Afghanistan's voters needed patience more than protection

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/apr/08/afghanistan-voters-polling-day-election

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I woke early on election morning with a grim sense of foreboding. I had set my alarm clock not to catch the first voters, but in readiness for the first suicide bombers, who Afghan and foreign security officials warned us would target polling stations in waves.

In the weeks leading up to the vote, Kabul felt rinsed in blood and fear, as Taliban threats of violence became unbearably real with the slaughter of a much-loved colleague, his wife and two young children as they celebrated Persian New Year at a city centre hotel.

Election season had begun months earlier, and unexpectedly well. The political intrigue and conspiracy that normally hang heavy as the soupy winter smog here were leavened slightly by the unexpected sense of real competition, the growing possibility of democratic choice.

President Hamid Karzai, bound by the constitution to step down in May after 12 years in power, had nurtured a presumed favourite but was scrupulously neutral in public, as the top contenders organised strings of rallies around the country and sparred in regular TV debates. They sped over dangerous roads and inhospitable mountains in planes chartered from local firms keen to turn aircraft into political influence – Kam Air (motto: Trustable Wings) and new contender East Horizon (no motto, just a sign on the plane advising: "chop here with crash axe").

Stadiums in some places were not quite full, aides would multiply attendance five or even ten-fold, and some of the audience had been bussed in to fill space. One group of women told me they hadn't registered to vote, and didn't feel educated enough to choose between the men running.

But there was also real excitement among swaths of those listening, especially young people planning to cast their first ballot. Some rallies really did draw crowds tens of thousands strong, and voters saw commitment when candidates turned up in cities such as Lashkar Gah. The Helmand capital had been completely ignored in the last election, and is still a dangerous place for anyone with government links.

I watched one of the first presidential debates from the bedroom of a 1960s house, now a "media room" in the TV channel's headquarters. The studio was a metal hangar, tacked on to the back of the villa, so instead of roses and fruit trees the balcony gave a view of pundits and would-be presidents sparring decorously for several hours.

They were civil compared with western politicians, and even more vague, perhaps wary of riling opponents in a country where gun ownership levels would delight the National Rifle Association.

Or perhaps no one wanted to risk hurling the first insult when all the tickets were compromised in some way by fraud allegations, a warlord past, or a life lived outside the rules of conservative village society, when the majority of Afghans are still from rural areas.

The debates proliferated on rival channels until even avid political junkies grew bored. But together with the rallies they generated a strange sense that in a country that has never seen a peaceful, democratic transfer of power, ordinary people might really get to choose their next leader.

Election day drew closer, excitement ratcheted up and voter registration centres that had been open for months grew crowded then overcrowded. People turned up at dawn, queued all day, left emptyhanded, only to return earlier the next morning, ignoring Taliban threats.

"We put our lives in danger and we trust to God for the sake of our homeland," said 45-year-old Razia Ahmadi, a poll worker who spent several days chasing a card. She looked disappointed by me when I suggested her position might give her access to ballots without one.

"You only die once," one 80-year-old shrugged, but the risk was very real. The Taliban denounced the election as a sham and threatened anyone associated with it. Then they launched a campaign of violence that seemed aimed as much at sowing general terror as directly disrupting the vote.

The attack that killed Sardar Ahmad and his family was the opening salvo in a string of complex assaults, including on two election offices, battering Kabul with a level of violence normally spread out over weeks or months. Vicious assaults on a bank, a market and other innocuous targets elsewhere in the country heightened the sense of siege, until foreigners and Afghans with second passports fled abroad. Those who had to stay often seemed as angry as they were cowed by the bloodshed, and vowed to go to the polls.

On the eve of the election, a police officer gunned down two of the most intrepid and respected foreign correspondents who have covered Afghanistan in recent decades, killing photographer Anja Niedringhaus and severely injuring Kathy Gannon. It seemed a dark omen.

The government had deployed all of its 350,000 soldiers and police to protect the election and in Kabul closed the city's modern gates – highway checkpoints through which all traffic must pass. People were told they should prepare to sleep in their vehicles until the roads re-opened.

Still, no one thought they could stop all the would-be bombers. By 8am, though, the only reports were of long queues at polling stations. Twitter and Facebook were filling up with pictures of proud, defiant Afghans holding up fingers stained with ink. Designed to stop repeat voting, it marks out those who have cast a ballot.

And so I ventured out to join them. Instead of carnage, I found long, patient queues, a sense of nervous excitement and, as the day went on, quiet euphoria. Mothers had brought their children to watch them cast ballots. Women waited for hours under plastic sheeting in the rain.

The biggest problem by midday was ballot papers running out. Polling time was extended to ensure everyone could vote, but the day still ended without attacks in Kabul or other major cities.

The election was far from perfect. Thousands of fraud complaints are being investigated already. In rural areas more than a thousand polling stations were closed because they could not be secured, the Taliban terrified people into staying away from many that did open, and elsewhere strongmen took ballot boxes and papers away for leisurely stuffing.

Still, around seven million people did vote, ultimately convinced that even a flawed election that brought in a flawed leadership was better than the alternative.

I spend a lot of time reporting on the challenges Afghanistan faces, and the slow pace of change, particularly galling to some westerners who came here with high budgets and even higher ambitions of transforming a country they often knew little about. But this election sent a clear message that Afghans living with the legacy of the current war and the ones that preceded it value even the limited gains of the last decade – and are prepared to fight for them.