30 Days in Afghanistan - Tea with the Taliban (Part 2)

Entering Joibar Village

After three hours of high speed driving, bumpy roads, and a few stops, Shah's Toyota descends a hill into a lush green valley. The village in Joibar is a structure of many mud houses and buildings huddled together in the bowl of surrounding mountains. Above the distant range, white clouds hang in a high clear blue sky. As the car comes to a stop, some kids from the village come running up in front of a few villagers, towards us. Shah is immediately recognized and greeted, I stay a few feet behind him, and after Shah explains my presence, I am welcomed as a guest.

One of the villagers grabs my backpack, I hesitantly let him, unfamiliar with customs. We walk down a small hill, and through a farm field. Cucumbers, tomatoes, green peppers, and onions are planted in alternate rows. Shah picks up a dried seed from the ground, and tosses it to me, asking if I know what it is. I look at the walnut size polyp, it has ridges running around it, I tell him, it's a poppy seed, he looks back at me, and flashes me a smile. I ask him if they grow that, he says "Not right now, it's not the right season".

We walk into the mud village, the houses are mud, the arches we pass under are mud, the stairs are mud - it's as if the whole village was raised up from the ground. Inside the village, the temperature drops a few degrees, it seems there's something about the old ways. The village consists of about 100 houses, and a thousand people, there's no nearby hospital, and no formal school. There is a village mosque, and a madrassa, only boys attend the madrassa, as they cannot afford to build another room for the girls.

We walk pass rows of houses, kids are playing in alleyways, and as soon as they see our party, they turn to us, we have a trail of kids following behind us. We arrive at one of the village elders home, and I'm asked to go inside. I follow our group to a second floor. It is the hottest time of day, and the room is cool. The room is lined with red carpets, pillows are laid against the wall on all sides of the room, and opposite the door, there's a black and gold hang cloth on the wall, with a picture of Mecca, and Arabic text of suras from the Quran.

Lunch with Mohammad Omar

I put my backpack down, and take a seat. A group of men enter the room, including a village elder, Mohammad Omar. He's an old man dressed in white shalwar kameez, a white turban, and a long white beard. Everyone around the room gets up and bids him "Aslam Alaikum", and one at a time, go to shake his hand, I follow the lead, and greet him. He has a gentle face, and demeanor. We sit, and Shah explains, that I'm a writer, and a filmmaker, and wish to meet with the Taliban. He seems understanding, and we begin talking about things that strangers talk about, where we're from, names, family, and the country. I ask him about his family, Shah translates, Mohammad Omar is 65 years old, he has 3 sons, 7 daughters and 2 wives. I ask him how many grandchildren he has, after a pause, they start laughing. After a little math, and finger counting, Shah tells me somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 grandchildren.

One of his grandkids, brings a silver pitcher of water, and passes around cups of water. After one of the men drinks, he passes me his empty silver cup, the boy fills it. I'm parched from the trip, but wondering about the water, I decide to not offend my hosts, and drink up, hoping the water is from a stream. The water is frigid, and I inquire about the temperature of the water. I'm told it comes from a nearby stream, and it's always this cold. Lunch arrives, fresh tomatoes, onions, peppers, and celery from the fields, with rice, lamb, and the biggest nan breads I've ever seen, they're almost 2 feet wide. We all dig in, the food is delicious, and the vegetables have a wonderfully fresh taste, without all the chemical treated processing that I'm used to. The food everywhere in this country is a real treat, no chemical injections, no hormones or other additives. Apart from the handling of the food, I think Afghanis eat healthier than we in the West do.

After lunch, Mohammad's son Atif, asks me what I want to ask the Taliban. Shah explains to me that he is the liaison, and that they do not let foreigners just walk in, and ask the Taliban questions. The western media has never come this deep into this territory, the highway we got off, is the limit to where outsiders get to. Even Al-Jazeera, and the local Afghani media is scared to come down into the village. I'm the first one, they've ever let into this particular district. It's explained to me, that the road belongs to the government, and everything off the road belongs to the Taliban.

I explain to him, that I normally don't carry a list of questions, and usually will come up with them, during the interview. Atif insists that I deliver the questions before hand - so they can be cleared, they will not answer certain questions. I start giving him questions;

"What do you think about the current state of affairs of Afghanistan?"

"Why do you fight the Americans?"

"What do you think about Pakistan?"

"What is your view of the role of women?"

"What do you feel about President Karzai?"

"Why do you fight other Afghanis?"

"Why did you blow up the Bamyan Buddha statues?"

Etc...

While I pepper him with questions, Atif writes down each question in a notebook. I try to gauge his reactions, as I ask the questions, but don't get much of a read from his expressions. After a long list, he puts his pencil down, grabs a military walkie-talkie, and starts talking Pashto into it, repeating all my questions. He waits for a while for a response, and then the voice on the other side of the walkie-talkie, starts speaking back to him. He tells me, I can't ask anything about the Americans. I tell him that I agree to his terms, hoping they'll change their mind, during the interview.

The sound of Azhan is heard outside the room, and a couple of men offer their prayer. Shah and I make ablution, and offer our prayers as well. After a little while, we get up and leave for the meeting, everyone says their salams, I take a few pictures of the Mohammad Omar, and one of his grandkids. At one point, they hand a Kalashnikov to the youngest of Mohammad's grandkid in the room, Mujtaba, who's 7 year old. He can barely hold up the heavy weapon, they place the sling belt of the gun around his shoulders. I feel awkward taking the picture of such a young boy holding up a semi-automatic weapon, but I go ahead and take a few pictures. The country has been at war for almost 30 years, this is a society that has been drenched in violence, it's a different state of being, the effects of the war have seeped into the fabric of the people. I remember seeing two young kids in Kabul, fighting with each other, and while kids in American fight as well, I was shocked by the ferocity of their fight. Afghanis are known for their hospitality, but underneath the surface, wounds lie deep, and the long habit of fighting for survival is still very strong.

Tea with the Taliban

Outside the room, Atif pulls a veil over his face with the handkerchief around his neck, a friend with him does the same. Only their eyes show now. Both men are carrying Kalashnikovs, slung on their shoulders, Atif, starts talking into his walkie-talkie, and we start walking down narrow alleyways. Shah and I trail behind them, I snap a few pictures from the camera hanging around my shoulders. We make our way through winding paths, over channels, and through archways. A distance later, we emerge out into some farm fields, we continue walking through crop fields until we come to another village. At this point, after all the turns we've taken, I realize that I could not retrace my steps back to the main road. As we approach the first house in the second village, I see more men standing with their faces obscured with scarves, only eyes showing. They exchange salam with Atif, his friend, then Shah. I approach him, and wait for him to greet me, uncertain, then he greets me as well, and I respond in kind.

A couple of yards away, another veiled figure, same routine. While I'm following men with guns, and greeting others who also have guns, there's kids around us. I find it ironic that they are prepared for me with guns, and yet their kids are standing around us. We walk past a couple of more houses, towards a clearing, at what appears to be a central courtyard of the village. We're about 30 or 40 feet away from the courtyard, and for the first time in my entire trip, I sense a moment of panic. This is real, those guns are real. This moment comes to me when I see the courtyard filled with a crowd of about two dozen men and boys, and besides the veiled faces, and Kalashnikovs, I now see rocket launchers and full automatic Soviet machine guns pointed in my general directions. Not pointing at me, but close enough to make the point. I'm now in a heightened state of alert, aware of everything around me.

We walk into the courtyard, there's a carpet laid out in the middle, under a large tree. Atif, his friend, greet each of the men in procession, with handshakes, hugs and the usual salams. Shah and I follow, and shake hands down the line, and say our salams. We're led to the cloth and take a seat in the middle of the crowd. I begin to get my gear out of my backpack; pen, notebook, camera, video, tripod. As I'm taking out each item, I'm keenly aware of being watched by everyone around me. Two of the men, who appear to be leaders, take a seat in from of Shah and me, they greet us, and say that this is happening because they trust Atif. Shah translates, I tell them I'm here on my own accord, and wish to get their side of the story, which we often don't hear of in the West.

I tell them, how I will conduct the interview, I'll ask them questions, and if there's something that they do not feel comfortable answering, they simply don't have to answer. They agree. I also tell them I'm videotaping the interview, and we can stop anytime they want. They agree. I also tell them that I do not need to know their names, as that will not benefit the story, the pictures and videos will be fact enough. They agree. I finish explaining this and tell them, I'll need five minutes to set up my equipment, and will not record until then. The two leaders lower their veils, so I can see their whole faces, a few others around us do the same. I imagine it can't be too comfortable breathing through that, in this heat. I look at them, as they talk casually with our group, and realize these guys could be Arabs, Caucasian or European, they have green and blue eyes, their skin is white, and they don't carry the face of the devil, as imagined.

I realize the ice is beginning to melt, and we're all beginning to get comfortable with each other. They probably had the same apprehensions about meeting a foreigner, as I had about meeting them. I tell them I'm ready to start, one of the leaders looks at me, smiles at me, and says "OK", and pulls on his veil over his face. Others around him do the same. I start asking the questions, choosing each word, and Shah translates. Some of the responses are expected, and some less so.

"We're fighting Americans, not because their Americans, but because they are an invading force. Wouldn't they do the same if someone invaded their country?"

"We have no problems with the people of Pakistan, or Americans, or anyone, whether they are Muslims, Christians or Jews, it's the government of some of these countries that are killing our people - we have a fight with them."

"We think women can work, we think they can be doctors, or lawyers or whatever, but there's a right way to do it. They should be separate from the men, they should not mix freely with the opposite sex."

"Karzai is a puppet of the U.S., everyone knows this."

"We grow lots of things, not just opium, and when foreigners bring alcohol to this country, and poison our people - why does no one says anything about that?"

"Abraham demolished the idols, we don't want people in the future to worship idols, so we blew up the Bamyan Buddhas."

"Yes, we are worried about our kids exposed to guns and violence, but we don't carry guns because we like to, but because we have been at war for almost 30 years. One day our kids will not have to."

"We feel the pain of all Muslims anywhere Palestine, Iraq, or even in America, our issue is not with the people, but with the oppression of Muslims everywhere."

Shah, who's videotaping the interview, tells me the tape's full. I tell them we'll take a five minute break, they remove their scarves from their faces. I work on getting a new tape out. A boy comes to the yard, and brings water, and fresh apricots, and places it in front of us. The leaders grab a few and offer them to Shah and myself. I grab some, and eat the fresh fruit. We're less nervous now, the scarves are off the faces, we're eating fruit, and there's light banter about. As I relax a little, I think to myself - a Pakistani born Canadian, living in Bush country, sitting in the middle of a courtyard of a village in the middle of nowhere, eating apricots and sipping tea with the Taliban. This was not on the tourist map.

We are worlds apart, the Taliban ascribe to an Islam that I do not know. To the Taliban, I am a product of the West, and am probably not a representation of true Islam. I am not oblivious of the attrocities commited by them, the Northern Alliance, Americans, and others. The men in front of me may be simple farmers, but simple farmers don't carry Russian machine guns and rocket launchers. In this moment though, they are family men, I see their kids sitting around them, and they share their food with me. We're each looking into the other to see a reflection of ourselves, and a way to understand one another.

Supertramp on the Phone

I change the tape, we eat some more fruit, and they start pulling on the veils. Just as I start asking my next question, Shah tells me there a weird red light on the camera. I stop, and look at the camera, I turn it off and back on, hand it back to Shah. He starts rolling again, and I repeat my first question, Shah interrupts again, the red lights still on. I've been around cameras a long time, and I know they are finicky machines - but the three minutes of the Taliban, all masked up, and staring at me trying to fix my camera - are probably the most unnerving I will ever feel. As I'm calmly trying to re-start the camera, I'm thinking to myself, "Damn you! Start now! Gimme another half hour -Then you can die!"

The camera finally rolls without a problem, and I hand it back to Shah. The first leader asks if he should start answering the question, I tell him sure - thinking to myself, "Am I actually directing the Taliban?" A couple of minutes later, I hear Supertramp's "The Logical Song", from Shah's cell phone, at this point I nearly burst out into laughter - the irony is overwhelming. Middle of a village, hardly any modern facilities, and Supertramp on the phone! Another cell phone goes off, belonging to one of the Taliban men in the back of the crowd. Both men are fumbling for their phones, and turn them off. After a brief moment of silence, I continue, and we finish the interview.

They let me take a few pictures after the interview, and pose for the camera. The kids hold some of the rocket launchers, I feel the same twinge of unease, I take more pictures. I decide to take a few pictures with myself in the shot, they surround me, holding their we opens. At one point they jokingly ask me to hold a we open, I keep my hands to myself. We take more pictures.

I thank them for the interview, and we all shake hands down the line, and say our salam as we did when we met. They tell me their glad to tell their side of the story. I tell them, I'm glad they gave me the opportunity for the interview. Atif and his friend lead us back out of the courtyard and into the farm fields. On the way back, Shah admits to me, he was a little startled when he first saw them. I tell him I felt the same way. We walk back through the path we took to get to his village. At the village, we say our goodbye's to everyone. A group of village kids follow us back to the road. We get in Shah's Toyota, and start heading back to Kabul, three hours away.

On the ride back, Shah asks me, how I trusted him with my life, I tell him that the day I landed in this country I felt I was here for some purpose, and I would let destiny or providence guide me. I ask him, how does he trust that I will write faithfully about him and his people, he tells me, he just knows I will. As the sun begins its descent in the West, over the mountains, a turquoise blanket falls over the ridges, and gold light filters through the valleys. I roll my window down, Shah turns on his headlight, and asks where we should stop to pray Maghrib. I look at the sun setting over the mountains, and answer "Anywhere on this road".