Shall we lunch? I get the kabobs. And he’s having Afghanistan.
For exclusive access to all of our fitness, gear, adventure, and travel stories, plus discounts on trips, events, and gear, sign up for Outside+ today.
Out Front, Fall 1998
“It’s a good thing we don’t have beaches anywhere in our country,” Mawlawi Abdul Wahab says jovially of his desert homeland, Afghanistan. Wahab is perhaps the only man in midtown Manhattan who is cheered by the impossibility of a scenario of jiggling babes in bikinis. And skimpy swimwear isn’t even his first prudish objection. To get to the beach,
According to his business card, Wahab is Permanent Representative Designate of the Afghanistan Mission to the United Nations. What he permanently represents is the Taliban, the fundamentalist Islamic movement that, according to the New York Times and the UN (which does not recognize Wahab’s business card), oppressively controls two-thirds of Afghanistan, coming down most
“The important thing to understand is that between our cultures there is a tremendous gap,” says Wahab, 36, in the midst of a three-Pepsi lunch at Pamir, a New York restaurant owned by Afghan Sikhs, whom the Taliban are in the process of crushing. Ah, but Wahab is a spokesman who understands complexity. That is why he — with the aid of his trusty translator — is the
“It may look to you that we are forcing women there, but they are pretty happy,” he says. Wahab at least has the decency to qualify, but I find it hard to imagine that the gulf between our cultures is so tremendous that an Afghan woman could be even moderately content, staying indoors for the rest of her life. (The Taliban have also made theater, movies, TV, and music
While Wahab excuses himself from the table for a brief prayer session, I consider the sins that I’d committed that weekend with a man not my husband — for starters, we walked through the West Village. Were I in Afghanistan, under Islamic law I’d be guilty on several counts, based on this lunch alone. (1) I’m single: “It would be nice if we had some division between us, a
The air-conditioning is out in the restaurant, and still hot after a pistachio ice-cream dessert, I wonder how Wahab — and his wife and five daughters back in Kabul — can stand to be inside on such a day. So I propose a stroll through Central Park. Wahab takes off his hat and smiles eagerly as the translator relays my suggestion. Ignoring the expectant looks from