Passing through Afghanistan
Back in 1967, I met a fellow who told me he’d been in Afghanistan--that was before the Russians moved in and eventually got kicked out--and at the time I was surprised to hear that the place really existed. Although I’d heard the name, I thought it was something Kipling invented as a setting for a fairytale.
I was traveling in Europe then, and the following summer I set out eastward, on a journey that took me through Yugoslavia, Greece, Turkey and Iran. These countries were fairly peaceful in those days, at least on the surface.
Women in Tehran seemed to have considerable freedom, but as I progressed eastward everything seemed to get more primitive. And also more desolate. It was like going into the back woods, except that there weren’t any woods. I remember it as a dark, barren desert. Eventually I reached Afghanistan, and the first city was Herat. Women there didn’t just wear veils, they wore sheets over their heads with a little screen over their eyes to peek out of.
Two hotels catered to foreigners. I got a room which I shared with half a dozen other travelers. There were no beds; we all rolled out our sleeping bags and slept on the floor. My roommates were mostly Europeans and some were Japanese; all were young and like myself, traveling to see the world. One was an Englishman who looked familiar, and, as we got to comparing notes, it turned out that we’d met about half a year earlier on the island of Cyprus. Small world! More recently (in the late 1990s) I participated in a writers’ group in San Francisco; it was chaired by an American of Afghani descent whose father had once been a government official in Herat.
Alexander the Great is said to have passed through, and some even say he founded the city. I wondered what could have brought him to a place like this. Herat seemed to me about the most remote spot on earth.
It was a quiet, dusty town, even though, it was the third largest city in Afghanistan. At the intersection of the two main streets there was a policeman, and every time I walked by I used to wonder why he always stood there. Finally, one day I happened to see an automobile coming down the street. The policeman immediately came alive, blew his whistle and waved the vehicle through. Then I realized that he was a traffic cop. There seemed to be about half a dozen motor vehicles in the city.
In one quarter of the town stood the ruins of an ancient theological school. All that was left of it was a row of huge pillars. I got the impression that this place had once seen better times. Looking at it from today’s perspective, I guess it was yet to see even worse times.
I stayed in Herat for a few days, then went on to Kabul and from there down through the Khyber Pass and into Pakistan.
The inhabitants of this border region were Pathans, the people who’d earned fame for the bad times they’d given the British army. The English remembered them well and told many stories about them. These Pathans were said to be remarkably gifted at gun smithing. Using only primitive tools, they were capable of producing functioning copies of any sophisticated firearm they got their hands on.
Few Afghanis spoke English; I met none who spoke it well enough to hold a conversation. But it was different here in Pakistan, which had been part of the British Empire. Here I encountered many who spoke English.
I was on my way to Peshawar, riding a bus, when a man sat down next to me. I continued to look out the window at the countryside, but when I glanced his way again, I noticed that the fellow had a gun-belt with a pistol in his lap. He’d been wearing it under his shirt.
"This doesn’t disturb you, I hope?" he said in fairly good English.
"Oh no. It doesn’t disturb me at all," I assured him.
Our conversation continued. He was traveling with his brothers, and found himself obliged to carry the pistol because of some disagreement they had with some other persons. Someone, perhaps several, had been killed. Apparently it was a blood feud of some sort.
I asked him if he were a Pathan.
"I’m a Pushtoon," he told me.
The British called them Pathans, and so it was as Pathans that they became known to the world, but Pushtoons is what they call themselves, I came to understand.
Of course I told him my story, that I was traveling around the world. By the time we reached the city of Peshawar, we’d become quite well acquainted. He and his brothers were to continue on northwards to a certain village, and invited me to accompany them for a visit. This I did, and spent a day or two with them.
A few days later, back in Peshawar, I met a student who showed me around his campus. He was also a Pathan, and, like everyone else, wore an oversized khaki shirt that came nearly down to his knees. I jokingly asked him if he were carrying a pistol.
He looked at me strangely, and said, "Why do you ask that?"
"It seems like everybody around here does," I said, and added that I was only joking.
Then he showed me his gun-belt.
"You too?" I said in surprise and amusement. "But why is a gun necessary?"
He assured me that his weapon was essential, but didn’t say why. As we strolled around the campus he told me about student life here. In some ways this school seemed like an American one, and some American customs had been adopted, or at least tried out. For example, they’d held student body elections so they could learn the democratic way of doing things. But the school officials had ended that experiment a couple of years earlier, after the loser of a student election shot the winner.
Of course I had no way of verifying the election story, but while we were talking, there was a gun shot nearby. Just across the courtyard from us were a group of students; one had been fooling around with a pistol and it had gone off. Nobody hurt this time.
My guess is that only a relatively small percentage of these people carried pistols under their shirts. The ones I met and talked with were, of course, English speaking, and therefore the more affluent. They had money for education, and also for guns. The fact that people I met were armed doesn’t mean everybody was.
I asked my student friend about the gun smiths. I mentioned the stories I’d heard of how phenomenally gifted these people were at making guns. Was it true? I asked.
"Of course it’s true," he said. "Would you like to see a place where guns are made?"
Naturally I did.
It turned out to be a small shop, only a couple of rooms. Two or three craftsmen sat on the floor, working with rather simple tools. One was making a shotgun, another a revolver.
I did of course wonder about the metallurgy and the general quality of these weapons. On one occasion I saw a fellow attempt to fire a pistol in the air and it didn’t go off, so I must think that some were not too well-made, but perhaps the craftsmanship varied from shop to shop.
The Pathans were extremely interesting people and I’ve often wished I’d stayed longer in that region. One thing that impressed me most about them was that they were rather quiet, extremely gentle and courteous. In a land where many people carry pistols and are so ready to use them, I suppose people tend to be more polite.
Daniel Borgström
Oakland, California
I was traveling in Europe then, and the following summer I set out eastward, on a journey that took me through Yugoslavia, Greece, Turkey and Iran. These countries were fairly peaceful in those days, at least on the surface.
Women in Tehran seemed to have considerable freedom, but as I progressed eastward everything seemed to get more primitive. And also more desolate. It was like going into the back woods, except that there weren’t any woods. I remember it as a dark, barren desert. Eventually I reached Afghanistan, and the first city was Herat. Women there didn’t just wear veils, they wore sheets over their heads with a little screen over their eyes to peek out of.
Two hotels catered to foreigners. I got a room which I shared with half a dozen other travelers. There were no beds; we all rolled out our sleeping bags and slept on the floor. My roommates were mostly Europeans and some were Japanese; all were young and like myself, traveling to see the world. One was an Englishman who looked familiar, and, as we got to comparing notes, it turned out that we’d met about half a year earlier on the island of Cyprus. Small world! More recently (in the late 1990s) I participated in a writers’ group in San Francisco; it was chaired by an American of Afghani descent whose father had once been a government official in Herat.
Alexander the Great is said to have passed through, and some even say he founded the city. I wondered what could have brought him to a place like this. Herat seemed to me about the most remote spot on earth.
It was a quiet, dusty town, even though, it was the third largest city in Afghanistan. At the intersection of the two main streets there was a policeman, and every time I walked by I used to wonder why he always stood there. Finally, one day I happened to see an automobile coming down the street. The policeman immediately came alive, blew his whistle and waved the vehicle through. Then I realized that he was a traffic cop. There seemed to be about half a dozen motor vehicles in the city.
In one quarter of the town stood the ruins of an ancient theological school. All that was left of it was a row of huge pillars. I got the impression that this place had once seen better times. Looking at it from today’s perspective, I guess it was yet to see even worse times.
I stayed in Herat for a few days, then went on to Kabul and from there down through the Khyber Pass and into Pakistan.
The inhabitants of this border region were Pathans, the people who’d earned fame for the bad times they’d given the British army. The English remembered them well and told many stories about them. These Pathans were said to be remarkably gifted at gun smithing. Using only primitive tools, they were capable of producing functioning copies of any sophisticated firearm they got their hands on.
Few Afghanis spoke English; I met none who spoke it well enough to hold a conversation. But it was different here in Pakistan, which had been part of the British Empire. Here I encountered many who spoke English.
I was on my way to Peshawar, riding a bus, when a man sat down next to me. I continued to look out the window at the countryside, but when I glanced his way again, I noticed that the fellow had a gun-belt with a pistol in his lap. He’d been wearing it under his shirt.
"This doesn’t disturb you, I hope?" he said in fairly good English.
"Oh no. It doesn’t disturb me at all," I assured him.
Our conversation continued. He was traveling with his brothers, and found himself obliged to carry the pistol because of some disagreement they had with some other persons. Someone, perhaps several, had been killed. Apparently it was a blood feud of some sort.
I asked him if he were a Pathan.
"I’m a Pushtoon," he told me.
The British called them Pathans, and so it was as Pathans that they became known to the world, but Pushtoons is what they call themselves, I came to understand.
Of course I told him my story, that I was traveling around the world. By the time we reached the city of Peshawar, we’d become quite well acquainted. He and his brothers were to continue on northwards to a certain village, and invited me to accompany them for a visit. This I did, and spent a day or two with them.
A few days later, back in Peshawar, I met a student who showed me around his campus. He was also a Pathan, and, like everyone else, wore an oversized khaki shirt that came nearly down to his knees. I jokingly asked him if he were carrying a pistol.
He looked at me strangely, and said, "Why do you ask that?"
"It seems like everybody around here does," I said, and added that I was only joking.
Then he showed me his gun-belt.
"You too?" I said in surprise and amusement. "But why is a gun necessary?"
He assured me that his weapon was essential, but didn’t say why. As we strolled around the campus he told me about student life here. In some ways this school seemed like an American one, and some American customs had been adopted, or at least tried out. For example, they’d held student body elections so they could learn the democratic way of doing things. But the school officials had ended that experiment a couple of years earlier, after the loser of a student election shot the winner.
Of course I had no way of verifying the election story, but while we were talking, there was a gun shot nearby. Just across the courtyard from us were a group of students; one had been fooling around with a pistol and it had gone off. Nobody hurt this time.
My guess is that only a relatively small percentage of these people carried pistols under their shirts. The ones I met and talked with were, of course, English speaking, and therefore the more affluent. They had money for education, and also for guns. The fact that people I met were armed doesn’t mean everybody was.
I asked my student friend about the gun smiths. I mentioned the stories I’d heard of how phenomenally gifted these people were at making guns. Was it true? I asked.
"Of course it’s true," he said. "Would you like to see a place where guns are made?"
Naturally I did.
It turned out to be a small shop, only a couple of rooms. Two or three craftsmen sat on the floor, working with rather simple tools. One was making a shotgun, another a revolver.
I did of course wonder about the metallurgy and the general quality of these weapons. On one occasion I saw a fellow attempt to fire a pistol in the air and it didn’t go off, so I must think that some were not too well-made, but perhaps the craftsmanship varied from shop to shop.
The Pathans were extremely interesting people and I’ve often wished I’d stayed longer in that region. One thing that impressed me most about them was that they were rather quiet, extremely gentle and courteous. In a land where many people carry pistols and are so ready to use them, I suppose people tend to be more polite.
Daniel Borgström
Oakland, California
