Karen threw me a concerned look.

I was talking to her uncle Murray, at ninety, a very successful businessman, smart, educated, a man of the world. Like me, a New York Jew. Names changed here to protect the complicit.

He encouraged me to read the Wall Street Journal more often. I told him I admired its history of long form quality reporting, found its ownership by Murdoch’s News Corp a stain on its independence, and…

“I never read The New York Times,” he proclaimed. “It’s a rag.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised. I imagined every well-read Jewish New Yorker spent every Sunday morning surrounded by sections of the Times, ink-stained fingers grasping a fourth or fifth cup of coffee. I could understand someone differing with Times editorials, disliking a certain columnist, preferring someone else’s sports coverage, but…”Surely, there’s something in the paper worth reading?”

“Nothing. It’s all biased. I haven’t picked it up in years.”

“I’m quite impressed. None of the international coverage? The business reporting? The Sunday Times magazine? The coverage of fashion, theater, film?”

Murray was adamant. And Karen was not amused. Really, Brian, her demure stare seemed to suggest. Are you getting into a political argument with my sick, old uncle? Well, yes, I was.

“Five percent of Muslims are terrorists,” Murray proposed, with the air of a finance officer just completing a carefully managed audit.

“You’re joking. Really? Five percent, is it?”

“That’s right. They’re not all terrorists,” he offered in a magnanimous gesture of tolerance. “But five percent are.”

I stared at his face. He was aged, but well preserved for a ninety year old. He was lucid, thoughtful, a man whose mental sharpness drove a hugely successful business through years of struggle, depression and war. He was a man worthy of intellectual and moral deference.

I work out the math with him. “So, if there are say, one and a half billion Muslims in the world, I have no idea, just a guess, representing roughly a quarter of the world’s population, you’re saying that five percent or seventy-five million people are terrorists. Seventy-five MILLION people, none of whom you’ve met are accurately defined as violent, murderous activists out to destroy all you hold dear?”

Murray, a learned man, considered my question. We both looked away at the idyllic surroundings on this balmy New York evening.

He changed his mind. “No. No, I think the number is one percent. One percent of Muslim are terrorists.”

“Ah,” I said, “Thank you for that clarification.” I looked around for my censor, the beautiful and elegantly dressed Karen. “So, really, you’ve decided that the five percent number was something you just pulled out of your —, but ONE PERCENT, now that number has some empirical rigor to it. One percent, or (the cocktails were affecting my ability to execute third grade arithmetic), uhhhh….fifteen million people are on a mission to terrorize the world, wreaking havoc and slaughtering innocents?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Murray seemed relieved that his original calculation was revised. The honor of a business professional. Must get the numbers right. He seemed happy with the new number. Yes. One percent. That must be it.

“You do realize,” I suggested, “that people have used that precise logic to victimize and persecute Jews for centuries. Adolf Hitler calling Jews war profiteers. Americans saying we were unpatriotic for putting our religion first, that we were not real Americans, but swarthy, money-grubbing, second-class citizens. That we were the Other, non-Christians, grouped together into foul, simplistic stereotypes? Didn’t you live through those days, through the slurs, the anti-semitic jokes, barred from country clubs, through the Holocaust?”

And, then, Karen intervened. Blond hair, professionally coiffed that very morning, in a stunning blue dress, a glass in her hand, her moist lips curled in a smile, her eyes glowing. I calculated the value of continuing my debate with Murray and its potential effect on this romantic, starry night. I asked Karen, “May I get you a refill?”

——–

In every conversation with the hundreds of Muslims I’ve met in the Arabian emirates and Afghanistan, I’ve asked variations of a few basic questions, the most frequent being: Is Islam a religion of peace? Does the Koran justify violence against non-believers? Is the growth of radical Islam simply a fundamentalism strain of the religion?

And, in one hundred percent of my encounters, I get the same answers. I even probed, pushed a bit harder, looked for cracks in the thinking, but, no, always, the same answer. Commonly, with a fierce sense of insistence or pride. They often took it personally. The London taxi driver from Somalia. The Sharjah mosque staffer. The Kabul businessman. The Afghan Army colonel. The esteemed Islamic scholar. The restauranteur, the teacher the mother, the teenager, the carpet salesman.

Javid, the week that he won the award as the nation’s premiere IT innovator, quoted me verse 5:32 ‘Al-Maidah’ from the holy Quran. There are different interpretations, and some even use it as a justification for killing, but it is the quote most often shared with me. It is usually shared quite emotionally, from a people who love their faith and their heritage. After all, the greeting you hear all day long in the Muslim world is, “As-Salaam Alaikum.” Peace be upon you.  The gist of the quote is this: If you kill one human being, you kill all humanity.

There are exceptions for self-defense. Afghans I talked to despise the Taliban, al Qaeda, Boko Harama, ISIS and the various other vicious scumbags wandering Muslim lands raping and enslaving women and torturing anyone less-holy-than-they. “They are not Muslims. This is not Islam.”

I had a few tense moments when I might remind someone that the reason he was Muslim had less to do with successive generations struggling with theological questions and selecting Islam as the final prescription for mankind, and more to do with hordes of better-equipped, better-manned armies rampaging through the steppes of Asia, forcing people to convert or die.

When the United States was about to invade Iraq, illegally, for its oil, lying to its citizens, convincing eighty-five percent of a largely undereducated, video-game addled teenage Army that Saddam Hussein was responsible for 9/11, I went to the Auburn Parkside Church of the Nazarene with my (now ex-) wife Paula and daughter Andrea. If Andrea’s interest in evangelical Christianity was partly a subconscious act of rebellion to her liberal, rarely-practicing Jewish father, she soon lost interest as I dutifully accompanied her to church.

The music was bad. The religion was, well, fundamental. The people were polite. And the sermon was martial. We were told we had to be prayer warriors. To pray for our troops. Suggestions were made that we were sending our young soldiers off on a providential mission. And to bolster the biblical support for the entreaties to God to allow for maximally efficient destruction of the Muslim evil-doers, there was a reading from the book of Joshua.

Bored, and a little appalled at the war-mongering in a house of worship, I paged ahead. And here is what I found in Joshua, chapter six.

¹⁶ And it came to pass at the seventh time, when the priests blew with the trumpets, Joshua said unto the people, Shout; for the LORD hath given you the city.

¹⁹ But all the silver, and gold, and vessels of brass and iron, are consecrated unto the LORD: they shall come into the treasury of the LORD.

Lesson Number One: The Lord needs cash, and lots of it. Don’t forget the cash.

²⁰ So the people shouted when the priests blew with the trumpets: and it came to pass, when the people heard the sound of the trumpet, and the people shouted with a great shout, that the wall fell down flat, so that the people went up into the city, every man straight before him, and they took the city.

²¹ And they utterly destroyed all that was in the city, both man and woman, young and old, and ox, and sheep, and ass, with the edge of the sword.

Lesson number two: When you take over a town for the Lord, kill every man, woman and children. Oh, and kill the ox and the sheep and the ass. With the edge of the sword. The SHEEP? What the fuck did the sheep do wrong??

²⁴ And they burnt the city with fire, and all that was therein: only the silver, and the gold, and the vessels of brass and of iron, they put into the treasury of the house of the LORD.

 ——–

Yes, pilgrims, it’s the MUSLIMS that are violent. The American overthrow of the democratically elected Iranian president Mossadegh in 1953, our support of the overthrow of Gadaffi resulting in violent militias throwing Libya into chaos, our invasion of Iraq, support of brutal dictators in Egypt and Saudi Arabia, our drone attacks on Afghan weddings and villages, all that, pilgrims, is God’s providence.

You want to know what a vengeful desert God-king does when his Prophet is insulted? Consider this story of the Jewish prophet Elisha, from the book of Judges.

²³ And he went up from thence unto Bethel: and as he was going up by the way, there came forth little children out of the city, and mocked him, and said unto him, Go up, thou bald head; go up, thou bald head.

²⁴ And he turned back, and looked on them, and cursed them in the name of the LORD. And there came forth two she bears out of the wood, and tare forty and two children of them.

²⁵ And he went from thence to mount Carmel, and from thence he returned to Samaria.

Let’s recount. A bald dude gets mocked by a bunch of little kids. God, royally pissed, sends two she-bears out of the woods, who rip them to pieces. Forty-two murdered children. Then, Elisha goes on his merry way.

Want to look for Koran verses justifying stereotyping of Muslims? You can find them. But scratch the surface of violent Islamic warriors and you’ll find a lot less acolyte and a lot more undereducated, underemployed sociopath. And if you want to see how early we train our freshly scrubbed Christian soldiers, the celebration of violence is just a church bell away.

Me and Fawad on the historic Chicken Street in the Shar-e-Naw area of Kabul, my home for my month in country. Fawad is a devout Muslim who never missed an opportunity to promote Islam’s virtues to me.

I met the imam though the usual string of serendipitous connections. Afterparty backer, college friend and Amsterdam host Forrest Wright introduced me to his sister Leslie who introduced me to her friend and Afghanistan workshop facilitator Shaira, who introduced me to Fawad, who just happens to go to school with the imam’s son.

I visited mosques in Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Sharjah on the Arabian peninsula, and sought out English-speaking mullahs in Afghanistan. I was in the Netlinks office with CEO Farshid and chief of operations Javid when I mentioned that Fawad got me an appointment at a local mosque. Farshid insisted I was wasting my time, that whoever I talked to would be uneducated and talk outdated nonsense and that who I should really see was Imam X (unnamed by mutual agreement until he sees the copy). Javid agreed, singing the praises of this esteemed fellow. When I called Fawad, I sheepishly suggested that, gee, after we see his imam, could we try to get an appointment with this other fellow? Fawad answered, that’s exactly the guy we’re going to see.

Part One of our discussion, ranging from the precepts of Islam to American support of Zionism can be seen here:

http://thevisionproject.com/2014/12/29/an-afternoon-with-afghanistans-leading-islamic-scholar-and-imam/

——–

After leading late afternoon prayers, the imam comes back in the meeting room. I cut to the chase, “Two final questions.”

He interrupts. He has more to say about American politics and says:

In President Obama’s first presidential speech in Cairo, he pointed out some important things and he said that US policy was wrong toward Islamic countries and promised changes. I still remember that speech. i had so much hope when I heard that Preisdent Obama won the election and he got to the White House, but unfortunately, he failed. He didn’t fulfill his promises.

I wish and I hope that the US will stop solving problems from a military basis. This is not the solution. I wish that America comes to discuss with us in a diplomatic way, that it invites these radical groups to the stun is not about solution and fighting  way, it is to discuss to sit together to solve it in a political way, not by assassinating or creating bloodshed.

Islamic countries are not only countries, they are a union of all Muslims and the world and America must change its policy toward Islamic countries because what they are doing is totally wrong.

He asks me, Why did Obama not fulfill his promises?

First, I am not an apologist for Obama or for the American government. Obama withdrew troops from Iraq, as promised. He has now withdrawn almost all troops from Afghanistan. He chose not to invade Syria. He helped rebels in Libya but did not occupy or invade the country. He resisted political pressure to bomb Iranian nuclear facilities. So there has been some reconsideration of attitudes toward Muslim countries.

We must have a new look and resolution to today’s problems. That was President Bush’s fault, that he made a grave mistake in Iraq. We and Obama must have a new look and we have to have a new approach for these problems. It is not all about fighting battles.

A few final questions. Should the US, once al Qaeda was pushed out and the Taliban removed from power, should the US have left Afghanistan? Were there positive affects from 13 years of the US presence here? And should the US now leave Afghanistan completely?

As far as al Qaeda, America will never be able to defeat al Qaeda. Al Qaeda is an international reaction to policies, and the only way to defeat or destroy al Qaeda is not the way of bullets.  It depends on the Afghan people. Now, I ask you, America came here with the aim of destroying terrorism and the Taliban, and in one day they bombed and pushed out the Taliban. They came for security. Can you say that America was successful in its aim?

No.

Then what is the benefit of America to stay here when the US cannot defeat terrorism? (He laughs, warmly). So why stay? That will not solve problems. That will create more problems.

One final question, as you are Afghanistan’s most revered Islamic scholar, what message do you want to give to the American people?

My message is it’s not about Americans or Spanish or Afghans, we are a universal family, we are one, so as a brother, my message to the American people is to do not be the victim of wrong policies of the US government, and the people of America should not be the victim of the wrong policies of Israel.  For Israeli and Zionists, wrong ideas and policies, American youth mustn’t be killed in war in Afghanistan. All these things go back to Israeli and Israeli policies. Not Iraq or Afghanistan or Syria.”

——–

We take a picture together, which he asks me not to publish, and we walk together to the door. He embraces me and says, “You must become a Muslim, and move to Afghanistan.” I answer, “If I do that, then you have to find me a nice Afghan girl to marry.” He laughs and takes his leave. His son, who translated our discussion, invites me to stay and hang out at the mosque for the evening, but I have another interview at the City Center. He tells me that I am welcome back to the mosque any time, and I quite believe him.

My 15 year old friend Fawad Mohammedi goes to the same school as the imam’s son. So, after several attempts, he arranged the meeting. I spent six hours at the mosque, talking to staff, sharing lunch, receiving a gift of black prayer beads.

First, I agree to a few ground rules. I will not use the imam’s name until he has a chance to read the interview. I will give him a chance to remove anything that is too risky to put in print. The picture we took together, which I greatly value, will not be published, nor the audio of our talk.

I have met my share of charismatic/ annoying gurus and religious leaders in my day but rarely have I met someone throwing off this much warmth. He greets me at the entrance to the prayer hall with a small entourage, thanking me for my visit. In the course of six hours, I meet a steady stream of mosque clergy and staff. One, in a particularly stylin’ outfit and headdress tells me that there is greatness in my face, and that I must come to Islam. Flattery will get him everywhere.

After the imam leads Friday prayers and counsels families, a weekly tradition, he joins me along with his son, my friend Fawad, his media producer and several staff. Maybe it’s a sort of learning moment for them as well. An American Jew in Kabul, wanting to know about Islam.

The imam admired my hat. “This is a Chitrali cap. You went to Chitral?”

After an exchange of pleasantries, we begin our hour together.

It is a great privilege for me to speak with you, imam. For you, what is the most important teaching of Islam?

We welcome you as an honest and honorable guest. Islam consists of 4 main parts, or columns (pillars). First, faith and belief. Worship and prayers. Moral attitude. And social life, how to build relations with other people. So, it’s not just belief.

The way you live your life, the way you walk in the world.

Yes, Islam has a message for each of these four parts. How we build a connection with Allah, with God. But our sense of worshiping means keeping Him always in mind, having a deep relation with Him.

Personally, how does Islam bring beauty and happiness to your life?

I didn’t follow Islam like a blind man without any research. I have researched other religions, I have compared mine with others and then I came to the conclusion that Islam is the best religion that we can apply in every part of our life. Economic, political, family, social life, psychological life. When I accepted Islam, I felt like I don’t have to worry about anything in life, no stress, no worries. Islam brought calm and happiness to my life. Being kind to any creature in the universe, animal or human.

So a theological question, as a follow up. If your faith is the one true faith, how do you respect other spiritual paths if you believe that in effect they are inferior, not the true path? (He asks his media producer to start recording video and asks if that’s OK with me.)

Humankind from the creation of the universe has passed through many phases. At the beginning, life was simple. Human life was all about feeding ourselves and staying alive. It’s like when someone gets a simple sickness, we need simple medicine. Allah’s books, scriptures and messengers are like doctors and medicines for humanity. In a specific period in history, there was a specific illness, so that prophet was sent to help the people to solve that problem. It’s like when you go to a doctor, he gives you a prescription with a…

…an expiration date.

And when you go back to the doctor, you get the new prescription, and the old ones are no longer usable to you. Allah sent messengers for different periods in history for different problems. Humankind’s problems are like diseases that need deep resolutions and solutions. When someone gets a really serious disease and he goes to a doctor, the doctor doesn’t write all the prescriptions at one time. He instructs the patient to use this medicine for ten days and then come back. After that, he writes another prescription and he says you can’t use the first medicine anymore. After this short period, he writes the permanent prescription that you should use forever. And the last prescription must be complete. And other religions and Islam are like this, the prescriptions that Allah gave to us. And then when the last religion came, the other religions are expired. And this is the new complete prescription.

I met Mohammed while waiting for the imam. He is the media producer for the mosque and produces telecasts of imam’s talks. He downloaded and programmed the Quran Explorer iPhone app for me and then proceeded to clean up some settings. Yes, I came from Silicon Valley to a Kabul mosque to get my technology sorted out. I was the first American he ever met.

Humankind’s problems are getting more serious day by day. If we look at the Christian’s bible, you cannot find resolution on the use of drugs. Or Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism. Islam has a resolution for preventing use of drugs and solving this problem in human society. In Koran, in the speech of prophet Mohammed, in Sharia. So we need a religion, a complete religion for our daily life. In the Koran, there are verses about science and technology. The Church, when Galileo spoke about his theory of the motion of the earth…

Yes, they killed him….

But in the Koran, there are verses that indirectly address the motion of Earth. In Europe, in the French Revolution, people were forced to separate law from religion. They left religion just in the framework of a church, nowhere else.

The Enlightenment. Imam, may I say, at that time there were hundreds of years of religious wars, Catholics and Protestants killing each other, and one of the reasons for the Enlightenment was to stop those wars and allow freedom of religion. Do you see any benefit in that or is that an apostacy?

In the noble Koran, Allah said there is no pressure to force someone into Islam. (The imam starts to speak in English and his son interrupts him. I congratulate him on his English and say he’s doing fine). It is totally wrong that people in the West believe that Muslims only want Islam on Earth. That is a totally wrong idea. Islam has two kinds of citizenship. One is for Muslims who live in an Islamic state and the other is non-Muslims who live in Islamic states and those who live outside Islamic countries. The policy of Islam and its citizens is equal about their rights and laws, for Muslims and non-Muslims. An example of this equality is if a Muslim kills a non-Muslim, he will be punished according to the laws of Islam and he must be killed. Muslims and non-Muslims must be treated with respect.

There are radical Islamist groups in the world now, the Taliban, the Islamic State, Boko Haram, al Qaeda that seem to justify violence against non-believers or Muslims who don’t measure up to their standards. Why does this kind of radical, more violent understanding of Islam seem to be spreading?

You started our conversation by asking me about Islam. Islam totally differs from what these Muslims are doing today. Those Taliban, radical groups, they have their personal ideas, you should ask them why are they doing such things. Is what they are doing in the Koran, did Allah say so, to kill people, to murder non-Muslims? You should ask them. (I am not looking forward look forward to that opportunity…) It’s all a reaction against global policies. For example, I ask you, do Palestinians have the right to live in their territories?


Yes, and I think there is a similar issue with Jewish fundamentalism, Jews in Israel saying something very similar to Muslim fundamentalists. There is a song, Exodus, that goes, “This land is mine, God gave this land to me.” They believe that God gave this land to them. So they owe Palestinians nothing, This seems a big problem in the world, where people are saying I have the truth and you don’t, so I have a divine right to oppress you.

The world accepts that Palestinians should live with them, they should make a state, Germany agrees with them, France, England, Russia, but the United States doesn’t accept them. The US accepts and supports Zionist policy. Why are they doing so? If they are doing so, Muslims must react. When the US attacked Iraq, what was the reason that they destroyed the Iraqi government? And now, they are seeing the reaction (ISIS) to what they did. There is no problem in the world between people and religions. The problem is the wrong ideas and the wrong policies against Muslims, against humanity.

What change would you like to see in US foreign policy, in terms of the way the US approaches the world?

The Afghan nation is thankful for the help and support the United States gave in its struggle against the Soviet Union. During the Soviet-Afghan war, American had a goal of defeating the Soviet Union but after the battle was finished, the US policy toward Afghanistan changed. For example, Osama bin Laden was traveling to Pakistan and Islamic groups were active. America was supporting them. But after the US achieved its goals, why did US policy change and become against Muslims around the world?

Many Americans think the US made a mistake by failing to assist Afghanistan in the years after the Soviets were driven out. You said two things, One, you said the US should have continued to help Afghanistan. Two, I’m curious as to why you believe the US was against Muslims. Is that because of the Iraq war? I don’t think American policy changed toward Muslims. The Persian Gulf is a major source of oil, and when Iraq invaded Kuwait and threatened Saudi Arabia, many Muslim countries opposed Iraq. The second Iraq war is widely viewed as an inexcusable mistake.

Protesters demand that Egyptian President Mohamed Mursi resign at Tahrir Square in Cairo July 1, 2013. REUTERS/Mohamed Abd El Ghany

That was all about the battlefield, the field of war. But in the political field, with American policy in Algeria, there was a democratically elected government. Islamists were elected to run the government. Why were America and European countries opposed? The same in Egypt, when Mubarak fell, there was a peaceful and democratic election, why did the the US support Sisi, Israel helped the government and the Muslims were ruined there. Why did America do that?

Well, you are talking about Algeria and Egypt. In Egypt, I agree that it is problematic to promote democracy and then bring down the democratically elected government. But while the US provides military aid, it did not invade Egypt. The Egyptian people felt there was chaos and Morsi was bringing the country to a bad position, they protested in the streets and wanted him out and there was an undemocratic solution, and yes, the US did not prevent it, but this was Egyptians coming to a political resolution in their country.

The muezzin begins the call to prayer. The imam apologizes that he must go and asks me if I need more time. I tell him I have a few more questions. The final part of our discussion will be posted shortly. And, for an excellent interactive look at the Egyptian revolution, check this out from Al Jazeera: http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/interactive/2013/07/20137493141105596.html

Goodbye Kabul.

Goodbye Farshid Ghyasi for hosting me via couchsurfing.com. My needs always met, from security to shared meals to nightlife and introductions. You have four inspirational posters in your office. Martin Luther King Jr., who taught social change through non-violence. Ghandi-ji, who taught social change through non-violence. Albert Einstein, a very, very smart American Jew. And Steve Jobs, half-Syrian, who grew up in the epicenter of technology, in the safe and comfortably middle class Palo Alto. As CEO of Netlinks in Kabul, you are redefining the way Afghans use technology. As courageous entrepreneurs go, Steve Jobs got nothing on you.

Goodbye Javid Hamdard. Your office karaoke performance of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” was, um, an experience I will never forget. In your spare time, you won the national award for IT innovation. And proceeded to donate the funds to charity. Islam’s call to zakat, in the flesh.

Goodbye Salsal Guest House, my first home in Kabul. Two days before arriving in Afghanistan, I could not find lodging. Places were either too dangerous or expensive (Serena), no longer in business (sorry, Gandamack), or didn’t answer their phones or emails. The price was right ($12 per night) and the hospitality generous. Fresh naan bread, sweet cream cheese and a pot of chai delivered to my door every morning. When I could not find an ATM that worked, the gap-toothed manager told me not to worry about payment, handed me 1,000 Afghani for spending money and had schwarma and tea sent up to me.

Me and Afghanistan’s national football coach at the Herat-Mazar match at Ghazi, which proves I’m, you know, a sportsman. Herat, Assef’s team, loses 1-0. Boo.

Goodbye Ghazi Stadium. A fellow rooting for Helmand in the first match shared the political importance of people freely and openly playing sports, something barred by the Taliban. Who used this very stadium to publicly execute and shame sinners. There was so much blood spilled, he said, that the new groundskeepers had to install artificial turf as new grass wouldn’t take hold.

Goodbye to my Afterparty Analog Content Aggregation team. Two girls chased me down on the street each day selling old, tattered copies of Afghan Scene, lifted from local restaurants. Medina wouldn’t let me take her picture, but the other girl did. “One dollah, mistuh.” Well worth it, even when it was the third copy of the same issue.

Goodbye to the fathers of Afghanistan, soldiers and teachers and merchants who fiercely demand equal education for their daughters so that they can grow up to be anything they damn well please.

Goodbye to the brave men and women risking their lives every day for a free and prosperous Afghanistan. A Netlinks employee who followed my exploits online told me that I have a brave heart. But my courage is Junior Varsity courage. I’m outta here when my 30 day visa expires. The real heroes are men like Mr. W, a dozen years working to rebuild the country, women like Mina, who returned from her cozy Canadian home for a decade of service to her native country, the Afghan army colonel, the Aussie diplomat, the Fulbright-awarded hospital CEO who could easily have stayed in the States but came home to oppose the medieval Taliban (“cockroaches”), the merchants and lawmakers who condemn misogynist tyranny. Like Courtney Body, the former CNN reporter who took over Kabul Pressistan when her friend was murdered in the Serena Hotel attack, to keep the free flow of ideas alive.

Goodbye to the countless moments of kindness from strangers. Why? Why did they do it? Was it a commercial come-on? Did they appreciate the sacrifices of Americans? Was I a novelty? I’ll never know. But usually, when offered tea and company, free street food, dinners, freshly made juice concoctions, it was with a warm glimmer and a humble request to, please, accept this and, please accept Kabul as your home.

Goodbye to the dark streets, the broken pavements, the psychotic driving, the Bukhari stove-induced haze, the cold nights, the unpredictable wi-fi. the blue burka-wearing women grabbing my arm insisting on baksheesh, the endless packs of stale gum bought from street kids.

Goodbye Kabul.

People stared at me like a circus freak, as I walked each day through Shar-e-Naw, as it became my neighborhood. No one ever gave me trouble or uttered an unkind word. There was potential danger, but I had the protection of Afghans and expats who schooled me in avoiding trouble. I didn’t always listen (“Not a good idea, Brian”), sometimes let bravado or the pursuit of a story belie my promises to keep squeaky-clean safe, but in the end my worse injury was stepping into one of the moats surrounding each block, into a mixture of wet, muddy horror whose smell stayed with me for days.

Goodbye Kabul Museum, looted and defiled by the Taliban philistines, and goodbye Kabul Zoo, many of whose animals were killed and eaten by holy warriors during the civil war. Goodbye to the walks in the park, to unforgettable sites, to the daily images of Kabulis struggling to carve out decent lives for their families.

Goodbye Zahra, with your silky black, gold-gilded hijab. You friended me on Facebook and gave me a lengthy education in the secret life of an Afghan woman. You swore to give your two daughters the life you couldn’t have after the Taliban cut off your schooling as a young girl. Despite our failed encounter at City Center, if you are who you say you are, I am blessed that you opened your heart to me. If, as some of the guys joked, you’re really a dude with nothing better to do than impersonate women, please get married or laid, soon. If you were tracking me to do me harm…too late!

Goodbye Fawad, introduced by Shaira, the Poetess, who opened so many doors for me. We shared fresh juice on Chicken Street, you fifteen years old, a ten year veteran of the street, selling maps, blessings, retail wares, anything that earned a buck. I found out halfway through our talk that you starred in the Oscar-nominated film, Buzhkazi Boys, even attended the Oscars in Los Angeles. Then, through your school chum, you got me in to meet with Afghanistan’s most revered Islamic scholar and imam, where we debated religion, politics, war and peace, sitting cross-legged drinking tea. I’ve rarely been in the presence of a more charismatic, warm and spiritual man. Six hours at the sacred Wazir Akhbar Khan mosque, an American Jew, welcomed and embraced as a brother and fellow seeker.

Each day, I hang on the corner with my young delinquent posse, swapping insults and hand gestures. Viva Afghanistan is our new greeting. They love the word Viva.

Goodbye to my delinquent Shar-e-Naw posse. The first time I walked down Chicken Street, every shopkeeper hawked their wares to me in English. The next day, I wore my pakol hat with an Afghan scarf, and five of seven said Salaam or Salaam Aleikum as I passed and nodded. A small victory, but who was I kidding? I was the only gringo in the neighborhood most days and people could track my movements easily. One day, the juice man on the corner of Herat Restaurant, yelled out at me, part ridicule, part warm hello, part tease, “Hey, Mister Hollywood.” The name stuck. I was warned that the kids on the corner were Panjshiris, an untrustworthy, criminal lot. Each day the group grew larger and we developed a routine. I taught them how to raise a fist in the air and scream Viva Afghanistan, Viva Panjshir, Viva Massoud (the adored Northern Alliance leader murdered by al Qaeda two days before 9/11). Yes, I was attracting unwanted attention, but they looked out for me, gave me street advice, offered to walk me home.

The juice man’s name is “Pure,” a young, tough, quiet, even sullen guy. He prepared a daily mix of fresh carrots, pomegranate, apples and the occasional banana or orange. He refused payment unless I literally stuffed it in his pocket. This is a man making 14,000 Afghani a month, the equivalent of $240. His family is in Sweden and he can’t afford classes, so I showed him how to download free Swedish language apps.

On my last night on the corner, I took in the sights. The sides of mutton in shop windows. The restaurants, the street vendors, the traffic, the once-banned music vendors. And the whole experience just hit me. So much warmth and acceptance, so many great interviews and insights, a chance to breath knowing that my fears were unfounded. I started to cry, just a bit.

Suddenly, Pure walked from his juice stand and stood directly in front of me. He said:

“I want to be the tear.  That falls from your eyes. To move on your cheek. To die on your lips.

“Mountains can fly. Rivers run dry. You can forget me. But never can I you.”

Goodbye Kabul.

First, the begats.

Staying with Farshid begat my meeting with Mr. W which begat my meeting with Will Everett. Mr. W prefers to stay anonymous. When I engage Afghans publicly, as I’m here to harvest interesting stories, Mr. W says to me, “Not a good idea.” I trust Mr. W as he has been here a dozen years.

I am weirdly out of shape. I walk a lot. And as alcohol is largely verboten here, lots of calories unconsumed. The occasional surprise showing of mead, homemade rose wine, rum, Johnnie Walker Double Black. I am looking forward to Southeast Asia beaches and yoga.

Will works for Roots for Peace, one more extraordinary Non-Governmental Organization here, quietly doing transformative work. http://rootsofpeace.org/programs-page/afghanistan  Demine-replant-rebuild. They clear landmines, provide farming resources such as seedlings, fertilizer and tools, and offer training to increase crop yields. Mines to Vines.

I share that with you because Will, a former NPR reporter, says he doesn’t give a shit about anonymity. Will arrives at the Kabul Serena Hotel lobby, where he recognizes me, a westerner pecking away on a MacBook Air. The other people in the lobby are either behind the reception counter or carrying automatic weapons.

At Ghazi Stadium Saturday. I left my sunglasses in the taxi on the way. Or in the hideous men’s toilet with non-operational plumbing. The Taliban used the stadium for public executions back in the day.

Mr. W arrives and we dine at the Asian fusion restaurant Wild Rice. The food is great. Nasi Goreng, Teriyaki Chicken and Sweet sand Sour Fish. The Thai soup is excellent as well, but doubles the cost of the entree, so, a strategic error. Will suggests a possible trip to Mazar-i-Sharif, where US and Northern Alliance forces began their drubbing of the Taliban in 2001. I suggest my interest in Panjshir Valley. He promises to keep me posted on his plans. And he mentions his neighborhood swimming pool, which sounds splendid. I need a place to work out. Near the City Center, there is a huge banner advertising a kickass gym on the second floor. When I climbed the stairs, there was rubble, and a fellow with a gun telling me to get lost.

Mr. W buzzes my phone as he rolls up to the house. I say goodbye to the guard, and get in. He has a Skype call with clients and asks if I’m willing to be late. We call Will, who informs that he has to be off to dinner by 8, so I get out for a taxi, and agree to meet W later. The taxi driver claims to know where we are going but stops to check with passersby every twenty yards to get new directions. I finally have Will’s building guard walk him though it. Great. He hangs up and asks someone for directions on each block anyway. My dad, Sol, was a New York taxi driver for two decades. I prefer to think he knew where the fuck he was going most of the time.

!  have tea with Will and his colleague Hamid, and we truck off to the pool. I’m excited, less so after Will suggests that the pool is heated, kinda, but after a minute of temperature shock, the water is just fine.

 ——–

The place is jammed. Do I need to mention that Afghan pools are not co-ed? I was going to take my swimsuit. Will said it’s not needed as one is provided, which did not sound appetizing. “Bring your own unless it’s eurotrash bikini in which case leave it home.”  I assure him, “I aspire to euro trash, but till then, my swimsuit is, sadly, rather conventional.”

Photo from the days when the Taliban terrorized Kabulis with public shaming and murder at Ghazi Stadium. Because, you know, God told them to.

The rundown on getting in: Register at the front desk and get a blue swimsuit and locker key. Trade your shoes for slippers. I ask if there are any Afghan customs regarding changing and he answers, helpfully, “Just don’t show your junk.” There is an odd changing station in the midst of each locker area, a three-sided, waist-high wooden structure allowing for modest changing. There is lots of noise and humidity. Mr. W shows up to join us.

I am the only one in the house wearing goggles and, to minimize the torment, i jump right in the pool. It’s not that bad! The bigger problem is that laps are problematic. The pool is full of mostly young guys—did I mention there are no women?—and Kabulis can’t swim. It is a landlocked country and swimming pools are a hot new thing, or so I’m told.

I am not a good swimmer. I love swimming but am not good at it. Kind of like dancing. LiAnne Mattheney, who trained for the Olympics back in the day, gave me a few tips last summer. Maybe because she noticed that I am not a good swimmer.  Nevertheless, by putting one arm before the other, kicking once a while, and, most importantly, by wearing goggles, I am an immediate celebrity. I hope this doesn’t sound racist, but everybody looks the same to me through my fogged goggles. Central Asian complexions, wet black hair, blue swimsuits and flailing arms. A Russian-looking fellow, stout and thirty-ish, let’s call him The Tajik, sheepishly floats my way and asks for a lesson. I laugh, loudly. Listening to cues for English comprehension from the way he phrases his question, I insist, “I’m a terrible swimmer. I have nothing to teach you. You must be thinking I’m someone else.” Disappointed, he makes small talk and I swim away.

An everyday sight in Kabul: a drone floating over the stadium. From this distance, it can recognize your face.

A skinny younger guy, with a wide toothy grin, maybe early twenties (he had wet hair, a Central Asian complexion and a blue swimsuit) excitedly swims up and declares, “You are very good swimmer. Teach me.”

“I can’t teach you. I am a very poor swimmer.”

“Then, how can I learn?” he asks, perplexed, still smiling.

I offer a solution, “Hire a teacher,” then swim away.

I’m such a wimp that the aimless splashing and colliding in the deep end motivates me to swim in the middle of the pool, hugging the cable divider.  I come up for air and three men surround me. The Tajik, Toothy Grin and a snarky teenage guy (let’s call him Kabul Wiseguy). They have come to petition me for a swimming lesson. I see Mr. W and wave, but Will is nowhere to be seen, nor Hamid. I offer another solution. “You know, there are hundreds of videos on YouTube,” I suggest. “I would suggest you watch and learn, one lesson at a time.”

Toothy Grin has a better idea. “No, I watch you. You are a master swimmer. I want you to teach me.”

All three wait patently, and then, i remember LiAnne’s three tips. Don’t take your head out of the water when you breath. Cup your hands. I forget the third, but do remember something I learned from a Tim Ferriss post about extending your body.

They are enthralled and go splashing away. The Tajik calls out at me, completely ignoring everything I showed him. “Look, look at me,” he shouts, excitedly as he plunges his way to the other side of the pool.

“You’re doing great,” I shout back, raising thumbs up in the locally accepted sign of American approval.

Me and Afghanistan’s national football coach at the Herat-Mazar match at Ghazi, which proves I’m, you know, a sportsman. Herat, Assef’s team, loses 1-0. Boo.

I am now the pool’s Great American Master Swimmer. An athletic, caramel-skinned good-looking teenager challenges me to a race. I haven’t raced since I knew I could beat my young daughters. But I agree and we race across the pool. I suddenly am very serious about this and swim my heart out. It’s a tie. He is very proud of himself. “Again?” We take a minute and race again. Half way through i feel a collision and when i arrive, The Tajik and his two friends are up in arms.

“He cheated,“ The Tajik yells at Caramel Handsome and a crowd gathers, laughing and jostling. There is a lot of physical roughhousing in the pool area. I rest from my olympian racing effort and chat with a small group of guys. “Afghans are good people, very friendly,” says The Tajik. And, then, because I can’t resist, I ask the three guys before me what they think of the US presence. There are the usual answers: We love Americans. Thank you for your sacrifices here. We want you to stay.

One fellow works for the Ministry of Finance. “Really?” I ask. “So what happened to that $900 million that went missing?”

He snorts, “What do you think happened? Someone took it.”

“Did Karzai have anything to do with it?”

“Of course he did.”

A few feet away from our small group of eight or nine is a tightly wound muscular fellow sitting cross-legged on the lip of the pool. He is saying something to me in Dari and snickering to his four or five friends. He isn’t happy.

The Tajik says, “I told you. Most Afghans are good, but some bad. Forget him.”

I ask Angry Buddha’s friend what he is saying.  A thin, pale, earnest fellow in his late twenties tells me, “He says Americans are murderers. You kill many people in Afghanistan.”

I wade closer. Angry Buddha is brooding and does not speak English. “Ask him if he thinks all Americans should leave the country.”

Pale Earnest translates in Dari. “He said you are on Muslim land and soon we will have a caliphate.”

I’ve spent weeks developing a liberal-minded narrative as to how the whole caliphate idea is a paranoid construct of Fox News and AM Radio.

Pale Earnest is speaking to my right. He seems quite nice and studious and proceeds to tell me that everything’s all good, as there will be a worldwide Muslim caliphate under Sharia law, but that all religions will be respected as Islam is a religion of peace and tolerance. Angry Buddha wants to know where I’m from. I lean in, and say, “San Francisco. California.” Then, for no particular reason, “I’m an American Jew.”

Buddha stops speaking. He doesn’t know what to say. I’ve confused his neural circuitry. We have drawn a crowd. I suspect my swim is over. Mr. W walks by and gives me a look, though I am not sure what to make of it. I elaborate, helpfully:

“Tell him i have a question for him. If Islam is a religion of peace and tolerance, what is its view on Judaism and what is his personal attitude toward Jews?”

Angry Buddha goes on a long rant, translated roughly as, we don’t want Americans here, Mohammed is God’s last prophet, other religions are tolerated but they have expired.

 ——–

A gift of prayer beads graciously gifted from the mullah’s staff during my visit to the Wazir Akhbar Khan mosque.

The next day, during my visit to the mosque, the mullah uses the same word. Expired. It was explained to me this way: when you are sick, the doctor gives you a series of prescriptions and then there is one final prescription. That final prescription is Islam. God has sent many prophets, but Mohammed is the last one and the Koran and its related scriptures are now all you need.

I pressed him. “You didn’t answer my question. What is your attitude toward Jews?”

No answer. Pussy.

I submerge for a few seconds and swim a few yards, then return. “Many American Jews and Israelis want justice for the Palestinian people. But, don’t you see? Jewish fundamentalists believe the same thing you do. That they’re the chosen people. That God gave their land to them. And that since God gave them the land, they can fuck you up if you try to take any of it back. There’s a song called ‘Exodus.’ You ever hear of it?”

Blank stares all around. I sing the opening verse. “This land is mine, God gave this land to me. This brave and ancient land to me…”

Pale Earnest interrupts and tries to explain, no, that was the religion of the old prophets, the one that EXPIRED, but with Islam, we have the final revelation and…

“I heard this before.” I realize I’m getting upset and in brief moments of lucidity realize that the way we do debate where I grew up is different from the way things are communicated in public here. “The Jewish fundamentalists say they own the truth.  And you don’t. In my country, Christian fundamentalists say they are saved and if you don’t believe what they believe that God will torment you forever. That means every Muslim, every one of you in this pool, God will roast you for all eternity because of what you believe. Don’t you see? You people have been fucking killing each other for three decades without end. Yes, the Americans killed civilians and…”

“Do you think America is an occupier?” challenges Angry Buddha, seeking rhetorical supremacy in front of his semi-literate friends.

Trick question. “Of course I do. We are occupying your country. The difference between Iraq and Afghanistan is that, we invaded Iraq based on lies, mostly motivated by its oil, and caused the violent unnecessary deaths of over one hundred thousand civilians. Here at least we have been invited to stay.”

“We don’t want you to stay,” says Angry Buddha’s friend, standing in the pool next to me. “Karzai said he wanted you to go.”

“Bullshit,” I say. “That’s bullshit. That’s for domestic politics. If Karzai or Ghani and Abdullah and most Afghans say we want you out now, we would leave. Your government, imperfect and corrupt as it may be, wants us for our security presence.”

“We want you for your money,” says Finance Ministry guy.

“OK, then for our money. I have no doubt that my country has military interests here, regional political interests here, economic interests here. But you’re missing the point, you’re not listening  to me.”

 ——–

The crowd is now two or three layers thick. I don’t see Mr. W or Will anywhere.

“The Uzbeks kill the Tajiks who unite with the Turkomen to kill the Pashtun who claim Sunni is the one true faith while they kill the Hazara Shia. When do you have enough? Forget the caliphate. Believe what you want, and respect and love your brother. This tribal bullshit, claiming God is blessing your misery and slaughter is killing the world.”

Angry Buddha’s three friends pull him up and away and two others throw Pale Earnest into the pool. Innocent homoerotic fun.

I think, time to leave and lift myself out of the pool. Will had said he was going to the salt bath. I walk in the direction he had pointed and find a door and a young man with a shovel. There’s no one inside. I walk in, and it’s a small room, like a cave, with two rows of lights, three small orange bulbs to a set. Two young men in swim trunks enter.

“What do I do?” I ask.

“There’s a charge, says the younger one.

“Yeah, whatever, what do I do?”

The shovel guy digs a rectangular foxhole for me. “Looks like a grave,” jokes the older, twentysomething guy.

I’m buried up to my head in salt, and they both leave. I’m not sure what a salt bath does, but it better do something good because it starts to sting after a while, on my shins and under my thighs. After an indeterminate stretch of time, what feels like twenty minutes but is likely ten, I decide that being buried in salt in an isolated room is not necessarily good for my health, so I lift myself out and walk to the shower outside the room. The hot water feels delicious as the salt melts into and off my skin.

In the shower room, carefully honoring Will’s admonition not to show my junk, I walk under the shower in my ancient swimsuit next to, of all people, Angry Buddha.  He glowers but says nothing and ignores me. Pale Earnest takes up the shower space to my right and goes on about the caliphate again. Because, you know, this time he’s gonna convince me what a swell idea it is. “The world will one day realize the truth and become Muslim.”

I turn to him, and see the sincerity in his face. “No, it won’t. Everyone thinks they have the truth and the world is exhausted from people trying to lord it over each other, trying to impose their will and their ideology by violence. And, I gotta tell you, pal, my country has been doing it for years because we think that WE are the instruments of divine providence, and we got much bigger weapons than you do and lots more of them.”

We banter back and forth and continue the conversation at my locker. Several of my pool pals swap Facebook, email, mobile and web site information with me.

 ——–

Later, Mr. W admonishes me. “Not a good idea.” He gives me some specific instructions. “If you meet any of them, meet in a public place, like City Center, where there is plenty of security. Don’t tell them where you are staying or when you are leaving. And don’t use my name or Will’s in any conversations.”

I protest that I did not intend to incite trouble.

“You’re probably fine because you’re leaving. The rest of us have to live here.”

At that moment, for the first time, I think, maybe it’s time to go. But finding what grievances and truths lie in the fierce Afghan heart seems worth the effort.

“The most impressive thing is how willing Afghans are to learn,” says Mina, tucking into a full plate of breakfast. She is 30ish, perfectly made up, with distinctive Afghan features and a North American (Canadian) accent. “With Americans, they hated listening to me. I was treated like a child.  Afghans go into training workshops and they are so perceptive.”

Mina takes another bite. “This is really good food. Oh man, I should have taken the eggs too. Too late.”

I offer to share a serving, solving her problem. “I’m here for you. During the Taliban years, were the scouts considered some bourgeois western Christian thing?”

We are at the PARSA camp, home of Afghanistan’s decades-old Boy and Girl Scouts program. Extraordinary photos on the walls of old troops from days gone by, it’s a beautiful place, complete with animal sanctuary.

“It was stopped before the Taliban,” she continues. “During the Russian years, because they were using them as tools.”

“Like Young Pioneers.” Every Soviet bloc country had one. The Pioneers was started by Lenin’s wife after White Russian scouting organizations fought against the revolution, and it seemed fit to create a competitive organization.  “A ready made platform for the distribution of ideology.”

Our group is a little sleepy from a late night. Farshid banged on my door this morning and asked how long I needed to get ready. I estimated ten minutes. “Let’s get it done!” he declared in his executive voice.

Mina refused to talk about the Lycée suicide bombing at Farshid’s gathering last night. It’s a common practice. Don’t let it in.

“I was more upset about the bombing when I got home,” she says to the group. “I know the school program very well, they are little children learning classical Afghan music. The Taliban is messaging…it’s music…but this is Afghan music, here long before them. Those fuckers.”

The group argues about an annoying commenter on a Kabul Facebook page. Mina lets him have it. “He would be MAYBE a manager at McDonald’s if he was back home. Probably back-kitchen.”

After graduating university, she told her family that she was coming back home to Afghanistan. She’s been here ten years, a perfect blend of Afghan urban patriot and western educated sophisticate, with a cutting wit.

“Members of my family went to that school. Hold it, my father went to that school. What are they against? Everything? It’s literally, just, it has to be controlled by our guys or you’re wrong. It’s Pakistanis that want to make Afghanistan look so bad.”

The group discusses local housing economics. The dynamics of sharing, sub-letting, meeting budgets. Then, back to the Lycée Es

teqlal bombing. I walked by the school last week, and was shooed away by the guard after I took pictures of the signage and Massoud billboard. The ‘Lion of Panjshir’ attended the Lycée as a young man, as did many aspiring Afghans.

“Have you seen the videos, one was after the fact and one was a person filming the show. Some people thought it was part of the show. It’s only a few seconds. It’s really gross.”

Someone suggests that the explosives had to be small enough to get through. A current theory is that the sixteen-year old kid hid them in his underwear. They knew he was sixteen because his head was intact after the blast. “Even the kids’ violins get checked.”

Mina finds the video and plays it. There is an explosion and a flash then horrified audience gasps.

The group, stunned, plays it over and over.

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t play it anymore,” says Mina.  “I don’t want to ruin the Scout spirit.” We polish off our shared eggs. “I heard it was from the hallway. Have you been there? You know, the lobby?”

Time for dessert.

Mina greets people as they come in. Her work for the event is done, so she can relax and enjoy her Afghan and expat colleagues. She greets and chats up yet more late arrivals. “It’s already had, like 50,000 views. I’ll share it. No, I won’t share it. I’ll tweet it.

“Afghans abroad say, that’s so sad. It’s their passive behavior that’s part of the problem. Oh, poor us. That’s not the way to get past these things. Who cares about your pity?”

Farshid was driving by after it happened. “I thought it was a fight. I passed it and there were people gathered.”

They discuss the mystery of what gets attacked and what doesn’t. Examples of little to no security.  “Why go for Serena when you can go for 100 at once.”  Reasons for the Taverna attack and the subsequent Swedish reporter killing are debated.

Farshid has to go so we walk out to see the animals. Much of the contingent is citified, failing to see the glamor in walking through cow shit and seeing animals. But the conversation is lively and warm.

Attempts are made, mostly successful, to mount the stirrup-less pony.

The main event is inside, and it’s wonderful. I sit up front to get photos. There are prayers offered, speeches in Dari, real pride and comradery. I shot some video of the slide presentation and speakers.

Courtney Body, a highly respected American journalist and member of Kabul’s expat community approaches to tell me, we should go. I think I am disrespecting the dignitaries by sitting up front, but what she means is, her car is here and I get a free ride back home. I’m already late for my interview with Mohammed, fondly called Kabul’s ‘white hat hacker,’ so I pick up my things and we talk all the way back about terrorism, the future of Afghanistan and how an expat decides it’s time to go.

Days later, the #Kabul Twitter feed suggests the Haqqani network is behind the bombing. The Taliban claim the event was ‘propaganda’ against principles of jihad and Islam.  Another tweet, also from Ali Latifi, quotes the Taliban as saying the bombing was against ‘cultural occupation’ and warns others against attending similar events.

As I post this, news posted by Courtney of a Taliban attack on a Peshawar, Pakistan school, killing over one hundred twenty people, most children. She retweets this from @AliaChugtai:

“This is not just Peshawar’s tragedy, this is the nation’s shame, our shame for harboring terrorism for 35 years #PeshawarAttack.

More interviews and video from the event will be posted. Our thoughts with the Peshawar victims.

I walk past Shar-e-Naw Park, enjoying curious sights. A vendor selling various fowl, exhausted ducks in the bottom cage, scrawny chickens in the middle and two pissed-off hawks on top.

I am a target for beggars. My style was at first apologetic, patient, empathetic, but today I largely ignore them. A brief gesture, a wave of the hand, a “No”.  On the way to the juice bar, I draw a crowd. A boy selling blessings for a dollar, via smoke from an incense burner,. A woman in a tattered blue burka, another in a silky black one. A boy selling gum. And a fifth holding a large stack of paperback books, selling me one title at a time. Persian phrases? “I have no interest in learning Persian phrases.” The colorful history of Afghanistan? “I have a stack of books on the subject, no, thank you.”

I have a nickname. I”ve been in the Shar-e-Naw area long enough for street vendors to wave hello on my daily walks. Shopkeepers ask where I”ve been, and a posse of little kids swarm me to practice English. I walk by the corner juice bar (a big thing here), and the juice guy yells out, “MR. HOLLYWOOD.” I think I”m incognito with my Arab kaffiya, Afghan pakol hat and sunglasses, but I”m pretty obviously a gringo. I surmise that it’s safest to stay in an Afghan neighborhood. I see few westerners during my strolls. The juice guy’s name is “Pure”. I say, pure heart, pure mind, and he likes that. His friends surround me on the corner. They are all wise asses and their grasp of English is poor but there is always someone for real-time translation, with a lot of gestures. And laughing. At me, probably. The old guy in the group says he is from Panjshir and is wearing a cocked pakol, Massoud-style. They offer to drive me to the Panjshir Valley. I am determined to stay in Kabul but if I did a day trip, it would be there. I want to see Massoud’s tomb.

The juice guy prepares my daily mix—carrot, pomegranate, apple. I tell him I’ll be back for it in five minutes while I drop off my cleaning. The laundry shopkeeper, who sports an elegant head wrap, is not there. But his kid is, a pre-teen boy who has a handle on some English. It’s my third visit, so we greet other with smiles. I am, once again, a novelty.

He catalogues my delivery, doing his best with English, while writing in Dari in his receipt book. A T-shirt. Two shirts. One pair of pants. A sweater. It’s 1pm, so he tries to tell me, not today, not today. Tomorrow, I say. Five o’clock. His father shooed me away yesterday when I came at 4:20.

There are a variety of food barkers on the park pavement, making soups and kebabs. One of them shouts at me in broken English.  He points at the slowly roasting kebabs. He names an Afghan dish that I don’t recognize. He is persuasive. “I’ll have one.” His friend asks “1K, 2K how much?” “1K,” I answer as he ushers me inside. I’m now careful with food ordering as Afghans bring heaping piles of food when I am not specific. An over-the-top feast still comes in at under ten dollars; a street side meal at a buck.

The restaurant is part butcher shop, part temple, part hangout for young men chatting on their ubiquitous mobiles. There are Islamic decorations and quotes on the lime green walls. I start taking off my shoes to sit on one of the platforms, when an old fellow beckons. He is in his seventies, his friend the same. They are sitting on light blue plastic chairs at a folding table with a dark red, floral table cover.  “Sit,” he says, and offers me barbecued chicken and naan. Every meal here is served with a foot-long oval or circle of naan. Kabul is pre- gluten-free.

I ask his name as his friend tosses a piece of chicken on my plate. “Naim. I’m Canadian.”

Naim left Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation, first to India, then Canada. After ten years in Toronto, he was asked to leave, presumably a visa problem.

“I’ve been here a year.” He reminds me a little of my father, not in appearance but in mannerisms. The philosophical shrugs, the grudging acceptance of life’s weird turns. “I left during the Soviets. Left my house, everything. Now I come back to Shar-e-Naw and I can’t get my nbso online casino house back.”

“Is there a legal process for reclaiming it?” I ask, calculating his chances of navigating the system. “I’m sure the current occupants are not eager to leave.”  This was a serious problem in Iraq when Kurds returned to reclaim their homes, taken from them by Saddam during his Arabization drive.

He takes a pull on his bright red can of Coke and struggles to come up with the right language. “I went to the judge. I paid a lot of money.” His face is deeply lined. He passes judgment on modern Kabul. “I don’t know. There’s no future here.”

He lightens up when I tell him where I’m from. He is a big fan of San Francisco, and rattles off cities he visited while living in Toronto. “Chicago, New York, California. My brother lives in San Diego.”

I asked why he doesn’t go live with him. “You could even go through Mexico. I hear it’s easy,” I joke. “You even look a little Mexican.” Naim laughs and puts out a stream of Dari and English that I can’t quite get.

The fellows on the far platform have started afternoon prayers. They are bowing and rising on the mat just a few yards away. I am fascinated by my daily encounters with public prayer. Shopping at the City Center mall?  Oops, better wait, because the aisle is blocked by 20 men in business attire observing the call to prayer. Muezzin calling from small, local mosques and grand temples five times a day. I like it. It imbues the streets with ancient verse, a constant reminder to stop, give thanks, reflect, to approach the divine. In one of my mosque visits, I was told that the marked rows of faithful are intentionally close. Rich, poor, everyone equal before God. This was another reason given for separating men and women. “Wouldn’t it be distracting?” And, yes, when I am in the back of a yoga class full of lithe female bodies, I’ve been distracted. No mention, though of five thousand years of patriarchy, or the treatment of women as property in certain cultures. Though in every encounter I’ve had in the Muslim world, there is fierce insistence of the equality of women.

I point to an imposing looking photo of a military man on the wall. “Who is that?” I ask, accustomed to seeing Massoud, murdered by al-Qaeda two days before two planes hit the World Trade Center towers.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“And don’t care?” I ask. He nods. He has seen too many mujahedin commander photos on too many walls. He asks the waiter. The picture is the father of the restauranteur.

A heavyset fellow sits cross-legged on a large chair in the shop window. He wears a pakol, my adopted headgear. He speaks to me in English from time to time. His colleague smiles sheepishly at me. Speaking of sheep, there are animal corpses hanging from vicious-looking hooks, ten feet away. There are alternatively 1, 2, 3 guys talking and not doing much work as far as I can see. Maybe it’s an HR meeting! There are big hunks of meat and bones in pots. And huge knives.

There are no women anywhere to be seen. None eating, none serving, none bullshitting out front. A Dari music video channel plays melodic music.

I offer Naim and his pal some of my lamb chops and salad. They decline, and get up to leave.There are so many great pictures that I pass up. I’m told some Afghans object to picture-taking from strangers. I thought of buying a Narrative Clip. It’s a square tile that you attach to your clothes, taking pictures every minute, memorializing your day.  It was suggested to me that a white man claiming to be an “independent” writer taking unwelcome pictures of Kabulis might not be a good idea. I shoot some photos, but discretely. I ask the stout fellow with the long knives if I can take a photo or two. He’s on the phone but grunts something that I interpret as yes.

I was going to look for a cafe with wifi to spend the afternoon writing. One of the waiters is looking over my shoulder, fascinated by my MacBook Air. I think I’ll settle in here a while.

Ghafar Haidary is a large man, graceful in his movement. I notice his hands, large and elegant and likely able to snap my neck like a twig. His salt-and-pepper hair is closely cropped, his beard neatly trimmed. We sit on large rectangular cushions with throw pillows, me against one wall, him next to me against a wall whose windows overlook a large hill. The room is sparsely appointed, a phone and router, two newspapers on the floor, an extension cord and power strip, a light fixture with three bare, energy-saver bulbs.

Assef brings us tea and three dishes, pistachios, a crunchy sweet thing and roasted chick peas. I speak no Dari, Ghafar doesn’t speak English, so we gesture and do the best we can when Assef is out of the room. He is 65. I imagine he would make an excellent grandfather and teacher. As the tea is served, we begin.

First of all, my apologies for not speaking your language. It’s unforgivable. Before I leave Afghanistan, I hope to know some Dari. Has the United States done anything good here in the last 13 years?

Afghans want the United States to bring peace. But, after 13 years, there is no peace. People no longer want the US here.

We have spent a lot of money, and lost many of our people, and many Americans want to end the engagement.

You are right. Many US dollars were spent, but mostly money that doesn’t reach the people. The people in charge of the government use it for construction projects in Dubai and not for poor people. Whether the US stays or leaves doesn’t matter. We expected you to bring peace. There is no peace. I worked in a camp in my province and loved the Americans working there. But the US cannot bring peace to Afghanistan.

Who did you fight for and when did you fight?

I fought in 1359 (Persian calendar year, starting March 1980) in the Parwan province jihad, with Republic Islamic Hezboah, Sheikh Asif Mohseni. I fought the Russians for two years. In one day in our province, the Russians killed 24,000 people. People got angry and started jihad. Jihad is a big thing for Afghan people. If the current situation does not bring peace, some people may want jihad again. The situation for poor people is very bad. They don’t have bread to eat.

He loosens his clothing to show me a wound on his breast from fighting the Soviets. 

My friends lost their limbs, many died, these were bad memories. There was nothing positive about fighting. When we believe in what we are doing, even with no weapons, we fight and ask God to help us.

After two years of fighting, I went to Pakistan to bring in weapons for the mujehedin to fight the Russians, and stayed for five years.  We lived in a tent. Every few months, we would bring weapons in. We traveled only at night to avoid government troops. Mohseni is Shia, and at that time Sayyef (another mujahedin leader) is in Pakistan and he wouldn’t let us bring weapons because Mohseni is Shia. Sayyaf people’s would attack us when we tried to bring weapons.

Is Pakistan a friend or a meddler in Afghanistan?

At first, Pakistan was a friend. After that, they are not a friend, they have their own goals.

The hill behind him is glowing with the fire of the sunset. Ghafar’s face is now in full relief. He has a strong nose, large and symmetrical. He speaks gently, but with moral authority and passion. Cable lines hang outside the window. I ask, Did you have a family at that time?

I was alone, my family was in Parvan province, but I had no wife or children.

Before fighting the Soviets, did you have training or combat experience?

There was no training. At first, there were no weapons. We fought with wooden weapons, whatever we had. Then our commanders taught us how to use weapons.

What is your most vivid memory from those times?

I was a commander with seven people working for me. We captured five Russians. My friend wanted to kill them. I said, no, they are human, we should save them, it’s their government that sent them to fight with us.  I have no problem with them.  I let four of them go and one became my friend. He came with me to Pakistan and became a Muslim. Eventually I lost track of him.

Was it a common practice to kill Russian prisoners at that time?

Yes, mujahedin killed them, because the Russian government put a price on the head of each fighter, so, generally, when we captured them, we killed them, or they would kill us if we were captured.

Was it a surprise to you that factional fighting between mujahedin resulted from the Soviet withdrawal?

Afghans celebrated, we were very happy, and then fighting started between Afghans. We were disappointed, and said the Russians should have stayed, because at least we were all united.  Saddam Yusef of the family of (former king) Zia Shah tried to make peace. Some fighters tried to make a pact at that time.

When peace is made in the name of the mullahs, they are very professional. After all, we are a Muslim country and we welcomed their efforts to make peace and teach Islam. But after a few months, new dangers came, they create problems for the people of Afghanistan and we wondered why we trusted them. Mullah Omar became the president of Afghanistan, and many people left the country.

It’s 4 o’clock and the sun is setting the sun over his left shoulder. There are no lights on in the room, so it is filling with shade. I can see him better as the sun is not in my eyes. He pauses to take off his shoes, and brings the space heater closer. It’s not cold, but the heater warms the space.

I have bad memories of the Taliban. I am a Muslim. When they came, I was going to the mosque, and one of the Talibs came to me and asked why are you not praying. I said I am trying to get to the mosque. I think they are giving Islam a bad name. Taliban are uneducated. They try to tell us how we have to live. This is not Islam, they know nothing about Islam. Islam is peaceful.

I think that Americans were funding the Taliban. They want Islam to have a bad image so I think they are supporting the Taliban. Americans are good people, but not your government. We are the same, we are human. America is a danger to the world even though it talks about human rights. Islam is a religion of peace, we do not want to fight. Islam is about human rights. Americans say its aim is spreading peace around the world, but instead they spread danger, to Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan.  We are Muslim, we want peace for all the people in the world. We like peace. We have no problem with peace. Islam is not a danger for other religions.

We have been talking for an hour and my crossed legs are aching, so I stretch and then cross them again. I ask, What does it mean to you to be a Muslim?

We pray five times a day. We study the Koran. We go to the mosque. It is the way of our lives. There are Muslims in America, they are Muslims all over the world living peacefully.

You opened by using the word jihad. The impression among some in the United States is that, these people are always talking about jihad, that Muslims like to war against non-believers and that Islam is a violent religion. I know that jihad was originally a spiritual term for an internal spiritual battle. That word is scary to people in the West.

Jihad is not for fighting. Jihad is something we do for God, when someone threatens you. When people live in peace, there is no problem. Why would Muslims fight if there was peace?

There is the idea of a caliphate, put forth by some in al-Qaeda and the Islamic State and other radical Islamists. Let’s face it: after the time of the prophet Mohammed, there was a lot of propagation of the faith and it wasn’t by handing out flowers. There was subjugation of people by the sword, the word jihad was probably used then. So there is an interpretation, that we want a caliphate and we are coming after YOU.

When the Russians left Afghanistan and the Taliban came, if the Americans would have come or Europeans, people would not have supported them. The Taliban at the time came from Kandahar in the name of Islam. But in 2001, Americans said come and fight with us, that Osama was responsible for 9/11. At that time, Afghans were ready to fight the Taliban.

Was there a sense that your country was being used to do something bad, that since Mullah Omar was sheltering al-Qaeda, the US had the right to attack Afghanistan?

When America took the Taliban out, we were very happy. We celebrated and were happy that America came here.  We thought America would bring peace to Afghanistan. After all that, I ask you, why have the Taliban come back again?

Well, first of all, I think much of it is tribal, and there is support for the Taliban among Pashtuns on both sides of the border. The Taliban were badly decimated, so they fled to Pakistan. Over time, the Taliban as well as Pakistani Pashtuns, and al-Qaeda, and jihadi fighters from other countries wanted to regain power.

I accept what you say. At that time, all of Afghanistan was Talib. And you removed the Taliban overnight. Now after all these years, you are not able to take the Taliban out. The government of America is very dangerous for the people of Afghanistan. American troops in Kandahar province did very bad things to the people there for kicks. They don’t like your troops, your Army, but we like the people of America. I think America is funding the Taliban. I think America wants the world to hate Muslims and keep them away from Islam.

Why? I don’t see the logic in that. What would be the strategic reason for doing that? Do you have any evidence?

If America wants the Taliban out, in two or three hours, you have the power to take them out. But America doesn’t want to. I have been in Waziristan and the weapons come from America. And suicide bombers are all trained in Pakistan, at religious schools…

…the madrassas…

…yes, and then they come to Afghanistan.

I lost my child. All the money in the world won’t bring him back. Without peace in the world, we have nothing. If America leaves the country and all the people around the world live in peace, we can improve things, and everything is possible.