A similar version of this article was written for the January-March 1999 edition of the on-line publication Lemar/Aftaab, a zine for those interested in Afghanistan.

I first visited Afghanistan in 1971 and in 1972 during a long trip through the Middle East and the Indian subcontinent. Although I had some idea of Afghan geography and history, I was shocked to find how little I actually knew. Even so, the overall experiences I had were positive. In 1978 I received an M.A. in linguistics and was offered an English teaching position at Ferdowsi University in Mashhad, Iran. I gladly accepted, in part because of the travel opportunities in Iran and Afghanistan (the drive from Mashhad to the Afghan border takes only an hour or two). Indeed, I was able to visit Afghanistan for a third time, in January of 1979, with this trip being the most memorable--but also the most disturbing.

"Political earthquake zone" was the expression that a friend of mine used to describe the region between Tehran and Kabul at the time. In April of 1978, the Khalq Party staged a coup bringing a Communist regime to power in Kabul. Throughout the same year, demonstrations against the Shah took place in Iran, and from October onward, strikes along with clashes in the streets of Tehran, Mashhad, and elsewhere overshadowed most other activities. It became increasingly clear to the faculty at Ferdowsi University that there would not be an academic year, and some administrators did their best to make arrangements for a peaceful departure of foreign staff, including those of us who had been recruited through Georgetown University. Though it had no legal obligation to do so, Georgetown agreed to provide us with plane tickets for travel between Kabul and the United States. While these arrangements were being made, Mashhad exploded, with two or three days of very serious fighting between armed civilians and the Shah's troops. In the first week of January, most of the foreign English-teaching staff boarded a bus for Afghanistan.

Before reaching the border, we noticed what seemed to be a common practice of letting some Afghans off the bus early. These individuals could not afford passports and could not, therefore, return home by crossing at the border checkpoints. I was struck by the pragmatic solution to this problem (the border officials no doubt knew all about the practice) and by the physical stamina of the Afghans, who seemed used to walking long distances-I would later see other examples of the same gritty perseverance. At the border there were consular officials from the American and British embassies to help those who did not have their passports, which were in government offices in Mashhad paralyzed by the strikes. The Iranian and the Afghan border officials also proved helpful, and so the crossing went smoothly despite a number of delays. By evening, our bus had arrived in the city of Herat. The fragrance of the cedar trees on many streets welcomed me back.

I have seen quite a few cities, but Herat is one I feel especially fortunate to have visited. In early 1979 much of the beauty of traditional Islamic civilization was still untouched, and while Heratis were long used to seeing travelers, tourism was certainly not an "industry." Often friendly, the townspeople encouraged me to take pictures of them or their children as well as of everyday activities such as baking bread. I spent four or five days roaming through the streets and monuments, bargaining for souvenirs, and talking with many people. Before going to Iran, I had taken an intensive Persian course (at the University of Texas at Austin), which made my third trip to Afghanistan much more illuminating. Although I could only converse at a fairly basic level, it proved to be enough to answer various kinds of questions and ask some myself.

It was interesting to find that some of the people I spoke with were, like me, non-native speakers of Dari (the Afghan variety of Persian). Shopkeepers invited me to have tea, and some of the conversations we had I remember to this day. There was real pride in the fact that Alexander the Great had founded a city where Herat stands today, and some people believed that Alexander had been a Muslim (which, of course, is chronologically impossible). The Heratis were also interested to hear about events in nearby Mashhad, and some were no doubt sympathetic to Iranians who wanted to see the Shah depart (and he did indeed leave Tehran for North Africa that January). Not surprisingly, though, the main concerns of Heratis seemed to be closer to home.

One of the Persian phrases I knew proved useful in the police-state environments of both Iran and Afghanistan: Az siyasat besyar nemidanam ('I don't know much about politics'). Most Afghans were naturally reluctant to say anything about the regime, but some did make their feelings quite clear. The Communists had required that every shopkeeper have a red sign with the Khalq party insignia over his shop. Perhaps the Khalqis wanted to create the Soviet-style illusion that "Party and People are one." In any case, the edict caused real resentment, in part because of the expense it incurred for every merchant. Another propaganda stunt of the Khalqis was no more successful: the Party sponsored an evening of folk music to attract Heratis, though foreigners were also permitted to attend. The music itself got a good reception, but a play staged did not have the effect the actors had expected. The plot was very transparent even for those who knew little Dari: a cruel landlord exploiting his peasants meets with his just deserts when Khalq revolutionaries seize his land. While the audience cheered the Khalqis firing their guns, they also cheered the landlord's thuggish deeds-anything dramatic got applause. When this excursion into socialist realism had ended, the actors tried to get the audience to cheer the Khalq regime, but the response to their exhortations was decidedly unenthusiastic.

After Mashhad, Herat appeared tranquil, but the calm did not seem likely to last for long. As in Iran, reports traveled quickly by word of mouth. It was said that an uprising in the bazaar in Kandahar had been put down by an air strike and that Russian pilots had participated in the raid (and perhaps in the April coup as well). It was also said that the mujaheddin guerrillas were attacking buses in various points of the country.

Still another report maintained that the Khalqis had expelled UN archeologists from the site of a 15th century madreseh (school) near Herat to discourage Westerners from staying around for very long--and in fact one of the Americans from Ferdowsi had earlier been tailed by the secret police who thought that he was spending too much time in Herat. The madreseh, which Tamerlane's imperial family had founded, was leveled during another imperial epoch, the so-called Great Game between Britain and Russia in the 19th century. In 1837 the Afghans were still on friendly terms with the British. and a young officer named Eldred Pottinger helped to defend Herat from Persian attackers egged on by the Russians. When the Persian siege failed, the aggressors retreated to Iran, but the madreseh was a permanent casualty: Pottinger thought it essential that the roof be taken down to allow for a clear field of fire. Only the minarets were standing in 1979.

On leaving Herat for Kabul, I wanted to see as much of the countryside as I could in daylight, and so I opted to break the long bus ride with an overnight stay in Kandahar. The hotel I found there was comfortable and had delicious food as well. After dinner I heard music down the hall and went to listen. Afghan folk musicians were performing at a reception hosted by the Governor of Kandahar Province. Along with Afghan Khalqis and some Sikhs (who were probably leading merchants in Kandahar) were assorted guests from Eastern Europe. The vodka was certainly flowing. The Governor, a young bearded fellow in a three-piece suit, proved unsteady on his feet: after falling, he had to be helped up. When the music ended, the Governor launched into a speech in Dari. While he drunkenly slurred along, I was surprised to find how much I understood even though my Dari was not very good. The reason was obvious. The slogans the Governor strung together consisted largely of the Marxist-Leninist vocabulary available in many European languages including English, French, and Russian: imperialist, capitalist, proletarian, and the like. It seemed all the clearer why the reception was guarded by a well-armed security detachment: few ordinary Afghans would understand the Governor's foreign-sounding claptrap, much less approve of his drinking. As he ranted on, his rhetoric grew more vitriolic: prominent among the enemies he denounced was, of course, the USA. The head of the security unit, who had earlier invited me to listen to the music, started to look nervous, eyeing me and probably thinking that I might understand too much of a speech not intended for the ears of Westerners. He went over and whispered to the proprietor of the hotel, who then came over. The owner said that I looked tired after a long day of traveling and that I might want to retire for the evening. The hint was clear, but I played along, asking if there would be any more music. "No more music," he replied. I was glad to be able to make an exit-albeit that the music did indeed start again later. I also felt relieved that no one had offered me a drink.

The next morning I continued on my way to Kabul. More snow appeared in the higher elevations, and by the side of the road were the skeletons of wrecked busses. The rough weather made me think of highway accidents, but I still wonder if any of the busses had been attacked by guerrillas. In Kabul I stayed one night at a fairly dreary hotel, the same one, I believe, where a couple of months later the US ambassador Spike Dubbs was taken by kidnappers and killed during a shoot-out in very murky circumstances. Although that incident had not yet come to pass, there was a distinct tension in the air. My own paranoia had increased after the night in Kandahar, and when I moved into another hotel the next day, I met up with colleagues from Ferdowsi and heard yet more reports, including stories of busses being attacked. As much as I wanted to go to Jalalabad to see some Buddhist shrines, it did not seem safe--despite some half-hearted assurances from a functionary at the tourist office. Even with the palpable tension, though, there was a certain unreality to the new regime. The curfew nominally in force was easy enough to break, as I found when I went to a well-known Indian restaurant which was open, strange to say, despite the curfew (with me as the only customer). I have wondered whether the militiamen in the streets thought I was a Russian and somehow exempt from the curfew. If so, I might have been in greater danger from Afghan civilians whose resentment of Soviet influence was growing by the day.

On my final morning in Kabul, I looked out the hotel window and saw an everyday sight, yet something I have not observed since: a turbaned man with his camel plodding along on a city street. A stock image, perhaps, but also a reminder of how Afghans had managed to travel for centuries. On the way to the airport, a more modern and grim image appeared: a Soviet tank on a pedestal. At the airport, the security checks showed how tightly the Khalq regime sought to control comings and goings, with Afghans having the most to worry about at the checkpoints. Holding an American passport though I was, I found it fairly easy to get through the checks, and a personage from Russian television seemed able to come and go with no difficulty. As the Paris-bound plane I was on took off, I felt a tremendous relief, albeit with a melancholy sense that there were probably many Afghans who wished they could also escape. My last views of Afghanistan were the snow-capped peaks of the Hindu Kush. Amazingly, there were houses several thousand feet up on the slopes of some of the mountains. What hardy people must live at such high altitudes, I thought, people not easily conquered.

As 1979 went by, the tremors in Afghanistan grew ever stronger. The Dubbs murder suggested that the Khalq government was either unwilling or unable to have stable relations with the West, and around the same time a bloody uprising took place in Herat, with Heratis looking for--and finding--Russians to torture and kill. Before the year ended, power had slipped away from the Khalq regime, which was replaced by its Communist rival, the Parchem faction, massively supported by the Soviets in their full-scale invasion of Afghanistan in December of 1979. That support did not, of course, change the outcome of the Afghan War, which had started with popular resistance to the Khalqis. However, the victory of the resistance came at a horrific price. It saddens me greatly to compare the pictures I took in Herat in 1979 with a photo in the October, 1993 National Geographic Magazine showing much of the city in ruins. And more depressing still is the fact that the Communist collapse in 1992 has not meant an end to the warfare in Afghanistan. The fire and poisons that began erupting twenty years ago have yet to subside.

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