telephoned my generals, insisting they take action to allow Benon off the airplane, and I called Yaqoubi, demanding an explanation for what had happened at the airport. He promised to investigate and get back to me within 24 hours.
I remained optimistic, but I could not sleep. As morning dawned, I listened to the music of Ahma d Zahir. Though he failed to find the wisdom to navigate Afghanistan‟s politics, Zahir was our nightingale, a mixture of Rumi and Elvis. He was of my generation, one year older than I, and so I always felt as if he were mine. I had little time, even as a youth, for matters of play, but I remember attending one of his concerts in Kabul. And I remember the day he died, the schools clos ing, his songs on the radio: "My grave is lying unknown along the way." However, that night I didn‟t want to think of another victim of Afghan politics; I played his love songs, like Sultan Qalbah.
The next morning, I gathered myself. I requested a cup of chai; I washed, and I prayed— yes, one can reach Allah without being an Islamist. But by the time I opened the door to my room, the setbacks had already begun. They had murdered Yaqoubi immediately, and named it a suicide. Anyone who knew Yaqoubi knew he would never kill himself. He was a brilliant head of the secret police; he beat back my opponents in 1990 when they attempted a coup, and he would have beaten them back again before he took his own life. Then Wakil, my closest aide, crumbled as easily as a k hatai cookie, going on television to call me a "hated leader." If he thought this would save him, he was wrong. I spoke to him only once after that. "Though you swoop down on chickens, O Kite," I told him, "you have not thereby become a hawk." We never sp oke again.
Still I was hopeful. How long could this go on? Days? Weeks? Perhaps a month or two at the outside. That was my thinking before Rabbani delivered the final blow. Rabbani, the same donkey but with a new saddle, informed the UN that, as interim president, he would not allow me to leave the country, nor would he allow me to leave the UN compound. Not ever. Those were his words. To arrest me would cause an international outcry, but he knew himself to be so weak that he thought to allow me freedom meant his own power would not be secure. A man is only gone when he‟s under the sod; since Rabbani couldn‟t get me there, he locked me up in the UN compound instead. T he empty vessel makes much noise; better for both him and us if he‟d stayed a harmless theology teacher.
Expediency. Those who betrayed me believed it suited their interests. But they failed to comprehend the future. This has always been one of my gifts, dear daughters. I have a long range view. I even called Bush after the Wall fell to warn him that now that the Reds were finished, the problems would be with the Greens. By this, I explained, I meant those who fight under the green flag of the Islamists. I offered my partnership; together we could suppress the fundamentalists before they became too strong. I could strive for greater national unity, not divisions based on ethnicity or extremism. I thought a world leader such as he would understand, but Bush failed to act.
So here I sit. What is the pattern of my days? Too unchanging for my curious mind. Sometimes I feel like a caged lion with little to do except eat, sleep, welcome visitors and try, as always, to behave in a way that would make you proud. At least they supply me with treats and keep my cage gilded. My sleeping quarters are simple but my bed is softer than many I‟ve known. I have a room for greeting visitors, a couch, a few chairs, a television set and a radio. The two UN policemen who "guard" me are pleasant enough. Young Amin takes care of my meager needs, bringing me tea and food, showing in my guests. At first I feared he was sent by one of those camel-dung spiders to kill me or at least spy on
I remained optimistic, but I could not sleep. As morning dawned, I listened to the music of Ahma d Zahir. Though he failed to find the wisdom to navigate Afghanistan‟s politics, Zahir was our nightingale, a mixture of Rumi and Elvis. He was of my generation, one year older than I, and so I always felt as if he were mine. I had little time, even as a youth, for matters of play, but I remember attending one of his concerts in Kabul. And I remember the day he died, the schools clos ing, his songs on the radio: "My grave is lying unknown along the way." However, that night I didn‟t want to think of another victim of Afghan politics; I played his love songs, like Sultan Qalbah.
The next morning, I gathered myself. I requested a cup of chai; I washed, and I prayed— yes, one can reach Allah without being an Islamist. But by the time I opened the door to my room, the setbacks had already begun. They had murdered Yaqoubi immediately, and named it a suicide. Anyone who knew Yaqoubi knew he would never kill himself. He was a brilliant head of the secret police; he beat back my opponents in 1990 when they attempted a coup, and he would have beaten them back again before he took his own life. Then Wakil, my closest aide, crumbled as easily as a k hatai cookie, going on television to call me a "hated leader." If he thought this would save him, he was wrong. I spoke to him only once after that. "Though you swoop down on chickens, O Kite," I told him, "you have not thereby become a hawk." We never sp oke again.
Still I was hopeful. How long could this go on? Days? Weeks? Perhaps a month or two at the outside. That was my thinking before Rabbani delivered the final blow. Rabbani, the same donkey but with a new saddle, informed the UN that, as interim president, he would not allow me to leave the country, nor would he allow me to leave the UN compound. Not ever. Those were his words. To arrest me would cause an international outcry, but he knew himself to be so weak that he thought to allow me freedom meant his own power would not be secure. A man is only gone when he‟s under the sod; since Rabbani couldn‟t get me there, he locked me up in the UN compound instead. T he empty vessel makes much noise; better for both him and us if he‟d stayed a harmless theology teacher.
Expediency. Those who betrayed me believed it suited their interests. But they failed to comprehend the future. This has always been one of my gifts, dear daughters. I have a long range view. I even called Bush after the Wall fell to warn him that now that the Reds were finished, the problems would be with the Greens. By this, I explained, I meant those who fight under the green flag of the Islamists. I offered my partnership; together we could suppress the fundamentalists before they became too strong. I could strive for greater national unity, not divisions based on ethnicity or extremism. I thought a world leader such as he would understand, but Bush failed to act.
So here I sit. What is the pattern of my days? Too unchanging for my curious mind. Sometimes I feel like a caged lion with little to do except eat, sleep, welcome visitors and try, as always, to behave in a way that would make you proud. At least they supply me with treats and keep my cage gilded. My sleeping quarters are simple but my bed is softer than many I‟ve known. I have a room for greeting visitors, a couch, a few chairs, a television set and a radio. The two UN policemen who "guard" me are pleasant enough. Young Amin takes care of my meager needs, bringing me tea and food, showing in my guests. At first I feared he was sent by one of those camel-dung spiders to kill me or at least spy on
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