NYPress

Feature Neal Pollack

One Against the Taliban

Enough time has now passed so I’m no longer ashamed to admit that at the last moment of the old ways, I was sitting at my desk in my Brooklyn loft, preparing to write an article about the rise in popularity of the Latin Grammys. At 8:50 a.m., the phone rang. It was a fashion editor with whom I’d slept two nights earlier.

"You’d better go up on your roof," she said, "and bring a notebook."

We all know what the next four hours were like, and my experiences did not diverge from those of other published writers. I felt a mixture of grief, fear, anger and revulsion, along with hope that the Times Magazine might call for my contribution for the special issue that would inevitably emerge from this chaos. After the second tower fell, I composed a metaphor in my head that went, "the World Trade Center was our remembrance of temps perdu, and when it collapsed, like two cakes in an overwarm oven..."

Reading those sentences now in retrospect, I’m encouraged by my wit and sensitivity under such extreme conditions. Because in times of grief and trouble, the arts must rise, and writers must write about the rise of the arts, for pages and pages, with references to Orwell and true satire in the Brechtian sense. I, as a three-time winner of the National Book Award and 17-time selectee for The Best American Short Stories, can provide no exception to the immutable rules of redemptive prose.

On that day, after a brief scroll through my Palm VII to ensure that my editors all worked in midtown, I went for a walk in my neighborhood among the ordinary people with their anguished, confused faces. I collected several oral histories en route, and the raw human narrative, that vein of gold that runs through all New York’s noble, hard-working residents, broke my heart. But I was encouraged that I hadn’t lost my essential reporting skills. Through many national calamities–the Kennedy assassination, the My Lai massacre, the 1968 Democratic National Convention, Kent State, the unexpected cancellation of The Beverly Hillbillies, Watergate, Broadway versions of Disney cartoon musicals, Waco, the deaths of Princess Diana and JFK Jr., Columbine and beyond–the American people have shown astonishing resilience in the face of lost innocence. And I have been there to chronicle their tears.

I returned home to find 500 messages on my answering machine. All three of my e-mail accounts were brimming. Mostly, I’d heard from famous, important, wonderful people, including several published novelists, informing me that they were okay. There were also already several requests to participate in benefit readings. But one message stood out among the rest:

"Hi. This is Jenny. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m an assistant art director. I met you at a party a couple of weeks ago and we made out in the stairwell. Anyway, I live on Flatbush Ave., and my roommates are out of town and I’m scared, lonely and kind of horny. We don’t know each other well, but could you please come over?"

It was the least I could do in this time of crisis.

Several ecstatic, desperate, loving hours later, I returned to my Brooklyn loft with its now tragic view of Lower Manhattan. I was spent and exhausted. America would never be the same, I thought. Yet it was, to me, curiously the same, except for my sex life, which I’d previously thought could never improve.

I began work, because work was all I had. I wrote one piece arguing that we should suspend all civil liberties and personal freedoms until the "scourge of terrorism is wiped forever from our shores," and another that said, "we, the evilest and most self-deluding of all empires, had it coming, and man, did we take it smack in the kisser." I also started writing about the end of satire, which is imminent, and about how if my teenage daughter wanted to fly the flag from her bedroom window, I wouldn’t let her, because patriotism is blind and stupid. Then I remembered that I don’t have a teenage daughter and began to weep for the years I’ve lost.

My misery was interrupted by a phone call from the editor-in-chief of the best-paying American magazine.

"The age of irony is over," he said. "We’re sending you to Pakistan."

SEPTEMBER 20, 2001/PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN – It was 1979, or maybe 1981. Across the floodplain, the ground tinted blue against the setting of the pinkish-orange sky. Our truck, parked behind a mound of hilly dirt, seemed pointless in a landscape of irregular rocks, mortar shells and broken bones. I looked at the tired, hungry, heat-worn faces of the mujahideen around me, and even then I knew that when this war was over–and it would be over, if I had to spend 10 years and 20,000 words in Afghanistan chronicling it–these soldiers would become hard-line religious fanatics who would threaten the very foundations of civilization itself. They placed a Kalashnikov in my hairy, muscular arms, and bid me fire upon the Soviets. I shot the rocket, with its red glare, sad in the knowledge that one empire would only replace another, because I have seen the evil that men do.

I was there in 1973 when King Zahir Shah was overthrown by his brother-in-law. I was there in 1979 when President Taraki was murdered by his deputy’s supporters. In fact, I was there when secret CIA operatives planned that murder, which I wrote about at length in my Caldecott Medal-winning children’s book A Hot Boiling Lie: The CIA-Sponsored Murder of President Taraki. I witnessed, on and off, the entire Soviet-Afghan War, and was the only American reporter present at the Siege of Jalalabad. As recently as June of this year, I was among the Northern Alliance, working on the last really good prose piece about Ahmad Shah Masoud, whom I described as "a rebellious dog barking into the gorge of terror." I still remember the last thing he said to me before I left on a much-needed vacation to Maine.

"We are lonely," he said. "Please send us female exchange students. From Switzerland."

Now I’ve returned to this most troubled of regions, too soon, sadly, too soon, but with a bigger budget than I’ve had in years. That great postmillennial war reportorial circus bazaar is going full bore. Let’s get it on, as Marvin sang so many years ago.

The only bar in Peshawar is full of white people in brown jackets, looking for something to do. I sit next to a woman with close-cut brown hair, serious-looking glasses and not too much makeup. She’s wearing a nametag that says "HELLO: My name is ASHLEIGH."

"Hey," I say.

"Omigod!" she says. "Are you an American? Because I totally am!"

"Yes," I say, "though I consider myself more of a global citizen."

"Really?" she says, removing her glasses and chewing on them thoughtfully. "That’s cool! I work for NBC!"

"NBC News?"

"Yes," she says. "Isn’t that AWESOME!" Then she adds, "I hear they’re calling this Operation Get OBL. You know what OBL stands for?"

"No."

She looks at me sternly, like I am a camera, or an audience of millions.

"Osama Bin Laden. And the State Dept. says he is the prime target."

I am aware of Osama bin Laden. Painfully aware. I’ve interviewed him several times over the last five years, and have warned deaf American ears about him since the beginning, particularly in my Atlantic Monthly article from October 1998, "Osama bin Laden’s al Queda Network: The Greatest Threat to Peace and Stability the World Has Ever Known." Yet for some reason, the talk shows ignored me on that one.

"Hey!" Ashleigh says. "Did you know I used to be blonde?"

"It doesn’t surprise me."

"Last time I was in the Middle East, I got majorly harassed. It sucked. But now I’m a brunette."

"I see."

"And I’m getting married! To a producer! Isn’t that cool?"

A loud noise erupts outside. Through the streets swarm hundreds, maybe thousands of men. They’re shouting anti-U.S. slogans, in pretty good English, actually. Ashleigh and I spring up, leaving our gin-and-tonics half consumed.

"Lou!" she shouts to a heavy man sleeping in the corner. "Get off your Teamster ass and start filming this shit!"

"I’m not a Teamster!" he says.

"Whatever," she says. "All unions are the same!"

We rush into the street, where the mob burns an effigy of Carson Daly. "It appears," I write frantically, "that the purveyors of the global entertainment state have found themselves pilloried on a roost of fire."

Then I hear, "Down with the Satanic Western media hordes!"

I find myself running down an alley with Dr. Bob Arnot. What is he doing here? We trip over beggar children in the street, but I don’t have time for these Third World types right now, and soon we are in a central square, surrounded by men with torches and guns. I think about how fortunate I am to once again be a witness to history. A rock hits Ashleigh square in her glasses, which shatter.

"Bastards!" she shouts, as she pulls an identical pair from her stylish reporter’s vest.

Then comes the bullhorned plea:

"Wait! We must spare them!"

"Why?" the crowd shouts in unison.

"Don’t you know?" asks the voice of reason. "You cannot kill him! For he is the greatest living American author!"

I knew that writing a book called The Secret Pleasures of Fundamentalism would come in handy someday.

SEPTEMBER 27, 2001/KABUL, AFGHANISTAN – I arrive in the center of Kabul near dusk. A veil of cool horror swims through the air as the Taliban obey their call to evening prayer. The driver stops my car to join them, which gives me time to collect my thoughts in a notebook. This is my first visit to Kabul since 1990. I see that my favorite old hotel, the British Empire Arms, has burned down, replaced by mere crisp shards of rubble in the cruel night. Also, the famed Afghan strip malls, which once boasted some of the world’s largest Banana Republics, now contain only three types of stores: Switch World, Burqaland and I Can’t Believe We Like to Skin Our Enemies Alive! It is also apparent that everywhere the Taliban are uprooting trees. I spy an ominous billboard that says "Trees Are a Crime Against Nature." My body shudders preternaturally, though that may be because my own particular brand of barbiturates has been banned here as well.

After prayers, my guide drives me through the rubble of Kabul, while the Taliban skip arm-in-arm, singing their merry little song:

We are the Taliban

The Taliban are we!

We like to beat up women

And we like to drink our tea!

If we give them enough heroin

Our enemies will flee!

La-di-da-di-da-di-doo

La-di-da-di-da-di-di!

We are the Taliban!

The Taliban are we!

My guide says to me, "We are attempting to forbid all speech in this country, except by members of the Taliban."

"How?" I ask.

"Quiet, infidel!" he shouts, and slaps me across the head.

"Oh," I say, and he slaps me again.

He stops the car and tells me to get out. Someone grabs my arms and someone else blindfolds me. I can’t see, which I guess is what they intended. Then they spin me around a few times until I’m kind of dizzy. They march me forward, and up some stairs, and down some other stairs, and then they make me swim across what I hope is a pool, and then we walk down a long corridor.

When they remove my blindfold, I’m facing a 41-year-old man with one eye.

"How’s it going?" I ask.

"Pretty good," he says. "Did you lose anyone in the attacks?"

"No, thank God," I say.

"What a shame," he replies, "for we want all Americans to live in misery and fear!"

"Oh," I say, "can I quote you on that?"

"Yes," he said. "I am the Commander of the Faithful, the supreme leader of the Taliban. My name is Mohammed Omar, and I have chosen you to spread my message to the American people."

Sixteen hours pass before he finishes his stupid message. I keep trying to fall asleep, but every time I nod, he slaps me upside the head.

"Where," I moan, "is Osama bin Laden?"

"We don’t know," says Mohammed Omar.

"Yes," I say, "you do."

I feel myself teetering toward insanity.

"DO!" I shout.

"DON’T!"

"DO! DO! DO! DO! DO!"

"Oh, all right already," says the Commander of the Faithful.

He pulls aside a curtain. Behind it sits a bearded, turbaned, sandaled man who holds a machine gun in his lap.

"No..." I croak.

"Pleased to meet you," says the man. "Hope you guessed my name."

•

SEPTEMBER 28, 2001/A CAVE IN AFGHANISTAN – Osama bin Laden and I spend several hours together, just catching up. We have so much in common. Like me, he is from a wealthy family and had the finest education. We both fought as insurgent rebels in the 1980s, he against the Soviets in Afghanistan, I as a Special Forces commando in Guatemala. We both share a love for the work of Denzel Washington, going all the way back to St. Elsewhere, and over the years we both gradually developed a distrust of the United States and its foreign policies. I suppose that’s where the similarity ends, though, because I took my doubts and became a regular on the liberal-arts-college speaking circuit, while he became the murderous enemy of all things decent on the Earth.

Our conversation takes a bitter turn.

"You’re a scumbag," I say to him.

"Ha-hah!" he says. "What do you know?"

He reaches into his robe and pulls out something unexpected.

"Perhaps now you would like to be entertained by Jimmy the Jihad Chicken," he says.

The surprising chicken does a hideous strut as Osama begins to sing, clapping his hands merrily:

Oh, I wish I was back in old Medina

With 20 wives sucking on my wiena

Look away!

Look away!

Look away!

Holy land.

I wish I was in Mecca

Hooray!

Hooray!

The Saudis better have a plan

To live or die in Mecca

Away

Away

No gays down south

In Mecca!

God, what an awful song. In America, it would probably be considered racist. I wonder who the hell wrote it?

"This is not entertainment!" I say. " It’s just the desperate act of a man who’s out of funny ideas!"

He says, "As opposed to most American entertainment, including the sketches at the Gridiron Club dinner?"

I realize that our empire is built on fragile hypocrisies. In fact, I’ve pointed them out repeatedly through the decades, first in Our Man In Tarzana, my novel about the military-industrial complex, and subsequently in the speeches I wrote for Ralph Nader’s nearly successful 2000 presidential bid. My online column regularly attacks the banalities of contemporary television and music.

But I don’t want to hear about them now, particularly not from Osama bin Laden and his goddamn dancing chicken. With my exclusive access, I’m going to do the job that no one else can. I am a star-spangled avenger, and I am going to kick Osama bin Laden’s ass!

"For all the world," I shout, "I condemn you to die!"

I bolt from my chair. With a patriotic hammer-blow, I knock the gun from his hands.

He grabs hold of my neck. I respond with a knee to his groin. Jimmy the Jihad Chicken pecks away at my leg. But Osama can barely lay a hand on my body, which, after all, ripples from years of amateur kickboxing. My fists land blows on his face and his torso. His beard cannot cushion them all.

I reach around me, grab a conveniently placed stone and bring it down toward his head.

"Objectivity be damned!" I shout.

"Look!" says Osama bin Laden, pointing behind him. "The Pulitzer selection committee is coming!"

I turn around.

"Where?" I say. "Where?"

Quickly, I realize that he’s attempted an evasive measure, and I whip back to resume my smashing. But the rock connects with empty ground.

Dammit! I can still feel his hot genocidal breath on my neck! I had the bastard!

Killing him, I realize, would have brought me an advance bigger than Clinton’s, and I weep, for democracy and for my career. But I can still gain some manner of vengeance.

I stare into the face of Jimmy the Jihad Chicken, and think fricassee.

OCTOBER 7, 2001/ANOTHER, FRIENDLIER CAVE IN AFGHANISTAN – As I conclude this dispatch, many miles away from an unsafe Taliban-infested harbor, great waves of war waft onto the shores of the world, and I encourage America to stay strong like me. Once again I find myself cradled in the company of my beloved Northern Alliance, who, mercifully, have been feeding me Stouffer’s extra cheese French Bread Pizza. This food is otherwise forbidden in Afghanistan, but we are eating heartily now, courtesy of the United States’ well-thought-out and highly effective strategy of dropping humanitarian aid packages into random mountain locations.

By the time you read this, we may already have caught Osama bin Laden. As the great apocalyptic prophet Barry McCaffrey has predicted, the evil Taliban regime may already have crumbled, in the deep of night, with no witnesses around. A new generation of American heroes may have been forged in the fires of battle and photographed by the chroniclers of the fires of battle. I may, in fact, already be home talking about the war on Hardball. It’s inevitable that since I wrote this feeble line, the world has changed violently. But I want you, my readers, to take solace. Because whatever happened, wherever in the world, I was there.

In the distance, I can hear the bombs, and it is time for bed. Come morning, the battle begins anew. With one of the top-10 fighting forces in the world forming a phalanx around me, I am ready to return to the scrum.

I blow out the candle that is my only friend, and shout to the far mountains, proud to use a cliche for the first time in my long life:

"I’ll get you, Osama bin Laden, wherever you are!"

-- Anonymous, October 09, 2001