DATELINE AFGHANISTAN: Tuesday, April 23, 2002
06/12/2002
Tuesday, April 23, 2002:
It's a quiet night at the Sultan Guest House. The three other guests are
away for the night. My only company, Sayed Shafiequllah Zahid, the night
watchman, offers to cook me dinner.
He boils two eggs over a propane heater and finds two pieces of toffee
for dessert.
Zahid, 22, tells me his father died when he was 2; his mother died when
he was 6. He lives alone with his sister, but spends most of his time at
the guesthouse, cooking, providing security and memorizing English.
He knows a few phrases, which he likes to practice:
"You're welcome."
"Please, don't mention it."
As I'm working in my bedroom on the first floor, the windows rattle for
a moment. Zahid yells from the next room.
"Mister, mister," he says, charging into the room. He grabs my arm and
leads me just outside the doorway. Zahid tilts his head, listening for
something. My heart is pounding.
"Earthquake," he says.
After 20 minutes, there are no more rumbles. Shaken, I return to my
room. Later, there's another knock on my door.
It's Zahid with a vase, filled with plastic blue flowers, which he
places on my desk.
Zahid returns to the living room and thumbs through his book of English
phrases, mouthing the words under his breath.
Wednesday, April 24, 2002:
He is either very important or very worried about his safety.
The skinny Asian man sits in a plastic lawn chair in the backroom of the
Herat Restaurant flanked by two large American men; one is wearing a
yellow T-shirt, the other has a hat that says "Anti-Terrorist Squad."
They are both holding M-16s.
My translator, driver and I often go for lunch at the Herat. In the
smoke-filled restaurant, Afghan judges and movie producers sit next to
Americans and their Afghan guides.
I order a kabob and a Pepsi.
It's what I usually eat for lunch and for dinner. I've been warned that
the food in Afghanistan can cause serious illness. The grilled meat and
flatbread looks safe. The Herat has not let me down. Yet.
Thursday, April 25, 2002:
I am interviewing a woman, whose husband was killed by a U.S. bomb, when
my world turns yellow.
There's a knife-like pain in my abdomen. Excusing myself, I retreat to
the guesthouse.
My temperature rises. My stomach rejects water and bread. I lie in a
fetal position for the next 10 hours, wondering where I went wrong.
I've been so careful with food, but Westerners, I'm told, can get sick
from breathing the air in Afghanistan.
During my first week, a dust storm blew through Kabul, sending
journalists on the roof of the Mustafa Hotel scurrying for cover. The
dust here carries a hidden danger: human waste that dries out in the sun
and becomes airborne. There are no sewers in the city. Raw sewage is
dumped directly into the Kabul River and into gutters running along the
sides of roads. Trash is heaped in stinking mounds at intersections.
I take an antibiotic and fall asleep. The whole time, Hashim Mohmand, my
translator, kneels at the foot of my bed, keeping watch.
Mohmand says if my illness continues he will take me to the Bagram Air
Base, where the military doctors take care of sick Americans.
Saturday, April 27, 2002:
After a dose of Cipro, the antibiotic, I'm able to stand again. The sun
shines for the first time in days.
Everyone in Kabul is gearing up for tomorrow's big holiday, celebrating
Afghan independence.
They are planting flowers along the roads and hanging national flags in
the markets and from government ministries. The fountain outside the
Central Bank, empty for years, is spouting water again.
The Defense Ministry is organizing what it calls a "Soviet-style"
military parade -- curiously, the style of Afghanistan's former enemy.
While walking along the Kabul River in the morning, two MiG jets scream
over the city at an altitude that seems dangerously low.
I crouch on the ground. A group of Public Works employees planting
geraniums in a traffic circle nearby cover their heads as if bracing for
an explosion. The men laugh, as the jets disappear into the sky.
Later in the day, the Afghan radio reports that a military pilot was
killed during training exercises.
He flew his jet into a mountain.
-- Michael Corkery
