When Hassan Fazili returned to Kabul after nearly two decades of living abroad, the thing he missed the most were the cafes. The moustachioed Afghan filmmaker felt he owed the beginnings of his career to them — he had the idea to write his first script at a cafe in Tehran.
He asked other hunarmands, or those with talent: Would you be interested in a space where we can meet up to drink tea, smoke cigarettes, and discuss art, or politics? Build it, and we will come, they told Fazili.
Last winter, Fazili opened Cafe Hunar in a lively neighbourhood in west Kabul. It is Fazili’s hope that his cafe will help spread what he calls “café-neshini” — or cafe culture — in Afghanistan.
Cafe culture is not new to Afghans. What lends Cafe Hunar is its renegade air — men and women sit in mixed company.
Because Cafe Hunar had inadvertently become a symbol of gender progress in the country, perhaps a government crackdown was inevitable. And so, on August 16, dozens of police officers stormed the building.
“There were reports of non-Islamic things going on in the cafe,” said Hashmat Stanikzai, a police spokesman. “It is not clear whether this was true or not. The issue is still under investigation.” A few days after the raid, Cafe Hunar was noticeably empty, though the regulars were there. Fazili was sitting with two of them, discussing the police action. “The attack was an assault on our sensibility,” said Salman Ali Dostzada, 38, a political activist. “But we need more cafes like this, where our youths can convene, debate, organise, and mobilise.” Despite recent events, Fazili appeared determined to keep the doors of Cafe Hunar open, saying: “Great art starts in cafes.” On Fazili’s list of good things that have come from café-neshini: the great tradition of Iranian cinema, Hemingway’s prose, and the French revolution.
On the second floor, where the regulars go, a 21-year-old law student who gave her name as Massouma sat smoking a shisha with a girlfriend. “In Afghanistan, if you are a woman sitting by yourself with a hookah, men assume you are cheap,” she said. “I have been at a cafe where men have come by and asked, ‘Can I have your number?’ or ‘Can I spend the night with you?’ But that doesn’t happen here at Cafe Hunar.” Soon others showed up, all members of the ever-evolving band of twenty somethings who had made Cafe Hunar their home. The conversation naturally veered towards the raid. There were still so many questions that needed to be answered. Why had they been raided? Had there been a subtle shift in what was considered socially acceptable? Was it suddenly disreputable for men and women to read poetry together? But wasn’t Afghanistan once called a nation of poets? Uncertainty seemed to be the only constant in Afghanistan; Massouma said this was the main reason why she wanted to leave. But Hamed Behbood, a 30-year-old computer specialist contended that this was in fact the very reason why she should stay: “You have to stay and try to change things.”
“What if you can’t change anything?” Massouma asked. To her, the answer was clear. Soon enough, the tense moment passed and the tenor of the conversation lightened. Someone picked up a guitar and began picking out an old Afghan folk song. Everyone began to sing along. Massouma, too, joined. It appeared that she would stay — at least until the end of the song. — © Guardian Newspapers Limited, 2014
