servants of the tomb not to dare to repeat this imposture.
Villagers were less skeptical and often assumed that each mausoleum contained a holy man or a descendant of the Prophet. There was a decent chance that the grave of Jalil's father, who was neither a religious teacher nor a descendant of the Prophet, would be prayed to in three generations' time. It sat oddly beside Jalil's grandfather's grave, which was merely an unmarked earth barrow.
"From this line of trees to that was my father's and is now mine," said Jalil. He appeared to own nearly a hundred acres of fertile ground.
"You are a big landlord," I said.
"There are two bigger in this village. I have just dug this tube well with a mechanical drill. It cost five hundred dollars." He pointed to a pit running a hundred feet into the ground, lined with concrete. Beside it was an imported Indian pump. At first I was surprised he had gone to this expense with the Hari Rud River so close and with the village and fields lined with flowing irrigation canals. There was surely enough water for wheat. Opium poppies, however, will die if they go five days without water.
"Do you grow poppies?" I asked.
"I used to under the Taliban but not now because Ismail Khan has banned their cultivation."
He may not have been lying but I assumed he was. Ismail Khan was not stricter than the Taliban on opium and heroin production. The Taliban had stopped production in the valley during the last two years 14 and it was their departure that had allowed growing to start again. By the spring of 2002, with foreign drug enforcement agencies focusing on the Helmand basin, the Hari Rud valley—with or without Jalil's contribution—had one of the largest poppy harvests in Afghanistan.
I returned to Moalem Jalil's guest room. The village men had just come back from evening prayers and were flushed from the cold walk from the mosque. Three small boys were stoking the iron stove with twigs. It was a large room, laid with fine carpets, and the walls were hung with clocks and prayer rugs. Again I wondered how much Jalil made from his poppy fields. About thirty men were seated against the walls, enjoying the warmth, smoking, and playing cards. It looked from the relaxed progression of the game as though many of the people were here every night—relatives, clients, and allies all dining at Jalil's expense. At the end of the room, in the senior position, was a fat old man in a turban and a faded pin-striped suit. He was sucking on a water pipe, chuckling and singing along to a tune playing on the cassette recorder beside him. I had a friend in Kabul who was from the Pashtun Ahmadzai nomadic tribe of the southeast and I thought I recognized the tune as being Ahmadzai. Jalil confirmed that it was.
I looked around the room, meeting the eyes of the men who were staring at me, following the marks on the mud walls and the borders of the bright carpets and the smoke that seeped from the stove. I could feel my calf muscles and I was grateful to be sitting down. I stretched my bare foot over the rug and dug my toes into the thick wool.
"Where are these carpets from?" I asked, half out of habit.
"That one is from the shrine of Abdullah in Mazar-e-Sharif."
"And the silk cloth on the wall, with the picture of Medina?"
"It was bought in Saudi when my father visited the shrine of the Prophet in 1983."
"The kilim?"
"Is from the mountains east of Chaghcharan."
"And this?" I pointed toward my feet, at a bright red rug with a design of minarets and Soviet attack helicopters.
"From Farah in the south."
The Uzbek and Hazara rugs and the Pashto music suggested a sense of Afghan national identity that transcended their own Tajik province. I was about to ask jalil what he thought of Afghanistan when the old man with the water pipe looked at me and roared, "Hey, American!"
Five or six of the men stopped playing cards and waited for my response.
"I'm not American," I said.
Directly opposite me was the
Villagers were less skeptical and often assumed that each mausoleum contained a holy man or a descendant of the Prophet. There was a decent chance that the grave of Jalil's father, who was neither a religious teacher nor a descendant of the Prophet, would be prayed to in three generations' time. It sat oddly beside Jalil's grandfather's grave, which was merely an unmarked earth barrow.
"From this line of trees to that was my father's and is now mine," said Jalil. He appeared to own nearly a hundred acres of fertile ground.
"You are a big landlord," I said.
"There are two bigger in this village. I have just dug this tube well with a mechanical drill. It cost five hundred dollars." He pointed to a pit running a hundred feet into the ground, lined with concrete. Beside it was an imported Indian pump. At first I was surprised he had gone to this expense with the Hari Rud River so close and with the village and fields lined with flowing irrigation canals. There was surely enough water for wheat. Opium poppies, however, will die if they go five days without water.
"Do you grow poppies?" I asked.
"I used to under the Taliban but not now because Ismail Khan has banned their cultivation."
He may not have been lying but I assumed he was. Ismail Khan was not stricter than the Taliban on opium and heroin production. The Taliban had stopped production in the valley during the last two years 14 and it was their departure that had allowed growing to start again. By the spring of 2002, with foreign drug enforcement agencies focusing on the Helmand basin, the Hari Rud valley—with or without Jalil's contribution—had one of the largest poppy harvests in Afghanistan.
I returned to Moalem Jalil's guest room. The village men had just come back from evening prayers and were flushed from the cold walk from the mosque. Three small boys were stoking the iron stove with twigs. It was a large room, laid with fine carpets, and the walls were hung with clocks and prayer rugs. Again I wondered how much Jalil made from his poppy fields. About thirty men were seated against the walls, enjoying the warmth, smoking, and playing cards. It looked from the relaxed progression of the game as though many of the people were here every night—relatives, clients, and allies all dining at Jalil's expense. At the end of the room, in the senior position, was a fat old man in a turban and a faded pin-striped suit. He was sucking on a water pipe, chuckling and singing along to a tune playing on the cassette recorder beside him. I had a friend in Kabul who was from the Pashtun Ahmadzai nomadic tribe of the southeast and I thought I recognized the tune as being Ahmadzai. Jalil confirmed that it was.
I looked around the room, meeting the eyes of the men who were staring at me, following the marks on the mud walls and the borders of the bright carpets and the smoke that seeped from the stove. I could feel my calf muscles and I was grateful to be sitting down. I stretched my bare foot over the rug and dug my toes into the thick wool.
"Where are these carpets from?" I asked, half out of habit.
"That one is from the shrine of Abdullah in Mazar-e-Sharif."
"And the silk cloth on the wall, with the picture of Medina?"
"It was bought in Saudi when my father visited the shrine of the Prophet in 1983."
"The kilim?"
"Is from the mountains east of Chaghcharan."
"And this?" I pointed toward my feet, at a bright red rug with a design of minarets and Soviet attack helicopters.
"From Farah in the south."
The Uzbek and Hazara rugs and the Pashto music suggested a sense of Afghan national identity that transcended their own Tajik province. I was about to ask jalil what he thought of Afghanistan when the old man with the water pipe looked at me and roared, "Hey, American!"
Five or six of the men stopped playing cards and waited for my response.
"I'm not American," I said.
Directly opposite me was the
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