This article originally appeared on TomDispatch.
Kabul, July 2009–I’ve come back to the Afghan capital again, after an absence of two years, to find it ruined in a new way. Not by bombs this time but by security.
The heart of the city is now hidden behind piles of Hescos–giant, grey sandbags produced somewhere in Great Britain. They’re stacked against the walls of government buildings, UN agencies, embassies, NGO offices and army camps (of which there are a lot)–and they only seem to grow and multiply. A friend called just the other day from a UN building, distressed that the view from her office window was vanishing behind yet another row of Hescos. Urban life as Kabulis knew it in this once graceful city has been lost to the security needs of strangers.
The creation of Hescostan in the middle of Kabul is both an effect of, and a cause of, war: an effect because it seems to arise in response to devious enemy tactics that are still relatively new to Afghanistan, such as the use of roadside bombs (IEDs) and suicide bombers (though there has actually been no attack in Kabul for six months now); a cause because it is so clearly a projection, an externalization of the fears of men out of their depth. It is a paradox of such “force protection” that the more you have, the more you feel you need. What’s called security generates fear. Now comes a documentary that projects that fear onto the screen.
It is 2006, late in the year. A reporter stands on a rocky hillside near the city of Kandahar in southern Afghanistan and points a wobbly camera at dark-clad gunmen ranged at a distance before him. They’ve wrapped the tails of their turbans to mask their faces. They carry their Kalashnikovs at the ready. The reporter shouts a question: “Does the Taliban receive support from Pakistan?”
As the camera jumps about to find the Talib who is speaking, a translator voices his answer: “Yes, Pakistan stands with us. On the other side of the border, we have our offices there. Some people in Pakistan is supporting us and the government of Pakistan does not say anything to us. They provide us with everything.”
The reporter– Christian Parenti, of The Nation magazine–has his story. For years, Afghan President Hamid Karzai has charged Pakistan with backing the Taliban, while Pakistan’s then-President Musharraf denied it, and officials of the Bush administration looked the other way. Now, Parenti has the word of armed Taliban. This is the kind of story a foreign correspondent can’t get without a fixer; that is, a local guy who knows the language, the local politics, the protocols of custom–and how to arrange a meeting like this in the middle of nowhere with men who might kill you.
A Talib warns of an approaching reconnaissance plane. “We should go,” the scared reporter says. The camera spins wildly across a vast empty expanse of rock and pale sky. “We should go.” Moments later, safely back in a car speeding away, Parenti turns the camera on his own grinning face: “This is the most relieved American reporter in Afghanistan,” he says, and describes the man sitting beside him–Ajmal Naqshbandi, a 24-year-old Pashtun from Kabul–as “the best fixer in Afghanistan.” But we already know, because filmmaker Ian Olds has told us up front, before the titles in his documentary Fixer, that soon Naqshbandi will be dead, murdered by the Taliban. We will be witnesses.