Afghans Dust Off Long-Hidden Yen to Have Fun

For the five years the Taliban was in power in this capital, Boba Abdul Shukor had to sell his wares in secret.

His contraband was not drugs or pornography or alcohol but one of the oldest symbols of freedom, the modest kite.

In the joyless world of the Taliban, scratching the heavens with the soaring paper fantasies was an offense to God. So, too, was listening to music or moving to its rhythm. There was no film, no television, not even a radio drama to lighten the tedium of lives spent in poverty and isolation.

Finally rid of the fundamentalists who prohibited virtually every pleasure, Afghans on Sunday celebrated the first day of the Muslim Eid al-Fitr holiday by indulging in long-forbidden notions of fun.

“Life was terrible under the Taliban. When they ran out of legitimate things to object to, they started on innocent behaviors like kite flying,” recalled Shukor, whose father founded Kabul’s most famous kite-making workshop more than 40 years ago. “It was ridiculous. How could sending a colorful paper bird into the winds be an insult to God?”

Shukor’s sales soared in the days before Eid as families rushed to restore a favorite holiday pastime in which boys and young men throng a broad dusty field on the city’s outskirts for “kite fighting.” When two kite strings collide, one tends to break, bestowing victory on the contestant still flying. The loser’s craft crashes into a scrum of bystanders among whom it is up for grabs.

“We couldn’t do anything during the Taliban era. It was like being in prison,” recalled 16-year-old Ehsnullah, who like many Afghans has only one name, as he wound the string of a toppled kite onto his calloused fingers.

It’s the same story at three movie houses that reopened soon after the Taliban was driven out of town by U.S. bombing, replaced by Northern Alliance fighters who seem more disposed to allowing poor Afghans to savor life’s pleasures.

“People weren’t able to have any fun during the Taliban regime, and they missed this very much,” said Fridun, manager of Park Cinema.

The Taliban’s retreat from Kabul coincided with the start of Ramadan, the Muslim holy month during which most people fast and forgo indulgences. Now that the physical and intellectual fasting is over, the cinemas are packed and the pressure is on to reopen 15 other movie houses now being used as restaurants and warehouses.

“Afghans are starving for entertainment. They have lived in isolation for so long, they want to know what life is like elsewhere,” said Abdul Jamil Sarwar, head of the nearly defunct Afghan Film studios and distribution network. “Few can afford to travel to America, but they can visit with their eyes.”

Hollywood films remain too expensive for cinemas here to import, and licensing of trade in cultural goods will begin only after the new interim government takes office on Saturday, Sarwar said.

In the meantime, moviegoers have to content themselves with two Indian dramas and an old Afghan documentary about Ahmed Shah Masoud, the Northern Alliance warrior who died after an attack two days before the Sept. 11 terrorist strikes. Although those films are old and scratchy and afflicted with poor-quality soundtracks, they have drawn thousands, even during Ramadan and at the relatively pricey admission fee of 5,000 afghanis--about 20 cents.

Laughter and release from daily woes are rapidly replacing the humorless life of the recent past. But it’s hardly an entertainment free-for-all. Afghan films for both cinema and video rental will continue to be screened for content offensive to Islam, such as nudity and sex, Sarwar said.

Violence, however, faces no such prohibition.

“People like those films best--they like as much action as possible,” Fridun said of the “Rambo” and “Terminator” genre.

While Eid this year is more enjoyable for the male population, the changes mean little for women. They still don’t attend cinemas or sporting events, or even accompany their menfolk to visit the graves of departed elders, another tradition at the advent of Eid. Instead, they stay home to make tea and bake cookies for the stream of male visitors and relatives who drop in throughout the three-day holiday.

Some men concede that the small pleasures of life should be shared with women, and expect that with time women will be allowed to accompany their husbands or fathers to entertainment events.

“Especially if we start getting new films--interesting ones from the United States or Britain or Japan--then I can see women coming to the cinemas,” said Jan Agha, who worked for 45 years as a film importer and distributor.

At Radio Afghanistan, where only a fraction of the pre-Taliban staff has come back to work, cultural programmers lament the loss of some of the country’s finest artists to foreign countries where they could nurture their art.

“Those who went to Europe have started new lives and won’t be coming back,” said Ustad Bolam Nabi, head of the music department, which now consists of a couple of sparse offices and a recording studio where neither electricity nor lights are working.

Despite problems that are likely to take years, if not decades, to resolve, some artists have returned to their homeland since the Taliban’s departure.

Rafiq Khushnood left his home in exile in neighboring Pakistan, convinced he could revive the music school he once directed here. He has been disillusioned by the number of former co-workers who fled or died during his absence but nevertheless plans to get fellow Afghans reacquainted with the lost arts of singing and dancing.

“A very important part of our culture revolves around celebrations,” said the former folk singer.

On the radio, songs of the late pop singer Ahmed Zaher could be heard emanating from cars and houses. Perhaps Afghanistan’s favorite vocalist in the last half a century, Zaher died under mysterious circumstances during the Soviet Union’s occupation of the country. His return to the airwaves brought back memories of a more festive time and seemed to bolster Afghans’ expectations of a more enjoyable life.

For those too old to take part in the roving street parties that celebrate the end of Ramadan, the return of television is a welcome diversion.

Ustad Khodadad Sherzad, dressed in an emerald silk tunic, spent Sunday morning praying at the Eidko mosque, then headed home eagerly to catch the traditional dance and music presentations on television. He says he hid his set from the Taliban “in seven layers,” boxes within boxes stashed in a closet hidden by a carpet. The fundamentalists never searched his home, though, he says with an impish grin. “I always carried my Taliban passport,” he said, pointing to his long, white beard. “This kept me out of suspicion.”

Television transmitters suffered some damage during the U.S. bombardment, leaving the radio-TV network with limited ability to broadcast and little in the way of stock recordings to show. In the days leading up to Eid, folk groups taped musical performances at the sole studio, a little out of tune after five dormant years but still able to set toes tapping.

“The instruments need repair and everyone could use a little practice,” Khushnood said. “But music is like literacy or riding a bicycle. Once you know it, you never forget.”