In Kabul, a Stark Gulf Between Wealthy Few and the Poor
Friday, December 9, 2005
KABUL, Afghanistan -- Displayed under fluorescent lights on a spotless marble floor, the imported refrigerators, dishwashers and ovens at the new Beko store draw a steady stream of gawkers in a city where nearly everything is coated with grime. But few Afghans can afford such luxury appliances -- or the electricity to run them.
"A lot of people come in and they really, really want to buy these kinds of products," said Baki Karasu, 41, who opened the store this fall. "But they don't have any power. If they have a big generator, they can buy. But if they don't, they have to wait for the government to provide the electricity."
Four years after the ouster of the Taliban, as another frigid winter begins, most residents of the Afghan capital are without power, except for five hours every second or third night. Although hundreds of millions of dollars in foreign aid have been spent to fix the problem, conditions have worsened in the past year as improvements have lagged and the population surges. Government officials say things will not noticeably improve until at least 2008, when new power lines are to be completed.
The gulf between the wealthy few and the literally powerless majority is especially striking now, as pockets of opulence sprout across the impoverished capital of 4 million after a quarter-century of war that left much of the city in ruins. Downtown, there is a glittering new shopping mall as well as a five-star hotel where regular rooms go for $250 a night and the Presidential Suite fetches $1,200.
There is also Sherpur, a central neighborhood that once contained an army barracks surrounded by poor squatters' huts. Two years ago, it was taken over by government officials. The huts were razed and the land parceled out to people with money and connections. Now, dozens of mansions are being built there.
Unlike typical Afghan homes, which have muted colors, simple materials and shrouded windows, the new houses seem designed to attract attention with vivid tiles, elaborate balconies and ornate columns. A 10-foot-high eagle statue perches on one roof, wings outstretched.
Such displays have elicited both admiration and resentment from ordinary Afghans, many of whom believe they have been financed through ill-gotten means, including the lucrative opium poppy trade, misuse of aid funds and schemes controlled by former militia leaders who still wield power in many regions.
"These homes make the city look beautiful, but the people here got their money not from the legal way," observed Zarifullah Hayatullah, 18, a student who was riding his bike past a row of mansions one recent day. "All the well-off people can live here -- especially the commanders who got their money through drugs."
Across the city, in a dilapidated district called Daimazang, live those on the dark side of Afghanistan's economic fortunes. Although the country's gross domestic product has doubled since 2001, roughly 30 percent of the population is unemployed, and 37 percent need donated food to survive, according to statistics compiled by the Brookings Institution in Washington. In Daimazang, 65 families have taken up makeshift residence in the carcasses of former government office buildings that were destroyed by rocket attacks in the civil war of the 1990s. Most were refugees in Pakistan and Iran who returned home after 2001, lured by promises of jobs and land that never materialized.
Each family has partitioned off a 10-foot-square space with mud-brick walls on all sides. Several have strung plastic tarps for protection from the rain and snow, but many have nothing to separate themselves from the sky. There is no electricity and no firewood, either; the price of wood has doubled to about $1 for 12 pounds, far more than they can pay.
"We just have a blanket," said Hazrat Gul, 45, who makes $4 a day breaking stones for construction in the mountains that surround Kabul. "During the night, we get under the blanket and we try to sleep."
Mohammed Agha, a father of five who works as a bicycle mechanic, said he was afraid not everyone in the community would survive the winter. In the past few months, two children have died. "All of the children are suffering. They are all coughing from pneumonia," said Agha, his own voice hoarse with the disease.