TIME: Into the Heart of
Baghran
Wednesday, January 09, 2002
By MICHAEL WARE
In Kandahar, a dusty, ramshackle place swirling with
intrigue and all manner of scheming, a great Afghan
mystery envelops us all — where is Mullah Omar? To
foreign eyes the Muslim cleric who carried the
Taliban from this, their spiritual home, to rule the
country vanished with the fall of his regime five
weeks ago. There is no sign, no trace. He is
invisible to our technology.
But Kandaharis need little of such things. I can't
shake the feeling that to them Mullah Omar's location
is less of a mystery and more of a riddle to which
they may already have the answer. But it's riddle
that can't be solved in Kandahar. To the west is
Helmand province, an unruly place that makes the
Kandaharis wary. "They're wild people," the
Kandaharis' are quick to counsel. Deep in Helmand's
north, guarded by great mountains, is Baghran. A
formidable domain — and the sanctuary where Omar is
thought to have fled.
I set out to see if I could follow, to find Mullah
Omar's trail through the heart of the country of the
Taliban. What I found was that even now, the Taliban
leaders have a hold on power there — and they're not
likely to surrender Omar anytime soon.
Departure
Malim Mirwali is like no other Afghan I have met. His
shoulders are thick like heavy sacks of flour, his
chest broader than a 40-gallon drum. He has pylons
for legs. The hand he offered in greeting swallowed
mine whole in a fleshy palm, then wrapped it in
fingers fat like German sausages. Over his grey
kameez and flowing shirt he wore a neat-cut
waistcoat. A bushy black beard tumbled from his face.
He talked slowly; the same as he moved. "[Helmand]
Governor Haji Shir Mohammed and American soldiers
have gone on this road to Kajaki [a town to the north
in the Baghran area]," he said.
Rais the Baghran, Helmand's most powerful warlord,
and a fearsome Taliban commander said to be
sheltering Omar, had agreed to surrender and had
relinquished some arms. "Shir Mohammed and the
Americans did not trust him," Mirwali continued, "So
they asked Rais to go inside Baghran." We asked
Mirwali if, as intelligence reports and Kandahar
commanders say, Rais was hiding Mullah Omar in his
Baghran realm. "This issue is unconfirmed," Mirwali
said unhurriedly, though Taliban commanders who
withdrew from Gereshk went that way. We told him we
wanted to go to Baghran. We asked for soldiers. He
shook his head, "If I have permission I will give you
soldiers," adding he has no satellite phone number to
call to get it.
Mirwali invited us to lunch, for which we thanked him
but declined. We were about to leave, wondering
whether it was safe to go on without more troops,
when we decided upon one last ploy. We caught Mirwali
in his garden. One of our fixers implored him to
help, playing on his sense of honor: "These men are
journalists, they work for no nation," he told
Mirwali. "They want to tell the world what is here.
They are working for you. If something happens to
them, it will bring shame to us." Amazingly, Mirwali
seemed moved. He nodded in agreement and passed out
orders. A junior commander dashed off to ready our
escort. "I think it will only cost you about $10 per
soldier," the fixer advised with a smile.
We drove into the desert. Seven of Mirwali's soldiers
lead the way, packed into a silver 4x4; five in the
cabin, two in the back with a dozen rocket propelled
grenades and two PK light machine guns. There is no
trail across the vast, rocky plains, just tire tracks
splicing in and out of a weave heading north. For
almost three hours and 40 miles we followed the
mujahedin through choking dust. Rows of mountain
ridges rose on the horizon like broken witches'
teeth. From time to time we came to tiny settlements;
the houses sealed behind mud brick walls, the rooftop
edges curved, daily life hidden from view. Some were
plunked down in the middle of nowhere, drawing life
from plunging wells. Others hugged wispy rivers;
groves of fruit trees, winter bare, lined the
channels.
With Friday fading and the light softening, it felt
like we were speeding through Old Testament lands:
shepherd boys guided flocks of goats over rocky
slopes looking for feed; donkeys shuffled along paths
with firewood roped to their backs; fields were
worked with wooden implements; cloaked figures strode
alone across vacant desert stretches miles from
anywhere. All that broke the scene was a B-52 trail
piercing the clouds far above.
A night in Musa Qal'eh
At dusk we forded a stony riverbed and a village
loomed on the bank. "Musa Qal'eh," said the soldiers,
motioning at the village. It was the end of the road;
our escorts did not have permission to take us
further. We had to enter Musa Qal'eh and hope its
commander would guide us further north. We were not
expected, and at the blue and white iron gates to his
compound our soldiers shouted to his men to let us
in.
Inside there were weapons everywhere, draped from
every shoulder, positioned on every roof; far more
than in similar posts in Kandahar. District commander
Haji Abdul Mohammed granted us an audience,
surrounded by his curious soldiers in black turbans
(one carrying an M-16 made in Kentucky in 1975) and
his senior lieutenants in white turbans. Haji Abdul
is quite an old man, his beard more grey than black.
He told us Rais the Baghran began surrendering eight
days ago. The day before troops from this outpost
accompanied 20 U.S. Special Forces and governor Haji
Shir Mohammed as far north towards Baghran as they
could. "For the moment no fighting is taking place in
Baghran, and since the governor went there none has
broken out," he said.
A mujahid who fought long against the Taliban, Haji
Abdul is nonetheless from this district, and his ties
here show in his stance toward the local Taliban.
"All of the Taliban soldiers were from our tribes;
they were not criminals," he said, meaning there were
no foreign Taliban among them. When he assumed
command in Musa Qal'eh one month ago there was no
Taliban resistance, despite northern Helmand being
one of their strongest centers. The lack of
resistance is not because their forces withdrew.
"They are still living here," said Haji Abdul. "The
Afghan Taliban are our relatives, our brothers and
cousins." His men will arrest the top commanders,
though none have yet been detained, "and if we are
asked we will hand them over to the interim
government." He didn't mention the unpopular, and
unlikely, alternative: giving them to U.S. forces.
We spent the night at Haji Abdul's headquarters; a
few derelict buildings and a dying garden. Over
dinner he wanted to talk more about our plans. He too
couldn't give soldiers without the governor's
permission, "but I must call him at 8pm and I will
ask." Later he said he could not make contact, though
he did seem better informed about the governor's
movements. He began to tell stories about the perils
of the road to Baghran, saying "if you paid me $500 I
would not give you a vehicle, so badly damaged would
it be." His stories panicked some of our drivers and
fixers, sparking a heated debate on the merits of
continuing. It was here one of our party's soldiers
showed his grit. "If anyone refuses to go I will make
them," he said, using his finger to pull an imaginary
trigger aimed at a reluctant driver.
No other journalists had made it this far north. But
word came over the mujahedin radio a small group was
back at Kajaki, denied the permission to advance. At
least we were well-placed to get to the governor, and
the elusive Special Forces, first. After dinner the
other journalists and I sat in our vehicles, laptops
in our laps, filing stories and pictures to
news-hungry editors for as long as our batteries
would last. But we were not alone. Even with the car
windows wound up, bemused mujahedin crowded around
and, for hours, watched us work at our brightly lit
computers. Their faces pressed on the glass,
discussions thrived about what we were doing. We were
the best entertainment in a long time. That night we
all slept in one room, weapons between us and
blankets pulled over our heads, in makeshift cocoons,
against the below-zero chill.
The governor arrives
On Saturday morning Haji Abdul told us the governor
was en route from Baghran. "He will come here and see
you," he said, convincing us to wait. It was not
long. The iron gates flung open and grimy 4x4s zoomed
in. Haji Shir Mohammed had arrived. Shorter and
younger than I had somehow expected, he told us
Baghran was peaceful, the surrender a success. Rais
the warlord had forsaken his power. "Rais is an old
man, a leader of his tribe and a supporter of the
government. He will live in the future as a
white-bearded old man and will not support Mullah
Omar or Osama bin Laden," he said.
Haji Shir Mohammed began by defending the resilient
warlord he'd come to tame. Rais was never the Taliban
powerbroker people had thought, the governor
insisted. I looked at our Taliban gunman. He had
fought with Rais against the Northern Alliance in the
Panjshir Valley and well knew his authority. The
gunman rolled his eyes. The governor went on: Rais
and the elders had "confirmed the absence of Mullah
Omar". We asked how he could be so sure? "All the
people of Baghran are of our tribe, my own tribe
(Alizai). I'm quite sure they wouldn't create
problems."
Face to face with Rais the Baghran
The way to Baghran is along a dry riverbed; with
vehicles negotiating fields of rough river stones,
inconvenient boulders, dusty sand banks and pools of
cold water. It's slow, slow going. On either side
sheer mountains glare down like surly sentinels.
Villages are few. At times we drove up from the river
and across low folds of hills where endless gullies
and draws make for good ambush. No wonder the
Russians could never capture Baghran. A Soviet tank,
ruptured by rockets, rusts at one turn; a scant
reminder of a failed campaign.
At nightfall we weren't halfway through our bumpy
eight-hour slog. The guards we'd acquired in Musa
Qal'eh insisted we stop for the night. "It's not safe
to go on," they assured us. We argued with them, as
time was tight. After much discussion they relented,
but only if we would sign a waiver to excuse them in
the event of our deaths. At that point we figured if
these men were scared there was probably good reason.
We agreed to stay. In the mountains the night is
bitterly cold, so we could work in our vehicles
without spectators. But the tension had grown.
Whenever a journalist went outside, no matter for how
long, one of our Kandahar guards (who travelled with
us for the entire trip as the others came and went)
stood watch, nervously eyeing the dark.
In the morning, a few hours down the road, the
soldiers relaxed while I made a call on the satellite
phone. A rock half a mile away was chosen as the
target and shooting practice ensued with much joking
and laughter and cheers. With respective prowess
affirmed, we moved on. We didn't arrive in Baghran
village until noon.
In yet another fortified compound we first met the
tribal leaders; all vowing Mullah Omar had not been
spotted. "Don't worry about anything," said an aged
Haji Mohammed Gaffar of the search for Omar, "we
can't find anything to make a person worry. It's all
peaceful now and the people who will build the roads
and wells can come." The sixteen other leaders — all
in kameez, vests and brand new army jackets —
concurred, talking over each other and contributing
to every question. They swore they'd not supported
the Taliban, though thousands of soldiers were
recruited from here; six hundred from Baghran are
prisoners with the Northern Alliance in
Mazar-i-Sharif and Kunduz alone. "The Taliban would
not ask to take our sons, they would catch them on
the road," said Gaffar. As we sat in the sun
listening to these men, I doubted a homegrown
commander like Rais needed to kidnap his troops.
Minutes later I learned I was right when the door to
the courtyard opened and a small, wiry man with a
hardened set to his face walked through. The throng
of elders leapt up. They crowded the man, each
shaking his hand, some kissing it, before bringing
him towards us. It was Rais the Baghran, the man much
of the world believes spirited Mullah Omar to safety.
He stopped a few paces short of me and cased me out,
looking up and down with a careful eye. I put his age
a shade over fifty, but athleticism still oozed from
him. For a "white-bearded old man", whose beard is
still thick and black with streaks of grey a meagre
concession to age, he looked as though he could
stride on to a battlefield tomorrow.
In black turban, tipped with grey, a cardigan and a
brown pin-stripe waistcoat, Rais told us it was his
Islamic duty to "respect you and give you as much
hospitality as we can". He then fudged our first
question about no longer having power, choosing
instead to relay how he had twice met interim
government leader Hamid Karzai to speed the transfer
of "Taliban power to Karzai." But he happily
confirmed his new arrangement with the government,
under which he surrendered those weapons he had at
hand and vowed not to protect "any of the most wanted
people who come into our area." But did he leave the
door open? He spoke of the benefit that flows to a
Muslim who protects another of the faith. He said
there was two ways that could be done. One was
protection by a community, with good grace before God
coming to them all. This, he said, had not been
granted to Omar because "you can't trouble a whole
nation for one person." The other was protection
given by an individual, with the divine benefit
resting with him. "The protection of Mullah Omar, if
a person thought it could, may be a particular
benefit for one man," he said.
Throughout our interview, the 17 chattering elders
sat silently. As he spoke of his peoples' desire for
peace, their weariness of war, their need for aid,
his respect for international law and his willingness
to hunt down the man he was once close to, there was
not as much as a murmur. Some would nod, but in the
most discrete way. Rais, it was clear, still owns his
fiefdom. This man had no need to Shanghai his
soldiers. He wrapped up the interview, saying he had
to go, "I have a meeting with my commanders."
Going home
With that we left. The eight-hour ride over riverbeds
was no more comfortable going back. At least we
reached Musa Qal'eh shortly after dark. Another night
at the Haji Abdul's compound had the men converting
us to Islam. "I think you are like a good Muslim
because you are happy," said a beefy mujahid with a
machine gun dangling from him like it were no more
than a scarf. "Can I come to Australia with you?"
Within a day we were back in Kandahar, via a short
visit to a deserted, bombed and raided Al-Qaeda camp
(but that's another story). In the course of our
odyssey to Baghran we gained and lost a small private
army; it began with four gunmen and swelled at times
to a dozen or maybe more. Our vehicles took heavy
punishment: three tires were punctured, the van had
to be left and picked up later, a taxi had to be
hired in Baghran, a 4x4's belt spring was broken,
some electricals failed, two cars collided and one
had to be push-started several times. There was also
the toll on those who travelled with us; food was
poor and in little quantity, the dust was
inescapable, sleep was rare and the cold was biting.
But in four long days we made it there and back
again.
And on the way my suspicions were confirmed — there
is no hurry at all for Mullah Omar to be found, if
indeed he is lost at all. Though the Coalition forces
champ at the bit, the Afghans who hold the answers do
not want to enter the race. To an Afghan his family
comes first, then his tribe, then his "nation" or
ethnic grouping, then the country and all Muslim
brothers. In the Pashtun south, where Omar is likely
hiding, there are time honored and complex ways of
resolving disputes, none of which involve giving an
Afghan Muslim to foreign infidels. As Kandahar
government secretary Engineer Pashtun quizzically
pointed out, "the Afghan Constitution of 1963
prohibits extradition to another country no matter
the crime". The wheels of Afghan justice, and of the
Pashtun code of conduct known as pastunwali, are
turning. Just maybe not in ways that we will ever
fully understand.