Lost Decency

The Untold Afghan Story

Atta Arghandiwal

• Publisher: attamoves
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9780997887044
• Topic: Scienze sociali
• Subtopic: Biografie nell'ambito delle scienze sociali

Many memoirs written by exiles represent the country’s more privileged classes, those with the money and means. In Lost Decency, Atta Arghandiwal
shares his and the Afghan people’s turbulent journey to escape their war-torn country. Every refugee’s story deserves to be heard, but Atta’s thrilling and inspiring history uncovers the truth about how his beloved and once peaceful nation turned into one of the deadliest and most dangerous in the world.

Returning Home

AFTER I DECIDED TO WRITE this memoir, I wanted to travel to my homeland in search of the truth about what has happened there. I had watched, heard, and learned about the destruction of millions of people, many of whom did not even receive the proper burial they deserved. The patriotic blood of decent Afghan people had been spilled all over the country for no good reason.

At the request of my longtime friend Ahmad, we decided to travel together to Afghanistan on January 11, 2011.

“I think we are at the wrong gate,” I told Ahmad during an eight-hour layover in Dubai, where we had flown to from San Francisco.

“No, this is it,” he said, laughing and giving me a sarcastic look.

“Look at the people! I don’t see a single Afghan here,” I said, as I looked around the crowded gate area full of what I considered foreigners.

“That is right; most foreigners take this early flight,” he said. “But look at the corner; there are at least five Afghans I can see.”

I was starting to feel really sad. Not that I would not have welcomed foreigners to our homeland, but this was not what I expected, and the thought of seeing our country run again by foreigners blurred my vision at the moment.

“But what about all the Afghan experts around the world who could help?” I asked.

“You need to cool off and stop asking so many questions. You will learn more when we get there—relax,” he told me with a smirk on his face.

But I could not stop worrying and looking around; I wanted to see who these people were and where they were coming from. There were quite a few Americans, including military and private security personnel, Europeans, men and women of Asian and Indian descent, and even a few German police in uniform, which looked really odd; I wondered why German police would be traveling in uniform. I simply could not stop looking around, and felt exactly the way I had felt thirty years ago at the Frankfurt airport—lost and looking at everyone as if they were from another planet.

I had suddenly become a curious observer, and was trying to register everything I was seeing for my book notes. I was planning to videotape my entire trip starting the moment I boarded the plane, but I suspected that I could not possibly turn my camcorder on with all these foreigners and security personnel around. I asked Ahmad, since he had traveled to and from Afghanistan a few times recently.

“Only if you want to be dead now,” he said with a broad smile.

“Okay, I guess I can start taping when we get there, then,” I told him.

“But not outside the plane or inside the airport,” he warned me. He told me I might be able to start once we were out of the Kabul airport, but said never to film military and security personnel. I was not happy about his response at all, but I realized I had no choice.

We were finally on our way to visit my homeland again after thirty years. I was so happy that we were taking the 6:30 am flight, as I simply wanted to look around and see everything for as long as I could. I stared down at the countryside from my window seat. As the pilot announced our descent into Kabul, I noticed how dense the city looked from above. I remembered it as a city occupied by only 150,000–200,000 people when I left in the early 1980s. By many estimates, Kabul was now home to over five million people. It looked busy and spectacular because of snowfall from just the night before. From the air it looked like the old Kabul, with vibrant and beautiful mountains and snow-covered hilltops.

The airport seemed nothing like the old one. The area had been beaten up quite badly during the years of war, and whereas the airport used to house merely two or three planes at one time, now I noticed a dozen transport planes.

“I am sorry, but I have to take some video,” I told Ahmad, as I reached into my bag to pull out my camcorder.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he shouted, but I just went and turned the camera on before taking the stairs down from the plane. I then saw security personnel with walkie-talkies standing on both sides of the stairs and carefully examining passengers. I simply kept filming, though I did not take aim directly at them, and kept on walking. I knew I was being watched carefully, but to my surprise, no one said anything until we reached the doorstep of customs.

We were then inside the so-called new Kabul International Airport. So much had been made of this project, sponsored by the Japanese government, that I had expected a modern airport similar to at least some other, decent international airports. This new structure pretty much resembled the old one, and looked to me like a project that was only half-completed. The entry to customs was very small by today’s standards, with only eight booths that looked like outdoor ticket booths. The ceiling was uncovered, with visible wires.

We lined up with hundreds of other foreigners and very few Afghans in front of only three open booths, each one guarded by a uniformed police officer. As I got closer to the booth, the officer standing in front of me started talking and asked if I was there for the first time. I was not sure why he would figure that I was a first-timer there, but the fact that I was Afghan seemed to make him happy. He immediately pointed to the passenger at the booth in front of me and started cursing him in a whisper. I started to feel very uncomfortable. The guard went on to tell me that this guy was in and out of Kabul every week and that he was one of the traitors who were selling information about Afghanistan and its people.

“You see all these Americans and foreigners?” he asked.

“Of course, there are thousands of them here,” I said.

“We need them here. Our own government is very corrupt, and no one in it can be trusted. They are all crooks. Things are so bad, we would die within months without these people,” he said.

“I hope they leave, but not so soon that I don’t see any return to the old days and our Afghan pride,” he continued, his eyes beginning to water. “Who will remain in charge if the Americans and other foreign troops leave?”

The passenger in front of me at the booth moved away, and it was my turn.

“Why are you here?” the customs officer asked rudely, making no gesture of courtesy, not even a “hello” or “salaam.”

“I am here to visit family and friends,” I told him.

“Come from America?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“How about Dubai?” he asked.

I told him that I had originally traveled from America, with a short stay in Dubai. He then gave me a very dirty look as he punched numbers silently into his computer for several minutes.

“Go” was the only word that then came out of his mouth.

I was devastated by this treatment, as I had never expected such behavior from an Afghan before. I remembered only great manners and hospitality during my upbringing toward people. I wondered what had happened to those times when every guest used to be treated as a king.

After gathering our belongings, Ahmad and I started to walk toward the exit doors. My heart pounded as we left the building. There we were. I stood still for a few minutes while the two porters and Ahmad walked away toward the sideline. I just wanted to breathe Kabul’s air. It felt very cold and crisp, and reminded me of the good old snowy days in the city. The porters told me we were very lucky, as the snowfall the night before had really cleaned up the dirty Kabul air.

“What are you doing?” yelled Ahmad, when he saw me standing there. I joined him and the two porters and started walking in front of the old terminal, seeing a security checkpoint every one hundred feet. The area seemed like a militarized zone, with armored cars moving in and out of the area as they maneuvered through cement barricades. I was so caught up in the moment that I almost forgot to pull out my video camera. When I did, Ahmad warned me once again to exercise caution. I was happy I had brought a very small, new camcorder that could easily fit in the palm of my hand. I started using it sneakily, not holding it up as I would a regular camera, so as to avoid any objection from military and security personnel. At the times when I did dare to hold the camera up right in front of me, I could see several army personnel and security guards who did not seem to be amused.

As we left the parking lot, our cab driver started playing an old song and asked if we were visiting for the first time. I told him I was returning after thirty years, so he was very happy to welcome me back and starting talking. I informed him that I wished to videotape my experience in Kabul and asked if he had any objection.

“Not at all,” he answered, as he drove us along the very crowded highway.

“This is no longer the Afghanistan you knew, my friend,” he said, as I turned the camera from side to side in order to capture the images of people, shops, and the crowded city. Nothing looked the same! The car barely moved as it tried to maneuver through an incredibly busy street full of cars, carts, and people. This stretch of highway used be surrounded by occasional small neighborhoods, but now the entire stretch from the airport to the center of the city was filled with homes, stores, and crowded open markets.

“This is now a country of thieves,” he said.

“Wow, sorry to hear it, my friend,” I said to encourage him a little, with my camera still running, as I simply wanted to hear the facts from regular people like this cab driver.

“Yes, they have been ripping us apart for more than thirty years, and there is no end,” he went on.

“Well, but I thought things were better these days,” I mentioned.

“You have got to be kidding,” he said. “Things are very good for the thieves and commanders, of course, but not for ordinary people. I have seen it all, my friend, and I am more scared now than ever. It used to be all about war and killing, but it is now about our country losing its identity, and so I am scared for my children. I have nine children and plan to take them out of Afghanistan, not for the purpose of safety but because I don’t want them to grow up under these conditions, with no sense of pride and dignity. This is a corrupt society with fake leaders and dangerous warlords who care only for themselves and have no interest in our well-being,” he sighed.

“Let me show you just a few examples; I know your friends will show you a lot, but let me take you through this street,” he continued, as he turned right onto a bumpy dirt road leading toward some big homes not too far from the area.

“Look at these monster buildings,” he shouted, as I continued filming both sides of the road. It was absolutely insane! A group of army or security personnel stood in front of almost every house, and every gate and entry was barricaded with heavy cement blocks.

“Security jobs are here,” I mentioned to the driver.

“Oh, yes! This is the number-one job inside Afghanistan; it seems like half of the people are either in military or security uniforms,” he replied, laughing.

“Keep the camera away from the window, as these are all homes of warlords, most of which have been turned into office buildings,” he continued.

He kept on driving for a couple miles and got back on the main highway. The cab driver sounded extremely upset, but he showed no fear about speaking his mind.

This whole drive from the airport to the center of Kabul was one big adventure, filled with a mixture of curiosity and frustration.

A ten-minute drive from the airport to our hotel, known as the Kabul Serena Hotel, had become so much more difficult than in the past. Due to the hotel’s proximity to the defense ministry, old palace, and U.S. bases in the area, the roadways around it had become almost completely blocked.

“We are here,” Ahmad said happily as the car finally pulled up on the side of a very busy road near the hotel gate. I first thought it was another military compound because of the presence of dozens of armed personnel, but looking at the building carefully, I realized it was the old Kabul Hotel, still standing, with its original concrete walls and solid structure.

“Why can’t we drive inside the hotel yard?” I asked.

“They only allow authorized cars inside; you have to go through a heavy security checkpoint first,” Ahmad answered.

Once we were past the armed security guards, we were led inside the yard through a small door and into a security checkpoint, next to a big iron door blocked by a very heavy iron gate operated by more security guards, who allowed cars in and out of the hotel. We were then guided into a room equipped with a metal detector. The room was packed with six or seven guards, including two women, who were responsible for female body searches. Our luggage was carefully checked through a big detector, and we were then subjected to a full-body search.

Finally, there it was! The old Kabul Hotel, now the Kabul Serena Hotel, had been turned into a true five-star establishment with great decorations, an immaculate lobby, and professionally dressed employees. The entire hotel was closely guarded inside and outside, with armed civilian guards in almost every corner, along with video cameras, so that made me feel good about security.

“Spectacular,” I sighed as we started to tour the hotel. One of the first areas I wanted to see was the hall where we had attended many weddings and engagements during our high school days. The hall had now been redecorated and equipped with exquisite furniture and decorations. I was told the hall was now mainly used by Afg...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Russian Chocolate
• Impoverished Kingdom
• Seeking Prosperity
• Shahrara (Our Safe Haven)
• Two Mothers and Faith
• The Road to Responsibility
• Glory Days
• The Spartacus Factor
• The Beginning of the End
• Call of  Duty
• Communism Within the Military
• Departure Day Disaster
• The So-Called Revolution
• Life Under Local Communism
• The Russians Are Coming
• The Red Dawn
• Well Full of  Weapons
• Forced to Flee
• Where to Go?
• Bubbles in the Kitchen
• German Pastry
• Sweep the Cemetery!
• In Pursuit of the American Dream
• Golden State
• The Storyteller
• No One to Nomads
• The Ford Maverick and My Family’s Arrival
• A Sister Lost in Europe
• Traditional Marriage
• Afghanistan Deserted
• He Can’t Speak English
• 9/11
• Returning Home
• Praying with the Taliban
• Kabul the Filthy City
• Corrupt Dinner
• Party People
• Closing Thoughts
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author