"MR” AMANULLAH

Manawatu Times, Volume LIV, Issue 6843, 22 February 1929, Page 4

"MR” AMANULLAH

"World's Greatest Autocrat, Democrat and Enigma”

EAST REMAINS—BUT UNDERNEATH

King Amanullah’s attempts to Westernise the wild Afghan people over whom he has ruled for ten years has proved a failure, and according to the cable news his elder brother rules in his place. His greatest innovation was his desire to be called “Mr" instead of “King," -which he made compulsory by special edict, and which, to the less educated people of his country, was tantamount to abdication.

Writing in the Graphic of the changes that Amanullah had attempted to bring about in Afghanistan, Boland G. Wild, after referring to the fact that he was King no longer by Ms own decree, and was to be called in future '■Mister,” goes on to review the private life of the Afghan monarch, and in conclusion he says he is the world’s greatest democrat, and the world’s greatest enigma. The East remains—but underneath.” The article is | really a remarkable forecast of what has actually happened. What is he like at home (writes Mr Wild), this man who inspired Europe, on whom the nations of the West showered honours, who saw a train and a ship and the sea and the culture of the West for the first time at the age of forty-seven? It is easy enough to see Mr Amanullah at home. Any time you like, if you have braved the 200 miles track through the arid mountain passes beyond the Khyber Pass, you can see the King who has “gone Western” taking his ease in his Italian gardens, playing tennis before the eyes of all his subjects, drinking coffee and eating pink ices in the little ehalet-like cafe at the top of the terraces, or driving in one of the fleet of Bolls-Boyees which he handles with such daring skill. This is Afghanistan’s little hour of [Western vanity. All around are the bare, unfriendly hills; behind them the mysteries of an old and proud people bending unhappily to the new yoke of AVcsternisation. In the gardens, however, you can forget the East and its problems in wonder at the subtlety] with which the ruler has transhipped] a portion of the West to show his peo; pie,

Miracle of 5 Years. Pivc years ago Paghman, the new capital of Afghanistan during the summer months, only 16 miles from the teeming bazaars of Kabul, was merely a pleasant little valley providing a break in the eternal barrenness of the land. I have met men who had seen it' then, and had returned to find it a garden city where the new officials struggled with Western clothes and Western methods forced their clumsy hands to play with teacups and spoons, chairs and tables, in obedience to the example set by the King. In five years the miracle has been completed, and Amanullah Khan returned from his. European tour to find that his will had been obeyed and he should congratulate himself on hawing led his people —a tiny fraction of them —towards the West. This is what he has done. . You cannot see a turban ,or a “loop-the-loop” slipper, or the white baggy trousers of the Afghan, or a voluminous cummerbund held with dagger, or earrings or bare feet, in Paghman garden. That was an easy task, for at the entrance i 3 one of the most remarkable *‘ verboten ’ ’ notices in the world. It says: “Those wearing non-European clothes are liable to be turned out of the gardens during the hours of 5 and 9 p.m. by the police.’ ’ That seems an easy enough method of converting a people tow r ards civilisation.

Aping the West.

Then there is the exam-pie of the offi- , cials. To hold your job in Afghanistan : to-day you must ape the West in clothes in manners, and, if possible, in ycsTr features. It is no use complaining that the beard you wear is the honoured beard of your ancestors. The point is that it does not go with “plus fours , or any other European combination Aliich you may favour. You aro clean shaved if you are to stay in the Foreign Office, or the Home Department, or any other office, i "Then there is the King himself. The , West has seen him only in the clothes J |of Europe. Even at home, however,) ihe now wears only European clothes, j His taste, however, and his desire that ■ only country cloth shall be worn, often ! causes trouble. It is easy enough to have a Kabul tailor run you up a natty pair of sports trouserings out of a thick rough country cloth, but it is a different matter if the occasion demands that you shall wear a morning coat and a top hat. Then there is the young Afghan. He has just returned from Europe, and is therefore little incommoded by the Royal order. He has in many cases out-1 Saviled Savilo Row. There is no limit: in the width of his trousers, or the waist of his coat, or the colourfulnoss of his ties and shirts. The Government wants the West. Right, they shall have it, and the young Afghan proceeds to show the East what the West might look like. Amazing Polyglot of Nations.

..Let us, however, cease talking of the sartorial eccentricities that King Amanullah has committed, and turn to examine the amazing Polyglot of nations assembled here in the capital of the "'buffer State" which stands between British India on the south and Russia or. tho north. Up in the cafe the Afghan boys trained in Bombay in the arts of the teacup and saucer, will bring you green tea, heavily flavoured, with fhe coarse brown sugar of the country. No alcohol, of course, for you, for one of the strongest religious bans in the world forbids you to touch the liquid while you stay here. On your left there is a young Per"ilan boy, who speaks French with a

slight, attractive lisp. He is in the Legation, somewhat of a youth of mystery, for he has travelled almost the world over already, and he has. a tale to tell of his native land that would make a pretty novel —not for the young. Beyond him there is a German engineer, a huge blond idealist, who left a job in Berlin to come and straighten out Afghan roads. He has been there three months, he says. One day, he thinks, he will be told what to do; and one day, too, ho will get his first month’s pay. But he is an idealist, and has not yet learned the meaning of “Insh’ Allah,” that word which accompanies every promise and every contract in the East.

“Insh’ Allah” Beyond him, another expatriate, an Italian colonel of artillery, a good war record behind him, now making room in his own country for young blood, and waiting in Afghanistan—he believes for railway work, but he knows for his pay. Ask him what is the meaning of “Insh’ Allah.”

There is an Afghan official, high up in the Foreign Office, with a German girl beside him, his wife. She is possibly the only European wife of an Afghan in the country, and, from the glance from beneath her close-fitting little hat, has seen more and brighter lights than those which are beginning to flicker down the avenue of Pagnman, . .

Here, too, comes the Governor of Kabul, the “Strong Man of Afghanistan.” Huge, lumbering, with a little procession behind him of his wife, now unveiled, and three children with, a French Governess. Ho has a name that strikes terror throughout a land famed for its cruelty, its pride, its primitive wickedness, its uncharitable hills.

A Frenchman, professor in o-ne of the schools, is leaning over a table, talking to a Persian, also in education; while a young wireless engineer, pining for Rome, saunters through the cafe for all the world as if he were back on his beloved sidewalks.

Then a stir, and the King’s party ccmes up the steps to the balcony. The King has been playing tennis. He waves a cheery greeting to his brother, that Inayatullah, whom he imprisoned for three years “for safety’s sake,” and released (but who now reigns in his stead). With the King is Queen Souriya. She has been ill, and even now it is plain to see, through the half-lowered veil over her lovely features, that she owes much of her colour to the rouge shoi bought in Paris. The King takes her by the arm, affectionately, and leads her to a place from which she can look over the gardens. She looks serious, and speaks little, only smiling at the quick nervous sallies of the King as he talks. She smiles at a boy, the heii! recently announce!, in the great open-i air theatre that the King built for the world’s newest Parliament. The Queen has a gay straw hat, fit-i ting her head closely, and throwing up l by its lightness the dark depths of her

eyes, and the darkness of her long eyelashes. The King, just off the courts lias wound a white scarf round his neck and is still in the brown tweed trousers that he has worn, the French-cut brown shoes which he did not trouble to change. His sister is there, too, another softeyed dark-lashed Afghan beauty, with an even flimsier veil over her lower features. She drives a car, to the wonder of the people, and is claimed to be the first Afghan woman to do so out here.

European “By Order.” The band is playing its last rendering of the tune that it knows so well. The air strikes colder through thin clothes that have been worn through tho ho-at of the day, and over the new cinema, the only one in the country, and the now mosque, and the tiny villas where the officials live, an-d the row of shops on the European .style, and tho huge hotel run by the Government, there appear the electric lights, run from a power station up the valley where the ice cold water runs from the snowy heights. The King departs to the sleek Rolls waiting below, and the huge German police-dog which follows him everywhere, bounds from the back to greet him. The engine purrs into life, and the great car threads its way through the avenue of Afghans, turned European “by order,” which forms itself to see the world’s greatest autocrat, the world’s greatest democrat, and the world's greatest enigma. Mingling with the electric horn as tho car spurts up tb* avenue is the call of the Inrnn from the brilliantly lighted tower of the mosque. The East remains—but underneath.