UNDER T HE DRONE S
Modern Lives in the Afghanistan-Pakistan Borderlands
EDI T ED BY
Shahzad Bashir
Robert D. Crews
HARVARD UNIVERSIT Y PRESS
Cambridge, Massachuset ts / London, England / 2012
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4 / Taliban, Real and Imagined
James Caron
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his chapter is an exploratory genealogy of the interplay between reli-
gious student—talib—as a folk symbol in Pashto expressive arts, and
talib as social actor. It particularly seeks to draw out older cultural
4 roots of the symbol talib that may be overlooked in non-Pashtun pub-
lic images of the idea, but that remain part of the contested perceptions
6 related to “taliban” for many who are integrated into Pashto-speaking
7 publics in both Afghanistan and Pakistan—particularly those clustered
around the northern zone between Jalalabad and Peshawar, and the
southern zone between Kandahar and Quetta. Beyond the realm of ideas
and symbols, this chapter points out earlier variations on a social institu-
tion—variations that have also been underappreciated in historical and
social science literature. That is, there had long been a social institution
of semi-itinerant bands of grassroots intellectuals known as taliban, per-
4 haps operating on local circuits linked to particular shrines, mosques,
and groups of villages, but integrated across considerable distances via
6 networks that cut across tribes and even (to a lesser extent) administrative
60
boundaries. It is this cultural history that at least some activists in con-
temporary movements have consciously recalled, even if direct institu-
tional links to present-day Taliban do not exist. This chapter also traces
some of the interplay over time between grassroots intellectuals; the social
and political discontent that interfaces with them; and the states that have
ruled the populations on either side of the Afghanistan-Pakistan border.
Let us begin with a paradox: the simultaneous disunity and unity of
Taliban organizations on either side of the mountains that make up the
Afghan and Pakistani frontiers. For several years since 2005, numerous
new and unrelated factions arose in Pakistan across a linguistically and
culturally heterogeneous territory, building on the brand established by an
older and also unrelated set of actors in 1990s Afghanistan. The name was
also applied as a catchall to multiple unrelated organizations in Afghani-
stan. Yet it is precisely this brand name Taliban that ties together disparate
local struggles in the perceptions of both wider society and of the activists
themselves. More importantly, it demarcates a growing awareness of, and
participation in, an imagined countercultural commonality.
I argue that multiple Pashto public domains on either side of the bor-
der have been fragmented, yet are still interlinked through local literary
traditions as well as new media. Further, I argue that the idea of “Taliban”
is a collective persona that political activists (that is, the Taliban) are able
to inhabit and control—but only to some extent. A constraint to this con-
trol lies in the visions that societies at large create about them, visions that
they are unable to fully control. Perhaps for this reason the official com-
munications of a resurgent Afghan Taliban speak of “the mujahedin,” or
simply the parallel “government” of the “Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan.”
Those constraining visions differ according to the long-term administra-
tive and cultural legacies of the two states that seek to structure and reori-
ent domestically the Pashto-language publics that straddle their frontiers.
Paying attention to the histories of popular cultures that share certain
tropes and themes, despite and against the elite fragmentation of the
contemporary nation-state system, grants us a historical perspective that
narrow attention to discrete political organizations alone cannot.
After some remarks on the current content and context of this loaded
word, talib, I will discuss the sources available for reconstructing the
evolution of the symbol talib from the early twentieth century until
J a m e s C a r o n / 61
now, across eastern Afghanistan and the Peshawar Valley in particu-
lar. I will then look at interactions between grassroots action and elite
discipline that contoured the talib symbol during the 1980s and 1990s
war periods: elite discipline that flowed from transnational elite schol-
ars temporarily located in the urban center of Quetta in Pakistan, to the
Kandahari trenches across the border, and then to the nascent Taliban
government in Afghanistan that consciously sought to transcend intra-
Pashtun cultural specificity. After addressing post-2001 trends in Paki-
stani and Afghan Pashto-language constructions of taliban as symbol
and Taliban as actors, from several very different degrees of distance,
I will conclude with some notes on new forms of media—media that
render uniquely visible the ambivalence in grassroots interactions with
the brand-name Taliban.1
Taliban and the World of Pashto Language and Literature
In the process of fleshing out these narratives and these themes, my aim
is to wed two universes—one profoundly longue-durée and strategic in
scope, and the other very local, particularistic, tactical. Our primary
question may be phrased thus: Where do these local countercultural
movements fit into the idea of long-term histories of state formation, ones
that now articulate a sort of national universality in addition to deeper,
extracolonial roots of cultural legitimacy and continuity? What are they
“countercultural” against?
Shah Mahmoud Hanifi makes a point regarding continuity in Afghan-
istan’s modern history, arguing that cosmopolitan registers of Persian
supply the fi xity of documentation, reining in mobile populations and
capital; and, we might add, organizing solidarities of potential resistance
into manageable tribal units.2 At the same time, we may argue along-
side Muzaffar Alam and Rosalind O’Hanlon, among others, that many
genres of elite Persianate literature—adab—supplied a moral discipline
that reinforced political orders in most regional states prior to European
colonialism.3 This cultural aspect of dominance was articulated not only
through state action but also through conscious interaction of individu-
als in a self-defined Persianate “Republic of Letters” that bridged cultur-
ally distinct regions. These publics of shared cultural consumption and
62 / TA L I B A N , R E A L A N D I M A G I N E D
production were effective at assimilating local cultures into themselves,
even while maintaining a separation of cross-ethnic imperial society
from its hinterlands.
In monarchic Afghanistan, a new dynastic territory carved out of ear-
lier Safavid and Mughal territories, Pashto was treated as a semifavored
stepchild by the government since the 1800s, to the extent that it was
engaged at all. Since the 1930s, its literary tradition had been champi-
oned as the heritage of the monarchic state, which nonetheless continued
to rule through the edifice of Persian bureaucracy that it had inherited
from its Mughal and Safavid forerunners. Older Persianate genres such as
the Nizam-nama (an administrative edict) reinforced traditional ideals
of imperial rule over, and dynastic distance from, less powerful Pashtuns
and non-Pashtuns alike. Meanwhile innovative genres such as formal
passports, private property deeds, and updated forms of mortgaging
added to the state’s repertoire of rule through textual discipline of society.
In the North West Frontier, British imperial society also built on an
inherited bifurcation between cosmopolitan state and provincial vernac-
ular culture—overlaying it, deepening it, and rendering it more complex
rather than doing away with it. Through the 1920s, sons of rural notables
still studied didactic Persian classics that claimed universality in their
scope, texts like Gulistan and Bustan, alongside Urdu and English texts
that articulated new imperial cosmopolitanisms. Meanwhile, the ethnog-
raphy of colonial administration, like trends in counterinsurgency today,
helped reinforce “tribal” or localized geographic consciousnesses at the
expense of wider political awarenesses. The mobile and itinerant talib,
long a fi xture of rural society, did not sit easily in this fragmenting, local-
izing world. And let us now invert our view, from the top-down to the
bottom-up, with particular reference to only one symbol of resistance
among many.
What are the earliest local literary sources we have for a social per-
ception of talib as counterculture? Proverbs and two-line folklore snip-
pets tied to variations on a longer folktale, the qissa (story) of “Talib Jan
and Gulbashara,” use the basic Pashto word for “student” (talib) in the
context of a specific romantic countercultural social type—as opposed
to the more general use of that word as a bare reference to a student. The
first printed elaboration of the story with which I am familiar appears in
James Caron / 63
Muhammad Gul Nuri’s collection of folk stories, Milli Hindara (Mirror
of the Nation), vol. 2, published in Kabul in 1945. It contains a number of
short poetic phrases related to talibs that circulated through rural soci-
ety earlier, and links them through a quasi-nationalist narrative possibly
reconstructed by Nuri himself.
Here, in the older folk fragments as well as in Nuri’s prose story, the
talib is depicted as an outsider lover, a traveler in an itinerant yet morally
respectable occupation related to affairs of the mind and the heart, whose
life represents an opposition to the mundane material and political fi xity
of settled life. These sources are generally dateless and anonymous folk-
lore refractions; and by the time such snippets were preserved in printed
folklore anthologies like Nuri’s, they were remade to operate in essential-
ized or abstracted worlds, in the realm of pure trope and social archetype,
without any cues that would foster historical specificity.
Apart from what people said about them in folklore and in nationalist
literature, taliban were not only passively represented. Part of the rea-
son Pashtun religious students’ persona has been imagined as a distinct
social type, to an apparently greater extent than in neighboring regions
of Pakistan and Afghanistan, is related to their own activities in carving
out something of a youth “counterpublic.” This taliban subculture was
an adjunct to scholastic networks and institutions, but was conceptually
autonomous to some extent, as we shall see. Since at least the middle of
the twentieth century and probably much earlier, taliban had created their
own real institutions that backed up the world of ideas—that is, through
cross-regional mediation and social networking.
Explicit reports of this sort of activity come through in a few biographi-
cal directories (tazkiras), and in some secondary Afghan-language litera-
ture in disciplines such as folklore and ethnomusicology. The researcher
Muhammad ‘Arif Gharwal, working in 1980s Khost, Afghanistan, has
traced a 1943 reference by the Afghan folklorist Muhammad Gul Nuri to
taliban’s atans (a type of popular dance) as differing from their mainstream
counterparts “in all Pashtun regions” to varying degrees. This reference,
printed in the Olympian, national-scale print culture of midcentury Kabul,
suggests something of a top-down awareness of a similarly nonlocalized,
yet non-elite, subculture in development. And by the time Gharwal wrote,
a good deal more scholarship had developed for him to cite, on either side
6 4 / TA L I B A N, R E A L A N D I M A G INE D
of the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, regarding separate forms of poetry
and of dancing that were particular to taliban parties.4
But the best source for reconstructing this milieu is memoir and recol-
lection. These kinds of sources are most directly telling for our purposes—
and at the same time, the least forthcoming of all. This empirical gap makes
a close reading of tropes and symbols in folklore all the more important,
if less than precise as a historical method. This method cannot aid in geo-
graphically specific, rooted history that illustrates the diverse experiences
of Pashtun societies. But it can at least illuminate some aspects of ideology
in a hybrid oral and literate Pashto-language public sphere that have been
shared across regions in a common cultural-historical patrimony. And the
very fact of this decontextualized cultural history—in which geographical
and temporal specificity are hard to come by—is itself a form of historical
evidence. From it, we must infer a type of cultural sharing that overcame
much administrative structuring and acted against (perhaps in reaction to)
a localizing of people’s social frames of reference.
We should reiterate that the majority of references to Pashtun “taliban”
in secondary literature in Afghan languages point merely to (largely
rural) students in a traditional situation, where individual students
would apprentice themselves to a teacher and learn as much as possible,
sometimes memorizing and mastering ideas in extraordinarily complex
Arabic texts before moving on to another teacher.5 Students could travel
quite widely in this quest for ever more stimulating texts and ever more
connected teachers. In the eastern provinces of Afghanistan, biographi-
cal directories as well as secondary literature tell us that local scholarly
networks often converged on a center of gravity in the outskirts of Jalala-
bad, Afghanistan, in the intellectual and spiritual networks forged by the
Sahib of Hadda in the late nineteenth century. But this was by no means
the only such center of gravity. Kandahar city and its environs formed
another notable locus, as attested to by ample entries in Muhammad Wali
Zalmay’s Notables of Kandahar.6 Meanwhile the higher institutions of the
Peshawar Valley and especially the Indus and Gangetic plains seem in
many of the sources to have held the greatest regional cachet.7 In these
middle and upper educational registers, the hard-to-recover world of the
marginal Pashtun talib begins to shade into the far-better-documented
universe of Urdu-language religious education.
J a m e s C a ro n / 65
However, we should also note a continuum between those “serious”
students whose stories have made it into history books as individual intel-
lectuals, and some of the other practices fostered by educational networks
and young men’s search for all that mobile education could bring in addi-
tion to knowledge. Could it be subsequent historiography, rather than
actual experience, that has separated sober youth scholasticism from the
romanticized lifestyle of the wandering talib band of exuberant young
Pashtun men in the mid-twentieth century? The two are certainly not so
easily separated in literary imagination even to this day. Note, for exam-
ple, the most detailed account I have seen of an early twentieth-century
wandering talib band—this recollection, like Nuri’s cryptic footnote,
relates to 1943 or thereabouts. It dates to the time that its author, Ajmal
Khattak, was serving in the shrine village and traditional center of rural
learning in Ziarat Kaka Sahib, Nowshera district, in present-day Paki-
stan. It is worth quoting at length:
Ghwaye Mullah was from the village Dandoka, of the Yusufzai
tribe [probably in Swabi district, in the Peshawar Valley]. He was a
renowned jokester, and had oral and extemporaneous poets travel-
ing with him too. He was trained in the traditional education of the
time, and in his body and physique looked to be a severe and sturdy
Pashtun. At all times he had twenty to thirty students along with him,
and wherever they were, when the time for the lesson came, he would
also teach them. But usually it was exuberant carefree (mast) students
who would travel with him, of the sort who just studied so that they
could say they were students. Their real job was joking, buffoonery,
exuberant acting out, atan dancing, and eating the ready-made food
that people gave them (tayar-khori).
From his external appearance no one would have guessed this; and
looking at him one would get the impression of a great scholar (‘alim).
But the mouth on him was such that if anyone approached him, he
would ridicule the person to such an extent that no one else would
have the temerity to take his attention. His thing was that he’d go with
his students from village to village. They’d take payment from the
khans, maliks, and respectable people of the village and amuse them
with jokes and buffoonery, and with insulting poems about those who
6 6 / TA L I B A N, R E A L A N D I M A G I NE D
opposed them. And if anyone didn’t give them payment, they would
shame them in village after village. . . .
Ghwaye Mullah would stand with the students in a field, and a
student would begin beating on a barrel drum, a frame drum, or a
clay pot, while the rest would make sounds on hand drums. Mullah
Ghwaye himself would tell jokes and sing poems, while the students
behind him would let out cries, thrash their heads, or dance the atan.
And all the villagers would sit and watch, laughing. It is worth empha-
sizing that [the mullah] did this work not in order to earn money, but
rather for pleasure. This was one feature of how they spent their time.
They would spend their own time in exuberant carefree happiness,
and would also make the people happy.8
Besides Ajmal Khattak’s empirical recollections outlined above, he gives
more insight into how society viewed the persona, if not the person, of
the talib in a well-known 1960s poem of his. In contrast to other social
actors’ material concerns, the talib’s thoughts of paradise are taken
from the imagery of the half-religious, half-folk-romance chapbook tale
he is reading:
I asked a mullah, what do you think Paradise is like?
He ran his fingers through his beard and said
“Fresh fruits and rivers of milk”
A talib was sitting nearby
I asked him, what do you say?
He put aside the book of Zulekha he was reading, and said
“Beautiful women with (tattooed) green dots on their cheeks”
A khan (rural leader) raised his head from a lengthy sajda (prostration
in prayer)
What is your opinion, Khan Sahib? I asked
He adjusted his turban and said
“Luxuriously furnished and perfumed mansions”
Nearby, a labourer stood in his tattered clothes
I asked him, do you know what Paradise is?
He wiped the sweat from his brow and said
“It’s a full stomach and deep slumber.”9
J a m e s C a r o n / 67
Talibs’ liminality—their interaction with, yet separation from, ordinary
society—perhaps allowed society to superimpose a sense of abstraction
onto the persona of the talib, as a young man inhabiting a dreamlike
landscape of fantasy. The two types of account—talib as actor and talib
as trope—are blended in Zakariya Mlatar’s rather more poetic account of
talib life, in the preface to his highly fascinating tazkira of Pashto poets
who chose the pen name “Talib” for themselves. Mlatar applies the fol-
lowing generally to the eastern provinces of Afghanistan, particularly
Nangarhar and Kunar, Laghman, Logar, and Paktia/Khost; more speci-
ficity than this, especially of time period, is not forthcoming:
Before, when educational programs didn’t have their current form,
education could only be had in the madrasa and the mosque, and this
was the only route to literacy. Students would go to distant coun-
tries for knowledge, and would bring back with themselves treasur-
ies of knowledge and information, and various types of books and
diwans. . . .
Talibs have one part in each year for travel and recreation which
they spend in melas [outdoor festivals] and atans, and they gather up
money for themselves which they call sobat. Pashtuns view talibs with
respect; in order to make the case, here are a few landays [two-line
poems] from Pashto folk literature which praise the talibs:
The taliban have come, parties and parties of them / But the
talib of my heart has not come; I shall die! . . .
Don’t make taliban into lovers, God / And add the suffering
of love onto the suffering of knowledge! . . .
The taliban have climbed up into the country / But myself, my
beloved’s eyes have struck me down so I stayed. . . .
The reason why talibs are so praised in landays is that they would spend
many years gone and out of their homeland (wrak aw jula watan).
Pashtun girls would depict this long journey of theirs in the form of
landays. And sometimes, from among them, true love would find the
form it takes in the folkloric legend of Talib Jan and Gulbashara.10
The above account feels rather more fanciful than that in Ajmal Khat-
tak’s memoir. Is there any reason to try and separate the fanciful from
6 8 / TA L I B A N, R E A L A N D I M A G I NE D
the factual, though? Th is romanticism, as well as its usefulness as a type
of social critique, benefits from a willing decontextualization. It oper-
ates in the field of abstract schematic morality, rather than the fi xity of
precise contingent description; and it thus becomes applicable to mul-
tiple contexts. It seems instructive at the very least to note the romance
of the persona as well as the fun imagined as part of the lifestyle, and
to highlight the authors’ own schematic, antihistorical perceptions and
presentations of a fluid masculine youth counterculture standing in
opposition to the rigid voice of sober authority. In this discussion, I draw
on Asef Bayat’s important work on fun and youth culture, among that of
other social scientists. Here, though, is a case different from those that
Bayat describes: the “displays of spontaneity and joy and the pursuit of
everyday pleasures,” as he puts it, are not in opposition to any “Islamist
moral paradigm” as they are in his case studies of late twentieth-century
Egypt and Iran.11 These early twentieth-century Pashtun talibs actually
presented their own “Islamic” moral paradigm. The fun of living a talib
subculture during the recreational season, and the pleasure that audi-
ences got from their performances, came from the fact that it was an
alternative to a different set of established norms, that of purely secular
landed power.
In most iterations of the folk romance “Talib Jan,” the romance generally
takes place between Talib Jan and a king’s or a landowner’s daughter, maxi-
mizing the scandal value as well as a symbolic contrast between marginal-
ity and power. But beyond this sort of symbolic token, it would seem that
the fluidity and mobility of taliban in the mid-twentieth century on either
side of the mountains would run directly counter to an accelerated social
and economic process of rooting in territory. In Afghanistan, where colo-
nial and monarchic politics meant that everyday people were increasingly
cut off from the global economy since the 1930s, there was a concomitant
upswing in investment in landed power and ties to the monarchy for pres-
tige as well as for a link to the outside world. This was accompanied by a
solidification of landed, reflexively Pashtun values of gravitas, sobriety, and
intermediary lordship on the grassroots level. In this case, the analysis of
talib parties’ activities would be roughly similar to Asef Bayat’s reading of
Victor Turner: as “carnivalesque,” as “extending the politics of joy . . . into
struggles against structures of hierarchy at large.”12
J a m e s C a ro n / 69
We get a direct glimpse of this “politics of fun” in an institutional
sense, too, in Ajmal Khattak’s account above. By virtue of their mobil-
ity, talibs began to carve out a public zone of antihierarchical speech. It
would not be easy to criticize or lampoon local power in a local setting;
but by extending their activities across wide swaths of the countryside,
transcendent of local control, Mullah Ghwaye and his troupe were able to
insulate themselves from repercussions and give voice to local criticisms
of local khans, maliks, and others.
Further, in the British imperial territory of the 1930s that Khattak’s
account relates to, we also see talibs disrupting another form of hierarchy.
Even as the nationalist movement in the North West Frontier Province
(NWFP) resisted both British imperial power and the large provincial
landowners who served as adjuncts to empire, the Khudai Khidmatgar
movement in particular rested on a castelike division of “officers” and
“mass” members and demanded that the socially marginal subsume their
agency into its own. Further, the primary nationalist movements in the
NWFP were geographically rooted in terms of their structures in the
same centers of gravity that sustained empire—new market towns and
the villages in their orbit. Taliban activity, rooted not in imperial cen-
ters but in older interlinked geographies of shrine villages and rural cen-
ters of traditional Persianate learning, disrupted the hierarchies and the
rootedness of both empire and the nationalist movement, which by that
time was well-entrenched. Ajmal Khattak, himself a nationalist activist,
recalls at a different point in his memoir with some ironic bemusement
how the bawdy humor of Mullah Ghwaye’s party disrupted a traditional
folk festival in Ziarat Kaka Sahib, a festival that had been appropriated by
nationalist activist poets over the early 1940s.
Given the current associations of the word Taliban in Pashtun soci-
ety, it seems odd to cast taliban in the role of the fun-loving rural youth
escaping social discipline. Of course, in the contemporary situation, this
intuition is not far from the mark. This is indicative of the changing role
of taliban in the social imagination, as well-funded networks of a new
type of religiously identifying political actor came to appropriate the
label. Nonetheless, they appropriated a label that was rich with preexist-
ing connotations, and that continued to be larger than a single political
movement; and they were not unaffected by either the possibilities or the
constraints imposed by these external ideas.
70 / TA L I B A N, R E A L A N D I M A G IN E D
From Evasion to Mobilization and Domination
Is there a connection between these older images of people referred to
as “talibs” and the Taliban that dominate our current perceptions of the
word? In an institutional sense, not at all (or at most only very tenuously).
But in the world of social imagination beyond their exclusive control,
Taliban insurgents since the 1990s have come to inhabit certain aspects
of this older persona whether they want to or not, especially the trope
of the passionate outsider youth that the traditional persona of “talib”
articulated. This has had effects on rank-and-file talibs, regardless of
what Islamist ideologues in the movements would prefer. Consider, for
example, the highly romanticized set of Taliban self-portrait photographs
published by Thomas Dworzak, in which young Taliban fighters high-
light their beauty as they pose with flowers and eyeliner against garden
and alpine backdrops. Such an aesthetic comes into much sharper focus
through this lens.13
Through this type of imagery, as well as songs related to Taliban politi-
cal movements, we can also get a view of self-construction in talib-related
media—both by actual taliban and by poets who are sympathetic to the
movement. While conducting unrelated field research in Peshawar in
2005, I was informed that although the (original) Afghan Taliban had
banned music, they benefited from a transnational rise in popular cas-
sette songs performed by both men and women that celebrated them.
Some of these, produced mostly in Pakistan for the transnational Afghan
market, took the form of martyrdom songs; but others were composed in
feminine voice, addressing the talib warrior as a lover. Longing and the
separation of travel, traditional tropes in talib lore, took on new signifi-
cances. Romanticism of talib itinerancy became successfully welded with
discourses of honorable masculinity prominent in the genres of jihad
poetry described by David Edwards, among others.14
Along with the moral self-alignment involved in composing such
works, there is also the moral self-alignment involved in actively consum-
ing such works, in an era where consumers have a wide selection of songs
to buy and listen to, or, nowadays, to seek out on the Internet. Continued
and cumulative interaction with the talib brand, by non-talib individuals’
consumption and compositions, continues to determine the character of
that brand over time in the late twentieth-century public domain.
J a m e s C a r o n / 71
This is especially true in elite counter-narratives that pulled the persona
of talib closer to authoritative respectability. Of course, romance and fun
are not the only genealogical thread worth tracing in this account of talib
as persona. The thread of sincerity, earnestness, and morality is worth tug-
ging on, when explaining why this countercultural persona was adopted by
those who would rule; and why at least some people would have a stake in
its respectability that extends beyond the rational calculation of security.
A parallel rhetoric in elite literary Pashto, especially of Afghanistan, was
built up around the Afghan talib persona in the last decade of the twen-
tieth century. This new rhetoric sublimated youth agency and passionate
love of the talib trope into a sort of pious heroism, or into the abstract
world of courtly love poetry, or both. This discourse assimilated the idea
of the romanticized countercultural talib, the subject of the descriptions
above (and perhaps more common as trope than as fact), into the equally
marginal yet far more mundane, far more disciplined reality of the sta-
tionary village student talib of 1960s and 1970s Afghanistan, particularly
of the southern provinces centered on greater Kandahar. This milieu has
been described by former Afghan Taliban official Mullah Zaeef in the
beginning of his autobiography, among other sources.15
On the revolutionary side of the Taliban movement, much poetry com-
posed by higher-ranking ideologues in the Afghan Taliban regime, as it
consolidated itself, took pains to disavow the romanticized persona of talib:
I write poetry, but I won’t write poetry in love of my lover
I won’t write about my beloved’s little red lips or cheeks
Neither about the coquetry of the beloved, or the wretched state of the
lover
I won’t write about the mysteries of love, or the adornments of
freewheeling girls16
We should temper this view with that of Mullah Zaeef, again, whose
narrative includes visions of romance, in a pure and Platonic yet no less
obsessive form, as permeating the everyday life of the movement’s origi-
nal core, during the 1980s:
May God be praised! What a brotherhood we had among the muja-
hedeen! We weren’t concerned with the world or with our lives;
72 / TA L I B A N, R E A L A N D I M A G IN E D
our intentions were pure and every one of us was willing to die as a
martyr. When I look back on the love and respect that we had for each
other, it sometimes seems like a dream.17
Zaeef notes the everyday engagement with poetic forms of self-expression
that helped constitute the persona of early movement leaders at the time.
As reported by Zaeef, one night in the late 1980s after a clash with Soviet
forces, at a party of poetry and singing on the very day he lost his eye,
Mullah Muhammad Omar himself sang ghazals in the classical vein: “My
illness is untreatable, oh, my flower-like friend / My life is difficult with-
out you, my flower-like friend.”18
By the time the Taliban formed a government in Kabul and began rul-
ing a country, complex negotiations were involved in integrating roman-
tic persona into hierarchical discipline—negotiations in poetic genre and
in actual life. Negotiations in the world of genre are illustrated by various
aspects of an admittedly more complex work, a poetry collection entitled
Da Patsun Zhagh, or Voice of the Uprising, printed in Quetta in 1997. It
was written by a non-Taliban religious scholar and poet named Haqyar,
originally of Kandahar though based in Quetta, in a consciously classical
Persianate style:
Who is this that refuses love?
I don’t know whether they’re Muslim or an infidel
This lamp-flame of love is very ancient
It’s been a tradition since eternity . . .
Poetry and mulla-ism are not opposed
I, Haqyar, am both mawlana and poet.
Another poem:
In you, Mahmud of Ghazni grew up
You raised so many great scholars
You raised Mirwais and Abdali
You raised so many strong youths
You are the home of the saints of Kabul
And countless shrines
You are the home of mystics and holy men
Many renowned personalities
J a m e s C a r o n / 73
You are a minaret of learning and art
O, cradle of sacrificing heroes!
You are the minaret of Allahu Akbar!
O, cradle of the strong and the brave
O, homeland of the Amir al-Mu’minin
Now too you have many strong children
O, beautiful and colorful homeland of Haqyar
Thank God you have lovely taliban!
Here the idealized talib has been partially assimilated to the very civ-
ilizational narrative that he once stood in opposition to. But it is not
only—not even primarily—the poetry that disciplines, in this literary
collection. The author dedicated his work to the memory of the Pakistan-
trained, Kandahar-based Deobandi intellectual and renowned teacher of
Afghan religious students, Abdul Ghaffar “Bariyalai.” Bariyalai was him-
self an accomplished poet in the sabk-e hindi style, which uses passionate
lyric in a highly abstract and stylized fashion, and it appears that Haqyar
followed this courtly style in emulation of him. Bariyalai additionally
appears, at least in the 1990s, to have enjoyed some status as a spiritual
grandfather of the elders of the original, Kandahar-based Afghan Tal-
iban movement, whether this ancestry was real or fictive. Second, the
poetry collection was also “presented in the service of” a young talib who
“took over from that elder,” who “is spending the years of his youth in
the reform of society,” and who is recognized as “well-bred” because the
“traces of his father and forefathers are present in him”: Mawlawi Wakil
Ahmad Mutawakkil, the Taliban government’s soon-to-be foreign min-
ister. I suspect that the dedication was made by the author, an intellec-
tual who was cautiously supportive of the Taliban movement but hoped
that his (occasionally impressive) poetry might help to humanize and
enrich the Taliban leadership, and discipline it before more experienced
religious authority, as much as to inspire it. But certainly in the selec-
tions above, alongside a territorial religious nationalism claiming the
energies of countless youths for itself in the latter poem, and the fram-
ing in the dedication that subsumes talib youth within the hierarchies
of patriarchal lineage, we still see a celebrated ideal of youthful passion
dressed in pious clothing.
74 / TA L I B A N , R E A L A N D I M A G I NE D
Why was this a useful persona for Taliban supporters to appropriate,
adapt, and lionize? Perhaps because traditional taliban life, as narrated by
multiple sources in a coalescing, cross-regional “conventional wisdom,”
was a countercultural force with revolutionary potential, and this ideol-
ogy was useful to the actual revolutionary movement. The earlier talib
persona was permeated with a romantic, transgressive flavor of freedom
that carved out an autonomous public zone divorced from state or even
local control by virtue of its transregional, anti-local mobility. Indeed,
this is one of the reasons it is difficult to grant greater geographic specific-
ity to the sources presented here. And as part of this fluidity, the content
of the talib persona was also flexible. This freedom and horizontality were
easily adaptable into a contrast to the hierarchies created and contested
by local predatory militia leaders, as much as earlier manifestations of
landed power. It was easily adoptable for new actors.
The most widely known origin tale of the original Afghan Taliban
movement was narrated by the BBC in 1994, and is echoed by Mullah
Zaeef in his memoir. In essence, once the Soviet military withdrew from
Afghanistan and external financial support for the seven militant factions
dried up, the lower ranks of those factions in Afghanistan began forcibly
extracting resources from the rural poor and from each other in its place.
The countryside fragmented into shift ing, overlapping territorial units of
depredation, especially in the comparatively hierarchical south—Kan-
dahar, Helmand, Oruzgan—that formed the heartland of the original
Taliban. The English word warlordism tells us less about local percep-
tions of this period than two interrelated Pashto words: topak-salari and
patak-salari, or “rule by the rifle” and “rule by the checkpoint.”19 In his
narration, Mullah Zaeef tells us that the initial taliban activism in 1994
mobilized older bands of talib fighters who used to work for the Sayyaf
mujahedin faction. He narrates that the mobilization came in response
to both these trends, trends that drastically circumscribed mobility and
eroded the dignity and honor of everyday people, and that accentuated
the political economy of localized, territorial warrior patriarchy to a
degree unprecedented in contemporary Afghan historical memory.20
The usefulness of the talib trope for the original Afghan movement
was this: it allowed them to brand a new faction of activists, supported
by Pakistani intelligence, to bring security and stability to neighboring
J a m e s C a r o n / 75
Afghanistan, as a movement of resistance to this fragmentation and local
hierarchization of social life. This was possible because of two things: the
cross-regional, nonterritorial nature of religious learning (whether in
countercultural or regular student experience), and traditional ideologies
about talibs (whether or not those ideologies reflected most current talibs’
experience). The traditional construction of the talib was not only about
fun, it was about marginality as an alternative expression of masculin-
ity and social morality that did not depend on competition and domi-
nation. The talib was already often construed as a sincere and powerless
ascetic in contrast to the rapacious khan—and by extension, the qoman-
dan or topaki (militant commander or foot soldier). As Haqyar’s poetry
and his dedication to Mutawakkil illustrate, the talib’s romanticized yet
domesticated passion contributed to supporters’ ability to describe them
as sincere in motivation and pursuing a politics of reform. This was in
conscious opposition to the politics of exploitation.
At the same time as an ideal of youthful passion was disciplined and
channelized into a political-military movement by the hierarchies of
urban and (locally) cosmopolitan Deobandi scholarship, it was still valu-
able as popular persona. In periods of Taliban mobilization, both during
the 1990s and in the post-2001 resurgence, these alternate constructions
have been cast not only as “different,” as in times past, but as morally
superior. And the marginality of talib social habits that did not seek
aggrandizement over those of rural poor Pashtuns was successfully inte-
grated into a narrative of populism. This is part of the continued sticking
power of the talib persona—as opposed to the actual experience of situa-
tions in which Taliban movements have extended their hegemony. In this
connection, a contemporary Pakistani Pashto refashioning of the “Talib
Jan” story is worth exploring in greater depth.
The Romance of Rejection and Martyrdom
A ten-rupee chapbook folk romance between Talib Jan and an epony-
mous “Pashtana” (the character’s name is merely the feminine of “Pash-
tun”) in part represents an updated retelling of the folk tale, printed in
Peshawar in the first decade of the 2000s.21 It also, I suspect, represents an
allegorical adaptation of the story, to serve as a literary image of the moral
76 / TA L I B A N , R E A L A N D I M A G I N E D
dimensions of how “Pashtun society” related to Taliban in the period of
Afghanistan during and after their rule. In so doing, it re-adapts the talib
persona to a post-rule situation.
The story exists in a curious hybrid of realistic and idealized, almost
abstracted, context. Descriptions of modern material culture seem
designed to place it in a context relevant to present-day readers. There
are no more kings and such; here there are electric lights and government
schools. The lexicon appears consciously “Afghanized” by an author who
otherwise writes in colloquial Peshawari Pashto. Some cues date the story
to a period “after the fall of Dr. Najib,” who was the communist leader of
Afghanistan until 1992. Yet there is little to no other mention of politi-
cal rule. The primary social frame of the story could better be described
as “village society”, and temporality operates not in historical time but,
rather, in relative time: “before” as opposed to “now.” The story begins
with Pashtana’s father telling his daughter that “before,” people were gen-
uine. They helped each other out at harvest; it was not a society like “now,”
where “each Pashtun lies in wait, thirsty for each other’s blood.”
Early in the story, Pashtana receives an anonymous note from a boy in
class, slipped into one of her books and declaring his love for her. When
Pashtana reads the letter, she is highly offended by the presumption and
thinks: “Dear God! If I’m not wrong, this looks like the work of a khan.
And there’s that flirtatious boy in our classroom!” She is furious, and
writes him a shaming letter (“even selling your sister in the bazaar would
be better than this action of yours!”).
This episode does not arise again, and seems intended primarily as a
way of postulating a khan morality in direct opposition to talib moral-
ity. Some few days later, a talib party arrives at Pashtana’s home, which,
as the home of a wealthy landowner, hosts them and feeds them. Talibs
being pious and harmless, and pure in motivation, there is no impro-
priety in Pashtana bringing them their tea and food; but as their leader,
Talib Jan, blesses her with a hand on the head, she falls for him instantly.
It is she, this time, who writes the love letter, this time passed on through
a younger child talib who functions as message carrier. As in the much
older Talib Jan story in Muhammad Gul Nuri’s 1945 publication of Pashto
folktales, most of the story takes the form of delayed gratification, as Talib
Jan is torn between his love for itinerant learning and his love for the
James Caron / 77
girl. Eventually after a long period of patience and longing, with Talib Jan
playing hard to get, they decide to marry, in defiance of all social conven-
tions related to khans’ daughters and talibs alike.
In the contemporary story, though, conflict arises not only from the
deceit of maids and the class disparity of the girl and a talib, as in older
versions. In this one, a passionate but weak Pashtana allows herself to be
seduced by thoughts of marriage to her cousin, a young khan whose match
has been arranged for her by her brothers in London, and who everyone
tells her is both handsome and suitable. Eventually, while Talib Jan is out
on his travels with the talib party, she decides to marry that young khan,
and rejects Talib Jan through a cruel exchange with the young messen-
ger. The sincere Talib Jan is crushed by this betrayal. He falls into illness
and never recovers, dying in a hospital in the presence of the messenger,
his younger brother. The doctor tells the brother to take Talib Jan away
because there is nothing that can be done. His younger brother weepingly
protests that being itinerant talibs, they have no one, and nowhere to go.
The story ends with the narrator telling us that it is not just a folktale at
all; rather, he heard it from Talib Jan himself on his deathbed near Jalala-
bad. Revisiting the scene, he has discovered that Talib Jan’s grave is now
venerated as that of a martyr to love. Even Pashtana’s expatriate brothers
visit it to pay their respects.
Several points are important to note. There is a very clear distinction
here between khan morality and talib morality, which is more explicitly
and schematically articulated as such than in nearly any other talib-related
media that I have seen. It hinges on an opposition of talib passion as “sin-
cerity,” as opposed to the “desire to use, exploit” inherent in the way that
Pashtana saw the young khan’s pursuit of her. The gentle passive romance
of the talib is, for the purposes of this story, the opposite of the romance of
the khan, a predatory male persona who actively pursues what he wants.
Then there is the conclusion, in which Pashtana ends up married to a khan
after all, through the intervention of her brothers in London.
For me, this feels like an echo of the idea of talib passion as true or
superior morality in opposition to rapacious naked power, which we saw
in Mullah Zaeef’s Taliban origin narrative. By the ending, the simplicity
and the mildness of the modern talib is established as being congruent
with the more general ingenuousness and sincerity of times past. In the
78 / TA L I B A N , R E A L A N D I M A G I NE D
undefined, traditional “old days,” everyone was better; but that was before
the rise of rapacious politics. “Now,” only the talib preserves this unshak-
ing and uninfluenceable devotion, a love that is pure and lust-free.
Is this quasi-allegorical reading a stretch? Possibly, though even if
so, it still represents a continued engagement with passionate and itin-
erant talib as a trope in conscious opposition to that of the khan. But
in favor of an allegorical reading, why else would the female protagonist
“Gulbashara” inexplicably be renamed “Pashtana,” the generic word for
“female Pashtun” and not a given name in Pashtun society? Even “Talib
Jan” has a name, Mullah Abdul Ghaff ur. And why would it end in this sort
of personal betrayal, unlike earlier versions? The story seems intended to
play upon the familiar folkloric persona of Talib Jan as a way to convey a
historiographical vision: what is, for the author, the heartbreaking rejec-
tion of sincere talib morality by Karzai-era Afghan Pashtuns, and their
“marriage” to khan-ism through the intervention of foreign brothers. The
martyrdom of Talib Jan in the story carries additional layers of meaning
in this context as well. And there can be no doubt that contemporary
media about the Taliban, as well as actual Taliban propaganda, both play
upon the same sorts of tropes as above.
A celebration of the Taliban’s purported obsessive passionate devo-
tion to homeland and to Islam, and the motifs of passionate self-sacrifice
and martyrdom that emerge in this narration, build upon earlier con-
structions of the talib trope. The martyrdom, or other form of absence
of the passionate talib lover, appears a common trope in contemporary
poetry composed for or by Taliban and performed without musical
accompaniment. A short number of excerpts from Taliban poems, taken
from the streaming video site youtube.com, may serve to illustrate this
point. Of the vast number of Taliban lyrics currently available, a sizable
percentage rely on romantic imagery as part of martyrdom. Consider
the following lines, intended as the nara (call and response phrases) for
a Taliban atan dance:
Once more, my poor heart breaks out into naras
The Taliban come to my memory like flowers
Oh Lord, what happened to those red and white birds?
The Taliban come to my memory like flowers
J a m e s C a r o n / 79
Much time has passed, my dear, since our meetings ended
The Taliban come to memory like flowers22
The naras go on to describe the sufferings of the young Taliban as they
were massacred in northern Afghanistan by the Northern Alliance,
among other less-specific topics. Meanwhile, other Taliban songs are less
focused on the pathos of martyrdom, yet still express traditional tropes
of romantic obsession and self-sacrifice, deploying poetic vocabulary
that recalls older rural poetry from tazkiras. For example, sati (a poetic
appropriation of the image of a wife’s ritual immolation on her hus-
band’s funeral pyre), and the moth incinerated by its love for the flame,
are arresting enough tropes in traditional Pashto folk poetry due to their
extremity. The effect is all the more jarring when combined, in contempo-
rary poems, with youth militarism and the potentially ominous promise
of a meeting as in the following:
Death, my dear, when you look for me, look on the front lines
I am a falcon of the homeland, look for me in the high mountains
My dear, ask the eagles and the birds
Look for me among the leaders of the deserts and wastelands . . .
I am a sati in the fire; I am alight with my own religion
I am a moth, look for me in the flame of the Qur’an
Tortured by love, I am still faithful to my beloved
Look for me in sobs in the deserts and wastelands
I’ll come to you on foot, in hopes of a meeting
My friend, look for me in prayers and in khatms [a ritual Quran
recital in memory of the dead].23
Conclusions
It should be clear that a historical account of romanticization in the con-
tent of media need not imply an uncritical romanticization on the part
of the consumer, as opposed to a considered, ambivalent, tactical one. As
illustrated above, romanticization has served Taliban interests at times,
but has also been a tool of non-Taliban elite discipline, as in the poetry of
Maulawi Haqyar. A final view, that of mass discipline of those who would
inhabit the symbolic value of “talib,” might be gained through another
8 0 / TA L I B A N , R E A L A N D I M A G I N E D
intellectual named Haqyar, a blind poet-entertainer of southern Afghan-
istan who performed taliban songs for rural audiences. As of 2010 he was
no longer limited to the world of contingent improvisation. Alongside the
polished propaganda videos officially released by Taliban organizations,
the current series of conflicts gripping Afghanistan and northwestern
Pakistan alike have also spawned new forms of networked media, with
informal cell-phone video sharing being particularly noteworthy. In one
such video posted to youtube.com, recorded in a village notable’s meet-
inghouse (hujra), we find not an elite disciplining of Taliban message,
but ambivalent discipline by non-elite concerns; and we are finally con-
fronted with the stark materiality underlying the discontent that propels
people’s engagement with the talib as symbol and actor alike.
Beginning with a view of tribal society as fractured and (locally?) self-
interested, Haqyar posits Taliban morality as both more expansive and
superior: “Don’t name those Pashtuns as real Pashtuns, O Lover / Pick up
a rifle and be honorable / Don’t fight in your home like jackals. . . . Weep
at the task presented to all Afghans / If God is present, then go ahead and
remake History anew. . . . The Taliban may take pride in their name, no? /
The streets and alleys are full of foreigners.”24
In video, the contingency of recording allows for more nuanced read-
ings of the transcendental romanticization of taliban than other media
would allow. Here we find the talib as a passionate hero who operates
on the strategic scale of egalitarian national history, and even potentially
on the universal and metaphysical scales of divine and human history.
Yet the poem’s lyrics take on fuller meanings from the circumstances
presented in real-time moving imagery—a beleaguered, impoverished
performer, commandeered by high-handed and half-dismissive rural
landowners to sing for them in their hujra, in the heart of the resurgent
Taliban’s sphere of influence. The egalitarian national belonging that the
Taliban promise in romanticized theory—much like the deliverance from
“foreign” dominance based in monarchic Kabul, late-colonial and post-
colonial London, or present-day Islamabad, Kabul, and Washington—
stands for Haqyar as just that: a promise, one that remains unfulfi lled.
The song clearly praises and underscores the trope, even as it points out
the contradiction of abstract ideal persona and real-life, tactical actor.
Haqyar’s negotiation between sarcasm and idealism is vague enough to
J a m e s C a r o n / 81
chip away at multiple hierarchies at once, without reprisal. In varying
degrees of directness he delegitimates rural power, the Afghan govern-
ment, and its NATO allies. Most importantly, though, he also critiques
a cross-regional Taliban authority that now occupies a subsection of the
very domain of strategic cultural power that an ideal talib as symbol, and
taliban as actually occurring actors, once both militated against.
With the increasingly globalized Afghan wars of the late twentieth and
early twenty-first centuries, as well as the increasing crisis of legitimacy
of the Pakistani state in its northwestern regions, however, this zone of
strategic power is less informed by any one hegemonic cultural stream
than it has been at any point since the 1500s. The bureaucratic legacies of
post-Persianate dynastic and colonial imperialism not only jostle against
nation-state ideals of citizenship. They also collide with late twentieth-
century ideals of universality, ideals represented in the phrase interna-
tional community that can also marginalize expressions of localism. And
they currently also collide against a particular brand of locally decon-
textualized Islamic universalism: an ideological product of local social
history, at least in part, but one that actively downplays and marginal-
izes its localness. In the increasingly complex interplay of resistance and
power in the fractured polities straddling the Afghan-Pakistan border,
cell-phone sharing and streaming Internet videos have strengthened the
phenomenon of cross-border mediation, interacting in all these anti-
localisms simultaneously.
Let us consider one ironic symptom of this increasingly complex media-
scape: for some of Daud Haqyar’s audiences, at least, a decontextualized,
imagined talib that served as an ideal symbol of antistructural resistance
has come to be pitted not only against postimperial states, but against real-
time taliban, who are themselves a new form of structure-creating actor.
It is perhaps too early to predict the long-term outcomes of this ongoing
public, participative history.
82 / TALIBAN, RE AL AND IM AGINED
Nizam-e Adl bill in the provincial parliament in 2009; this bill estab-
lished that the laws of sharia would govern the territories of Swat under
the supervision of district qazis. Qazis had to be qualified judges, but the
ordinance established that those who had completed a course in sharia
would be given preference in these roles. For a discussion of the class and
power dynamics that underpin religious politics in contemporary Swat,
see also Robert Nichols, “Class, State and Power in the Swat Confl ict,” in
Beyond Swat, ed. Magnus Marsden and Ben Hopkins (London: Hurst and
Co., forthcoming).
59. Perhaps a rethinking of politics, as Qasim Zaman urges, is necessary.
4. Taliban, Real and Imagined
1. Due to limitations of space and context, this chapter does not address
discourses circulating through the English and Urdu and Dari media of
Pakistan and Afghanistan, respectively, that impinge greatly on the media
world of the Pashto language community on either side of the border.
2. Compare Shah Mahmoud Hanifi, Connecting Histories in Afghanistan:
Market Relations and State Formation on a Colonial Frontier (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 2011).
3. See Muzaffar Alam, The Languages of Political Islam (Chicago: Univer-
sity of Chicago Press, 2004); Rosalind O’Hanlon, “Kingdom, Household and
Body: History, Gender, and Imperial Service under Akbar,” Modern Asian
Studies 41, no. 5 (2007): 889–923.
4. Cf. Muhammad ‘Arif Gharwal, Ghar ne Sandare (Kabul: Afghanistan
Academy of Sciences, n.d.), 104–105.
5. See David Edwards, Heroes of the Age (Berkeley: University of Califor-
nia Press, 1996); James Caron, “Cultural Histories of Pashtun Nationalism”
(PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania, 2009), esp. chap. 4.
6. Muhammad Wali Zalmay, Da Kandahar Mashahir (Kabul: Ministry of
Information and Culture, 1970).
7. Caron, “Cultural Histories,” chap. 4; Edwards, Heroes of the Age, chap.
4; Sana Haroon, Frontier of Faith (New York: Columbia University Press,
2007).
8. Ajmal Khattak, Qissa Zama da Adabi Zhwand (Charsadda: Riaz Book
Agency, 2005), 104–105 (my translation).
9. Ajmal Khattak, “Jannat,” translated by Aziz Akhmad (unpublished).
N o t e s t o P a g e s 5 9 – 67 / 2 75
10. Zakariya Mlatar, Taliban aw da Paxto Shi’r (Peshawar[?]: n.p., 1986),
pp. jim–dal. (my translation).
11. Asef Bayat, Life as Politics: How Ordinary People Change the Middle
East (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010), 137.
12. Ibid., 153.
13. See John Lee Anderson and Thomas Dworzak, Taliban (London:
Trolley, 2003).
14. See David Edwards, “Words in the Balance: The Poetics of Political
Dissent in Afghanistan,” in Russia’s Muslim Frontiers: New Directions in
Cross Cultural Analysis, ed. Dale Eickelman (Bloomington: Indiana Univer-
sity Press, 1993), 114–129.
15. Abdul Salam Zaeef, My Life with the Taliban, ed. and trans. Alex
Strick van Linschoten and Felix Kuehn (New York: Columbia University
Press, 2010).
16. Recounted by ‘Alam Gul Sahar, “Par Paxto Shi’r da Jagare Aghize,”
http://www.larawbar.com/detail.php?id=12632.
17. Zaeef, My Life with the Taliban, 43.
18. Ibid.
19. I thank my onetime Pashto faculty for both of these vocabulary items,
and for their textured explanations of why they are so important.
20. See Zaeef, My Life with the Taliban, 57–65.
21. Qarib al-Rahman Sa‘id, commissioned by Lutfullah Sadiq, Qissa da
Talib Jan (Peshawar: Zeb Art, 2007?).
22. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uoozZbAkOP8 ; posted by
“Talib Gul” on December 1, 2009.
23. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfNIYOwnOko&feature=rela
ted; posted by “islamafghanTK” on August 20, 2006.
24. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Y7KzfJLuGY; posted by
“pakhtoonhalek” on January 26, 2009.
5. Quandaries of the Afghan Nation
1. The 1979 population estimate is from the World Bank through Google,
http://www.google.com/publicdata?ds=wb-wdi&met=sp_pop_totl&idim=
country:AFG&dl=en&hl=en&q=afghanistan+population+statistics.
The current CIA numbers are revealed at http://www.cia.gov/library/
publications/the-world-factbook/geos/af.html. The CIA World Factbook
notes: “(28,395,716 [a July 2009 estimate]) is a significantly revised figure;
2 76 / N o t e s t o P a g e s 6 8 – 85
