In search of the lost or.., p.18
In Search of the Lost Orient, page 18
Why and how did Professor Bennigsen go a bit far?
When we met in 1984, he was working on the penetration of fundamentalist ideas into Central Asia as a result of the Afghanistan war. He made lists of the Islamic publications published in foreign countries, which, passing through Afghanistan, were noticed, confiscated, and often ended up in Central Asia. One day, he called me to his Paris apartment so that I could serve as an interpreter as he interviewed an Afghan commander from the region of Mazar-i-Sharif, a certain Alam Khan of the Jamiat-e-Islami group. And there, while translating, I realize that Bennigsen was quite simply in the process of organizing the printing of religious texts in Mazar (there was also the Bible in Russian) that he then “discovered” in Central Asia. In other words, he contributed to the creation of the phenomenon that he studied. But the researcher could only attest to the result: the war in Afghanistan caused a flow of religious books into the USSR, because, no matter what the true origin of the books was, the impact was the same. I like this kind of story.
And what about the rest of the trip to Samarkand?
After taking leave of my Wahhabite delegation in Samarkand (which is only a shadow of its former self), I arrived in Dushanbe in Tajikistan. It was my first encounter with the Tajik language, a cousin of Persian written in Cyrillic but with lots of false friends (i.e., misleading cognates). Having taken two years of Russian in high school, I was comfortable with Cyrillic. As we left the airport, I see an enormous statue of Lenin with the words, “Glory to Lenin who imprisoned (dastguiri kardan) the peasants.” OK, either perestroika had gotten a bit ahead of itself here, or something else was going on. Dastguiri literally means “take the hand.” In Iran it means “to stop” but in Tajik “to help.” There was a certain logic to that. In similar fashion, the first sentence that my correspondent uttered as I stepped off the plane left me puzzled: “Can I make trouble for you at my place this evening?” Taklif in Iranian Persian means a “duty” (usually onerous). In Afghanistan it means “bother, problem, difficulty,” but in Tajik, “invitation.” It’s true that the protocol of hospitality is often burdensome, as much for the guest as for the host, so one can understand this slide in the meaning, but it did give a surreal touch to the conversation at times.
In Dushanbe I encountered young Tajiks who had served in the Red Army in Afghanistan, usually as translators and experts, including one who confided in me that he translated during torture sessions. They were familiar with the same war zones I had known, simply from the other side of the battle lines. So I learned about their vision from the other side, which often confirmed my analysis of the situation—notably about the alcoholism among the troops. I especially made it a point to meet the mullahs of all categories (Sufi, Wahhabite, Tablighi), and all were happy to speak with a foreigner. They often insisted on speaking carefully in classical Persian and applying themselves to use the Arabic alphabet. I examined their tiny personal libraries, in which I found old lithograph editions of religious texts that dated back to the czarist period (I could read both the Arabic-Persian and the Cryrillic), including the books of my Mawlawi Mirajuddin from Panjshir. My research focused on the transmission of Islam during the Soviet era. I quickly discovered the new Islamists who had come to found the Islamic Renaissance Party. I learned later that some of them had consulted with Afghan mujahideen to know if I was trustworthy. Luckily, their contacts were mostly people close to Massoud, Tajiks like them, who praised me and thereby facilitated my making other contacts.
In sum, I felt oddly at home in Tajikistan, and that’s when I started doing my first serious thinking about Central Asia. I later went back two times a year for several weeks each time until 2001. So I lived through the collapse of the Soviet Union and the implementation of new regimes in a context where it was necessary to invent in only a few years entirely new identity references that were more or less artificial.
And did you find yourself in the middle of new wars?
Yes, but this time, though I was not looking to get involved in a war, the civil war that would tear apart Tajikistan from 1992 to 1997, took place all around me. I was no longer in adventure-seeking mode (except, of course, if a door suddenly opened—I couldn’t resist). I had a research project (on Islam, nationalism, and the evolution of the kolkhoz system) which would turn into a book, L’Asie centrale; ou, La fabrication des nations, that was published in 1997.4
I arrived in Dushanbe at the end of April 1992 to pursue my research. Tensions were high between the Islamo-Democrats (an alliance of Islamists from the Gharm Valley and democrats, especially Islamists, from Pamir) and the Neo-Communists from the valley of Kulob. The two camps led demonstrations at each end of the main avenue that traversed the city, but on May 2 civil war broke out. We were staying at the Hotel Tajikistan (formerly the Intourist Hotel), which happened to be the frontline between the two sides. The Kulobis held the presidential palace, and the Gharmis held the National Assembly building. Luckily, there was no artillery, just light tanks, but bullets were flying. The few ex-patriots gathered at the bar of the hotel located in the basement. War correspondents showed up, and some would risk leaving the hotel to try and understand what was going on. The Russian mechanized regiment that had its barracks in the city center right next to us made one sortie to break it up and then turned back. There were no more planes, no more cars, no more buses, and food was starting to run short. But not vodka. Since the Islamists didn’t drink, there was a plentiful supply. Eventually, the Gharmis made a successful charge and were able to take over the presidential palace with a few tanks. There was a cease-fire; the Kulobis regrouped into formation under Russian protection and left the city. An old Ilyushin plane was getting ready to leave for Moscow, and I hopped aboard.
Everything changed afterward. The Islamo-Democrat victory was of short duration. An atrocious civil war broke out in the southern part of the country, and in December 1992, the Neo-Communists retook power. The Islamists fled into northern Afghanistan and built camps, dreaming of the day when they would retake power.
Chapter 17
A DIPLOMATIC PASSPORT
So you came back one more time, but wearing a different cap now?
I had the same problem that came up with Afghanistan ten years earlier: what should I do? How was I to avoid being a mere spectator of all this? But as I said, this time I did not want to be part of a war or in the middle of a war.
It so happens that the prospects for chaos at that time within the former Soviet territories were of serious concern in Europe, notably a fear of mass immigration that never took place. In 1993, Sweden was to take on the presidency of the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe (OSCE), and all the former Soviet republics were granted the right to join after the collapse of the USSR. As the Swedes are extremely serious and organized people, they prepared for the leadership role one year in advance with a large conference on the post-Soviet era and what to expect. I was invited to this meeting in Stockholm that took place in September 1992. Near the end, I had a meeting with the Swedish foreign affairs minister, Baroness Margaretha af Ugglas. She asked me in excellent French what I thought of the Wahhabi problem in Central Asia. I made a few observations in reply. Three months later, I received a message from the French representative at the OSCE in Vienna. I knew this ambassador, Marc Perrin de Brichambaut from the CAP. He asked to see me immediately. The Swedes wanted to name me the OSCE’s special envoy in Tajikistan, with the idea of opening a mission there, which I would be the first director of. I was appointed for a period of three months, July–September 1993. So I returned to Tajikistan in the summer of 1993 and worked in close cooperation with the United Nations and the HCR (where I still had friends); then I returned to Vienna and submitted my report to the Parliamentary Assembly of the OSCE.
Afterward, I returned to Stockholm where the same baroness minister says to me, “Dear sir, my ministry is offering to put you in charge of the diplomatic mission of the OSCE in Dushanbe. Your task is to establish the mission, and your goal is to democratize the country and reestablish human rights—in six months, with one renewal possible.” She wrote an elegant nomination letter, in French, for “Monsieur le professeur Roy, chef de la mission diplomatique de l’OSCE à Douchanbé.” She further specified that I was to report to the French authorities to obtain a diplomatic passport.
I already had a foot in the door at the French Foreign Ministry thanks to the CAP. I was told to report to the director of political affairs, Ambassador Philippe Lecourtier. I knock on his door, and I’m greeted by an imposing figure who addresses me dryly, “Monsieur le professeur”—I sensed this was not going to go well—“we’ve learned of the mission conferred on you by the Swedes; but strictly speaking this is a Swedish affair that does not entitle you to French diplomatic status.” And yet, according to the OSCE statutes, each member country was supposed to provide a title and salary to its citizens hired by the organization. I therefore insisted on obtaining a salary and diplomatic passport. He sat up in his chair, “What! A diplomatic passport?!” he spluttered. “It’s an exorbitant request, Monsieur le professeur, an exorbitant request!” He told me to hold on to my salary at the CNRS, generously offered me a mission stipend for two months instead of twelve, and moved to close the meeting. As soon as I left his office, I went directly to see Bruno Racine, the head of the CAP and someone I knew was close to the foreign affairs minister of the time, Alain Juppé. He received me in his office, cut short my lengthy explanations, asked if I had my normal passport and some photos with me (I did), and told me to come back at 5 P.M. At the appointed hour, he hands me a shiny blue diplomatic passport, and I tuck it in my pocket. Afterward, it was renewed every year automatically (the wonders of bureaucratic inertia) until I renounced it in 2009. I have to say that passport made things a lot easier for me on several occasions.
How did your role as diplomat–nation builder go?
When I arrived in Dushanbe, there was nothing. Since the logistics all passed through the Americans (only the American embassy was open), they assigned me an American collaborator, a career diplomat, to watch over my activities. But the person in question, Daria Fane, was an old friend from my Afghan days, so we actually got along well together. We met up at a hotel in the middle of winter—it’s well below freezing and we have no office or staff. Nevertheless, we managed to create together a very competent local team of nice people who were, of course, put under enormous pressure. The mission’s role was to influence a government that was composed of a large band of killers whose only goals were vengeance and plundering. There was only one person of some sophistication with whom we were able to work, Vice President Dustov. It was with Dustov that I committed my second big translation mistake between Persian and Tajik.
What was the mistake?
The Tajik government had signed an agreement with the OSCE and was supposed to provide us with offices, which they never did. After one month and with Vienna’s urgent insistence, I finally got an appointment to see Dustov. I explain to him that his government is supposed to give us a daftar, which in Iranian and Afghan Persian means “office.” He gives me a quizzical look and says he’ll do his best. As we’re leaving, my local assistant asked me very politely, “But why did you ask him for a notebook?” I would know for the future: in Tajik, daftar is a notebook, and the word for office is ofis, of course! The OSCE never got its office, nor any notebooks either. It was proof of the government’s bad faith.
The OSCE was by definition a very international organization?
Yes, I worked closely with the general secretary of the OSCE, Wilhelm Höynck, a German diplomat, and with the representative of the Italian OSCE presidency, Ambassador Francesco Bascone—two remarkable men who spoke perfect French and were used to dealing with complex situations. We established a special system of correspondence: watered-down reports in English were distributed to the entire assembly, and reports in French that were more explicit and critical circulated among a small circle of people. This double use of languages would become a general practice with me: French would be the tribal language of the insiders and convey details and intelligence; English would be the language of generalities and a mushy consensus. Incidentally, I’d like to underscore that my time working with diplomats convinced me that diplomacy is a true profession, with its codes, its logic, and its concrete results, all of which are far removed from the cinematic clichés about embassy receptions in black tie and the like.
You’ll talk about your second marriage later, but at this time were you still single or with someone at Dushanbe?
At first I was single and later in a relationship starting in July 1994. Nineteen ninety-four was all the more chaotic because it was the year I got married. Chantal and I had been separated for nearly five years. Her time in Kabul ended badly, and she was then working for the United Nations in Haiti. In late October of 1993, when I was in transit between Dushanbe and New York and passing through Dreux for two days, Martine, the daughter of my Turkish friend, rang my doorbell. I had known her for fifteen years, but we’d always seen each other in the context of family gatherings and never just the two of us. That day, after about fifteen minutes, I asked if she’d marry me. Thus began a series of complex events.
Why complex?
For her to be able to leave her family and join me in Tajikistan, we needed to get married as soon as possible. However, first I had to organize a divorce between a person based in Tajikistan (me) and another in Haiti (Chantal)—and remember there was practically no Internet then. Secondly, there was something more serious than these procedural problems, namely, a theological question: we had to obtain a special dispensation from the Syriac Orthodox Patriarchate in Damascus on account of the fact that I was the godfather of one of her younger brothers—which amounts to incest in many Orthodox churches. Meanwhile, I was continuing with my human rights campaign in Dushanbe, and I was going to New York to coordinate my efforts with the special United Nations envoy for Tajikistan, Ramiro Piriz-Ballon, a Uruguayan diplomat, while at the same time participating as an observer in a first round of negotiations between the opposition and the government in Tehran, from June 18–23, 1994. For the second time—the first was my United Nations adventure back in December 1989—I arrived in that city with diplomatic status, and little by little I developed a network of good relations with Iranian diplomats. A second round of talks took place in Islamabad on October 20, 1994.
When I got back from Tehran, I had a week to organize the wedding—luckily, my in-laws did all the work. This time I invited my parents. We were married on Saturday, July 2, in Tremblay-le-Vicomte by Father Yakoub, the only Syriac Orthodox priest in France at the time, and by Brother Malke, a first cousin of Martine. One of our witnesses was Louis Schittly, the doctor and my companion during my first tour among the mujahideen, and also a convert to the Orthodox Church, my new religion. The service began with a sonorous Shlomo aleykho (peace be upon you) addressed to the Virgin Mary, and I found myself in my new, displaced Orient, that of Semitic Christianity. The following Thursday, we landed at night in Tashkent. Then we traveled to Dushanbe for our honeymoon and the continuation of my work (I have no talent for keeping things separate). I had rented a small villa in the Jewish quarter. The lack of security was permanent, but since the attorney general, also a hardened killer, lived in the same street, we benefited from the security offered by his personal militia. The day after we arrived, our female neighbors came by to see the new arrival, and I overheard them saying in Tajik, “But she’s oriental, she’s like us, so why doesn’t she speak Uzbek or Tajik?” In fact, though, with a mixture of Turkish and Kurdish, especially for counting, Martine was quickly able to make herself understood. And here, too, body language played an important role.
We’ll discuss later what this marriage meant for you. Tell me how you made progress on the Tajik problem.
As often with me, the threads of my life that ought never to have crossed suddenly came together all at once. The opposition was composed mostly of Islamists who thought well of me because I had been on the side of Massoud’s mujahideen, with whom they had taken refuge—though this did not prevent Massoud from controlling the Afghan embassy in Dushanbe. Besides them, a few liberal democrats had joined the Islamists around the idea of the democratization of the country and anticommunism. Among them there was a professor, a true intellectual who possessed a real humane core, named Atakhan Latifi. He became the delegation’s spokesman during the peace negotiations. He would later be assassinated in September 1998. One day in Dushanbe, the telephone rang and a female voice said to me in French, “Hello, my name is Gulya Mirzoeva. I am Tajik and we are cousins.”
I was dumbstruck but it was true. She had just married Jérôme Clerc, who came from Mouchamps, the same little village in Vendée as my father. I can’t remember at what degree of proximity or distance Jérôme and I were cousins, but, of course, I knew his family name. Mouchamps is a small town in Vendée of about two thousand inhabitants, including seven hundred Protestants, who are more or less all cousins if one considers the genealogy over a hundred-year stretch. So they both came to the house, and she says to me, “Oh yes, I forgot, you’re well acquainted with my uncle, Atakhan. He’s the head of the opposition delegation in the negotiations.” All well and good, except that, within twenty-four hours, the entire city had learned that I was related to the head of the opposition’s delegation. People in the government let it be known that it was unacceptable for the representative of the OSCE to have family ties with the opposition. However, during the following round, they came up to me smiling and said, “So it turns out you’re a bit Tajik now—welcome to our country!” You could say we were sharing in this common grammar of village cousins.
