The city smelled of kebabs, that was my first thought as I escaped from the Intercontinental Hotel. I was attending a conference on the Indus Basin and water issues in Afghanistan. It was the first conference of its kind, jointly organised by the International Water Management Institute, the Afghan Ministry of Energy and Water, and the Food and Agricultural Organisation of the UN. My organisation, The Third Pole, was providing inputs on how to report on water issues in the Himalayan region — our speciality — and that was my job, as well as that of Lapis, a strategic communication organisation.
While I had jumped at the chance of travelling to Kabul, and water issues are the most human and most challenging of issues to report on, I did not exactly know what I had signed up for. It was my first time in Afghanistan, a country whose image is dominated in the minds of most people by the Taliban and conflict. Security was a major consideration for the organisers, and I was told that I would be staying at a place called Green Village.
At a little distance from the airport, Green Village is a heavily fortified compound. There are huge concrete blast walls all around, and your vehicle has to pass through one steel barrier, and then another, during which it is swept for explosives, and checked over. This is before you reach the parking lot. Almost all the vehicles were armoured, as was ours. We went through another security check. Many of the employees were Gurkhas, and despite the annoyance I feel at high security, I seem to get along with military personnel fairly well. Before long we were exchanging nods, salutes and quips.
None of this made the bizarreness of Green Village any less surreal. The canteen was ‘DFAC’, armyspeak for ‘dining facility’, the bar and entertainment area was ‘MWR’, armyspeak for God knows what. All the buildings bore prominent signs reading, ‘Local clothing not allowed.’ And every five yards there would be either one guard or a group, armed with Kalashnikovs, extra magazines strapped to bulletproof vests, and a pistol at the hip in a quick release holster.
The security at the Intercontinental was also high, with barrier gates and checks, X-ray machines and whatnot. And lots and lots of heavily armed men. Our diplomatic licence plate got us some priority treatment, but the atmosphere was stifling. The Afghan journalists were staying at the Intercontinental, but it was not considered “safe enough” for us — or so we were told. One of the international organisers did not turn up because of security concerns. By this time, I had had enough. I needed to meet a diplomat, and asked one of the coordinators to arrange a taxi, and escaped on foot, because the taxi did not have clearance to come up the hill to the Intercontinental.
Thankfully it was a second-hand Toyota Corolla with no armour, and we zipped along the city, pausing when a convoy of heavily armed personnel blocked the traffic. Near the embassy I had to visit, I was told by the security guards that I could not go up the road without a call from inside. I asked the taxi-wallah to wait, and hoofed it inside; nods, half salutes, and a half kilometre of checks, men with guns, and more checks. After the dinner the diplomat walked me to the gate of her embassy, and said, “You know, I wish I could walk out like you and talk to people, but I just can’t.” Her country, among other donors is pledging up to $3 billion per year for Afghanistan, but they cannot tread upon its streets.
The next day we went to Qargha lake, created by a dam for irrigation, just outside Kabul. We were pushing limits, but it was a beautiful place. For us and the smiling Afghan journalists assembled from across the country, it was a pleasant outing. Two of the journalists had studied in Mysore. One of them had even met his wife — an Indonesian — there.
We had coffee at the Spugma (meaning ‘moon’) Restaurant at the lakeside. “This is a beautiful place,” our host from the ministry said. “People come here to enjoy. All the rest of the places are private, but this one is owned by the government.” Just outside the restaurant was a Ferris wheel, and there was a happy carnival theme to the place.
“Unfortunately,” our host added, “two-three years back, insurgents attacked people here. They were having a birthday party. First they killed the guards, then they killed the rest, the children, the women, the men; 30-40 people.” He sighed. “People still come here, though, the attack did not stop them.”
He looked up at the sky.
“You cannot stop life.”
Omair Ahmad is the Asia Editor for The Third Pole, reporting on water issues in the Himalayas; @OmairTAhmad