An Afghanistan Picture Show: Or, How I Saved the World (28 page)

“So what do you do in the course of an interrogation?”

“Ah, interrogation is, as far as we are concerned, a very great major crime. To do the research, this is a police function—to find the
criminal, to bring him in for interrogation, and when they are brought for interrogation, then as a prosecution I determine my own vote on these people, and I send the vote and interrogate these people, in a very
human
way. After the completion of the case according to the realm of international law, we send the case to the Commissary. Whatever they like, they may perform in conjunction with the case. —I personally from the very beginning up to the last find this interesting, but if you have specific questions as far as you are concerned, please come up to my office and ask this question and I will show you the type of work: how we interrogate the people, how the accusation is delivered to the people and how their denial is accepted.”

“When can I come?”

“Anytime. Do come, and do ask for Dr. Judge Najib Said, the President of Investigation and Research.”

At the time I thought Dr. Said to be a very cruel man. Nowadays, I am happy or sad to say, if I were to meet Dr. Said I would scarcely give the possible cruelty of his occupation a thought. If there are Soviet informants among the Mujahideen, then they must be identified and killed. (But what if the Communists are not Communists at all? —Well, everyone makes mistakes.)

“So Gulbuddin kidnaps people?” the Young Man asked ingenuously.

“Yes, he kidnaps so many peoples here in Peshawar!” the man cried. —They were in Secretary-General Pizzarda’s office. Judge Dr. Said was there, too, but he was talking to someone else, so he did not take note of the interview. Both the Young Man and his informant kept turning to watch Dr. Said to make sure that he was still occupied. None of the other Mujahideen said anything. —“He kidnap last year one person in—Tribal Agency,” said the man quickly, “and last month he kidnap another person, then he killed him. Last month, he kidnap my brother, Dr. Abdul Sumad Durani; he was my brother! Now he—
refuse
him; he say, ‘I didn’t kidnap him,’ but we have some document: he kidnap, he catch … Police catch his vehicle in driveway.”

“Gulbuddin thought he was Communist?”

“No! He was not Communist; he was Muslim; he was Mujahid!” The man was weeping quietly. None of the other Mujahideen in the office said anything.

The Young Man tried again. “Why was he kidnapped?”

“He don’t like so many social person; he don’t like educated person here in Pakistan. You know? He don’t like.”

“My name is Habib Shah Alaquadar,” said the old man, standing straight and tall.
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“I am married. I am from Sayed Karam, in Paktiya Province. When Taraki came to power we started our jihad. At this time, my son, Dr. Abdul Sumad Durani, worked among the freedom fighters as a medical doctor. He took care of wounded people … After
we came to Peshawar, he founded the doctors’ union here. This union represented other medical unions from Italy, Germany, America and France. He was the representative and director of this medical union. He received medicine and other humanitarian help from America and other countries and took them inside Afghanistan for distribution among the people. But now Gulbuddin has kidnapped him! On May 25, at 12 p.m., he was taken away by Gulbuddin party members. We don’t know where he is now. He must be in one of Gulbuddin’s prisons. We have reported this incident to different authorities. We have told the Commissioner, and the police. But Abdullah, the Commissioner, is a supporter of Gulbuddin.”

As he talked, the old man unbuttoned his shirt and reached inside to show the Young Man his cartridge belt. His voice was firm and calm. “Dr. Sumad was not an ordinary man,” he said. “He was a leader. We Afghans have a custom of taking revenge. Gulbuddin has killed a leader of ours. We must kill one of their leaders. The leader that we must kill could be Gulbuddin himself, or Sayaf or another leader. About eighty percent of the freedom fighters in Pakistan belong to our party, and we are stronger than Gulbuddin.”

The Jamiat-i-Islami had two separate offices. The Young Man was always directed to the Political Office, which was right around the corner from the street by whose low white-brick wall a vendor of little red plums stood watching the Young Man, smiling without really smiling, a red cloth around his head; and his sons big and small stood holding plums and staring at the Young Man, and the vendor looked youngish except that his stubble on chin and chest was gray; and the Young Man bought a handful of plums, which were delicious, and then he turned that corner and strode into the central courtyard, where the young boy with the AK-47 would stop him. Then the Young Man had to wait until someone could identify him. Meanwhile the guard smiled, puffed
out his chest, and gestured that he wanted a photograph taken of him for the Afghanistan Picture Show. When the Young Man obliged, he beamed in delight. This happened every time.

Dr. Najibula
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(or Najib, as the Mujahideen called him) was a young-looking man with a black beard, piercing eyes and a high, clear voice. He had the Young Man over for supper several times. There were always young Mujahideen present at those occasions, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, polishing their Kalashnikovs (those who had them) and talking earnestly about the Panjsher situation. The
Roos
were trying to crush Masoud’s army that summer. They bombed clockwise, round and round the ring road; but always they singled out Panjsher Valley.

Jamiat-i-Islami had a strong presence in Panjsher.

At the end of the afternoon, when it came time to break fast, the Mujahideen washed themselves and prayed. Then they sat on the carpet and ate their vegetables and rice. There was one dish for every three or four men. You took your
dordai
and tore off a piece to scoop up food from the dish. (When the Young Man tried it, he usually spilled a little onto the floor.) After dinner everyone listened to Radio Afghanistan, the free station, and the only word that the Young Man could understand was “Panjsher,” “Panjsher,” “Panjsher.”

Sometimes when the Young Man was at the Jamiat-i-Islami he sat and listened to Professor Rabbani speak. Rabbani was a grave mullah with an iron-gray beard. He sat at a table and talked, and his followers sat motionless on the carpet and listened. The Young Man understood nothing. When there was a break, the Mujahideen smiled at the Young Man and teased him. They touched his shoulder. —“Afghanistan?” they said. —“Yes, yes,” the Young Man replied in Pushtu. “I go there, see Mujahideen fight the Roos.” —“You are white,” they laughed, “too white! When the
Roos
see you, you must say: ‘
Ya Nooristani; Pukhto na pwaygum.’
”
^a
And they all laughed. —But they did not really want him to accompany them. They thought him too young.

In his notebook he wrote such entries as:

But at least the Young Man could
interview
the Mujahideen to his heart’s content. He turned on his tape recorder in Dr. Najib’s office. —“I’ve met a number of people who seem to think that the Mujahideen are much less unified than they claim …”

Dr. Najib had the office cleared of other people. “First of all,” he said, “it is unfortunately true that there is not as much unity as we would like, but you might know that efforts are being brought about to make a new organization called Islamic Unity of Afghan Mujahideen.”

“Is there one organization by that name or two?”

There was a pause. —“Two,” said Najib finally. “But I’m talking about the
main
one, you see; and we are working together, and in a month or two this problem of unity will have been solved. About the other group, it is true that they have established propaganda against our organizations. It must be kept in mind also that the Russians have puppets and agents in this area, and they exaggerate our disunity.”

If a man were to switch political parties, he’d be killed. If my informant’s party were to find out that he told me this, he’d be killed.

T
he two of them were sitting out on the patio in lawn chairs. It was hot that day, and the General had turned on a large fan that at least moved the hot air around. Not even a grasshopper stirred.

“So you think their problem is that they’re not willing to compromise?” asked the Young Man.

“Well, they say they must get together. That is one of the first principles of Islam:
towhee
, oneness. Yet here they are. And there are nine of them, ten of them—all these groups! They ought to be making common cause to kick the Russians out. They are doing it, but individually.”

“Do you think it’s possible for them to stop kidnapping each other and so forth?”

“Traditionally we have a system,” the General said. “You and I are at daggers drawn, and our common well-wisher decides to intervene between us. He says: ‘All right, for two, three months there will be no killing, no kidnapping, no cursing.’ And it is honored. So the differences could be done away with for a limited period—up to six months.”

The Young Man shifted in his chair. “Well, will it happen in this case?”

“The saner elements are not there,” said the General. “The young fellows … Well, the saner elements are
inside
. Ninety percent of the fighting is going on inside Afghanistan by the people who are there. And those chaps who are over here, they are all very ambitious; they all want the chair. And as they are ambitious, they will probably not get together. I feel we should help the majority, the ones
inside
. They are starving. And they are fighting your war, my war, the war of the free world. And that help should be extended materially, economically, medically. Most of the fighting takes place May to September. The rest, Afghanistan is under all this snow. Afghanistan was never self-sufficient. And with the present circumstances, the Russians are there; they can’t do any cultivations. These winters are very hard. These winters are
very
hard. The Russians are so bloody stupid—or clever—that
they bombed their harvest and compelled them to beg food from them. So far, the common man has been rejecting these things from the Russians. Well, how long will he go on rejecting it?

“In Panjsher, the person who is fighting there, Masoud, he is paying his own men. He has a full-fledged army of two thousand people of his own. He’s a gemstone dealer: he sells his emeralds and rubies in the United States. You see, fighting inside has to be either on a tribal basis, with individual khanates, or else with those who can afford to wage the war. We must help them, not these bloody parties.”
^b