Growth takes so long and destruction so rapid,
Wonder elates me. I wander the orchard
Carelessly, stopping to nibble the olives.
Tasting the dirt and the nutrients hidden
Under the rocks in the dust of this wasteland.
Born in neglect and renewing its progress—
Offspring gone wild are the remnants of order.
Eating the fruit of the summer in winter
Conquers the meekness that seeks to inherit.
Builders of boats have transported decanters,
Trading the fruit for a box filled with treasure;
Plundering plowshares with sword-points of iron—
Pruning the cities with bronze at the spear-tip;
Blowing up mountains with barrels of powder:
Blessing the graveyards with regular water—
Oiling the pan for the chickens they slaughter.
“Because there was no custom of eating olives among Afghans, almost the entire crop, 2,600 tons a year, was shipped to Russia in the late 1970s… Mr. Hakim, who is 51 and like many Afghans has only one name, witnessed the farms’ growth as a college student here and was inspired, but never imagined that he would have the chance to direct the farms. The orchards and modern farms seemed to him a kind of utopian dream that had come to life in the rocky Afghan soil... Then, in the early 1980s, disaster struck. The mujahedeen movement to oust the Soviets, who by then were controlling the government, started in neighboring Kunar Province, and the regiment of Afghan troops guarding the farms was sent to fight the Afghan rebels.
Security deteriorated and vandals began to maraud at night, stealing farm equipment and even the steel rods used to stabilize the cooperatives’ concrete buildings, said Hajji Hanifullah Khan, the manager of one of the farms that is only now beginning to work again. ”
– Alissa J Rubin, The New York Times, July 11, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/11/world/asia/11afghan.html?hpw
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