some carpentry going on. It was only when we passed the carpenters and entered the stock-yard that we saw what the sole product was – wooden coffins. It was a stark reminder that the war had been – and still was – very costly in lives.
Considerably sobered by the sight of the stacks of coffins, we moved back on to the road towards Assadabad. From memory, the entry into the town was over a bridge which crossed a river, on the far side of which was a flat area in which a number of white flags on long sticks were fluttering. I asked ‘Engineer’ what the significance of these flags was. The story he told will remain with me for the rest of my life.
It appears that the war with the Russians started in this area and, after a number of skirmishes, a meeting was called by them to discuss what they required of the people. Specifically, all those with some qualifications were singled out since they were informed that special plans had been made for them. They were called together in this flat area beside the bridge and, when they had all gathered, they were machine-gunned and all killed. Then the bulldozers dug a large pit into which all the bodies were shovelled, and the grave was then covered over. The sole testament to their existence was the collection of white flags, fluttering.
With war crimes tribunals already sitting in judgement on events in Srebrenica, Bosnia, one wonders when and if the same will happen over events those many years before in Assadabad?
As we had some time available in the afternoon, our hosts decided that we should travel some miles north of Assadabad towards the Chitral Valley which lies right on the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan. I wondered if we would see some overactive goitres since there is a serious iodine deficiency in Chitral.
Our hosts had managed to steal a Russian Jeep from somewhere and we were bundled into it and we motored north, hoping that the roads had been cleared of mines. We had travelled many kilometres when the inevitable happened – something dropped out of the drive shaft and the Jeep stopped. What was needed was a six-inch nail or some number-8 wire, but in war torn Afghanistan, such items were at a premium and certainly not available where we were broken down. We would have to walk back. Well, we had come to walk and if we had to start early, so be it !
It was getting dark and we had a long way to walk – and we had no food with us. Well, we reasoned, the Afghans had done without food for some considerable period, we could go without for a few hours without complaining. So, we got on with the job and we walked.
‘Engineer’ let slip little bits of information and the more he said, the more I wanted to hear. Being the curious type myself, and having heard of the huge numbers of Afghan men who had been killed or simply disappeared, I asked ‘Engineer’ how the authorities would cope after the war with so many widows and orphans. His reply was so simple and so devastating that I had to admire the total faith he had in Islam as a way of life. He said that after the war, the authorities – probably with the Mosque playing a leading role – would decide which able-bodied men would take two wives; which would take three wives; and which, four. The number of wives and children that each would take would depend on the man’s ability to provide for them. He, himself, expected to be allocated at least one more wife because even though he was relatively secure, he was no longer very young.
After we had been walking for about two hours in the dark, 'Engineer' made a surprising remark. He mentioned that we were walking where there had been a fierce battle as the Russians were withdrawing, some months before, and the Mujahedeen had come across a group of Afghans who had become soldiers for the Russians. The Mujahedeen had shot them and left them where they were because, as ‘Engineer’ said, burial was too good for them. Coming from such an apparently mild mannered man, this was shocking. He then quietly asked if I wanted to see ‘them’.
Perhaps I thought I had misheard what he had said; or perhaps I simply wasn’t thinking at all, but I said, “OK. Why not?”
'Engineer' led the way a few yards into the grass until we came to a small clearing and there, lying side by side were the bodies of four men, still fully dressed in combat uniforms and with their boots on. Wisps of hair lay beside each of their heads – but the skeletons were completely stripped of all flesh. The carrion eaters – vultures, crows, foxes and rats had done their work. I wondered how many times this scene had been and would be repeated across the land as revenge was taken. Cambodia was not the only place with Killing Fields, it seemed.
We continued on our way, considerably shaken. After about an hour, 'Engineer' asked us to be quiet and wait while he went ahead to alert some guards on the road of our presence. He disappeared into the night and reappeared about ten minutes later saying that we had been invited to meet the guards. We were taken into a bunker some 20 metres off the road where it was a lot warmer than it had been outside.
Not knowing what to expect, we were quiet and sat where it was indicated we should. On our behalf, 'Engineer' accepted tea but when we were offered nan (the unleavened bread typical of this area), we declined since we knew that it was probably their only food. Custom demanded that they offer it not once, but at least twice. We declined as graciously as we could, through 'Engineer'. Tea, however, you never decline and dutifully – and I have to say very thankfully as I was cold and needed something – I said my simple thank you. There was a slight pause and I was unsure why but didn’t make any further comment. When my FAO colleague who stands a shade over 2 metres tall, and who speaks Pharsi most fluently, was handed his tea, he simply said, “Daste shoma dard nakone” which is an old-fashioned and very formal way of saying thank you.
Immediately, the atmosphere was electric. One of the Mujahedeen tentatively asked what he had said and he repeated it. “You speak Pharsi ?” he was asked. “A little,” he replied; and then the flood gates opened. He was asked where he had learned it; and why he spoke it so well. A foreigner who speaks any Pharsi or Dari is a real curiosity; but one who speaks it as well as Anthony did, a great rarity. Everyone seemed to speak at the same time and it seemed as if we were going to spend the whole night chattering away. Anthony caused even more comment when he challenged the Mujahedeen to name the last six Afghan monarchs in the correct order. None could – but Anthony could and could even give the precise dates of their respective reigns. We were only let go finally with considerable reluctance and many invitations to return at any time.
We reached our lodgings – if such they could be called because we slept on the concrete floor – at about midnight; but there were some tins of fruit and some nan left over for us, all of which tasted like nectar. We slept the sleep of the weary that night, concrete floor notwithstanding.
Next morning we were woken early by the mullah calling the faithful to prayer and, after a simple breakfast of some biscuits and tea, we considered our next steps. ‘Engineer’ wanted to show us where the very first hostilities of the war had taken place and, as they were around 30km up the Pech Valley towards Nuristan, and as we would pass areas recently planted with winter wheat which were of very special interest to us, we decided that this was the road to follow.
However, we soon realised that three of our number had been struck down with violent diarrhoea and would be completely unable to travel so it was decided to leave one fit member with them, and the remaining three would press on up the Pech Valley. The three to walk the 60km up the valley and back were the three English members of the party who were – somewhat surprisingly with the reputation that the English have – the only ones able to communicate in Dari. We set off with our heavy rucksacks.
As we walked, we could hear fierce fighting taking place to the south. It had to be the battle for Jalalabad which was some 50 to 60km distant but the explosions were so big that the sound easily carried to us. At about mid-morning, we decided to make radio contact with our base in Islamabad and we set up the radio with directional aerials correctly oriented. We called and had an almost immediate response but to our dismay, after about 30 seconds, our transmission was totally jammed. Obviously, the Russians had been monitoring our frequency and wished us to know that they were listening to us. We put the radio away.
The road appeared generally to be passable for four-wheel-drive vehicles though some serious repair work was also needed in places. On our left ran the Pech River, crystal clear and when we could get down to it, very cold indeed. Many irrigation channels led off from the river but these were the sort of channels which had had mines sewn in them. Wheat had been sown and was sprouting healthily. Where we saw people working in the fields, they had a very wary aspect about them as if they expected a Russian jet plane to roar down the valley at any moment. They needn’t have worried; the Mujahedeen had set up a large calibre machine gun at the entrance to the valley and they used it whenever a plane came into view irrespective of how far away it was. We liked to think that this was in our honour.
At lunch-time, 'Engineer' asked us to take a break. This was a signal that he and the two guides who had joined us, wanted to pray. We retired behind some rocks, thankful for the rest.
As the ten minute prayer break ended, so the shooting started. We dived for cover and wondered who was shooting at whom as we had heard nothing untoward. The shooting continued and we could see a small rock on the opposite bank dancing as it was hit time and again. Our supplicants were having some target practice ! So this is where the saying comes from, “Praise the Lord and pass the gunpowder !”
We reached our destination at close to dusk and met more Mujahedeen who were delighted that a group of foreigners were willing to walk all this way to see how their land had suffered. We were taken to a building which had seen considerably better days and given some food. Later, and better still, I was given a rope bed on which to sleep and I slept the sleep of the innocent.
Next morning, we looked at what was left of the infrastructure that had graced the area. Without labouring the point, I found little to photograph since the place looked like parts of the Somme. In places, trees still stood – leafless, dead, and mourning what had been. It has to be remembered that the devastation took place close to ten years before, and the whole population must have made a mass exodus.
We thanked our hosts and promised that what we had seen would be told to those outside Afghanistan, though we privately wondered who would be sufficiently interested to do anything about it.
By now, my Achilles tendons were protesting; the haversack must have weighed around 30kgs and I was not as fit as I should have been. Still, we had off-loaded quite a lot of tins this morning as a way of saying thank you and so I concentrated on how might lighter it was than it had been.
As we walked, conversation flagged. We had lost our two guides so it was just we three foreigners and 'Engineer'. Some people walking in the same direction as we were, were very curious about who we were and what we had come to do but 'Engineer' had had enough by then. He either said nothing or answered them with an oblique question of his own about them and what were they doing so far from home ? A small and wizened man carrying what seemed to be a totem pole came alongside and didn’t ask about us but simply said that it was a wonderful day – there was no fighting going on. This mollified 'Engineer' enough for him to chat and it seemed that the ‘totem pole’ was in fact a Nuristani door post, ornately carved and very old which the old man wanted to carry to Pakistan to sell. They had no crops; they had nothing else to sell and while it had been in their family for generations, he felt that it served the family better to survive than die looking at a piece of wood. Very sound logic, it seemed to us, but sad to see an inheritance having to go this way.
We arrived back in Assadabad very, very footsore and very, very weary but with a good impression of the state of agriculture in the area and of the total lack of infrastructure.
Our colleagues seemed to have overcome the worst aspects of their infection and we were asked to investigate something which they, without any language, had been unable to understand. It appeared that the cook had been anxious to explain to them something of which he was inordinately proud. We asked him what it was ? He brought out his Tommy gun and asked us if we had seen the label on it ? No, we hadn’t seen it so we looked carefully at it. It was a self adhesive label, blue and gold, and it proclaimed proudly that it was supplied by The United Nations Development Program – he had obviously taken it off some piece of equipment in a Government Office which had been supported by UNDP, and stuck it on his gun. I still have a photograph of it.
Despite having been in Afghanistan for less than four full days, we felt that we had the information which we had come to collect. We could comment on the condition of the roads; of at least two major access bridges; of some potential local industries; we had seen roughly what percentage of the available irrigable area had been planted and what was the condition of the crop; we had seen some potential storage facilities for food and what would be required to secure them. What we had NOT seen was a single child under the age of twelve, nor had we seen a single woman. Despite there undoubtedly being cases of iodine deficiency, we saw no goitres. There were no functioning schools. There were no functioning clinics. Local administration took place out of bombed out buildings, and the Mosque was the only place which had seen repairs – the Jihad was a formidable force.
The Russians had been driven out of the Kunar Valley; their tanks had been destroyed; their troops evacuated hurriedly on foot, by truck or in coffins. They had attempted a scorched earth policy but found it ineffective because they had not bargained for the determination of a people whose faith was simple and steadfast.
We set out next morning having alerted our office by radio of the time to meet us and, with very much lighter loads – we shed all our food which our hosts said they couldn’t possibly take from us because we might go hungry (as custom demanded), but we went through the motions saying that the accommodation was the most comfortable we had ever had the good fortune to use and this was a paltry way of trying to say thank you. With honour satisfied on both sides, the food disappeared in a flash and we wished we had been able to carry even more.
The climb out of the Kunar Valley was agony. My Achilles tendons had decided they had had enough and they went on strike. Luckily, we had a few young men with us ‘to show us the way’ and they were more than happy to carry my rucksack which is probably why I was able to make it over the shoulder into Pakistan. I didn’t enquire of the others lest they were in a worse shape then me; but it was obvious that we were all relieved not to have to walk further. Our guides put our luggage into the cars and, following a protracted and formal farewell which included invitations to return as soon as possible, they romped off as if they were ready to run a full marathon.
We drove straight to Islamabad and two of us sat down and wrote our report to Prince Salahaddin which was in his hands less than 24 hours after our exit from Afghanistan despite there being no e-mail at the time. It was entitled, “100 hours in Afghanistan”.
The report was well received since it provided a window on a part of Afghanistan in language which the UN could understand, and which gave a good basis for planning for the eventual Russian withdrawal from the country. In fact, it was felt so valuable that immediate plans were developed for another mission to be mounted to an area north of Kandahar. This time, it would be a joint UNHCR – UNICEF mission looking at the logistics of placing food to support the mass repatriation of Afghan refugees to that area. I was asked to lead the group and it was to be motorised this time to make it quicker and to test the road system. With a day or two to go before the mission was to leave Quetta which is where it was to be launched, the snow started on the passes into Afghanistan. By the time we should have left, the snow was metres deep already and there was no way we could have passed without the use of helicopters – so it was abandoned. I was then transferred to Viet Nam.
Six groups were set up to visit various different areas – all of them being guided by the Mujahedeen. One of the groups crossed the country from east to west travelling on mules. For whatever reason, I was included in a group which was given the task of visiting the area around and to the west of Assadabad, some 50km north of Jalalabad in the east of the country.
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| Our cook in Assadabad - read on for details of the gun |
Nazar was somewhat surprised to see me since he had not been forewarned but, being the calm sort of person he was, asked for how long I would be staying – and what was I doing there anyway ?
“Well, er, you see it’s like this,” I started, “but I’m actually not allowed to tell you nor anyone why I’m here. You don’t even see me!”
Nazar’s face showed that his mind was racing, and you could almost hear his thinking, “Perhaps it’s an audit ?” or “He’s undertaking an investigation of fraud” or something similar. But he hardly missed a beat and said, “Is there anything I can do for you ? Book a hotel, or arrange your flight back to Quetta?”
“Well actually yes, Nazar, there is one thing you can do for me – let me have a car without driver.”
He blinked. Luckily we go back a long way the two of us, so he just said, “OK, but do me one favour. When you have finished with it, just tell me where it is and where I can find the keys for it. Still in running condition, for preference !” He didn’t even ask for how long I would need it nor where I was likely to be going with it. Now there’s trust for you.
Food. What we really needed was food because little or nothing was going into Afghanistan; there were – we believed – very few people there; and we had heard that the Russians or collaborators had been implementing a policy of scorched earth. If we were to be the guests of the Mujahedeen, we did not want to use what little food they had to feed us. What we didn’t use, we would leave behind – so we bought heavily. As far as other necessities were concerned, as we would be working with people who had limited access to hot and cold running water, scented soaps and shampoo came very low on the list.
Pharmaceuticals ? We asked but were told that beyond headache pills and anti-diarrhoeals we probably wouldn’t be there long enough to warrant taking a huge medicine chest. “What if one of us steps on a mine inadvertently ?”
“Well, the Afghans have a way of dealing with that, and they all have it.” We were perplexed at this reply until it was noted that the opium poppy grew widely and opium was used by many people. When they received a mine injury, they used opium and took the person out to Pakistan or Iran immediately for medical attention. So, that solved that potential problem ! Most reassuring.
It only remained to obtain something to keep one warm. The custom was to wear a cloak made of a rectangular material which is wrapped around and the excess tossed over the shoulder. In Pakistan, some excellent woollen cloth is produced so I thought to kill two birds with one stone, as it were. I would buy a cloth which would be warm and useful as camouflage – to lie under if we were attacked from the air - and would have the material made up into a sports coat on return. Assuming we returned, that is.
We had radio equipment with us but did not test it for fear of alerting people to what we were about to do. So, after a final check that we had all the basic necessities, I abandoned the car at the main hotel and left an envelope with a note and keys in it for delivery to Nazar a day or two later, and we set off with three other UN cars heading for the tribal areas on the Pakistan – Afghan border just south of Chitral. We would have liked to take the cars with us but had been advised that a) they were far too visible and b) the only access to Assadabad was through an un-swept minefield.
Most encouraging that. If the cars couldn’t, then could we. . . . . . ?
There were seven expatriates in the group made up of a range of nationalities from Europe and Asia. Rather embarrassingly, there were three British nationals in the group. It should be noted that these staff all came from different UN agencies and had been selected for their specific expertise so that a broad picture could be built of conditions in the area covering health, food, security, transport, industry and so on.
Travelling through one of the towns in the tribal areas made us think that we were passing the local arsenal. Every different type of gun from AK47s to Bofors heavy machine guns was on display and for sale. It seems that gun making is the primary source of income in this area. It is said that they can copy any gun in the world so well that you will be unable to tell the difference between the copy and the original. Until you fire it, that is. Some of the steels used, leave something to be desired.
Soon we began to climb steeply with mountains seeming to tower above us. The roads were very poor – naturally, since road making equipment is never seen in this area. Eventually, we reached a small plateau just below a shoulder with a view into Afghanistan. There seemed to be quite a lot of people here whom we assumed were to meet us. Our egos were a little dented when we were told that they had nothing to do with us, it was a major point of entry and this is where people tended to meet with each other. Naturally, with a group of foreigners, some interest was aroused but they were told nothing so it was assumed that we were there to meet a group coming out of Afghanistan.
After hurried farewells to our drivers and ‘external’ co-ordinator who said we should get back within five days if at all possible, but we should speak on the radio at least once a day, we then set off down the steep sided ravine into Afghanistan.
Afghanistan at last! I breathed the fresh air deeply savouring the moment I had anticipated for many years, my first impressions of a country so steeped in turbulent history. The surroundings were grand enough to fit my mental picture of this fabled land, and I could see many miles away, mountains that rose far higher, leading into Nuristan or what was once called Kaffiristan, the Land of the Unbelievers. What good fortune to have been picked for this trip !
In fact there was a reasonable road to follow and we wondered again if it would not have been possible to have brought the cars with us. It would have made the trip so much quicker. I asked our main guide who was imaginatively named ‘Engineer’ (Mohandes in Dari) what the condition of the roads was like ahead of us to which he replied, “Just wait and see for yourself.”
After well over an hour of hard walking, the mountainside gave way to a gentler incline and ‘Engineer’ called a short halt for a rest. As we were all carrying everything we needed including the heavy radio, the rest was welcomed. Just before we were to start again, ‘Engineer’ said that we were about to enter the minefield and would we kindly keep to the path and avoid any circles of stones which mark the position of an unexploded mine ? Thank you. We didn’t need to be told a second time.
Later, we asked how they knew that the path was safe ? “Well,” said ‘Engineer’, “we drive the animals through the minefield ahead of us. Those that don’t make it are eaten as kebabs, but we do have to be careful to avoid the bits of shrapnel. . . .”
As the road became level at last, we found ourselves in what had been an agricultural plain in a flat wide valley of the Kunar River which stretched from Jalalabad to Assadabad, a distance of some 50 kms. One could still see where the irrigation channels had led water from the river to the fields but here, nothing cultivated grew. I asked ‘Engineer’ why there were no crops at all here in an area which potentially could produce a huge harvest ?
“All the men are off fighting the war, and the women are either in the high mountains or are in the camps. Besides, the Russians used to sew mines in the channels so when we came to do the annual cleanout. . . . .” His voice trailed away as if he could still see some of his friends who had been caught this way.
We walked in silence for some way before we reached the bridge over the river. On one side there was a tank, derelict; no doubt the victim of action some time before as rust seemed to have won the day. The surprise was that the bridge had been left intact. Perhaps the Russians had needed it for a strategic withdrawal. Whatever the case, it was a welcome sight not to have to consider swimming the river or crossing on a makeshift raft.
I had bought some second hand German-made boots in Quetta some weeks before and I was beginning to realise that I had done the right thing. We were going to have to walk a long way, and having stout footwear was going to be useful. Not only do armies march on their boots but so, too, do United Nations staff !
Assadabad was some 5 hours’ walk from the border crossing and we had some way still to go. Shortly, the road entered a wooded area with leaves almost all fallen from the trees. Through them we saw a building which looked to be of some former industry and I asked ‘Engineer’ what this might have been?
“A timber mill,” was his reply. We decided to investigate on the basis that after the war, anything that could provide employment should be noted since it represented a resource.
The technology levels recalled Britain in the late 19th century. Machines were driven by unprotected belts and one could envisage some horrifying accidents as a result. No matter, the place was still apparently productive as we saw recently sawn timber and some carpentry going on. It was only when we passed the carpenters and entered the stock-yard that we saw what the sole product was – wooden coffins. It was a stark reminder that the war had been – and still was – very costly in lives.
Considerably sobered by the sight of the stacks of coffins, we moved back on to the road towards Assadabad. From memory, the entry into the town was over a bridge which crossed a river, on the far side of which was a flat area in which a number of white flags on long sticks were fluttering. I asked ‘Engineer’ what the significance of these flags was. The story he told will remain with me for the rest of my life.
It appears that the war with the Russians started in this area and, after a number of skirmishes, a meeting was called by them to discuss what they required of the people. Specifically, all those with some qualifications were singled out since they were informed that special plans had been made for them. They were called together in this flat area beside the bridge and, when they had all gathered, they were machine-gunned and all killed. Then the bulldozers dug a large pit into which all the bodies were shovelled, and the grave was then covered over. The sole testament to their existence was the collection of white flags, fluttering.
With war crimes tribunals already sitting in judgement on events in Srebrenica, Bosnia, one wonders when and if the same will happen over events those many years before in Assadabad?
*****
As we had some time available in the afternoon, our hosts decided that we should travel some miles north of Assadabad towards the Chitral Valley which lies right on the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan. I wondered if we would see some overactive goitres since there is a serious iodine deficiency in Chitral.
Our hosts had managed to steal a Russian Jeep from somewhere and we were bundled into it and we motored north, hoping that the roads had been cleared of mines. We had travelled many kilometres when the inevitable happened – something dropped out of the drive shaft and the Jeep stopped. What was needed was a six-inch nail or some number-8 wire, but in war torn Afghanistan, such items were at a premium and certainly not available where we were broken down. We would have to walk back. Well, we had come to walk and if we had to start early, so be it !
It was getting dark and we had a long way to walk – and we had no food with us. Well, we reasoned, the Afghans had done without food for some considerable period, we could go without for a few hours without complaining. So, we got on with the job and we walked.
‘Engineer’ let slip little bits of information and the more he said, the more I wanted to hear. Being the curious type myself, and having heard of the huge numbers of Afghan men who had been killed or simply disappeared, I asked ‘Engineer’ how the authorities would cope after the war with so many widows and orphans. His reply was so simple and so devastating that I had to admire the total faith he had in Islam as a way of life. He said that after the war, the authorities – probably with the Mosque playing a leading role – would decide which able-bodied men would take two wives; which would take three wives; and which, four. The number of wives and children that each would take would depend on the man’s ability to provide for them. He, himself, expected to be allocated at least one more wife because even though he was relatively secure, he was no longer very young.
After we had been walking for about two hours in the dark, 'Engineer' made a surprising remark. He mentioned that we were walking where there had been a fierce battle as the Russians were withdrawing, some months before, and the Mujahedeen had come across a group of Afghans who had become soldiers for the Russians. The Mujahedeen had shot them and left them where they were because, as ‘Engineer’ said, burial was too good for them. Coming from such an apparently mild mannered man, this was shocking. He then quietly asked if I wanted to see ‘them’.
Perhaps I thought I had misheard what he had said; or perhaps I simply wasn’t thinking at all, but I said, “OK. Why not?”
'Engineer' led the way a few yards into the grass until we came to a small clearing and there, lying side by side were the bodies of four men, still fully dressed in combat uniforms and with their boots on. Wisps of hair lay beside each of their heads – but the skeletons were completely stripped of all flesh. The carrion eaters – vultures, crows, foxes and rats had done their work. I wondered how many times this scene had been and would be repeated across the land as revenge was taken. Cambodia was not the only place with Killing Fields, it seemed.
We continued on our way, considerably shaken. After about an hour, 'Engineer' asked us to be quiet and wait while he went ahead to alert some guards on the road of our presence. He disappeared into the night and reappeared about ten minutes later saying that we had been invited to meet the guards. We were taken into a bunker some 20 metres off the road where it was a lot warmer than it had been outside.
Not knowing what to expect, we were quiet and sat where it was indicated we should. On our behalf, 'Engineer' accepted tea but when we were offered nan (the unleavened bread typical of this area), we declined since we knew that it was probably their only food. Custom demanded that they offer it not once, but at least twice. We declined as graciously as we could, through 'Engineer'. Tea, however, you never decline and dutifully – and I have to say very thankfully as I was cold and needed something – I said my simple thank you. There was a slight pause and I was unsure why but didn’t make any further comment. When my FAO colleague who stands a shade over 2 metres tall, and who speaks Pharsi most fluently, was handed his tea, he simply said, “Daste shoma dard nakone” which is an old-fashioned and very formal way of saying thank you.
Immediately, the atmosphere was electric. One of the Mujahedeen tentatively asked what he had said and he repeated it. “You speak Pharsi ?” he was asked. “A little,” he replied; and then the flood gates opened. He was asked where he had learned it; and why he spoke it so well. A foreigner who speaks any Pharsi or Dari is a real curiosity; but one who speaks it as well as Anthony did, a great rarity. Everyone seemed to speak at the same time and it seemed as if we were going to spend the whole night chattering away. Anthony caused even more comment when he challenged the Mujahedeen to name the last six Afghan monarchs in the correct order. None could – but Anthony could and could even give the precise dates of their respective reigns. We were only let go finally with considerable reluctance and many invitations to return at any time.
We reached our lodgings – if such they could be called because we slept on the concrete floor – at about midnight; but there were some tins of fruit and some nan left over for us, all of which tasted like nectar. We slept the sleep of the weary that night, concrete floor notwithstanding.
*****
Next morning we were woken early by the mullah calling the faithful to prayer and, after a simple breakfast of some biscuits and tea, we considered our next steps. ‘Engineer’ wanted to show us where the very first hostilities of the war had taken place and, as they were around 30km up the Pech Valley towards Nuristan, and as we would pass areas recently planted with winter wheat which were of very special interest to us, we decided that this was the road to follow.
However, we soon realised that three of our number had been struck down with violent diarrhoea and would be completely unable to travel so it was decided to leave one fit member with them, and the remaining three would press on up the Pech Valley. The three to walk the 60km up the valley and back were the three English members of the party who were – somewhat surprisingly with the reputation that the English have – the only ones able to communicate in Dari. We set off with our heavy rucksacks.
As we walked, we could hear fierce fighting taking place to the south. It had to be the battle for Jalalabad which was some 50 to 60km distant but the explosions were so big that the sound easily carried to us. At about mid-morning, we decided to make radio contact with our base in Islamabad and we set up the radio with directional aerials correctly oriented. We called and had an almost immediate response but to our dismay, after about 30 seconds, our transmission was totally jammed. Obviously, the Russians had been monitoring our frequency and wished us to know that they were listening to us. We put the radio away.
The road appeared generally to be passable for four-wheel-drive vehicles though some serious repair work was also needed in places. On our left ran the Pech River, crystal clear and when we could get down to it, very cold indeed. Many irrigation channels led off from the river but these were the sort of channels which had had mines sewn in them. Wheat had been sown and was sprouting healthily. Where we saw people working in the fields, they had a very wary aspect about them as if they expected a Russian jet plane to roar down the valley at any moment. They needn’t have worried; the Mujahedeen had set up a large calibre machine gun at the entrance to the valley and they used it whenever a plane came into view irrespective of how far away it was. We liked to think that this was in our honour.
At lunch-time, 'Engineer' asked us to take a break. This was a signal that he and the two guides who had joined us, wanted to pray. We retired behind some rocks, thankful for the rest.
As the ten minute prayer break ended, so the shooting started. We dived for cover and wondered who was shooting at whom as we had heard nothing untoward. The shooting continued and we could see a small rock on the opposite bank dancing as it was hit time and again. Our supplicants were having some target practice ! So this is where the saying comes from, “Praise the Lord and pass the gunpowder !”
We reached our destination at close to dusk and met more Mujahedeen who were delighted that a group of foreigners were willing to walk all this way to see how their land had suffered. We were taken to a building which had seen considerably better days and given some food. Later, and better still, I was given a rope bed on which to sleep and I slept the sleep of the innocent.
*****
Next morning, we looked at what was left of the infrastructure that had graced the area. Without labouring the point, I found little to photograph since the place looked like parts of the Somme. In places, trees still stood – leafless, dead, and mourning what had been. It has to be remembered that the devastation took place close to ten years before, and the whole population must have made a mass exodus.
We thanked our hosts and promised that what we had seen would be told to those outside Afghanistan, though we privately wondered who would be sufficiently interested to do anything about it.
By now, my Achilles tendons were protesting; the haversack must have weighed around 30kgs and I was not as fit as I should have been. Still, we had off-loaded quite a lot of tins this morning as a way of saying thank you and so I concentrated on how might lighter it was than it had been.
As we walked, conversation flagged. We had lost our two guides so it was just we three foreigners and 'Engineer'. Some people walking in the same direction as we were, were very curious about who we were and what we had come to do but 'Engineer' had had enough by then. He either said nothing or answered them with an oblique question of his own about them and what were they doing so far from home ? A small and wizened man carrying what seemed to be a totem pole came alongside and didn’t ask about us but simply said that it was a wonderful day – there was no fighting going on. This mollified 'Engineer' enough for him to chat and it seemed that the ‘totem pole’ was in fact a Nuristani door post, ornately carved and very old which the old man wanted to carry to Pakistan to sell. They had no crops; they had nothing else to sell and while it had been in their family for generations, he felt that it served the family better to survive than die looking at a piece of wood. Very sound logic, it seemed to us, but sad to see an inheritance having to go this way.
We arrived back in Assadabad very, very footsore and very, very weary but with a good impression of the state of agriculture in the area and of the total lack of infrastructure.
*****
 |
| The Tommy Gun |
Despite having been in Afghanistan for less than four full days, we felt that we had the information which we had come to collect. We could comment on the condition of the roads; of at least two major access bridges; of some potential local industries; we had seen roughly what percentage of the available irrigable area had been planted and what was the condition of the crop; we had seen some potential storage facilities for food and what would be required to secure them. What we had NOT seen was a single child under the age of twelve, nor had we seen a single woman. Despite there undoubtedly being cases of iodine deficiency, we saw no goitres. There were no functioning schools. There were no functioning clinics. Local administration took place out of bombed out buildings, and the Mosque was the only place which had seen repairs – the Jihad was a formidable force.
The Russians had been driven out of the Kunar Valley; their tanks had been destroyed; their troops evacuated hurriedly on foot, by truck or in coffins. They had attempted a scorched earth policy but found it ineffective because they had not bargained for the determination of a people whose faith was simple and steadfast.
*****
We set out next morning having alerted our office by radio of the time to meet us and, with very much lighter loads – we shed all our food which our hosts said they couldn’t possibly take from us because we might go hungry (as custom demanded), but we went through the motions saying that the accommodation was the most comfortable we had ever had the good fortune to use and this was a paltry way of trying to say thank you. With honour satisfied on both sides, the food disappeared in a flash and we wished we had been able to carry even more.
The climb out of the Kunar Valley was agony. My Achilles tendons had decided they had had enough and they went on strike. Luckily, we had a few young men with us ‘to show us the way’ and they were more than happy to carry my rucksack which is probably why I was able to make it over the shoulder into Pakistan. I didn’t enquire of the others lest they were in a worse shape then me; but it was obvious that we were all relieved not to have to walk further. Our guides put our luggage into the cars and, following a protracted and formal farewell which included invitations to return as soon as possible, they romped off as if they were ready to run a full marathon.
We drove straight to Islamabad and two of us sat down and wrote our report to Prince Salahaddin which was in his hands less than 24 hours after our exit from Afghanistan despite there being no e-mail at the time. It was entitled, “100 hours in Afghanistan”.
*****
The report was well received since it provided a window on a part of Afghanistan in language which the UN could understand, and which gave a good basis for planning for the eventual Russian withdrawal from the country. In fact, it was felt so valuable that immediate plans were developed for another mission to be mounted to an area north of Kandahar. This time, it would be a joint UNHCR – UNICEF mission looking at the logistics of placing food to support the mass repatriation of Afghan refugees to that area. I was asked to lead the group and it was to be motorised this time to make it quicker and to test the road system. With a day or two to go before the mission was to leave Quetta which is where it was to be launched, the snow started on the passes into Afghanistan. By the time we should have left, the snow was metres deep already and there was no way we could have passed without the use of helicopters – so it was abandoned. I was then transferred to Viet Nam.
Perhaps UNDSS should read this....
ReplyDeleteInteresting, Ken! Thanks for writing and sharing. I am struck by how our various experiences (Nuzhat, you, me, others) varied depending on the year(s) we served or were on mission in Afghanistan.
ReplyDeleteFascinating report. Thanks Ken.
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