Winter in Kabul [Fair translation, MC]
An old Afghan proverb says: “If you haven’t seen something with your own two
eyes, don’t believe it”. I’ve seen Kabul with my own two eyes and haven’t allowed
myself to be blinded by the seductive light of the Orient, with its faded colours,
the deceptive idyll it presents, its gentle, humble gestures and proudly displayed
flaws. In Kabul, once a thriving meeting point on the Silk Road which derives its
name from the Persian word “Kabl”, meaning roughly “water-droplets in a rose”,
the rosy times are mere legend after 23 years of war and four years of extreme
drought. Of the five neon letters on the Hotel Kabul sign only the ‘L’ still lights up,
which nods to the fact that this four-star abode opposite the Royal Palace has
become uninhabitable due to mortar attacks.
The individual observer who is impervious to drugs and demagogues
nowadays sees only a film spectacle of “rank vulgarity, cruelty, noise and
ugliness” (Guido Ceronetti) all around Pushtunistan Square with its monstrous
water fountain formed of blue concrete bowls where in the ‘70s hippies from the
West would hang out, much to the chagrin of Kabul’s citizens. In the volume of
poetry I chose for this journey, Trials and Tribulations of the Italian Language
Ascetic, I find the words that describe Kabul more accurately than any TV
commentary: “The catastrophe is long gone, and we are all just survivors,
whether consciously or unconsciously”.
In complete consciousness of my pan-German gift for observation I let
myself drift through the horrendously broken city – visibly less so in its buildings
than in the human condition of its inhabitants – avoiding all contact with
uniformed men, veiled women and begging children. I succeed at the latter less
and less because I draw the curious vagabond children like moths to the flame.
“Hello, German!” the beggar-boys call to me from some distance, their laughter
extracting a frugal smile from me. In the meantime my stomach has begun to
react mulishly to kebabs and settles for fruit from Pakistan. At the market my
appetite completely disappears at the sight of cow’s feet and sheep’s heads abuzz
with swarms of flies, and I am now only eating scraps I prepare for myself every
day, as well as crackers and nuts by the kilo.