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The Taliban Barber
He was a man of many titles—one person’s Liberator is another person’s Terrorist — but I must admit he possessed substance.
Although much younger than me, I’d known him since the days of the muhjahdeen. Since the days of fighting the Russians.
And there was an essential eminence that surrounded him. A distinction, no matter what his job, what his title; a title most
recently upgraded from Rebel General to Provisional Governor. He was polite and quiet and ruthless when necessary. As a youth he
possessed blind courage and was feared by both friends and enemies. Killing, justified or not, seemed to be second nature and
stories of his efficacy had been told in my barber shop since 1979. Even when the stories of tortured and murdered victims were
neighbors or members of neighbors’ families.
But in the more recent stories, since what the BBC radio terms the New War began—there is no New War,
there is simply The War—the stories about him have changed. Now he negotiates, and temporizes, and moderates.
I’ve seen pictures of him in Germany, in a Western suit and tie, sipping water at a conference table; discussing policy.
As a youth he was reckless and brutal and fearless, preferring force, not afraid to make an example. And now he consults
and confers and cooperates.
This is how we differ:
I never left Kabul; but I resisted in my own way helping with money when possible. Hiding men from first the King, then—I spit
on them— the Russians, the War Lords, then the Pashtun Taliban. The Taliban is the worst news possible for a barber—bad for business,
very bad----but they pushed the War Lords into the desert and, at least in Kabul, you could buy fresh fruit and bread.
I’ve lived under the rule of a King, Communist occupation, chaos, and the Taliban. Now, thanks to people like the man
sitting in my barber’s chair I—WE—don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Which friends or members of my family will become
tomorrow’s pariahs and be beaten or imprisoned or killed for what they think or how they pray? Imprisoned or killed even
if they just want a simple life—children, food, an obedient woman, a good smoke. They simply think and pray as they are told in order
to be left alone. But always a new Government arrives. They spout slogans:
Islam Forever!
Democracy and Moderation!
Women’s Rights!
Yes! Up with Islam, Democracy, Moderation, and Women Rights! Yes!
But somehow the rules always change and more poor Afghani people die. These are my thoughts as I boil water to form
lather prior to laying cold steel against the new Provisional Governor’s neck.
These are my thoughts:
How many will I save if I end it, end him now? If I slash so cleanly—vertically laying his neck open so quickly he’ll
feel the chill of death before he feels any pain. How many will I save?
Not enough.
Never enough, my friend; I’d only assure that he and I would die.
So I will not kill him.
Not because of pity, compassion, fear of retribution. Not because of the Koran’s strictures against raising
a hand against fellow Arabs. Not least of all because it would violate my profession’s code. For I am a barber;
an excellent, professional barber; never have I shed a drop of any customer’s blood.
But the reason I will not kill this man who has killed so many others is that barber shop gossip—more reliable than
the BBC—indicates that an American delegation is visiting Kabul in the Spring. To Inspect and Evaluate.
Afghanistan could never be evaluated or inspected or appreciated by the Americans. As a country they are too new.
Too full of themselves and complacent with their jets and bombs and radar. They should listen to their naughty bedfellows
in this war, the British. The British have been here—and died here—before. They should read their Kipling; and not just the Jungle Book.
They should be made to know this verse (as I was forced to as a child, God bless the British and their Missionary Schools)
before flying their jets over Kabul:
When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Yes, an American delegation is visiting Kabul in the Spring.
And who knows which American might sit in my barber’s chair?
Rob Loughran
Rob’s novel High Steaks won the 2002 New Mystery Award. His how-to book for writers Tomorrow & Tomorrow & Tomorrow:
A Year-Long Program for Writing Success is available at www.lulu.com.
Email: Rob Loughran
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