They told a million lies
August 6, 2002
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
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
with the hat and cape $$$
INSTANT REPLAY OF LAST SECOND SHOTS SHOWED THE TUNISIAN CAMERMAN'S BATTERY BELT HAD
BEEN PACKED WITH EXPLOSIVES. THEY DIED TOGETHER BLOWN APART WITH THE AFGHAN TRANSLATOR.............
TWO PIECES OF METAL WERE LODGED IN HIS HEART...
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.
WILL THE REAL MUJAHIDEEN PLEASE STAND UP .
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
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.