Sunday, September 11, 2005
Borders and Christians
September 11th and so far, the small number of Afghans I have asked do not remember this as the day of the falling of the trade towers. They know it is around this time, because it is a few days after the death of Ahmad Shah Masud, the Mujahid and anti-Taliban military leader who was blown up by a couple of fake Arab journalists (that is they were fake journalists – not fake Arabs) 3 days before September 11th, an event which was seen to have had greater immediate consequences for the war in Afghanistan than the fall of the twin towers – though as we know, September 11th was a pretty significant event for Afghanistan in the end, and bizarrely … Iraq also.
This is a non-sequitur, but I did not mention it when talking about the trip in Tajikistan. We had saw a funny little group on the crossing from Afghanistan to Tajikistan – which consists of a battered, rusty old Soviet era barge across the wide river – the Amu Darya, and a lot of irritating waiting. Each of the borders in this part of the world is very different. I am most used to the Termez-Hairaton border from Uzbekistan into Afghanistan, where there is a bridge to cross the river, and all is very high-security and involves a lot of tiresome questions from Uzbek officials. The Tajik border has a much more relaxed feeling – the same stupid questions of course:
‘Are you carrying any narcotics?’
‘No’
‘Smuggling any arms?’
‘No’
This line of questioning leads one to suspect that either there are some very stupid people out there (‘…Only this 5 kilos of Heroin as a present for my mother’) or that the guards do in fact expect you to declare your drugs and guns:
‘Yes, errm – how much do you charge for 50 kilos of unrefined opium?’
‘That’ll be 14$ cents please.’
‘There you go. Keep the change’
‘Why thankee sir… Have a nice day’
Our fellow travellers mainly seemed to be Afghans taking a break in the glitzy metropolis of Dushanbe, getting some vodka down them, no doubt. Some were taking a few sneaky crates of beer back with them. Then there were a couple of Tajik traders maybe, and a man who told me he was the head of the Afghan border commission in Hairaton – he invited me round sometime.
On the clattery old bus which took us 500 metres or so to the river and the boat, a little debacle erupted between a Tajiki guy in military uniform and a skinny, high-cheekboned Tajik who had something of the air of the vagrant about him who was accompanied by a clean-cut young man with the suggestion of a goatee and a baseball cap, and a bewildered looking young woman with white socks and sandals, short hair. They were Christian missionaries who had been converted by some charismatic sect in Tajikistan and were now having an argument with a man in military costume about Jesus. They were working for an organisation called something like Help Famine International, and when we came across to the other side, we saw that they had the telltale Christian fish in their logo. These Christians, honestly! Why do they come to Afghanistan? Of all the nations in the world, Afghanistan is not one where faith is in immediate danger of falling before the forces of secularism.
There were a few stories of persistent weirdos getting themselves in trouble at the time of the Taliban for proselytising, but now I guess there must be quite a few. In Mazar there is a strange organisation deviously called Partnership in Academic Development (PAD) which I had suspected for a while after having gone there to check out their library and English language programme. I went in and was shown round their library by a pale birdlike young American girl who showed me into an freezing cold room lined with uncatalogued books – some useful, some incredibly inappropriate (The 10 day MBA, Ballet for Toddlers, that kind of thing). The girl vaguely agreed that it was a shame that more students did not use the library, and she was mildly evasive when I asked about their future plans. She then showed me the books they used for their language course, which was something like a 6 week course, with a lot of emphasis on vocabulary needed for expressing emotion, friendship, love and morals. This particular girl had been there a couple of months, and did not know how long she would be staying. She did not really like Afghanistan. I could not speak to the leader of the programme – a Korean lady, because there were sitting in a room, having tea and mumbling.
I spoke to an Afghan friend recently who confirmed my suspicions. They go for students and offer them free English and computer lessons, and then start talking about Jesus and love. I was told recently that the mullahs rumbled them, and they had to move to a different part of the city, near the UN office, and keeping a low profile.
It’s all so underhand. I can’t imagine Jesus carrying on like that. I don’t see anything wrong in going around with a T-shirt saying ‘Jesus Loves You’, but I can’t stand all this slinking around and lying. One of my colleagues in Tajikistan once told me of a group of Christian dentists who set up a missionary organisation in the central American country she was then working in – Honduras I think. These dentists had the admirable aim of providing free dental care – with just one condition – you had to sign a conversion statement to receive treatment. You can imagine the thoughts of their happy clientele. Salvation and a free filling – what a bargain!
I met another such at a party in Kabul – she was quite sweet really – very young, from Manchester, with a very round moonface and pale skin like an egg. I asked her why she came to Afghanistan when there were so many unbelievers in the UK. She was vague but thought that they needed it. I asked her that surely it was better that the Afghans at least all believe in God, which can’t be said about Mancunians. Islam is a monotheistic religion, too. But she said
‘Yes, but Jesus said “I am the way”’
In the end, her implication seemed to be that a Muslim was more astray than an atheist. All very dubious theology.
Mind you, the Afghans also have a certain amount of dodgy reasoning in this field as well.
I bought a dastmaal for my head the other day. I thought it would be good to keep the sun off my head. I have had a couple of suits of shalwar kameez (or pirahan tumbaan as they call them here) for a while now, and the dastmaal – looking like a rather attractive dishtowel – finishes off the look. A Mazari filmmaker who happened to be with me tied it on for me, and as we walked back to the guesthouse, the bysquatters (generally more numerous than bystanders here) passed remarks, mainly inaudible, but one clearly said ‘Ah! Now he’s become a Muslim?’ The filmmaker remarked with the kind of derision one reserves for one’s own people,
‘You see – all you need to be a Muslim is to rap a dastmaal round your head. It’s very simple.’
I now have a great desire to tie it in a proper manner, which is more difficult than it seems. When I first got back to the guesthouse, the grimy guard said I looked Uzbek in the style that the filmmaker had tied for me. Interesting that you can tie your headdress to imitate a particular ethnicity. I have been out and about since, trying different ties and drapes, but I always feel a little unauthentic. I will clearly have to practise.
I will add a posting on the various different headgears to be seen, if I can get round to it.
This is a non-sequitur, but I did not mention it when talking about the trip in Tajikistan. We had saw a funny little group on the crossing from Afghanistan to Tajikistan – which consists of a battered, rusty old Soviet era barge across the wide river – the Amu Darya, and a lot of irritating waiting. Each of the borders in this part of the world is very different. I am most used to the Termez-Hairaton border from Uzbekistan into Afghanistan, where there is a bridge to cross the river, and all is very high-security and involves a lot of tiresome questions from Uzbek officials. The Tajik border has a much more relaxed feeling – the same stupid questions of course:
‘Are you carrying any narcotics?’
‘No’
‘Smuggling any arms?’
‘No’
This line of questioning leads one to suspect that either there are some very stupid people out there (‘…Only this 5 kilos of Heroin as a present for my mother’) or that the guards do in fact expect you to declare your drugs and guns:
‘Yes, errm – how much do you charge for 50 kilos of unrefined opium?’
‘That’ll be 14$ cents please.’
‘There you go. Keep the change’
‘Why thankee sir… Have a nice day’
Our fellow travellers mainly seemed to be Afghans taking a break in the glitzy metropolis of Dushanbe, getting some vodka down them, no doubt. Some were taking a few sneaky crates of beer back with them. Then there were a couple of Tajik traders maybe, and a man who told me he was the head of the Afghan border commission in Hairaton – he invited me round sometime.
On the clattery old bus which took us 500 metres or so to the river and the boat, a little debacle erupted between a Tajiki guy in military uniform and a skinny, high-cheekboned Tajik who had something of the air of the vagrant about him who was accompanied by a clean-cut young man with the suggestion of a goatee and a baseball cap, and a bewildered looking young woman with white socks and sandals, short hair. They were Christian missionaries who had been converted by some charismatic sect in Tajikistan and were now having an argument with a man in military costume about Jesus. They were working for an organisation called something like Help Famine International, and when we came across to the other side, we saw that they had the telltale Christian fish in their logo. These Christians, honestly! Why do they come to Afghanistan? Of all the nations in the world, Afghanistan is not one where faith is in immediate danger of falling before the forces of secularism.
There were a few stories of persistent weirdos getting themselves in trouble at the time of the Taliban for proselytising, but now I guess there must be quite a few. In Mazar there is a strange organisation deviously called Partnership in Academic Development (PAD) which I had suspected for a while after having gone there to check out their library and English language programme. I went in and was shown round their library by a pale birdlike young American girl who showed me into an freezing cold room lined with uncatalogued books – some useful, some incredibly inappropriate (The 10 day MBA, Ballet for Toddlers, that kind of thing). The girl vaguely agreed that it was a shame that more students did not use the library, and she was mildly evasive when I asked about their future plans. She then showed me the books they used for their language course, which was something like a 6 week course, with a lot of emphasis on vocabulary needed for expressing emotion, friendship, love and morals. This particular girl had been there a couple of months, and did not know how long she would be staying. She did not really like Afghanistan. I could not speak to the leader of the programme – a Korean lady, because there were sitting in a room, having tea and mumbling.
I spoke to an Afghan friend recently who confirmed my suspicions. They go for students and offer them free English and computer lessons, and then start talking about Jesus and love. I was told recently that the mullahs rumbled them, and they had to move to a different part of the city, near the UN office, and keeping a low profile.
It’s all so underhand. I can’t imagine Jesus carrying on like that. I don’t see anything wrong in going around with a T-shirt saying ‘Jesus Loves You’, but I can’t stand all this slinking around and lying. One of my colleagues in Tajikistan once told me of a group of Christian dentists who set up a missionary organisation in the central American country she was then working in – Honduras I think. These dentists had the admirable aim of providing free dental care – with just one condition – you had to sign a conversion statement to receive treatment. You can imagine the thoughts of their happy clientele. Salvation and a free filling – what a bargain!
I met another such at a party in Kabul – she was quite sweet really – very young, from Manchester, with a very round moonface and pale skin like an egg. I asked her why she came to Afghanistan when there were so many unbelievers in the UK. She was vague but thought that they needed it. I asked her that surely it was better that the Afghans at least all believe in God, which can’t be said about Mancunians. Islam is a monotheistic religion, too. But she said
‘Yes, but Jesus said “I am the way”’
In the end, her implication seemed to be that a Muslim was more astray than an atheist. All very dubious theology.
Mind you, the Afghans also have a certain amount of dodgy reasoning in this field as well.
I bought a dastmaal for my head the other day. I thought it would be good to keep the sun off my head. I have had a couple of suits of shalwar kameez (or pirahan tumbaan as they call them here) for a while now, and the dastmaal – looking like a rather attractive dishtowel – finishes off the look. A Mazari filmmaker who happened to be with me tied it on for me, and as we walked back to the guesthouse, the bysquatters (generally more numerous than bystanders here) passed remarks, mainly inaudible, but one clearly said ‘Ah! Now he’s become a Muslim?’ The filmmaker remarked with the kind of derision one reserves for one’s own people,
‘You see – all you need to be a Muslim is to rap a dastmaal round your head. It’s very simple.’
I now have a great desire to tie it in a proper manner, which is more difficult than it seems. When I first got back to the guesthouse, the grimy guard said I looked Uzbek in the style that the filmmaker had tied for me. Interesting that you can tie your headdress to imitate a particular ethnicity. I have been out and about since, trying different ties and drapes, but I always feel a little unauthentic. I will clearly have to practise.
I will add a posting on the various different headgears to be seen, if I can get round to it.
# posted by Ed @ 6:32 pm 
