The Last Jew of Kabul

By Jamie.B Ernstein

History, travel and love - based on the true story of a remarkable man and a tragic nation.
What starts off as a travelogue through modern Iran, turns into the story of Faizullah, a fellow traveller from Afghanistan. As friendship blossoms, Faizullah slowly reveals his remarkable life story, revealing both the human and political intrigue that created the vacuum that remains in central Asia, today. How the battle against communism in the late twentieth century consumed people, ideologies, even whole empires.
A travellers tale
A political thriller
A historical tragedy
A love story.....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jamie.B Ernstein
• Release date: Jul 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9780473331870

Jamie.B Ernstein

Father of two boys who love reading and storiesI work as a Family Doctor by day, writing by night

Book preview

The Last Jew of Kabul

by

Jamie B Ernstein

Copyright 2015 Jamie B Ernstein

Published by Jamie B Ernstein at Smashwords

ISBN: 978-0-473-33187-0

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design: Jennifer FitzGerald: http://MotherSpider.com

Cover images: DollarPhotoClub.com

About Jamie B Ernstein

Jamie lives and works as a Family Doctor in New Zealand, where he has shared a home with his wife and family for nearly three decades. Originally from the U.K, he spent most of his formative years in London and Sheffield, before moving for New Zealand.

He has travelled extensively, using his wide experiences of people and places to create the scenes and characters for his novels.

Other books by Jamie B Ernstein

The Eyes of The Jaguar God

The Search for Tamm

Connect with Jamie B Ernstein

Blog http://jaguargod.blogspot.com

Facebook Jamie B Ernstein

To my amazing parents

Who gave me the best of upbringings. Who guided me through my youth, while still giving me the space to forge my own path through life

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Shiraz

Chapter 2 The Most Beautiful room in the world

Chapter 3 A Boy

Chapter 4 Saadi

Chapter 5 The Carpet Shop

Chapter 6 In Love Again

Chapter 7 An Unexpected Visit

Chapter 8 The Centre of the Universe

Chapter 9 Genocide Day

Chapter 10 David and Walk of Death

Chapter 11 A Chance Meeting

Chapter 12 The Noose Tightens

Chapter 13 For Goodness Sake. Don’t Let the Media See Them Blowing up Donkeys

Chapter 14 Then End of the War. Now let Chaos be Unleashed

Chapter 15 Students of Islam

Chapter 16 The Shah’s Carpets

Chapter 17 Something about Mary

Chapter 18 The Last Jew of Kabul

Chapter 19 The Car Washer

Chapter 20 The Final Cut

Epilogue

Note

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

Chapter 1

Shiraz

It took only my first hour in the Islamic Republic of Iran to fall in love with the country, but it was my second hour that really defined my travels through this most exotic and yet feared of nations. This was when I fell in love with its beautiful people and dramatic past.

Dorood, the lady called out unexpectedly, waking me from my dreamy wander and surprising me with the warmest of smiles; one that was impossible to ignore.

Welcome to Shiraz, came the cordial follow up.

It was difficult to fathom her age - perhaps in her early twenties. But then again, she could easily still be in her teens. Her smooth face betrayed no clues as to her maturity, other than a relaxed demeanour suggesting the gawkiness of her teenage years was behind her. With eyebrows manicured to the nearest hair, which disguised their suggested bushiness, her thick, bright red lipstick helped form a vibrant smile. Yet I already had the feeling that the requirement to cover her head only made the mystery of what was concealed underneath, all the more alluring. Her scarf, ornately patterned in blues and greens, framed her pretty face and was carefully held on so that it only covered the back half of her head, as if in defiance to strict Islamic protocol. Her thick black hair plunged from under its cover, searching for any avenue of escape.

She had stood up from the women seated in a group on the grass and turned towards me in greeting, her gestures keenly inviting me to join their gathering. Her brief absence from the circle left the others sitting and watching, with fascination clearly painted on their faces. There were four other young women of similar age, seated around a large, ornately patterned picnic rug, while four older women were grouped on the far side. I took these older women to be their mothers, with the age difference appearing to be consistently generational.

While all the younger women were dressed in extravagantly bright and bold colours, their more mature comrades were clad in the more traditional, black on black - the type of clothing the Western media has convinced us to believe is normal and some kind of Muslim disguise (Yet the same plain apparel can be seen all over southern Europe as well as in the Islamic world). Expected. Compulsorily enforced with an iron fist, apparently. Yet even these older women, confined to their dark cloaks, had an ease and grace about them, suggesting contentment. Maybe even, unlike my Western expectations, happiness. They seemed comfortable with who they were and how they presented themselves. Without resentment. For them, their dress was not enforced. Yet, perhaps my greatest revelation was how these older women seemed so relaxed with the flamboyant fashions that their daughters were displaying, despite their own plainness. The Western presentation of Muslim women had done little to prepare me for the sheer magnitude of colour that these young women were displaying, in such contrast to their mothers. It was refreshingly different to the parade of bare flesh that I was more used to.

A wide assortment of neatly laid snacks topped the well-used rug, as well as the more traditional pot of tea. Sweet biscuits, pistachio nuts and some very sticky looking, sweet buns, all sat temptingly for anyone to grab at their leisure. Each woman had their own tea cup, from which they steadily sipped while chatting and laughing. Until this ambling foreigner had wandered aimlessly past them, they had been happily gossiping and laughing amongst themselves, hands gesticulating busily, as they discussed whatever it was the women of Shiraz discussed.

All around the park, other groupings of people were also enjoying the warm, dry, evening of an Iranian spring day. Most were in family groups, enjoying a relaxing feed and drink at the end of the working day. Others were in smaller groups, often just a husband and wife, conversing gently, while watching the world slip slowly by.

Over to my right, it was hard to miss the pack of testosterone charged teenage boys, who were doing their best to grab the attention of the very young women who were inviting me to join them. Acrobatics, dancing and clapping were the order of the day. After each move, a furtive glance towards their quarry was repeated. Yet the girls seemed oblivious to their presence, ignoring them completely, which only egged on the frustrated young men to greater and more extreme moves, many of which actually impressed me with their gymnastic challenges.

The wide, cobbled paths were lively with wandering locals, all competing for space with energetic badminton and volleyball games; temporary nets stretched wide across the walkway, from tree to tree, with balls and shuttlecocks sharing the busy pathways with wandering strollers. Kids wired on roller skates, whizzed around the central fountain, where the path was smooth and fast; ideal for speed and flexibility. Yet there were no excited screams of annoyance or animosity from either the walkers or the more genteel picnickers around. Despite the hum of activity, there was a steady peace and serenity about Azadi Park that made an aimless wander so easy; almost compulsory. But for now, my wandering was temporarily halted by this Iranian beauty. What choice did I have? Had I even wanted to, I was powerless to resist.

Where are you from?

New Zealand, I replied, not really expecting this to mean much.

Ahhhh, New Zealand, came the accented reply, as if she knew all about my home country. Yet, as she looked around at the others, her eyes betrayed a degree of embarrassed ignorance. However, this mattered little, as she keenly invited me to sit and join their afternoon gathering and have some tea with them.

I looked around nervously, while assessing my options. Was it the done thing for a single adult male to sit with a group of ladies he had only just met? Was it safe? What is the correct proximity to observe between male and female? What would the older ladies think? Would they mind me sitting with their daughters? My mind was racing with doubts and fears, yet I was actually keen to meet some locals for the first time. To talk with them. To begin to understand this country of such reported darkness.

The mythical Iranian generosity was already weakening my reserve. I accepted graciously and lowered myself self consciously, down to the grassy earth, to sit cross legged amongst my new acquaintances.

Trying not to look too keen, I nestled nervously between two of the young women, nodding my deliberately grand greetings to the group of mothers seated at the far end of the rug. Yet they replied with surprisingly welcoming gestures back and warm smiles.

I quickly scanned the horizon for signs of trouble. No one around seemed to bat an eyelid, as the busy park life continued on its merry way, without alarm. No secret police emerged from the bushes to clap handcuffs on my Western wrists. No one stood and objected to my presence. Only my nervousness accompanied me.

Those first few seconds seemed to last for minutes. I settled into position, expecting stern looks and chastisement from the jury in black. I was instead met with warm smiles and the offer of sweet shortbreads with sugary coatings. How could I refuse? Yet, no sooner had I politely grabbed one, than another of the mothers offered for me to take a handful of nuts from a large bag of pistachios. Too polite to refuse, my hands were suddenly loaded with food, while tea was already being poured for me. Yet any thoughts of consumption were interrupted by a barrage of questions from the younger group. It seemed they could speak some limited English, while the older mothers had no knowledge of my language and just sat and smiled keenly, while trying to engorge my stomach as rapidly as they were able.

What do you think of Shiraz?

How long have you been in Iran?

Do you think the girls are beautiful?

Where else have you been in Iran?

By now I had half a biscuit in my mouth and I was falling behind with my answers. I needed to alter my tactics and fast. I decided to abandon the nuts, forget about the tea altogether and answer as many of the questions as I could. But my carefully laid plan failed. Shortbread has the uncanny ability to dry the most moist of oral cavities and I was forced to attempt my answers with half a biscuit tucked into my left cheek; chipmunk style. Surely this did little to impress these beautiful young ladies, let alone their mothers. What must they be thinking? Desperately struggling to avoid too much spittle from dribbling down my chin, I did my best to answer their questions.

I only arrived in Iran today. But Shiraz is beautiful (Ooooh). The people are so nice and of course, the girls are (Should I really answer this question? I asked myself in mid-sentence ) very beautiful. (Oh boy, now I've done it.)

To my great relief, the ladies all seemed delighted with my answers and with excited laughter, loudly translated to their mothers. I waited for their reaction with bated breath, the shortbread frozen in situ, much like my breath. Yet, to my great relief, the mothers seemed equally ecstatic as their daughters and laughter and excited chatter followed. Fortunately, this lull in my performance afforded me the opportunity to put in some decent work on the anhydrous biscuit lodged in a far-flung corner of my oral cavity. Indeed, I was making satisfyingly generous inroads, when the first girl, her warm smile surely having melted many hearts before mine, asked to take a photo of me. With my own camera sitting unused beside me, I eagerly agreed, knowing that my own quest to do exactly the same to these ladies, could now easily be achieved.

Before I knew it, I was standing in the centre of a group of young Iranian ladies, smiling happily as one of the mothers pointed her daughter's mobile phone at us. Much to my horror, I felt arms go around me as we all posed. I wonder if all the photos of me had my darting eyes, pupils wide with fear, searching around me for secret policemen, rather than staring into the lens with a joyous smile. Still, by now, said biscuit had finally been successfully swallowed, leaving my cheeks to their more natural contours and a renewed ability to talk without donating small, wet pieces of Iranian delights to my shirt.

Now, I thought to myself as a mental picture of a small red devil, with horns and pointed tail, while holding a sharp triple pointed sceptre, sitting unashamedly on my right shoulder, while on my left stood the purest, white winged angel, with perfect halo hovering just above her noble head, formed inside my frantically confused brain. I imagined each of them arguing their grossly one sided opinion as to what my next action should be. It really is quite remarkable how many thoughts can go through one's mind in the fraction of a second when we have to make potentially vital decisions.

I really didn't think that this would happen in Iran. What should I do? Do I reciprocate and put my arm around each of the young beauties on either side of me? This could be a seriously bad move. I wonder how many people get arrested within three hours of their arrival to this country?

The busy sound of the enthusiastic gymnasts behind seemed to have mysteriously silenced and time stood still. Was the whole park completely silent, or was it just my imagination? My sixth sense advised me to keep my arms by my side and away from the girls on either side of me. I felt like an eight year old boy being hugged by the enormously buxom and over zealous Great Aunt Maude; just standing there, not quite too sure what to do with those appendages attached to his shoulders. So I smiled for the camera with both arms coldly by my sides, while the girls groomed themselves to perfection around me and stood like catwalk models, surrounding their ugly duckling.

Once each of the delighted mothers had taken their version of the scene, it was my turn.

Would you mind? I asked, as I raised my camera.

Of course, came the warm reply and soon I was moving in close, recording both group photos and close ups of the girls who were relishing the attention. Yet they were refreshingly entranced when I was able to show them the results.

Once again, I was amazed by the proximity and even touching, as they clamoured to take a peek at my tiny camera screen. Soft hands touching mine, so that all the girls were able to see. I fearfully snuck a sideways glance at the mothers, ready to be both lambasted and banished from their presence. But, to my relief, they still seemed equally at ease, barely batting any eyelids at the scene before them. I decided that it might be diplomatic to show them the photos too; to keep them involved rather than concentrate on their daughters. I moved close to them to make the screen easily visible and to my increasing horror, they huddled in even closer than their daughters, without hesitation or reservation. They laughed and made teasing comments to the girls and everyone laughed happily; even me, though perhaps mine were a little forced; a nervous snigger might be a better description. Perhaps mine was more from relief than humour, but who's to tell? Either way, there was no disguising that I had become entangled in a group of middle aged women, intent on enjoying themselves without worrying about the close proximity of a man they had only just met.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the gymnasts had moved closer. Was it my imagination or were some of their moves also becoming more aggressive? My instincts were alerted and I decided that it would be wise to move on. Despite having to abandon my pistachio collection and half a tasty, but rather dry shortbread biscuit, not to mention my now cold cup of tea, I offered my thanks and bowed farewells and made myself scarce. Perhaps I was over reacting, but this was Iran after all and I hadn't had time to acclimatise to the local customs yet. A knee jerk reaction maybe, but sometimes, one just has to back one's instincts. A tactical retreat. Still, as I have learnt in life, as one door closes another opens. And that's when I met Faizullah, a man that would completely change my views and knowledge of history and the long struggle between East and West.

The orange sun now lay low in the clear, wispy blue Persian sky, yet the park seemed even busier than earlier. The air filled with spicy aromas and a steady background hum of laughter, chatter and children's screams of joy and happy greetings diffused pleasantly through the park.

I had sensibly decided to head in the opposite direction, away from the rather boisterous group of lads, when I was beckoned over by yet another small group of people. This time, the gathering was just three people - an elderly couple and a man close to my own age. He had been sitting and chatting with them, until he noticed my presence, instantly spotting my foreignness from those around. I initially thought that he might be the couple's son, but it soon became apparent that he was a fellow traveller, not unlike myself. Or rather, quite unlike myself. For he was as at home with these people as any of the locals around us.

Please come and join us, he called out in perfect, yet oddly accented English, while standing to shake my hand warmly. Sensing that this was a somewhat safer encounter than the last, I eagerly accepted and wandered over, only to be offered yet more tea and pistachios.

The man's skin was a shade darker than most of the russet skinned locals around, but his eyes bore the same attractive almond shape as many of the other Iranians that I had so far met. His short, dark, greying hair framed a huge, generous smile.

G'day, came his warm, but unexpected greeting. Faizullah.

Jamie, I replied, his hand still shaking mine and within seconds, we began to chat, spending the next hour discussing Iran with the husband and wife. Or rather, Faizullah did. He translated my questions and answers into Farsi and would then do the same for Farid and Very, the lovely Shiraz couple who shared their evening with us.

Their story was one that would become familiar to me over the following weeks. One of extreme pride in their country. But also, one of great frustration at the political climate. An anger over the current economic policies, that meant the whole professional class had either left the country, or were planning to do so. A frustration that the clerics had so much power and even wealth, yet they preached austerity, while, at the same time, so many people required two jobs just to make ends meet. It seemed that the people of Iran were determined that things must change, but also accepted, even hoped, that this happens slowly. The older generation had already been through one revolution and that experience was more than enough to want to try and avoid another.

Do you think there will be a violent resolution? I asked, as Faizullah interpreted.

No, we don't think so, replied Farid, his florid, grey moustache wiggling from side to side. He did all the talking; Very would nod in agreement, or shake her head if she thought differently, but she added nothing verbally to the conversation. How different this was to my last group meeting. An older generation perhaps, where traditionally the man does all the talking and the woman says little publicly? Or was this couple unique? In many ways, they were not too different from an older western couple, who would tout more traditional values than those younger than them.

Dusk had descended silently over Azadi Park and while lost in conversation, I had failed to notice the enveloping darkness painting a shroud between the other three and myself. Yet, on searching around me, this enchanted park rocked with more vibrancy than ever. Despite the hour, the number of children racing around seemed to have multiplied exponentially and every inch of grass was taken up by both picnic rugs and the people of Shiraz.

It was Friday evening and tonight Shiraz, as I found out, would revel until late. But without alcohol to fuel the extremes of emotions, the atmosphere was gay and friendly. I found myself surprisingly relaxed and contented, with no fear of violence, crime or vomit strewn pavements. Without flesh displayed for all to see, adrenaline appeared to be kept in a subdued check. Yet despite the sheer number of bodies around, no rubbish polluted the grass verges; everyone was proud to keep their park as they found it. The grass now their lounge carpet.

Tents had been silently erected around the park, although I had failed to observe their raising, the process done in relative silence. Most unlike the hoisting of our western, ultra modern, super lightweight material tents, that seem to cause so much anger and frustration in their erection; even, ultimately, relationship breakups. Most of these local versions looked old and tatty; no light-weight synthetics here; these tents were fabric and wood. Yet, they did their job. The climate in Shiraz, as in much of Iran, means rain is rare and I wondered how many would just sleep out under the stars that night.

Many of these people have come from outlying villages and will spend the night here in the park. It is a tradition here. See how the people are so relaxed and the children can run around so safely. I nodded in agreement.

I think we should leave these lovely people to their evening, announced Faizullah, referring to the hospitable couple before us. After polite and prolonged farewells, we began a slow walk back through the park, until we ended up right before the very group of young lads who had, earlier on, seemed so annoyed by my presence. But this time, though strangers, my new companion greeted them like old buddies. Soon, they were happily performing acrobatics for the two of us and seemed to be relishing our attention, now that we were all friends. They became even more excited when I offered to take photos of them in full flight.

The first youth, after walking briefly away, turned and grinned. Then, with his face hardening in concentration, he took a speedy run towards us, before leaping high into the still night, impressively performing a full somersault through the air, before landing to his friends cheering and applause. I had little choice in joining in.

The next athlete did a succession of acrobatic flips. I have to admit to being rather impressed with both of their gymnastic abilities and their enthusiasm. Another young man, hair slicked back like the fifties, lay down on the dry grass and began breakdancing. Each individual performance was followed by great big guffaws of laughter and keen applause from the ring of boys around. They seemed to be really enjoying themselves and had, much to my relief, apparently forgiven me for my earlier indiscretion of stealing the attention of the girls.

With my final applause, it seemed Faizullah had also had enough.

Maybe you would like to join me for a meal? he asked, his cheery smile impossible to refuse? Despite the episode with the biscuit, I hadn't noticed how hungry I was. A meal sounded very tempting and since I had no better offers, I accepted the invitation. And that, I'm pleased to say, is where the story really starts.

Finding ourselves in a large restaurant, with tables packed with colourfully dressed families, friends and acquaintances busily gossiping, we managed to find a small table for two. Busy waitresses, with black headdresses and pretty faces, glided industriously through the throng of tables and chairs. Never rushing; endlessly smiling, yet not the plastic warmth we often receive in our increasingly Americanised West. These smiles felt genuine and unforced.

May I introduce you to a Persian delight? asked Faizullah mischievously. When I was a child, my mother would make us a special stew and it was always a treat for the family. Maybe they can make it for us? It's called Khoresh-E-Beh and is a stew made from lamb and quince.

That sounds great. If you recommend it, I'll go for it, I replied eagerly. I don't think I've ever eaten quince before, so I'm looking forward to it. Without as much as looking at the menu, he called over one of the waitresses. A protracted period of warm greetings between the two of them, (which was to be repeated throughout my stay in the country, each time Faizullah met new people) was followed by a warm nod and smile to Faizullah's request. Having briefly left, the waitress soon returned to inform us that the chef would be only too happy to make Khoresh-E-Beh for us and despite them being out of season, he had plenty of quince available. A wide grin formed on my new acquaintance's face and he continued to chat to the young lady, who seemed entranced by both the conversation and my new friend; she laughed; no, giggled, repeatedly.

Eventually, she was obliged to go on her way and serve some of the other diners, who seemed either surprisingly oblivious, or very tolerant of the temporary loss of service.

Ohhhh, moaned Faizullah longingly. What a beautiful girl. You know Jamie, back in my young days......girls like that....., he shook his head as if apologising for his younger self. I was a bad, bad boy back then. And that waitress. Ohhh. Wouldn't you like to take her home with you? I had to nod in agreement, more in answering his first statement than the latter question, while remaining both confused and entranced by this enigma before me.

What did you ask her? I enquired.

You know, Jamie, I asked her if the chef would make us Khoresh-E-Beh, even though it is not quince season. So she went to ask the chef and he agreed. You see Jamie, I know that quince store well, so I hoped he had some in his fridge. Then I asked her if she had a boyfriend. I had to admire his brazen courage. His confidence. His audacity. I was both amazed and not a little bit jealous.

And did she?

Yes. She did. His face never betrayed any disappointment. But he was also busy working tonight. So I suggested she might like to join us later. Still amazed. Still jealous. Faizullah had the cheekiest of grins. Evil, perhaps? Obviously irresistible to the fairer sex, even I could do little but laugh with him.

And will she? I asked again, unsure quite where this was going to go. Certainly not the sort of conversation I thought would be happening on my first, most surprising, night in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Sadly, she is working late tonight, so she can't. What a shame. Still, you will love your dinner. It is so sweet and the meat will just melt in your mouth. Was I disappointed, or relieved? I wasn't too sure.

So tell me, Faizullah. How come your English is so good? I asked, subtly moving the conversation on. Tell me a bit about yourself?

Well Jamie. You see, I live in Melbourne and teach at the University there.

Ahhh. That explains a lot. But where are you from, originally.

I'm from Afghanistan. My family is all from Kabul. But I have lived in Australia for nearly sixteen years now.

Well you speak Farsi pretty well.

You know, Jamie. The people of Iran and Afghanistan are the same people. We speak the same language. We have the same customs. Historically, we are one. It's the same for many of the other countries of central Asia. Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Kyrgyzstan.

What about Uzbekistan? I asked.

No. They are a different people, with quite different customs and traditions. But the rest, we are one.

So can the people here tell that your accent is different?

Oh yes. But I can put on an Iranian accent quite easily, he added with a cheeky smile.

So you feel quite at home here then? In Iran.

I love it here. I feel very happy here in Iran. I have many friends here and yes; I feel like it's my home. But tell me Jamie, what brings you here, to Iran? So I told him, but my story had little of the drama and romance that I was to hear from the man opposite me over the next few days. An ex-pat Englishman, a writer and photographer, who has lived in New Zealand for over twenty years, travelling through Iran, both for the joy of travel itself and also to try and capture the essence of this much maligned country.

Why would you want to go there? so many people asked me when I told them that I was going to Iran.

Why not? I would reply.

Because it's dangerous, the instant reply would invariably come.

Well, I would often tease, I suspect all the dangerous ones are already here, hiding in the West, ready to pounce. Rarely did people answer that one.

Faizullah, on the other hand, was here for work.

And for pleasure, Jamie. I mean, look around you. His arm pointed all around the restaurant, but was really representing