AFGHANISTAN
A 2-Pager by Ajit Chaudhuri
Let me begin with a cricket story from the mid-to-late 1980s! Mark Waugh, later to become one of the pillars of the Australian batting line-up, was languishing in first division cricket while his twin brother Steve was already a Test star. Some local wag cruelly nicknamed Mark ‘Afghan’ (and the name stuck) – because he was the forgotten Waugh. This was with reference to a time when the Russians were still in Afghanistan and fighting it out with the US backed Mujahedin in a vicious but then out of sight (and out of mind) war.
Afghanistan and war are synonymous. Land based invasions of India have either passed through (Greeks and Moghuls) or originated from here (Ghazni and Ghori are Afghan provinces). It features in British military folklore (there were three Anglo-Afghan wars between 1838 and 1919, including a British retreat from Kabul and massacre in the Khyber). It features in Russian military history as well, also including a retreat that culminated in the end of the Soviet Union and the breakup of the bi-polar world. The American war is still on, and there is little to suggest that it won’t result in Afghanistan’s reputation as a graveyard of superpowers remaining intact – the debate has changed from ‘when do we win’ to ‘how do we get out with dignity intact’ and NATO is feeling the strain of members’ conflict between the need for American protection and the reality of sending young men to die in this faraway land.
What is it about Afghanistan that makes for this? That makes that one step across the Khyber, or that one crossing of the Oxus, a journey too far? And what is Afghanistan actually like? I spent a week there in March 2009, visiting Kabul and Bamiyan, and this paper is my own take on some of these matters.
Afghanistan is a difficult country! It is mountainous, dry, rocky, and extreme in climate, with the only bountiful crop being opium. Its people are divided across different ethnic groups, with Pashtuns having more in common with Pathans in Pakistan than with their fellow countrymen of different ethnicity, and similarly with Tajiks, Uzbeks, Hazaras and Turkmen. And yet, there are some differences between Afghan Pushtoons, Tajiks, Uzbeks, etc., and their ethnic compatriots across borders. An Afghan colleague summarized these for me as, one, Afghans tend to be what they show (unlike others who project one thing and are in reality another). And two, if there is even a minor difference of opinion between two viewpoints there will never be a convergence – no amount of conflict resolution will bring this about. Nation building is thus an onerous task, more so because none of the current crop of leaders are able to rise above and display Nehru-esque or even Jinnah-esque qualities.
Afghanistan has been at war for a long, long time and this is obvious. Physically obvious in the large number of ruins and shelled buildings, including the Amanullah Palace in Kabul, and the rusting tanks and armored cars that are just lying around all over the place. And in the minds of people as well, in that everyone has been a refugee, everyone has lost family members, and every single individual you see there has a story of guts, survival and hardship. And yet, you only see smiling faces all over, and people looking for any excuse to laugh, enjoy and be happy.
How is the current war going? The fact that it is still on – almost eight years after it was supposedly won – is not a good sign. The ISAF forces are a battle-hardened lot, and move around in tense formations with fingers on the trigger – even in the more peaceful regions. I was subject to a checking in the central highland region along with a vanload of locals (leave the vehicle, line up, get body searched, the vehicle is searched, get back in and move on) – standard procedure but pissing off for a foreigner like me and incensing for locals when being done by foreign soldiers. There were mutters of the need to do to this lot what they had done to others, and counter mutters of remembering the Mujahedin times and that at least these guys were merely checking, and not looting and pillaging as well. I was irritated enough to tell the New Zealanders, who made up the ISAF force in the region, checking me that I hoped our cricket team (who were touring New Zealand at the time) would give them a sound thrashing and I am happy to note that they duly did.
Kabul itself reminds one of a mix of Srinagar and Leh. The surrounding areas are dry, mountainous desert a la Leh and the city itself is a bit like Srinagar in ruins, with police and army pickets all over (one of which had ‘Chick Point’ written across it) but with happier faces. As a foreigner, I was supposed to travel only between designated safe areas (guest house, office, specific restaurants – my hosts had a seven page manual on these matters) in designated safe vehicles. Thankfully I had a like-minded vis-à-vis what-one-is-supposed-to-do batchmate in town, and we went to restaurants where ordinary Afghans ate and relished the Naan and the Kebabs. The highlight of my visit to Kabul was visiting the Bagh-e-Babur (also off the safe list), the gardens that include Babur’s mausoleum, on Pharsi New Year. Sanjeev Gupta and I were the only foreigners there, and we were made to feel very welcome by the huge festive crowd. Kabul is everything that they say about it! There is almost no conventional crime, but Taliban attacks, bomb blasts and occasional bouts of misbehavior by warlords who forget that they are now part of the administration keep happening. And yes, within 15 minutes of an attack ending the place is cleared up, the bodies removed, and life goes on.
The shortest road between Kabul and Bamiyan goes through the ‘restive’ Wardat province – a euphemism for Taliban elements being operational within. I had to take a longer route – about 80 km north on the highway connecting Kabul to the old Soviet border, and then about 140 km southwest on kuchha road through the mountains (and two snow covered passes) into Bamiyan. This was done in some comfort in a muscular Toyota Land Cruiser in which my driver was constantly relaying our position back to a central security unit via satellite phone, he used the words durast, durast a lot. We were together four days, the only common language we had was a smattering of Russian, but we discovered a common love for eating kebabs and we did a lot of that in places with large numbers of bearded shawl clad men where I had to keep quiet to ensure that I was not identified as a foreigner.
Bamiyan itself is a beautiful town situated in a valley at an altitude of about 9,000 feet. It was still under snow at the time, and the mountains around in every direction provided a stunning backdrop. This is a Hazara dominated area (the region is called Hazarajat) and is slightly more liberal than other parts of Afghanistan in that women wear the headscarf but not the mask. As there are no Taliban elements in the area, one is able to walk around freely and I did so. Must visits include the hundreds of caves in the mountainside that housed a major Buddhist centre of learning in the 4th century. We all know that the Taliban destroyed the world’s largest carvings of Buddha, dating back to that time, because they symbolized the idolatry that is anathema to Islam. The caves, however, and the wonderful wall paintings within, were destroyed over a longer term as they served as barracks for Mujahedin and Taliban. Ironically, the only cave that still has a semblance of paintings intact is the one that housed the commander. Sadly, nobody in Bamiyan gives a crap about the heritage site that is ‘just there’ to them.
The outskirts of Bamiyan house the Shahar-e-Golgola, a city that was razed to the ground by Genghis Khan and remains intactly razed even today. I also visited Dragon Valley, a large rock formation in the mountains that has a deep and narrow cleft running across the middle, where legend has it Ali killed a dragon with one sword strike down the middle of its back. Sadly, I was unable to visit the Bandh-e-Amir, a series of natural blue water lakes high up in the mountains, because the road was still under heavy snow. The other must-do in Bamiyan (and I therefore did not do it) is to visit the airport, get into the remnants of a crashed plane that it still, many years after the crash, lying around near the runway, and be photographed waving from the window.
All very nice for me, you would say, but what is Afghanistan like for women. Pretty tough! Kabul is said to be comparatively liberal, and always has been. In all other places, the dress code is that your contours should not be discernable. And Afghan women who work need to be accompanied by a mehrab or male companion, be it husband or younger brother or whatever. This creates havoc for any employer’s HR policy. Having said this, I was also told about how gender specialists, many of whom inversely relate women’s empowerment with the extent to which they are veiled, are confounded by the freedom and say an Afghan woman has inside that tent-like exterior.
And what about Indians? Are we as welcome as Feroz Khan in ‘Dharmatma’? Being Watan-e-Hind is a double-edged sword. The Taliban do not like us (to put it mildly), and we are in danger in all areas controlled by them. Others generally find Pakistanis and Arabs distasteful as they controlled the Taliban administration pre-9/11, and see India and Iran as acting in Afghanistan’s interest. India’s low key but critical development aid is popular and seen as effective. Many Afghans were refugees in Peshawar and speak Urdu, and communicating with them is easy. It is more difficult with those who were refugees in Iran. Those who were/are refugees in the west have generally not returned – their children have greater difficulty adjusting back. Nor are they particularly welcome, their earlier attempts to act superior because of having made it to the west did not go down well and they are termed as ‘dog walkers’ in recognition of the menial jobs that most of them do in Paris, Berlin, LA, etc.
To conclude – Afghanistan is everything that is said about it, and much more. Would I return? If I get an opportunity, a qualified yes! The good experiences far outnumbered the bad. And there are unseen areas that beckon, such as the Wakhan Corridor, the Oxus River and Mazhar-e-Sharif. Not to mention the fleshpots in Dushanbe and Khorag across the Tajik border. Inshallah!
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
CANADA
CANADA
Visited in June/July in 2003 and 2006
My family has a strange relationship with Canada. My Grandfather went there as the Indian Ambassador, and it was there that he married for the second time. Aunt Helen, as we called our Step-Grandma, came back to India with him – returning to Canada 13 or so years later, after he died. The highlight of my two visits to Canada was meeting her again. My Father’s Brother too settled in Canada, leaving India in the late 1960s to set up a successful car dealership in Toronto – I have met him only once, on his only visit back to India in the late 1970s. Another Uncle, a con man who had been cashiered from the Army for having it off with a (female) CIA agent in Paris, dumped his second wife to move there in the 1980s with a young lady and apparently just a step ahead of the law – he now has children younger than his grandchildren. My Father too made (ultimately unsuccessful) plans to emigrate in the early 1980s, but I remember being clear that I would not go with him.
And so, when my organization enrolled me in a course on development evaluation at the Carleton University in Ottawa in the summer of 2003, I set off with a sense of wonderment. This was my first visit to the western world outside of the UK and Europe.
The most pleasant thing about Canada was discovered even before reaching there. I had taken a Gulf Air flight from Delhi to Muscat, changed for another to London, from where I flew on Air Canada to Toronto. By London, some of us passengers had become friends – including one guy from Delhi who was emigrating there, and was going for the first time. At every Canadian passport check, they would see his passport and burst into smiles and words of welcome to the country. Unlike the UK and Europe, the word ‘immigrant’ is not a pejorative in Canada. Right through the visit, people I met would ask whether I was here to stay and on discovering I was not would ask why not, that Canada was a great place to live in.
I arrived in Toronto at 0005 hours – not a good time to arrive on a strange continent with plans only to get a bus onward to Ottawa. Where should I spend the night? After pumping the fellow who hailed cabs outside the airport, who turned out to be from Pune, for information, I decided to sleep off on a couch at the airport itself and catch the first bus from the airport to the bus stand (what they call the Greyhound Station) in the morning. The plan went perfectly, and I soon found myself on an early morning Greyhound bus making the six-hour journey to Ottawa. And here was the second discovery – of Canada’s size. A six-hour road journey in Europe takes you from one end of a country to another, but in Canada it is a journey between neighbouring cities.
Canada is the largest country in the world after Russia, but has a population of only about 30 million (two Delhis) most of whom live in a small belt running along its southern border with the USA. The most famous Canadian (for my generation of men) is Pamela Anderson. Most Americans, with some justification, think of it as a giant refrigerator – but my experience in June and July was of a pleasantly warm and sunny climate with long days and lightly cool evenings. I’m told that things are a little different at other times of the year. Canada’s size makes it a difficult country to really see, except in patches. I managed to take in Ottawa and Montreal.
Ottawa itself is a nice but limited city – a seat of government, straddling the divide between French and English speakers by virtue of its location across both Ontario and Quebec provinces. People are relaxed and friendly – if you don’t have correct change for a bus ticket the driver just waves you in anyway and says to just forget paying. The height of excitement is Canada Day, when you have a series of public events. The highlight is the musical ride, a horse event performed to music by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. There is also a rock concert with singers from all provinces of Canada, and an impressive fireworks display. The youth are all drunk out of their minds, in a pleasant and unaggressive way, and the smell of dope is also heavy in the air. The meanest thing I saw in Canada was the police finding very drunk kids and pouring their remaining beer supplies into the drain. And someone had photographed a kid taking a piss on a monument to Canadian war casualties, and there was a public outcry after this was published in the papers. The poor kid was identified a few days later and said that he was so drunk that he had no idea of where he was pissing, and there was no malicious intent. I sympathised – the queues for the public toilets were miles long and, as they say, ‘when you gotta go, you gotta go’.
I used Montreal as my point of entry and exit the second time I visited Canada (this was to attend the advanced course of the same programme), and ensured that I arrived at a civilised hour. There was a bus from Montreal airport to Ottawa, for which many people had pre-booked tickets so I had to smarm up to the driver to let me on. This was done by helping her with the luggage – she not only had to drive, she also had to load and unload all the luggage of all the passengers, unpleasant when you have over 40 passengers all of whom have heavy luggage. No coolies, no khalasis here – it was her job and she had to do it, and none of the passengers lifted a finger to help.
Montreal is unique in North America as a city with a European feel, cobbled stone city centre and all. This is not particularly exciting when one has been to many European cities, as I have, but as it counts among its residents my Step-Grandma it was a must-visit for me. I hadn’t seen her since 1984, and had not had any contact, and so had to locate her in 2003 using phone books and searches on the Internet. The phone number that I finally got was for that of her Mother, and thereby contact was re-established. I spent a very enjoyable two days with her in 2003, regressing back to my college days when I used to go over to her house in Delhi and just eat, sleep and read. I also met members of her family, some of whom I had met as a child (Aunt Anne and Aunt Lovey) and some who were just names to me (Aunt Helen Sr., my Aunt Helen’s Mother, Aunt Ruth and Aunt Helen’s Brother Glenn – who like me has very bossy sisters and two sons). In 2006, with the advantage of knowing where she was and with better planning, I spent a few days with her and we did the sights – a visit to the casino, a visit to a lake in the north along upon which Uncle Glenn had a cottage, a fair bit of wining and dining, etc. Montreal provided me with my third discovery – that language chauvinism was a first-world phenomenon as well. The signs were all in French, and when there were signs in English they were below the French ones and smaller, and there were laws in place about how much below and how much smaller an English sign should be to the French one. French speakers have a strong feeling of losing out in Canada, and this has resulted in a movement for secession that remains despite umpteen referendums, some ridiculous laws to accommodate French sentiments, and an anti-English sentiment that is obvious even to new visitors. There were also signs of a backlash from other parts of Canada, especially in the west, of ‘let’s not accommodate them any more – if they want out let them get out’ and even among non-French speakers in Quebec ‘if they have a right to secede from Canada, we too would like the right to secede from Quebec’. Quite a khichdee here!
I would have liked, given the opportunity, to see more of Canada’s North – such as the newly formed province of Nunavut and its headquarters Ikaluit (formerly Frobisher’s Bay), Baffin Bay, and the Mackenzie Delta in the northwest. The Canadian North is still the preserve of groups such as Indigenous Canadians (formerly Red Indians, now called the First Nations) and the Inuit. Canadian policy towards them is fairly familiar – keep them happy with lollipops in the form of subsidised services, good unemployment benefits, et al, while extracting gas, oil, minerals and electricity from their regions. The result is a thoroughly emasculated indigenous population with low education and high unemployment, drunkenness and domestic violence levels and an attitude of ‘they are just a bunch of moronic tribals living off the taxes we pay’ among others. Discovery no. 4 – it doesn’t happen only in India.
Are you looking to emigrate to Canada? I spent some time with first generation Canadians and spoke to them about what it was actually like. Canada welcomes immigrants and is comfortable about people having dual identities – their Canadian one and the one of the country from which they came. This was obvious and visible to me as well. But life is tough here. Getting a job is difficult, especially if you are well educated and used to a certain station. Being unemployed is difficult, because the cost of living is high. The winters are long and severe. The main advantage is for your children, who will come up through a world-class education system and will reap the benefits of being Canadian.
Visited in June/July in 2003 and 2006
My family has a strange relationship with Canada. My Grandfather went there as the Indian Ambassador, and it was there that he married for the second time. Aunt Helen, as we called our Step-Grandma, came back to India with him – returning to Canada 13 or so years later, after he died. The highlight of my two visits to Canada was meeting her again. My Father’s Brother too settled in Canada, leaving India in the late 1960s to set up a successful car dealership in Toronto – I have met him only once, on his only visit back to India in the late 1970s. Another Uncle, a con man who had been cashiered from the Army for having it off with a (female) CIA agent in Paris, dumped his second wife to move there in the 1980s with a young lady and apparently just a step ahead of the law – he now has children younger than his grandchildren. My Father too made (ultimately unsuccessful) plans to emigrate in the early 1980s, but I remember being clear that I would not go with him.
And so, when my organization enrolled me in a course on development evaluation at the Carleton University in Ottawa in the summer of 2003, I set off with a sense of wonderment. This was my first visit to the western world outside of the UK and Europe.
The most pleasant thing about Canada was discovered even before reaching there. I had taken a Gulf Air flight from Delhi to Muscat, changed for another to London, from where I flew on Air Canada to Toronto. By London, some of us passengers had become friends – including one guy from Delhi who was emigrating there, and was going for the first time. At every Canadian passport check, they would see his passport and burst into smiles and words of welcome to the country. Unlike the UK and Europe, the word ‘immigrant’ is not a pejorative in Canada. Right through the visit, people I met would ask whether I was here to stay and on discovering I was not would ask why not, that Canada was a great place to live in.
I arrived in Toronto at 0005 hours – not a good time to arrive on a strange continent with plans only to get a bus onward to Ottawa. Where should I spend the night? After pumping the fellow who hailed cabs outside the airport, who turned out to be from Pune, for information, I decided to sleep off on a couch at the airport itself and catch the first bus from the airport to the bus stand (what they call the Greyhound Station) in the morning. The plan went perfectly, and I soon found myself on an early morning Greyhound bus making the six-hour journey to Ottawa. And here was the second discovery – of Canada’s size. A six-hour road journey in Europe takes you from one end of a country to another, but in Canada it is a journey between neighbouring cities.
Canada is the largest country in the world after Russia, but has a population of only about 30 million (two Delhis) most of whom live in a small belt running along its southern border with the USA. The most famous Canadian (for my generation of men) is Pamela Anderson. Most Americans, with some justification, think of it as a giant refrigerator – but my experience in June and July was of a pleasantly warm and sunny climate with long days and lightly cool evenings. I’m told that things are a little different at other times of the year. Canada’s size makes it a difficult country to really see, except in patches. I managed to take in Ottawa and Montreal.
Ottawa itself is a nice but limited city – a seat of government, straddling the divide between French and English speakers by virtue of its location across both Ontario and Quebec provinces. People are relaxed and friendly – if you don’t have correct change for a bus ticket the driver just waves you in anyway and says to just forget paying. The height of excitement is Canada Day, when you have a series of public events. The highlight is the musical ride, a horse event performed to music by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. There is also a rock concert with singers from all provinces of Canada, and an impressive fireworks display. The youth are all drunk out of their minds, in a pleasant and unaggressive way, and the smell of dope is also heavy in the air. The meanest thing I saw in Canada was the police finding very drunk kids and pouring their remaining beer supplies into the drain. And someone had photographed a kid taking a piss on a monument to Canadian war casualties, and there was a public outcry after this was published in the papers. The poor kid was identified a few days later and said that he was so drunk that he had no idea of where he was pissing, and there was no malicious intent. I sympathised – the queues for the public toilets were miles long and, as they say, ‘when you gotta go, you gotta go’.
I used Montreal as my point of entry and exit the second time I visited Canada (this was to attend the advanced course of the same programme), and ensured that I arrived at a civilised hour. There was a bus from Montreal airport to Ottawa, for which many people had pre-booked tickets so I had to smarm up to the driver to let me on. This was done by helping her with the luggage – she not only had to drive, she also had to load and unload all the luggage of all the passengers, unpleasant when you have over 40 passengers all of whom have heavy luggage. No coolies, no khalasis here – it was her job and she had to do it, and none of the passengers lifted a finger to help.
Montreal is unique in North America as a city with a European feel, cobbled stone city centre and all. This is not particularly exciting when one has been to many European cities, as I have, but as it counts among its residents my Step-Grandma it was a must-visit for me. I hadn’t seen her since 1984, and had not had any contact, and so had to locate her in 2003 using phone books and searches on the Internet. The phone number that I finally got was for that of her Mother, and thereby contact was re-established. I spent a very enjoyable two days with her in 2003, regressing back to my college days when I used to go over to her house in Delhi and just eat, sleep and read. I also met members of her family, some of whom I had met as a child (Aunt Anne and Aunt Lovey) and some who were just names to me (Aunt Helen Sr., my Aunt Helen’s Mother, Aunt Ruth and Aunt Helen’s Brother Glenn – who like me has very bossy sisters and two sons). In 2006, with the advantage of knowing where she was and with better planning, I spent a few days with her and we did the sights – a visit to the casino, a visit to a lake in the north along upon which Uncle Glenn had a cottage, a fair bit of wining and dining, etc. Montreal provided me with my third discovery – that language chauvinism was a first-world phenomenon as well. The signs were all in French, and when there were signs in English they were below the French ones and smaller, and there were laws in place about how much below and how much smaller an English sign should be to the French one. French speakers have a strong feeling of losing out in Canada, and this has resulted in a movement for secession that remains despite umpteen referendums, some ridiculous laws to accommodate French sentiments, and an anti-English sentiment that is obvious even to new visitors. There were also signs of a backlash from other parts of Canada, especially in the west, of ‘let’s not accommodate them any more – if they want out let them get out’ and even among non-French speakers in Quebec ‘if they have a right to secede from Canada, we too would like the right to secede from Quebec’. Quite a khichdee here!
I would have liked, given the opportunity, to see more of Canada’s North – such as the newly formed province of Nunavut and its headquarters Ikaluit (formerly Frobisher’s Bay), Baffin Bay, and the Mackenzie Delta in the northwest. The Canadian North is still the preserve of groups such as Indigenous Canadians (formerly Red Indians, now called the First Nations) and the Inuit. Canadian policy towards them is fairly familiar – keep them happy with lollipops in the form of subsidised services, good unemployment benefits, et al, while extracting gas, oil, minerals and electricity from their regions. The result is a thoroughly emasculated indigenous population with low education and high unemployment, drunkenness and domestic violence levels and an attitude of ‘they are just a bunch of moronic tribals living off the taxes we pay’ among others. Discovery no. 4 – it doesn’t happen only in India.
Are you looking to emigrate to Canada? I spent some time with first generation Canadians and spoke to them about what it was actually like. Canada welcomes immigrants and is comfortable about people having dual identities – their Canadian one and the one of the country from which they came. This was obvious and visible to me as well. But life is tough here. Getting a job is difficult, especially if you are well educated and used to a certain station. Being unemployed is difficult, because the cost of living is high. The winters are long and severe. The main advantage is for your children, who will come up through a world-class education system and will reap the benefits of being Canadian.
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