It was a bleak, barren, sand-colored area. All of it. The streets, the houses, and the main square of the village. It was 1979, and we were on our way to the Khyber Pass. The people along the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan were at war, as usual. Their conflicts were tribal as well as terrritorial, religious as well as sectarian. Our bus was not allowed to cross. We had to carry our bags on foot, through the "no man's land" that demarcated the border.
We walked through the village, where not a flower grew. Not a shrub, not a tree. The atmosphere was more than unfriendly. It was downright hostile. The village's economy, as indicated by the shops along the square, was based upon guns and hashish. Beautiful guns, to be sure, adorned with silver. The pungent, black hashish was laced with opium. We saw men working in the shops, but no evidence of their women and children.
As we walked by a house, we saw a gate ajar. We looked into the courtyard, and there, on a cot, lay a body covered with a white sheet. A young man stood nearby. We offered our condolences for his obvious loss. He looked at us and smiled. "Oh, it's all right," he said. "Yesterday, we went into a village and killed a member of someone's family. Last night, it was their turn, their retaliation." The score was, for the time being, even.
In recent days, I find myself thinking about that experience, and imagine it being reported on the evening news. I wonder how my fellow Americans would react, if they truly understood the people of that region. It appears they'll never reach a point when they'll stop trying to even the score. Yet, we in the West are more than just bystanders to their ongoing, deadly game. Their conflicts will have to continue, at least for as long as they keep selling hashish and buying guns.
M. Raisman
November, 2001
