Shaping metal, and hard words
KHOST, Afghanistan — The harsh music of the workday welled up around Matiullah Turab, one of Afghanistan’s most famous Pashtun poets, in the garage where he earns a living repairing the colorful Pakistani caravan trucks that transport goods around the country. The cadence of his nights, though, is his own: shaping poetry as piercing as the tools he uses by day. Nature and romance carry no interest for him.
“A poet’s job is not to write about love,” he growled. “A poet’s job is not to write about flowers. A poet must write about the plight and pain of the people.”
With his unflinching words, Mr. Turab, 44, offers a voice for Afghans grown cynical about the war and its perpetrators: the Americans, the Taliban, the Afghan government, Pakistan. War has turned into a trade Heads have been sold as if they weigh like cotton, and at the scale sit such judges who taste the blood, then decide the price
Taped versions of Mr. Turab’s poems spread virally, especially among his fellow ethnic Pashtuns, whom he champions — a tribal affinity that alienates some Tajik Sangar Rahimi contributed reporting. and Hazara listeners. His affiliation with Hezb- i- Islami — part Islamist political party, part militant group — has put off others. But his poetry has mass appeal. Mr. Turab reserves his charity for ordinary Afghans, weighed down by the grinding corruption.
Many see his poems, some of which were translated from Pashto for The New York Times by Mujib Mashal, as a counter to the daily spin showered on Afghans by the government, diplomats, religious leaders and the media. O flag-bearers of the world, you have pained us a lot in the name of security You cry of peace and security, and you dispatch guns and ammunition
“There is no genuine politician in Afghanistan,” he said. “As far as I know, politicians need the support of the people, and none of these politicians have that.”
He continued: “The Taliban are not the solution, either. Gone are those old days when the Taliban way of governing worked.”
He is merciless with government officials. He ridicules them, saying they should stitch three pockets into their jackets: one to collect afghanis, one for dollars and one for Pakistani rupees.
For all that disdain, however, Mr. Turab has remained popular. President Hamid Karzai recently invited him to the presidential palace in Kabul. “The president liked my poetry and told me I had an excellent voice, but I don’t know why,” he said.
In fact, he is quite widely in demand. Though he prefers to be home in Khost, Mr. Turab’s travel schedule still far outpaces the average metalsmith’s. People flock to his rare personal readings, and new poems posted on YouTube quickly become among the most-watched by Afghans.
Though poetry is loved, it seldom pays. “This is my life, what you see here: banging iron,” he said.
There is something else, which even the plain-spoken Mr. Turab seemed reluctant to confess: He is nearly illiterate. He constructs his poetry in his head, relying on memory to retain it.
After the Soviet invasion in 1979, Mr. Turab moved with his family to Pakistan. He came of age there, returning to Afghanistan only two decades later, with a trade and a wife.
Under Taliban rule, he dared to publish a book of his work — a grave mistake. “The Taliban beat me very badly,” he said. “After that, I decided publishing wasn’t such a good idea.”
He says he loathes the terror the Taliban cultivate. And he excoriates them, for being as inept and out of touch as the Westernbacked government. O graveyard of skulls and oppression Rip this earth open and come out They taunt me with your blood, and you lie intoxicated with thoughts of virgins