Sketch from my journal - Herat
In 1972 I traveled overland from Europe to Afghanistan. I was on my way to India to get enlightened. I took the Orient Express to Istanbul, crossed the Bosporus straits by boat, and boarded another very slow train across Turkey and Iran. The tracks ended in Mashhad, Iran and from that point forward, I was relegated to jitney min-vans and vintage school buses painted blue and festooned with roof-racks and hand-holds for those passengers forced to ride on the outside.
While in Afghanistan, I was waylaid for six months, first by illness, then by curiosity.
- Afghan Bus
During my convalescence in Herat, I was taken in by an Afghan family. They befriended me, nursed me back to health, and guided me. Their religion required that they do this, but I sensed no coercion in their acts of kindness, only joy. We played music and sang. I drew pictures of my home in California. They laughed with incredulity at my sketches of cities, freeways, and amusement parks. This was before satellite TV and the Internet had bridged the divide with the West.
Once I was able, I continued my travels, first across a vast and harsh desert to Kandahar, then upward toward Kabul, and finally into the mountains of the north. My twenty year old mind was unable to grasp the immensity of the land, but an impression of the people seeped into me. They were unlike any I had known.
- Kabul Street
In Kabul, and to a lesser extent in Kandahar and Herat, it appeared that the people lived in accordance with the familiar rhythms of commerce—open markets, roll-doored shops, hagglers and money changers. But, as one Afghan told me, the capital city of Kabul is the capital of Kabul. Nothing more. A true city-state. The commerciality of Afghan cities was a thin veneer that merely overlaid the profoundly nomadic culture that was very evident outside the narrow boundaries of Afghan cities.
- Distant caravan
Outside those tiny and tenuous islets of commercial chaos I saw a timeless culture-scape of nomadism. The vastness of the land was crisscrossed with worn tracks of caravans moving, always moving, for thousands of years across thousands of miles. Occasionally distant black tents, rippling in the heat, marked temporary encampments, but when morning came, I always saw the long lines of tribal people, camels, horses, and flocks of angora sheep, marching slowly and steadily—a timeless trekking—always moving. Along their nomadic paths, I saw many ancient cities and forts made of mud—their ghostly shapes melting back into the desert sands—empires once dreamt, now going, going, gone.
- Melting Fort
I saw that these people possessed only those things that could travel with them—a few implements of domestic life and weapons, weapons, weapons. Knives and guns were much coveted and admired. My leather encased Buck knife was always a conversation starter.
A curious man offered his muzzle-loaded gun to me and indicated an interest in my Buck knife. We exchanged weapons. The man and his companions gathered to inspect and admire the Buck’s stainless steel blade and folding mechanism. I feigned interest in the man’s ancient gun. Once the ritual was over, everyone relaxed. We enjoyed our bowls of rice and dates, shared smiles, drew pictures on the dirt floor, and exchanged a few simple words.
- My sketch book – Afghan woman
It’s hard to explain in words, but I developed a deep appreciation for these people. As a vagabond—a fellow nomad—my encounters with them were framed in their well practiced rituals of respect, deference, and mutual admiration. There was something noble about it. I sensed that I was granted status as a matter of course. To lose it would require some disgraceful act on my part. As long as I showed respect and behaved with honor, they would consider me a friend to be supported, protected, and defended. But if I were to become an enemy by behaving dishonorably and disrespectfully, they would slit my throat without a second thought.
President Obama is in a precarious position. Without a political center, tribal Afghanistan is a land in which the practical matters governing day to day life reign supreme. To the Afghan people, the hardships of nomadic life are trivial when compared with the hardships wrought by greed, duplicity, and betrayal between men. In Afghanistan, it’s always personal.
Obama has not yet squandered the respect granted as a matter of course by the tribal people of Afghanistan. Should he do so, he will not be able to regain his status as an honorable man. Obama should adopt a policy of respectful engagement and relations of honor as a best strategy. I suggest that he will do best if he elects to proceed slowly, slowly, like a fellow nomadic traveler. With patience, he and his emissaries can leverage the rituals of friendship, loyalty, and honor that are a way of life in that vast tribal culture-scape.
- Buck knife
We swim in a river of time, carving our stories into the landscape in much the same manner as the rivers and glaciers that created the Yosemite Valley’s ever-changing landscape during their long and sinuous journey to the sea. But unlike those rivers and glaciers, now and then we pause to build cairns to mark our passage, not as a means of return, which we cannot do, but as a reminder to ourselves and to others, that someone has passed this way before, stopped to take note, and moved on.
