writing

West of Kabul

1979 — Thu, 17 Aug 2006 21:35:57 GMT

1. The road to West Kabul was long, black and dotted with potholes that had been created by neglect and war. The sparse traffic made slow, looping swerves to avoid them. The last thing on the West Kabul road was a destroyed palace. Full of holes and perched upon a small hill, Darulaman Palace looked injured and dying. Faint traces of former elegance bled through the destruction; the Corinthian columns had large chunks missing while the Gothic balconies were pockmarked, frail, and looked unable to support the weight of a single person. All around the foundations of the building steel wiring burst through where the concrete had been shot. In the early morning sun the Darulaman palace, broken down and rotting, cast a lengthy shadow. Under this shadow sat three boys who were riding their bikes around in circles. I walked up to them asked to borrow one of the bikes. The children followed me as I began to peddle around the perimeter of Darulaman. Amused that I was riding the small red bike, their shrieking voices would reverberate off the walls of the palace. Every few feet, black spray paint warned of 'UxO's': Land mines. Wrapped loosely around the 6 ft. high fence were coils of razor wire and wooden signs: "This Is an I.S.A.F. And Canadian Military Establishment.' Afghanistan was full of acronyms: W.H.O., U.N., U.S.A.I.D., W.H.O., U.N.H.C.R., and the omnipresent U.N.I.C.E.F. Everywhere I walked stenciled letters stared back at me, on the door’s of muddy S.U.V.'s and plastered onto signs. Some were fresh and new while others had long been abandoned and left when the money had dried up. Afghanistan was a country that had been ripped open and stuffed full of foreign things. Like the man with a baboon heart, Afghanistan was being supported by vital organs that didn't belong. At the corner of the property was a small command post. A solitary Canadian soldier sat overlooking the scene. He was listening to a song on the radio. In front of the post was a small hill with a stairway that had become overgrown with weeds. 'I want to ride down the hill' I told the soldier. I was leaning over the handle bars and squinting into the sun. 'Uh. Hmm. Better not,' the soldier said. 'There are still ordinances there.' I gave the bike back to the kids and began to walk away. The soldier called to me and I looked up at him. 'Hell,' he said. 'The sheep graze there so..I guess it's alright. Just stay on the paths, willya?' I took a diagonal path and scrambled down the steep hill. The grass was dead and yellow. There was destruction and ruined buildings. The zigzagging trail led down to an empty asphalt road. This was a new street, built within the last several years as part of an international effort to revitalize the area. On one side of this road were tall trees. Taxi drivers and old men sat in the shade drinking tea from silver samovars. On the other side, housed in a grey building with a brand new marquis, was the Kabul Museum. To go inside cost 10 Afghanis. They searched me for guns. The woman selling the tickets was a gum-snapping, matronly Afghan with an easy smile and reddish hair. The Museum had been destroyed in the early 1990s during the climax of the Taliban's scorched earth policy. Nearly everything in the museum had been looted, sold or simply vandalized beyond repair. The museum was in a kind of civilized dissaray. The ragged collection was a tribute to the cruelty of civil war. An iron bowl significant to Buddhists had been stolen and used to serve sherbet to Moslem pilgrims. There was something to this, I thought, something symbolic about the blatant unfairness of Islam. I saw it everywhere I went. Urgent signs that line the empty walls advertised ' Afghan Culture is in Danger!' In 1993 a wayward rocket, launched somewhere within urban Kabul, had struck the Museum. The force of the blast knocked the roof down onto the upper gallery. The museum closed. In the following months renegade Taliban fighters shot and exploded their way into the building to loot. The stolen artifacts made their way around the world eventually ending up in Europe, Japan, Russia and the United States. An estimated 90% of the museums holdings were sold to collectors abroad. I sat on the steps and wondered what it would be like to be inside a building when as roof falls down. I wondered what the rocket looked like. I thought of all the times I had seen rockets in cartoons or described in sci-fi novels. Was it loud? Did it have a little yellow tail of fire? I looked up and the roof, tried to picture it coming crashing down onto me, and then walked out of the museum. -two- Two guards were outside the museum. They were sitting on folding chairs. On a pedestal next to a guard booth was a sign: A Nation Stays Alive When its Culture Stays Alive. At the intersection, standing next to a concrete road block stood an old man with one leg. We began to walk together onto the main road. The man had lost his leg on a landmine, just south of here while herding sheep. He wore black pants and a dirty white sneaker. There were no straight lines in West Kabul- no smoothness or symmetry. Nothing was clean or new. Everything had been broken and smashed then broken again. There was nothing man-made left to destroy so people destroyed one another by putting landmines in the dirt. The crutches only came up to his waist and had little baby blue handles that he gripped. He walked easily with them, smoothly. We walked and talked and he would look at me. I pointed at some of the destroyed buildings. 'Rus?' I asked. Russians? 'Nai, nai.' He said, clicking his tongue. 'Hekmatyar?' I tried again. Gulbuddin Hekmatyar was an infamous and brutal warlord. He was responsible for the destruction of this area in the 1990's civil war. 'Hah!' (yes!) he said, and then stopped walking and balanced on one leg. He made his hand like a flying airplane. Airplanes, bombs. The old-man shrugged and held out his hands, palms up. What can one do? 'Afghanistan..garm,' he said, shaking his head. Afghanistan is bad. 'Ohh..no, no ,' I said. 'Afghanistan good. Afghanistan good.' I wasn’t being polite. I liked Afghanistan and her people. He shook his head and put on a dark expression, inconsolable. Then he stopped and spread his hands out at the direction of the rubble. I shrugged. What can one do? We walked past a new high school. A new sign said, in English: Mamood Tarzi High School The school had a bright blue fence. Its walls were freshly painted with a multicolored Afghan flag and an open book in front of a blazing yellow sun. He stopped and said, 'America dost!' America is a friend. I pointed at myself then to the south. I was trying to tell him I wanted to leave. He protested and pointed at himself, me and made motions of drinking. He wanted to drink tea with me. I declined and we shook hands roughly, he put his other hand to his heart and bowed his head in a sadly dignified manner. 'Dost!' he barked. I walked over to a shell of a building, hopped over a pile of rubble and walked inside. I watched my friend hobble down the street, all by himself. I regretted not joining him. Much of the destroyed building was in good shape; the roof was still functional. The walls were still standing. Large chunks from the areas near the windows had been blasted away and someone had used the walls as target practice. Hundreds of bullet holes snaked around the structure. The ingenuity of human accomplishment had built these buildings and soon afterwards created the weapons and technology to destroy them. It is the archeology of modern times; instead of letting buildings age-out, war had given man the option to crush everything flat then begin anew. It was cool and dark inside. I sat on a window-sill and followed the linear trajectory of the bullets. I traced the line and put my finger into one of the bullet holes. Loose chunks of powder fell out and residue stuck to my fingertip. It reminded me of cocaine. The wind picked up and an empty, bright red wrapper of strawberry biscuits spun around in tight, angry little swirls. Above my head birds had built a nest and were fluttering around noisily. At night, homeless people and beggars made their home in this place. The sharp smell of fresh shit filled the small space. A secluded column to the left of me was filled with rubbish. Cigarettes pink tissue paper and crumpled up photos of Bollywood actresses. I walked deeper into the building until I found a man sized hole blasted through the wall. Outside, pieces of laundry had been hung up in the sun to dry. The area had been long neglected and destroyed pieces of automobiles lay scattered, rusted, twisted metal pointing up at the sky in unnatural angles. From behind a pile of rocks a group of children ran up to me, speaking rapidly in Farsi. They wanted me to take their photo. They all lined up, 5 of them, smallest to tallest in a line. They all had the wide-eyed expectant look of someone who had come to give them a gift. It pulled at my heart. I had no gifts to give. The continued to stand, waiting for their portrait. ‘No camera,’ I tried to say. I opened my little bag and held it upside down, shrugging and frowning. Notebooks and pens tumbled out onto the ground. The children thought this was funny, jumping up and down with laughter. A little girl dove for the pens. 'No camera,' I said again, holding my hands out. They weren’t listening. They had new pens. One of the children was mentally disabled. His clothes were dirty. His face was matted with dirt and drool. He began to shout. He walked up very close to me and screamed in my face. He bent down and picked up a large hunk of reddish rock and held it above his head. He quickly reeled back to throw the rock at me. I closed my eyes and waited for it to hit me, waited for the blood and unconsciousness that would follow. It never came. The rock went wildly off the mark, flying high up into the air and landing harmlessly onto the dirt ground. I opened my eyes and saw the children standing and staring at me, grinning as if we had just finished a game. -three- By now it was noon. The blazing heat created a hazy mirage on the flat road. There were soldiers on the side of the road, standing and watching traffic. I stood near them and watched the battered yellow taxicabs drive between the convoy of green armoured vehicles. I liked the way dullness of the olive green would clash with the sharpness of the bright yellow taxis. The traffic drove in synchronous slow motion to avoid the potholes in the road. The whole scene had an ephemeral quality about it; olive green and yellow mixing upon a hazy black road within a backdrop of brown hills. The mirage made the vehicles look like they were floating on air on a bed of fumes. I walked across the street and found a school for blind children. I had once read a Spanish novel about a man who had been convinced blind people secretly ruled the world. They would communicate via secret messages in Braille. The novel ended with the man so obsessed in his theory, he blinded himself so he could know for sure. An old man opened the gate for me and I walked into a gravel lot. In front of the squat grey building was a pleasant garden growing ripe tomatoes. I went inside the building and found a man sitting at a large desk huddled over a large sheet with a chart on it. He greeted me and ushered me into a spacious office. 'We love guests. Ali Reza,' he said, introducing himself and shaking my hand. 'Head administrator.' I asked where the students where. 'On break,' he told me. 'Now, because of the heat, we take ten days off. After three more days, the students will return.' 'This is government school. Government Vocational School for the Blind. Even though it is public, we survive mainly on foreign help,' he explained. 'Donations.' 'The plot of land had been donated by the King's son about 30 years ago. Since that time,' he said, 'we have had a most difficult existence. As you can see,' he looked out the window, 'this area was the site of problems..during the time of Mujaheddin was most difficult for us. During the civil war this area, West Kabul was the frontline. All the buildings had been destroyed. It was a target because there,' he walked over the window and pointed at Darulaman Palace, ‘was the defense ministry. So,' Ali made a disgusted face and raised his hands above his head, wriggling his fingers downward, 'all the time this…bombing..like rain!' 'The school had been destroyed in the fighting,' he said. I visualized dozens of small, blind Afghan children running around like mice, bombs dropping all around. 'It had been hit at night so thank god there were no students here.' We couldn't be in this area-it was far too dangerous so we had to move to another building, a rented building, in southern Kabul.' 'This was hard for the students, you see. They had become used to the old place, they knew it, so to speak. For blind children, stability is important because when there is a place they know and can confidently move around in, it helps their self esteem. So, in some ways we had to start over. We had to start from scratch in this new place, the students had to get used to the new atmosphere. It sounds trivial but familiarity is important for blind people.' 'What was worse is we had to refuse the girls. During the time of the king, young girls could go to school. For the first time we had to refuse them. With vocational education, women could have some sort of chance here. With nothing their fate will be difficult.' 'After 9/11, the building had been rebuilt again. We have about 130 students, about 40 of which are female. It's a vocational programme, the students learn things to help them get jobs.' 'Like what,' I asked. I was once in a vocational programme. It was marketed toward high school dropouts and other Bad Kids. They taught me to be a short order cook. 'For the females they learn basket weaving, knitting, tailoring and the boys learn brush making, computer classes and music. Some students have graduated here and entered Kabul University where they have become teachers.' 'But, this is sad year for our little school. Two ladies have left; one remarried her former husband who now lives in Dubai. He cannot come back to Afghanistan so she will go to Dubai and the other has retired. If we cannot replace them, which I don't think we can, the program will be closed. In fact. The program will be closed because we haven't the money to carry on.' 'Do they kids know?' I asked. 'We plan to tell them this week. I don't want to do it. It pains me. Without this school. These kids will have no future, no opportunity. It will be very difficult for them.'

Hooker

1979 — Thu, 17 Aug 2006 21:27:34 GMT

Night had fallen in Lanzhou and I wanted a cigarette. I decided to walk the city aimlessly until I found one. The air was a freezing, sharp cold. The sky was blue and milky. I passed the window of a hair salon. Hands beckoned me inside. It was a sudden flurry of movement from inside the dark room, hands disconnected from bodies, waving frantically. The door slid open and I saw a group of girls sitting in a small, dark room with florescent pink lighting. I went inside. There were four of them sitting huddled around a kettle. None of them were wearing pants, just long black sweaters, sheer pantyhose and green and white striped leg warmers. One girl had a black eye. There was a small boy there too, looking up at me with brown Chinese eyes; 'get the fucking kid out of here,' I thought to myself. What has he seen? He needs to be with men and other boys, learning to fistfight and having pissing contests. Staying here he will either grow up to be gay or a woman hater. One of the girls was smoking a cigarette. I asked for her for one. 'What the fuck is this place anyway,' I asked, looking around, playing stupid. I knew where I was. If I feigned ignorance, I felt, I wouldn’t be guilty of anything. 'Hairdresser?' I ventured dumbly, making snipping motions at my head. "Noooo!" they squealed. I made the international sign for fucking, an index finger plunging through a hole made with the thumb and index finger of the other hand. "Yes, yes!" they shouted in unison, shrieking with laughter. One girl brought me a cigarette. There were burn marks snaking up her forearm. I pointed them out. 'She like,' her friend said. "She like what? To be burned with cigarettes?" "Yes!" The shimmering neon of the gigantic New Century Hotel next door glittered brightly into the cramped room, making wild shadows. Everyone was silent. "How much?" I said. "30." 30 yuan, one chirped. A little over three dollars. "May-o!" I said, impossible. Too much. The girl with the burn marks put her hand up, all five fingers outstretched: five yuan. Five yuan is 90 cents. 'Fuck that. I don't pay for pussy,' I said, flicking an ash on the concrete floor. I thought I was real cool. She put her fist up. Free. I stepped on the cigarette. We went back into another, smaller room. It was separated from the main room by a thin blanket held up a single nail. I peered inside: a cot, a tape player, shoes, a pair of pantyhose sitting on the back of a wooden chair. A small TV was on, showing a woman in white pants walking through a meadow; an advertisement for sanitary napkins. What hell it must be to be a woman. In my jacket pocket I had a flask half-filled with Vodka. I pulled it out and offered her some. She smiled, took a pull. She kissed my hand. I leaned against the wall and told her to lift her shirt up. Her nipples hardened against the cold winter air. What if I punched her, I thought to myself. What would she do? I'd never punched a girl. I had slapped some around before, but never socked them like I would a boy. Would it hurt my hand? Would it break her nose, knock out her teeth? Would she cry for help or just sit there and take it? I thought of her friend with the black eye. I reached out and lifted one of her tits, jiggled it around-great tits. What if I killed her? What does that feel like, to kill someone, to choke the life out of them or stab them to death? Is it hard? Would anyone give a shit if I killed this girl? There are these people in China, subhumans who exist solely to Do Stuff: build bridges and dig ditches, clean the streets, suck dick. China had reduced human beings to their lowest common denominator. People do what they can. Men build and fix things, fight wars while women have babies, cook food and sell their cunt on the street. Castaways. I took her arm and looked closely at the burn marks. They were new, raw to the touch. She winced when I poked them. She grabbed me, closed her eyes and rolled her head back. I could do whatever I wanted to this girl. She didn't exist. I once knew a girl who liked it when I spit on her or said hurtful things to her. It turned her on. Another fantasized about being raped, another liked to be choked or gagged during sex. Women are like that. You can think up the most twisted sexual things and if a girl likes you, she will go right along with it. When you're a kid, no one tells you things are that way, no one tells you that women are fucked up and perverted too. It's something you have to find out for yourself. In my other pocket I had a switchblade. She kissed my neck. I took out the knife, flicked it open, slipped it under her panties and started to cut them at her hip. The flask fell. Vodka spilled on the bare concrete floor. She bit my neck. I felt her reach down and unzip my pants. I pushed her hard against the wall, reached behind her head, pulled her hair hard and put the knife to her throat. 'This is no fucking joke, bitch. You are in danger.' She was breathing hard, talking and pulling me closer. She licked my face. We were sweating. Stop. Enough. It had gone too far already. I wanted to see how far I could take it and this is the end. I needed to get out of there. I felt all fucked up at how quick it had happened. In one motion I grabbed the flask, put on my jacket and left her standing there, looking confused, hurt, naked. I left the little room, past the little boy and the hookers- grabbed two more cigarettes on the way out.

The Killings In Gilgit Town

1979 — Thu, 17 Aug 2006 21:18:20 GMT

In the cosmic game of polo you are the ball The mallet's left and right becomes your call He who causes your movements, your rise and fall He is the one, the only one, who knows it all . -Omar Khayyam I. THE Gilgit polo grounds were located in between two mosques; one Shia, the other Sunni. The field was long and narrow, surrounded on both sides by tall concrete slabs. This is where spectators sit. One side was partitioned off with a green, chain link fence; here shade, soft seats and a good view were to be found. Officers of the Pakistani army and foreign guests sat in this place. This was an exhibition match, the last game of the 'peace tournament,’ a polo match aimed at seething the tensions in the villiage. In the stands, I armed guards stood with loaded automatic guns, nervous fingers on sensitive triggers. At the entrance a pick-up truck sat idle, a large machine gun attached to the payload. Golden bullets hung down like jewelry. There had been violence in this place. Last January, the outspoken community leader of the local Shi'ite community, Imam Ziauddin Rizvi, was assassinated. He was shot to death while riding in a car. Sunni's were blamed. Small scale anarchy immediately followed; looting, arson, sectarian violence. The Pakistani army imposed a shoot-on-sight curfew. People died. Walking through the small town, I saw artifacts of previous chaos. The property that surrounded the polo grounds had been looted and lit on fire. The area had yet to be repaired. In order to get a better view of the polo matches, children climbed atop the burnt wreckage of buildings. -two- Ziauddin Rizi was shot twice on January 13, at 1:46pm on a quiet road near his home in the outskirts of Gilgit Town. The first bullet struck the left side of the Imam's forehead, splattering brains and blood about the car he was riding in. The second bullet hit on the right side, parallel to his mouth. He died instantly. 'They drive here,' Mr. Manzoor Khan, a local journalist explained excitedly, 'and gun, bang, bang, bang , there.' He pointed at a line of trees obscuring the view of the Indus River. 'They shoot from tree.' The place where Rizvi was murdered was marked by a large rock set on top of a cardboard box. There was an ordinariness to this landmark; it looked rather like garbage. On a corner, behind a sandbag barricade, a group of Pakistani soldiers looked at us. My guide pointed out the two stray bullets that had missed the intended target; one hit up high while the other went low to the ground, wildly off target. One side of the road was an expance fertile green fields, farmland; the other side of the road was dominated by a bright white wall. People had written things on the wall; belligerent, fluorescent graffiti in beautiful Urdu script, calls for revenge, retaliation and retrabution. A light rain had begun. A cold wind swept across the plain. The tall grass rippled hypnotically in loose waves. It had started to rain. -three- A 4-piece band played, two percussionists and two on reed horns. Children and adults walked around on the polo field. Amidst rhythmic clapping, a man in a white robe spun around and around. The horses arrived from the Northern entrance. The crowd stood up and cheered wildly. This is what the beginning of the polo game looked like. I was watching the match with Mr. Husain Ali, the Sports Coordinator in charge of Pakistan's northern frontier areas. 'The peace tournament is primarily to promote harmony among the people.' He explained, 'because of some developments things are rather tense in this region, as you know.' I asked him to be more specific. 'As you know, there have been some..problems here..in the northern areas..' 'Problems?' 'Yes, you know..some...how you can say,’ he shrugged and serched for the word, ‘violence, or, sectarianism within the recent months. There was a problem, a mistake, rather and there were more problems as a result.' I looked at him and nodded. ' What we are saying to the people of Gilgit with this polo match that it is time for reconciliation, to be able to come out and have a sporting old time.' Ali was short with a kind face, bowl haircut and a beard. He was wearing a white Shalwaar Kameez under a distinguished looking navy blue sport coat. 'In addition,' he continued, crossing his legs, 'it is beneficial for tourism purposes. As you may imagine, tourism has suffered greatly since these,' he looked grimly out onto the pitch, 'incidents.' He looked back at me. 'So, the tourists like to see polo and it can bring revenue and..put a different face to Gilgit. People go here, go there, then return home and say, 'Ok, Pakistan is ok.' 'Besides this, it encourages sporting activities among the Pakistanis. Part of why this happened, perhaps, is that there was no alternatives for people. It is easy for fundamentalists to get control when their is no recreation, you see? We are trying our level best to reverse this through sport and education.' The match was between the police and the Northern Area Scouts. 'Ah,’ Ali said, his face brightening, ‘you see, this is Bul-Bul, the captain of the scouts.' I looked down and saw a middle-aged, good looking man being greeted by fans. He too was wearing a navy blazer. The only sign of his athleticism was his bottom half, brown boots, worn with age white Polo-player pants. 'The admission is free,' Ali explained whimsically, 'we want all to come and enjoy.' The game began. The band kept playing. Everyone's attention was locked onto the polo players. That was what that had come to see. Polo is a game of rapid, cruel action. Things move quickly, horses and people are hurt; struck by the heavy white calls or hit in the face by the mallets. During the game I saw players wiping blood from their faces. The game had started at 4:30 in the afternoon. There was a breif interruption by the call to prayer coming from the mosques on either side of the field. During this time the band ceased playing but the match continued, silently. The only sound to be heard was the low-rumble of horses running, kicking up dirt and the sharp, singular thwak of mallet hitting ball. 'The winner of this tournament shall go to Chitral for the championship game, in Shandur Pass' Ali explained. The ball had been hit out of bounds. 'Excuse me,' Husain Ali stood up, produced a fresh white ball and hurled it onto the yellow field. People cheered. Children scrambled to get the old ball. -five- The Shi'ite mosque was located at the Western end of the Polo grounds. It was a three-story, stone coloured building with a turquoise minaret and a cool, dark prayer hall. The building was under reconstruction when I had visited. The people in this place were tense. They confronted me. Young men, their eyes wide with piety and displaced ambition blocked my way. They told me to sit and wait, that they would speak with the Imam and give me and answer within one hour. A small crowd had surrounded me. Platters of snacks and beverages were produced. 'It is illegal to speak with foreign journalists,' one told me. 'Two months ago, there is German journalist and some people go to jail for speaking with them. The people are afraid. It is dangerous,' he said, looking around the crowded room. 'The people don't know you so they fear saying things that are anti-Pakistani.' After ten minutes a boy returned. He was holding a folded up piece of paper. The Imam wished not to see me but had written me a message. In elegant, cursive Urdu, with English translation below, was the response from the acting Imam: 'The Shia's of Gilgit are demanding the government give them equal rights in government services,' the document read. 'The government of Pakistan dispacthes Sunni's to the Northern Areas to dominate the Shia, which results in sectarian conflict. Ziauddin started a movement for appropreate text book curriculim for Shi'ite students according to their beliefs and faith. Instead of accepting his fair demand, the government made a conspiricy to kill him. We demand the Pakiastani government arrest and hang those responsible.' -five- Ziauddin Rizvi lived in a large white house. In his absense the house was occupied by his brother Razavi and the bereaved family. Above the shady courtyard stood a large black flag, flapping in the wind. Since the killing, an armed guard has been stationed at the home. He stood in front of the new bulletproof gate. Death threats are common. I walked toward the home. A teenage boy plucked a small child off of a tricycle and presented him to me. 'Imam's last son.' The teenager said to me, solemnly. The child began to cry. Around the property was pictures of the dead Imam plastered onto walls, in car windows, affixed to light sockets. His emotionless face surveyed outward with pious confidence. It was the face of a man who had predicted his own death. This iconography of martyrdom. I had recognized it among the promotional literature one sees among Palestinian Arabs. A face staring into the distance toward an unseen afterlife, head and shoulders crudely imposed onto an artificial sunset. In the background there are clouds, birds and mountains; natural things, eternal things. It is the same pose Ayatollah Khomeini had perfected in revolutionary Iran over 25 years before; the same sad and mournful eyes, black turban, pursed lips, beard. Razavi Rizvi was sitting nonchalantly, shoeless and cross legged on a couch, talking on an antique phone. He greeted me by enveloping my hands in a two handed clasp. His hands were fat and warm. After ritual civilities, we repaired into a spacious guest room. A simple place, it was the room of an aesthete. No Western furniture, just carpets and a line of oblong pillows neatly lining the small room. A woman appeared from behind a curtain silently depositing biscuits and tea at our feet. Enveloped within a tent-like chador, she appeared in the room almost as an apparition, wordlessly floating upon unseen feet; in and out. Exiting, she bowed toward out general direction, studiously avoiding eye contact. The guest room and the family room were separated by a bright curtain which blew softly in the chilly breeze provided by the open rectangle windows. A knot of men suddenly entered the room, grim faced, bearded. They were all wearing pistol holsters. I looked around the room: solemn faced women in black chadors. Armed, bearded men with guns; my mind flashed back to Khomeini stating, 'there is no fun in Islam.' My interpreter had been present but there was no need as Rizvi was an educated man, a literati who had both worked in the government and as a theologian. He spoke English and spoke it eloquently. 'Why was your brother killed?' I asked him. A bristle of discomfort swirled about the room. 'Simple,' he began in Urdu, pausing breifly to collect his thoughts. 'My brother was killed because he was a challenge for the military regime of Pakistan. The Shi’ites of the area liked him and obeyed him. The government of Pakistan simply felt threatened by him.' 'He was advocating for the rights of Shia and the people of Northern Pakistan to stand up for their legal rights. They were afraid he would become to powerful and unite the people...the Shia of the Northern Areas.' 'So,' I asked, 'what your saying is that the government of Pakistan murdered your brother?' 'Of course!' he shouted in English. Then he laughed and coughed violently. 'The Pakistani government and I.S.I (Pakistani Internal Security Services) were behind this. Only under the sponshership of the Musharif regime could such a thing have occured.' He pointed at me, gaining momentum. The preacher in him was coming out. 'The political and military administration of Pakistan are all Sunni. Rizvi was advocating to remove the anti-Shia curriculum in the schools of the northern Area. We see this often from the Sunni,' he begins to tick off on his fingers, 'all Shia are infidel, kill Shia and get a house in heaven, Shia is a Jew.' 'The government knows these things are occuring. It happens under their nose. They simply ignore it.' 'So,’ I asked, ‘what's the solution? This is a small place, a mountain place. People have to get along, eventually..' 'Yes, yes,' he interupted, speaking English now. 'We are negotiating...with the moderate,' he paused, 'Sunni mullah's...to maintain stability in this region. If the government, especially the I.S.I. wish to stop their sponsership of the terrorist element, then our problem is solved. But..the government is not sincere in its duties, the one who had killed my brother was arrested, now he walks free. He went to jail, but several days after, he is released.' He was speaking in a singsong voice now. The men with guns shifted around nervously. They lived in a small, hard world. 'The ones who are suspected killers don't even go to trial,’ Rizvi said, wagging his thick finger at the air. ‘They don't even recieve questioning, they walk free and are present in the city. The Sunni government of Pakistan has long been antagonistic toword us Shi'as. The reason behind this situation is to compel us to strike out so we can be labelled as extremists and malcontents...so they can say the Shia of the northern Area are fundamentalists, extemists.' Imam Rizvi softened his tone. 'We have lived under the robe of brotherhood for many years and it is my belief that we can continue to do so, but,' he pointed to the ceiling, 'we Shi'as can only be silent for so long. The Pakistani government has taken no action against the Sunni extremists because they have plans to implement another Taliban like regime here, in the northern Areas after the shameful defeat in Afghanistan.' 'Who's defeat,' I asked. 'The radical Islamist groups,' he answered sharply. 'The Sunni's and the government of Pakistan are the instigators here. That is something,' Rizavi Rizvi turned to me, speaking English,' no 'peace tournament,' will fix.’

untitled

1979 — Thu, 17 Aug 2006 21:00:33 GMT

[random section of larger work. nonfiction. takes place in obscure central asian republic of tajikistan] -seven- Yui and I had made plans to meet at ten o’clock in Malohat’s apartment. I went to the bazaar café, to get drunk. I always drank before I went out with a woman. It was easier when I was drunk. The bazaar was closed. The cafe stayed open longer than the bazaar. Rowdy merchants from the bazaar would go there, drinking late into the night. The cafe was one long room. Lights hung down from the high ceiling. There were rows of plastic chairs. The tables were covered in shiny plastic tablecloths. It was crowded. There were no women. Everyone was old and broken. A space opened at the counter. I squeezed in. I ordered vodka and a Pepsi. The man next to me had Russian military medals and faded ribbons pinned to his wrinkled suit jacket. His back was stooped over. He reminded me of a tree in wintertime. He held a glass of beer with shaky hands. We drank together in silence. -eight- When I got back to Malohats apartment Yui was sleeping in my room. Fabrice was sitting in the table. He was reading a French newspaper and smoking a cigarette. The room was quiet. A lazy curl of grey smoke hung in the air. ‘You wanna come drink tonight?’ I asked. ‘No. I quit drinking years ago.’ He put down his paper. ‘I am the type of person that does things in extremes. If I drink, I am drinking until I am finished. On the ground,’ he said, making a motion with his hands; ‘black out.’ ‘I’m like that sometimes,’ I said. I went in my room. The door was halfway open. The room was dark. Yui was sleeping. She was turned on her side. Pale, yellow light from the living room light spilled inside. Long shadows crept along the carpeted floor and up the walls. I turned the light on and sat on her bed. The shadows vanished. Yui turned onto her stomach. I leaned over her. Her earlobe was fat and round, pink from having been slept on. I touched her cheek with my thumb. I wondered what she would do if I touched her again. She was wearing a faded yellow t-shirt. The air conditioner was on. It hummed noisily. I could see an outline of her nipple through her shirt. I held my breath. ‘Yui,’ I whispered hotly. I leaned closer into her. I moved her hair away from her ear. Strands of her hair were stuck to her cheek and in her mouth. I put my hand on the back of her neck. She stretched her legs. I was drunk. I looked in the direction of the living room. I could hear the muffled, distinctive noise of a shower. I pulled the cover off Yui. I didn’t know if she was sleeping or just letting me do what I wanted. I wondered how far it would go. The situation had an irresistible, magnetic pull. It made me anxious. I began to pull her shirt up her back. ‘Here,’ I whispered, ‘move this shit.’ Yui propped herself upright her elbows. With one hand she unclasped her bra. I pulled the shirt over her and tossed it onto the floor. Her back was clean and beautiful- a blank, unblemished canvas of brown skin. Her skin felt soft and hot. There is always a special feeling when you touch a woman’s body for the first time. It’s a magical, electric energy that always feels new. In the beginning there were always women around me; babysitters, teachers, girls in schoolyards. Later in life, girlfriends and lovers. Always women fussing over me, taking care of me. No matter how bad things got, women were always there to save me. Sometimes I would be rough with them, pulling their long hair, holding them down, making them cry. The cruelty felt good to me; it satisfied a darkness deep within me that I was unable to repress. There were always girls. I lived in crowded apartment complexes, where there were many children my age. I would find a girl and bring her to the roof or into a dark stairway. We would take our clothes off, clumsily imitating lovemaking. Sometimes we played with matches. The dangerous taboo of fire and sex aroused me. I watched the flames lick the walls and felt powerful. Over time I grew to hate women. I hated women because they fascinated me-their complexity and fragility, their selfishness-the secrets I was sure they knew. Women were a mystery, powerful and elusive. When I became aware of their presence-and its centrality to life-my life, all lives-I made a subconscious vow to conquer them. -nine- Port Said was the most famous nightclub in Dushanbe. It was located on the far side of Rudaki Avenue, near the American embassy. It was popular with NGO workers on holiday from Afghanistan, French soldiers and Russian hookers. I took Yui there because I wanted to get her drunk and fuck her. I had never been attracted to Asian women. I thought they looked like cats. Their bodies were too skinny. I only wanted Yui because she was there; an empty conquest- something to have only for the experience of having it. I had an insatiable apatite for women. My sexual energy was reckless and destructive. I paid the cover charge. We went inside. Port Said was packed: a throbbing, hot sea of people. A skinny, shirtless Russian wearing a tiny backpack gyrated inside a cage, raised high above the dance floor. Yui went to dance. I didn’t dance with her because I didn’t know how to dance. I watched her slowly disappear into a hot, solid mass of people. Somebody had thrown an inflatable beach ball into the crowd. I watched the ball sail through the air. Whenever it landed, someone in the crowd popped it back up. I went to the bar and bought whiskey. The woman sitting next to me was a Russian prostitute. She turned and looked at me hopefully. Her eyes were empty and lifeless. I remembered the teenage prostitutes I had bought the night before. She was wearing a high- riding g-string made out of rhinestones that glimmered in the lights. -ten- Port Said was close to Malohat’s apartment. We walked back. Dushanbe was pleasant. The streets were wide and never carried much traffic. The buildings, which had been shot up during the civil war, had been immaculately refurbished, painted in soft pastels. Taxi drivers driving beat up old Lada’s would slow to a stop as they passed by. Every few blocks we would stop and kiss. Her skin was sticky from her dancing in the club. The streets were empty. Dushanbe used to be a dangerous place. It felt good to be out late. The stark bareness of the streets consoled me. The only stores open were small, hot bakery kiosks. We stood, looking in the windows. I watched orange-yellow flames leap out of concrete ovens. ‘It’s great,’ Yui said. The fire hypnotized me and made me feel warm. We walked slowly, taking it in. Trees lined the sidewalks, tall powerful and old. They looked black and shapeless in the night. Their branches hung down low and trembled, the leaves shaking in the wind. -eleven- The elevator button had been broken off. Only a cloudy piece of hard plastic remained. When I pushed the button a small yellow light came on and glowed dimly. We waited. She put her ear to the door of the elevator and listened. Then she said: ‘Broken.’ She was wearing wide silver bracelets and heavy earrings. Yui’s hair was cut so the bangs were straight across, like Cleopatra. We walked up the stairs. I lead the way. The stairs were concrete. Yui followed, holding my hand. She was smaller then me, drunker than me. She was wearing black nail polish. At the top of each set of stairs a single light hung down. Moths flew around in lazy, blind circles, casting wild shadows along the walls. Yui’s black hair reflected the florescent light with a glossy sheen. We got to Malohat's floor. I grabbed Yui, pushed her against the heavy iron door and kissed her. She pulled me into her. It became a rhythm: us kissing, pressing against each other, swaying back and forth, kissing in the dark. A car alarm went off in the parking lot. A few feet away was a garbage disposal. The air was hot with the thick, sour stench of garbage and rotting food.