THE WORLD OUT THERE

By Robert Sheckley

An Afghanistan Frame of Mind

It's difficult to say where certain thoughts come from. I never thought I'd find myself dipping into Walt Whitman when I found myself wanting to write something about the emotions that the Afghanistan situation has raised in me, and, I suspect, in many others. I never expected to find myself stretching a metaphor until it shrieked, throwing in a bit of history, and tying in Walt Whitman as well. But I did, and here it is. 

I'm in an Afghanistan frame of mind. I don't mean an Afghani frame of mind. I'd have to feel like an Afghani to have an Afghani state of mind. That's not the image I have in mind. When I say I'm in an Afghanistan frame of mind, I mean my mind feels like what I imagine the country to be like. Sombre. Barren. Dangerous. Exotic. Filled with ancient stone cities and narrow winding streets. The cities packed with suqs and markets, tea shops and kebob joints, and with mosques, plenty of mosques. And there are tiny villages, too, and bearded men in biblical gowns tending tiny sheep and lambs. And there are other things I'll get into as we explore this state of mind which might be yours, too. In my mind this morning there are a lot of sharp, dark- colored barren mountains, no vegetation, and the wind always blows. At the center of my mind is the Taliban, my ruling council, which bosses me around with an iron fist. If the Taliban can't do anything else for me, let them at least extend my metaphoric reach. Let them stand in for all the vagaries of my being, forgotten emotions which have been brought to prominence over the recent weeks. In my Afghanistan frame of mind, I live in a cave. I am fed by parachuted supplies. These are dropped by various international agencies, which insist they don't want to harm me, but are associated with the people who continue to rain down bombs on me. My four wives live in the caves, too. They are blocky ladies shrouded from head to toe. It's hard to tell one from the other except in the dark. And then there are the animals, of course. Small and furtive, able to keep going on the scraps of grass on the plains and mountain slopes. Stepping back from my frame of mind, I can see that the very notion of Afghanistan is suffering for my metaphor. I think, let the bastards complain, if they dare. Their stubborness, their intransigence, has brought this upon themselves. Their actions forced us to take notice of them. They have infected us Americans with their mood. Isn't it enough that we have to fight them? Now we also have to sit glued to the television, and the newspapers, and learn the stupid minutiae of their daily lives. It's not enough that we have to fight them; we have to look at them or read about them every day, and encumber our minds with the humdrum details of their jobs and businesses, and with the wearisome accounts of their social interactions, tribal and personal. Haven't I got enough problems, enough things to think about, without having to learn about their Pushtun backgrounds, their Saudi rulers, their relations with Pakistan and Iran, to say nothing of Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Khazakstan, and any other stans that might be lurking there? These things are bad enough. But we also have to listen to their stories, their past, their tales of how they defeated Alexander of Macedon, and the Russians. I'm chilled, and a wild, cold wind is blowing through my crags and clefts, yeah, I'm cold, and it's getting colder. Yeah, I'm in an Afghanistan frame of mind. My Afghanistan frame of mind is defeatist. In my mind I'm already looking at my future defeats. I'm already reliving in advance how I will be confused, outmaneuvered, and put to flight at the Khyber Pass. But even this is not so bad as the headlines in my heart: Afghanistan defeats us, we never find Bin Laden, we sneak out of the country like the Russians did, like we did in Vietnam. After that, we and the Russians form a really strong friendship, we set up a society of those defeated by Afghanistan. So it's not all loss...

In my mind, they're celebrating Strong Defeat the Weak Day all over the world. Forget about preponderance of power. Your strong legions wither away out here on our stark plains. It's the year of the Great Undermining, the Great Reversal. Our boys want to come home to find out who's sitting under the apple tree with somebody who's not me. A child came to me with his hands full of microchips, (Whitman, at last!) asking me what he could do with them. How could I answer the child? How could I tell him to build a vast electronic empire, and to run images across it, and get people to involve in the power of those images, while other people watched the images and listened to the words. Must I tell him that that's how we grownups make money? Words and images, it sounds so simple and innocent, but these are the terrible weapons of the evil one. I never knew it before. But the ferocious Taliban in my heart knew all along that we were worshipping Great Satan, the image, and the word, the newspaper worldly words that don't come from the mullah, don't come from God, don't come from any place except our own inflamed imaginations as we try to displace God. Let these wild words and wilder thoughts take wing. I'm in a Afghanistan frame of mind. Warring tribes stampede through the dry plains of my mind. Rival factions vie for power throughout my cerebral cities. The old king offers his assistance; I hesitate to accept it. I really don't know what to do. But I don't think my public will accept this body-count. I don't think those girls under the apple tree will wait while we pursue unshaven Afghans... What should I think of all this? And why is this public spectacle being reenacted in front of you on a personal level? Because the message is for you. We're all in an Afghanistan frame of mind. 

 

RSheckley@aol.com

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