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An Afghan Noble
An Afghan Noble
P.K.Ghatak, MD
No 10.
On an early December morning in the Northern Afghanistan 4 or 5 people were waiting for an interview seeking a job as a translator. The sun was shining; there was frost on the ground and a cold wind was blowing from the north. Among the waiting candidates was a distinguished old gentleman with flowing gray hair, wrinkled face, and very bright eyes. He held up some papers in front of his face as if he was reading. He smiled at me when I made eye contact with him.
He waited for his turn to meet the administrator. After he came out, I noticed he had a sad look on his face. He hesitated initially then he wanted to talk with me. I invited him to sit beside me and gave him a glass of tea. (Afghans drink tea from small glass). He said he did not get the job; he was told - he was too old. In the course of a long talk, he revealed important parts of his life history and deep-seated insecurity he had.
He was 80 years old, the oldest surviving male member of a well-known family in Kabul. For generations, his family members served the Afghan Government as ministers, ambassadors, advisors for the kings and later for the presidents of Afghanistan. Whoever was in power sooner or later they had to call upon some members of his clan to fill important ministerial positions. They cooperated with the Soviets during their occupation of Afghanistan. With the Soviet departure, the Afghan civil war broke out and several members of his family were assassinated. His family broke up and members scattered; some went to Pakistan others to Iran, India, and France. For a while, he lived in Tajikistan and had recently returned to Afghanistan with the Tajik refugees.
He was educated at Kabul University, then at Bombay University in India. He was also in Paris and London for studies. He spoke four languages. He worked in international law and economics during his younger years. He had substantial real estate holdings in Kabul. And the papers he was pretending to read while waiting for the interview were the deeds of his various real estate holdings. He took the deeds with him wherever he went. His wife passed away several years earlier. He had four children, but he was unable to contact any of his family members since he returned to Afghanistan (the postal services and telephones service were totally destroyed at that time). He was staying in a guesthouse located above a restaurant on the main road leading to the next town. The more I talked with him the more I sensed he wanted company and a secure place to stay. He had hoped he would find a job here and then could stay with us in our protected compound. He was very disappointed to learn that the local people were not allowed to stay in the same housing compound with foreign national NGOs (non-government organizations).
He was frail but well-groomed and clean; had manicured nails, dressed in a well-tailored but tatter suit. I could see his money belt under his pants. He applied Surma on his lower eyelids and attar behind his ears (nectar of roses). He exuded confidence at the same time submitted himself to the will of God. With all his riches he was unable to find a secure place to stay in his homeland.
Then the time came to end our conversation. He did not want to leave; at the same time, he knew he had to go. He held on to my hands for a long time and wanted to say something but struggled to say it. I told the old gentleman to stay in touch with us; there might be a job opportunity in the future. Or he could just come and talk with me. With difficulty, he could only produce half a smile. At the very end, he let my hands go. And said God willing he would see me again. I could see he was fighting back tears.
A few days later we were driving along the main road towards the next town. We saw a crowd gathered around a roadside restaurant. Our driver got out of the car to investigate. He returned shortly afterward and told me the old gentleman, who came looking for a job, was dead. Someone cut his throat and took away his money belt. But the police were not sure whether it was just a robbery or a political murder staged as robbery.
I felt his handshake once again, saw his tearful eyes and then I understood the meaning of his last word "God willing....."
On an early December morning in the Northern Afghanistan 4 or 5 people were waiting for an interview seeking a job as a translator. The sun was shining; there was frost on the ground and a cold wind was blowing from the north. Among the waiting candidates was a distinguished old gentleman with flowing gray hair, wrinkled face, and very bright eyes. He held up some papers in front of his face as if he was reading. He smiled at me when I made eye contact with him.
He waited for his turn to meet the administrator. After he came out, I noticed he had a sad look on his face. He hesitated initially then he wanted to talk with me. I invited him to sit beside me and gave him a glass of tea. (Afghans drink tea from small glass). He said he did not get the job; he was told - he was too old. In the course of a long talk, he revealed important parts of his life history and deep-seated insecurity he had.
He was 80 years old, the oldest surviving male member of a well-known family in Kabul. For generations, his family members served the Afghan Government as ministers, ambassadors, advisors for the kings and later for the presidents of Afghanistan. Whoever was in power sooner or later they had to call upon some members of his clan to fill important ministerial positions. They cooperated with the Soviets during their occupation of Afghanistan. With the Soviet departure, the Afghan civil war broke out and several members of his family were assassinated. His family broke up and members scattered; some went to Pakistan others to Iran, India, and France. For a while, he lived in Tajikistan and had recently returned to Afghanistan with the Tajik refugees.
He was educated at Kabul University, then at Bombay University in India. He was also in Paris and London for studies. He spoke four languages. He worked in international law and economics during his younger years. He had substantial real estate holdings in Kabul. And the papers he was pretending to read while waiting for the interview were the deeds of his various real estate holdings. He took the deeds with him wherever he went. His wife passed away several years earlier. He had four children, but he was unable to contact any of his family members since he returned to Afghanistan (the postal services and telephones service were totally destroyed at that time). He was staying in a guesthouse located above a restaurant on the main road leading to the next town. The more I talked with him the more I sensed he wanted company and a secure place to stay. He had hoped he would find a job here and then could stay with us in our protected compound. He was very disappointed to learn that the local people were not allowed to stay in the same housing compound with foreign national NGOs (non-government organizations).
He was frail but well-groomed and clean; had manicured nails, dressed in a well-tailored but tatter suit. I could see his money belt under his pants. He applied Surma on his lower eyelids and attar behind his ears (nectar of roses). He exuded confidence at the same time submitted himself to the will of God. With all his riches he was unable to find a secure place to stay in his homeland.
Then the time came to end our conversation. He did not want to leave; at the same time, he knew he had to go. He held on to my hands for a long time and wanted to say something but struggled to say it. I told the old gentleman to stay in touch with us; there might be a job opportunity in the future. Or he could just come and talk with me. With difficulty, he could only produce half a smile. At the very end, he let my hands go. And said God willing he would see me again. I could see he was fighting back tears.
A few days later we were driving along the main road towards the next town. We saw a crowd gathered around a roadside restaurant. Our driver got out of the car to investigate. He returned shortly afterward and told me the old gentleman, who came looking for a job, was dead. Someone cut his throat and took away his money belt. But the police were not sure whether it was just a robbery or a political murder staged as robbery.
I felt his handshake once again, saw his tearful eyes and then I understood the meaning of his last word "God willing....."
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