Anyone old enough to remember, or anyone who's studied a bit of history, will know that the Taliban were not always America's enemies. In the 70's, the U.S. and the U.K. armed and trained Taliban insurgents to fight a guerrilla war against the Russian invaders of Afghanistan. They supplied them with guns and weaponry, as well as the knowledge of how to use them, on the condition that they use them against the Soviet Union. The Taliban were touted across the West as heroes, saviours of their homeland against a brutal and unashamed Empire.Eventually, the Russian's learned what the British and just about everyone else had already learned from experience- that Afghanistan is impossible to be held for long by a foreign force, and they retreated. Whether or not America then expected the Taliban to give up their arms upon Russia's removal is unclear. The point is, they didn't, and it was many of those same arms and techniques that were subsequently used against the U.S. troops during their own invasion of Afghanistan in 2003.
The function of this history lesson in this testimonial is that this was the exact triangle of relationships that I, Fear and Anger experienced. By the time I was around 16, I was a strong, confident, capable young man. I was approaching brown belt at kick-boxing, I was going twice a week, I was getting better. Fear had been defeated within me, and as for Anger? I told myself that I had him under control. I was too caught up forming the life that I wanted to be concerned with what seemed like an almost insignificant emotion within me. But by the time I was 16, it was already too late, and in less than a year I would realise that...
Let's go back a bit. From the time when Fear was defeated in me, around the age of 13, Anger had never been far away. His presence had been one of protection. Any sniff of Fear that came about in my psyche, Anger would stamp out immediately. It would come- a doubt, a thought, a worry- and Anger would stamp it out furiously. Just like the pathetic rationalisations I had received from Fear in order to pacify me, to appease me, I let it do this within me, several times a day. And just like with Fear, I convinced myself that it was OK for this emotion to act in this way.
At first, these were little fears, and only a little anger was needed to nip them in the bud, so I could continue with my carefree day. Calling on Anger whenever something even mildly threatening came along seemed to me to be working. After all, I was gaining confidence in life- I felt like a completely different person- surely Anger's hard-line response to Fear must have something to do with that?
But then, two things happened at the same time which would turn out to redefine Anger's role within me.
Firstly, I grew up. My concerns, fears, doubts and worries were becoming bigger, more prominent, more realistic than those of my childhood. As a child, I'd been scared of little, stupid things - a wrong look from a classmate, or an offensive comment from a friend- and just a drop of anger could be used to extinguish it completely. As I turned into a young man, I worried and fretted about manly things- real-world troubles, things that could potentially really hurt me. Poverty. Not being able to do the things I wanted in life. Having a boring, unsatisfying life. Finding myself stuck in a job I hated, with no way of escape. The anger and aggression that frequently faced young men in the place I grew up in, in the circles I formed part of. All of these were adult worries that concerned me daily. I found myself having to call upon Anger more and more, and he was having to use an increasing amount of force to extinguish the anxiety I felt from the threat each time.
The second thing was more subtle, but is characteristic of any addiction- Anger was simply not satisfied with his role in my life any more. He wanted more- he wanted to play a bigger part. Being the man I am now, I can see clearly that he wanted, and had always wanted, to build his own empire within me, even greater than that of Fear's. But being the teenager I was then, it never occurred to me to see the threat of being enslaved again, only by a different master. Anger came to me often around the age of 16, reminding me of the important role he had played in defeating Fear. I couldn't deny it, although I tried at first not to capitulate.
"If it wasn't for me", he said, "You'd still be a cowering child, being walked over and bullied. I made you into a good kick-boxer- without me you are nothing. You NEED me, to continue your lifestyle. If you don't continue to use me to defeat Fear, he will come back. Do you remember what that was like? Don't you remember how tired of being scared you were?"
"Yes...", I said, "Yes of course". I did remember it, clearly. And what Anger said made sense to me- why WOULDN'T Fear come back? And then, if he did regain control of me, what kind of adult would I grow into? It didn't bear thinking about. All I knew was, I couldn't go backwards. I wouldn't. "I MUSTN'T!", I thought to myself. Anger was offering me a way out. The problem was clear- I was entering into a man's world, a dangerous world of grown-up hazards, unsportsmanlike behaviour, aggressive conduct, and dark, hard, uncaring circumstances. "How am I to survive it?", I asked myself. Anger came close to me and told me, with a slight grin, "I will protect you". If I became equal partners with him, I would be safe from the return of Fear. In fact, it didn't even appear to me to be an option, but the only logical step. I thought this to myself, and Anger read my thoughts, and his grin grew, and became more sly. "It is the ONLY way", Anger told me. "You are not a child anymore- you are nearly a man. Being a man is not easy- the threats from outside are getting stronger, bigger, and more frequent. You NEED me to be more dominant in your life, in order that I may defeat them for you...". And to my shame, I believed him.
"Yes", I said to him, "You're right". I felt trapped again. In my naivety, I didn't realise, or didn't accept at that time, that I was merely exchanging one dictator for another. All I could think about was my fear of being scared all the time again, waiting to drag me back in from behind. I turned around. Behind me, I saw the world was there, waiting to destroy this new victim as soon as I stepped into it. I was afraid of it, but I was determined not to go back to that daily state of crippling fear. I looked forwards again, towards the future. I was afraid, but the age when this step would inevitably happen was fast approaching. I was being swept towards the forest of adulthood, and Anger was offering me a sword and shield.
"I can help you..." Anger said in my ear, but his eyes fixed on the same future that I was staring into. "Let me take control. With me, you can take on this future. Without me, you won't survive it..."...
To me at that time, Anger was my saviour. His policies became my doctrine; his thoughts became my thoughts. What he wanted me to do, I did, because I saw no other way of doing things. I was so lost, and in need of a hero, that I accepted his proposal for lack of any other volunteers to steer me in the right direction. I signed his contract. It would be another 10 years before a far stronger force than I would release me from it.
---
"Stand up", he said, coldly, quietly, and with a slightly impatient tone. Squatting there, with my back against the wall, and my face in the bend in my arm, covering my eyes, I was afraid to react too slowly. On the other hand, I knew it was my chance to get answers. I had to take it- I pushed fear aside, and lifting my eyes upwards, I tried to focus on the figure in front of me...
In the darkness, I saw nothing. Just blackness. But I knew he was there. I had heard him come in, and he had spoken to me. He couldn't have been more than 3 feet away, and yet all I saw was darkness.
"Who are you?", I asked, bravely.
His response was immediate, and sharper than before.
"Stand UP".
I was already out of bravery and resilience, too scared and tired to question anymore. I was at his mercy- either I complied, or he would force me to do what he wanted. Either way, the result was the same.
I slowly got to my feet, my stiff legs regaining some feeling, but still in pain. I can still remember the tiredness- the constant weariness at being his prisoner. Day and night, during sleep and being awake, I was exhausted. I stood there, staring into the blackness in front of me, and constantly feeling under threat in his presence. The darkness was unnerving to say the least, and I waited in fear as to what would come out of it...
I jumped as I saw his hand come into my range of vision, towards my free right hand. I quickly tried to pull it away:
"No! Not that one, TOO!", I pleaded with him, demanded from him. I realised I was about to lose the mobility of my right hand...
"NO!", I shouted defiantly at his hand. I moved my arm quickly away, and stuck it behind my back, holding it there with all my strength, never daring to look in front of me, into the darkness, in case I caught a glimpse of his face. My left hand pulled against the chain with a sharp clatter, but as usual it showed no signs of breaking, or even getting weaker...
"GET OFF ME!", I yelled angrily, as I felt his hand touch mine briefly, behind my back. Then without warning, I felt a solid and very real shock into my stomach. As I realised I had just been punched by an excessive and focused force in the centre of my abdomen, I bent over in pain, trying to relieve the shock, and get my breath back. In the meantime, my captor had taken a strong grasp of my right wrist, and had pinned it back against the cold wall, above the level of my shoulder. I could feel my shoulder blades moaning, and my chest being exposed and stretched. As I struggled to breath with my head bowed down, tears in my eyes, allowing him to fix my wrist into the cuff, I thought about the pain in my stomach. But even more so, I thought about the man I had met just before my incarceration.
It seemed a strange time to think about him, and even now I can't really explain why he came into my mind at the very moment that my captor was busy locking my right hand into its cuff. Nevertheless, with my eyes closed, I saw his face looking up at me, from his seated position against the wall on the street in front of me.
He was a beggar, a filthy, unshaven man in rags, with wild hair and slightly crooked teeth. His skin was darkened into an oak brown by the sun. He was also dirty. On his skin was a grubby brown layer from too long being unwashed. My captor continued his work, glad that my compliance had kept me still so that he could work in peace...
I started to breath normally again, the pain in my stomach slowly fading with every breath. I opened my eyes, and looked up into the darkness, but saw nothing. Still, my captor's hands kept working on my cuff, and I watched it, wearily, too tired to ever tell him to stop, too convinced that it would be no use.
Eventually, he finished, and the hands slipped back into the darkness. I didn't dare move my arms, in case he thought I was trying to escape, or took delight in seeing me struggle against my two chains. I just stood there, allowing a solitary tear to roll down my cheek, tickling my skin, and dropping off past my lips, into the darkness below.
Even though my captor was still in the room, in every practical sense I was alone again. As I heard him pack away his tools in the darkness in front of me, now with both the chains taking the full weight of my arms at just above the height of my hips, I allowed the tears to roll down my face. I realised that I had little time to address him, as the clanks of his tools became less frequent, and he prepared to leave...
Before I was expecting it, I heard the door creak open. Now was my chance. I blurted out:
"Why are you doing this to me?", into the darkness, trying to stop my voice from quivering. The door stopped squeaking. I assumed he was delaying his exit, standing in the doorway, preparing to leave, but looking over his shoulder at me.
Silence.
"Perhaps he didn't hear my question over the sound of the door opening, and he's waiting for me to repeat it...", I thought. It was worth a shot.
I asked again. "Hello? Why am I here? What is happening?"
No answer.
"HELLO?" I shouted, louder than I meant to. I heard my voice echo a couple of times, and I waited for a response.
The door squeaked slowly closed. The lock clunked shut, and I heard the distant footsteps of my captor walking down the corridor, slowly getting fainter, on the other side of the door.
