Afghanistan: Through the Keyhole of Baron Compound
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Afghanistan: Through the Keyhole of Baron Compound Manana Dumbadze Translated by Lela Abdushelishvili English version edited by Mary Ellen Chatwin Chapter 1 For the last month I’ve been living in Baron, a private hotel complex on the highway leading towards the Kabul Airport. Baron was constructed by a Kabul millionaire who rents it out to international organizations. The compound is surrounded by a high cement wall and electric barbed wire, making it detached from the outer world. In fact it resembles a modern prison. The Baron administration and the US Government euphemistically call it a “compound”. I call it a “corrections facility” with an intensive food supply and lots of recreation. By “corrections” I mean “improvement”—especially of one’s personal and household economic conditions. People join this facility voluntarily-- in fact they have to go through a number of competitions to be allowed in. Though I had a recommendation from a friend to the Director of the facility, I still underwent several telephone interviews to secure a place. Who am I? The Communications Director for one of the international Afghan projects wiwth the promising title of “Trade and Accession Facilitation for Afghanistan”, or TAFA. This colorful acronym, in Georgian, means “frying pan”… Overall I am here in this Afghan context feeling apprehensive and trying to snatch some spiritual nourishment as much as to get any financial benefit from this destitute country. Like the Russian Czar Peter I who threw wide Russia’s windows to Europe, I too am curious, and willing to drill a small peephole from the Baron’s wall into Afghanistan-- or at least to see Kabul, have a glimpse of something of its real life--with my own eyes, and to hear with my own ears some of the truth or lies that are shown on TV all over the world. It so happened that there were three of us called “the Georgians”, serving out our sentence here, trying to improve our economic situations. Diana and I were sentenced to a one-year term, while Tato will finish much sooner, and in a month he will wave good-bye. Tato and I play table tennis in the evenings—he’s an accomplished player, so when we play singles he kindly coaches me. My technique has improved significantly under his guidance and I hardly recognize myself –smashing and making complicated serves. Now I even pride myself in my ping-pong skills. In addition to this I take yoga to learn to breathe deeply—in short, my “correction facility” is preparing me to lead a healthier life, once released. Back in Tbilisi, my Mom is blissfully ignorant—she thinks I’m in the US, and scolds me for leading such a luxurious life – “floating in melted butter”, as she says, especially while those back home are slaving away, earning only a pittance. Others at home (who have been strictly forbidden to tell Mom the truth of my whereabouts) are convinced that bombs are constantly thundering overhead, while in fact I reside in the Baron surrounded by a most reliable security force and drinking kefir — indeed the kefir here is extremely delicious. Our security company is a world-famous British one, called Global. They move us around the city in convoys of armored jeeps with two security officers in each– an Afghan driver and the foreign sharpshooter. Every time I get in, the shooter goes over what I should do in case the driver gets shot and dies-- which button I should press, and what to do if the car hits a roadside bomb. After some time I knew the text by heart like a prayer-- like a prayer for protection we hope not to need. If something did happen I would likely have forgotten all instructions immediately—I’ve had a driver’s license for 40 years but I don’t remember any time that I came out of the driveway without hitting another vehicle. There’s a cascade of explosions outside. The Afghan suicide bombers blow themselves up so willingly, especially during Ramadan, that one can only envy their fervor. I had just arrived when I learned that the brother of President Karzai had been murdered. He was said to be a drug lord. Shortly after this, for about a month, there were killings every other day--provincial governors settling accounts…The Baron was on half-lockdown and except for emergencies foreigners were withdrawn from the outlying regions they worked in,. Mainly the customs experts were called in for such “emergencies”, and I managed to relax and sit about in the freshly blooming garden inside the walls. I am lucky to be working mainly with Afghans, and I’m very fond of them. Both men and women are attractive, often smiling and unpretentious. Their “joie de vivre” and humor are exquisitely refined. I supervise four Afghan men and one woman, and though I’m meant to be their supervisor, it’s me who learns from them. When they see me exhausted and nervous, they are full of patience, teaching me all the subtleties of the local approach-- “Don’t worry. This isn’t your home. We all need time to adapt and you will relax soon too.” Before I realized what happened I began making maximum use of their quick wit and sharp vigilance. Women are dressed in the smooth flattering colors of their bright national clothes (panjabi), and their heads are attractively covered by scarves, fashioned into so many styles that I was envious. They taught me how to twist and tie, to cover my head in so many ways that I lost count. Neither women nor men ever raise their voices. They twitter and chirp like birds and smile constantly. - They are so joyful! I tell my friend Giuntai - These are war- affected women and anything is enough to make them happy. Their eyes twinkle and widen at even the slightest joyful thing, she explains. This makes their smile even more attractive--warm and melancholic. What I like most is to see them gather in a corner and to hear their laughter ring out, their eyes sparkling so merrily… In my room I watch Al-jazeera most of the time, as if I am performing a kind of “Tazia Muharram” (a mainly-Shia Muslim passion-play representing the death of the Prophet’s grandson, where spectators flagellate themselves), in other words torturing myself. Hardly any other newscast shows so much violence, yet this is the most reliable and unbiased channel. At this very moment one of NATO’s high-ranking colonels is stating live that despite the fact that the Taliban are advancing towards Kabul, it is not a threat--since they have made many such attempts. He is trying to allay our fears saying NATO and local forces will not give up Kabul. Thank you very much, greatly esteemed man, but are you sure that the Taliban will not burst out laughing at your overly self-confident statements? Did I not mention that they blow themselves up happily-- and that one might be glad to do so now? And what will this NATO colonel do? That is how he has to speak. Although I can’t recall such details from the Soviet period in Afghanistan, I believe the Soviet top brass spoke this way when they repelled Mujahidin attacks at the entrance of Kabul, no? Besides a restaurant, a café, a sports hall, a swimming pool and the mini market, there is a beauty salon inside Baron. Maria--a woman of rather unclear nationality—works there and speaks the typical slang of Russian criminals. It’s like she just walked out of “Odessa Mama” or “Rostov Papa”. She considers herself half Tajik, half Turkish and speaks both Pashtu and Dari well. Indeed, she speaks to all the locals in their own languages. For me, however her Russian is so indecent I have to brace myself and close my eyes—I’m too shy to cover my ears. Lucky for her the Afghans living in the compound hardly understand Russian, or they would slice not just her throat--but mine as well. In fact the Afghans here do remember some Russian and even try to speak it, practicing their broken Russian with me. I comfort them and suggest they speak English or at least learn a little Georgian, since I am a Gurji from “Gurjistan” (“Georgia” in Farsi). Maria comes to the salon whenever she likes --deciding her schedule out of the blue, saying there is practically no work for her in the Baron and that she only comes for the massages. She chats and jokes endlessly, spewing words like they were shot from a machine gun. However, sometimes she she tells me an extremely interesting story, usually about Afghanistan, the Afghan character and customs. - “I’ve been living here for 12 years already, fuck it all! Dress like them – I wear a black dress, a head- scarf or a felt cloak, a burka, fuck it! It draws less attention to me! Speaking their language helps too. I have a lot of close relatives here. I was in Kandahar for a wedding just the other day…” – Maria launches into her stories with her Russian criminal jargon. - Where? In Kandahar? I asked. -How did you dare go there? They announced seven times that there would be a missile raid there yesterday. Even the bravest journalists couldn’t risk it, and you, a blonde, snow white and sweet woman, dared go to a wedding in Kandahar? Seeing my eyes widen, Maria started laughing. - Don’t be surprised, fuck it all, I speak their language, lead their way of life and they are the only ones that I have, dammit, there’s nothing they can take from me—to the contrary they give me a lot.