ous tie, carefully polished shoes, black socks. I wanted to look like what I felt myself to be: the head of a modern state, still proud, thoroughly disdainful of the quarreling mujahideen who knew nothing about how to rule a nation as complicated as ours, and the fundamentalists who would drag Afghanistan back a century or more.
Most of all, I wanted to look magnificent for my family when I walked in the door of our new home in Delhi. I‟d been exiled before; I knew it would not be forever. I believed we wo uld all return, and in under five years. But I wanted to reassure my three daughters, and especially your mother-flower. I knew she felt as sad and angry as I did to leave Afghanistan. I wanted to drop to my knees and apologize to her for my failure to hold on longer; I wanted to comfort her, and to embrace her and you, my daughters. The image of our imminent reunion brought me solace as we drove away from Kabul in the dark.
I had to leave behind much, but I carried in my briefcase a few presents for you. The stuffed bear wearing a hat with a red star that Muski once liked to sleep with; it was among the gifts President Gorbachev had given me for my daughters when we met in the Kremlin. I know you are not a baby anymore, my green-eyed Muski, but you are still my youngest. Also a large jar of dirt scooped from the Kabul ground, smelling of lemon and a lick of Afghan wind. A few photographs of you girls and your mother standing in the Hindu Kush range. I am glad I brought them because I was never able to return to our home, so now, sequestered as I am, I can look each day on your sweet faces. I can look, too, at the mountains of Afghanistan that I fear I may never see again outside a photograph.
But of course, I will see them. My spirits flag a little when I hear the progress the fundamentalists have made in the countryside. Nonetheless, I will not give up. Shoes are tested on the feet, dear daughters; a man is tested in the fight.
On that night, just beyond that final checkpoint, Benon Sevan sat waiting for me on the airfield, his plane having touched down from Pakistan, full of fuel and ready for departure. At first, the delay at the roadblock seemed nothing more than a momentary snag, a piece of disorganization. But when I realized that the round-faced devil Dostum was trying to block my safe passage, I became furious. I climbed from the car and yelled. There was a time when I would not have been affronted in this way, but on this night, I could not change their minds. A mere suggestion of a lieutenant cowered before my voice until he found the courage to speak; he insisted that even if he allowed us to pass, we would all be slaughtered at the airport. Begging my forgiveness, he urged me to return to the official residence. Did Dostum truly think I would simply, stupidly acquiesce to such a proposal? The goat, fleeing from the wolf, may spend the night in the butcher‟s house, but not me, dear daughters. I have grown to manhood in Afghanistan; I have survived. I am not a fool.
When it became clear that the airport was unreachable that night, I insisted that I was the UN‟s responsibility, and must be taken to their compound and protected by them. They, after all, had written my resignation letter and made my exit part of the peace process. They had promised me safe passage to Delhi. As your mother knows, the decision to resign had been a hard one; I‟ve always preferred even the swift blow to the swift flight. But I had met their wishes; now they were responsible for me.
They didn‟t want me, a weight around their necks, but what could they do? After some hesitation, they agreed, and we made the drive back into the capital far sooner than I had anticipated. Arriving at the UN mission, I wanted to contact your dear mother first; I knew she would be worried. But as always, the responsibilities of state demanded attention. I
Most of all, I wanted to look magnificent for my family when I walked in the door of our new home in Delhi. I‟d been exiled before; I knew it would not be forever. I believed we wo uld all return, and in under five years. But I wanted to reassure my three daughters, and especially your mother-flower. I knew she felt as sad and angry as I did to leave Afghanistan. I wanted to drop to my knees and apologize to her for my failure to hold on longer; I wanted to comfort her, and to embrace her and you, my daughters. The image of our imminent reunion brought me solace as we drove away from Kabul in the dark.
I had to leave behind much, but I carried in my briefcase a few presents for you. The stuffed bear wearing a hat with a red star that Muski once liked to sleep with; it was among the gifts President Gorbachev had given me for my daughters when we met in the Kremlin. I know you are not a baby anymore, my green-eyed Muski, but you are still my youngest. Also a large jar of dirt scooped from the Kabul ground, smelling of lemon and a lick of Afghan wind. A few photographs of you girls and your mother standing in the Hindu Kush range. I am glad I brought them because I was never able to return to our home, so now, sequestered as I am, I can look each day on your sweet faces. I can look, too, at the mountains of Afghanistan that I fear I may never see again outside a photograph.
But of course, I will see them. My spirits flag a little when I hear the progress the fundamentalists have made in the countryside. Nonetheless, I will not give up. Shoes are tested on the feet, dear daughters; a man is tested in the fight.
On that night, just beyond that final checkpoint, Benon Sevan sat waiting for me on the airfield, his plane having touched down from Pakistan, full of fuel and ready for departure. At first, the delay at the roadblock seemed nothing more than a momentary snag, a piece of disorganization. But when I realized that the round-faced devil Dostum was trying to block my safe passage, I became furious. I climbed from the car and yelled. There was a time when I would not have been affronted in this way, but on this night, I could not change their minds. A mere suggestion of a lieutenant cowered before my voice until he found the courage to speak; he insisted that even if he allowed us to pass, we would all be slaughtered at the airport. Begging my forgiveness, he urged me to return to the official residence. Did Dostum truly think I would simply, stupidly acquiesce to such a proposal? The goat, fleeing from the wolf, may spend the night in the butcher‟s house, but not me, dear daughters. I have grown to manhood in Afghanistan; I have survived. I am not a fool.
When it became clear that the airport was unreachable that night, I insisted that I was the UN‟s responsibility, and must be taken to their compound and protected by them. They, after all, had written my resignation letter and made my exit part of the peace process. They had promised me safe passage to Delhi. As your mother knows, the decision to resign had been a hard one; I‟ve always preferred even the swift blow to the swift flight. But I had met their wishes; now they were responsible for me.
They didn‟t want me, a weight around their necks, but what could they do? After some hesitation, they agreed, and we made the drive back into the capital far sooner than I had anticipated. Arriving at the UN mission, I wanted to contact your dear mother first; I knew she would be worried. But as always, the responsibilities of state demanded attention. I
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