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May 08, 2010
There were moments when I was between the ages of 3 and 14 that the political world crept into my life. These were incidents that appeared and would then be stored away as dreams are stored away. The television, black and white, rabbit eared, flickering, had something to do with how these events were understood. Assassinations, mostly, but also images from war far away, and rocks being thrown in streets, and banners. I marched in Memorial Day parades, blowing my silver trumpet, but soon a new kind of marching entered my lexicon, this in direct contradiction to the first. Ever since those days I have not been big on parades or protests. Both, for different reasons, seemed to distort reality in harmful ways. Only once did I join the fray wholeheartedly, once did it seem pure, unadulterated, and at the time meaningful and effective. In late winter of 2003, New York City I walked with a very, very large number of people through mid-town, calling upon President Bush to hold off, to pause, to think before invading Iraq. Some estimated almost a million people, others gave incredibly deflated numbers such as 50 or 60 thousand. I remember, later, a journalist had examined aerial photos of Lexington, Fifth, and other assorted avenues that day. Taking into account square footage and estimates of people per square yard, the first number was more telling. Similar marches occurred in cities across America and around the world, simultaneously. What we did not realize was the futility. The wheels had already been set in motion, as are the wheels presently turning for an offensive into Kandahar, Afghanistan. This week I was given the opportunity to edit a speech to be given at a protest march here in Kabul. This protest concerned the plight of Afghan refugees in Iran who are systematically being arrested, and then executed. After reading all the accounts, I knew that I had to go to this march. Men and women of every age assembled on the street that passes by the Iranian embassy. Children, too. I wore my Punjabi outfit and cloaked myself in my scarf in the center of the crowd. On my right and left, carrying signs and banners were an assortment of boys. This is Afghanistan, and this is their country. It would be irresponsible to attempt complete insulation, because unfortunately for these oldest children the plight of their people will continue well into their adult lives. Unlike the march in New York this march was visceral. These people have endured and continue to endure the worst the world can give them. Of course drought, earthquakes and thirty years of war. Now they must negotiate with NATO's power pushing, and the meddling neighbors, China sweeping up natural resources, the crazed and corrupt “Stans” to the north, regionally paranoid Russia, the dysfunctional militarized monster of Pakistan, and then there is Iran. It is pathetic and yet almost poignant that today heroin drives the economy, and the industries associated with the management of war. The march was orderly but intense. There were police and secret service members in force. Once in front of the Iranian Embassy things turned aggressive. A large poster photo of Iran’s supreme leader Khamenei was burned. Shouts smearing Ahmadinejad repeated, chant-like. Rocks were thrown over the heads of the riot police, hitting the metal gates to the embassy. But leaders of the march took responsibility and simmered the crowd. The march continued on its way down the street and lasted well into the afternoon. Nobody from the Afghan government came to address these citizens or the issues concerning Iran’s activities. For any other teen this might have been an unforgettable and life-long experience to remember. For the children in this protest it was not so exotic. The march goes into their Afghanness the way dismembered men and begging women do. The roses in this year’s garden cater more to their amazement. This is the difference. Acutely aware, are they, to see with their eyes and not with their emotions. Emotion is a luxury. I speak not of laughter and tears. Of those there are plenty. I speak of love and anger, and of fear, which rather than being expended or dispensed almost as soon as they are felt, gather in a universal pool, a place where anger is the same for one as it is for another, and fear is fear, a pool not dipped into at every turn but collectively understood, and love is set free, not gathered and held. Never do I see cut flowers adorning some table. Only live flowers, everywhere. Yet without a thought a child plucks a rose not finished, gives it to me with not a scratch of loss, and one after another in the streets of Kabul soldiers can be seen, their rifles dangling, aimed toward their boots, while held aloft pink blossoms the size of blunt fingered hands fill their senses with the faint perfume of spring, and their eyes shine with a watery glaze of delight.
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