Capital Capers in Kabul
Some Afghans find humor amid corruption and hardships
KABUL, AFGHANISTAN—At the offices of Afghanistan's own version of Comedy Central's The Daily Show, producers review video clips in an editing booth where plywood walls are soundproofed with what appear to be old exercise mats. But if the studio's low-key setup belies the show's impact as one of the most popular programs on Afghan television, its metal detectors and armed guards do not. To get into the building, a visitor faces security that is tighter than at most government ministries.
The program's creators have been applauded in Kabul's produce markets—and seen a company car riddled with bullets by disgruntled supporters of politicos whom the show regularly skewers. The program's name can be roughly translated as "Alarm Bell," and it mirrors the growing resentments of many Kabul residents. Through skits and video clips, the show offers up rare accountability in a city where corruption runs rampant and scarce municipal services remain a constant source of frustration.
The show mocks politicians for ridiculous behavior and international organizations for waste. One recent segment showed real video of a fight that broke out among parliamentarians who began beaning each other with plastic water bottles. It has taken aim at NATO, too, making fun of military commanders who rarely leave their fortified compounds without large armored convoys and filming soldiers washing their trucks with precious bottled water. This is no small waste in a city where fewer than one fifth of residents have water piped into their homes. One of the most popular commercials on television is for the "LifeStraw," a filtering device costing $10 (roughly one week's salary for many Afghans) used for safely sipping water from even the filthiest puddles.
Accountability. But among the show's most popular targets are politicians on the take. In response, one of the few productive acts of parliament has been an attempt to push through more restrictive media laws. In the meantime, the program continues to point out, for example, costly but shoddy construction projects, overseen by ministers with new homes in Dubai. "Talking about corruption is very important," says Saad Mohseni, who runs Tolo TV, the popular station that produces the show. "Part of the frustration people have is that no one has been held accountable for anything."
The frustration is growing as the city's population has continued to soar, from an estimated 1 million in 2001 to some 4 million today. Refugees have fled war-torn regions in the east and south, seeking security in the capital. This has strained services in a city where there is no public sewage system and 9 out of 10 residents live on unpaved streets.
Security, too, remains a deep worry as the Taliban last month promised to step up suicide bombings. There remains little aid for the thousands of beggars in the city, many of whom are disabled or mentally ill-people who are likely Taliban recruits for such attacks. Tolo TV recently aired footage of one mentally disabled would-be bomber who said the Taliban had given him detailed instructions on where he could go to collect his payment after he completed his bombing mission.
Despite these concerns, city markets are vibrant. Peddlers push wooden carts filled with fresh mangoes, bananas, and dried chickpeas, a popular snack. Teens working at juice bars carry drinks to parked cars, where passengers sit listening to tapes of the popular Bollywood heartthrobs whose posters adorn buses and shops. Many women cover themselves in the sky-blue burkas but fewer, residents say, with each passing month. Many burkas have been refashioned, with the mesh face veil pushed up and over the head, like a hooded cape.
Others have abandoned burkas altogether, trading them in for fashionable cheetah-print scarves. "Life is much better than under the Taliban," says Sahera, who, like many Afghans, goes by one name. "But not as good as it should be, considering all of the aid that has poured into the country." She is shopping with her son, a university graduate unable to find a job. "To get one, you either have to know someone in government or pay a bribe," she says. For most Afghans, neither is an option. "If we had money, we'd bribe someone," Sahera says. "But we don't."
Down the road, Afghanistan's traffic cops stand on striped pedestals in busy intersections, waving paddles that seem to have little impact on the chaotic flow of cars. Many Afghans joke that the cops' main function is simply extracting bribes from drivers involved in accidents—which, if that's the case, they have little incentive to prevent.
Culture of survival. Such corruption is a daily fact of life in Kabul, where police earn $70 a month, less than most of the pushcart vendors who sell mangoes. "How can there not be corruption when this is the pay of most police?" asks the Ministry of Interior's recruiting chief, Colonel Wakil. The head of Afghanistan's security force training, U.S. Army Maj. Gen. Robert Durbin, says he hopes that a police pay raise to $100 a month will come through soon. "Corruption in many cases comes from a culture of survival," he says. "To help your family, you'll do whatever it takes."
In the meantime, residents rely on humor to get by. One comic on a popular new stand-up comedy program—a competition to become "Lord of the Laugh"—tells a joke about a homeless refugee in Kabul. Like many new arrivals, he is unable to find a house. He is sitting by the river contemplating his options when a watermelon floats by. Encouraged, he fishes out the watermelon and slices it open. A genie promptly pops out and asks if there is anything he can do for the man. "A house would be nice," the man says. "Are you kidding?" the genie replies. "I'm living in a watermelon, and you're asking me for a house?"
It is one of many such jokes in Kabul today. "If you can't make me laugh, tell me another story," says the host of the stand-up comedy show. "You can probably just as easily make me cry."
This story appears in the June 11, 2007 print edition of U.S. News & World Report.