Freedom At 4AM

Misadventures in Afghanistan

Freedom at 4AM is a true life tale of cultural clash in Afghanistan: from the political to the personal, from the sadistic to the spiritual. Set against a backdrop of history, geopolitics, religion and misadventure this immersive story climaxes with an unlikely call to prayer under life threatening circumstances.

You can download the whole book below the paywall.

Chapter One Excerpt:

Enter the Police

“This is a bad day for Afghanistan, it reflects badly on all of us,” said the yellow-eyed detective, sucking on his teeth, “after all you came here to help us; we are very professional, we will do everything we can to find these people,” he reassures. I nod in agreement; there’s no doubt in my mind about the investigative integrity of these men.

General Mohammad Zahir, the Chief of Kabul CID, enters the scene and addresses the fifteen-men strong investigation crew of detectives, forensics and armed guards crowded into our spacious hallway. Tall and elegant with a kindly sparkle in the eyes, he commands the room as his men gather around him. “If it was up to me I would hang these people!” he says, “but the law is the law.”

Turning to me, he asks, “How is she?”

“The face doesn’t show the wound,” I reply, “it's in here,” I indicate, pointing to my head.

The whole ensemble walks from room to room dis- cussing the events of the night and asking questions: “Is this what they tied you up with?”

“Tell me again what happened when they entered the room?”

Forensics carefully mark all potential evidence with numbers and take photos. Hashimi arrives and studies the situation in his usual deep, brooding manner. He’s a broad-shouldered ex-cop and colleague with a big, round face, close-cropped beard and short-shaven hair; his stature suggests he could be a descendent of Genghis Khan, but dressed in a casual suit, the type of guy you want on your side. Breathing slowly behind shaded glasses, he rattles off more questions:

“Which room were you in when they arrived?” “Are you sure about this?”

He’s got that innate cop quality down: the ability to smell bullshit a mile off.

Uniformed police and soldiers crowd the dirt street outside with jeeps. Far from the noise of a usual day, silence descends as people change their usual walk-to- work patterns. A bald, thick-necked personal guard with a chiseled brow and scar down one cheek care- fully shadows the Chief of Police. Wearing army trousers and sporting a machine gun, he is every inch a Rambo figure. Suddenly I feel like I'm in an American movie with Afghan actors a reoccurring theme in Afghanistan.

A chain-smoking cop personifying Colombo crossed with Miami Vice asks me a question. “Was this in here all the time?” he says, pointing to a tire iron. Dressed in a loose, stained white suit, looking as if he slept in it, he takes on the role of the rogue, 'I've got problems at home because I’m obsessed with my job' persona. The deep dark bags under his bloodshot eyes add to the dishevelment, but he's good at his job – when he talks, the others listen. The intruders had been smoking all night and left ash and cigarette butts everywhere. As a consequence, I'm asked not to contaminate evidence by lighting up. To the laughter of the other cops, white suit lights up another cigarette. It's one of Afghanistan's great pleasures, the readiness to have a laugh, any time, any place.

I'm questioned further by the yellow-eyed cop. Middle aged, with a well-trimmed moustache, dark skin and an occasional eye twitch, he considers his questions carefully, sucking on his teeth as he sucks in information, uttering an occasional guttural “khob” (good) to my answers. Two young detectives, one with alert green eyes and spiky hair and another smooth, slick and shaved, look on. An older cop throws in clarification questions from the sidelines.

My admin manager Raffi, who by now I do not com- pletely trust, translates. He’s nervy and I’ve pegged him as a power-questing bullshitter. His reputation is under question and he will later be arrested under suspicion of playing a part in the crime as an inside man.

‘Friendly’, a younger, companionable cop, big-framed and buoyant, sits opposite: “You look tired, Marc,” he quips. “Well, it's kind’a been a long night,” I retort, raising a laugh. Standing up, I re-enact being body searched, making a comic “oh shit!” face when miming one of the gunmen finding a puny eleven Afghans in my wallet; the ensemble cracks up. Relaxing, friendly cop wonders why I'm not married? I shrug, it's too long a story and we live in very different cultures. Later, when I say goodbye to the investigators, he offers a cheek, an Afghan sign of closeness, as well as a handshake.

A small, uniformed cop with two front teeth missing, small, rectangular shaded glasses on the end of his nose and a French-style gendarmerie hat appears with two cooked chickens in tin foil. “Afghan hospitality even now!” I laugh. The room falls into silence as yellow eyes grunts at me to eat and opens up a tender slice for me to take with his hands. He pushes a canned drink my way, and everyone in the room devours the meal quietly, Afghan style.

After we’ve eaten, they ask me to recount the events of the night of 29th and 30th April 2013. Two teeth missing wipes the chicken grease off his hands on the rag pre- viously used by armed raiders to tie my hands up. I laugh later, imagining the DNA evidence on the rag:

“Sir, we believe the culprit was a chicken.”

Only in Afghanistan.

And only in Afghanistan do people of experience regularly recite the motto, “Anything can happen, at any time.”

Life here is fragile.

As they also say: “The pot can only be broken once.”

[Download the book below the paywall]