I got my professional teeth at the beginning of the eighties, tumbling between scrambled places, with no email or mobile phones. A time we pursued for better as hungry wolves, and we could break our horns to sign in first line. Among us was the greatest concentration imaginable of loutish, alligators and hustlers per square foot. It was a picturesque rock of crafty ones, unscrupulous, capable, with steady hand, of killing their mother or prostituting their sister for a good quarrel.
Perhaps because a certain nostalgia of those days, today I am seduced by the fine spinning of so many dumb-ass, as the latest cubed political correctness they nailed us a few days ago on the radio, telling in Afghanistan we have nabbed one of those who plant mines there as others plant tomatoes here, a suspected Taliban. I was in the middle of the breakfast with a coffee in one hand and a cupcake in the other, and I almost choked when listening because a very treacherous laughing fit, glups, and the products going the old path.
I imagined the individual: a lifelong Afghan, with beard, turban, knife between the teeth and AK-47 in the bandolier Allahu Akbar plan, son of the ones who disemboweled the Russians in Panjshir Valley, grandson of those who gutted the British in the Khyber Passage, and with the helpmate dragging the burka for those stony paths, sensitive, as Afghans are, to nuances and headlines, filing a complaint against the Western Media for being called Taliban, bluntly, and not suspected Taliban, with his rights and duties, and the export-import ACME democracy to take shape there at any moment, it’s all sit and talk, and for this it took some time convincing them to adopt, like us, the Big Mac, the Ultra-Purex softener and the BIC lighter.
Moreover, as each Jesus knows, there is no war in Afghanistan, but an alleged humanitarian situation, although uncomfortable, where alleged bullets are allegedly fired and alleged mines put and bombs thrown. There, when an armored is stuck by a hard kick or falls off a helicopter, is not an act of war, simply because no war there. What we have is a situation of peace allegedly fucked.
Suspected Taliban – Dugutigui’s free translation of a text by A. Pérez Reverte
In the “Diula” language in Mali, the term « dugutigui » (chief of the village), literally translated, means: «owner of the village»; «dugu» means village and «tigui», owner. Probably the term is the result of the contraction of «dugu kuntigui» (literally: chief of the village).