Wednesday
Apr302008
Afghan Journal: A Day in Kabul, April 30 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008 at 1:19PM
Kabul, Afghanistan.... Muhammed Usman, 27 years old, is a thin, wiry, clean-shaven young man with nervous eyes that dart towards loud sounds and sudden movements. He works as a guide and interpreter for the Afghan Tourist Organization, part of the government's Ministry of Information. He is careful, streetwise, and smart. He is a survivor in a region that values survivors.
Today he guides this reporter through a city that is at once at peace and at war. Unlike Baghdad, a place in which (at least until Petreaus' Surge) the hot breath of violence was always on the back of one's neck, Kabul is the capital of a country fighting a very different war. For one thing, at least for the moment, life proceeds normally here in ways that are unthinkable in Baghdad.
First, the security mise en scene is completely different in Kabul. Unlike Baghdad few Coalition forces are present here. The soldiers and cops that loiter nervously around checkpoints, embassies and government buildings are Afghan. In short, there is no visible occupation. Marketplaces are full of people, streets full of every kind of traffic, including motorized, donkey and hand pulled. Walking the streets (which both foreigners and Afghanis can do with emotional impunity) garners only glances of indifference or curiosity but not the stares of searing hatred that is sometimes encountered in Iraq.
And yet. Razor wire, high walls and armed men are urban fixtures in Kabul. Today the reviewing stand where Hamid Karzai was attacked seemed peaceful enough but the soldiers milling around the place were a constant reminder that just below Kabul's surface are undercurrents of Taliban violence.
(Even given this, it seems inconceivable that the Afghan security forces somehow neglected to secure the building from which the attack was made. It towers over the reviewing stand and is perhaps only three hundred yards distant. One can only wonder what Karzai's security team was thinking.)
Another, more stark reminder that Kabul is at war came about an hour later. Usman received a tip about a police action that was underway in a neighborhood just off Guzargo Street. The area is sealed by fierce looking Afghan police, but by hustling through back alleys and garbage strewn lots, by goats, chickens, roosters, and cows (and always mindful of the mean dogs on short chains), a way is found to an intersection just above the Guzargo Pool. A gaggle of reporters there impatiently waits at the crossroads, restrained by a line of police.
And what everyone was waiting to see was the scene of a just finished firefight. Three alleged Taliban insurgents--one woman and two men, holed up in this neighborhood---fought it out it with the cops. All three were shot dead. Later, it was reported that the same fray cost the lives of five policemen and four civilians.
Dozens of cameras were suddenly hoisted aloft as two ambulances appeared and slowly drove off with their cargo of dead. They were followed by crime scene investigators, some brass from the Ministry of the Interior, and members of the bomb squad. Apparently, the suspected insurgents had more than small arms. Officials later pointed to blown-through walls as evidence of explosives.
In a few moments the media was allowed past the police line and up the street to view the suspected insurgents' hideout. The familiar post battle detritus was all there--shattered glass, shot-up furniture strewn everywhere, blasted concrete, metal barrels (apparently used unsuccessfully for cover) riddled with bullet holes and scattered 7.62x39 cartridge casings, the round of choice for the AK-47 rifles which are used by both the government and the insurgency.
Neighbors, police and various officials were interviewed as reporters shouted questions in a host of Middle Eastern languages. Then, just as suddenly as the media had been admitted, they were now dismissed. Back in the car, the radio began to carry "breaking news" of the incident. Whatever was missed at the scene was translated by Usman.
None of this seemed to have much effect on Kabul's main thoroughfares. What really concerned the Afghans on the street was the dust storm that came sweeping off the mountains. Soon the brown blizzard came and the head-scarfed women pulled their covers over their mouth and nose as some men slipped on surgical masks.
It was a visually obscured end to an emotionally wrenching day.
Today he guides this reporter through a city that is at once at peace and at war. Unlike Baghdad, a place in which (at least until Petreaus' Surge) the hot breath of violence was always on the back of one's neck, Kabul is the capital of a country fighting a very different war. For one thing, at least for the moment, life proceeds normally here in ways that are unthinkable in Baghdad.
First, the security mise en scene is completely different in Kabul. Unlike Baghdad few Coalition forces are present here. The soldiers and cops that loiter nervously around checkpoints, embassies and government buildings are Afghan. In short, there is no visible occupation. Marketplaces are full of people, streets full of every kind of traffic, including motorized, donkey and hand pulled. Walking the streets (which both foreigners and Afghanis can do with emotional impunity) garners only glances of indifference or curiosity but not the stares of searing hatred that is sometimes encountered in Iraq.
And yet. Razor wire, high walls and armed men are urban fixtures in Kabul. Today the reviewing stand where Hamid Karzai was attacked seemed peaceful enough but the soldiers milling around the place were a constant reminder that just below Kabul's surface are undercurrents of Taliban violence.
(Even given this, it seems inconceivable that the Afghan security forces somehow neglected to secure the building from which the attack was made. It towers over the reviewing stand and is perhaps only three hundred yards distant. One can only wonder what Karzai's security team was thinking.)
Another, more stark reminder that Kabul is at war came about an hour later. Usman received a tip about a police action that was underway in a neighborhood just off Guzargo Street. The area is sealed by fierce looking Afghan police, but by hustling through back alleys and garbage strewn lots, by goats, chickens, roosters, and cows (and always mindful of the mean dogs on short chains), a way is found to an intersection just above the Guzargo Pool. A gaggle of reporters there impatiently waits at the crossroads, restrained by a line of police.
And what everyone was waiting to see was the scene of a just finished firefight. Three alleged Taliban insurgents--one woman and two men, holed up in this neighborhood---fought it out it with the cops. All three were shot dead. Later, it was reported that the same fray cost the lives of five policemen and four civilians.
Dozens of cameras were suddenly hoisted aloft as two ambulances appeared and slowly drove off with their cargo of dead. They were followed by crime scene investigators, some brass from the Ministry of the Interior, and members of the bomb squad. Apparently, the suspected insurgents had more than small arms. Officials later pointed to blown-through walls as evidence of explosives.
In a few moments the media was allowed past the police line and up the street to view the suspected insurgents' hideout. The familiar post battle detritus was all there--shattered glass, shot-up furniture strewn everywhere, blasted concrete, metal barrels (apparently used unsuccessfully for cover) riddled with bullet holes and scattered 7.62x39 cartridge casings, the round of choice for the AK-47 rifles which are used by both the government and the insurgency.
Neighbors, police and various officials were interviewed as reporters shouted questions in a host of Middle Eastern languages. Then, just as suddenly as the media had been admitted, they were now dismissed. Back in the car, the radio began to carry "breaking news" of the incident. Whatever was missed at the scene was translated by Usman.
None of this seemed to have much effect on Kabul's main thoroughfares. What really concerned the Afghans on the street was the dust storm that came sweeping off the mountains. Soon the brown blizzard came and the head-scarfed women pulled their covers over their mouth and nose as some men slipped on surgical masks.
It was a visually obscured end to an emotionally wrenching day.
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