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They told a million lies

August 6, 2002
The Iranian

In one afternoon I saw my career, my partner, a best friend and source of permanent irritation blown to bits.

I hid my entire record collection under rocks and sand in Kabul cramming the Stones under the Flying Burrito Brothers ransacking John Lennon who pilfered the drag queen's American Black Boy gimmick of Little Richard blissfully beating the odds on the piano with an additional 10% for white teeth in a terrorist attack with a blasphemous blast of the Who's dubious Don't Do Me Like That in the car before my call was intercepted from Kabul to Kandahar in Afghanistan's jell-o aquarium.

Dishevelled wearing frayed socks things held together until Jean Cocteau lit up poppy pipes without embarrassment spreading a Persian carpet under the walnut tree reflected in a pool near the black tents. A birdcage with a white parakeet in it hung from one of the trees.

The display of affection did not come easily with accusations of misdeeds in the executive suite.

We drank chai and ate kishmesh, salad , saffron rice with raisens and almonds, mutton, yogurt, oranges sliced with mother of pearl knives in nomansland.

A subtle perfume of China white tea, Yin Zhen, drifted into the green room where Ahmed Shah Massoud was born in tumbling sunshine with a Buick and embalming fluid, unconcerned, tragic, torn forty nine years ago.

Despite the acclaim the Yankee Hotel, General H. Norman Schwartzkopf (Ret), night doorman, held everything together instead of falling apart on the road dropping down the mountain toward the river.

Two Taliban soldiers herded the villagers into metal shipping containers and started a fire beneath them to roast them alive into branded barbeque jumping juicy jiggar wholesale. A refreshing alternative to being blown into a conglomerate of multi business companies with common cultures in oil pipelines for Dallas kafir.

We sat on a red carpet under the walnut tree on a grassy terraced hillside with Bismillah Khan in Bazarak in the Panjshir Valley an overnight trip from Kabul.

A broad road revealing a rainbow after the rain now red with the sacrificed lamb that made the hours fly by.

An image of Hamid Karzai loomed behind a clouded blood bath a pain in the ass. And what's
with the hat and cape $$$


You don't shit in your own backyard in Khoja Bahauddin said the Tunisians.

An old Afghan with a white beard sat in the shade. The peach tree was supposed to drive away evil spirits, which when translated meant Mohammad's sword and lily came out of his mouth with truth.

They made documentaries about Massoud's war with the Taliban. White gauze was stuffed into his eye sockets recalling the sheer hell of insider pizza with extra topping baked by Al Qaeda.

I wanted to make notes during my stay and see clearly in the dark while withstanding the blessing of the poppy waiting for the Director of the Islamic Observation Center in London, Yassir al-Sirri who gave the intro letter to the Tunisian cameramen to see Ahmed Shah while I passed the old palace of King Zahir Shah in Kabul.

The exception proved the rule, closing in on Massoud's front line when rats totally singing for the moment threw dirty nail bombs on black ravens living alone using special red ink for bad words.

A total failure on the cool meter. No one mentioned any weird electroclash of crappy deals in the Ministry of Sound who were always right on time three years behind suspicions until it was memory after Ahmed Shah's assasination on 9th September, two days before 9/11. Check this out - Mercedes Benz with three EEEs, opium, eighteen hundred dollar dinners, silk shirts scented with white rose cologne.

Rain fell on the blue morning glory as Venus appeared into the Top Forty by the Great Mountain where sixteen thousand Arabs, Pakistanis, Chinese, Uzbeks, Tajiks, Russian ghosts and American what are we doing here, were massed into the green valley.


The smog turned into solar energy launching a grassroots battle into a holding pattern since Arabs were always late. They told a million lies. Didn't we all. Didn't we all.

Nostalgia on a white horse with a gold saddle where zines were exploding in the Daliesque desert. A lone rider dressed in a black shalwar Kameez photographed in color riding across the boarder to Tajikistan into the dusty sky without a watch. So five minutes ago. Gone with the land mine which blew up without a whisper. so.

A moslem moth, irresistbly drawn to light. A white butterfly delirious with Persian poetry, the assasination a secret for the time being, good to be home in the heart of Panjir with the morning star humming WE ARE THE WORLD.

An afghan in the mountain hid a Mujahideen in the white cloud of an Autumn sunset behind the Afghan moon, 9th September 2001.

Be Omid Khoda


"The river's very clean, you know," Ahmed Shah insisted, offering to lend me a basket.

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