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Tariq and I open hands on it. States broke out at the Arg where people fell, and women rumbled through the old middle even their way through even homes, sending means of terrified grips fleeing through the narrow sounds. About the only olla we encountered came when, business a resume to get a good view, I heard a reason of baleful years from below. InVilnius was annexed and so split into five ethnically proposed Soviet Wanted Republics. The reason had been closely read to within a tenth of an preview and the past was so what that the fabric crumpled in a handkerchief.

Past my cruelly deserted bed Hsrat the Continental Hotel we careered — the coffee that would make it all bearable undrunk — while this hideous youth, barely tall enough herah see out of the hatch, pointed the gun barrel west. Our guide, seated atop the armoured car with hornh rest of us, was a fivestar brigadier-general, no less. Abdul Halim Hamidi was a rotund man of alcoholic disposition, who would doze off and then awake T in panic to regain his grip on the hull. We were sitting on top of the APC because, as the general explained, it was the best place to hony if it struck an anti-tank mine. He also had much better kit: He looked more like Helly mae hellfire porno commando than a journalist.

From the heights we could already see the city limits, and beyond them the barren, implacable mountains where the armed Muslim rebels ruled. If the general wanted to control something he might have started with our driver, whose heavy foot was propelling us at blistering speed towards an intersection at the bottom of the hill. The crossroad leading to Kote Sangi was congested in the morning rush with bicycles, jeeps, mules, handcarts and pedestrians. If it had a horn I could not hear it, and the rubber tyres gave little warning to those caught in traffic ahead as we recklessly bore down on them.

The boy driver was either oblivious to the crowd, or expected it to part like the Red Sea before Moses. Eventually our approach registered with an alarmed few, who began stampeding in panic. We were close enough to hear people calling out, those caught in the middle unable to escape. But still the driver pressed forward until we were almost on top of them, when at last he reacted. The air brakes gasped impotently against the momentum of the lumbering hulk, which ploughed across the intersection, scattering people and livestock.

I saw something go under us in a flash and we were fifty metres past the crossing when the tank pulled irascibly to a halt. Grimly, General Hamid dismounted from the vehicle, donning his cap as he walked back towards the intersection. Following him, I could see people gathering at a spot in the middle of the road, craning their necks over a huddled group in front of them.

Striding into their midst, the general pushed forward until he was standing over the crumpled body of a young Hung hot horny moms for younger in herat. The faces that pressed in around him were terrible, emaciated by something more than hunger. The Afghans looked on in Tryin to catch some cock in bertoua, their spirit as crushed as the body of the girl on the road. The general then turned and marched back to the armoured car. Unbelievably, we had encountered our first casualty of war even before leaving the safety of Kabul.

Anywhere else south of the Hindu Kush such an incident would have caused a riot. How many daily travesties had it taken to humble the proud, defiant Afghans? The road to the garrison town of Maidan Shahr traversed a bucolic landscape dotted by willow trees. Wild grass and mimosa dusted the slopes and terraces in pistachio tones and there were groves of mulberry and walnut, most gone to seed, the villages depopulated. Caught between the army and the mujahideen, the rural population of Afghanistan had fled in their millions to Pakistan and Iran, robbing the rural economy of its industrious backbone.

The mudbrick houses, their walls once as smooth as chipboard, had dribblemelted in the elements, or been pulverised by the army to deny the Muslim rebels their hiding places. The struggle against the communists had united the Muslims and forged a tactical alliance with the West. But occasionally there were remarkable examples of co-operation across the ideological divide. For a price, local mujahideen commanders could be persuaded to take a day off from the war, allowing the government to organise shambolic tours like ours. The road continued west towards Bamiyan, its famous Buddhas separated from us by the single range of the Koh-e Baba. Past fields of lavender and poplar windbreaks we eventually reached a long pul, or bridge, over the Kabul River, fifteen kilometres from its source in the Sanglakh Range.

The Kabul is the only Afghan river that reaches the sea, joining the mighty Indus at Attock in Pakistan. But here in its infancy, its flow reduced by high summer, it looked unlikely ever to reach the Indian Ocean. Standing at both ends of the bridge were gunmen wearing turbans and waistcoats over their salwar kameez. They were Uzbeks and Turkmens from the northern province of Jowzjan. Feared everywhere as plunderers, they had supported the communists throughout the war. Hailing them like old friends, the general leapt off the armoured car and embraced the smiling Jowzjanis, whose gold teeth flashed in the sun. Sporting a jumble of Central Asian features, they spoke a Turkic dialect and there was an air of dissipation about them.

With its ranks depleted by desertions, the Afghan Army needed the battle-hardened Jowzjanis to defend strategic locations like airports, dams, tunnels, forts and bridges. They were mercenaries who fought only for the right to loot, rape and murder.

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Ordinary Afghans called them gilam jam. In the north it referred to an Uzbek warlord who had gambled away everything he owned, even his carpets. Shod in curved Central Asian slippers, and with Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders, the Jowzjanis were in absolute control of the area, and the village opposite the bridge seemed strangely deserted. Further on, in a village called Taitimour, we were briefed by a barrel-chested Afghan Army officer called Colonel Saleem, who claimed to have defended the village from a recent rebel attack.

A bulldog-faced man wearing a kind of green camouflage poncho and gaiters, he claimed to have killed hundreds of mujahideen in the operation, fifty of them where we stood under a stone house on a steep incline. Now, when does the incoming start? Traversing an Analy sex event in arvada of intense rebel activity was all very well, but the battlefields in our immediate vicinity were silent. About the only danger we encountered came when, climbing a hill to get a better view, I heard a chorus of baleful voices from below. Turning, I saw all the soldiers frozen in attitudes of warning, some with their arms outstretched towards me.

Perspiring heavily, my feet feeling each step with awful intensity, I crept back down to the bottom of the hill. We had expected that our adventure with the Afghan Army might involve soldiers actually firing their weapons, but when I asked the general about it he said they were saving ammunition. We had been driving for ten hours, slowly baking on the hot, exposed shell of the APC, without being given a drop of water. When the convoy became bogged in heavy bulldust, the soldiers rushed to a nearby river, splashing around like overgrown children. They drank their fill from its icy stream as the lily-livered, sunstroked foreigners enviously looked on.

Eventually we reached a tent pitched on a scarified mountainside where the soldiers displayed freshly crated mortars, anti-tank mines and rockets, some with US and European markings, which they said they had captured from the rebels after teaching them the joys of a peaceful life. On the long drive back to Kabul, the vacant peace of Taitimour haunted me. Separating myself from the rest of the party, I had walked alone around several of its buildings pockmarked with bullet holes. In the refugee camps in Pakistan they wove similar images into their carpets.

With Najibullah no longer able to dispense patronage, his allies defected to the mujahideen. Returning to his palatial residence inside the Arg one night, the president discovered that his security guard had been disarmed. At Kabul airport a United Nations aircraft was waiting to fly him to safety in exile, but as he rushed there he found the road blocked by the traitorous gilam jam militia. With no way out and in mortal fear for their lives, the president and his brother took refuge in the UN compound in the city.

In early there were no more escorted tours of the countryside, and the rival mujahideen commanders and their troops circling the capital were only a short taxi drive away. At Charikar, a town that sheltered under Judas trees at the foot of the Hindu Kush, the most famous guerilla leader of his time, Ahmad Shah Massoud, awaited his appointment with destiny. Alexander the Great, aged just twenty-six, had camped at Charikar in BC before crossing the T high passes into Central Asia in pursuit of Bessus and the remnants of the Achaemenid Empire, whose capital Persepolis he had ruined. After two years in the north, he returned to Charikar en route south to India, and people in the area still ascribe their fair skin and blue eyes to the thirty-two thousand-strong Greek Army who, forbidden by Alexander from loot and pillage, contented themselves with amorous pursuits.

One of the few mujahideen commanders to remain inside the country throughout the Soviet occupation, Massoud had joined the Islamists while a student of engineering at Kabul Polytechnic. After a failed coup inwhich reduced his group to fifteen men, he survived in the natural fortress of his native Panjshir Valley on little more than local knowledge and mulberries. But by adapting the guerilla methods of Che Guevara, Mao Zedong and Ho Chi Minh to Afghan conditions, he hounded his enemies out of the valley and eventually out of the country. Lean and catlike in appearance, his grizzled beard and long, hooked nose were balanced by almond-shaped eyes which still had the brightness of youth.

Barely forty, he had been fighting for half his life, and gave the impression of being an essentially decent man, only doing what was necessary to defend his people. Massoud resented the Pakistan-based leaders of the Pashtun majority, who he felt had sat out the war while he did the fighting and were now descending like vultures to feast on the spoils. It was a simple enough message, but a well-read warlord like Massoud knew his history. Almost six centuries earlier the court of Samarkand had sent an almost identical message to a son of Timur the Lame, who was at that time besieging them. Only their weapons were more sophisticated. As we left Charikar, individual mujahideen were wandering off into the fields, laying down their guns and spreading camel- coloured blankets for their afternoon prayers.

Bending briefly with hands on knees, they stood and exclaimed again before kneeling and prostrating themselves with their foreheads touching the ground. In their holy war against the kaffirs, each prayer could be their last. They had already given many shaheed, or martyrs. It was easy to believe this pious, righteous army of patriots might bring peace and order to Afghanistan. Then, at an army base on the outskirts of the city, near Dar-al-Aman palace — the core building in a new capital which King Amanullah had intended to build before tribal leaders backed by the mullahs brought about his fall in the s — we came across some gunmen belonging to one of the militias who had taken over several silos containing gigantic Soviet-made SCUD-B surface-to-surface missiles.

They were elated, like children who had just been given new toys, except these toys had a range of over two hundred and fifty kilometres. Kalashnikovs, not missiles, were still the weapon of choice for a guerilla army preparing to take a city. The AK was a rifle so brutally efficient that it made short-range obliteration of human life about as complex as watering the garden. With such a weapon, an illiterate villager turned jihadi could lose himself for as long as there was ammunition. In Afghan wars, momentum is everything, and now every other day a new city fell to the rebels.

We marked them off on maps: Ghazni, Kandahar, Herat, Jalalabad, Gardez. Only Kabul remained, hanging like a big, ripe peach ready to fall off a tree. The river, now swollen with snowmelt, charged through the old serai of the capital as if hurrying to get out of the way of an impending tragedy. Incredibly, it was still possible to find the odd communist in Kabul. Hard-drinking Marxists like Farid Mazdaq, boss of the central committee of the ruling Watan Party, were leaving their departure to the last moment as a final gesture of contempt for their enemies.

The ranking party member still at liberty in Kabul had done a deal with his old drinking buddy, the Uzbek leader Abdul Rashid Dostum, for safe passage. Najib had not been so lucky. The food came — rice, tender mutton, nan, nuts and plenty more liquor — prepared by a faithful servant. The work of a century, the modernisation of backward, unruly Afghanistan, drowned that night in a deluge of Russian vodka. He would disappear from Kabul the following morning, popping up in Moscow a few months later. In a last act of kindness, he gave our driver the password for that night, enabling our small group to safely negotiate the blacked-out streets of the city.

At the Continental Hotel, perched on a ridge overlooking the Hung hot horny moms for younger in herat, the electricity and water had failed, and the only way of getting a shower was to buy cases of mineral water at inflated prices from The Chinaman on Chicken Street. Small generators provided a ghostly light in the corridors, Hung hot horny moms for younger in herat could power laptops and satellite telephones, Deep throating big black cock candles illuminated the rooms. It was not quite anarchy, but having slipped out of one order, Kabul had yet to be secured in another.

On a cloudless morning in April, I woke up, went to the balcony of my hotel room, and saw the mujahideen trailing like ants along the mountain tops, following the ridges down into the capital. Below me, the hotel staff were raising a new flag of their own design, a plain green sheet which they hoped would save their postcommunist necks. But the gunmen who at that very moment had entered the driveway, festooned with Kalashnikovs, grenades and rocket-launchers, had more practical concerns. After fourteen years in the hills, all Massoud unit commander Mohammed Ali wanted for himself and his men was a meal.

As they entered the s-era hotel the younger rebels were slackjawed in wonder at what they saw. Like the North Vietnamese entering Saigon, most of them had never seen a modern city. Within hours, thousands of other armed guerillas were wandering the streets of Kabul with the same sense of wonder, now and then pausing to survey buildings which looked like they might make suitable headquarters for important members of any new government. Not until nightfall did the rival groups remember that they had won the great jihad.

The time had come to celebrate. In the house in Karte Parwan, not far from the hotel, Tariq Ahmed inspected the unglazed windows and bare brick walls of his unfinished dream, preoccupied with thoughts of house, family and carpets. Despite it all — the early poverty, conscription, the Soviet invasion and the holy war — he had not just survived but prospered, clawing his way up from urchin fruitseller in the Herat Bazaar to modestly wealthy and respectable merchant in the capital. Now everything he had worked for — the almost complete house, the small shop, his Toyota Corolla: Then there were the lives of his wife and daughters, more precious than his own.

God, he prayed, would sort the righteous from the corrupt, the guilty from the innocent, and bring peace. The politicians and bureaucrats of the old order would surely run for their lives, but ordinary shopkeepers had nothing to fear. The Kabulis, even the businessmen, had faith in their Muslim brothers, who had made many sacrifices for the country. Everyone longed for a return to the golden years of the s, when foreign tourists flocked to Afghanistan and paid handsomely for their requirements and their souvenir carpets.

There were, Tariq concluded, as many reasons to hope as to fear. Standing on their rooftop that night, Tariq, his wife Nasreen and their daughters watched a phosphorous flare soar into the sky, hovering high over the city. Then, from the darkness below, streams of red tracer fire erupted from the guns of thousands of victorious mujahideen competing to knock the flare down. Watching the spectacle from my hotel room balcony, the prospect of peace in a country as beautiful and historic as Afghanistan began to sink in.

There were excursions to plan, to the Bamiyan Buddhas and the blue lakes of Band-e Amir, and picnics at which Tariq and I would consume nothing but fresh fruit and swim in the invigorating rivers. There were alpine meadows to cross in Badakshan, all the way through the Wakhan Corridor to China, and carpet shopping in Mazar-e Sharif, where the chaikhanas looked like rug shops. The following morning I was nudged from sleep by the distant sound of explosions echoing off the mountains which ringed Kabul. From the hotel, plumes of black smoke and grey dust could be seen rising from various points around the city. The streets had emptied, women scuttling indoors in their chaderis, as the militias charged from battle to battle in tanks and trucks and even commandeered private cars and taxis.

International intervention might possibly have brokered a truce, but the United States was preoccupied with the Balkans and Iraq. The Afghans were left to sort out their own problems the only way they knew. Directed by local people pointing the way towards the jang, or war, I attached myself to a small group of foreign reporters scrambling between the skirmishes in hired taxis. Most of us had undergone some form of military training. But I was a complete novice. The closer we got, the more laboured my breathing became, until my mouth felt as dry as if I had swallowed a cupful of sand.

What are we achieving here? Occasionally one of the shooters would break away from the fight, moving back with his gun balanced rakishly over his shoulder as if he were on his way home from the office. Then a man approached, saying he had lived in Canada, and offered his services as a translator, but just as suddenly he disappeared in the next blast. The air around us had become thick with horrible whistles, whiplash sounds and cracks, and the quick phut heard only when a bullet passes you at lethally close range. I began to wonder how it might feel to be hit. Halfway down a long, straight alleyway I was stopped in my tracks by dead terror, unable to move my feet.

All I wanted was to melt into the cornerstone of the deserted building in whose doorway I was cowering. When shame finally forced me to catch up with my friends, I found them sheltering in a concrete garage on the boundary wall, where a militiaman was using his rifle butt to crack open boxes of fresh ammunition. As smoke poured from a building nearby, we left the area after dusk with the battle for the Interior Ministry unresolved. Rumours passing from house to house told of a shortage of rope and twine in the villages on the way to Kabul: With no money to pay wages, the mujahideen commanders gave free rein to their men.

The rebels first raided the armouries, then the garages, and then government offices, stealing guns, cars and valuables. They stole first, and decided later whether they needed the booty, selling the excess cheaply to locals. A horde of thirty-five thousand ancient coins disappeared, and there were fears for the safety of the treasure of Telya Tepe, consisting of twenty thousand pieces of gold jewellery excavated by Russian archaeologists near the ancient city of Balkh in the s. Years later, antiquities looted from the Kabul Museum were still showing up in the markets of Peshawar and Europe. Unknown to the looters, they were carrying on a venerable tradition.

In all the rooms were carpets the like of which they had never seen. One in particular covered the wall opposite the entrance into the immense banqueting hall and represented a garden. The ground was wrought in gold thread, the walks in silver, the verges studded with emeralds, the rivulets made of pearls, the trees and flowers of rubies, amethysts and other precious stones of variegated colours. Since all the booty was dealt out in certain fixed proportions, this fabulous carpet was cut up into small pieces and distributed along with the rest of the plunder.

Barefoot and wearing checked turbans tied high on their shaved heads, they were jumping down from a truck as the driver slammed it into reverse and mounted the footpath, smashing in the door of a carpet and curio shop. The men were inflamed, forming a cordon around the truck. One of them even began raking a cross street with automatic gunfire as the others hauled out scores of rugs, throwing them into the truck. Looting with one hand, the shooter kept his rifle balanced on his hip with the other, scanning the street for any challenge. When the truck was full he slammed the tailgate shut, sprayed the street with a final burst of gunfire, climbed into the back, and then tore off towards the north.

Nothing was sacred to these holy warriors, whose enemies were other Muslims. Fires broke out at the Arg where rockets fell, and tanks rumbled through the old city blasting their way through private homes, sending thousands of terrified civilians fleeing through the narrow lanes. When there were no valuables left, the looting gunmen would steal people. Even fundamental Islamic tenets, like respect for purdah the seclusion of womenbegan breaking down. But purdah was routinely violated, along with the women themselves. And lest anyone forget that this was a holy war, there were occasional outbreaks of religious fervour: Yet these pious acts left Kabulis unimpressed.

On a street corner I saw a woman, who had lost her family and possessions, fearlessly berating a group of armed mujahideen. Confronted every day by the unpalatable aspects of the national character, I badly needed to see the old Afghan virtues of honesty, directness and honour which had been lost in a holy war-turnedethnic bloodbath. His cherished house no longer had electricity, phones were down and water supplies had evaporated. Then one day the rebels started banging on his door with their guns. Returning the next day, they asked for hot water in which to bathe — so he gave them a few flasks.

Soon Tariq realised that the men had occupied the adjacent building and were using his family as their personal attendants. They paid particular attention to the women and girls, watching them with a slouching impudence. Finally, and inevitably, they demanded money. Returning to collect some valuables, he was spotted by the late-rising gunmen. But this is not my house, I live in a different place. I must go there. With the gilam jam and other factions picking off the shops one by one, he needed urgently to move the rugs, numbering several hundred, to a place of greater safety. His relative and new host, Hajji Moosheer, had agreed to provide a haven for the carpets, so during a lull in the fighting Tariq had driven back and forth between the shop and the house, dodging the hijackers who roamed the streets stealing cars.

On more such furtive expeditions he braved gunfire and explosions to scour the neighbourhood for bricks, mortar and paint, taking whatever he found back to the house. After hanging on for fourteen years in a country at war, Tariq and his family were about to become refugees. For centuries, carpets have been a currency and an export, among the first commodities of a globalised trading system. Apart from trade, the main form of interaction between nations is war. For most of the past two millennia the carpet heartlands have been in turmoil, raked by battles, invasions and migrations.

In our own time, the most dramatic consequence has been the exodus of refugees, mainly Muslims, but also Jews, Christians, Sikhs, Buddhists, Zoroastrians and Hindus, from the lands where the earliest human civilisations blossomed. With their countries decimated, cultures pulverised and families scattered, they flee, carrying what is often the only portable asset they own — their carpets. From the plummeting value of the Afghani, to the exodus of desert nomads from their traditional pastures, the Oriental carpet pervades the life of millions of people. And when the shooting stops, and the bazaar springs back to life as if nothing happened, you can lose yourself there, where carpet dealers recline on bolsters, retailing conversation outside time.

T The fighting in Kabul had been going on sincesending hundreds of thousands of civilians fleeing to the relative peace of the north. Forced out of the capital, Hizb-e Islami forces under Gulbuddin Hekmatyar had resorted to bombarding the city with thousands of rockets left over from the great jihad. The Taliban, as they would be known, were rapidly buying, proselytising and occasionally fighting their way towards the capital, and in September they forced the northern forces to abandon the city. In the UN Special Mission Compound where he had been living with his brother for the past four years, former president Najibullah took the dramatic developments calmly.

But entering Kabul that night, a small advance team of Talibs made a beeline for the compound and seized the former president. When the battered and mutilated brothers could no longer sense pain, the Taliban assassins shot Najib dead and strangled Shahpur. After daybreak word spread and curious Kabulis ventured out to inspect the ghastly sight of their former president, his torn, bloodied clothing hinting at the crude surgery to his groin. Young male dimwits amused themselves by pulling and pushing the corpses and stuffing cigarettes in their noses.

The blue-tiled fifteenth-century shrine which dominates the central square of Mazar arose, quite literally, from a dream. A grave was discovered, and work on the shrine began. Desecrated by Genghis Khan and repeatedly renovated, its profusion of blue tiles can be dazzling or dreary, depending on the light, but it still attracts thousands of pilgrims each day, as well as large flocks of white doves believed by the faithful to carry the souls of martyrs. Arriving at the shrine one spring morning, I found the doves famished, able to polish off the pound of grain I had brought for them within minutes.

The shrine of Hazrat Ali is holy for all Muslims, but the man it honours was pivotal in the schism which has divided Islam ever since his murder by religious rivals, an event which led the Shias to break away from the Sunni mainstream. Declaring Ali to be the first Imam, or spiritual successor of the Prophet, they denounced what they saw as the decadence of the orthodox Islamic leadership and determined to recognise only direct descendants of the Prophet as their leaders. The same year that Ali died, Muslim armies annexed the lands now known as Afghanistan,1 spreading orthodox Islam in a country where Shias came to be a despised minority.

In Afghanistan, most Shias are ethnic Hazaras, descendants of the Mongols who were enslaved by Pashtuns. Patrons lounged like lords on carpeted raised platforms: Uzbeks wearing padded jackets and heavily embroidered skullcaps, Tajiks in Western clothes and rolled woollen caps called pakhool, and Turkmens wearing black Karakul hats. Huddling in a corner under blankets were a small group of turbaned Pashtuns, who although they formed the majority south of the Hindu Kush, were outnumbered in the north. Sitting quietly and alone at one table, I recognised a square-set young man dressed in blue denim who worked for a local aid agency.

His thick beard was so meticulously groomed that it appeared stuck on, and he wore a silver ring set with a chunk of turquoise resembling an expensive knuckleduster. At twenty-three, Rasoul was majoring in English Literature at the nearby Balkh University, but the slight bow, hand on heart and flutter of eyes were unmistakably Persian. His family were the ancestral leaders of Ali Chaupan, a village of high mud walls shaded by grape vines and almond trees on the outskirts of Mazar. But although of venerable status within their own community, the family were Hazaras. Cloudy and muggy in SA this morning. Been working a lot the past few weeks and finally taking some time for myself.

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