--- description: Engineer Ghafar and a couple of his gunmen were standing beside me in a wheat field when a U.S. Blackhawk helicopter roared overhead. For the... title: Moscow's Graveyard image: https://static.time.com/v3/assets/bltea6093859af6183b/bltde093bcdab65f2d0/6988d9b9bc6cfc69913e2a3c/time-logo.jpg?branch=production --- * [World](/section/world/) # Moscow's Graveyard (12 Sep 2005) by [TIME Staff](/author/time-staff/) Sep 12, 2005 4:00 AM CUT by [TIME Staff](/author/time-staff/) Sep 12, 2005 4:00 AM CUT Engineer Ghafar and a couple of his gunmen were standing beside me in a wheat field when a U.S. Blackhawk helicopter roared overhead. For the pilot, there must have been something suspicious about the cluster of Afghans below in the green square; he caught a glint off one of their AK-47s, perhaps. On the ground, a wave of fear passed through Ghafar and his soldiers. During the jihad against the Soviets, Ghafar and his men had been frequently chased by helicopter gunships, and the rumbling thunder in the sky was unmistakable. The Blackhawk dropped low, its dark shadow passing over the fields, before it raced off. Now that the chopper was gone, Ghafar afforded a joke. “At this range,” he laughs, “it would have been so easy—too easy, really—to shoot down that helicopter.” The engineer knows a thing or two about firing at helicopters. Ghafar says he was the first Afghan member of the mujahedin to obliterate a Soviet chopper with a Stinger missile. And by coincidence, Ghafar was standing in exactly the same field when the Blackhawk appeared over the hills, 19 years later. “Amazing,” he exclaims. “They’re following the same flight pattern as the Soviets.” The engineer saw this as a kind of omen: that one superpower acted much the same as another, and that unless the U.S. became more careful, it would, by the grace of Allah and the ferocity of the Afghan warrior, meet the same fate as the Soviets. It was a warning I would hear constantly throughout my travels in Afghanistan. In 1986 Ghafar had proved himself as a brave commander to the CIA, and he was taught how to operate the top-secret Stinger. On Sept. 26 that year, he says, he and his soldiers crept through the fields as close as they dared to the Soviet air base in Jalalabad. Then Ghafar led his men in prayers. “We prayed that Allah would send us lots of Russian helicopters, and we also asked Allah not to shame us in front of the other mujahedin.” His prayers were answered. At dusk, a formation of 12 Soviet copters appeared over the camelback hills, and Ghafar hoisted the missile launcher onto his shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The Stinger misfired like a dud firecracker and snaked crazily through the tall wheat. “I was worried that the Soviets had seen the missile flash and would be after us,” Ghafar recounts. Calmly, he prepared another Stinger in the launch tube and shot again. That moment was the turning point in the Afghan war. The Stinger, attracted by the heat of the helicopter’s motors, struck home. “It was like somebody had thrown feathers in the sky, all these pieces from the destroyed helicopter came floating down,” Ghafar recalls. He was under strict orders from his CIA mentors to launch only one missile, but elated by his triumph, he reloaded and shot. Again, a helicopter exploded in the sky. The remaining choppers scattered for safety. That afternoon, the Soviets lost their air supremacy over Afghanistan and the tide began turning against the Red Army. THE FOREIGN INVASION I came late to the Afghanistan story, arriving a few months after the last Soviet tanks, in full retreat, crossed the Friendship Bridge over the Amu Darya River. But since then, I’ve stayed around. I witnessed the fall of the Communist regime in 1991 when the victorious mujahedin filled the skies over Kabul with sprays of red tracer bullets during endless nights of celebration. I was present when the muj turned their guns on one another and killed more than 30,000 Kabul civilians in wanton bombardments. And I was in the country for the rise of those pious and brutish warriors known as the Taliban, and for their epic demise when Americans invaded Afghanistan after Sept. 11, 2001. In spring of this year, I set off on a journey to revisit the places where the wheels of history took observable turns—like the field where Ghafar launched his fiery arrow. I was searching for an explanation of how Afghanistan became the crucible for the two defining events of the late 20th century and early 21st century: the implosion of the Soviet Empire and the upsurge worldwide of Islamic militancy. Before crossing the Khyber Pass into Afghanistan, I stayed a couple of days in Peshawar’s old city, at a hotel of winding staircases near lanes of storytellers and caged songbirds. During the 1980s, this ancient caravansary at the gateway between India and Central Asia seethed with spies of a dozen nationalities, Afghan fighters, war junkies, refugees, aid volunteers, journalists, Arab preachers, and fugitive Islamic radicals. Many were inspired by the 1979 Iranian revolution, which showed that faith could be harnessed to topple seemingly invincible tyrants. Everyone had his own competing agendas and ideologies, especially the “foreign fighters.” Assassination was a common way of settling scores. Recalls Masood Khalili, now the Afghan ambassador to India who in 2001 was nearly blown up by two al-Qaeda suicide bombers: “They came as tourists looking for experience, and they left as terrorists.” The Arabs and Southeast Asians probably numbered several thousand, according to one former Pakistani intelligence official. And like today’s suicide bombers in Iraq, some fanatics sought battlefield martyrdom, even going so far as to camp in white tents easily spotted by the Soviet gunships, and wearing shrouds into combat. “So you want to hear about Osama Bin Laden?” I was sitting with Pakistan’s most famous spymaster, Brigadier Mohammed Yusaf. He was the Inter-Services Intelligence director of Afghan operations during the 1980s. A grizzled lion of a man in his late 60s, he is impatient in movement and speech, though he was slowed by a recent heart attack. Yusaf was the king of the Afghan resistance groups. He gave them guns, ammo, pack mules, and told them which Soviet targets to hit. (“Stubborn chaps, these Afghans, but damn good fighters. The best,” he says.) Most retired Pakistani generals live in grand style, and I was surprised that Yusaf’s house, in an army garrison town named Wah, was modestly middle-class—a sign, perhaps, that he hadn’t pocketed the Afghan war funds gushing in from the CIA and the Saudis, as many of his chums had. He led me into his Spartan living room, whose only decorations were 16 regimental shields. “Yes, Osama. All we knew is that there was a young Arab sheik, very wealthy, who was digging lots of tunnels and caves for the mujahedin,” says the brigadier. “Was he a good fighter?” I ask. An ex-CIA station chief in Islamabad had once told me: “Osama was better at posing with his AK-47 than actually using it.” But I wondered if that were true or just agency trash talk. The spymaster shrugs and replies, “He was one of many Arabs. They fought well at Jaji against the Russians. If you want an answer, you must go to Jaji.” Jaji was one of the biggest mujahedin bases, a warren of over 500 caves and tunnels in the forested ranges of the Spin Ghar mountains. It was also deep inside Taliban territory. I set out from Kabul by road, across mountains where Kuchi nomads camped with their camel herds on green slopes illuminated by solitary shafts of sunlight breaking through the clouds. In Afghanistan, the mountain passes were heavily mined by Soviets, mujahedin and later the Taliban, and often we saw crews of de-miners who had marked off hillsides with a grid of red and white stones, like the skin of some patient being prepared for surgery. The only safe way to reach bin Laden’s caves was to be accompanied by a Jaji tribesman. This ensured that the Taliban would leave us alone. Our guide was a turbaned ex-muj with only two bottom teeth and whose name translated as “Strange Flower.” Traveling by a hired Land Cruiser, we followed a wadi—a dry river valley—through a labyrinth of narrow gorges that revealed adobe villages rising above groves of pomegranate and mulberry trees. The valleys grew steeper, covered with holly shrubs and twisted pines, and soon we were up against the forbidding Spin Ghar range whose icy crests were like a line of approaching white clouds. In Jaji we were met by an old muj commander, Mohammed Daoud. A giant with long hair, he had a beard that reached his ample chest, and a rumbling, deep laughter. He reminded me of a jovial musketeer. Daoud agreed to show us bin Laden’s masterwork of tunnels. At the bottom of a boulder-strewn ravine, bin Laden had used bulldozers from his daddy’s construction firm to hollow out three interconnecting tunnels in the mountainside, which served as a field hospital and a main command center for the mujahedin groups. The Soviets knew the tunnels existed and regularly launched Scuds into the ravine, but they caused no damage. I spotted one bomb crater near the entrance. “A Scud?” I ask. “No, from the Americans,” replies Daoud. Bin Laden’s other subterranean resort, Tora Bora, was just on the other side of the mountains, and after Sept. 11, 2001, U.S. forces thought bin Laden might have bolted back to this original hideout. When asked about bin Laden, Daoud turns evasive. He says he remembers him—barely. “He was an ordinary fighter. Quiet, young. We didn’t know he’d left such a golden life to become part of the mujahedin. There wasn’t anything special about him—not then.” By all accounts, bin Laden’s first taste of battle was at Jaji. By April 1987, the Soviet generals realized that the only chance of stopping the Afghan resistance was to seal off the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. The honeycomb of rebel caves at Jaji was top of their list. According to Daoud, a column of Soviet tanks, backed by swarms of helicopters and more than 200 élite commando troops, advanced past Jaji village into the mountains. Their first target was a subterranean base farther down the valley, known as the New Camp, where over 500 fighters were dug in, including bin Laden. More than 60 of bin Laden’s Arab comrades died along with hundreds of Afghans, but thousands of fighters went rushing through the forests to outflank the Soviets. The siege lasted over a week, and the Soviets were driven back. Soviet generals later conceded that after the defeat at Jaji, they knew the Afghan war was unwinnable, but another two punishing years were to pass before their final withdrawal. According to Ghost Wars: The Secret History of the CIA, Afghanistan, and bin Laden, from the Soviet Invasion to September 10, 2001, the masterful account of recent Afghan history by Steve Coll of the Washington Post, the fight at Jaji “marked the birth of Osama bin Laden’s public reputation as a warrior among Arab jihadists.” That reputation was burnished by bin Laden himself, according to Coll, who claims that after the battle, bin Laden went on a recruitment tour back home in Saudi Arabia and exalted his own role as “a military leader” in the Jaji battle. “The Arabs fought well,” recalls Daoud. “But I can’t remember that bin Laden fought any better or more fiercely than anyone else.” Yuri Kozyrev, a Russian photographer for TIME, has been snapping away at Daoud beside bin Laden’s cave. “No more,” Daoud barks. “How do I know you won’t use these photos to say I’m al-Qaeda?” There was a reason for his distrust: several weeks earlier, American soldiers raided Daoud’s fortress home and briefly arrested his son. A U.S. officer later apologized, saying he had been fed misinformation, but Daoud was unforgiving. Warlords are often thin-skinned, and he had been shamed in front of his villagers. What’s more, the U.S. raiding party smashed a prized photo that showed a dashing young Daoud handing a Soviet rocket to a U.S. Congressman, Charlie Wilson, a gung-ho Texan who had raised money for the muj and would often appear in Peshawar with his arm around a Midwestern beauty queen. “We are not al-Qaeda,” fumes Daoud. “These Arabs say we’re bad Muslims, that we don’t know how to pray correctly.” As for the Americans, he warns: “They come here and act like lords. They should remember that the Russians came to Jaji in 500 tanks—and where are they now?” Daoud is a warlord, but seems decent. He invites shepherds and wandering dervishes to share his meals. He persuaded Jaji farmers not to grow opium this year (although so much was harvested last year that dealers are sitting on their stashes waiting for prices to rise). Daoud may not like the description of himself as a warlord, but it fits. And he feels that the old mujahedin commanders like himself are getting a bad rap these days in the new Afghanistan under President Hamid Karzai. It’s a gripe one hears frequently from these hoary fighters. Why should they hand over the country to the “dog washers”—those Afghans who sat out the jihad abroad doing menial jobs and who have come back to hold Cabinet posts—when, after all, it was men like Daoud who bested the Soviets? But Daoud says he’s willing to change, and to that end he was coaxed by Kabul into taking a trip to Japan to see how democracy works. The shaggy warrior was impressed by the Japanese parliament building, but aghast at having to eat raw fish with chopsticks. Good governance made less of an impact on the commander than Japanese flowers, and Daoud brought back several plant cuttings that now grow in a plastic battery casing inside his guest hall. “I don’t know what kind they are,” he shrugs, “but they are very beautiful, and we need more beauty in Afghanistan.” It wasn’t a resounding cry for democracy, but, for a warlord, it was a start. The fraternity of warlords, past and present, is a troubled one. Engineer Ghafar, today a stout man in his mid-40s with a thickening belly, had an unsuccessful spell as Jalalabad’s mayor. Nowadays he dabbles in real estate. Friends say Ghafar made a fortune selling his cache of Stinger missiles back to the Americans when the Soviets left. Ghafar sips green tea in his flower garden, rich but frustrated. I’d heard that another famous warlord had opened a pizzeria. This, I thought, was worth a visit. Bashir Solangi was once lord of the Solang Pass, the main artery used by the Soviets to move their guns and supplies from the U.S.S.R. across the Hindu Kush into Kabul and southern Afghanistan. Solangi and his men would hide out in the crags and ambush the Soviet convoys. They were as good with a screwdriver as a rocket-propelled grenade, and they looted everything—machine guns, fuel, ammo, even a Soviet general’s limousine, which was dismantled and reassembled in the Panjshir Valley. Solangi, like other warlords, had since fallen on tough times. Today, he is the police chief of Wardak province, a place of no consequence. In May his men opened fire on Afghans protesting the alleged desecration of the Koran at the U.S.’s Guantánamo Bay detention facility. Several demonstrators were killed. I think Solangi yearned for the simpler times of pulling a trigger to blow up a Soviet tank. But he had the pizzeria. It was called Popolano’s, a kitsch palace of mirrors that glittered on the roadside in the Hindu Kush mountains. I arranged to meet Solangi at the pizzeria, beside a mountain river where snowflakes and spring blossoms floated down onto destroyed Soviet tanks. Graves were strewn along the river, and the wind ripped at green flags signifying that an Afghan shaheed (martyr) laid buried beneath the stones. Solangi met me outside the pizzeria. He was wearing a black raincoat and a black leather baseball cap. I had to ask him: Why pizza? “Uh, we don’t serve pizza,” he replies. It turned out that he wanted a fancy name for his inn and some Afghan who had been to Europe told him he could not do more elegantly than “Popolano’s pizzeria.” “Someday we’ll make pizza,” he promises. “I’m told it’s a kind of bread.” In the meantime, he could offer rice and stewed goat. Solangi wants to talk about the Taliban. “They came up here and we killed thousands of them. Thousands,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “They didn’t care that they were getting killed. We captured some and questioned them. Their mullahs told them we weren’t Muslims but infidels.” His story reminded me of an incident in 1995, when the Taliban were attacking the mouth of the Panjshir Valley. Some other journalists, including an Indian woman in a vivid sari, and I wandered up the road and found a group of Taliban trying to clear a landslide with a tractor. Solangi and his men were up on the ridge, and suddenly they opened fire, launching mortars on the road crew, each mortar striking closer, like a giant’s thundering boot steps. It was sure death. The Indian woman, hobbled by her sari, and the rest of us all ran, but the Taliban stayed. From the pizzeria we headed up the Solang Pass, and the falling blossoms made way for more snowflakes. We bumped into a truck driver who said it was the worst spring blizzard in 60 years. The temperature was -20°C, the winds Arctic, and our driver Fida, a brooding ex-muj who was wearing only a thin jacket and sandals with no socks, refused any help in trying to fasten a broken set of chains on the tires. There is no man on earth more stubborn than an Afghan, and Fida kept at it, alone, until his fingers ceased to move. Only then did he finally seek help from a sensibly attired mountain man. Inside the Solang tunnel, a lorry had skidded sideways, and we were trapped for hours inside this icy morgue in darkness tinged yellow from headlights and diesel fumes. Our destination was the Friendship Bridge across the Oxus River. It was here that Soviet tanks had rolled into Afghanistan in December 1979, and here, 10 years later, after the loss of some 25,000 lives, that they finally left the nation in defeat. As we traveled through a desert of dunes and shrubs in approaching the river, I thought back on the time when, like the Soviets, I too had once fled across the Friendship Bridge, scrambling over hoops of barbed wire and cement tank barriers. It was 1998, and the city of Mazar-i-Sharif had risen up against the Taliban occupiers. Mobs were on the loose, and twice our U.N. guesthouse was ransacked while we cowered in the basement. We were evacuated in a U.N. convoy and the roadside was littered with dead Taliban. Other Talibs, who were chained, were led off into the dunes for execution. Stripped of their black turbans and guns, they didn’t look like fierce warriors, just scared and scrawny kids who were afraid of dying. The Taliban came back to Mazar-i-Sharif three months later and took terrible revenge on the city. Thousands of people were massacred. There wasn’t much to evoke memories for me at the Friendship Bridge. The barbed wire and tank barriers had been cleared, and a sluggish traffic of oil tankers trundled across the milk-tea-colored Oxus. Near the customs depot, I spotted a large billboard of Mazar’s warlord, General Rashid Dostum. He was a defeated exile until the U.S. resurrected him, but here he was portrayed with maps spread out on a table, with two bearded U.S. special-forces guys listening obediently as Dostum called the shots on how to rout the Taliban. This was a laugh. Nothing could be further from the truth, a convenient lapse of memory shared by many warlords. In their own mythmaking, the commanders seem to have forgotten that they floated back into Afghanistan on the vapor trails of American B-52 bombers. RUSSIAN ROULETTE “They didn’t all leave, you know,” says Fida, the driver, now outfitted with a warm pair of gloves and in a far better mood. “Who?” I ask. “The Russians. A few army deserters are still here. They converted to Islam and stayed.” Fida knew of one, Rahmatullah, who worked as an electrician in a mountain village on the slopes of the Hindu Kush. So off we went. Not surprisingly, Russians are deeply hated by Afghans. I wondered how this one had survived. After a few inquiries we found Rahmatullah, who could easily have been mistaken for an Afghan with pale eyes. He was alone, sitting on a grassy riverbank, smoking hashish. And he ran when he saw us foreigners coming, probably thinking, in his stoned state, that we were U.S. special forces coming to arrest him or Russian officials who had finally hunted him down. We never found him, even though we found his house and—shamelessly, I admit—tried bribing his kid with an ice cream cone to tell us where his father was. Fida, though, knew of another Soviet deserter: a Ukrainian, who had become a cop in the town of Pul-e-Khumri. And this one, Nikolai Vyrodov, a.k.a. Nasratullah, was willing to talk. He was a sad case, a man who had made the irreversible decision to join the enemy, isolating himself from his comrades, family and country. And he carried this burden on his conscience like a curse, punishing himself. We found Nikolai living in a police garrison and were told by neighbors that he, too, like his fellow deserter by the riverbank, was always stoned on hashish. Yuri, the Russian photographer, thought that speaking to Nikolai in his native language might loosen him up, but Nikolai stubbornly preferred Farsi. He told us why he switched sides. He was attached to a Soviet unit that went into a village and slayed 74 men, women and children. Afterward, he decided to desert. “It was lunchtime, I said goodbye to a few of my friends, picked up my Kalashnikov and left the barracks in my uniform to join the mujahedin.” Nikolai says he wrote three notes to his officers later, pleading with them to “stop killing innocents.” And when they didn’t, he took up arms against his fellow Soviet troops. (Later, I asked Fida if Nikolai was much of a fighter. “He wasn’t a tarooz—someone who would charge the enemy head on. But he was good with mortars,” Fida replied.) After the Soviets left, Nikolai’s adventures became ever more bizarre. He ran an old radio-repair shop in Kabul and was persecuted by the Taliban. Then the Taliban seized on the p.r. opportunities of an ex-Soviet soldier who’d converted to Islam. They arranged a marriage for him to a spirited 14-year-old Afghan girl (she’s now 19). With the fall of the Taliban, Nikolai’s luck faded. He spent nine months in jail as a suspected al-Qaeda fighter, barely escaping a one-way trip to Gitmo. Released by the Afghans with apologies because he’d been a born-again muj, he was then offered a job in the police force. As we speak, Nikolai’s wife asks him to go pick up their 2-year-old daughter so that Yuri could shoot a family portrait. Nikolai, who is anxious to smoke more hashish, is only too happy to escape the house. With her husband gone, the pretty teenage Shauzia pleads with us to convince Nikolai that he should take his family to Ukraine. She explained how he gets homesick and melancholy when he watches Russian videos. “You don’t understand,” she says. “The police chief sends Nikolai away and then he comes here and makes advances on me. He waits in the shadows outside my apartment. Nikolai has no one here, he’s an outsider. He has nobody who can protect us.” Nikolai returns with his sleepy daughter, his eyes reddened by hashish. Yuri explains that if Nikolai went back to Ukraine, he would not be charged for desertion, that jobs and greater liberty awaited him. “I can’t go back,” Nikolai says, shaking his head. I left wondering what would happen when, inevitably, some local Afghan in a position of power rapes Nikolai’s young wife. Will Nikolai kill him in revenge—which would be the Afghan thing to do—or will that finally goad him into leaving Afghanistan with his wife and daughter? His loving young wife brought the only cheer in Nikolai’s life, and in a strange way, I guess he owed it to the Taliban. There’s no denying it, the Taliban were an odd bunch. Barbaric, medieval, and zealous beyond belief, they were full of contradictions. However much they hated infidels like me, they were bound by their Pashtun code of chivalry to give me hospitality—they were always quick to offer a cup of tea. Some didn’t even take their own laws that seriously. They secretly watched TV and loved having their pictures taken; when a photographer approached, the Talibs would whip out a comb and primp before posing for their picture. From my Kabul friend Azim, who hated the Taliban and had fought them, I heard of one great act of kindness. The two types of men most revered in Afghanistan are the Kuchi nomads and the dervishes because Afghans respect their far-out independence, their liberty of spirit. Azim is a dervish; he seldom cuts his hair and he lives in a bombed-out building in Kabul, playing a flute; his companions are mastiff dogs the size of lions, and hundreds of pigeons. For Azim, God is to be found in man’s heart—not in the edicts of grim mullahs. When the Taliban were on the rise, Azim rode into battle on a horse, like Don Quixote, to fight them. “My horse stepped on a land mine,” says Azim. “I was badly hurt. But the Taliban came and saw I was a dervish. And, even though I was their enemy, they drove me to the military hospital in Kabul and told the doctor they would shoot him if he let me die,” recalls Azim. “I had the best treatment.” This act of kindness didn’t stop Azim from celebrating the Taliban’s defeat. “When the American bombs started falling on Kabul, I went out and danced in the streets. I saw Talibs fleeing and I told them, ‘Why are you running? Don’t you want your virgins in paradise?'” It was Azim who gave me the clue as to why Afghanistan had unleashed such a whirlwind of change in the late 20th century. The soil in Afghanistan, he explained, was magic. “How so?” I asked. “If you plant something good, like grapes, you get the sweetest grapes in the world. But if you plant the seeds of something bad, as many have, you will have the worst kind of evil growing in Afghanistan. And it will spread,” Azim said. He was referring to the Taliban and al-Qaeda, but it got me thinking about Commander Daoud and his Japanese plant cuttings and how he wanted to bring beauty to Afghanistan. Maybe his trip to Japan wasn’t a total loss. A dust storm was blowing into Kabul as I left Azim. He was walking through the rubble of his bombed-out house, playing his flute with sad wildness. The dogs began to bark and hundreds of pigeons flew into the dust storm like leaves scattering from a tree. And Azim played on, even as the dark clouds swirled in. 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