As for most Afghans, the border to Pakistan is closed to Sultan. It matters not that he has family, a house and business in the country, nor that his daughter goes to school there - he is not welcome. Following pressure from the international community, Pakistan has closed its borders to prevent terrorists and the Taliban from hiding away in the country. A fruitless gesture. After all terrorists and soldiers do not turn up at the borders passport in hand. They use the same paths as Sultan when he travels on business. Many thousands enter Pakistan daily in this way.
The horses struggle up the steep slope. Sultan, broad and solid, sits astride the saddleless horse. Even in his oldest clothes he looks well dressed. As always his beard is newly trimmed, his small fez fits perfectly on his head. He looks like a distinguished gentleman who has taken a trip to the mountains to admire the view - even when, terrified, he grabs the reins tightly. He feels shaky. One false step and they’ll be at the bottom of the abyss. But the horse trundles calmly up the well-trodden paths, effortlessly, unaffected by the man it is carrying. The valuable sugar bag is tightly wound round Sultan’s hand. It contains books he wants to print for his shop and the draft of what he hopes will become his life’s work.
He is surrounded by Afghans on foot, all wanting to cross to the forbidden country. Women wearing burkas ride sidesaddle en route to visit relatives. Amongst them are students returning to the university in Peshawar having celebrated eid, a religious festival, with their families. There might be some smugglers in the company, maybe some businessmen. Sultan does not ask. He is concentrating on his contract and the reins, and curses the Pakistani authorities. First one day by car from Kabul to the border, then an overnight stay in a hideous border station, followed by a whole day in the saddle, on foot and in a pick-up. The journey by main road from the border to Peshawar is barely an hour. Sultan finds it degrading being smuggled in to Pakistan; he feels he is being treated like a pariah dog. Pakistan supported the Taliban regime politically, with money and weapons, and he thinks they are now being two-faced, suddenly sucking up to the Americans and closing the border to Afghans.
Pakistan was the only country, besides Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, to officially recognise the Taliban regime. The Pakistani authorities wanted the Pashtoon to control Afghanistan. The Pashtoon live on both sides of the border and are to a certain extent influenced by Pakistan. Virtually all the Taliban were Pashtoon. They are Afghanistan’s largest ethnic group and make up approximately forty per cent of the population. The Tajiks are the largest ethnic group in the north. About one quarter of Afghans are Tajiks. The Northern Alliance, which after September 11 was supported by the Americans, was on the whole made up of Tajiks. Pakistanis look upon them with a certain amount of scepticism. Since the Taliban fell and the Tajiks became a force to be reckoned with in the Government, many Pakistanis now feel that they are surrounded by enemies: India to the east, Afghanistan to the west.
But on the whole there is little tribal hatred between the various Afghan groups. The conflicts are due rather to power struggles between various warlords who have encouraged their own ethnic groups to war against each other. The Tajiks are fearful that if the Pashtoon become too powerful they would be massacred in the event of another war. The Pashtoon fear the Tajiks for the same reason. The same can be said about the Uzbeks and Hazars in the northwest of the country. War has also been waged between tribal chiefs within the same ethnic group.
Sultan couldn’t care less what sort of blood flows in his veins, or in the veins of anyone else for that matter. Like many Afghans he is a mixture: his mother is Pashtoon, his father Tajiki. His first wife is a Pashtoon, his second a Tajik. Formally he is a Tajik, because ethnicity is inherited from the father’s side. He speaks both languages, Pashtoo and Dari - a Persian dialect spoken by the Tajiks. Sultan is of the opinion that it is high time for the Afghans to put war behind them and start rebuilding the country. The dream is that they one day might make up for what they have lost in relation to their neighbours. But it doesn’t look good. Sultan is disappointed by his compatriots. While he works away at a steady pace, trying to expand his business, he grieves over those who fritter away their earnings, and go to Mecca.
Immediately before travelling to Pakistan he had a discussion with his cousin Wahid, who just about manages to keep his head above water running a small spare-parts shop for cars. When Wahid popped into Sultan’s shop he told him that at last he had saved up enough money to fly to Mecca. ‘Do you think praying will help you?’ Sultan asked contemptuously. ‘The Koran tells us that we must work, solve our own problems, sweat and toil. But us Afghans, we’re too lazy. We ask for help instead, either from the West or from Allah.’
‘But the Koran also tells us to worship God,’ argued Wahid.
‘The Prophet Muhammad would cry if he heard all the shouts, screams and prayers in his name,’ continued Sultan. ‘It won’t help this country however much we bang our heads on the ground. All we know is how to scream, pray and fight. But the prayers are worth nothing if we don’t work. We can’t just sit and wait for God’s mercy.’ Sultan was shouting now, egged on by his own torrent of words. ‘We search blindly for a holy man, and find a lot of hot air.’
He knew he had provoked his cousin. For Sultan work is the most important thing in life. He tries to teach his sons as much and to live up to it himself. For that reason he has taken his sons out of school to work in the shop, in order that they might help him build his empire of books.
‘But to travel to Mecca is one of the five pillars of Islam,’ the cousin objected. ‘To be a good Muslim you must acknowledge God, fast, pray, give alms and go to Mecca.’
‘We might all go to Mecca,’ Sultan said at last. ‘But only when we deserve it, and then we go to give thanks, not to pray.’
I suppose Wahid is on his way to Mecca, in his white flowing pilgrim robes, Sultan thinks now. He snorts and wipes the sweat off his forehead. The sun is at its zenith. At last the pathway descends. On a cart track in a small valley several pick-ups are waiting. These are Khyber Pass taxis, and the owners make a killing transporting unwelcome visitors into the country.
This was once part of the Silk Road, the trade route between the great civilisations of antiquity - China and Rome. Silk was carried west, traded for gold, silver and wool.
The Khyber Pass has been traversed by the uninvited for more than two millennia. Persians, Greeks, Moguls, Mongols, Afghans and the British have tried to conquer India by approaching the country via this route. In the sixth century BC the Persian King Darius conquered large parts of Afghanistan and marched on through the Khyber Pass to India. Two hundred years later, the generals of Alexander the Great marched their troops through the pass. At its narrowest point only one fully-loaded camel or two horses side by side can pass at any one time. Genghis Khan laid waste parts of the Silk Road, while more peaceful travellers, like Marco Polo, merely followed the caravan tracks to the East.
Ever since the time of King Darius and right up to the British invasion of the Khyber Pass in the 1800s, the Pashtoon tribes from the surrounding mountains invariably fiercely resisted the invading armies. Ever since the British withdrew in 1947 the tribes have once more held sway over the pass and all the land to Peshawar. The mightiest of these is the Afridi tribe, feared for its fierce warriors.
Weapons are still the first thing to catch the eye after crossing the border. Along the Pakistani side of the highway, at regular intervals, dug into the mountainside or painted on dirty signs in the barren landscape, is the name Khyber Rifles. Khyber Rifles is a rifle company and also the name of the local militia who are in charge of security in the area. The militia protect a considerable fortune. The village immediately over the border is famous for its bazaar full of contraband; hashish and weapons go for a song. No one asks for licences, whereas anyone carrying weapons on Pakistani territory risks a long prison sentence. Amongst the clay huts are large, glitzy palaces, paid for with black money. Small stone fortresses and traditiona
l Pashtoon houses, surrounded by tall walls, lie dotted over the mountainside. Now and again walls of concrete loom up in the landscape; they are the so-called dragon’s teeth, erected by the British who feared a German Panzer invasion during the Second World War. On several occasions foreigners have been kidnapped in these remote tribal regions, and the authorities have introduced strict measures. Not even on the main road to Peshawar, patrolled by Pakistani troops, are foreigners allowed to drive without guards. Nor can they leave Peshawar for the Afghan border without the correct papers and an armed guard.
After having ridden for two hours along narrow roads, the mountain on one side, the precipice on the other, some hours on horseback remain until Sultan at last descends to the plain and can look towards Peshawar. He takes a taxi into town, to street 103 in the district called Hayatabad.
It has started to get dark when Sharifa hears blows on the gate. He has come after all. She runs down the stairs to open the door. There he is, tired and dirty. He hands her the sugar bag, which she carries up the stairs before him.
‘Was the journey OK?’
‘Beautiful scenery,’ answers Sultan. ‘Wonderful sunset.’
While he washes she prepares supper and lays the tablecloth on the floor, between the soft cushions. Sultan emerges from the bathroom clean and wearing freshly ironed clothes. He gives a disgruntled look at the glass plates Sharifa has put out.
‘I don’t like glass plates, they look cheap,’ he says. ‘Like something you bought in a dirty bazaar.’
Sharifa exchanges them for porcelain plates.
‘That’s better. The food tastes better now,’ he says.
Sultan recounts the latest news from Kabul, Sharifa the news from Hayatabad. They have not seen each other for many months. They talk about the children, about relatives and plan the next few days. Every time Sultan visits Pakistan he has to endure courtesy visits to those relatives who have not yet returned to Afghanistan. First priority is those in whose families there has been a death. Next come the closest relatives, and so on, as much as he can manage, depending on how many days he has at his disposal.
Sultan dreads having to visit Sharifa’s sisters, brothers, in-laws, sisters’ in-laws and cousins. It is not possible to keep his visit a secret; everyone knows everything in this town. Besides, these courtesy visits are all that remain of Sharifa’s married life. All she can demand of him now is that he is friendly towards her relatives and treats her as his wife during the visits.
When the duty calls have been planned, all that remains is Sharifa’s rendering of the latest news from the bottom floor - Saliqa’s escapades.
‘What a tart,’ says Sultan, reclining on a pillow like a Roman emperor. ‘That’s what she is, a tart.’
Sharifa protests. Saliqa wasn’t even alone with the boy.
‘Her attitude, her attitude,’ says Sultan. ‘If she’s not a prostitute now, she could easily become one. Having chosen this useless boy, who’ll never get a job, how will she ever have enough money for the things she wants, like jewellery and pretty clothes? When a kettle boils without a lid, anything can fall into it. Rubbish, soil, dust, insects, old leaves,’ he continues. ‘That’s how Saliqa’s family have lived. Without a lid. All sorts of muck has fallen on them. The father is absent, and even when he lived there he was never at home. Now he’s been living as a refugee in Belgium for three years and still hasn’t been able to organise the papers to get them over.’ Sultan snorts. ‘He’s a loser, he is. Ever since Saliqa could walk she’s been looking for someone to marry. By chance it was poverty-stricken, useless Nadim. First she tried Mansur, d’you remember?’ Sultan asks. The bookseller has succumbed to the power of gossip.
‘Her mother had a hand in it all,’ Sharifa recollects. ‘She kept on asking whether it wasn’t time to find him a wife. I always answered that it was too soon; the boy was going to study. Least of all I wanted a conceited and pathetic wife like Saliqa for Mansur. When your brother Yunus came to Peshawar, he was bombarded with the same questions, but he would never have entertained the idea of taking such a cheap girl as Saliqa.’
Saliqa’s crime is turned over and over until not a grain of dust remains. But the married couple have plenty more relatives they can pick holes in.
‘How is your cousin?’ laughs Sultan.
One of Sharifa’s cousins had spent her life looking after her parents. When they died her brothers married her off to an old man who needed a mother for his children. Sultan is never tired of hearing the story.
‘She completely changed after the wedding. At last she was a woman,’ he laughs. ‘But she never had any children so obviously she must have had her change of life before the wedding. No rest for the wicked, he’d be at it every night,’ he laughs again.
‘Maybe,’ ventures Sharifa. ‘Do you remember how thin and wizened she looked before the wedding? She’s completely changed now. I suppose she’s feeling randy all the time,’ she cackles. Sharifa holds her mouth and chuckles as she blurts out the reckless accusations. It is as if the intimacy between the couple has returned, as they lie about on the cushions round the leftovers on the floor.
One story follows another. Sultan and Sharifa lie on the floor, like two little children, roaring with laughter.
To all appearances there is no sex-life in Afghanistan. Women hide behind the burka, and under the burka they wear large, loose clothes. Under the skirts they wear long trousers and even within the four walls of the house low-necked garments are a rarity. Men and women who do not belong to the same family must not sit together in the same room. They must not talk to each other or eat together. In the countryside even the weddings are segregated; the women dance and make merry and so do the men, in different rooms. But under the surface all is seething. In spite of running the risk of the death penalty, in Afghanistan too people have lovers and mistresses. There are prostitutes in the towns to whom young boys and men can resort while they wait for a bride.
Sexuality has its place in Afghan myths and fables. Sultan loves the stories in the masterpiece Masnavi, written by the poet Rumi eight hundred years ago. He uses sexuality as a warning against blindly following in the footsteps of others.
A widow had a donkey which she loved dearly. It carried her where she wanted and always obeyed orders. The donkey was well fed and well looked after. But then the animal sickened and lost all its energy. It lost its appetite too. The widow wondered what was wrong and one night she went to the barn to see if it was sleeping. In the barn she found her maid lying in the hay with the donkey on top of her. This repeated itself every night and the widow got nosy and thought to herself she would like to have a go too. She dismissed her maid and lay down in the hay with the donkey on top of her. When the maid returned she found the widow dead. To her horror she saw that the widow had not done as she did - thread a pumpkin over the donkey’s organ to shorten it before she indulged herself. For her, the maid, the end bit had sufficed.
After having chortled away, Sultan rises from the cushions, smooths his tunic and goes to read his emails. American universities want periodicals from the seventies, researchers ask for old manuscripts and the printers in Lahore send an estimate of what the cost will be to print his postcards at the new paper prices. Sultan’s best source of income is the postcards. It costs him one dollar to print sixty cards and he sells three for a dollar. Everything is going his way, now that the Taliban have gone and he can do as he likes.
The next day he reads his post, visits bookshops, goes to the post office, sends and receives parcels and starts on the endless courtesy visits. First a condolence visit to a cousin whose husband has died of cancer, then a more enjoyable visit to another cousin who is back from pizza-delivering in Germany. Sultan’s cousin Said was at one time flight engineer for Ariana Air, Afghanistan’s once-proud airline. Said is now thinking of returning to Kabul with the family and applying for his old job. But he needs to save a bit more money. Delivering pizzas in Germany is far more lucrative than working as a flight engi
neer. And he has not yet found a solution to the problem that awaits him at home. In Peshawar are wife and children. In Germany he is living with wife number two. If he returns to Kabul they will all have to live under one roof. He dreads the thought. The first wife doesn’t want to know about number two. They never meet and he sends money home like a dutiful husband. But if they all move in together? It doesn’t bear thinking of.
The days in Peshawar are taxing. One relative has been thrown out of his rented accommodation, another wants help to start up a business, a third asks for a loan. Sultan rarely gives money to relatives. Because he himself has done so well he is always asked to help when he goes courtesy visiting. On the whole he declines. He thinks they are mostly lazy and should help themselves. In any case they need to prove themselves before he dishes out the dough and in his eyes few of them come up to scratch.
When the couple are out visiting, Sharifa is the one who keeps the conversation flowing. She tells stories, spreads laughter and smiles. Sultan prefers to sit and listen. Now and again he chips in with comments about work ethics or about his business. But when Sultan with a single word says it’s time to leave, the couple go home, daughter Shabnam in tow. They walk peacefully through the dark of Hayatabad’s dirty-black streets and step over rubbish as lungs fill with the rank smell from back alleyways.
One evening Sharifa dolls herself up to visit some distant relatives. Normally they would not qualify for courtesy visits even though they live only a few blocks away. Sharifa totters along in sky-high pumps, followed by Sultan and Shabnam sauntering behind, hand in hand.