Kabul, 1976: Windows of joy open

ACORNER of a shattered window frame allowed me to peer inside the classroom. Some 20 young boys, led by their teacher, were chanting the Koran.

It was the spring of 1976, and our theater company, consisting of three actors, had been performing on an American State Department-sponsored tour of 11 nations of the Near and Far East. We were now at our last stop, Kabul, Afghanistan - three years before the disastrous Soviet invasion. Our medium was mime theater, and we had already witnessed the capacity of this art form to unite audiences of all national and linguistic differences on a similar tour the year before.

We had been presenting regularly scheduled performances for adults and children in Syria, Israel, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt. Our audience would sometimes be comprised of uneasy neighbors, and even so-called enemies.

But once the performance began, Palestinians and Jews in Jerusalem, and Russians and Americans in cold- war Afghanistan, would suspend political foolishness. Sitting side by side, they would react with the total delight of children. Our days thus resounded with the sounds of healing laughter.

It was a crisp, sunny spring day. With a free afternoon, I followed a desire to stroll around Kabul. For about a half hour I ambled along a dirt road that wound upward and eventually led me to a wooded area. The city was now a good distance behind me.

Presently I became aware of young voices chanting in the distance. "The Koran," I thought. "At last I'll hear it."

Continuing, I discerned a wooden schoolhouse through the trees. The school consisted of one room, set on a porch. A single door frame had lost its door, evidently long ago, just as two window frames had lost their windows. Inside, a lightly bearded instructor in a white shirt and worn blue suit was conducting some 20 boys in a recitation. They looked to be about 14 or 15 years of age.

I approached carefully, to try to observe undetected through a small corner of the window. But all at once, the teacher turned his head toward my hiding place. Now we were staring at each other in mutual bewilderment.

A confessed eavesdropper, I waved sheepishly and stepped away. But the teacher seemed to welcome the serendipitous interruption, and by way of dispelling my apology, eagerly beckoned me to enter.

I made my way up two sagging front steps. Now in the doorway, I pressed my palms together under my chin, attempting a type of respectful bow that might have sought - but never did find - inclusion in one of those State Department manuals under the rubric of "What to do when you get it wrong in Kabul." The teacher smiled sympathetically at my attempt at eastern grace. We stood facing each other as the class looked on in rapt curiosity.

"You are English?" the instructor asked.

"No, American," I responded with a feeling of temerity. In those days there was already a considerable resentment toward the policies of the United States that supported the Shah in next-door Iran.

"Oh," he said, with astonishment. And again, "Oh."

There was an uneasy but not unfriendly pause. He then added in perfect English, "Excuse me. But we have never seen an American before."

The class looked on in wide-eyed fascination. "Where does he keep his six-gun?" I felt them wondering. "Or his horse?"

"Are you from Texas?" the teacher asked.

"No, no. Far from Texas."

"Chicago?"

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