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[[Islam]]
Some other good stuff. [http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1414814389/90#90]
[[Karzai Background Discussion]]
[[Karzai Background Discussion]]


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If you see Faarooq please you help him out.
If you see Faarooq please you help him out.
----
http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1543198807/73#73
Winter, Kabul. From his compound behind the Presidential Palace, Karzai looks out over his once proud city. Where is Gary now? Where are the Americans? The British? The German engineers?
Was it all a dream?
An icy wind blows through the city, whistling. When the sun rises, there will be fog.
The telephone rings, breaking through the darkness.
"Hamid?"
It is Ghani, damn him. He calls anytime. He is now Karzai's president. Once, he was a friend.
"Hamid? The Americans are taking more troops. What to do? It is giving me insomnia already."
"Ah, Ashraf, this is no longer our world. The wind, the fog, this is now our lot, insh'allah."
"But Hamid, we must act! You must do something! Call Gary, call Mr Trump, call anyone!"
"Gary no longer takes my calls, effende, but anyhow, he is gone too. Retired, living in Maine."
"And Trump?"
"Forget it, Ashraf, he's pretty much retired too. Putin, he will talk to. Me? I am yesterday. I am the past. I am no longer on the Fox News."
"But Mother said..."
"Ah. She talks to you? Me also, in my time. She is a goodly spirit."
"She is my only hope! The Americans will no longer help. The Taliban are giving me heart problems already. My blood pressure..."
Health has always been one of Karzai's obsessions, but like all hypochondriacs, he can't bear to listen to the health problems of others.
"Insh'allah, the Angel will guide you, Ashraf. Listen to her. She is always right."
"Ah, Hamid, she tells me to kill - some men with my own bare hands. My conscience..."
"Forget conscience, effende, the Angel speaks the word of God. This is the price we must pay. I also, in my time. Men like us cannot afford a conscience."
Karzai can hear the presidential hubbly bubbly on the other end of the line. Ghani must be onto his first bong of the day. Karzai is on the last bong of the night. Hashish and opium. It is the only thing that holds back the pain of the conscience. Also, it often brings a visit from the Angel, who gives advice. Karzai, after all, is still the president, just not in name. Today, he can relax and let Ashraf settle the blood. It is a part of the job no president likes.
In many ways, Karzai is like the Angel herself, directing Afghanistan from behind the scene. Karzai's presidential terms expired, he can now rule without accountability. It is a good place to be, but then again, all in Afghanistan know Karzai is secretly the power behind the throne.
"Hamid, try Mr Trump again, I know he can help. Maybe there will be a new Gary soon."
"Insh'allah, there are no more Garys, Ashraf. It is the price we must pay. It is - how to say - independence."
"Oh Hamid, listen to who you are talking to. Independence? It's a sad joke. Afghanistan will never be independent. Britain, Russia, America, all. Let the Taliban dream of independence. We are pragmatic fellows."
"This may be, effende, but we must pretend. We are like an actor on the stage - an actor in the play of life. All countries want independence, isn't it. None may have it, not even America. But we pretend, we speak to the crowds, we go on TV. Then, when all is quiet, we listen to the Angel of Darkness, Mother of the Night. This is our lot, insh'allah. It is what we must do. Speak of independence, Ashraf, but act on dependence. It is all we can do."
"Yes, it is so. Can you just try Trump?"
"Okay! I will try again, Ashraf. Insh'allah, I will succeed. But let us wait until the day."
"Ah, Hamid, peace be upon you."
"Now go do your work. You have a meeting with the Pashtun Council today, no?"
"They never help. All they do is complain."
"But we must pretend, Ashraf. Be an actor. Listen and speak the lines I have given you. It is like chess. On their own, no piece can win, and yes, many must be sacrificed. But together - like the fingers in a hand - we may act, fingers that may form a fist or a caress."
Karzai takes a drag on his pipe then blows out its smoke, a long blue dragon of opium and hashish. With it, Karzai let's out a prayer.
"Mother of Darkness, Angel of Death, bring light to our friend Ashraf Ghani, president of all the tribes of Afghanistan! Bring him glory, bring him peace!"
"Blood pressure, Hamid..."
"Bring him health! Lower his blood pressure, insh'allah. Get him on a low cholesterol diet, he is putting on too much weight."
"It is Winter, Hamid. I'm not getting out much."
"Then get out! Go to Florida. It is sunny all year round. Gary gave me a compound there. Finally."
"Really?"
"Really. But it was not cheap. It cost much oil and gas. Still, it is not my oil and gas."
"It belongs to the people of Afghanistan."
"It belongs to God! He who sees all, hears all, owns all. I should go to Florida myself, get some sun."
"This might work, Hamid. Listen, Mr Trump has a palace there. You can buy a ticket and meet with him."
"Maybe. What is this Trump palace?"
"Mar a' Lago. Apparently you can play golf there. You can drive around in these little buggies."
"Well, it would be good to see the retirement compound again... Alright, I will visit this Mar a Lago. I will play some golf, drink cocktails. Insh'allah, I shall meet with Trump himself!"
"As God wills it, Hamid."
"Now go. Meet with the Pashtuns. Tell them to hold tight. Insh'allah, we will bring back America!"
A thin dawn breaks over Kabul. As always, the sun's fog creeps in from the east. Blue-grey, like the smoke from a hubbly bubbly.
Karzai and Trump? What to do? Stay reading, friends, and you will see.
----
http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1545814065/6#6

Latest revision as of 22:03, 28 December 2018

Islam

Some other good stuff. [1]

Karzai Background Discussion

19/4/10

Karzai threatens to join Taliban

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1271658746

I just read this - I don't know anything about it.

That's a very good question. After all, Mohammed asked whether one should tie up one's camel or pray to God.

I'd say Karzai's camels have all gone back to the desert by now.

Exactly. Camels hate to go down on their knees.

But they can fast for Ramadan. They don't like to, mind you, but they can.

Actually, I think Karzai has an old WWII jeep the US lent him. He sticks his posters all over it and drives around with a loudhailer at election time, throwing lollies to the kids.

He has to hold onto his hat. He's hardly Douglas Macarthur. What Karzai needs more than anything else is a proper van with speakers on the roof.

Looks like they've gone to the big smoke. Karzai now wants to join the US.

I saw that Karzai on TV the other night. Can you believe it? He has the hide to walk around in that Afghani hat and shawl he wears. I mean, why can't he just wear a normal suit like anyone else?

He has to be different. That's the problem with these third world types. They refuse to keep their heads down and be like everyone else. They have to dress up in their Mao or their Nehru suits or their big affros, jumping around like jiggaboos and playing whitey like a fool. What's their problem?

Would you vote in a politician who dresses like a pimp? Of course you wouldn't, but you're in a civilized country where we vote them out if they don't look nice. Remember Noriega from Panama? Thank God the US threw him in jail. I was getting tired of seeing his acne-scarred face on TV.

That Karzai - he's at it again, only this time he wants to join the Soviet Union.

They tried to tell him not to bother, that the Soviets were long-gone, that they'd created a gas and oil oligarchy in its place, but would he listen? No. He just huffed and puffed and then said he wanted to join the British Empire.

Everyone said, but Mr Karzai, they've been gone for ages, it's now a European state. Would he listen? No. He went on and on. Then he said he wanted to join the US.

Everyone looked at the ground and said nothing. What? He asked. What now?

They're already here, they said. They invaded us in 2001 to get the Taliban.

That's it, he said, I'm growing a beard. We're all going to join the Taliban.

So that's how Mohammed Karzai came back to the Taliban. Again.

That tricky Karzai - it all turned out to be a threat, playing his court like the bunch of nuckleheads they are - not a real man in the place.

The fiendish ways of the Mohammedan. He'll offer you Turkish delight with one hand, and slash your throat with the other.

The shifting sands of Moslem politics, the mysteries of the East. Will that dastardly Karzai ever come clean?

The headlines read "Karzai Comes Kleen," but these refer to a Karzai compound cleaning contract with the Haliburton subsidiary, Kleen Operations.

It has been uncovered that the company was planting bugs in Karzai's fortress. They were working for Uncle all along, sending sensitive information back to CIA Headquarters in Kabul for thorough analysis. Needless to say, Karzai and his bungling staff fell for it, hook, line and sinker. No one wondered why one of the American cleaning crew wore a Yale tie.

Among the sensitive information uncovered:

Karzai pays $500 US for manicures with a North Korean lady known only as the "plain woman."

Karzai does not have a van with speakers on the roof for elections, and envies all the US election dollars funneled into former Pakistan president, Musharref's campaigns.

Karzai enjoys being "whiter" than US president Barak Obama, and jokingly recommends that he use an Indian skin whitener popular among Bollywood celebrities.

Karzai reads the UK magazine, Hello, out loud to his underlings, suggesting they get outfits for their wives like the ones Sarah Sarandan wore at the airport.

Karzai wants to trim his beard, but has to look like he's still grieving for his despised, CIA-employed late brother.

Karzai wonders what all the fuss in the US over waterboarding is about: the US are lucky to have the water.

I'll have you know that this is an issue close to my heart, Imperium.

That sounds just like one of his futile plots.

But, Mr Karzai, isn't that from that American film, the War of the Stars?

What if it is? The Russian and American rockets can travel for miles into space.

Karzai, you see, has always envisaged Afghanistan as an empire to rival Persia. Rugs, dancing boys, precious stones, desert caravans. Karzai claps his hands and a samovar of tea is poured into his cup.

The tea loosens his tongue and his plans become more expansive. The Russians have a space program - why not the Afghans? The Afghans BEAT the Russians, proving their superior strength and brain size. The Americans are no different. They come and they go. No one in history has kept the Afghans under siege. The Persians, the British, the Russians, no one.

Karzai forgets the fact that he can't even afford that van with speakers on the roof for elections. He thinks of his new Afghani space program and driving his van at election-time, his voice echoing through the Kabul streets: Karzai Karzai Karzai!

Mr Karzai, sir, Mr Karzai!

Karzai rouses himself and looks displeased.

The underling has a copy of the War of the Stars. It says that the leader is a man by the name of Vader.

Get him! Send him to me!

Ah. But it was a long time ago in a galaxy far away. He must be dead by now.

Karzai pounds the fluffy cushion one of his wives made. Enough! Bunch of knuckleheads, every one of them. What do they know? The US pays them all handsomely, and for what? What!

To keep out the Taliban.

That was a rhetorical question!

The underling, of course, is led straight to the cells. Like other Afghani troublemakers, he will be reported as an "enemy combatant" and renditioned to Guantanamo - the Afghani version of being thrown to the crocodiles.

In trying to please his master, he has uttered the unspeakable truth: that Karzai merely fills the vacuum, that he's just keeping the seat warm for the Taliban.

Karzai, you see, thinks of himself as the legitimate puppet-leader of Afghanistan. Like all US-installed despots, from Batista to Diem to Pinochet to Saddam himself, Karzai believes he has the will of the people behind him.

They love me! They shout my name in the streets - Karzai for president!

Karzai is fooled by the crowds who place garlands around his neck, who shout his name in the streets (his underlings pay them a dollar each). Karzai can duck a bullet like the next man, but he fears the cold blade being thrust into his kidney.

Don't they know I have the most powerful country in the world behind me?

The US stays quiet, biding their time until the next leader steps up. The CIA station chief crosses names off a list. Not him, not him - ah - no, not him either. Whoever will replace Karzai?

Meanwhile, Karzai lurks in his fortress, drinking tea and smoking hubbly bubbly, torturing his underlings with ridiculous demands.

Bring me Vader, bring me Saddam Hussein, get me Ronald Reagan on the phone.

The station chief's list is running out.

My informants in Karzai's castle keep whinging and moaning. They say they can't go on anymore.

Karzai wants his photo taken with Doris Day.

Karzai wants to walk the streets of Karbul dressed as a beggar.

Karzai wants to explore the earth's core (he was watching Journey to the Centre of the Earth, dubbed into Farsi).

He's got too much time on his hands, it's ridiculous.

He rings the CIA station chief every day saying he's bored, he wants more of a "role," that he's the true leader, not them. He has the will of the people behind him.

So Karzai wants to tackle the problems of Afghanistan, eh?

Yes, he says, that's exactly what he wants. He wants to help the people.

200 million for a new power station, 100 million for the new highway...

Karzai doesn't say anything.

Then there's another 100 million for the new presidential palace. The US could always put the project on hold. It's still in the planning phase...

No! The projects must continue! Karzai was just saying...

Yes?

He was just saying he wants the US to keep going, that it has the will of the people behind them, that it is doing a marvellous job in Afghanistan. But... Couldn't they give him something to do?

Well. Funny he asked. Haliburton have a new mineral exploration contract being signed that afternoon. Perhaps Karzai could go and have his photo taken with them.

Yes! It's just...

...Yes?

Any chance Doris Day could make it? Karzai's always wanted to meet her. He loved her in Pillow Talk with Rock Hudson.

The station chief says he'll see what he can do.

He hangs up and goes back to his Afghani leaders list. Not him, not him, good God - not him...

The Karbul CIA station chief wanted Panama - sun, cervesa, handsome boys. Plus, he spoke Spanish, so you'd think they'd send him somewhere down south. He thought Argentina at a stretch.

But he had to go and put his foot in it. Stationed in Sydney for a short period, he got the dirt on Tony Abbott, pictures and everything. Turnbull was the Liberal leader at the time, and the CIA were helping the Libs out. The Chief got the pictures developed and sent them off to all the right places, and what should happen? The Libs staged a coup and installed Abbott. It was just one of those things that couldn't be helped.

A failure of good intelligence, really, but the Chief was stuck with it. He was owed a nice, cushy job, but where do they send him? Karbul. There must be an Abbott admirer in Washington somewhere, he thought - probably someone in the Land and Environment Department.

Probably someone in the swimwear department.

So he found himself in Karbul, the American version of the Russian Front. No sun, no cervesa, but the boys were cheap - thank Heavens for small mercies. What he didn't bargain for was Karzai, the US-installed president and man of the people.

"Get those peacocks out of here, they're driving me crazy! And get me the CIA on the phone - get me the Chief."

"But master, you've only just hung up the phone."

"That wasn't him, that was Army Intelligence. I've got something to tell him."

Karzai, the good Muslim leader, knew how to play the sides off against each other. He wanted to tell the Chief the latest Army Intelligence disaster. The Chief knew, of course. He got it from his spies in Army Intelligence, a much more trustworthy source than Karzai.

"It's me. Listen, you know that fool over in satelite surveillance?"

"Colonel..."

"I don't care what he is. He's sending the drones into Pakistan, can you believe it? They're meant to be getting the Taliban, but they're floating around in Pakistan doing nothing. Fools!"

The Chief knew what was going on. Karzai wanted his arse covered in karbul, not Pakistan. It was futile to tell Karzai the Taliban didn't care what borders they hid behind.

"I'll get onto it, don't worry. I'll make sure they come back to Afghanistan."

"Good. Now, there's another thing."

"Yes?"

"I want a bunker."

"But you've got a bunker."

"Not that trap with the sandbags, I want a proper bunker like they have at the White House. Elevators that go down for miles, golf carts, a proper city I can run Karbul from. A bunker. "

"Well, I can try."

"You can get it done, you're the Chief."

"Maybe, but it's not so easy these days. There's the war..."

"Exactly. War everywhere. I need security. If you can't do it, I'll see what the Chinese are planning."

The Chinese. Karzai loved bringing them into everything. They were in Afghanistan, sniffing around for iron ore. If it wasn't enough that the Chief had to listen to Karzai carryng on, he had to deal with the Chinese making moves and trying to get in on the act.

They didn't call Afghanistan the Russian Front for nothing. Anyway, he knew Karzai would forget it all by tomorrow. Maybe.

"Alright. I'll get the architect to look over those plans again."

"Good. You are good American man. I am just a humble Muslim."

The Chief sighed. "You certainly are, Mr Karzai."

"My people love me. They vote for me!"

"Yes. That's what they call democracy."

Karzai hung up the phone. It certainly was called democracy - in a country where you could get the CIA station chief on the phone to call back the drones and build you a bunker.

God bless Uncle Sam.

It was a normal day at the presidential palace. That is, chaos was everywhere. Karzai's manservant brought the opium pipe to Karzai's lips and lit it up. Karzai was in a dazed stupor.

"They love me. My people... The Americans hate me, they have always hated me. Death to the American jackal!"

"Yes, master. May they die in pain, insh'allah."

"This foreign aid - how can I know where it all goes? I am just a humble Muslim trying to help my people..."

Karzai's manservant rests the pipe on a small table as Karzai nods off. But then he's back.

"Death to America!"

"Yes, master. May they die like the dogs they are, insh'allah."

"My pipe!"

Karzai's manservant lights it up and Karzai sucks it back. Karzai has just finished one of his week-long detoxes where he swears off everything forever, insh'allah, or at least until Paradise. No hashish, no opium, no valium. Booze is okay, but Karzai doesn't drink. Sometimes he watches an American envoy sip on a whiskey soda with lidded eyes. The infidels do not know that alcohol is harrum.

Karzai lets the smoke pass through his lips and a long cloud forms in the afternoon light. Blue smoke fills the room. The last week has been hell. The presidential advisors suggested the Betty Ford Clinic, but what do they know. How could Karzai, the Afghani president, enter an American hospital for drug addicts? Were they out of their minds?

"Yallah yallah yallah!" His manservant has not been quick enough with the pipe.

"I am sorry, master."

For the past week it has been face washers, cold baths and buckets of vomit. Karzai sh!t his bed every night. His manservant didn't know how long he could carry on. Thank Allah Karzai has picked up the pipe again.

"These people are corrupt! Everyone is corrupt! The Americans are bad, but the Afghanis are terrible. Everyone wants money. What to do?"

"Life is hard, master. It is a trial by God."

"Yes, life is hard, but look at me! I have to deal with the agencies, the warlords, the Taliban... The Americans have no idea. They will be gone next year, and I will need to run this place. Allah, give me strength!"

"Allah Uakbar."

"Yallah!" His manservant proffers the pipe and lights it. Karzai sucks back the smoke and gazes into the distance. Yes, life is hard, and the future is most certainly bleak. Karzai nods off again and his manservant rests the pipe next to his pillow. This time he is asleep. Karzai's manservant takes Karzai's hat off and puts it on the shelf. One day the Americans will be gone, but life must still go on. God is great, but Satan is well and truly giving him a run for his money.

Karzai's manservant checks Karzai's breath and it is okay. Today they will live, insh'allah. But tomorrow?

Their fate rested in Karzai's dreams.

What happened to Karzai? He was here a minute ago - where is he?

Karzai wants Afghani security forces ready by 2014, insh'alla.

If Karzai's forces are fully operational, why's he chatting up the Taliban? I ask you that.

22/4/10

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1271744283/18#18

Board bugged?

You leave those threads right where they are. Karzai threatening to join the Taliban is a very important issue, and one that should be debated on a number of levels.

Someone should post in it hunting and fishing.

9/8/10

Afghans tell it as it is - U.S are the warmongers

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1286618521/3#3

You know something? Karzai cares. He really does.

But it's not a war against Islam. It's a war for resources and a military foothold in a geopolitically relevent region.

If it was a war against Islam, the US would never have invaded Iraq, a once fiercely secular state.

To be honest, I'm not sure why we're still in Afghanistan, or why most politicians support it. Clearly, we aren't being given the full picture here. And you have to be suspicious about that.

Good grief. Did they have elections?

Has anyone told Karzai yet?

You mean the government WASN'T chosen this way?

You don't need to bring Allah into this. The US imposing elections is actually a very new phenomenon. You think all those Latin American puppet-governments and military coups got in through elections?

Come come, my boy. Uncle isn't in the election business.

The business of Amerika is BUSINESS.

If the US wanted to establish genuine democracy in Iraq and Afghanistan, they would have staged elections at the outset.

Instead, the US waited for 3 years in Iraq, and during this time the previous institutions of government were destroyed. They didn't call it Shock and Awe for nothing.

During this time, the power and water suppliers were privatised, new 10-20 year oil contracts were drawn up, the museums were looted and burnt, and Ba'athist Party members were banned from holding government positions - a direction that left only religious and militant groups to enter the vacuum.

When the elections happened, they were a mere formality. The institutions of state had already been destroyed.

Elections mean nothing when the elected have nothing to govern, and no rule of law in which to act.

12/8/10

US Intelligence Specialist: Talibaan not the enemy

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1281573512/1#1

The news on the wire: Karzai Seeks Settlement With Moderate Taliban Chiefs.

Karzai's food taster looks on as Karzai peels the newspaper from his parcel of newly polished shoes. "Be careful, Master. It might be a bomb."

"The only bombs around here come straight from the Pentagon. Marked 'for your eyes only.' Ah, the burden of presidential office. You want to run for president, my boy?"

"Master, I..."

"Afghanistan is democracy now. Anyone can grow up with the dream of becoming president."

"I do not have this dream, Master. My dream is to serve the president."

"Good. Best not to have too many dreams. Let us leave the dreams to Amerika. They make enough dreams for us all."

Karzai's shoes have been polished for a meeting with the top brass. General Petreus is coming to the compound. After this, Karzai has a meeting with the Taliban. For this meeting his dusty slippers lie next to his bed, along with a copy of Machiavelli's the Prince and his chillum. His opium pipe is currently in storage, or so he thinks. Karzai has been trying to stay clean and has given it to his most trusty servant for safekeeping.

The servant has dutifully passed it over to the Taliban as proof of Karzai's corrupt and decadent ways. The Taliban, of course, couldn't give two hoots. Opium has made them rich. Alcohol might be forbidden, but there's nothing in the Koran about opium. The Taliban's top brass get stoned with Karzai regularly. Still, they enjoy the servant's tales of Karzai's battle with the pipe.

"He is weak!"

"He is soft!"

"Only Allah makes a man strong. I can give up anytime I want, insh'allah."

"Exactly. As God wills it."

"If God wills it."

"Ha ha ha."

"Ha ha."

"Ha - "

Their laughter spreads and echoes throughout Afghanistan. On the streets of Karbul, a small boy plays with a syringe. In the mountains, a tribesman gazes out over the valley, following the path of an eagle. Karzai shakes hands with Petreus as the Taliban clean their Kalishnikovs. It is a land with God and without God, but one thing is certain.

The Taliban have much patience, insh'allah.

16/8/10

The oil has now been found

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1281877483/1#1

At night Karzai dreams of vast seas of oil, seas that go on forever - to the core of the world and beyond. He watches as the boy of his dreams beckons, pulling him in. The oil covers his limbs and he can't escape. He is drowing. He screams out but no one is there. It is just him and the oil - the darkness that goes on forever, that pulls him down, covering him, drowing him. The darkness calls out: Mr President, Mr President! It taunts him, shrieking, Master! Boss! President of Afghanistan! He is shaking, shaking all over, drowning...

Karzai's servant is tugging on his leg. "Master! The general is here!"

Karzai rouses, his face creased and grey like the detrius that blows in the Karbul streets. "Boy, my pipe..."

"But, Master, I have hidden the pipe. It was your demand."

"I want it now."

"But, Master, you ordered me to refuse it to you."

"I take back the order. Come on."

"Of course, Master, but you ordered me to refuse if you took back the order. I cannot change the order."

"I change the order - get me my pipe."

Karzai's servant does not have the pipe, but he's used to this. Karzai changes his will like the wind.

"I can get the doktor, boss, but the pipe is hidden."

"What? The doktor? Are you out of your mind? Kabesh!"

He pauses.

"Is the general here?"

"Yes, boss. He waits downstairs."

"Bring me my robe and hat. It will be informal meeting. We will have tea."

"Of course, Master."

Karzai knows the next question is dangerous, but he asks it anyway. "Is there anything I need to know?"

"There is a man with him."

"Who?"

"He is business man. He said he is from Haliburton."

"What? Doesn't he know this is Afghanistan, not Iraq?"

"I do not know, boss."

"He's here for what's under the ground. Every man wants what is underneath."

"The newspapers say there is oil underneath, Master."

"I can't stand it. Why did God not give us milk? Or cotton? Why oil?"

"Perhaps he want us to be rich."

"Rich? We don't get rich. THEY get rich. All we get is the Americans and Haliburton."

Karzai's servant tries to lighten his master's mood. "Afghanistan is number one exporter of opium, Master. Number one!"

"Yes..."

Karzai's vow comes back to him - no more opium. For now. For now all he knows is the darkness pulling him underneath. Not milk or cotton; oil, and all it brings with it. Oil spells doom for Karzai. He is not an oil shiek or Mr Ten Percent. Karzai is the President.

Karzai is dispensible.

He also knows how to get his next fix. "What time are the Taliban coming over?"

"Ten o'clock, Master."

"Good. Give me my hat. Let's make this meeting quick."

"There is much oil, master."

Karzai knows. He has seen it in his dreams. "Give me my hat and get out. Yallah! You're useless! You're a waste of space!"

Karzai's servant leaves, but he is not sad. Today he may be Karzai's servant, but tomorrow he may be Mr Ten Percent. Anything could be possible in the new Afghanistan.

Just for a moment, Karzai feels the darkness pulling him down. Abesh! No time for dreams. Today he must meet with the general and Haliburton.

Tomorrow, the future would take care of itself.

19/8/10

Afghan rejection of occupation grows daily

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1282137196/1#1

Karzai knows he is being duped. "The only thing sure in this world, insh'allah, is that you are duped, and on a daily basis" (source: classified CIA document).

The trick, however, is to dupe them back, and well enough to make them think that they know you know you are being duped, but that they don't know that you know you are duping them.

It's an ancient art of posturing and bluff, cleverly employed by Karzai upon the Americans, but ingeniously so by Karzai's underlings upon Karzai. They have learned from the Master, but they have learned through trial and error also. Most of the time, Karzai pretends not to notice, but sometimes he really doesn't notice, and this is evidence of great skill on his underlings' behalf.

"They are killing me, insh'allah. Slowly but surely, we will all perish in this madness. When will it ever end?"

At night, the angel of death whispers in Karzai's ear: "soon, habibi. Soon, it will all be over."

And then? What next? Peace? War? 1000 years of war and struggle?

"All is jihad, habibi, until you are free."

Free? We are never free! I am the president and I am in a cage like a dog!

"Some struggle more than others, dear one. Only through submission does one become free."

Submission? I have submitted! I give everything to the Americans. I give to the Taliban. I give daily to Allah Himself. How can I possibly submit more?

"Submission depends who you submit to, my child."

But...

The angel disappears into mist, and Karzai is alone. Who to submit to? It was a good question. Perhaps Karzai has been submitting to too many. Perhaps Karzai needs to focus his submission. Aha!

But, again, who? These are dark times, surely, and who better to submit to than the angel of death herself?

Since submitting to the Angel of Death, Karzai has found some peace. Not too much, mind you, but enough to get the monkey off his back. Karzai's servant has managed to find his pipe, and Karzai is back on the horse. The Chinaman's nightcap. The Black Nurse.

"Why not?" Karzai asks. "We all will surely die. Why not have a little peace while we still live? God knows how much I have to deal with around here!"

The problem is, the Angel of Death has been asking for more and more. Not content with forty suicide bombers, the names and addresses of key aid distributers to be given to the Taliban, and the pseudenems and locations of key Taliban organisers to be given to the CIA, the Angel of Death comes up with a new demand every day.

"This will be the last time," Karzai tells himself, but he always gives in to the Angel of Death's seductive charms and rhetoric.

"You must live, habibi, for there is nothing surer than death. Live for this day that the Lord has made, insh'allah, and offer it to God."

"Yes, yes, I do."

"Have you said your prayers today, my child?"

"Well..."

"You must pray to God, dear one. It is through prayer that we please Him."

"Yes, I know. I've just had a lot..."

"Now have you done what I asked of you?"

"Yes! But no more, Mistress, please. It is giving me heart arhythmia already."

"You must submit, my dear one. I ask for nothing less than complete obedience."

"But I give and give! The CIA are starting to sniff around, and now the Taliban are getting suspicious! I have to live with these people!"

"This should not be your concern. You must submit and have faith. Only then can you find peace."

"I know..."

"Now. That servant of yours - I want him in the cabinet. I want you to give him, I don't know, Mining and Energy."

"But Mistress, this post is held by a very well connected Pashtun chieftain - he is extremely influential. I cannot take his portfolio away without severe political consequences. He can ruin me!"

"Where is your faith, my child? God gives nothing without obedience."

"I know, I know..."

"Let it be."

The Angel of Death fades into the darkness and Karzai gazes into the night. His servant? Why not his camel? A thousand camels, it would make no difference. That Pashtun could bear a grudge that lights a fire to all of Afghanistan. But that wan't the problem. Already, he had villagers lighting fires in the streets. That Pashtun could set fire to Karzai. Literally.

"Oh, Mother of Death, Angel of Life, whatever will happen next?"

22/8/10

Incident in Afghanistan

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1282344992/26#26

Ah - I see you were on the advisory board for the Vietnam war too, dear. Of course, the carpet bombing there went much further. The enemy were hiding in Cambodia and Laos, and would have been sharpening their bamboo spikes in China too, if the Chinese didn't have all those nasty nukes and a million soldiers to back them up against the US's shag piles. I guess we can't carpet bomb everywhere...

Or can we?

Can I ask though, old boy, apart from assisting the shareholders of companies like Lockhead Martin, what purpose does carpet bombing serve again?

Apart from destroying villages and crops and jungles and fostering groups like the Khmer Rouge, or encouraging the "enemy" to work in ingenious underground tunnels, or creating a resistance that will, as history has shown, become harder and stronger and more mean when you eventually leave a country, say, in 2011?

Don't get me wrong. I love a good carpet bombing as much as the next person. Guernica is one of my favourite paintings of all time. I love the sheer beauty of mass aerial destruction, the dazzling display of technological supremacy, the sight of all those backward, tinted peasants running into the jungle and, just as they get there, being felled by machine gun fire.

I like to watch it on TV.

But apart from the all the pleasure we receive from carpet bombing, what purpose does it actually serve?

It certainly is, old boy. The Taliban obtained a masterful education from the Russians.

Karzai slowly peels his banana. His boy should be doing this. Where is the boy?

Ah, yes. In the Ministry of Mining and Energy, being briefed. Allah be praised, these are dark days indeed. A servant gets to be a cabinet minister - why not send in a dozen apes? A thousand?

Karzai knows that his entire cabinet are apes, but at least they are HIS apes. The boy? Not to be trusted. Rule number one in politics is to never trust your underlings. You can trust your ape effendes because you have certain informations on them. Karzai has informations on his entire cabinet. Corruption, sodomy, murder, drug trafficking, the lot. The worse they are, the more useful they are, it is an old rule of thumb.

Democracy in Afghanistan is just a way for the scum to float to the top. Everyone knows it. If you went into the streets of Karbul and picked a random 20 rickshaw wallahs, porters, tea boys and drug dealers, you'd get a more effective and congenial government than the present one. But no, it could not be done this way. Democracy requires apes, and apes it shall be.

Karzai throws the peel at the wall. Kabesh! Oh, why bother? No one listened anyway.

15/9/10

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1284374008/6#6

America spreads nothing but corruption and chaos

Karzai's brother, Mahmud, swaggers into the Kabul Bank carrying a black briefcase. Dressed in jeans, pointy boots, gold rings and a suit jacket covering a packed holster, Mahmud is ready for action.

"How may I help you, sir?"

"Give me one - no. Five million."

"Do you have an account with us, sir?"

"Abesh! Do I have an account!? Where is your boss?"

"He's currently dealing with another client, sir. If I may be of help..."

Mahmud spits out of the corner of his mouth. "Do you know who I am?"

"You are a customer, sir."

Mahmud studies the teller's face. "Customer."

"May I have your name, sir?"

"You know who the president is?"

"Of course, sir."

"You know who owns this place?"

The teller's jaw drops.

"Please forgive me, sir. I will get the manager."

Mahmud's eyes follow the teller like a crocodile. He pulls out a cigar, bites off the end and lights a match on the sole of his boot. He lights his cigar and drops the match on the marble floor, dead. "Customer..."

Mahmud knows there are no customers in Kabul, only fish. And sharks. Mahmud learned business in the West. In the West they know how to do business. In Afghanistan all they know how to do is sit around drinking tea and smoking hookahs. In the West, Mahmud learned the art of the deal.

The bank manager glides out and offers to greet Mahmud with both arms in the Afghani way. "Mr Karzai, sir!"

Mahmud holds him off with a stare, the cigar smoking between his teeth.

"Allow me to express my gratitude that you are using our humble branch to complete your transactions!"

"Five million. Dollars." He hands the briefcase over.

The teller looks on from behind the counter's bars.

"Of course, Mr Karzai. Immediately. Will you take tea?"

Mahmud sucks his teeth. "Give me coffee. But make it quick."

"Yes, sir. Of course, I must obtain the money. Unless you'd prefer a cheque."

Mahmud eyes the manager like a crocodile.

"We will obtain the bills, Mr Karzai." He turns to the teller. "Bills! Dollars! Run!" He turns to give Mahmud a wide grin. "Come, sir. We will have coffee."

The manager carries Mahmud's briefcase like a Faberge egg. Outside, a security guard squats on the pavement with an old carbine rifle, his epelettes sagging on his ill-fitting sleeves. It is 45 degrees. A beggar, with stumps instead of legs, looks up at the sky. The Americans fly sorties at this time every day.

The sun beats down on the new Afghanistan, a land of customers with hopes and dreams. The teller runs from branch to branch, collecting bills in a sack and overhead, right on time, the silent American planes cast their shadows over the buildings. Five seconds later, as they reach the horizon, their roar cancels out the sound of the Kabul streets.

Yes - it would be alright if they just stayed over there, but no. They have to bring their stinking, ghetto-living, goat-hearding, ways over here too. They call it the spread of Islam.

We've tried to leave them alone, of course. But we must help them develop. If we don't teach them how to do business in a civilized fashion we'll be overun by a world of bazzar touts and camel drivers.

We call it the spread of democracy. If it was up to them, Dubai would still be a desert. But no. Now they have air conditioning. Starbucks. Armani. The goat-hearders have turned into property developers. And they love us for it.

Let's face it. In the modern world, you have a choice: whether to drive a camel or a BMW. This is the beauty of liberal democracy.

Effende, sometimes it is our own words that cause confusion. We must learn to reflect upon our words and deeds in the light of the Prophet's commands, insh'allah.

Allah knows all. As man, we sometimes confuse ourselves with the Almighty. Only through submission and prayer can we come to understand that all mans have the seed of Allah within him.

Karzai learns about his brother's loan on CNN.

"Abesh! Does he think I am running a banana republic here? He is giving me a return of my gastric ulcer already!"

Karzai's manservant, now Minister of Mineral Exploration, goes for the door. "I will get the doktor, Master."

"No! Leave the doktor. Leave me in peace for once. I must pray and go to the Higher Authority."

Karzai's servant is perplexed. "Allah, master?"

"As God will's it, all is one. Now go. Leave me be."

The servant closes the door behind him. After waiting one minute, Karzai opens the door to find the servant, his servant (an undetected CIA plant) and a security guard with a WWI carbine rifle, all trying to listen in.

"Abesh! Jackals! Spies! You think I am a bird in a cage? Enough! Or I'll have you all renditioned to Guantanamo Bay!"

Karzai's staff disperses, leaving him alone. One day, Karzai thinks, Afghanistan will be in the care of these knuckleheads. God help the children.

Karzai lies on his bed and lights a pipe of hashish. Ah, Afghanistan will always have good smoke, at least God wills this. As he blows out a careful plume of blue smoke, the Angel of Death appears.

"Child of God, you are not yourself today."

"How can I be myself, Mistress, when my idiot brother insists on destroying all my work?"

"Again, my child, there are things you do not know. You cannot take the world onto your shoulders. It will give you a gastric ulcer."

"Exactly! That's what I said!"

"See the doktor."

"Are you kidding? He reports to the CIA. Anyway, all he prescribes is paracetamol. What sort of doktor only gives paracetamol?"

"Perhaps he cares for you, my child."

"If he cared he'd give some decent painkillers."

"The aim, dear one, is to cure the source of the pain, not its symptoms."

Karzai is incredulous. "But how can I... ? These knuckleheads, my idiot brother, the Amerikans, the Taliban, the..."

"Submit, my child, and all shall be given unto thee."

"I know! You keep saying! But you don't have to run this place!"

"Calm yourself. Remember that God runs all. We are just his servants."

"Yes, yes, yes..."

"Have you spoken with the Taliban as I requested?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"This is good. Leave your brother. He does God's work."

"He is making himself rich."

"All, by God, deserve to be rich. He is helping our cause."

"Well, that's a relief."

"You are tired, my child. You must sleep."

"I try, I try..."

"I will help you to sleep. Pray for your brother. Pardon him."

"But the Amerikans..."

"The Amerikans will go, my child, just as the Russians before them."

"God knows I want this, Mistress..."

"Good. Now sleep. You must learn not to think too much and let Allah do His work."

The Angel of Death vanishes and leaves Karzai with an overwealming sense of heaviness. The pipe is cold. Karzai places it beside the bed and lays his head on the pillow. He sleeps.

Downstairs, the servants squabble. Outside, the palace walls melt into the haze. In Brussels, Karzai's brother Mahmud, steps from a plane. He will invest in property and become even more rich. But today, for the good of all Afghanistan and the will of God, Karzai sleeps.

Karzai learns to leave all in the hands of God.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/karzai2.jpg


Karzai praises the Amerikans for their good work.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/610x.jpg


Karzai thanks the Taliban.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/hamed20karzai.jpg


Karzai alludes to his relationship with the Angel of Death.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/a03_20059067.jpg


Karzai tolerates his knucklehead guards.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/698137.jpg


Abesh! Out of my sight!

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/hamed201karzai.jpg


The Mistress tells me to leave security in the hands of God. With the knuckleheads I have to deal with, what choice do I have?

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/Gordon-Brown-meets-Presid-001.jpg


Karzai has experienced both the darkness of the abyss and the light of day. He knows God dwells in all things. He isn't choosy.

But how to live? How to deal with the day to day? How to clean up after the knuckleheads that have been placed under your command? Or the Amerikans? Or the Taliban? Or Iran and China waiting in the wings?

Karzai knows that God works through one's actions, but when each move seems cursed and destined to fail, how does one act at all?

To be or not to be - that is the question.

Karzai is happy to submit to God, the Angel of Death, the Taliban, the Amerikans, whomever. But in the end, everything comes back to haunt him. In the end, history shall judge Karzai, not God or the Angel of Death, who history shall easily forget.

Afghanistan does not have the luxury of beach towels. It is lucky to have factories that make artificial limbs. Karzai understands the gravity of his decisions, but he can never know their outcome. This, in the end, is in the hand of destiny.

The Owl of Minerva flies only at the dusk.

Karzai knows this. He has never seen the owl, of course, but each night he sees the sun setting over Kabul.

My friend, Mr Karzi is the US-installed and democratically-elected president of Afghanistan. Not only does he hold the post of head of state, but he must also action and approve the policies of the government - largely installed by Karzi, but on the whole a bunch of knuckleheads.

The question is whether Karzi himself shapes history, or whether history is destined by structures outside his control. Should Karzi focus on the Will to Power, or fate?

Karzai is a Muslim. John Howard was a Christian.

To be honest, I don't think Karzai thinks much about Islam. He just knows the basics - enough to get on with the Taliban.

Mind you, he doesn't mind Drug avenues, but he gets certain underlings to score for him - usually the CIA plants who want to keep him in control.

The doktor is the worst. He likes to see Karzai hanging out - it's a relationship of power and control. Karzai can't stand him.

Afghanistan could do worse than reading Karzai's biography. I've posted exerpts here for us to read. Only by understanding the mind of Karzai can the world come to terms with the issues that face all of us: religion, reading, life, death, fate, existence, you name it.

We need to educate ourselves on the mind of one Hamed Karzai.

The CIA Station Chief reads the latest report. Good. Things are turning out nicely. The doktor seems to be working again, although God knows what he does with his time. There are no golf courses in Kabul.

Not for the locals, anyway.

The doktor is impossible to control, just like everyone else in this godforsaken country. You put them on a comfortable anuity and you'd think they'd work for you, right? Wrong. The more comfortable they get, the less they do for you. The CIA is experienced with this phenomenon, and Kabul's Station Chief is no exception. He was a junior field officer in Panama when Norriega was just a grunt in the army. Thanks to the CIA and the clandestine work of the Chief, Norriega made it into the top job. But then he turned. They always do.

Give them a knife, and they place it in your liver. But if everybody hates Uncle so much, why do they queue up for the knife?

The doktor gets a cool million each year in CIA dollars. In Afghanistan, it's good money. Good enough to build himself a house off the coast of Dubai and keep his wife in Versace burqas. If the CIA dealt in ethics they'd be broke, but its ethical enough. Pharmaceutical companies pay similar money, and what would the doktor do with an Afghani wage, even as Karzai's personal physician?

But he won't work. Getting him to cough up information is one thing, but getting him to keep Karzai sufficiently medicated is another. The information always has to be independantly verified, and Karzai is on and off his meds like an outpatient at Bellview. The doktor says it's Karzai's fault, but the CIA pay him good money to be the doktor.

"You're the doctor. He's meant to be on his medication. If he doesn't take it orally, there are other ways."

"My friend, a president must take it orally. There is no other way."

"Yeah? And how many presidents have you had? I've been through a few and I can tell you, the only way to do it is to hold them down and..."

Luckily, the doktor is saved by the Chief's red phone.

Keeping Karzai happy is an effort of Himalayan proportions. The medication a spit in the ocean. Keeping the rest of Afghanistan unhappy is much easier. Only by keeping Karzai properly medicated and suitably busy can the CIA do its job. Keeping Karzai from slitting his own throat is an effort, but keeping the population hungry and poor is relatively easy. The CIA have experience, of course, but the Russians also made their contribution. Everyone, it seems, has had a hand in the misery of the Afghans, but it does help to have Karzai at the helm.

The doktor spends most of his time in the kitchen, overseeing the staff. Having trained in Marseilles, the doktor sees himself as an expert in food. Placing a spoon to his lips, the doktor winces his displeasure.

"Merde! This is meant to be a consome! No good. Throw it away."

The cook is perplexed. "Away? But Doktor, I must ask why."

"Look here - it is not clear. A consome must shine through."

"Doktor, the guests arrive in 20 minutes - I have no time!"

"Abesh! Do it."

The doktor leaves the kitchen to inspect the waiters and share the misery around. The only people he will leave are the security staff. For some reason, no one ever bothers the security staff. Perhaps everyone understands that security is a task best left to experts. This might explain why the mosques in Kabul are full with people praying to God.

While the doktor does his rounds, the Chief deals with security. The Taliban recently threatened to contaminate Karbul's water supply with LSD. Considering the options, the CIA decided that inaction was the most ideal policy. Anyone who drank the water in Afghanistan was surely already mad, but it was the Psychological Warfare Division who had the final say. A city of hallucinating Afghans would present interesting insights into the functioning of the Muslim brain. Would they see God? How would He appear to such a backward, tinted race? Which dark, primative recesses of the brain would light up with activity? What form would their regression take?

Perhaps the doktor could shine some light in this area. As he makes his rounds through the Presidential Palace, his pager beeps with Karzai's number. The doktor switches his pager to silent and puts it back in his pocket, an old doctor's trick. Nothing to worry about. If Karzai was seriously ill, the servants should call the Amerikan base hospital.

The doktor knows what Karzai wants. He also knows what the Amerikans want. What to do? In his black bag, the doktor has numerous medications. Medications for pain, medications for pleasure, and medications for unhappiness. Karzai wanted all.

The doktor enters his small apartment and closes the door behind him. He slips off his shoes and turns on the taps in the bath. The pager vibrates in his trouser pocket. Abesh! What was the hurry?

The doktor does what the doktor wants. Karzai needed to learn how to wait.

Effende, in our faith, we believe in the futility of words to say anything.

You might consider converting. They'd probably make you a sultan.

23/9/10

Vote rigging in Southern Kandahar

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1285200181

Afghanistan has a unique application of democracy. In Southern Kandahar, the polling officials fill out the votes. Effective!

Many have speculated on the root of this corruption. Some say it is the backwardness of the tinted races and their inability to practice universal suffrage. Too backward and tinted.

Others blame the Amerikans. Before the Amerikans went in, Afghanistan was a free country ruled by a peaceful and loving elite of philosopher kings. Yankee go home!

And there are those who blame Karzai. Everyone loves to blame Karzai. Karzai is the US-installed and democratically elected man of the peoples. Afghanis love their president, and the president loves his peoples. CNN has a few issues with him, but he always wears a nice suit to speak to the media.

So who IS to blame for the corruption in Afghanistan?

- Tony Abbot`s budgie smugglers. Karzai is now going the muslim version, sort of a giant nappy.

Very true, but they seem to value modesty in Afghanistan.

Now I'm sure Karzai could learn something from Tony Abbott.

- Karzai can`t get the lump going.

- Without a four year old boy around.

I believe Karzai had aversion therapy for this. He's been cured. Now he's in the normal range and has a number of six year old wives.

28/9/10

slanderous accusations

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1285589916/7#7

We really need to do something about all these Muslims. They come here, rape our women, and make their own women walk around in big black sacks. They don't shave, but use a lot of aftershave. They set up kebab places wherever you look.

It really gets on my nerves. How dare they?

Exactly. I think it's the failure of liberal democracy to curtail these extremist elements. We need to put up or shut up. Let them know who's boss.

Karzai reads the headlines in the morning's Kabul Post.

"Lies! Slander! A slur on my name!"

His servant is conciliatory. "Shall I call Legal, Master?"

"Legal? Abesh! Are you mad?"

"But Master, I..."

"Rendition them to Guantanamo! Legal. What do you want me to do - sue?"

"Master, I will talk to the Amerikans."

"You want me to take them to a court? Ha! The judges only take Amerikan dollars. Do you see many Amerikan dollars around here? Legal!"

"It was folly, Master, I..."

"Do you think I am rolling in money?"

"No, Master, I..."

"Guess where all the money goes."

"I don't know, Master. Perhaps..."

"Legal. There you have it. Legal have eaten out my heart already. Legal have taken my lungs."

"..."

"I can't breathe anymore. I have heart palpitations. Feel here..."

"Master, I really must speak with the Amerikans..."

"Abesh! Everyone always wants to speak with the Amerikans. That's democracy. Speak to the Amerikans."

"But I must do this rendition. I..."

"Don't talk to Karzai, go and talk to Amerika. Go and meet the general. He will fix the water, shelter, food, medicine. But Karzai? No. Get Karzai to address the Islamic Citizens Guild, the Green Cross, the International Fellowship for Islamic Democracy..."

"Master..."

"Look what it says about me! Inscrutable. What does inscrutable mean?"

"I think it means difficult to reach, Master."

"Me? Impossible! Do I have a phone?"

"Yes, you do..."

"Then call me!"

"The phone is currently disconnected, Master."

"What?"

"You pulled the plug out. It is still to be fixed."

"You see? Knuckleheads. Around me, only knuckleheads. You see what the Amerikans give me? How can I work with this incompetence?"

"You do your best, Master."

"You're right. I do. Now look here - vain. Am I vain? Do I preen myself? Do I spend hours in my closet?"

"Not hours, no, Master..."

"You see? And this - this is what I want retribution over, this slur on my name. It says here that Karzai is on medication!"

"What for, Master?"

"For, er, ill - for the mental problems!"

"Aren't you?"

"Not any more! That doktor, he is useless! He doesn't give me anything!"

"That is clearly not true then..."

"You see? Ah, I give up. What is the point to all this? I might as well give Afghanistan to the Persians. No one would know..."

"The Amerikans would know, Master."

"Abesh! Out of my sight!"

"But, Master..."

"Rendition them to Guantanamo Bay! If you don't, in God's name, I'll take you there myself!"

Karzai has a coughing fit. His servant goes to comfort him, but Karzai gives him the evil eye. Karzai reaches into his pocket for his Ventolin and takes 3 puffs. With a wave of his hand he dismisses his servant, who goes to rendition the American journalist to Guantanamo Bay.

Karzai is defeated already, and he hasn't even finished breakfast. Outside, the peacocks frighten the security guards and sh!t all over the compound. Karzai will forget the article, but his mood will not lighten. Soon, the Amerikans will come for their meeting.

Karzai wonders why he bothers at all.

1/12/10

Karzai is now officially paranoid

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1291176082

News: the wikileaks leaks show US officials think Hamed Karzai is paranoid.

Paranoid about whom, one might ask. The US State Department, the CIA, US Military Intelligence, the Taliban, Iran, China, his party, his cabinet, the opposition, the warlords, the CIA, Karzai's bungling servants who monitor his every word and pass it over to the US State Department, the CIA, US Military Intelligence, the Taliban, Iran, China...

All for a price, of course.

Karzai: "Paranoid? Goodness me! No, I am not paranoid. I leave this to the international press. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen..."

And to his servants: "Abesh! Out of my sight!"

8/12/10

Due process

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1291774874/1#1

It is the midday sleepy time in Karbul. Karzai's manservant stands by the window, watching a fly buzzing around. He is bored.

Karzai is at the internet reading about the Forbidden Truth.

"Look at this - it is all lies!"

"They are lying, Master?"

"No, they are saying it is all lies!"

"The website, Master?"

"No! Everything!"

"Everything is lies, Master? But how can this be?"

"Let me read... They teach the children the untruth, they poison the mind, yallah yallah, ah - the government!"

"The government teaches the lies, Master?"

"They conduct the brainwashing. I think."

"And this is bad, Master?"

"I am not sure. This writings says it is very bad."

"But how can a clean mind be bad? The Prophet says..."

"Abesh! It says criminals and murderers are the most hated. How can it be? Criminals and murderers make the most money. Some of my best cabinet ministers are murderers."

"They should get more money, Master."

"Of course they should. But the Americans won't pay more!"

Karzai is getting himself worked up. "Listen, it says here: 'the justice system seeks no truth, in fact, it is deliberately structured in such a way as to hide the truth.' Can you imagine a justice system which seeks the truth? It would be a laughing stock!"

"Ha ha! You are right, Master. It would be laughed out of court!"

"It says Australia is the most corrupt society of all."

"Australia? What is this Australia, Master?"

"They are like Amerikans, but it says here they are like slaves. Drunkenness, drug-use, endless cycle of child abuse - what is this? Child abuse?"

"Maybe when the child abuse someone, Master."

"They have no self control, these places. It says here the child is a poison container. What is that?"

"Maybe it is like your food taster, Master. But we don't keep the poison in him. We try to stop the poison."

Karzai raises an eyebrow. "What poison?"

"Well, no poison, Master, but if there was poison it would kill him."

Karzai waves his hand in disgust. "Ah! I give up. I tried that Secret - remember? For one week I tried. I wished the Amerikans go home to Amerika and the Taliban be nice. You have to see it in your mind. Well, I saw it in my mind, but the Amerikans are still here and the Taliban are trying to put poison in my food. What to do?"

Karzai's manservant remembers. Karzai had seen the Secret on Oprah. For a week it was all he could talk about. Everyone in the palace was forced to read it. Karzai's cabinet tried to get their heads around it. Karzai worked himself into a frenzy with his mental pictures of the fall of Saigon and amiable Taliban warriors sitting in a circle with Karzai, all sharing chillums and laughing at his jokes.

"I can see it! Listen - the helicopters, they are going."

But alas, the helicopters were not going or coming, they were transporting the wounded into Karbul Base Hospital, four blocks from the presidential palace, same as usual. Karzai gave it up after a week and descended into one of his more sombre moods.

Karzai's manservant turned off the computer. Come, Master, it is time for your sleeping."

"Wake me if something important happens."

Yes, Master."

29/12/10

Karzai Comes Out

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1293589823

US-installed and democratically-elected man of the peoples, Hamed Karzai, has come out as a practicing homsexual.

Mr Karzai believes Afghani men should respect their true inner selves and do jigga jig only with their male counterparts, an internet report disclosed.

"Love is love, and the Prophet teaches that all love is from God," Karzai is reported as saying. "We must liberate the peoples and let all men live their true sexual identities. I have been unhappy for many years - it is like I have been living a lie. I would like to be an example to all men of Afghanistan,and only now, by coming out as it were, can I be happy, and can we all be truly happy as a nation" Karzai is believed to have said.

Karzai would like to unite Afghanistan, a nation torn by factional in-fighting and inter-tribal warfare. It is said that Karzai would like Afghanistan to be the first truly rainbow nation, a nation where difference is embraced, and where all people can be respected and loved for who they are.

- Karbul Gay Times.

- I've always found Mr Karzai to be very attractive. Sometimes he appears in my dreams wearing nothing but his hat/cap/whatever at a very rakish angle and riding a white steed. What a guy (rhymes with bi).

You are lucky. The fact that he is on a horse is a good omen, my friend. If he were on foot, it would be very bad luck indeed. Generally, the appearance of Karzai represents the impending death of a loved one.

A white steed indicates rebirth. You may embark on a new project or journey. This is a good indication for travel.

The angle of the hat is interesting. This represents desire, depending on which side it faces (but people rarely remember directions from dreams). You mention bi. Perhaps this indicates that you would like to experiment sexually with members of your own sex.

You say that you have always found Karzai to be attractive. Ipso facto, I posit that you would like to be "with" Karzai, or men like Karzai, in a carnal liaison.

You may balk at this analysis, however, all the signs point to it.

1/1/11

Karzai Karzai Karzai

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1293879287 - DELETED

Karzai is the US-installed and democratically-elected leader of Afghanistan, as God wills.

As he drives through the Kabul streets at election time, the speakers in his postered van hiss and spit "Karzai Karzai Karzai!"

His leaflets, strewn through the muddy streets of every town in the land, read "Karzai Karzai Karzai!"

Vote for Karzai.

Karzai is God's man in Afghanistan, but the Taliban are pushing a close second. Karzai uses the lectern and the ballot box while the Taliban use AK47s.

Only God decides the true leaders. If you listen carefully, God can be heard in silence.

But throughout all Afghanistan, you can hear the cry of the muezzin, and -

Karzai Karzai Karzai!

4/1/11

Karnal stands for moderator

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1294105723

Brussels: Karnal announced his intention to run for moderator of the Islamic board from his office in Belgium today.

"I've decided to throw my hat in the ring. It will be a democratic process," Karnal said. "Unlike the current system of factional apointees, I believe we need to inject some democracy into the forum - like Afghanistan."

Karnal is believed to be unhappy with the removal of posts, a number of them his. "This has nothing to do with my own posts being sent to a graveyard. It's about freedom of speech. If we can't speak openly on God's own forum, how can we ever hope to enter paradise, insh'allah?"

Karnal is believed to have connections with a number of influential Muslims, among them Mahmood Chalabi and Hamed Karzai.

"We need to revitalise the Islamic board and present a fresh perspective on this most great of world religions," Karnal said. "We can only do this through love, freedom of speech and respect for all peoples."

The current moderator, Abu, was unavailable for comment.

KARNAL WANTS BRAS AND KNICKERS FOR MUSLIM LASSES

Don't burn your bras, ladies, you'll need them if Karnal becomes the moderator of the Muslim board. Self-professed Islamic moderate, Karnal, believes ladies should wear what they like. "Look, if they want to wear a bra and knickers, that's fine with me. If they want to wear a burqa that's okay too," said Karnal from his international headquarters in Brussels, Belgium.

Currently campaining for the prestigious role of Islamic moderator, Karnal, a Pakistani Bastard, believes Muslims want new qualities in their leaders. "Look, we've tried banning things and shutting things down, but it clearly doesn't work. I'd like to hear new voices for change, I'd like to see a thousand flowers bloom."

So would Karnal like to see more Muslim madams in bikinis? "Sure, why not? Allah created the female form and said it was good. I don't think it's so bad myself."

So who will Karnal be giving flowers to for Valentines Day? "Oh, my mum. Definately. She's the only woman in my life right now. But she wears a burqa, thank Allah for that."

- News of the World, London.

KARNAL RECEIVES HIS JUST DESERTS

- [i]Daily Mirror[i]

Candidate for Islamic Board moderator, Karnal, was awarded with an honoury Certificate III in Catering from Bratford Polytechnical College yesterday.

"This is a real honour," Karnal, who graduated from the college in 1998, said. "I haven't been back to these corridors for quite some time. I'll bet they're still cleaning my chewing gum off the benches in the food technology lab."

In breaking news, Karnal is poised to capture the post of Islamic board moderator, with rival candidate, Abu, failing to generate popular support.

"We're all brothers in Allah," Karnal said. "I'm sure I'll need some support in the role - perhaps Abu can do the midnight shift."

Current moderator, Abu, was unavailable for comment.

8/2/11

Karzai 'threatens to join Taliban'

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1271412322/2#2

Karzai is the US-installed and democratically elected leader of the People's Republic of Afghanistan. He is very good man indeed, insh'allah. He is one of us.

Every day he prays to Allah and the Angel of Darkness for peace to descend on the Afghani peoples.

Every day the drones bomb sheep and the landmines blast the limbs off children. The opium caravans travel through the narrow mountain passes, knocking rocks down the steep ravines into the darkness below.

Karzai is the leader of this country - a country neither the British, nor the Russians, nor the Amerikans could tame. A country balancing perrilously close to the edge of darkness, much like Karzai himself.

Karzai's dream is to sew the tapestry of competing forces into a great work of art. The warlords, the Amerikans, the Persians, the Chinese, the Taliban, his own coalition government, all knit together into a rubric of competing and mutual alliances so complex that only Karzai could ever hope to unravel it.

To do this he must trust God - it is the only way - but he can never trust the men in his command. His number one manservant, for example, passes every one of his words and gestures to the CIA, US Army Intelligence, the British Foreign Office, the Taliban and, occasionally, Reuters. The CEO of Oxfam has even been briefed on some of Karzai's more absurd, drug-addled fantasies, which include:

Putting opium in the Taliban's drinking water (absurd because they already smoke it when their superiors aren't watching). Creating a coalition of US interests by bringing the CIA and Army Intelligence together. Creating a coalition of US and Afghani troops, who will be trained and ready to go when the US decide to pull out. Inviting Jim Neighbours, a favourite of Karzai's from his Gomer Pile days, to rally the troops and bring morale through a medley of songs and hits from musicals such as South Pacific, The Sound of Music and Shanti Shanti Shanti, a Bollywood classic loved in Afghanistan (only the last one was Karzai's idea - the idea itself came from Dick Cheney, but was shelved when Neighbours' agent demanded exclusive media rights).

Karzai is in one of his moods. He hasn't been out of bed for 5 days. His manservant enters his room with a tray of readings materials. Karzai puts on his reading glasses and goes through the pile: the usual Koran, Hello magazine, Soap... He hovers over Time, looking to see if there's anything on Afghanistan, but does not look inside. What's the point? They will say what they say, insh'allah, and there's no point worrying.

Karzai does, of course, worry. Karzai does nothing but worry.

"Abesh! Out of my sight with these! Bring me some decent readings materials!"

"You want lookings materials, master?"

"Yes, lookings, not readings. I am too tired to read. I am getting a brain tumour already."

Karzai's servant reaches under Karzai's bed for the girly mags: under-the-counter Indian pornography with photos of fat, sweaty, overly made-up women in their bras and panties. In the back, there are classifieds sections where you can buy the panties. Karzai spends a lot of time with his servants perusing the models and ordering their panties.

"She, she..."

"She, master?"

"No, not she, she looks like Saddam Hussein when they took the rope off."

"Ha ha ha."

"No, it's true. She does. Look."

Karzai's servant looks. She does, of course, bear no resemblance whatsoever to the hung former dictator. Karzai has a tendancy to project his fears onto others. The CIA psychologists call it paranoiac narcicism, but Karzai's servant knows nothing of psychology.

"Yes, master, especially in the eyebrows and mustache. It is... unmistakable."

Karzai peers closely through his glasses. "...Unmistakable. She could be his body double."

"She could give banquets, master."

"She could wave to the peoples from the balcony."

"She could pose for the billboards."

"Abesh!" Karzai makes his choices. "She, she and she. Not her. And bring me Pepsi. My ulcer is playing up."

Outside, the presidential palace melts in the haze. Overhead, the vultures fly listlessly in circles, ever-present, watching and waiting. Perhaps today, a dog will die in the sun. Or a child's limb will be spied on a rubbish heap. Afghanistan, it is clear, offers much for those who watch and wait.

At dawn, the muezzin's call can be heard through the loudspeakers of Kabul. Through the narrow laneways come the sounds of people coughing and spitting up phlegm. Veiled women usher their sleepy children from their homes to prayer, their sandals clip clopping in the early morning rhythm to form the crowds milling at the mosque. Women and children at one entrance, men and boys on the other, the morning chatter of the women fills the air and builds into a crescendo until they are silenced by the morning prayer.

God is great.

The Western embassies are still quiet, but in the Chinese embassy the fax machines spill their endless reams of paper onto the floor, page after page. Here, behind the drab, Soviet-era facade, the five stars looming high on a rusted sign out the front, lies the centre of development in Afghanistan. Here is where the deals are done: a new highway project linking Kandahar to Kabul, mineral exploration schemes, a proposed gas pipeline, perhaps even a railway one day, China is quietly doing what neither the British, Russians or Amerikans could ever hope to achieve.

But China has two tricks up its sleeve: a low profile and mountains of yuan. It also knows who to grease and where to get deals done. While US Aid pours into the coffers of the provincial leaders in the attempt to win hearts and minds, Chinese investment gets the job done. Soon, insh'allah, Afghanistan will join the world. Wires will carry electricity to whomever needs it. Oil will be piped from the ground. Diesel trains will replace pack mules carrying precious commodities to the rest of the world.

God is great.

In Washington, heads feign concern, but there is little they can do. They have their hands too busy with the Middle East to bother putting the reports together from the CIA and Defense Intelligence. The CIA is filled with Ivy League intellectuals who can never agree on anything. Defense intelligence produces satelite photos of what could be anything - if anyone knew how to decipher it. Everyone is too busy managing crisis in their own administration to bother asking questions no one wants to know the answer to.

Just give me the facts.

Which facts would you like?

God is great.

In the presidential palace, Karzai wakes to do a token three-versus prayer and bows down towards Mecca, before he will return to bed and summon his servant. Today, insh'allah, will bring some peace to Karzai. Enough! First his pipe, then his tea and readings, praise Allah he has no meetings with the Amerikans.

God is most infinately great.

Today, as the sun rises over the parapets of Kabul and shines into Karzai's bedroom window, God will smile on him. Karzai taps his forehead on the marble floor and hopes it makes him look devout enough. Abesh! How can the Amerikans ever hope to bring peace if they do not pray?

As the mosques empty into the streets of Karbul, a new day begins. Bakers make and sell bread wrapped in yesterday's newspaper, vegetable vendors hawk their wares, and oxen pulling carts are whipped to go faster into the morning traffic.

Karzai goes back to bed and summons his servant. Eyes peer through a portrait on the wall. What now? What madness will Karzai come up with today?

One thing is most mercifully certain above all else:

God is great.

The cry of Allah Uakbar can be heard from the parapet, resonating in the heart of every man, woman and child in Afghanistan like a bell.

In the cities, swollen with vans, motorcycles and oxen-pulled carts, newspaper vendors on the street corners sell readings materials to the peoples. Allah Uakbar.

In the snow-capped mountains, where the Taliban caravans pass through the steep ancient passes taking opium out and Kalishnikovs in. Allah Uakbar.

In the fields, where the men sit in the shade and the women stand with ploughs in the sun, praying for rain and the safety of their children playing behind the wire. Allah Uakbar.

God is great. And Karzai knows he owes all he has to God. God makes the little children in His image, but He also makes the bombs and mines and acid, thrown in the face of all who cheat death and the force of life itself. God makes all things.

Allah Uakbar.

Exactly. Without God in your heart, each day is a slow death, an endless gasp of repetitive mediocrity.

God is indefinably great.

7/5/11

Karzai threatens to improve public transport

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1304761803

An alarming number of army trucks have been seen coming out of Kandahar recently. What could be happening?

Could public transport in Afghanistan finally be improving?

People are quite disappointed with the existing system.

Can I just say that I'm thoroughly pleased the Transport forum finally has a decent moderator. Kindly maintain a decent standard of transport debate, thank you, moderator.

Keep up the good work!

Me? What about Karzai?

Have you seen his list of readings materials? Hello, Look, Soap. He hardly ever reads Time or Newsweek, but he's in there regularly.

And he's still waiting on the van for elections. Hasn't come yet. Now that Amerika have put Osama in the sea, it looks like Karzai will have to fund his own elections. Kabesh!

An ill wind blows through the Kabul streets. It is night. A pamplet is lifted into the air. The black ink reads "Karzai Karzai Karzai". It is election time. Again.

During the kerfew, those with homes stay inside. On the streets, men wrapped in blankets lurk in the shadows. The muezzin calls through the loudspeakers at midnight, but the night stays dark. An Apache helicopter can be heard in the distance.

Karzai Karzai Karzai: the dawn of a new age in Afghanistan, a timeless land where democracy is a distant dream, a dream for merchants and lawyers in their cheap Russian suits, a dream for the Amerikan generals, who make their plans and wait for the order to surrender.

Karzai Karzai Karzai, who paces in the inner compound and waits for the ads to finish on the cable news channel. "Kabesh! When will it ever end?"

Karbul. 01:34. The Apache has flown off to fight another day. In the streets, the shadows are silent. Dogs bark in the distance. Underneath, in a basement on Karl Marx Street, the counterfeiters print their passports under a lone hanging light. The police have finished their patrol.

The presidential compound stands, like a lone beacon, awake. Just as Stalin's light in the Kremlin stayed on throughout WWII, Karzai works deep into the night.

"Look at this: mentally unstable! Do I look mentally unstable?" Karzai hits the Time magazine with the back of his hand.

"No, Master! You are stable!"

"What does this Time know? Have they interviewed me? Have I met these people?"

"They say CIA source say you are... You know..."

"Exactly! Have CIA interviewed me?"

"No, Master, they do not interview."

"Yes." Quietly, slowly, Karzai looks around the room and puts his finger to his lips.

Karzai checks out the lamp, tapping the bulb with his finger. He then looks into the portrait of Khaled Khan, the famed Afghani resistance leader who faught the British. The general looks back, unflinching.

"Hmm."

"You want Newsweek, master? I can get."

"Hmm? No..."

Karzai moves on to the telephone, picks up the receiver and listens. He holds it up for the room to witness, says "Allah Uakbar" into it and hangs up, satisfied.

"Unstable, eh?" He looks deeply into a vase on the table, pulls out a daisy and smashes it on the table with his fist. He searches through the petals and finds nothing.

"Master, I can get some milk for your ulcer."

"Shhh!"

Karzai peers through the curtains into the night. He is met with nothing but darkness. Karzai turns to the vase and speaks into the flowers.

"These helicopters are giving me tinitus already. Maybe I should join Taliban."

"Master!"

"The Amerikan invaders know my every word and deed. Perhaps I should form alliance with my own people!"

"Master - ha ha! You are making joke!"

"I do not make joke. If I form alliance with Taliban, Afghanistan can be strong again. Maybe make pact with Iran!"

"Master! You cannot say!"

"Friends with China!"

"Master, please!"

"Military training with North Korea!"

"No!"

"Angel of Darkness, give mercy. Come to me in this time of shame. Help me, Mistress, give strength - "

"Come, Master, I give medicine - "

"Heal me, I implore you, descend here now - "

"Master..."

"Give peace, habibi, peace..."

The CIA have heard enough. The interceptor makes a note: "non-pertinent." These days, Karzai is threatening to join the Taliban and calling the Angel of Darkness on a daily basis.

Outside, Karzai's light shines like a parapet over the city of Kabul. The people have made their choice, insh'allah. Karzai is the US-installed and democratically-elected leader of Afghanistan, and all is the will of God.

Karl Marx street is silent, but below, under a lone hanging light, the passports are cut, stamped and held up to the magnifying glass and UV light for aproval. People everywhere should be free, as is the will of God, and everyone who can afford it should be free to come and go, isn't it?

01:54. The Apache helicopter returns to base and is logged by ground staff: all personel present and accounted for.

Tonight, Karbul can sleep in peace, as is the will of God.

Very good question, Dilligaf. If I may say, I believe that it is THE question, a question asked by Karzai on an almost nightly basis. The CIA might mark the intelligence transcripts "non-pertinent", but for others, these questions are very pertinent indeed.

Oh, sure, Karzai gets through the briefings, meetings, speeches and troop inspections like any other president of a democratik nation under God. But he often asks, at the end of a long day, where it all leads. What is the point to it all?

Most leaders have their successes and failures. Some have great success, but are loathed by the media and their own people. Some are out-and-out failures, but project an aura of strength and honour. What to do?

We do not choose our own legacy, it is chosen for us. Our obitiaries will be written by others, and we shall be judged.

Also, Karzai's mode of TRANSPORT is a black, armoured Mercedes Benz, escorted by two four wheel drives and three Amerikan motorcycles with sirens. When Karzai leaves the compound, road blocks are erected and street traffic - pedestrians, mules, trucks, and those handpowered wheelchairs amputees use - is diverted for the presidential convoy.

The only traffic lights in Kabul are on Karl Marx street, but people don't pay any attention to them anyway - if they're working.

What's the point?

14/5/11

Karzai threatens to join Taliban

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1305376797

An ill wind blows through the Kabul streets. It is night. A pamplet is lifted into the air. The black ink reads "Karzai Karzai Karzai". It is election time. Again.

During the kerfew, those with homes stay inside. On the streets, men wrapped in blankets lurk in the shadows. The muezzin calls through the loudspeakers at midnight, but the night stays dark. An Apache helicopter can be heard in the distance.

Karzai Karzai Karzai: the dawn of a new age in Afghanistan, a timeless land where democracy is a distant dream, a dream for merchants and lawyers in their cheap Russian suits, a dream for the Amerikan generals, who make their plans and wait for the order to surrender.

Karzai Karzai Karzai, who paces in the inner compound and waits for the ads to finish on the cable news channel. "Kabesh! When will it ever end?"

The CNN station break ends, as all does. Karzai can't find his remote control. "Kabesh! I want the power!"

His manservant appears. "Power, Master?"

"My... my, you know..."

"Master - here." The servant has hidden the remote control. Again. One day Karzai will fire him. Once, he would have buried him up to his neck in the desert, and...

"You want to change, Master?"

"Change? Out of my sight! Here - this volume. These helicopters are giving me a brain tumour already."

Karzai's manservant turns up the volume. Outside, in the ink black sky, the Apaches shine searchlights on the Karbul streets. A helmeted soldier with night vision goggles takes a drag on his cigarette and drops it into the night.

Out in the alleyways and streets below, Karbul tries to sleep.

Karbul. 01:34. The Apache has flown off to fight another day. In the streets, the shadows are silent. Dogs bark in the distance. Underneath, in a basement on Karl Marx Street, the counterfeiters print their passports under a lone hanging light. The police have finished their patrol.

The presidential compound stands, like a lone beacon, awake. Just as Stalin's light in the Kremlin stayed on throughout WWII, Karzai works deep into the night.

"Look at this: mentally unstable! Do I look mentally unstable?" Karzai hits the Time magazine with the back of his hand.

"No, Master! You are stable!"

"What does this Time know? Have they interviewed me? Have I met these people?"

"They say CIA source say you are... You know..."

"Exactly! Have CIA interviewed me?"

"No, Master, they do not interview."

"Yes." Quietly, slowly, Karzai looks around the room and puts his finger to his lips.

Karzai checks out the lamp, tapping the bulb with his finger. He then looks into the portrait of Khaled Khan, the famed Afghani resistance leader who faught the British. The general looks back, unflinching.

"Hmm."

"You want Newsweek, master? I can get."

"Hm? No..."

Karzai moves on to the telephone, picks up the receiver and listens. He holds it up for the room to witness, says "Allah Uakbar" into it and hangs up, satisfied.

"Unstable, eh?" He looks deeply into a vase on the table, pulls out a daisy and smashes it on the table with his fist. He searches through the petals and finds nothing.

"Master, I can get some milk for your ulcer."

"Shhh!"

Karzai peers through the curtains into the night. He is met with nothing but darkness. Karzai leans over the vase and speaks into the flowers as if he were giving a speech.

"These helicopters are giving me tinitus already. Maybe I should join Taliban."

"Master!"

"The Amerikan invaders know my every word and deed. Perhaps I should form alliance with my own people!"

"Master - ha ha! You are making joke!"

"I do not make joke. If I form alliance with Taliban, Afghanistan can be strong again. Maybe make pact with Iran!"

"Master! You cannot say!"

"Friends with China!"

"Master, please!"

"Military training with North Korea!"

"No!"

"Angel of Darkness, give mercy. Come to me in this time of shame. Help me, Mistress, give strength - "

"Come, Master, I give medicine - "

"Heal me, I implore you, descend here now - "

"Master..."

"Give peace, habibi, peace..."

The CIA have heard enough. The interceptor makes a note: "non-pertinent." These days, Karzai is threatening to join the Taliban and calling forth the Angel of Darkness on a daily basis.

Outside, Karzai's light shines like a parapet over the city of Kabul. The people have made their choice, insh'allah. Karzai is the US-installed and democratically-elected leader of Afghanistan, and all is the will of God.

Karl Marx street is silent, but below, under a lone hanging light, the passports are cut, stamped and held up to the magnifying glass and UV light for aproval. People everywhere should be free, as is the will of God. Everyone who can afford it should be free to come and go, isn't it?

01:54. The Apache helicopter returns to base and is logged by ground staff: all personel present and accounted for. Lit by the landing base lights, the pilot and his crew remove their helmets and walk back to their huts. Mission accomplished.

Tonight, Karbul can sleep in peace, and all is the will of God.

Take rest, habibis, take rest now. Tomorrow will be the new day in Afghanistan.

31/5/11

NATO terrorist bombings push Karzai to the edge

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1306700204/14#14

My frien, Karzai is the US-installed and democratikally-elected president of the People's Republik of Afghanistan. He rules by the very hand of Gud.

Men hurt Allah by being mean to His friends. Do not commit blasphemy, my friend, praise Him, praise Him. May you live by the prophet's every word, insh'allah, and let the sun shine on all.

Karzai, by the way, enjoys his omelettes yolk-free. The Doktor has him on a low-cholesterol diet.

"Hey! I ordered egg white!"

"Is powdered egg, Master. Very good. From Amerikan Army - like in M*A*S*H."

"Kabesh! Out of my sight!"

It is a nice day in paradise. Allah is looking through the window at the Earth below, accompanied by one of his trusted angels. He is sad.

"Look at these peoples, bombed and blown all over the place. These Amerikans have been at it again. When will they ever learn?"

"They do not learn, Master. The souls are coming in now. They are very sad."

"Make sure they are comforted. We do not want a repeat of that September 11."

"Yes, Master, it will be done. Shall we smite these Amerikans?"

"No, leave them be for now. They shall receive their justice, insh'allah."

On Earth, Karzai gets off the phone to NATO.

"These Amerikans have been at it again! That's it. This time, I am really going to do it!"

"Join Taliban, Master?"

"Kabesh! This time I join Amerika."

"But, Master, you are already with Amerika. You are the US-installed and democratikally-elected president of Afghanistan."

"This I know, but these Amerikans will stop at nothing. Perhaps we need to join forces to kill Taliban and all forces of terror."

"But, Master, these Amerikans make terror. They bomb our people for nothing!"

"Exactly. Angel of Darkness has spoken. We need to make pact with Amerika."

But you have pact already."

"I mean real pact. We should keep Amerikan soldier in Afghanistan. Who knows what these peoples were doing in mountains?"

"Master, they were goathearders! They do nothing!"

"Maybe they make bomb. Maybe they try to kill Amerika."

"Master, this is not possible. Amerika kill the innocent peoples."

"Bah! Who knows who is innocent before God? Angel of Darkness says..."

The Doktor appears at the door.

"Er... Doktor! Come in! Is so happy to se you."

"Salaam Aleikum, Mister President, may God be with you. Forgive me for dropping in without notice. Have you heard?"

"Ah! Is terrible! These goathearders. They hide the terrorist. Is very sad."

"Hide terrorist? Mr President, they were innocent. Amerika bomb them for nothing."

"Kabesh! These Amerikans! Still, Angel of... Er, Amerika... I mean NATO say they..."

"Mr President, who is president of Afghanistan? NATO?"

"Er..."

"Amerika?"

"No... I, er, am officially, well, technically, the..."

"It is you, Mr President. The Afghan peoples elect you to rule over them. It is democracy, Mr President. You are - how to say - Chief of Staff."

"Yes, I..."

"Not Amerika, not NATO, it is you."

"Well, of course, but there are other forces, there are..."

"The peoples need you, Mr President. You look tired. I should give you the booster."

"No, no, is fine. I don't need..."

"Come. I am the Doktor. I give shot."

The Doktor prepares his shot as Karzai's manservant looks out the window. Praise Allah someone is able to take control. The Doktor jabs Karzai sharply in the thigh.

"Kabesh!"

"Excuse me, Mr President. Sometimes the medicine is painful to administer."

Karzai slinks into an armchair, takes off his reading glasses and rubs his eyes. The shot has taken effect.

"Now, Mr President, there is only one solution to the problem, it is so."

"I, er..."

No more Amerika, no more NATO, only one group is worthy of your support. You know who I mean."

"Yes, yes..."

"President Hamed Karzai must join Taliban."

"But I already join. I have card somewhere in the draw."

"Must really join Taliban. There is no other choice."

"No other choice... But I must do business. I must keep Afghanistan going!"

"Yes you must. You are the President. Only way to keep Afghanistan going is to defeat Amerika. We must have justice. We must have order. Allah's will must be restored!"

"I kniow, I know..."

"Also, Taliban is very good for business. Insecurity is best form of security. Is this not so?"

"Yes. There is much order in chaos."

"It is so. Now. I go. Your servant here will assist you. You must sleep, Mr President. Sleep. You are feeling so very tired, is it not?"

"Yes."

"You will join Taliban. We must make order. Global trade is in recession. Amerika must have the investment, true?"

"Yes, Doktor."

"And Afghanistan must get aid, is it not?"

I don't know how we'd live without it."

"This is true, insh'allah. Now you must sleep. Sleep, and let the will of God be done in Afghanistan. Sleep, and be friend with Taliban in your dreams."

Karzai sleeps. The Doktor gives his servant a look and leaves with his black bag.

In paradise, Allah looks down and sees the world turn. He is sad, but knows that justice will be restored, the vast wheel of fate grinding and relentless in its eternal motion.

Today, Amerika kills civilians in Afghanistan. Tomorrow, roadside bombs will kill coalition soldiers. Karzai will give a press conference. Newspapers in the West will sell. Amerikan defence contractors will pitch for new tendors, the aid will continue to flow, and in the mountains, the caravans will continue their trail. Weapons will come in, and opium will go out, the centuries old wheel of fate turning through the lives, deaths and struggles of all.

How can men hurt Allah? By obeying the wheel of their fate. Allah looks down on Karzai sleeping and wonders if he will ever wake up.

Karzai is at the edge, friends. The Doktor has given him a shot. What will happen next to Karzai? What will happen to the peoples of Afghanistan?

Stay reading, friends, and remember, for the most flavoursome cigarette, smoke Camels - now in a special new hard pack. Camel, the GI's favourite smoke, the ships of the desert.

In the mountains west of Kandahar, the Taliban, as usual, are waiting. Mullah Khaksar Akhund, a Taliban agent and friend of Karzai, is drinking goat's milk tea. His satelite phone rings. Akhund, panicking, spills his cup in the dirt.

"Kabesh! This thing is maddening! What to do?"

Hilell, a 19 year old Pakistani youth, takes the phone. He has studied in the West. He has an Advanced Diploma in IT from the Bradford Polytechnic, UK. He is overly qualified for the Taliban.

"Already I tell you this! Why don't you listen? Is so easy - you just need to press button. Look - "

"Give me. You should respect your elders! This?"

"Yes! Already I tell one hundred times!"

"Kabesh!" Akhund grabs the phone and answers. "Ah, it is you, beloved! Salaam Aleikum, my brother Karzai. It is long time!"

Karzai's voice crackles from space. The mountain of Lakshar Gar is only a few hundred kilometers from Kabul as the crow flies, but it is far away by phone, and many weeks by truck, mule and foot through the bombed roads and steep mountain passes.

"Too long, my brother. How is business where you are?"

"Ah! God is good, Hamed, but it is cold at night. I am not used to this living. I think I am city man by nature, insh'allah."

"Ha! I too, brother Khaksar. Still, is good you are doing God's work. We must meet for tea soon. I am so lonely in this place."

"You are fortunate, brother Hamed. Here, I can't get away. And the young - " Akhund glares at Hilell. "Such little respect for their uncles."

Hilell is smoking a filterless Camel. He spits a long streak of saliva into the dust.

"Alas, Khaksar, we must have patience. So much war, so much pain. We must build the New Afghanistan for such as these."

"Kabesh! They are spoilt! They refuse to learn! When the Taliban was..."

"Listen, this I must discuss."

"Allah Uakbar! You want to join the jihad again, brother Hamed?"

Karzai's voice is distant and hollow. "We make jihad in many ways, brother. Anyway, I cannot talk. We must have tea. Can you come to Kabul?"

Akhund brightens at the idea of returning to Kabul. "But of course!" He sees Hilell sullenly digging a hole in the dust with the barrel of his Kalishnikov. He hits him on the back of the head. "Kabesh! Stop being a fool!"

Akhund speaks into the phone. "Sorry, beloved, not you. It is these boys. They are giving me an ulcer already."

"Ah, God is great, Khaksar, he protects the children and fools."

"Ha ha. This is true, insh'allah. You want I should come to Kabul?"

"Yes. Now listen..."

Karzai makes the plans for his friend's return to Kabul. The ex-commerce minister of Afghanistan under the Taliban, Akhund denounced the Taliban and has backed Karzai since 2002 - officially. Unofficially, Akhund is Karzai's man in the Taliban. Still, as little as he knows about commerce, Akhund is no Kalishnikov-slinging Taliban fighter. Akhund is a political player, and he relishes the opportunity of returning to politics, which in Afghanistan means making millions of US dollars and living in a fortress to avoid the attempts on your life.

In the presidential palace, Karzai closes his mobile phone and keeps up his pace on the Treadmaster. Enough is enough. Karzai is going places. Soon, he will avenge the death of his peoples and bring insecurity to Afghanistan again. Once again, the aid dollars will flow and Karzai may even get the bunker the Amerikans have been promising for years.

The Doktor will be pleased with him. Just think: only yesterday, the Angel of Death was telling him to support Amerika. Now, Karzai will pull a coup de'tat and join the Taliban. Ah! Only in Afghanistan. Wait until the Angel of Death hears. The Angel of Death will...

Oh.

What has Karzai done? What will he tell the Angel of Death? How will he cover his tracks? You've really done it this time, Karzai. Finally, they will catch up with you. You can't get out of this. This time, you've landed right in the goat's head soup.

Karzai stops the Treadmaster and claps his hands to summon his servant. He wipes his face with a towel. How can he keep going like this?

In Fort Worth, Texas, Second Warrant Officer, Walden Schmidt, marks the satelite capture "pertinent." He will send the call by email to his colonel, who will cross reference the intel with other calls captured in Afghanistan. Such "hard intelligence" in the War On Terror will then be referred to the CIA, who the Army believe, will sit on it and do nothing. If the colonel believes the information is good, they will send a drone in to do business. The CIA station chief in Kabul will then complain to the army about interfering on their patch and start an argument at the next hearing of the senate standing committee.

In the presidential palace, Karzai sweats. In the mountains west of Kandahar, Akhund makes plans for his trek to Kabul. In Fort Worth, Texas, the colonel gives orders for another drone attack. Karzai is right. Afghanistan will soon be insecure again, but it is business as usual.

Two hours after dawn, the drone strikes, killing three Taliban and six goatherders. It is a victory for the US Army in Fort Worth, Texas; a surgical strike. In Kabul, the CIA station chief is angry.

"Look, I've already told you - we've got operatives working in those mountains! You need to clear these strikes with us first! I can't begin to tell you the mess this puts me in!"

The Army Intelligence officer is philosophical. "I can understand the position you're in, and I'm glad none of your men were killed, but you've got to understand our side too. We're in a war here. Those folks up there are the bad guys. We've got to be seen to be doing something here."

"Be seen? Jesus Christ - "

"Look, we've just taken out a Taliban stronghold. That's a bodycount of nine. That we know of. You want us to just sit back and take it from these hajis? We're not in the business of telling the enemy when we're gonna kill him. This is war."

"And we're meant to be on the same side."

"We are on the same side, goddamnit. As far as I know, none of your men were in there."

"As far as you know - I haven't heard anything back yet."

"There were no American bodies, son."

"We don't use American bodies."

"Well as far as I can see, that makes it a clean kill. That's nine less hajis that we have to deal with. And that makes it even for the three of ours they took out in that carbomb. I've got an inbox of unanswered congressmen's emails for that one."

"Look, all I'm saying is run it past by us first. I'm not asking for the world here, just - "

"Okay, son, I'll see what I can do. If that's everything..."

The station chief sighs. "Thanks for your time, Colonel..."

Mullah Khaksar Akhund makes his way down the mountain by mule. His offsider, Hilell, is walking next to the mule with a Kalishnikov slung over his shoulder. Hilell is talking about life in the UK.

"There is meat for every meal. Beef. The girls there are very strict..."

"This in England?"

"In Luton, yes. Very religious place. If you don't go to mosque, they come after you."

"You go anywhere else? You see London? Buckingham Palace?"

"Oh, no. One time I want to try fish and chip, but English curry is better. All is hilal."

Akhund hears something. "Keep quiet! You hear?"

"No..."

"Sounds like bomb."

"No bomb here, boss. Is mountain. Nothing here but vulture."

"I'm sure I hear..."

"Come, we go. We must meet truck before dark, then get to Kandahar. Is long way."

The mule stops abruptly and refuses to go any further.

"Kabesh! What is wrong with this thing? Hey - stop! Pull this donkey!"

Hilell pulls the reigns in vain. "I can't pull - he won't move!" The mule's eyes are blank, staring into the distance.

Akhund is perplexed. "What is problem? These mules know the mountains well. Why he doesn't go?"

Hilell stops and lights a Camel. "Maybe he doesn't like the mountains."

"Kabesh! Maybe he hears something."

Akhund and Hilell are trapped on the steep mountain pass, the mule refusing to move. On the other side of the mountain, the drone passes into a cloud. In an office in Fort Worth, Texas, the controller scours the monitor for anything that moves. On a mountain so quiet you can hear the baby eagles rustle in their nests, the drone leaves in deadly silence.

As the sun reaches its zenith in the noon sky, Akhund and Hilell decide to pray. Their president, Karzai, in the nation's capital, will join them, a nation that lives in faith and hope for each new day. Akhund and Hilell have used up one of their lives - and life in a land where life is cheap. Whatever tomorrow holds - life, death, or more of the same, today is here. Today we can live, effendes, for today is all we have in our sites.

What will happen next, friends? Will Mullah Khaksar Akhund and Hilell reach Kabul? Will the CIA station chief get his revenge? Will Karzai manage, once and for all, to join the Taliban and make his jihad against Amerika?

Stay reading, friends, and remember, for the cleanest, brightest teeth, brush with Darkie toothpaste.

Did you know?

Karzai was knighted by the Queen in 2003. He is an Honorary Knight Grand Cross of the Order of St Michael and St George.

So that's "Sir Hamed" to you, thank you.

After the noon prayer, Karzai rests. Karzai is trying to lose weight, and will not take lunch today. Instead, he takes a small package out of his desk drawer. He unwraps the Persian silk and finds his pipe. He shakes the cloth and a matchbox-sized portion of black tar opium wrapped in cling wrap lands on the table. Allah Uakbar, there is enough left for a couple of days.

Karzai packs the pipe, pushing the opium down with a burnt match. He lights up and draws the blue smoke into his lungs, blood and mind. God is great, there can be no doubting it. God put such things on the earth for men to enjoy. Karzai has always had a libertarian bent.

Karzai feels the smoke entering his body, building up in his stomach with a warm glow and flowing into his arms and legs. Ah, the problems of Afghanistan can wait, insh'allah. Business is coming along and the Taliban will wait. Karzai forgets that he ever worried at all.

As the room fills with the sweet-smelling smoke, a cloud passes over the Presidential Compound. Outside on the parapet, a lone crow calls. To Karzai, it sounds like Allah Uakbar, but the crow speaks a language of his own. Wah wah ah wahk. All who love God shall receive His blessings, insh'allah.

The crow flies off, leaving Karzai alone. As Karzai blows a precious plume of blue smoke across the room, the Angel of Darkness appears.

Karzai drops his pipe.

"Mother, it is you!"

"Yes, my child, I am here once more."

"Blessings, Mother, peace be upon you. You are most welcome here." Karzai makes a toast with the empty teacup on his desk, holding it above his bowed head with both hands. "Offerings to you, Mother, offerings and blessings."

"I do not want your blessings, child. You have been a bad boy."

"Mother! I have been good! I have been working as you say. I have been playing both sides in a masterful two-step shuffle. It is a work of genius, let me tell you, a plan I..."

"You have disobeyed your orders. This is not your plan to make. I also have orders, child, as all do. We must have victory."

"Victory, Mother?"

"An appearance of victory. Amerika must save face. Amerika must have peace with honour. This is the order that must be implimented."

"This, Mother, I can do. Afghanistan is a hall of mirrors. We can make it look any way you like, as long as the image repeats itself forever."

"Nothing is forever, child. The mountains, the vultures, Afghanistan itself, all will turn to dust. It is the wheel of fate, insh'allah."

"Afghanistan has always resisted, Mother. This we can all do."

"Your peoples may do this, but your victories and your failures will come and go like the waters of the Indus. At times you will be swollen and your banks will burst, at others you will be as dry as paper. Your toil shall amount to nothing."

"But our will, Mother, the will of the peoples..."

"Your will is as of dust. It is made of nature herself. Families, tribes, nations, dynasties, all shall melt and join rivers like the Himalayan snow."

Karzai puts his pipe down on the desk. "Then why should I act at all? Why should I do anything?"

"We all have our orders, my child. Our will is not ours. We must act, insh'allah, without thought for fruit. The harvests will come, or they will not come. All is the will of God."

Karzai has his face in his hands. "Then what should I do? I have no will left anymore. I do not know. I know nothing, nothing..."

"This, habibi, is the place for all work to start."

"So what do you want me to do?"

The Angel of Death explains to Karzai what he must do, then covers him with a shawl of sleep. Karzai, as ever, is alone.

In his dream, Karzai sees the New Afghanistan, a place of vast riches. City lights, billboards, airport hotels, vast machines in the desert turning rocks into Amerikan dollars.

When he awakes, his servant is whispering in his ear: "Master... Master... Master..."

"Kabesh! Whatever now? What is it you want?"

"You have a visitor, Master."

"A visitor?"

"It is Mullah Khaksar Akhund. He has come long way from Lakshar Gar."

"Allah Uakbar!" Karzai fans the air with his hand and wraps up his pipe. "Send him in. Bring tea. Hurry hurry!"

"Yes, Master."

Karzai's servant leaves the room. It is Afghanistan. He is not used to hurry. As Karzai slowly awakens, he wonders how he will use Akhund to fulfill the Angel's orders.

As the afternoon sun streams in through the shutters, the sounds of the Kabul traffic can be heard from the streets below. Outside, on the streets, Kabul performs its will. In the villages and towns, harvests come, or don't come. Last Spring's snow flows through the Kabul river into the Indus river system of Central Asia.

The Angel of Darkness is correct. In Afghanistan, as in the entire world, all will flows and merges with the will of God. Karzai has his orders, as all do, but are his orders the will of God or the work of Satan himself?

We shall find out all in time, friends.

Yes, friends, keep reading and we shall find out more together. The Angel of Darkness has forgiven Karzai, but what of God Himself?

For all your prayer needs, come to Hassan and Sons. Rugs 50% off! Prayer shawls 50% off! Books and beads discounted!

Sale ends soon, insh'allah.

1/6/11

Getting out of Afghanistan

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1306906108/5#5

Hamed Karzai has a nice holiday in Bali. No problem. Sunny beaches, massage, chicken tikka. Karzai even got a tattoo - he got the Chinese character for luck on his shoulder.

Karzai always feels refreshed after a few days in the sun.

5/6/11

The Kill Team

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1306810290/30#30

Yeheshua is prophet of Allah. Yeheshua want everyone to forgive. Forgive the sinner, do not stone the lady. Ha! This is no good, my friends.

Ask Yadda, he will agree. He is the karmik Christian. He want eye and tooth.

This is good, my friends. We must kill and take tooth. God is severe God, is not good to forgive. Yeheshua is nice but is not Gud.

We must kill the Christian, friend.

My frien, Islam agrees with you. The fear of Lord is to hate evil.

Islam hates evil - Yadda karmic Christianity hates evil. You see? All is one.

There is no Gud but Allah, friend.

Alas, effende, life is futile and meaningless. I must deceive myself.

Kabesh!

My frien, temperature of stone does not matter. You must pick small stones so infidel does not die straight away.

Karzai threatens to join Taliban

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1309484333

The Kabul CIA Station Chief, code-named Garry, is not amused. When the troops leave, it'll be his arse on the line. Or his replacement. Garry has enough leave to make it through to retirement if he chooses to go, but it would be nice to have one last victory to end on a high note.

God knows the Joint Chiefs of Staff have been pushing for one.

But you know what? Fvck them. What have they ever done for Garry? The CIA always has its arse on the line. The White House, the generals, none of them listen. Sure, there's the closed congressional Intelligence Committee back in Washington - they listen. But that's 8 men in the whole of America. And if the political winds change...

Garry knows he's alone. There's only one man Garry can talk to, only one man who will listen, who knows exactly the situation Garry and the whole state of Afghanistan is in.

Karzai presses the remote control of the A/C. Nothing. "Kabesh!" He claps his hands for his manservant, who appears too quickly.

"Allah Uakbar! You are giving me a heart attack!" He hands him the control. "Here. Fix. This place is falling apart. These Amerikans promise me a bunker. Look at me here! Anyone can attack! Afghanistan is on a knife edge. The Amerikans now want to make friend with Taliban - who can fix this?"

Cool air blows into the room. Karzai's manservant has fixed the A/C. "Only you, Master."

"Exactly! The Amerikans want to make Northern Alliance - remember? Who fixed this?"

"You, Master."

"Yes. And the tribal warlords - many different languages and tribes in Afghanistan! I give each a little power. Give some, take some, give a little more. It gives me an ulcer already! And the contracts - all those Amerikan dollars. I keep none for myself. None! Well, a little for a raining day, but nothing in my own bank account. Now - "

The phone rings.

"Ah, this country, it will bring about my early demise, I tell you." Karzai picks up the phone. "Yes?"

The Presidential Palace in Kabul uses an ageing switchboard even the Russians didn't replace. They didn't replace it because the old system made it easier to monitor. The problem with this was that communication sometimes didn't happen at all, giving them less to monitor. Give some, take some, take a little more. In Afghanistan, there is much faith in God.

"What? I can't hear! Speak up! Who?" Karzai looks at his manservant. "I can't hear."

"Shake phone, Master."

"What?"

"Shake!"

"Ah! Nothing works! Karzai shakes the receiver, then speaks into it. "Yes? Ah - put him on."

It is the CIA Station Chief, aka Garry. Karzai performs his specialty, which is turning on the charm.

"Ah, Garry, is so good to hear your lovely Amerikan voice! We were just discussing the great work you do in this country. It will be so sad to see you go."

Garry is taken aback, which is another specialty of Karzai's. "Sorry? What have you heard?"

"Nothing, Garry! Nothing at all! I just assume, you know, now that Amerika withdraws its troops, now that we talk with Taliban, now we are all friends again... You, er..."

"Mr President, let me assure you, the CIA doesn't pack up and leave. We're going to be in this country a long time. That, you can bank on."

"Ah, Garry! Ha ha. That, I already bank on!"

"Exactly. We need to focus on the long term here. That's why I called."

"Let me assure you, Garry, it is God's will I am president today. Tomorrow, who can tell?"

"That's right. But if you'll let me get to the point, Mr President, we need to speak with all parties. Do you understand me? We need to organise a meeting."

Garry is aware that every word he speaks with Karzai is being beamed by satellite to Defence intelligence in Fort Worth, Texas, where it will be marked "pertinent", transcribed, and issued to all the Intelligence brass in Washington. Clearly, an alliance between Karzai and the CIA is feared more there than an alliance between Karzai and the Taliban which, of course, is a relationship that has always had its ups and downs.

Karzai thinks out loud. "A meeting. I see. You don't want I should just speak with you, then speak with them, back and forth like that, making plans as usual, Garry?"

"Look, Mr President, we cannot be making plans as usual. These are strange times we live in. The military option, as you know, is not so viable anymore. We need to work on the new order."

"Order? Ha ha, that would be new in Afghanistan, Garry."

"The emphasis was on the 'new', Mr President."

"Yes, yes, I understand. I can organise. Your men - they can pay?"

"We can pay, but the budget's being cut. I can't promise to be as generous as usual."

"Ah! But the percentage..."

"Your percentage will be the same, Mr President - if we get the right contacts."

"Good! Then it is fixed. I will get the contacts if you get the, er... Garry, they are liking the gold right now. They are not so pleased with the Amerikan dollars."

"Mr President, where the hell am I going to find gold in Kabul?"

"Okay, okay! I am just saying. I can get the best price, you know."

"It's dollars, Hamed."

"No problem! I will see you when, Garry?"

"I'll contact you through Mahedresh."

"Who? Oh, him! Yes, of course." Karzai eyes off his manservant. "He is useless, but he can manage that, I think."

"Excellent. Thank you, Mr President."

"Thank you, Garry. You are the best man in the CIA. The best in Amerika!"

And Karzai, insh'allah, is the best president in Afghanistan.

Karzai is definately the best president in Afghanistan. On radio, on cable television, on pamphlets in Pashto and Dari dropped by the Amerikan bombers throughout all Afghanistan.

KARZAI KARZAI KARZAI.

Vote for Karzai.

Put Afghanistan first on ballot. Put thumbprint next to picture of Great President, Hamed Karzai.

Vote for democracy! Vote for Karzai!

Vote for Taliban!

Kabesh! Vote for Karzai, effende, it is best for you.

Attention: Colonel Schwartz, Army Intelligence Analysis Unit, Fort Worth, Texas.

Briefing: PERTINENT.

Code#: C01092878-06272011

Source: satelite phone capture. CIA operative AKA "KARNAL" (Pakistani national)/Kabul CIA Station Chief AKA "GARRY"; Kabul, Afghanistan.

GARRY: Yes?

KARNAL: Chief?

GARRY: I don't know what you mean.

KARNAL: Is Karnal, Chief.

GARRY: Follow the protocol, Karnal.

KARNAL: Sorry, Chief - ah, Garry. Is nice weather in Kabul?

GARRY: The weather is hot for this time of year, but it is good for the wheat.

KARNAL: I see. Er... The crop is good. Insh'allah... Er...

GARRY: Keep going.

KARNAL: ...I forget.

GARRY: "The harvest will be plentiful."

KARNAL: Yes, yes. Harvest will be plenty for all.

GARRY: Stick with the program, Karnal. Now what have you got for me?

KARNAL: News from Kandahar, Chief - er, Garry. I...

GARRY: You're breaking up there.

KARNAL: Sorry. Can you hear now?

GARRY: Yeah.

KARNAL: Mullah Khaksar Akhund is back with Taliban unit in Lashkar Gar.

GARRY: Good. Has he delivered yet?

KARNAL: Cash. Much cash, Garry. So much I can't say. Maybe millions.

GARRY: That's good, Karnal.

KARNAL: Much plastic explosives also. Maybe thirty donkeys.

GARRY: Right. How're they treating him up there?

KARNAL: There is trust. All are one. They kill a sheep, give him party.

GARRY: He's an important man.

KARNAL: He speaks of Karzai, Chief. He says money is from the president.

GARRY: Good, good. How'd they take it?

KARNAL: They don't like Karzai, but they take the money.

GARRY: What did they say about Karzai?

KARNAL: They say he is a crazy man. They say he has been programmed by CIA - like, er, mind control. Many men know him from the Russian times. They say he is not the same man.

GARRY: He isn't. Everybody knows that.

KARNAL: Yes, but some think he is really not the same - that maybe Amerika kill Karzai and change him with different man.

GARRY: They can believe what they want. They've got the explosives, they've got the cash. With that, they can stock up on ammunition. How're their weapons holding out?

KARNAL: Same same. Those Russian guns last a long time.

GARRY: How are the drones?

KARNAL: Drones kill some last week, but they were villagers. The caves are good protection. When they come to the village, they dress like goatherder. If they are careful, there is no problem.

GARRY: Okay. You looking after yourself?

KARNAL: Sure. I do political work in other countries also - outsourcing. England, Canada, Australia...

GARRY: Well, you stay working for Uncle Sam. You stay safe out there, Karnal. We're counting on you. Stay away from those drones.

KARNAL: No problem. The Taliban, they try to shoot the drone. Stupid! They end up shooting you.

GARRY: Alright, I gotta go. Remember the protocol, Karnal. Er, you've still got your capsule, right?

KARNAL: Sure.

GARRY: Good. And you know when to use it. Taliban or US - either one.

KARNAL: It's the War on Terror, Garry.

GARRY: You bet. We'll speak soon. And remember the scramble codes.

KARNAL: Ah. Code. Yes, next time I remember.

GARRY: We don't want anyone listening in, Karnal.

KARNAL: Yes, boss. I remember. Bye bye.

GARRY: Okay. Good luck.

END OF CALL.

It looks like Karnal has joined the War on Terror, friends. Up in the mountains of Lashkar Gar, what fate will befall this Pakistani national?

What will happen to CIA Sation Chief, AKA Garry? Which side is he on?

Keep reading, friends.

God is great, Yadda.

Yes, my friend. If the peoples forget Rambo III, they are destined to repeat.

Karzai goes through the DVDs his manservant has brought back from the market. Hello Dolly, Meat the Fockers, Rambo III...

Rambo III? Karzai remembers watching that in his Mujahadeen days. It was projected onto a sheet in a village in the mountains of Lashkar gar. Karzai remembers the tinkle of goat bells, children playing, girls hiding their smiles from the tribesmen seated crosslegged up the front, their Kalishnikovs slung over their backs.

Things were much simpler then. The Evil Empire was evil and freedom fighters fought for freedom. Now?

The Evil Empire is the country that defeated the Evil Empire, and the freedom fighters fight each other for the Evil Empire's contracts. Alas, there will always be an Evil Empire. And there will always be men willing to live in it.

Sometimes, Karzai wishes he was back in that Lashkar Gar village watching Amerikan movies under the stars.

Karnal finishes his prayers and joins the rest of the Taliban in the soup queue. Allah Uakbar, friends. Goat again? Ah, God is great. Chapatis today? No? No flour? But we get the delivery yesterday. Yes, I know we must do jihad but... Ah! It is good, friends. God is great. The more we suffer for God, the greater our rewards in paradise.

Karnal has been on the outer for some time. People have been talking and asking questions. Where is Karnal from again? Yes, he is clearly Pakistani, but who is his family? No one knows. He seems to speak good English. Has he lived in the West? No one knows. Whenever a villager needs to be shot for collaboration or not giving enough crops, Karnal is never around. No one has seen Karnal kill anyone. Is Karnal afraid to kill? No one really knows.

Karnal takes on the role of the spiritual mystic, but in the Taliban, this is deeply unpopular. Karnal often sits on his own with his wooden prayer beads, reciting passages of the Koran from memory and looking into the distance. On theological issues, Karnal knows his Koran. In some circles this would make him a Mullah or a Shiek. In the Taliban, it just makes him untrustworthy.

God rewards martyrs, not scholars. There is no struggle in books. The struggle is found in meeting the enemy and killing or dying bravely. No one says these things, but it is known, and Karnal knows it too. Karnal knows the fate of those who don't fit in. Karnal knows he must prove himself, and soon.

Men here kill and die for no reason at all. Karnal has never been in a place where life is so devalued. Back home, Karnal has seen baby girls killed for being girls, he has seen boys die from botched circumcisions, and he has been to a place where the sick pay for a space on the floor to die. Here, however, in the mountains of Lashkar Gar, nothing compares to the sheer indifference given to death.

Karnal remembers a small village boy being forced to walk over a minefield with a piece of string, his parents watching on. When he stepped on the mine and exploded into a thousand pieces, the Taliban chose another boy to continue his route. When his parents begged the Taliban to let their son go, the boy was shot. His sister offered to go in his place, but some Taliban did not favour this. While they argued, the girl set out onto onto the field alone. The Taliban watched her anxiously. Amazingly, she made it accross the field unharmed. She picked up the string from the first boy's remains and walked in a straight, determined line to the end. The Taliban and the entire village heard every twig break under her feet.

When she returned, her parents picked her up and hugged her body, her life, sobbing with tears of sadness and relief. The Taliban carefully staked out the girl's path and a new, quicker way to the mountains was established.

When the Winter came, the girl was taken by the cholera.

Karnal knows he could suffer the same fate at any time. Worse, he could be taken down the ravine and shot in the back of the head. There would be no trial, no heated words, and no discussion. A mullah would talk quietly to one of the men and give the order. Karnal would be led twenty metres down the ravine with no warning or excuse, and his corpse would be left for the vultures.

Why does Karnal do what he does? He will tell you it is the US dollars, and this is no small thing to someone from a small town in Pakistan. But there is clearly more to it than that. Some men are outsiders by nature. Some live for their secrets and the ever-unfolding art of the double-life, a life of evasion and deceit, where each story must be remembered in detail, and each detail garnished with the emotional resonance of lived experience. The work of the CIA operative is like that of an actor, but one who acts in a drama of life and death. Yes, friends, the game Karnal plays is for his life. The Amerikan dollars are merely a bonus. It is almost as if to live, Karnal must always be close to death.

Karnal!

Yes, brother?

The mullah will see you. Yallah!

Karnal is led to the cave. He notes that the messenger is unarmed. From inside the cave, Karnal sees the steam from the kettle where the mullahs sit and talk. Karnal offers a prayer to God.

It is Summer now, and hot, but when the sun goes down the night will be freezing. Insh'allah, Karnal will make it through this night. As Karnal enters the cave, he is focussed. He prays for one thing, and one thing only.

Please God, let me live for one more night.

What will happen to Karnal, brothers and sisters?

Yes, you know he is alive because he speaks to you now. But you do not know how he got to live. You do not know how many deaths Karnal has cheated, and how many prayers he has uttered to bribe these deaths.

Keep reading, friends. Insh'allah, you will find out more.

You should read the Bible, Y, and waste no time. Life is short!

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The three mullahs sit cross-legged by the fire drinking glasses of tea. They are dressed identically in black kaftans, white shawls and white turbans. They all have long, black beards and creased, tanned faces, lined with the scars of a long war. The mullah in the centre gestures for Karnal to sit. His escort is sent out. Outside, at the front of the cave, a fighter stands with an AK47, looking across the distant chain of mountains. Nearby, a sandbagged trench secures an anti-aircraft mortar. Karnal is not offered tea. Instead, the mullahs fire a series of questions at Karnal, one after the other.

"Where you come from?"

"Lahore."

"Your family?"

"My father is a bookseller, his father also."

"Which books?"

"All books. Used books. Textbooks, manuals, that sort of thing." Karnal leaves out the salacious western magazines, most of them over a year old, but rewrapped in plastic as if they were new.

"Your school?"

"Local elementary, then the madrasah where I live."

"What you learn there?"

"Urdu, some Arabic and English, mathematics, poetry..."

"You learn jihad?"

"They teach the Koran..."

The one who asked the question is incredulous. "You learn fighting?"

"No, I learn this when I come to Afghanistan."

The mullah shakes his head. The other mullah comes in with a question. "Where you learn Pashto?"

"Some boys in my street speak Pashto, but I learn more when I come to Afghanistan."

"When you come?"

"Three years ago."

The mullah who asked the question looks angry. "When? Which date?"

"When I leave the madrasah. Er, it was July. I don't remember the date."

The mullahs talk quietly. The one on the right presses his palm with his index finger. The one on the left shakes his head, adamant. The one in the middle looks silently at the fire. He has not asked any questions. Karnal thinks how calm he looks while his own head spins. Karnal hopes that they can't read his fear, but he also knows a little fear is good. The Taliban believe all should fear God first, and the Taliban second. Sometimes, however, it is appropriate to fear the Taliban first.

The two stop talking and stare back at Karnal. "What Islamic studies they teach at the madrasah?"

"Koran..."

The mullah on the right sucks his teeth. The one on the left spits.

Karnal gives the name of the Islamic laws. "Hadith."

"Which?"

Karnal understands the point of the question. He knows its answer is critical, and he knows exactly what the mullahs want to hear, although they would have no knowledge of the texts themselves.

"Sanad."

The mullahs look back at karnal, the smoke from the fire clouding their gaze. The fact that Karnal knows anything at all about religion is either good or bad, and Karnal does not know which. Karnal knows is that literal is good. The Taliban like rules. They do not care how the rules came into being, although there is presumably someone in Taliban Head Office somewhere who knows the isnad, matn, and all the relevant hadith scholars. You would hope so, anyway.

They go back to talking among themselves. The mullah in the centre sips his glass of tea and looks straight at Karnal. Then, suddenly, he claps his hands. The two mullahs on either side stop bickering. He reaches behind him and picks up an AK47 with his right hand and holds it in the air. He addresses Karnal for the first time.

"You ever use one of these?"

"Of course, mullah."

"Listen to my words, son. Not shoot, not practice, not study. You ever use?"

"I practice, mullah."

"Good. Now you have the opportunity to use."

The two mullahs on his either side look blankly at him. The decision, it would appear, has been made.

"I don't understand, mullah."

"You know Koran, you know Hadith. We see you pray. You know Islam. This is good. Now, insh'allah, you must put into practice."

The mullah on the right goes to speak. He is interrupted by the mullah in the centre.

"Kabesh! This one can go."

He throws the rifle to Karnal, who catches it with one hand.

"You ever teach, boy?"

"No, I only learn."

"Good. This is important if you teach." The mullah speaks the words as if they were distilled through centuries of Islamic thought, but they are merely the sincere words of a tribesman who has probably never learned to read.

"Tomorrow, insh'allah, you will go to Spin Boldak. They need a teacher there, an imam for the school."

The mullah on the left spits into the fire.

"Take this weapon with you. You will need to use."

"Why, mullah?"

"The current imam will not like you."

The mullah gazes directly at Karnal while the others look into the fire. He gestures to the soldier who brought Karnal in. "That boy will go with you. Now, go! Go in God."

The other mullahs, still looking at the fire, stir as if in sleep. "Allah Uakbar!"

Karnal joins them. "Allah Uakbar!"

Outside the cave, the sun is drowning behind the mountains of Lashkar Gar. On the mountain, Taliban soldiers are lighting fires and preparing for the cold night ahead. Tonight, Karnal will sleep. More importantly, insh'allah, he will live.

Tomorrow, in the border town of Spin Boldak, someone will die, but that is another day, far away in the mind of God.

Allah Uakbar! Outside the cave, Karnal grabs the guard in a headlock. They struggle until the guard butts Karnal in the kidney with his rifle. "Kabesh!"

Karnal, grinning, salutes the guard from his position on the ground. "Allah Uakbar!"

The guard eyes Karnal suspiciously and spits. "Watch yourself, Pakistan. Today, insh'allah, you are alive. Tomorrow, who can tell?"

"Tomorrow is a new day, Afghanistan. In God, all are one."

"The dead also. Now go! Kabesh!"

Karnal picks himself up and brushes the dust off his kaftan. Yes, if the dead have days, tomorrow will be a new day for them too.

As he makes his way to his own cave, Karnal knows how close he has come to joining them. Just think, if the three mullahs had come to a different decision, this guard would now be leading him down the mountain to wake up tomorrow with the dead.

What makes men's decisions? What makes them come and go from death and life? Perhaps something Karnal said or did in front of the mullahs decided his fate. Or perhaps it was the mullahs themselves, or their need for a new imam in Spin Boldak. Who can tell?

Only God knows the answer to these questions, friends. We will never learn the secrets of our own fate.

Karzai is very unhappy, friends. What to do? His brother, Ahmed, is dead, he loses good man in Kandahar. CIA Station Chief, AKA Garry, is very sad for him too.

What can Karzai do?

PRESIDENT KARZAI INVOLVED IN PHONE HACKING SCANDAL Kabul Express

President Karzai has been revealed as the latest victim in the News International phone hacking scandal, sources in London revealled last night.

Journalists from the Murdoch-owned Kabul Post are alleged to have hacked President Karzai's phone messages, most of them to his manservant, Kalesh. In them, the president orders movies, asks for the channel to be changed, and asks where his pipe is.

The president has not been previously known to have smoked a pipe, apart from hubbly bubbly in meetings with his cabinet.

In other messages, the president discusses a mysterious palace official referred to as "the Doktor". It is clear from the messages that President Karzai does not like this man.

The president refused to comment on his alleged phone hacks, merely stating, "Kabesh!"

His manservant was unavailable for comment.

Major Milan starts work each day at 8am, shift changeover at Pul-e-Charkhi Prison in Kabul. Here, the day-shift guards parade in the main square each morning, and Major Milan leads briefings. As briefings can be heard from the cells facing the compound, the suspects know which among them will be taken to Interrogation. Major Milan always leaves out the time of day, he just lists names. All a suspect knows is that today, he will be taken to Interrogation. For him, each minute is an eternity.

Sometimes, for whatever reason, a suspect isn't taken. But he always knows that before long, he will be. For these suspects, time lasts even longer. Each minute spent in the silent isolation cells can be agony, each second passing like a hammer hitting you in the head. Major Milan’s briefings sometimes include what crimes suspects must confess, and from the rumours, suspects certainly know what awaits them in Interrogation.

Those who have already experienced Interrogation, of course, never forget.

Major Milan does briefings slowly, no emotion in what he says. No one has ever known Major Milan to express his feelings about anything. Major Milan never gets angry. He never laughs, although he often smiles. Major Milan has an open, blank face, the creases in his brown short-sleeved shirts always sharp, his black moustache always trimmed. In the afternoon, his jowls turn black with his four o’clock shadow and his face glistens with sweat. When Major Milan smiles, clouds cover the sun.

Karzai has little to do with Major Milan. Karzai is worried Major Milan knows things about Karzai, and this is true. Major Milan knows many things. But Major Milan is always loyal. Major Milan has no ambitions of his own. He believes that someone needs to manage security, and it might as well be him. He is, after all, the best at his job.

Who could be better than Major Milan?

Everybody knows that no one in Afghanistan could manage Security Prison better than Major Milan. Security Prison lies inside Pul-e-Charkhi, the largest prison in Afghanistan. This is where terrorists and political suspects are sent, and Major Milan is the Chief Interrogator in all these crimes. Major Milan receives no thanks, it is long hours - often deep into the night - and it is painstaking in its detail. But Major Milan wants no other job, and no one can imagine him doing anything else.

No one can imagine Major Milan as a child, or a lover, or a father, despite the fact that Major Milan has three children and a happy wife who always gets ushered to the front of the bread queue. Major Milan is thin, but his wife and children are fat. It is good to be happy and fat, and no one thinks this more than Major Milan.

At 07:50 hours, the prison is silent awaiting his arrival. Major Milan is never late. In the old days, Major Milan would appear at different times, always when you least expected it, but these days he has learned to delegate. For Major Milan, all will come in its own time, so regularity is important. God made the seasons and all of nature this way, isn’t it? Major Milan knows this from experience and his observation of human nature.

Major Milan has never studied psychology, but he knows all about this subject. It is a subject he has taught himself through observation, testing and rigorous examination. Major Milan always knows just the right way to deal with a suspect. For example, when suspects first come in, they don’t always understand where they are. Some try to argue, some talk back to the guards. Some, especially the rich and proud, think they are someone other than what they are, which in Security Prison is one thing and one thing only; a suspect.

For some, it takes time for them to understand. Others understand right away. The new interrogators prefer the latter, but the ones who take time can be made to do anything, say anything, believe anything. The old interrogators prefer the ones who take time. For them, the act of confession is like the climax to a story. Better to finish with confession than begin. In security prison, interrogators need to learn patience before anything else.

It is true: you can kill a suspect if you are too keen. However, if you kill a suspect before he confesses, this is a problem. It defeats the whole point of Interrogation. Major Milan always makes this point to new interrogators. Interrogators are not executioners. They are there for one reason and one reason only: to extract confessions.

Anyone can be made to say anything. It is the way they say it, the way they believe what they say, the conviction of their beliefs. Sometimes you need to work on a suspect’s belief before you work on what they say. Suspects can also be made to believe anything.

Every suspect talks. There is no escaping it. In Interrogation, you cannot escape your crimes. You cannot escape anything. There is darkness and light, and all come to the light in time. All anyone takes is time.

As Major Milan gives briefings, the temperature outside reaches 40 and the suspects sweat in their cells. Today, insh'allah, they will confess. Stronger interrogation methods may well be necessary, but at briefings, Major Milan has already begun the process of Interrogation without asking a suspect one question.

This is why Major Milan is the best man for the job. How could anyone do better than a 100% confession rate?

In Afghanistan, everyone knows that no one can do better than Major Milan.

Muhammed Khan, a shopkeeper from Lashkar Gar, was captured in an Afghani security forces sweep through the town and charged with posession of explosives.

The "explosives" were Nestle infant formula kept in tins with the labels removed. The Nestle formula was part of the British Army's plan to reduce malnutrition in Lashkar Gar, and Muhammed had bought the formula from the Taliban, who had taken it from a captured supply truck. The tins were kept on pallets at the back of his shop, and the Afghani Army did not bother to test the formula.

Instead, it was burnt outside the town with other suspicious contraband, including blackmarket CDs and DVDs. In this way, proof of Muhammed's innocence was destroyed and he was sent to Security Prison in Kabul.

As a suspect, Muhammed awaits Interrogation in an isolation cell. He sees other prisoners only once a day when washing, but he is not allowed to talk. The guards can be bribed to turn the other way if necessary, but Muhammed knows no one in the prison and he has no money anyway. His family are too far from Kabul to visit or bring food.

Muhammed knows nothing of Interrogation. He has been processed, had his photo and fingerprints taken, and placed in his cell. Each meal has been a bowl of grey water with some grains of rice at the bottom. Muhammed has lost a lot of weight in Security Prison. He has not been able to boil his water and has come down with dysentry.

Muhammed hears briefings in the morning with everyone else. He hears the boots in the square and Major Milan's voice. He hears his own name mentioned but doesn't know what it means. He knows he is here for terrorism, but he doesn't know what this means either. Surely, it is just a matter of correcting the Army's mistake and putting the affair behind him, isn't it?

Muhammed hears the guards' footsteps outside his cell. His door is opened and the guards enter. Muhammed is still sick and is sitting on his rolled-up blanket.

"Stand!"

Muhammed goes to rise and is hit in the stomach with a rifle butt. The next blow hits him on the side of the head, and Muhammed falls on the floor.

The two guards lift him up and carry him out of the cell, down the long corridor to the Interrogation Room at the end of the wing. Muhammed's bare feet slide along the concrete passage. He has left his prison slippers back in his cell and tries hard not to sh!t himself from the blow.

When they get to the Interrogation room, two interrogators are dressed in neat uniforms with identical black mustaches. A desk and three chairs are in the middle of the room. The prison guards stand Muhammed inside the door, face the interrogators, and salute.

"Prisoner 1451. Eleven hundred hours."

One of the interrogators smiles. "Thank you, men. Dismissed."

The guards depart and lock the door behind them. Muhammed faces the two interrogators, who size him up without speaking. Muhammed stares back. Before long, an interrogator breaks his gaze and sits, indicating Muhammed into the chair in front of the table. The other interrogator stands next to the desk.

The sitting interrogator leans back in his chair and reads from a thin file on the desk. The other interrogator stares at Muhammed. There is a long pause.

"Explosives."

Muhammed looks back at the interrogator.

"Where you get?"

Muhammed continues to stare. The other guard comes behind Muhammed's chair. "Answer!"

"I don't get explosives. The Army find milk powder. For babies."

The first blow nearly knocks Muhammed out. He comes to on the concrete floor with more blows. Muhammed hugs his legs and tries to stop himself from vomitting. When the blows stop, Muhammed looks up to see the 2nd interrogator holding a thick plastic pipe. The first interrogator signals something, and Muhammed is hoisted back up onto the chair.

"You are here for terrorism. The Army find explosives in your shop. You will confess to this crime..."

"But I..."

Muhammed is hit on the side of the head in exactly the same place the other blow landed.

"Don't speak! You only speak when we tell you to speak! Understand?"

"Yes."

"You speak, tell truth, and you don't get beatings. Lie to us and you get much worse. Now say: where you get explosives?"

"I tell you, they aren't explosives. They are..."

This time, Muhammed is knocked out. He wakes up on the floor with water on his face, the interrogator holding his neck in a headlock. Muhammed scrambles for air. He finds it hard to breathe.

"You don't understand, my friend. In here, you cannot lie. This is your first interrogation. You will see. We know that all truth comes in time."

Muhammed's face is going red, his head swelling. Muhammed can hear his pulse in his ears, each beat a blow on the side of his head. Now, he can't breathe.

"Here, you will tell the truth or die. Look at you now. First interrogation and you don't look so good. Ali, let him go."

Muhammed falls to the floor, breathing desperately.

"Guard! Prisoner 1451 back to cell!"

Muhammed hears the key unlock the Interrogation Room door and the footsteps of the two guards. They state Muhammed's number and the time: 11:08. The interrogator makes a gesture and Muhammed is lifted by each shoulder and carried out of the room, back down the corridor and thrown into his cell. The whole Interrogation process has taken less than 10 minutes, but for Muhammed, it has marked his life in ways he will not understand until it is over.

In his cell, Muhammed sits back on his rolled-up blanket. As it is day, it is forbidden to lie. If the guards see him lying down through the hole in his door, he will be beaten again.

This, Muhammed thinks, is the New Afghanistan. This is the Afghanistan the Russians bring, the Amerikans bring, that Karzai and democracy brings. It is the Afghanistan that, in time, the Taliban will also bring, one after another in a long line of blows to the Afghani people, all of them too proud and stubborn to submit.

Muhammed feels liquid trickling down his legs and realises he has sh!t himself. He knows it has covered his blanket, but he feels that if he moves, he will vomit. His head throbs with each heartbeat, and his ribs hurt when he breathes. As with every strong beating, the real pain has not yet set in.

Muhammed thinks of his fate. He knows that he will be forced to confess to terrorism. Muhammed is able to say yes or no to stop the pain, he can do this. What Muhammed does not know is how he will leave behind the truth that inside every one of those Nestle tins was harmless infant formula.

Does this punishment come from God? If so, Muhammed, God willing, can bear it. He does not know if he can wear the stupidity of the guards, the interrogators and the Afghani Army. Muhammed is a proud man, and he has always been truthful. Insh'allah, he has lived his whole life by such values. Why should Muhammed be corrupted now by the vanity of fools?

Back in Lashkar Gar, the province is formally handed back to the Afghanis. Tonight, the politicians and generals will celebrate. Piece by piece, Afghanistan will be handed back to the guards and interrogators, who will continue to reward the corrupt and wring guilt from the blood of innocent men like Muhammed.

Muhammed thinks of his own wife and son. How will they ever believe him? How will anyone visit the shop of a guilty man and allow his wife and children to live? Muhammed knows that anyone who steps inside his shop will be marked as a terrorist. The lives of his wife and son are marked now also. For them, life will never be the same again.

Muhammed's life is not his own. It belongs to God, his family and his town. Without them, he is nothing, but without him, they are nothing too.

Without each other, friends, we are lost. Think of Muhammed as you see your family and friends, and thank God for what you have.

Also, buy Nestle Infant Formula for the baby. Full of essential vitamins and all your baby's needs!

Check label for details.

Like a family carpet, the War on Terror is interwoven with such stories, my friend. These threads mark the pattern. The hand of Gud shapes the design.

Many see the threads. Some witness the pattern and design. All share the struggle.

We write these stories in our thoughts and actions, friend, but we are written also. When we share our stories, we can see.

Gud lives in all.

Karzai is going through one of his lows. The Angel of Darkness has not been around lately.

"Speak to me, Mistress. Come to me, I beg you. Nothing works. I am alone, all alone in the darkness and chaos. There is no one, no one..."

Karzai's servant listens at the door.

"What have I done? I have done nothing but try to please you, believe me. Always I try to please you, there is no one else. Not Amerika, not the Taliban, not even my own family."

One bug sends Karzai's words to the CIA station in Kabul. Another sends them to Bagram Air Base and onto the US Defence Intelligence Centre in the Pentagon.

"No one listens. I pray to the one God just as you say. Every day I say prayers. Soon is Ramadan. Ah! There will be trouble, Mistress, you know this. There is always trouble before Ramadan. I pray to God but..."

Karzai's servant goes back to bed.

"There is always so much trouble. Why so much trouble? I love no one but you, Mistress. God, yes, of course..."

The CIA duty officer flicks the feed to another frequency.

"I help Amerika. I help Taliban. All are one, I know. We must save Afghanistan together, I can only rely on you. Please, Mistress, I promise to help more. Get more bomb, more Amerikan dollars. I can promote anyone, anyone you say..."

The Defence Intelligence officer at Bagram turns up the volume on an ice hockey game in Detroit.

"I join Taliban. Tomorrow I will go, Mistress, you will see. I can do so much for this country. Look what I do already! Imagine what I can do joined with Taliban. We can expand. Together, Mistress. Think, we can take Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, maybe even Iran - I know this one is hard, but together, Mistress..."

The mainframe in the Pentagon hums, receiving its many satelite signals and performing all its quiet, thankless tasks around the world, only one of which is recording the words of Karzai.

"...China, Russia, think of all the things we can do, Mistress. We will make history. Together, Mistress, only together..."

As a cloud sails over the moon outside, darkness covers the Presidential Compound in Kabul. In the streets below, a lone dog barks. Soon, another one joins him, and another. The sound of their barking reaches Karzai's office and he wakes from his spell.

"Kabesh! This is madness!" Karzai looks for a shoe to throw out the window before he realises the futility of this and stamps his foot on the floor. Here is Karzai, the US-installed and democratikally-elected president of Afghanistan, and he is forced to suffer such constant and ridiculous interruptions.

Tomorrow, Karzai will order dog catchers to be sent out to round up all dogs in the presidential and diplomatic district of Kabul. First, they will have to be trained and given uniforms. Second, it will cost money - always money! Maybe Kabul will need a pound. What are the security implications of such a policy? These are all questions Karzai's advisors will ask, and Karzai will say nothing.

Karzai waits for the Angel of Darkness to appear. Perhaps in your dreams, habibi, perhaps there she will come. Sleep, dear one, sleep now and take rest with all the peoples of the world who suffer like you.

One day, as God wills, we will reach paradise.

20/9/11

Karzai

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1316498497

Ah, friends, what to do? The Taliban are closing in. Today, Kabul. Tomorrow, all of Afghanistan.

What should Karzai do?

A. Form alliance with Taliban chiefs.

B. Form alliance with warlords by placing them in the parliament.

c. Make friends with CIA station chief AKA GARRY. Work on golf swing.

D. Form alliance with US military.

E. All of above.

He should pack an overnight bag, check he has the number of the Swiss bank account in his pocket and head to the airport, telling his loyal followers that he will be back shortly.

This is true, my friend. But then his followers would be left holding the cat. CIA station chief AKA GARRY, General Petreus, Taliban, warlords, all.

Perhaps Karzai could get a compound in Fort Bragg, Texas.

Karzai needs to find the "Angel of Darkness" and seek his council.

In our world, friend, the right metaphor is "left holding the dead baby"... And more appropriate for Afghanistan.

Metaphor? I'm sorry?

Karzai will be left holding lovey Afghan cat. A long ha'ar. In Afghanistan, only the vulture is left holding the baby.

Ah, my frien, this angel only comes when you don't seek.

It is the truth, my friend. CIA will neither confirm nor deny.

Your brother Karnal may also be CIA, friend, but can neither confirm nor deny. CIA is agency of intelligence. Taliban is agent of Gud. Mother is angel of Darkness. Karzai uses intelligence and Gud to see light in this darkness, friend. We must be careful. It is everywhere.

Karzai is the US-installed and demokratically-elected president of Afghanistan. He is a good man. He is one of us. Every now and then, if you stand close to the parapet, you will hear the call of the crow.

Kabesh!

Aside the Oval Office in the Presidential Palace in Kabul, sits the conference room, a plain room with a large oval desk that seats thirty men. Karzai meets with his two closest advisors here at least once a day, 27 chairs left empty. Both men, like Karzai, have spent time in Amerika: Gibran as a refugee from the Russians, and Kabir at MIT, studying engineering. Gibran advises on cultural issues, but his advice covers all areas. Kabir’s field is political economy and wider global patterns, including aid, development and the Amerikan agencies. As Pashtun elites, Gibran and Karzai’s families have been close for generations, and Gibran has shared much with Karzai, through occupation, civil war, exile, and now demokracy. As elder statesmen, the two men have shared their ups and downs, but their struggle is far from over.

“Hamed, since your brother has passed, peace be upon him, the south is a different place. We no longer hold the contracts. We cannot just buy the tribes anymore.”

Kabir agrees, his steel-framed spectacles, Western suit and trimmed goatee contrasting Gibran’s Afghan pajamas, waistcoat and slippers. “They have become spoilt, Master. They have become like children. Each has his own list of demands. Bullet-proof Toyotas, thoroughbred horses, dowries for their granddaughters, it is endless. With the Amerikans, there was cash. Now…”

Karzai straightens in his seat and scratches his head. “All this I know. I understand. Look, my brother was a bastard, but he was our bastard, one hundred percent Pashtun. He kept order, he kept peace. With the Amerikan dollars and my brother’s, well, mercy, we had security in the south. Now we have no security, and the Amerikans are giving me no peace at all.” Karzai wipes his bald head with his hand and flicks the sweat from his fingertips. “Ah, they drain my blood, these Amerikans.”

Gibran glances over at Kabir, doodling on his pad. Gibran offers soothing balm. “Hamed, these are problems to be solved. We have done it before. The south is ours. It is a matter of alliances, of making new friends.”

“With who? No – don’t answer that. I can’t give them Toyotas and racehorses to plough their fields with. If I knew what the Amerikans would do to these tribes I would have told them not to come.” Karzai’s mercurial grin folds back to his usual sad face, and he takes a sip of his tea.

Gibran is humourless. “Your demand has been granted, Hamed. In Lashkar Gar, anyway.”

“Ah - then I am out of options. Kabesh! I should move downstairs and you can have meetings with the Taliban.”

Karzai stares down at the carpet, a gift from an ex-communist warlord in Uzbekistan, and waits for some proper advice. These men merely tell him what he already knows, and Karzai is tired. He is sick of it all. His brother’s murder was not something for which they had planned. It was not meant to happen, and now, in the Pashtun way, they cannot even utter his name. He remembers the Angel’s words. “All must be united. If the feet and hands rebel, they must be cut off.”

Gibran moves closer. “Sorry, Hamed?”

“Nothing.”

“The oracle?”

“She is silent.”

The oracle is an inside joke amongst Karzai’s staff. Gibran and Kabir know nothing of the Angel of Darkness. Sometimes, when Karzai feels sorry for himself, he alludes to an oracle. Gibran and Kabir believe the oracle is Karzai’s wife, and do their utmost to keep Karzai from paying any attention to her. Gibran and Kabir are tired too. They glance at each other.

Gibran asks, “she has some advice on this, Hamed?”

“No.”

“None at all?”

“To pray facing Mecca. This I do anyway.”

“Mecca is in the south-east, Hamed.”

Karzai looks up. “So what?”

“What else does she say?”

Karzai is bored, but the words are etched in his mind. “To unite all in the struggle.”

Gibran looks at Kabir. “Unite the forces. It is good advice.”

Karzai recites the Angel’s words. “The jihad is within.”

Gibran smiles benignly at the oracle’s judgment. “Of course. Is there any other kind?”

Kabir joins him. “Master, we are fighting a struggle against foreign invaders.”

“Kabesh! These Amerikans are hardly invaders. They might suck my blood dry, but…”

“No, Master - the Taliban. They are from Pakistan.”

“Well, technically…”

Kabir pushes on, seeing the light. “Master, do you not see? We need to unite our own forces in this struggle. The only way to do this is to make friends in the south-east - Pashtun friends. Our friends.”

Karzai opens his mouth, gazes back at his advisors, and lets out a sigh.

“It’s true, Hamed. Your brother‘s life, insh’allah, was cut short before its time, but we still struggle. We must make new friends. We must unite.”

“Ah, kabesh! I am sick of all this. I am tired.” Karzai is used to his men workshopping their political ideas. In the end, it is always left to him to carry them out.

Gibran states the truth. “It has been a long jihad for us both, Hamed, but we have no choice but to struggle. It is our fate. We must do it, and we must do it well. You are the only man for this. You are the only chance this country has left. Without you… ” Gibran deliberately leaves his statement open-ended.

CONTINUED...

One of Karzai‘s strengths is his ability to become lucid in a flash, and in meetings, to always get to the heart of the matter. Mind you, he balances this with his ability to obfuscate and steer meetings in directions of his own. Such is the luxury of all kings, presidents and warlords. Karzai leans forward, extends his finger and points sharply at Gibran.

“Who do you want me to meet?”

“There is none other, Hamed.”

Kabir follows. “One man only.”

Karzai glowers at both men. “Will I like him?”

Gibran brightens. “Of course. You will like him very much.”

Karzai dares Gibran to give him the right answer, and maybe even an answer he will like.

“Why?”

“Because he is much more of a bastard than your brother.”

Kabir interjects. “…Peace be upon him.”

Gibran does not take his eyes off Karzai.

Karzai takes control of the discussion. “God give us all peace. From the south-east, you say? From Lashkar Gar?”

“Yes, Hamed.”

“Only one, eh?”

“Only one, Master.”

Karzai is done. He stands up to leave and throws his shawl over his shoulder. He spits out his words as if he has a lemon in his mouth.

“Mossadhi Khan. No other, eh?”

Gibran is gentle. He understands. “Yes, Hamed.”

Kabir continues. “There is no one else, Master. He holds Lashkar Gar. He is Lashkar Gar.”

“Mossadhi Khan, that snake! You want…”

Karzai stares at both men, speechless, his eyes like daggers. He is about to leave the room, but he composes himself. Karzai is never speechless for long.

“I will meet that lying, cheating bastard - right here. Nowhere else! But I don’t have to like him. I will not like him. And I know he had something to do with killing my brother. He may not have pulled the trigger, but he pointed the Taliban in the right direction.”

“There is no proof of that, Master.”

“Kabesh! I’ll do what I have to do, but when I’m done with him, I’ll do some cutting of my own. Arms, legs, whatever has to go!”

“Allah Uakbar!”

“Allah Uakbar.”

On horseback, the scout looks down over the empty highway below, the voice crackling through the satellite phone. A half moon lights the desert night, the highway stretching into the distance.

“All is clear, brother?”

The scout speaks just enough Pashtu, but would speak few words anyway. “Clear.”

“No peoples on the road?”

“No.”

“Ahead?”

“Ahead is a village. Stop and wait at the first tea stall. We will come to you.”

The man on the phone gives instructions to the driver, then speaks back to the phone. “Okay - okay. We wait. Your man is there?”

“You wait.”

The driver hits the steering wheel with his palm and looks back at the convoy stopped on the road. “Kabesh! How far? We must make Kabul by dawn.”

“How far?”

“Not far. You have tea and wait.”

The scout ends the call and rides off into the night.

The driver doesn’t like it, but he can do nothing but drive and worry. He quietens down while the call is made to Khan’s vehicle and turns the key in the ignition.

At dawn, the convoy reaches the outskirts of the city. At the point where the tarpaulins and cardboard slum dwellings turn into shops, concrete houses and billboards for Nokia and Nestle, a checkpoint stops all vehicles. It is the Afghan National Army. The convoy has made it to Kabul.

Mossadhi Khan has come to meet Karzai, friends. It is a meeting of like minds, of old Pashtun friends.

Will Karzai bring up old blood? Will Mossadhi Khan break with the Taliban? Will Karzai change his plan and join the Taliban himself?

Stay reading friends, and remember to pray to Gud.

For all your prayer needs, write to Madam Karah. Pray for health! Pray for beauty! Pray for wealth and good marriage!

Send baksheesh and self-addressed envelope to:

Madam Karah 23/18990 Karl Marx Avenue Kabul, 13308

no karl marx avenue in kabul my friend. taliban change names of godless blasphemer streets long ago.

This is true, my friend. They change the name. But Google maps does not capture the voice of the peoples.

Neither the Taliban or Karzai can change what the peoples say. It will always be Karl Marx Avenue to them.

Look at Madam Karah - she receives many prayers each day from all over Afghanistan.

It is usually a thrill for the visitors of distant provinces to come to Kabul, but Khan’s men are here for business. There will be no shopping for mobiles, no jewelry and no cloth for their wives. As they pass through the morning streets, the cry of the muezzin can be heard through the crackling loudspeakers of surrounding mosques; the men, women and children of Kabul finishing their prayers.

As they drive through Karl Marx Avenue, The black, red and green Afghani national flags flutter alongside green flags with the crescent moon and star. As they head towards the diplomatic compound, Khan makes them stop by a small newsstand and opens his window, the old shopkeeper coming up to Khan’s car, bowing with clasped hands and showing his toothless gums. Khan makes his men get out and has the old man check them, one by one, for weapons. When none are found, Khan thanks the shopkeeper, gives him some notes, and gets back inside his SUV. Khan knows how sloppy the Afghan Army checkpoint outside Kabul is, and has learnt of his men’s resistance to disarm the hard way.

Once, at a checkpoint in Kandahar, one of Khan’s men was discovered to be holding a Russian WWII pistol. It was useless as a weapon, but Khan was forced to make an example of him. While the soldiers were arguing with the man, Khan calmly got out of his SUV, went up behind the man, and, with a quick headlock movement, broke the man’s neck. Without a word, Khan let the man’s body drop to the ground and went back to his car. After that, the soldiers let Khan through. God knows that one man’s death could save countless lives in future.

Double-checked and officially disarmed, the men get back into their vehicles to head to the second checkpoint and the Green Zone. The front driver kisses a small Koran hanging from his mirror, and prays that they will get through quickly. It is 7:10. Khan is scheduled to meet Karzai at 9:00, and all know that the checkpoint can take many hours to get through. God only knows how the city’s administrators make it in time for work each day, but this is the last of Kabul’s problems. It would take just one IED to get through and blow up the Afghani parliament and many Amerikans. It has, of course, happened before. For this reason, nothing is left to fate, and the Amerikans themselves run the checkpoint, using Afghan soldiers to check the vehicles. The front driver joins the traffic jam and slows down to 10 miles an hour until he comes to a stop. It would be quicker to walk. Afghanis are used to waiting, but they are never happy about it. Workers on bicycles flit past the cars and trucks, and the convoy waits with their motors running. The front driver is the most unhappy of all, almost leaning on his horn and making the most noise in the queue. Before long, an armed Afghani National Army soldier comes over and the driver pleads his case, gesticulating at the convoy behind him. It is pointless. The soldier merely points to the rest of the traffic and tells him to wait, banging his stick once on the side of the car. The driver goes back to beeping his horn and arguing with his passenger.

At 8:30, the convoy makes it to the checkpoint. While an Afghani soldier checks under the car with a mirrored stick, another soldier with a semi-automatic asks the driver for his licence. Licence? The driver does not know what he means. Identification. The man in the seat next to him patiently hands over their Afghani passports with a twenty dollar bill, explaining the convoy’s purpose. The soldier looks confused and takes the passports to the sandbagged administration block on the side of the road with tinted windows. Here, as everyone knows, they are watched by the Amerikans. The driver stares ahead, jiggles his leg under the steering wheel and stays quiet. All clear, the soldier walks slowly back with the passports. After getting all men out and checking each vehicle thoroughly, the convoy are allowed to get back in their cars and are waved through the gate.

The convoy enters another world within Kabul: the consular district with its lawns, driveways, gates and sentries. Here, the cameras watch every move, and at night, every corner is lit with streetlights. There are no power failures in the Green Zone. The convoy travels past the Afghani Parliament, its huge fountain representing all the tribes of Afghanistan, and the Amerikan administration building with its Pizza Hut, Burger King, and Irish-themed pub. At 8:52, they make it to their destination. At the gate, an Afghani guard salutes the convoy and the electronic gates part. Inside, the convoy parks in the visitor’s parking.

Allah Uakbar, they have made it. The front driver is ecstatic. Khan, getting out of his SUV, shoots him a look. The men have been briefed. They are to stay together and maintain discipline at all times. They are here, in the very mind of Afghanistan, the Presidential Palace. It has taken Khan a long time, but he is finally at his destination.

Khan and his men sign the ledger and each man is issued a security pass. After showing them what to do with the passes, the men are led to an adjoining waiting room by the chief of reception, an old man in pajamas and suit jacket with his own security pass around his neck. He peers into the room through thick, black-framed glasses. "Kabesh! They move the chairs! Wait - wait."

Khan speaks. "No, uncle, we will sit." Khan sits cross-legged on the floor, his men shifting on their feet. "Sit!" One by one, Khan's men join him in a circle around the room.

"Ah." The man smiles, his hand touching his heart, his forehead, and his heart again. "One thing - there is no smoking here." He points to the ceiling. "Alarms". He rolls his eyes, which look huge through the magnified lenses.

Khan smiles. "No problem."

"If you wish to smoke maybe I can take you some place."

"All is good, uncle. God is great."

"God is great!" The reception chief leaves Khan and his men for his ledger and security passes.

The men sit silent and wait while Khan talks quietly on his phone. If they weren't in the Presidential Palace in the mind of Afghanistan, it would be no different to any other day in Lashkar Gar.

- Karzai gave a extreme irresponsible statement against us and India.

Yes, my friend, but Karzai is only doing his job. Karzai is the US-installed and demokratically-elected man of the Afghani peoples. It is demokracy. Karzai must be extremely irresponsible. What to do?

The governor of Oruzgan has asked Karzai for a transfer. What should Karzai do, friends?

- Karzai must advise the governor to go to America with the Americans when they pull out. Or he can get to Indonesia overland then hop in a boat and come to Christmas Island and stay in one of those five star motels. Or he can fly into Sydney on Qantas and stay at Bondi.

Yes, this is a good idea. Perhaps he should fly Ariana Airlines to Jakarta. He can stopover in Delhi and do some shopping.

I would recommend he live in Auburn, Sydney, friend.

- Auburn could be good. We know Alan Jones and Matty is in Sydney, maybe they could meet him and welcome him to the community, have a barbie, halal of course, you can go too Karnal then hop across to Ryde for the meeting and introduce him to Pauline, that's if Pauline still wants to go because she's a model now she might be busy with her underwear promotions. Will see!

Yes, my friend. Maybe Oruzgan governor could give up politics and enter the business. He can take Pauline's latest undergarment/burqa collection back to Afghanistan.

Thoughts?

- Pauline's undergarment collection would be too hot for Afghani women to handle surely Karnal. She is much too much woman for the average Afghani camel driver. Does Pauline have a burqa collection in her range? This is new to me. If so, if hope it expands beyond black, blacker and blackest. It might even be daring enough to show an eyebrow or two (if the woman has more than one eyebrow that is). This would be good.

This is true. In Afghanistan, such a woman would be stoned to deaths.

Or installed in the parliament. Either one, my friend. It is demokracy.

- This is not time for underwear talk. It is serious time in Afghanistan. It is coming to dangerous time for Afghani people.

The governor, he will not be returning to Oruzgan Province or to Afghanistan. The Taliban, they will be taken over the whole place and running in through the old city and the bazaar making sure the woman and children are in the house. This will remind you of what it was like before the Amerikana comes to bring demokracy.

I would like if Karzai can come to Australia with the governor or if he will go back to Amerika with the soldier.

It is so. Karzai will go to Amerika. CIA will talk with Taliban. They will pay the best mullahs for the job, my friend.

Pakistani ISI will pay their best mullahs. Who will win?

I would like Karzai to come to Australia too, my friend.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/b040701c.jpg

My frien, just one small detail: I want a house in Palm Springs. I hear Nixon's old house is up for sale, no?

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/karzai_with_warlords.jpg

I am 100% behind Mossadhi Khan. He is our man in Lashkar Gar.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/karzai-osama_1885294i.jpg

Mother, what do you say? 100% employment for the peoples? Of course!

All are employed by Gud, isn't it?

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/kabul-karzai-2011-president_n.jpg

We must pull together, friends. We must unite in the struggle. Mossadhi Khan is the number one man in Lashkar Gar. =

File:Http://blogs.reuters.com/afghanistan/files/2010/04/karzai.jpg

Mr president Karzai is for number one position on first plane out for Karzai job is finish

Kabesh! When Karzai comes to Australia his work will not finish!

He will be the president in exile. Already he has been in France, Amerika, Pakistan. He will be our man in Auburn.


My friends,we know the end of the story, but this story is not yet at its end. Karzai still struggles. History is still writing, its battle plans made upon the shifting sands of the Pashtun south and in the mind of the nation, the presidential palace of Kabul. While Oruzgan province falls to the Afghan National Army, Lashkar Gar is still without a friend to Karzai.

Read on, friends.

Just before midday, Karzai enters reception in his green shawl and Karzai cap, trailed by Gibran and Kabir. Leaving his advisors, Karzai makes for the waiting room, his arms outstretched, a big smile on his face. "Ah, men! They don't tell me you are here! You have been waiting long?"

Khan stands, and his men leap to their feet. Khan is unmissable, but he holds out his hands to make himself known. "President Karzai. No, it is not long. We are happy here."

Khan bends down as Karzai kisses him warmly on both cheeks. "My brother Khan! It is so good to see you. Finally we meet. I was just saying to my man, Gibran, we need more like you around here. Strong men," Karzai laughs, looking around at Khan's men and reaching up to pinch Khan's cheek. "Big men.” At nearly seven feet tall in his turban, Khan’s prominent cheekbones, long black beard, and his clear, piercing blue eyes normally grant him the respect he is due. If not, there are other ways, and Mossadhi Khan is adept at all of them. Here, however, in the Presidential Palace, entirely different ways must be used, ways he has not yet learned, the ways of demokracy.

Karzai is introduced to Khan's men, and Khan watches as he greets them, one by one, like old friends. When he has met them all, Karzai takes Khan's arm for support. "Please, my friend – come. We will have refreshments in the other room. Please feel welcome. You are guests in my house. Your men will be taken care of.”

Karzai leads Khan down a soft carpeted corridor, his animated humility made dramatic alongside Khan’s imposing height, his relentless chatter contrasting Khan's silence. At the end of the hall, they reach a huge door with two medaled and embroidered presidential guards standing on each side of the entrance. One soldier clicks his white-gatered boots and salutes. The other opens the door in a swift, well-practiced motion for the men to enter. Karzai ushers Khan into his own version of the Oval Office, a large but rectangular room with stately white couches and a marble fireplace, never lit. For security reasons, there are no windows. At the rear of the room is an ornate French-oak desk with silver-framed photos of Karzai's family, all killed in Afghanistan's endless struggle for peace: Karzai’s father taken by the Russians; his brothers, the Taliban.

On the wall behind the desk are photos of Karzai with various world leaders: Tony Blair, Nicholas Sarkosi, Dick Cheney, George Bush. All, insh’allah, are still alive, but only Sarkosi and Karzai are still presidents. These photos represent the glory days of the Karzai presidency, the Winter of discontent when Karzai was the great uniter, the US-installed man of the peoples. The days of demokracy, by contrast, are a different story. Why does the West insist on demokracy? The idea seems ludicrous to Karzai, and the CIA is always too quick to agree, but without it Karzai would be nothing so, for now at least, demokracy it must be.

Karzai and Mossadhi Khan make themselves comfortable in adjoining arm chairs, their backs to the mauve, felt-papered wall, under a portrait of the great Afghan general, Muhammed Gabir, a man who defeated a battalion of British troops with a handful of soldiers. With a gesture from Karzai, the servants are dismissed so the men can talk in peace. A coffee table is set with a tea tray, a small samovar and two glasses with gold handles. Karzai, hunched over the coffee table in his disarmingly humble way, pours the tea and offers Khan a dish of sugar cubes for him to sip his tea through. "Please take, my friend. The Doktor tells me I cannot have sugar." Karzai touches his stomach. "Diabetes. Sometimes I stray, but kabesh, I usually obey. You cannot disobey these men, my friend. They are ruthless."

Khan takes the glass and a sugar cube. "Ah, I never see a doctor. Insh'allah, my health is good. I do not envy you, President Karzai."

"Please, my brother, we are friends! Call me Karzai. All do. It is a Western custom I like, very demokratic." Karzai notes Khan observing the photos, some taken in this very room. "Let me tell you, whenever those Western leaders meet it is always, 'Blair - you come!' 'Bush, you old dog!' Can you believe? Only the French are different. They like their titles and refuse to speak English. Russians also, but none of them speak any English at all. Still, we are Pashtuns. Let us speak man to man."

Karzai reaches into the pocket of his kaftan and pulls out a matchbox-sized package. He holds up the cling-wrapped hashish like a prize with a huge grin. "Khan, you old dog, you like to smoke?"

"Smoke?" Khan, thinking of the guards at the door, the reception chief and the mysterious "alarm", and all the pictures of world leaders, tightens. "Smoke here?"

Karzai reaches over and pats Khan's hand. "Don't worry! We are still in Afghanistan, not the Hague. Anyway, the Europeans like to smoke also, but it is no good for them." Karzai rolls his eyes. "They drink alcohol." Karzai gives Khan an enigmatic smile. "It makes them say and do things they would never say and do otherwise."

This is not a trait shared by Mossadhi Khan. He watches as Karzai lights a match and burns the hash, crumbling it with his fingers into a small bowl. Karzai shakes out the match's flame and leaves it on the table. He holds up the bowl to his nose and inhales deeply. "Ah, my brother, God is good."

CONTINUED...

Karzai puts the bowl down, rubs his hands together with relish, and looks around the room. "The hubbly-bubbly..."

Khan pulls a chillum out of his pocket. "You want to use this?"

Karzai's face lights up. "Of course!" Khan passes the chillum over to Karzai, who packs it full of hash and passes it back. Khan, lowering his head, places the stem between his third and fourth fingers, and makes a ball with his cupped hands to cool the smoke; a small hole between his thumbs to suck through. Karzai strikes a match and holds it over the chillum while Khan inhales the sweet, fragrant smoke into his lungs. Holding it in, Khan looks at Karzai through half-lidded eyes, then releases his breath, the smoke leaving each nostril like dragon's breath. He notes for the first time Karzai's bloodshot eyes and sees that Karzai has already been smoking. He passes the chillum over to Karzai, who does the same as Khan. When the pipe is finished, Karzai taps the ash into the bowl. Stiffly, with the awkwardness of a man unused to rest, Karzai leans back in his chair, his gaze melting into a point in the distance. Karzai sighs.

"...Allah Uakbar."

"Allah Uakbar."

For the first time, Karzai is quiet.

Sipping his tea, Khan notices a marble chess board set up on Karzai’s desk. It is not so much the implied leisure of such a game that surprises Khan, but its Russian connotations, a decadent and imperial game favoured by the Soviets and communist elites in Afghanistan's much-loathed Najibullah regime. Khan nods at the board. “You play this game?”

Karzai leans forward, his eyes meeting Khan's. Karzai plays this game with men all over Afghanistan, sometimes with four or five games going at a time. The games are played over the phone with Karzai's servants making his opponent’s moves, generally causing much confusion and headaches for all. Karzai has had games last for years, and has, on occasion, seen opponents killed before the end of a game. Such is the way of war, and Karzai takes no pleasure in putting the unfinished pieces back in their places and remembering the long phone calls. Some men deserved to die, and some didn’t. Many had to die, but it was always hard to lose a friend.

“Ah, my brother Khan, this game is very good, let me assure you. It is addictive, like gambling. You must watch yourself or you can forget other affairs. Always I must hold back, take time, do other things. There is always so much to do. Otherwise I would play all day. When I am old and retired, insh’allah, I shall play this game more. You play?”

Khan shakes his head slowly. "No. This, I thought, was a Russian game.” If Khan was in Lashkar Gar, he would spit.

“My brother, this game is not Russian – it is from Persia! This game is our old, proud culture, a civilized culture, where there is an order in things and distinct rules, a social fabric as I like to say. It is a very old game. The Arabs like to play backgammon, the Greeks like dominos. Our own Pashtun boys like to play draughts with bottle-tops. But this, my friend, this is the game for us.”

Karzai is going too fast. Khan is still wondering how a Persian game could have anything to do with Pashtuns. “Us?" Khan's eyes sharpen. "Persians?"

“Ah, my friend..." Karzai gently touches Khans hand and smiles. "Persian, Pashtun, Tajik, Uzbek, in chess we must forget all these. Chess is a game for the men who must struggle and, insh’allah, make peace. For those who must struggle to survive, and command many different forces at once, but who must make also make friends too.”

Karzai glances over at Khan, and wonders if he should take more time. Demokracy, after all, must be a complete mystery to Khan. Karzai wonders if he reads Time or Newsweek. Hopefully not. The foreign press are never kind to Karzai.

But Khan is curious. “The Amerikans, they play this game?”

“Many do, my brother Khan. And the ones who play are good at it.”

“You play this game with the Amerikans?”

Karzai looks at the pictures of world leaders and sighs. “Brother, they leave me to play games with my own people. These days they have no time to play, they are so busy. And anyway, I am not nearly as good at this game as the Amerikans.”

Mossadhi Khan has many dealings with the Amerikan Army, who pay him in contracts to secure the long, lonely highway in the south, a highway, thanks to Khan, free of IEDs as long as the contracts are paid in time. “The Amerikan generals play this game?”

“Generals? Rarely. CIA always, but only with themselves.”

“Politicians?”

“Western politicians? Never. In demokracy, they can only focus on one thing at a time. This game is too complicated for them. This is why chess is the game for us, brother Khan. It is a game we know well, through our long history of struggle. Insh’allah, it is our fate to struggle, and to struggle we must play." Karzai becomes somber, as if a cloud has covered the sun. He thinks of his recently killed brother. "Play and struggle, my friend, personally it is all I have known. It is all most of us know." Karzai rearranges his shawl, and looks up at Khan. "For the Amerikans, my brother, this is just a game, and there is a strength in this. Global oil, Coca Cola, foreign wars; all is outside. In the last century, only Pearl Harbour and September 11 have ever brought their struggle close. But for us, my friend, it is life. We have no choice but to struggle. Our own struggle is within - always within.”

CONTINUED...

Khan thinks of this, while Karzai packs another chillum. Karzai gives the pipe to Khan and lights it. "Each man has his own struggle as God wills it. And to each of these struggles God gives him friends to help. We are never alone, my friend. Never. This, insh'allah, is as God wills it."

Khan passes the pipe back to Karzai, who cups his hands and inhales, then blows a long plume of smoke, parting the blue-grey smoke that fills the room. Karzai's eyelids narrow, his red eyes moistening as he puts the empty pipe in the bowl. "Allah Uakbar - Allah Ualkbar."

Khan, too, is stoned. It is good charas, from the north. "Allah Uakbar."

But Karzai does not rest for long. “My friend, let me demonstrate to you. To understand this game, you must know each figure and how it moves. Can I show you?”

Khan, staring into space, looks down at Karzai. “Yes - of course. Please.”

Karzai raises himself from his chair with a groan, his old age beginning to show. Karzai places the chess board on the table between them and returns to his chair. Khan fingers the black and white marble pieces, their purpose dark and obscure. “These things – they are like men?”

“You are good, my brother Khan. That is exactly what they are. And like men, each has his own way; his purpose. Look, I show you. These - ” Karzai picks up a pawn. “These are soldiers, men of war. They can only move one step at a time, like this.”

Karzai moves a pawn while Mossadhi Khan looks on. “But this – “ Karzai picks up the black queen. “She is the queen.” Karzai moves the queen vertically and horizontally. “She can move this way, this way, as far as she likes. She has much power in this game. In the older times, you see, the queen could control who saw the king.”

It is a strange thought to an Afghani. Mossadhi Khan thinks of his own two wives, who stay well out of his business, praise God.

Karzai reads Khan’s thoughts. “Think, my brother, how much a woman can bring a man down, or raise him up. Think of the power of her tongue, which has taken many soldiers to their graves.”

Khan knows the power of women to distract men from their paths. It has never happened to him, but he has seen the power of women in his own men's lives. As a tribal leader, Khan's job is not all business, and at times he must mediate in local disputes. In Lashkar Gar, as in many parts of Afghanistan, adultery is a crime punishable by death, and honour killings are a part of life. Such problems can pit blood against blood, and Khan is often called to dispense justice. Khan's word in a dispute is always final.

Karzai continues. “And this, my friend, is the king. He can only move one step – just like the soldier - here, here, here. But the whole point of the game is to stop the other man’s king. If you do this, you win the game - check mate.”

Mossadhi Khan scrutinizes the other pieces. “And these at the back?”

“My friend, these are castles and what they call bishops. If you like, castles are like the Amerikans. They can move only in straight lines, like this.” Karzai moves a castle vertically, then horizontally. "To move anywhere, the Amerikans must first secure the roads. Often, they must put the roads in first. The Amerikans can never go anywhere without being seen. Unless they are CIA, but everyone knows who is CIA anyway. Every Amerikan not in uniform is CIA. Thus, the Amerikans must be fortified and move in straight lines - like a castle."

Khan picks up a bishop. "And this?"

“Think of him like the Taliban.” Karzai moves a bishop diagonally. “He moves this way. Bishops can be cunning and tricky. If you think in straight lines, as many do, you can take your eye off the bishop, who moves diagonally." Karzai looks up at Khan. "Personally, I have learned to watch them carefully. They can move here," Karzai moves the bishop around the board, "and then here. They can sneak up on you if you aren't thinking.”

Mossadhi Khan picks up a horse, looking into its small eye. “This one is a horse.”

Karzai plays with the Pashtun name for horseman. “Khan by name, and Khan by nature, isn’t it? Again, you are exactly right, my friend. A horse is strange, but strong. A horse moves like this.” Karzai moves a horse in the way a horse is moved, one way, and then another.

“And which man is this horse like?”

Karzai stops to think and choose his words carefully. “This is hard to say. I think, if we are to compare it to anything, it is best described as our self-made men, the tribal chiefs who can move in ways altogether different to these castles and bishops who can travel far, but, on the whole, are far more predictable than the tribes. These horses are the men the West call warlords. Their moves are the most surprising of all, but the point of this game is that all moves are known. You must know the move - and the potential move - of every figure on the board. This is what it means to play this game well.”

CONTINUED...

Karzai fills Khan's glass from the samovar, and places it on the table next to him. "Please." Karzai tops up his own glass and sips at his sugarless tea.

Khan leaves his glass on the table. “I understand this so far. But one thing," Khan moves the pieces on the board. "These move like the Taliban, these move like the Amerikans, and these move like, well, warlords, but the same pieces are on both sides. In truth, all these forces are in opposition. The Amerikans, the Taliban, the tribes...”

Karzai leans back and places his hands under his chin. “Ah, you have seen through this game, my brother. The Taliban are many factions, just like the Amerikans, isn’t it? In one sense, the Amerikans need the Taliban and the Taliban need the Amerikans. Just like the tribes. Think of Masood and the so-called Northern Alliance: Tajiks, Uzbeks, Hazara, some other shi'ah. The Amerikans used them, and they used the Amerikans. And before them, the Afghan communists used the Soviets and vice versa, each hand washing the other. The Soviets used Najibullah's government, Pakistan used the Pashtun Mujahedin. Then, when the Amerikans came in and allied with their own men in the Mujahedin, their enemies went across the border to Pakistan.”

Karzai glances at Khan to make sure he is still listening. “Among these exiles, in the madrasahs of Pakistan, grew the Taliban. When the Taliban joined in the struggle, aided by the Pakistani government, our tribes allied with them for a while, but grew tired of their cruelty and allied with each other and the Amerikans – some, anyway. Do you see, my friend? In Afghanistan, each group uses the other all the time, joining for a time, shifting, changing teams.”

Khan understands well. He has seen it time and time again.

Karzai continues. “The opponents in this game are not nations, armies or even factions. A player is not his king. This is a very demokratic game, my friend. A king is just another piece in this game of wills. To play this game well, I must tell you, you must see your opponent’s pieces as your own: all. You must think like your opponent and learn how he moves, which pieces he favours, which he moves first, and how he plays. You must think just like him. In this sense, you have no opponent; you are both locked in the game. This, you see, is why the Amerikans are so good at this game - they see the game - and not the men. As you can see, if this was a Russian game, they would still be here. Many of us, however, are trapped in our moves. We cannot see outside. The Amerikans, of course, have theories about this, but they make me tired. I just like to play. I am addicted. I can do nothing but play. I struggle, but I must make friends to help in this struggle. It is the only way. In the end, the last man standing is the winner, but no man lives forever, so each victory is short.”

Karzai sips his tea and looks at Khan. "Do you understand how it works?"

"I think I do."

"You would like to play this game?"

"I would like to learn."

"Good. Take this board. It is yours. You can take it with you."

"No, please. I can't take your board."

"Of course you can. I will have them wrap it for you. It is a gift! Learn how to play, my friend, and we can play together."

"Thanks. It is a good present."

CONTINUED...

"You can call from Lashkar Gar and we can play on the phone. This I do all the time." Karzai sighs. "I used to play with my brother in Lashkar Gar. Now..."

Khan is silent.

"My brother was good, but obviously not good enough. Now I am alone."

The door opens and Karzai's advisor, Gibran, walks into the room. "Master!"

"Ah, Khan, this is my man Gibran. He..."

Gibran shoots Karzai a look, fanning the air with his hand. "...The alarm!"

"No problem! It hasn't gone off." Karzai addresses Khan conspiratorially. "It has never gone off. God knows why they bother with these things. If anyone ever sets fire to this place, we'll burn. What can you do?"

Khan looks at the floor.

"Master, you have a meeting with the Opium Reduction Taskforce in half an hour!"

"No problem. We can meet in the other place." Karzai makes a gesture with his hand and looks over at Khan. "We are Pashtuns. We meet, we smoke. When the Amerikans come I'll drink Coca Cola."

Karzai laughs, and Khan joins him enthusiastically. It is the first time he has laughed.

Karzai rises from his chair and groans. "DEA. You see, my friend? You see these alliances I must make? It is endless. Ah, we do what we do."

Khan gets to his feet. Gibran quietly rearranges the room. He picks up the chessboard, and Karzai stops him.

"No - this is for my new friend, Khan. Can you take it to reception? I would like it wrapped for him to take back to Lashkar Gar."

Gibran lifts his eyebrows and rearranges the desk.

"Maybe Khan can learn chess and we can play. I want him to learn. You will learn this game, brother?"

"Of course. You have given me a very good lesson."

Gibran glances over at Karzai.

Karzai continues. "My own brother was very good at this game. We had games that would last for weeks. Months..."

Gibran interrupts. "Master, I am sorry to cut your meeting short, but the Amerikans will be here any minute. Could we finish up with Mr Khan and..."

"Ah - of course! I am sorry, Khan. Always I am forced from meeting to meeting. Remember me when you learn this game. I am like a pawn."

Gibran agrees. "We are all pawns, Mr Khan. We must all submit to a higher will, isn't it?"

Khan, taking a moment to check his phone for messages, looks up, wondering what he means.

"Allah Uakbar."

Khan understands. "Allah Uakbar."

Karzai is looking at the white horse, holding it up to the light. He addresses Gibran. "Can you see a chip in this? Look."

Gibran takes the horse from Karzai's hand and places in back on the board, picking it up with one hand. "It's fine. Come. Shall we join the other men? I'm sure they would like to get a photo with the president."

Karzai brightens. "Of course! Come, Khan, we will take photos. You have your own camera?"

"I'm not sure, Maybe my phone..."

"No problem. We have a photographer. Come."

As they leave the Oval Office in the Presidential Palace of Kabul, Gibran holds open the door and the two presidential guards snap their patent leather heels and salute, the fingers of their white gloves touching their fez-style hats in unison. At reception, Karzai places his arms around Khan's men and smiles for the camera. In a back room, Gibran and Kabir quiz Karzai for details, and they laugh at their smoke alarm-DEA shtick. It is an old routine, designed to create solidarity and, like most of Karzai's routines, make new friends. One thing bothers Karzai - how did the snake get a chillum in the building? It could have been a gun, a poison dart, anything. Security, it is clear, will need to be reviewed. Gibran promises to get onto it.

As the boom-gate opens to let the Khan convoy out into the streets of Kabul, Khan looks back at the Presidential Palace and the mind of Afghanistan. He wonders, insh’allah, if he will ever fulfill his plans to return, a member of the demokratic parliament of Afghanistan, Karzai’s man in Lashkar gar. In the Pashtun way, meetings are really meetings, and business is never discussed in detail. With his chessboard in the back, wrapped in brown paper and tape, Khan hopes, just like Karzai's brother, he will get the chance to play chess with Karzai on the phone from Lashkar Gar.

- Ah! Karnal, now your work is not done, you must keep me updated. Is many games of chess.

Amerika my friend is very good at playing one off against the other but war is a game they often lose.

This is truth, my brother, Pansi. Win or lose though, it is a game worth playing. It is addictive.

Insh'allah, Karzai now has a man in Lashkar Gar. This is good.

Now he needs a governor in Oruzgan province. Kabesh! When will it ever end?

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/Hamid-Karzai-in-Kabul-001.jpg

The north and south must meet, friends. It is like the two wings of a bird, isn't it?

Allah Uakbar. The north has good hashish.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/Karzai-420x0.jpg

Who's name do I write on this cheque?

You want cash? Kabesh! I already tear it off.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/hamidkarzai_081117_mn.jpg

Karzai: our man in Central Asia.

"The Karzai government is the central pillar in the State Department's solution to the global war on terror and political instability in Central Asia" - Hillary Clinton.

"Allah Uakbar" - Kabul CIA Station Chief AKA GARRY.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/HillaryClintonArrivesKabulKarzaiInaugurationTk3uzJeM9KIl.jpg

Karzai meets with the Opium Reduction Taskforce from Tarin Kowt in the "Oval Office" of the presidential palace.

Before we begin, I must ask: which of you has a chillum?

http://www.ozpolitic.com/yabbfiles/Attachments/Karzai-420x0.jpg

- Ah my friend I will write this one for the Amerika's for helping Karzai to be number one demokratikal elect leader of Afghan.

http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQFVu_m_28XfwdMEc45Dd2FChUKPPk1ahB2W_D-x8wTj5dSLfLzeBligxJ_xw

- Karzai new government men must send this bigger cheque for the Amerika to stay delighted with Karzai's work. Afghan National Government must pay for freedoms. Is ok sale of poppy seed has been good, much thanks to Amerika for protecting poppy field from terrorist. Is gain for both my friend.

Kabesh, my friend. CIA always pay in cash, isn't it?

http://troll.me/images/ordinary-muslim-man/i-set-the-american-flag-on-fire-accidently-during-my-independance-day-bbq-and-firework-show.jpg

This is my frien Faarooq he is in big trouble

was making the kebab for Awsterica celebration

and kaboom!!! the flag she catch fire mate

Barry was here yesterday looking....looking...looking

If you see Faarooq please you help him out.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1543198807/73#73

Winter, Kabul. From his compound behind the Presidential Palace, Karzai looks out over his once proud city. Where is Gary now? Where are the Americans? The British? The German engineers?

Was it all a dream?

An icy wind blows through the city, whistling. When the sun rises, there will be fog.

The telephone rings, breaking through the darkness.

"Hamid?"

It is Ghani, damn him. He calls anytime. He is now Karzai's president. Once, he was a friend.

"Hamid? The Americans are taking more troops. What to do? It is giving me insomnia already."

"Ah, Ashraf, this is no longer our world. The wind, the fog, this is now our lot, insh'allah."

"But Hamid, we must act! You must do something! Call Gary, call Mr Trump, call anyone!"

"Gary no longer takes my calls, effende, but anyhow, he is gone too. Retired, living in Maine."

"And Trump?"

"Forget it, Ashraf, he's pretty much retired too. Putin, he will talk to. Me? I am yesterday. I am the past. I am no longer on the Fox News."

"But Mother said..."

"Ah. She talks to you? Me also, in my time. She is a goodly spirit."

"She is my only hope! The Americans will no longer help. The Taliban are giving me heart problems already. My blood pressure..."

Health has always been one of Karzai's obsessions, but like all hypochondriacs, he can't bear to listen to the health problems of others.

"Insh'allah, the Angel will guide you, Ashraf. Listen to her. She is always right."

"Ah, Hamid, she tells me to kill - some men with my own bare hands. My conscience..."

"Forget conscience, effende, the Angel speaks the word of God. This is the price we must pay. I also, in my time. Men like us cannot afford a conscience."

Karzai can hear the presidential hubbly bubbly on the other end of the line. Ghani must be onto his first bong of the day. Karzai is on the last bong of the night. Hashish and opium. It is the only thing that holds back the pain of the conscience. Also, it often brings a visit from the Angel, who gives advice. Karzai, after all, is still the president, just not in name. Today, he can relax and let Ashraf settle the blood. It is a part of the job no president likes.

In many ways, Karzai is like the Angel herself, directing Afghanistan from behind the scene. Karzai's presidential terms expired, he can now rule without accountability. It is a good place to be, but then again, all in Afghanistan know Karzai is secretly the power behind the throne.

"Hamid, try Mr Trump again, I know he can help. Maybe there will be a new Gary soon."

"Insh'allah, there are no more Garys, Ashraf. It is the price we must pay. It is - how to say - independence."

"Oh Hamid, listen to who you are talking to. Independence? It's a sad joke. Afghanistan will never be independent. Britain, Russia, America, all. Let the Taliban dream of independence. We are pragmatic fellows."

"This may be, effende, but we must pretend. We are like an actor on the stage - an actor in the play of life. All countries want independence, isn't it. None may have it, not even America. But we pretend, we speak to the crowds, we go on TV. Then, when all is quiet, we listen to the Angel of Darkness, Mother of the Night. This is our lot, insh'allah. It is what we must do. Speak of independence, Ashraf, but act on dependence. It is all we can do."

"Yes, it is so. Can you just try Trump?"

"Okay! I will try again, Ashraf. Insh'allah, I will succeed. But let us wait until the day."

"Ah, Hamid, peace be upon you."

"Now go do your work. You have a meeting with the Pashtun Council today, no?"

"They never help. All they do is complain."

"But we must pretend, Ashraf. Be an actor. Listen and speak the lines I have given you. It is like chess. On their own, no piece can win, and yes, many must be sacrificed. But together - like the fingers in a hand - we may act, fingers that may form a fist or a caress."

Karzai takes a drag on his pipe then blows out its smoke, a long blue dragon of opium and hashish. With it, Karzai let's out a prayer.

"Mother of Darkness, Angel of Death, bring light to our friend Ashraf Ghani, president of all the tribes of Afghanistan! Bring him glory, bring him peace!"

"Blood pressure, Hamid..."

"Bring him health! Lower his blood pressure, insh'allah. Get him on a low cholesterol diet, he is putting on too much weight."

"It is Winter, Hamid. I'm not getting out much."

"Then get out! Go to Florida. It is sunny all year round. Gary gave me a compound there. Finally."

"Really?"

"Really. But it was not cheap. It cost much oil and gas. Still, it is not my oil and gas."

"It belongs to the people of Afghanistan."

"It belongs to God! He who sees all, hears all, owns all. I should go to Florida myself, get some sun."

"This might work, Hamid. Listen, Mr Trump has a palace there. You can buy a ticket and meet with him."

"Maybe. What is this Trump palace?"

"Mar a' Lago. Apparently you can play golf there. You can drive around in these little buggies."

"Well, it would be good to see the retirement compound again... Alright, I will visit this Mar a Lago. I will play some golf, drink cocktails. Insh'allah, I shall meet with Trump himself!"

"As God wills it, Hamid."

"Now go. Meet with the Pashtuns. Tell them to hold tight. Insh'allah, we will bring back America!"

A thin dawn breaks over Kabul. As always, the sun's fog creeps in from the east. Blue-grey, like the smoke from a hubbly bubbly.

Karzai and Trump? What to do? Stay reading, friends, and you will see.

http://www.ozpolitic.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1545814065/6#6

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