A City of Exiles Dreams of Power Regained
"But now the Americans have botched things by bombing Afghanistan, he
said. "People are rallying around the Taliban," he complained glumly, his huge
body seated in the soft embrace of an easy chair."
October 11, 2001
PESHAWAR
By BARRY BEARAK
ESHAWAR, Pakistan, Oct. 10 —
They hold meetings, drink green tea,
hold more meetings, drink more tea.
Occasionally, they call Washington or
Islamabad or Rome. These are exciting
days. The world seems to have turned
upside down, and that means they may be
back on top.
Peshawar, the capital of the Afghan
diaspora, is the meeting place of exiled
commanders, politicians, mullahs and a
million refugees. Since Sept. 11, it has
provided the intrigue of Casablanca. Men
who were once very important are making
big plans to be important again in an
imagined post-Taliban Afghanistan. Some of
these men see themselves as future leaders.
Today, as a half dozen confederates sat on
his veranda, Abdul Haq, once a renowned
guerrilla fighter in the jihad against the
Soviets, was regretting the delay in his
overthrow of the militant Islamic Taliban government. Last week, he had
predicted success was imminent, the chore requiring one day to finish, maybe
two.
"We can do all this without fighting," he had said cheerfully. "The Taliban are
ready to collapse. Some have already been contacting us. They cross the
mountains in the darkness to speak with me. They'll make an alliance with us
and the former mujahedeen and the tribal leaders. We'll roll through
Jalalabad and on to Kabul."
But now the Americans have botched things by bombing Afghanistan, he
said. "People are rallying around the Taliban," he complained glumly, his huge
body seated in the soft embrace of an easy chair.
Beside him were his shoes, and inside the right one was a prosthetic foot,
necessitated by a misstep on a land mine. Mr. Haq, 43, is now largely a
businessman in the United Arab Emirates. He returned to Pakistan only a
week ago, emerging from military mothballs for the chance to reclaim
Afghanistan.
While Western leaders plot which amalgam of Afghanistan's ethnic groups
might provide the most representative government if the Taliban are ousted
— balancing ousted royalty, Tajik commanders and presentable Pashtuns —
the reality of this region's shifting politics and allegiances is represented by the
likes of Mr. Haq. There are several men like him in Peshawar, this wildly
colorful smuggler's paradise near the border with Afghanistan. They are
prepared to play a central part in a post-Taliban world, especially if that role
is a starring one.
Soon, the world is likely to be reminded yet again of how fractious
Afghanistan is. It is a place of clan rivalries with a long history of betrayals
and revenge. There is bad blood and worse blood, and a thirst for blood.
The collection of would-be rulers gathered here provides one more
indication of just how treacherous it will be for anyone to attempt to install a
stable government.
Last Sunday, Pir Syed Ahmad Gailani, 67, leader of one of the sundry
Afghan political parties, was holding talks with 30 tribal chieftains and Islamic
scholars.
The pir, holder of a religious title akin to Your Holiness, is the spiritual head
of a minority Sufi religious sect in Afghanistan. In the old days, he additionally
owned the rights to the Peugeot dealership in Kabul. The city was then a
place where the elite admired French culture. Word is out that he sees
himself as prime minister of an interim regime.
He kindly broke free of his assembled guests and spared a few moments to
answer questions for a dozen or so foreign journalists who sat on a carpet at
his feet. He had not held forth to so many reporters in a great many years, if
ever.
Would he support the return of Afghanistan's former king, Mohammad Zahir
Shah? "We deeply respect His Majesty," the pir said, "but we believe the
prevailing situation is beyond the capacity of any one individual or group to
remedy."
Several bearded men nodded in assent. "There is no question of contention,"
the pir continued. "All we are trying to suggest is that His Majesty broaden
his base, including with him all the leadership and important personalities of
Afghanistan."
Zahir, 86, does not reside in Peshawar. Dethroned in 1973, he prefers to
conduct his self-exile in a Roman villa. It places him a great distance from
other Afghan refugees, but despite this remoteness he now seems the
consensus choice to bring Afghanistan back together, though as a father
figure rather than a monarch.
After 22 years of war — with warlords turning cities into rubble and the
Taliban turning music into a crime — absence has made hearts fonder of the
former king. Few Afghans recall the man that goes with the title. He is under
their radar, smaller than life. In a land of complete dreariness, he therefore is
hope.
Zahir has long championed something called the loya jirga process, the
convening of a grand council of elders who, through some alchemy of
combined wisdom, would bring lasting peace and incorruptible government.
It sounds terrific, but in Peshawar, people wonder: Who picks the elders?
Who runs the show? Who has the ex-king's ear these days?
Indeed, as the meetings grow long and the tea gets cold, many worry the
former king is growing too cozy with the Northern Alliance, the anti- Taliban
army keeping up the fight within Afghanistan's borders.
It is pointed out that the alliance is an assemblage of very few allies. Tajiks
dominate the coalition in a nation where the largest ethnic group is Pashtun.
Tajiks have scores to settle with their enemies and the revenge would be
ugly. Victory by the Northern Alliance would just lead to more war, they
say.
"That is why the king is so perfect," said A. Rasul Amin, a supporter of Zahir
and the director of the Afghanistan Studies Center at the University of
Peshawar. "He is Pashtun but he doesn't speak Pashto. He is a Dari
speaker, giving something for everyone."
In the mornings, people comb the papers. There are bizarre resurrections in
the headlines. Interviews are being done with some of the more notorious old
commanders of the anti-Soviet war that ended with a Soviet retreat in 1989
and brought to power the American-backed mujahedeen, or holy warriors,
whose radical espousal of Islam has since become problematic.
The opinions of these old-timers matter anew. Among them are Gulbuddin
Hekmatyar, the warlord responsible for destroying much of Kabul, and
Rashid Dostum, a commander whose thieving troops were known as the
"carpet stealers."
To many, it is like a breath of stale air.
"Many of the same people whose misrule led to the Taliban may again be
part of the picture," said Fazal-e- Rahim Marwat, a history professor.
Rumor mills grind out fresh gossip. Foreign governments are looking for new
stooges. Who is being fed cash by the Iranians? Are the Pakistanis up to
their usual double-crosses? Was that a C.I.A. agent or a reporter in the car?
"Suddenly, a whole new situation is developing for the future of Afghanistan,"
said Abdul Haq, excitement on his face. The stump of his leg tapped on the
floor. He laughed. "But it is hard to know what is this new situation."
A door to the sitting room opened. One of the retinue outside had told one
of the bodyguards to pass along something to one of the inner circle. He then
whispered it to Mr. Haq, who seemed distracted and got up and left the
room.
So his departure didn't seem rude, a servant was sent in to pour more tea.
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