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Authors: Rory Stewart
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understand what I am saying?" Qasim shouted from behind Abdul Haq. "I have been a Mujahid for twenty-two years. When walking you must stay on the roads, not walk in the fields."
"But this is a shortcut," replied Abdul Haq.
"If you please! We must walk on the road."
"Don't talk like that," said Abdul Haq. "Our guest will lose confidence in us."
"Don't worry; he can't understand what we are saying."
Abdul Haq began to goose-step across the sand, swinging his right arm in front of his chest and kicking up dust with his heels. Then he launched into a guerrilla song that opened, "Welcome, Ismail Khan, Welcome, Commander." For the next ten minutes he chanted his welcome to every comrade he could think of. He had just reached "Welcome, Qasim, Welcome, Commander" when we arrived at a path and met a man who confirmed we could stay in the building. "Someone will take you in," he said. "It contains thirty families."
When we reached the building, with its high mud walls and its single corner tower, I realized it was a medieval caravanserai—a way station for merchants on the Silk Road. Because caravanserai were built a day's walk apart, I had used them for accommodation when I walked across the Iranian desert between Arak and Isfahan. This one was surrounded by a shallow moat. A broad wooden bridge led to a three-arched portico large enough for a loaded camel. Abdul Haq knocked on the wooden door, and while we waited I photographed the three men. Abdul Haq flashed his broad grin. A dark band of evening shadow rose fast up the coffee-colored brick. We were all tired and relieved to have found shelter.
When I had the idea of an Asian walk five years earlier, such legacies of the Silk Road had fascinated me. There would once perhaps have been lapis lazuli here, carried west from the mines of Afghanistan to make the blue in medieval Sienese paintings, and amber cut from tree fossils in the Baltic and brought east for Tibetan necklaces. Even more mysterious objects had moved down such trading routes: diamonds that could make you a king, Buddhist texts on birch-bark scrolls in characters that could no longer be deciphered, Chinese astrolabes to mystify the Vatican. But now that I was walking, I found it more difficult to be interested in the Silk Road. Such things had little to do with modern Afghanistan and I doubted whether the people who lived in this building had a clear idea of its past.
A delicate-featured boy of eight appeared at the gate and said no one was at home. Qasim told him to have a second look. After some minutes he reappeared. The sun had sunk and we were beginning to feel cold. The boy looked at us with his dark, steady eyes and said, "No. There is no one here."
Qasim snapped, "Don't lie, boy. You have been told to say this. I know there are people inside. Look again." Another child appeared. He was slightly smaller, with spiky black hair, and was wearing a faded red shalwar kemis.
"Tell them I am a meman [guest], mosafer [traveler]," continued Qasim. "Muslims cannot refuse hospitality. We're from the government. We have a right to enter."
The first boy stared at Qasim and then at me and said, "No. There is no one here."
There was a pause and suddenly Abdul Haq grabbed the boy by the collar and began to push him through the medieval arch toward the courtyard.
Qasim shouted, "Stop, don't go in there. This was an al-Qaeda place. You'll both be shot."
Abdul Haq bent down, looked into the boy's eyes, and pushed him roughly away. The boy stumbled backward but did not fall. "Tell them now that we are going to come in," said Abdul Haq.
"There is no one here," the boy repeated.
Abdul Haq looked at the other two men and then turned and walked with them back across the moat bridge. I followed. When we reached the end of the bridge, Abdul Haq nodded at Aziz, spun, dropped to one knee, and brought his rifle to his shoulder, aiming at the boys. Aziz did the same.
The first boy leaped behind the door. The other stood
"But this is a shortcut," replied Abdul Haq.
"If you please! We must walk on the road."
"Don't talk like that," said Abdul Haq. "Our guest will lose confidence in us."
"Don't worry; he can't understand what we are saying."
Abdul Haq began to goose-step across the sand, swinging his right arm in front of his chest and kicking up dust with his heels. Then he launched into a guerrilla song that opened, "Welcome, Ismail Khan, Welcome, Commander." For the next ten minutes he chanted his welcome to every comrade he could think of. He had just reached "Welcome, Qasim, Welcome, Commander" when we arrived at a path and met a man who confirmed we could stay in the building. "Someone will take you in," he said. "It contains thirty families."
When we reached the building, with its high mud walls and its single corner tower, I realized it was a medieval caravanserai—a way station for merchants on the Silk Road. Because caravanserai were built a day's walk apart, I had used them for accommodation when I walked across the Iranian desert between Arak and Isfahan. This one was surrounded by a shallow moat. A broad wooden bridge led to a three-arched portico large enough for a loaded camel. Abdul Haq knocked on the wooden door, and while we waited I photographed the three men. Abdul Haq flashed his broad grin. A dark band of evening shadow rose fast up the coffee-colored brick. We were all tired and relieved to have found shelter.
When I had the idea of an Asian walk five years earlier, such legacies of the Silk Road had fascinated me. There would once perhaps have been lapis lazuli here, carried west from the mines of Afghanistan to make the blue in medieval Sienese paintings, and amber cut from tree fossils in the Baltic and brought east for Tibetan necklaces. Even more mysterious objects had moved down such trading routes: diamonds that could make you a king, Buddhist texts on birch-bark scrolls in characters that could no longer be deciphered, Chinese astrolabes to mystify the Vatican. But now that I was walking, I found it more difficult to be interested in the Silk Road. Such things had little to do with modern Afghanistan and I doubted whether the people who lived in this building had a clear idea of its past.
A delicate-featured boy of eight appeared at the gate and said no one was at home. Qasim told him to have a second look. After some minutes he reappeared. The sun had sunk and we were beginning to feel cold. The boy looked at us with his dark, steady eyes and said, "No. There is no one here."
Qasim snapped, "Don't lie, boy. You have been told to say this. I know there are people inside. Look again." Another child appeared. He was slightly smaller, with spiky black hair, and was wearing a faded red shalwar kemis.
"Tell them I am a meman [guest], mosafer [traveler]," continued Qasim. "Muslims cannot refuse hospitality. We're from the government. We have a right to enter."
The first boy stared at Qasim and then at me and said, "No. There is no one here."
There was a pause and suddenly Abdul Haq grabbed the boy by the collar and began to push him through the medieval arch toward the courtyard.
Qasim shouted, "Stop, don't go in there. This was an al-Qaeda place. You'll both be shot."
Abdul Haq bent down, looked into the boy's eyes, and pushed him roughly away. The boy stumbled backward but did not fall. "Tell them now that we are going to come in," said Abdul Haq.
"There is no one here," the boy repeated.
Abdul Haq looked at the other two men and then turned and walked with them back across the moat bridge. I followed. When we reached the end of the bridge, Abdul Haq nodded at Aziz, spun, dropped to one knee, and brought his rifle to his shoulder, aiming at the boys. Aziz did the same.
The first boy leaped behind the door. The other stood
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