“THE BEAUTY OF AFGHANISTAN REMEMBERED”

My journey to Afghanistan in 1977 was just prior to the Russian invasion. I had been invited to design a contemporary line of clothing that would incorporate regional styles and fabrics. I quickly responded to the opportunity and “call of adventure.” And an adventure it was!

Kabul was a fascinating city that embraced both the old and the new. The “old town” was where all the public markets were and was like a quick journey back a thousand years: I could feel the centuries layered there. The marketplace was virtually unchanged for hundreds of years. Everything was displayed and sold against the backdrop of the old earth-and-clay buildings and dirt streets which were dotted with tea shops with vapors of steam rising from the big urns. — everyone drinks tea. There was a full array of beautifully displayed vegetables, grains, nuts of every kind, textiles, Western-style wedding dresses, rope, tin, and everything that was needed for daily living (including some modern additions). The friendly merchants wore traditional clothing of loosely-draped pants and embroidered shirts, with the amusing addition of a Western-style suit jacket with shirt tails hanging below. Many still opted for the traditional Chapan: a long coat in regional weaves with very long sleeves which doubled as “gloves” in cold weather. A street photographer was standing erect with his box camera ready to take your portrait. Store windows were ornate with creative displays.

The newer part of the city reflected the connection to the modern Western world with the likes of Mercedes cabs, small hotels, offices and modern buildings, women in contemporary dress (even with above-the-knee skirts!), and a trattoria where many foreigners met. Wealthy Afghans who were educated in Europe spoke many languages, including English, and were successfully engaged in businesses throughout the world.

There were very nice living quarters with a design studio set up for me in a big house near the French Embassy. The house was owned by an Afghani business man and his French wife who would organize and supervise the production of my designs. One day we were invited to the principal Tailor’s house for lunch to see some of his work. I had no idea what an incredible "visual feast" I was in for. When the large gates to the compound opened I was dazzled by the sight of five beautiful women waiting to greet us. They were the tailor's wife and daughters, and behind them were more family members, from sisters to cousins, dressed in their most exquisite traditional clothing and Kuchi jewelry in honor of our visit. The tailor was showing his talent and wealth by outfitting the women, children, and the baby in his most elaborately designed and beautifully ornamented dresses. I asked permission to take photographs, which was kindly granted to me. I knew at the time that this was a unique and special honor. One did not see women dressed this way in the street since they were usually covered with the traditional Chadari (Burqa) — unless they were “modern,” in which case they wore Western-style clothes. I was aware that it was not culturally acceptable to photographed women in public, so this incredible opportunity to photograph the tailor’s family was a very special one indeed. And, little did I know at the time what a rare event it really was. I shall always treasure my vivid recollections of that day.

One great thrill was attending Buzkashi games in Kabul’s Ghiza Stadium (which, it horrifies me to say, was later the site of the executions conducted by the Taliban). Buzkashi, which literally means “goat grabbing,” is the national sport, played on horseback with the “ball” being the headless body of a goat, and is a combination of soccer and polo. I later experienced another game in a remote village in the countryside a few hours from Kabul. I ventured there with friends who hired a taxi for the trip; however, about an hour outside Kabul we were stopped at a roadblock and waited until a small civil shoot-out subsided. We finally continued up over a winding pass where we just missed a head-on collision with two cars in a tunnel. We had to wait a long time until one lane was cleared before we could barely pass by. The narrow road clung to the edge of a ravine which made the taxi ride nerve wracking before the accident. We gritted our teeth and inched over the pass finally making it to the game in the valley below. I got to photograph some of the rugged Chapandaz riders in action on their incredible horses, and we made it back to Kabul in one piece.

Another journey outside of Kabul took me and my garment business associate to Bamyian, which was an unforgettable experience. After a long, hot day driving on a bumpy dirt road, we finally arrived at dusk and found a small inn. From the courtyard I saw the magnificent Buddha towering protectively over the city — it was magnificent! In trying to check in, however, I realized that I had left my passport in Kabul, and a man in uniform with a rifle appeared and insisted that I go with him. My associate and I were led up a dark cobblestone street. There was no electricity in the town and only a few candles flickered in the distance. Many blocks from the inn, we arrived at a small shack, harshly lit by a kerosene lantern. I was told that I had to leave immediately. My associate tried to reason in Farsi with the soldier to let me stay, and it was finally agreed that I could spend the night but that I leave immediately the next day. My friend, who had been in the Peace Corps and made many trips to Afghanistan, had failed to tell me to “always have your passport with you.” I was being kicked out of Bamyian, and I was heart-sick. The next day I had to get on a bus, alone, and go back to Kabul. I barely got to glance at the beautiful Buddha as I boarded the bus and was only able to take a quick snapshot. We had planned a horseback trip to go there the next day to visit the monks’ caves, but I never got to go then... or ever again. I suffered the trip all the way back to Kabul in the bumping bus, covering my nose and mouth to protect myself from the dust coming through a hole in the floor — and, I had no water. I was ill for days from inhaling that dust, and was deeply saddened when, years later, I saw the Taliban’s destruction of that amazing hillside monument which had survived for 2000 years and had born only a few scars over the many centuries. It was being repaired in 1977 and was revered as a national monument.

These images in my memory are from a now-distant past and it saddens me greatly to see the devastation that has taken place since I left. The beauty I saw there is gone. Nearly three decades of killing, torture, and suppression have all but destroyed an entire culture.

Today, NOW, is an even more critical time than the horrific 30 years of war that proceeded it. The welfare of the Afghan people and the country literly hangs in the balance. The entire world is at a crossroads with war and conflict, but Afghanistan and its people are particularly vulnerable to influences of all kinds from outside the country since it, and they, must depend on foreign aid. They have to start rebuilding again with nothing. It is one of the poorest nations in the world with the average wage of maybe as much as $450.00 (four hundred fifty dollars!) per year. Imagine! People in the West think nothing of having their Cafe Late for $3.50 or $4.00 every day, while many Afghans work for a paltry $1.25 PER DAY (that’s only $300.00 per year) — if work can be found. Half of that “income” must be spent on bread for the family. There is no “luxury foods” (staples) for a full balanced meal let alone enough for several meals a day. Adding to that is the sad fact that many people do not even have a home, or it they do it is possibly one with no indoor plumbing, electricity or running water.

Great things are possible if the right kind of help is provided. The stamina and willingness of the people is undeniable making it a fertile ground for positive new beginnings. Vitally important is education for all (including women and girls), technical training, some type of “habitat for humanity” to create housing, hospitals, clean water facilities, and education in new farming methods and equipment. A little generosity from the wealthiest countries in the world will go miles in inspiring the people and giving them hope, and will help secure a much needed foundation for rebuilding this war-torn Nation. They desperately need help from all of us; rather through donating to an organization that is already established and sending aid, writing to our congress and state representatives to reiterate Afghanistan's need for financial aid, or by going there in person to lend a hand. There is a way — please find yours.

One of my contributions is through helping spread positive images of Afghani people by showing my photographs. These photographs, thouh taken in 1977, were seen in public for the first time in 2001 in a feature I call “The Beauty of Afghanistan Remembered.” Since then I have received wonderful letters from all over the world from young Afghans who’s family fled the wars decades ago and were thrilled to, at last, find a visual record of their countrymen. Many had never see photographs of Afghans back home since they were children when they left and had little or no connection to their heritage or to the land and people they left behind. I am very touched by the responses and am so glad to be able to provide such positive visual references. I hope these images can continue to serve as an inspiration and a reminder of what was, and what can be again.

I feel that my photographs captured the beauty and spirit of the Afghan people. A people and country who I hope will once again, like the Phoenix, rise from the ashes.

Joanne Warfield
(Originally published in Afghan Journal, Sept. 2004)

Poverty is vastly under-rated.
Life is an incurable disease.

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