The year was 1985; the date, 12th April; the time, 9.30am. The Indian Airlines plane had just landed at Kabul military airport, which was then under close Russian military surveillance. As per the UN agreement, my visa was to be delivered upon arrival. Though my other UN papers concerning my Unesco posting in Kabul were up-to-date and handy, it took the airport authorities three hours to issue the visa despite the energetic intervention of the Kabul UNDP transport officer, Hamid Saleh, a stout man who seemed to have lost his smile at birth, but who never let his anger get the better of him. Despite all apparent effort, Hamid Saleh could hardly mask his amazement upon setting eyes on me for the first time for, as he confessed much later, he expected to find somebody more closely akin to an African tribal chief whose names, according to him, bear a striking vocal resemblance to mine when translated in his local language. Such a belief was further reinforced by his assumption that Mauritius was part of mainland Africa.

The trip from the airport to the UN Staff House, a stone’s throw away from the various embassies in Kabul, took around one hour. Once in the heart of Kabul, I was intrigued to find hundreds of carpets spread on roads, pavements and alleys, where vehicles and pedestrians went about their business unhindered. Given Hamid Saleh’s taciturn nature, I ventured a joking remark that, though it was my first visit to Afghanistan, I did not find the need for Kabul to welcome me with hundreds of red carpets, when I was instantly asked to guess the real reason thereof. I, who, until then, used to ritually remove my shoes before stepping on the carpet in my drawing-room, could at best make vain attempts at clearing my throat by way of an answer. The real reason, I was much amused to learn, was to make the carpets look much older so that they would fetch 10 to 15 times their real price when sold as antiques in markets abroad.

Despite the relatively bitter experience at the airport, which momentarily punctured many cosy images I had conjured up of the country, it did not take me long to realise the basic truth that sweetest fruits have sourest rind. The sour experience at the airport quickly peeled itself off to reveal a remarkably friendly, respectful and hospitable people.

My first visit with my wife, to the impressive carpet shop of Ali Muhammad in Sher Nau, is a souvenir worth cherishing. My wife was so dazzled by the design, variety and splendour of Afghan carpets on display that her facial expressions instantly betrayed those of a restless and inquisitive child in Disneyland. Her regular side glances were unmistakable pointers that the previously-agreed-upon number of carpets to be purchased had to be made upwardly mobile. Her lingering interest for 15 particularly attractive carpets could not escape the attention of Ali Muhammad who had become quite expert in peppering meaning to women’s facial expressions in his shop. Ali Muhammad sent for my driver and instructed his helper to haul the 15 carpets in the car when I gently reminded him that we had yet to settle on the number of carpets to be purchased and their price. Though we were complete strangers to him, Ali Muhammad insisted that the 15 carpets be spread at our residence and that he would call 15 days later, when we would have settled on the ones to keep and those to discard. Only then, after deciding on the price, would he accept payment.

The antique shop in Chicken Street belonging to 85-year old Anwar Ali, was a favourite place of tourists in quest of antique souvenirs. Crowned in his large white turban with his fair and delicate wrinkled face, he had a ready smile which constantly revealed a mouth with more gaps than teeth. With his strikingly sweet face, further heightened by a flowing yellowish goatee, Anwar Ali, with the outward show of dignity and serenity, could be mistaken for one of the innumerable statues in his shop. When I complimented him for the variety of antiques available, Anwar Ali instantly quipped: ‘Yes, in this shop, everything is antique, except – myself!’.

Mansur Ali Khan’s crockery shop, almost opposite the Blue Mosque, caught my attention. Its exquisite dinner set was proudly displayed in the shop window for the price of 5,000 afghanis – almost for a song by our standard. Since it was the end of my shopping spree, I was left with only 7,000 afghanis. I promised to call, Mansur Ali Khan insisted that I take the whole set against whatever deposit I deemed proper, the outstanding balance to be paid at my own convenience. I protested but I was completely disarmed by Mansur Ali Khan’s rebuttal : “I trade not on money, but on trust!”.

Visitors to Afghanistan usually marvel at the variety and quality of its vegetables and fruits, with 1 kg of the choicest grapes at the equivalent of five mauritian rupees. No doubt, the abundance, quality and price of carrots, with booths selling carrot juice at every street corner, account for my inability to recall a single Afghan face wearing glasses.

As for the Afghan youth, the best reference is Marie-Michèle, the charming young girl working at the French Embassy, who could hardly conceal her uneasiness that Afghan younsters neither made any taunting remark nor showered any extended look on her person as in other countries.

The likes of Hamid Saleh, Ali Muhammad, Anwar Ali, Mansur Ali Khan and those youngsters, embody the Afghan people – decent, honest, strong and, above all, proud - who can sail on smooth surfaces and go for the jagged edges in near-equal measure.

The embers of past horrors have now been fanned back into full flame in Afghanistan. Everywhere there seems to be ash and trash, jeers and tears, with each Afghan face looking more and more unreadable, though in normal circumstances it was ever ready to crack a smile. Given her history of near bankruptcies, however, Afghanistan is particularly well-schooled in disasters for, from the Russian invasion and eventually through the Taliban regime down to the present chaos, the country has known an outpouring of attention-grabbing atrocities that have attracted attention by their very repulsiveness. Such a situation is shockingly at odds with the temperament of the Afghan people, and in such a ‘wilderness of mirrors’, one is unable to tell fact from fiction, truth from lies, right from wrong. The present combustible combination, brought about by the failure of successive governments to establish the shakiest control over the country, looks more like a densely-spun spider’s web.

Hamid Saleh, Ali Muhammad, Anwar Ali, Mansoor Ali Khan and millions of other caring Afghans, experiences, which hurt us most, also teach us most! Though pleasure and joy have several faces, grief has only one because it is true and honest and, unlike pleasure, wears no mask. Suffering, under your circumstances, has the added advantages of enhancing a person’s worth, of having a humanising effect, of cleansing the soul and of imparting a touch of divinity, as Goethe rightly put it :

“Who never ate his bread in sorrow

Who never spent the midnight hours

Weeping and waiting for the morrow

He knows you not, ye heavenly powers.”

For you who have known so many false dawns, I can only earnestly hope that the impending dawn will be real and eternal.

<B>Dr Anand D AWOOTAR PhD, D. LITT</B>

<I>The writer of this article has been on a 2-year UNESCO assignment in Kabul, and is presently an Associate Professor and Head of the School of Applied Sciences, Mauritius Institute of Education.</I>