“The Divine Figure from the North”—Sherpur during May—Turkish Fugitives
from Russian Territory—Cabul in Prosperity—The People enriched at
the Expense of the British Government—The Coining of Cabuli
Rupees—The Effect upon the People—Street Sketches—Life in the
Bazaars—The Hindu and Kizilbash Quarters—Rapacity of the
Traders—The Abundance of Fruit—Ice-cream Stalls—An Instance
of Fanaticism—History of the Kizilbashes—Their Turki
Descent—Elphinstone’s Estimate of their Character—Their Strength in
Cabul estimated at 6,000 Fighting Men—Their Treatment by the Amirs.
_16th May, 1880._
There is such a holy calm in Sherpur that we begin to question whether
all the excitement of the last six months has not been a nightmare. No
bustle or excitement, no sudden alarms, no gathering of armed men to
pour out upon Asmai, Siah Sung, or Charasia; our cavalry rest quietly in
their lines without any expectation of “boot-and-saddle” sounding; and
every sentry in the cantonment whiles away his time, not in wondering
whether the enemy are near, but in sweet speculation as to when orders
will be issued for the march to India. The majority of us believe that,
as regards severe fighting, we have satisfied the Afghans, although a
last flash in the pan may occur before the final settlement; and there
being no amusement in calculating the chances of the next action, we
fall back upon discussion of possible arrangements with the various
claimants to the Amirship. Abdur Rahman’s name is in every man’s mouth,
and the news of his departure from Kunduz for Cabul is awaited with
almost as much anxiety as the result of the Derby. The Sirdar is our
“divine figure from the north,” at least just now. But we have to live
as comfortably as we can in the meantime; and though our life in
cantonments is necessarily a colourless one, it has more points than a
hot-house existence in India. First, in the order of comparison, we have
an almost perfect climate; next, we have some little amusements; and
lastly, by reason of our separation from civilization, we have a less
artificial and less blameful life than is possible in the irritating and
bilious furnace “down below.” It does not say much for civilization that
this should be so; but we have fewer temptations, and, consequently,
fewer faults to atone for. The “grass-widowers” of Cabul, I undertake to
say with most serious earnestness, are on a far higher level of moral
purity than that easy-living, freely-flirting, and most charming section
of Indian society which migrates yearly to the hills when _punkahs_ are
in full swing. We talk less scandal; we are less covetous of other
persons’ property, animate or inanimate; we do not turn night into day
to the music of the _trois temps_ or “Pinafore;” and we do our duty
quietly, albeit with a little wholesome grumbling. But as news drifts up
from the Khyber line, and we learn how the poor fellows between Gundamak
and Lundi Kotal are grilling in their single-fly tents with manifold
troubles on every hand, we grow placidly thankful that we are in Cabul,
with good thick walls about us, and a foot of mud between us and the
sun. Not everyone could be in hill stations if all the troops were back
in India; and we are less discontented now at our lot—a wifeless,
loverless one though it be—than we were three months ago. Cabul
“grass-widowers” will no doubt be in great demand when once more they
are transplanted into Simla, Mussoorie, or Naini Tal society, for a war
beaten-warrior is far more esteemed than a carpet knight. Fair ears will
tingle with pleasure when whispered explanations are given of the days
spent in unwonted innocence in Afghanistan—
“Days when we laughed for joy of summer heat,
Nor laughed less loud when snow made white the ground.”
We have pined for “loot, love, and liberty:” the first we may never get;
but every day brings us nearer to the others, and we well know what our
reward will be. Will it not be counted in our favour that no band will
play “The girl I left behind me” when once more our faces are turned
eastwards? It surely should be, or our grass-widowhood will have been
precious time uselessly squandered. But, frivolity apart, we take our
change at Time’s counter with composure, and are not too anxious
concerning our immediate fate. There are the current duties of a large
camp to be gone through daily: they can never be shirked, but must
always be done systematically and thoroughly. Regiments have their
guards to mount day and night, spring drill and parades to attend,
recruits to be shaped into good soldiers, embryo signallers to be
trained, transport to be kept in good order. Colonel Low has worked a
wonderful change in our transport, and we shall soon be able to “march
anywhere and do anything.” General Roberts is away with a division of
5,000 men visiting Logar, Wardak and Maidan; his troops are in excellent
health and are enjoying the trip amazingly.
We have visitors occasionally, other than officers who have taken a
short leave from a station down the line to pay a visit to Cabul. A few
days ago three Turkish soldiers applied at the Bala Hissar for food and
assistance on their journey to India. They were sent to Major Hastings,
Political Officer, and told a story full of adventure. They were an old
man, his son, and a wild-looking Turk of the Bashi-Bazouk order. The
youngest of the party was very intelligent, and a handsome specimen of
the Turkish peasantry, while his father was still unbroken in strength
in spite of his misfortunes. The “Bashi-Bazouk,” as we imagined him to
be, though he denied the impeachment, was the embodiment of rude
strength: he still wore the long blue coat he had donned when called
upon to fight the Russians, and across the breast were a dozen little
pockets, each large enough to hold a cartridge, and showing signs of
great wear. A Turcoman fur cap, with the tanned skin outside and a
fringe of fur showing all round, covered his long, matted hair, and
added to the wildness of his appearance. All the men were
travel-stained, and looked forlorn enough; but their satisfaction at
being among the “Inglis” was without bounds, and they were as cheerful
and contented as if the 10,000 miles between Cabul and Istamboul were
only a league. Their story was that they were natives of the village of
Soghral, ten days’ march from Kars, and that when the Russian war broke
out they joined Haji Ali’s regiment, their captain being Haji Shuman.
The latter was killed in action, and the Russians took the whole of the
Soghral villagers prisoners. Men, women, and children were marched for
eleven days until the railway was reached in the district of the
Caucasus, when the whole party were transferred to the rail. After four
days’ travelling they gained Moscow, whence their families were sent to
St. Petersburg, while the men were sent eastwards to Dobiska. Here they
were kept prisoners for two years, being lightly ironed, but having no
work to do. They received about two and a half annas in Russian money
daily, with which they bought food, and upon which they managed to live.
At the end of two years their irons were removed, and they were told to
settle down about Dobiska and cultivate the land. At the earliest
opportunity a number of them absconded, of whom these three men kept
together. For fifteen days they travelled secretly, doing long distances
at night, until they reached Kazakia, on the outer border of Bokhara.
Here they were safe, as their fellow-Mussulmans willingly gave them
food; but they did not dare to go before the Amir of Bokhara, as they
believed he was on friendly terms with the Russians. They stayed during
the winter at Guzar, as they were told the Passes towards Cabul were
closed; but in the spring they left Bokhara and made for Mazar-i-Sharif.
Here they found Ishak Khan as Governor: the place was quiet enough, and
but few troops were holding it. Thence they marched to Bamian, their
poverty no doubt saving them from molestation, and at last they reached
Cabul. Their desire was to be sent to Bombay, whence their Consul could
forward them to Constantinople. Major Hastings gave them Rs. 50 to get a
new outfit in the city, and make themselves clean and comfortable. On
Monday they were presented to Sir Donald Stewart, and were afterwards
_fêted_ and photographed: the native officers of the Guides giving them
a great dinner, while Mr. Burke immortalized them with his camera. The
poor wretches were immensely pleased, and will no doubt carry back to
Turkey good impressions of our kindness to them in distant Cabul.
It has chanced that since December last I have visited the city of Cabul
but twice: once when the snow was still lying on the ground, and our
engineers were busy raising new fortifications on the Sherderwaza
Heights. On this occasion I merely passed from the Bala Hissar along the
skirts of the lowest quarters of the city, as the Heights had to be
scaled; so that, in wandering through the bazaars a few days ago, the
impression uppermost in my mind was the state of Cabul immediately after
Mahomed Jan’s flight. Then the city was gloomy and terror-stricken: it
had gone hand and heart with the ghazi-_log_ during the triumphant days
of the siege of Sherpur, and it dreaded the retribution which hung over
it. The alien Kizilbashes and Hindus were joyful enough at the
re-establishment of order: but their wrecked shops and pillaged houses
were sad relics of the fanatical storm which had passed over Cabul. No
man of the Mussulman population could foretell what the punishment of
the city would be, and the half-deserted bazaars and the still
by-streets were eloquent of the fear which cowed the unruly populace.
But instead of bloody reprisals and harsh repression, it seemed good in
the eyes of our leaders that gentleness and free forgiveness should be
the means used to win over the city; and now Cabul is more prosperous
and peaceful than it has been for many generations. The rumours of new
wars and insidious intrigues of Abdur Rahman’s approach from the north,
and the gathering of the tribes at Ghazni, pass over the heads of the
people like a fitful wind over a lake, stirring the placid surface, but
leaving no lasting impression. There have been, since the beginning of
the year, long, long days in which the traders and holders of contracts
from the British saw their coffers filling with the rupees which are now
looked upon in India as having “mysteriously disappeared” from the
Punjab treasuries; longer weeks wherein everyone, from Sirdar Wali
Mahomed to the commonest Hazara coolie, found how good a paymaster the
Sircar is when his necessity is urgent; and still longer months during
which lakhs of Indian rupees were melted down in the city mint to be
reissued in the form of Cabul rupees and spread broadcast over the land.
Cabul has prospered, and waxed proud: its merchants have never been so
rich; the common people have never seen such a steady flow of money
through the bazaars. Even the Hindus, who know something of our wealth,
are astonished; they cannot appreciate the self-denial and honesty of
purpose which guide us in our transactions with a conquered race. “Your
money is without limit,” a Hindu banker said to me; “but why do you give
it all to this faithless people (_be-iman log_)? They are your enemies,
they hate and revile you; why not _take_ what you want?” Any other
nation making war would probably requisition the country and forcibly
seize supplies; but with the philanthropy which guides our actions, we
pay ten times the normal value of the things needed for our army, and
plume ourselves proudly as men walking upright before the Lord. To
enrich dishonest men; to give to our enemies that which they most
need—sterling money; to encourage chicanery and wanton deceit—this is a
poor _rôle_ to play when we come to Cabul as an avenging army; but,
perhaps there are “exigencies” which plead for all this weakness, and
will in the future give a rose-coloured tinge to our balance-sheets. Can
Cabul fail to be prosperous under such conditions? can its citizens not
afford to wear an insolent air of triumph, and treat such customers as
appear among them with an easy assumption of independence, sorely
aggravating to officer and soldier alike?
I have called this article “Cabul in Prosperity,” and I think the title
is justifiable. We have worked our will in the Bala Hissar, and have
made it a citadel worthy of the name: but in the city proper we have
neither made nor meddled, and the narrow streets, if cleaner, still
retain their distinctive features. Buying and selling, money-changing
and broking, flourish with an energy that makes no count of changing
fortunes or shifting careers. Sirdar Wali Mahomed’s governorship can
only last so long as British bayonets are at his back; but in the
sunshine of our favour he sets the example of amassing wealth, and all
his followers tread in his footsteps. Sirdar Hashim Khan is on the eve
of departure for Candahar, where Shere Ali Khan has offered him asylum.
His departure troubles the minds of the citizens but little, as the
stream of Indian silver will not be diverted by his absence. While not
understanding our simplicity in dealing, and while looking upon us as
madmen in the matter of finance—for are we not taunted with “changing
our Rani’s head” by ordering Indian rupees to be melted down and turned
into Cabuli coin?—the Cabulis, with their keen rapacity, seize every
opportunity of enriching themselves. Take the conversion of Indian
rupees into local coin; through our benevolent mode of action we have
never been able to say that our coin shall have a fixed value, and a
“ring” of scoundrels in Cabul have so rigged the market that in the
bazaars at the present time the two rupees are constantly of equal
value. So some clever financier at once jumps to the conclusion that we
may as well pay in Cabuli rupees as in Indian. Now the quantity of
silver in 100 Indian rupees permits of 127 Cabulis being made therewith,
and so we pour our brand new coins into the mint (_wherein there is no
European supervision of any kind_), and for every 100 sent in Sirdar
Wali Mahomed returns us 120! Only a few days ago three lakhs of the
treasure with General Hills’ force was sent to Cabul to be converted
into local rupees. Is the reason for this that the Logar villagers
refuse our rupees? If so, it would surely be the mildest form of
coercion to force them to take payment in whatever silver coin we chose.
The profits on the coining (say five per cent.) go presumably into Wali
Mahomed’s pocket, as Government is too strait-laced to make profit
itself; and yet that Sirdar had the cool effrontery to refuse to coin
Cabuli rupees, when a lakh was wanted for the Logar force, until he
first received Indian rupees from Sherpur. He was not punished for his
insolence; but as we have still to levy the fine inflicted upon the city
for the murder of our Envoy, he may yet be mulcted, say, in a lakh. Some
of us are curious to know when and how the said fine will be levied;
but, perhaps, we may be looked upon as inquisitive.[43] One thing is
clear: we shall never get our money back in the shape of Indian rupees,
and our only consolation is that if Afghanistan continues to absorb a
few hundred thousand pounds worth of silver monthly, the rate of
exchange between India and England must improve.
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Footnote 43:
The fine was never levied.
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Having explained the irritating causes of the present prosperity of
Cabul, I may now with a clear conscience describe a little more in
detail the appearance of the city itself. In the First Book of Kings we
are told many valuable anecdotes of King Solomon, not the least
interesting of which is the account of the payment made to Hiram, King
of Tyre, who furnished “cedar trees, and fir trees, and gold” to assist
the King of Israel in the adornment and fortification of Jerusalem. This
payment consisted of the gift of twenty cities in the land of Galilee,
cities so worthless that, when Hiram saw them, he said:—“What cities are
these which thou hast given me, my brother?” And the narrative further
states that “he called them the land of Cabul unto this day.” The word
“Cabul” our annotators explain as signifying “displeasing or dirty;”
and, strangely enough, the latter epithet is extremely applicable to the
modern capital of Afghanistan. The side-streets and purlieus, even the
walls of many of the houses, are filthy in the extreme, though our
strict sanitary system has made the bazaars almost as clean as those of
an Indian city. Cabul is not so “displeasing” to the eye when viewed
from the neighbouring heights, for the orchards of Deh-i-Afghan and
scattered clumps of trees in Chandaul make the place look quite
picturesque. But once in the heart of the city, beyond the busy stream
of life which pours along the bazaars and renews itself every hour in
some mysterious way, there is nothing but dulness and gloom in the dead
mud walls of the houses, with their frowning doorways or dark noisome
passages leading to unknown dens behind. In the bazaars all is life and
hustle. Entering the city by a side-road from Sherpur, one sees the bed
of the Cabul river lying waterless on the left, save for a few stagnant
pools, where the _dhobies_ are at work, or a vendor of _atchcha_ salad
is washing a donkey-load of lettuce preparatory to the day’s business.
Over a bridge, on one side of which are a score of shoemakers’
stalls—there seems to be one shoemaker to every twenty inhabitants in
Cabul—and then into the narrow Shore Bazaar, I find more shoemakers and
leather-sellers, whose stalls are oddly mixed up with those of
fruiterers, bakers, retailers of ices, and workers in iron and copper.
Men on horseback, swaggering sowars of Wali Mahomed or other sirdars;
Hazara coolies with heavy loads on their broad backs; idle Cabulis;
peasants from the district with blue turbans; stalwart mountaineers who
look upon the street as their own; a sprinkling of red-coated British
soldiers, and sepoys and sowars in all stages of negligent undress (but
with rifles or swords always ready)—all these elements are mingled in
noisy but good-tempered confusion; while at every ten yards one’s horse
has to be pulled on his haunches, because some young Cabul chief is
playing at hide-and-seek under his legs. Suddenly a string of camels,
with loads of firewood or heavy merchandise, has to be passed—rather a
ticklish business occasionally, as the dead weight of the beasts and
their loads cleave a way for itself, regardless of obstacles. A few
white-clad women glide unobtrusively along, their _yashmaks_ hiding
whatever charms they may possess; blind beggars and shrill voiced
_fakirs_ obtrude their wants upon the stranger; _bhistees_ clank their
metal drinking vessels, or pour out a cool draught from the ever-ready
_mussuk_; salad vendors pilot their sedate donkeys, laden with crisp
green food, through the crowd; boys, with their trays of _chupaties_,
cry out the goodness of their _rotee_; a marriage procession, with
_tom-toms_ beating and lusty lungs pouring forth jubilant songs, comes
gaily along, a closely covered structure, somewhat in the shape of a
beehive, containing the bride, whose weight is not felt by the shoulders
of her bearers,—this is the living mosaic which paves the bazaars. There
is a vividness in all the types of life, which is very striking, from
the matted-haired _fakir_, who does not hesitate to seize a passer-by in
his repulsive grip, so resolute is his demand for alms, to the careless
youngster who leans over his donkey, idly chewing a young onion, which
answers to the straw of Western street-life. An unveiled woman,
wretchedly clad, dirty, and with the features of a Seven Dials’ hag,
takes a handful of the youngster’s salad from his donkey’s back; he
strikes her on the back with his stick, whereupon she turns round,
flings the pilferred stalks in his face, and abuses him in choicest
Cabuli. This unexpected “knocking of his leek about his pate” so cows
the boy that he moves off hastily, leaving the harridan in possession of
the field.
I have by this time wandered into the Char Chowk, or principal bazaar of
the city, and here the crowd is denser, the stalls more pretentious, the
trade brisker. The bazaar is in four lengths, each roofed over and
solidly built of masonry, and the stalls are nearly all rented by
jewellers and dealers in silks and cottons. On either hand, above the
stalls, richly coloured silks, gaudy chintzes, carpets, and caps of
brilliant hues are hung out, making a brave show; while the traders,
seated cross-legged below, are surrounded by their stock, upon which
they seem to keep a careless eye. I have before spoken of their keenness
in trade, and I can only add that, since the early days of our
occupation they have grown keener and more rapacious, until to buy goods
direct from them is to court being cheated in every way. Still, this
does not prevent officers and men from purchasing Bokhara silks and
various knick-knacks, for all of which absurdly high prices are given. A
good Pathan Sepoy is the best companion to have when buying any articles
at the stalls, and he will bully the shopkeeper and finally induce him
to take about one-fourth of the price first asked. As the day wears on
trade slackens a little, and here and there a shopkeeper pores over a
Persian book, while his son keeps watch upon the stock-in-trade. In that
silk merchant’s stall, though it be in the heart of the bazaar, are
three grey-bearded men listening with supreme pleasure to the excited
reader, whom, in my own mind, I believe to be reading the songs of
Hafiz; in the next stall a burly Mussulman lies sleeping on a pile of
Manchester cottons; while near at hand is a pious old villain taking
advantage of a lull to submit his hoary head to the hands of a barber. A
shrill cry as of a child in pain draws one further on; it is nothing
serious: another pious old gentleman is watching his son’s scalp being
treated in the same way by another barber. The boy, some three or four
years old, has never felt the razor’s edge before, and shrieks at every
stroke, while his father threatens him with a huge stick: the operation
is at last over, and the child, still quietly sobbing, passes his hands
carefully over his head as if doubtful of it still remaining upon his
shoulders. Once convinced that his hair only has gone by the board, he
plucks up courage and smiles apologetically upon his father, who gravely
strokes his beard in approval. The little incident is only one of many
which draw attention, and one might easily elaborate such scenes; but
then the charm of simplicity would be destroyed. From the Char Chowk
Bazaar to Chandaul is but a few yards, and one passes on the way more
fruit-stalls, in which tiers upon tiers of lettuce flank the luscious
heaps of apricots, cherries, peaches, and apples which are now pouring
into Cabul from Koh-Daman and Chardeh. So much has been written about
the Cabul fruit-stalls that it is necessary to say the abundance of
fruit has not at all been exaggerated; the stone fruits seem just as
abundant as the delicious grapes which we indulged in so freely in the
autumn. The vendors of ices are nearly always side by side with the
fruit-sellers; the huge blocks of snow which adorn their stalls tempting
all sun-dried souls to cool their palates with a little saucer of
icy-cold cream flavoured with a sprinkling of mashed fruit. The trade is
brisk in these ices, although the dust coats the open trays of cream
until it turns a delicate brown. It is not pleasant for any of us to
pause at the stall, as the fanaticism of these dealers is proverbial.
There is a story afloat, that after an officer had eaten an “ice,” the
dealer took the saucer and dashed it to the ground as having been
defiled by a Kafir. These people do not love us, however well we treat
them. Chandaul Bazaar is only a repetition of the Char-Chowk on a
smaller scale, with more fruit shops and a few foul-smelling butcher’s
stalls, but the traders are nearly all Hindus and Kizilbashes, who, I
must in justice say, are just as rapacious as the Mahomedans. And so one
wanders back into the main bazaar, where _bhistees_ are sprinkling the
roadway liberally with water, and the afternoon trade is reviving; past
the _kotwali_, where a few sepoys of the 5th Punjabees are on duty; and
thence out by the Peshawur Gate, near the Bala Hissar. We have seen
Cabul in prosperity, its people insolent enough to check all desire to
enter the walls again, and on the ride back to cantonments we are lost
in a dream of what the future will be of the city which we have twice
occupied, and which has always cost us so dear.
The question of retirement is a serious one to many people in Cabul and
the district. The Hindu traders of the city will, it is believed,
migrate almost to a man, but the Kizilbashes will trust to their
traditional influence in Cabul to pull them through any difficulty in
the future. These two trading classes have amassed large sums of money
during our occupation; and the Hindu, weak and defenceless, knows too
well that a needy Amir would “borrow” most of his gains in a very
high-handed way. The Kizilbash is more independent; and as, at a pinch,
the Shiahs can turn out 6,000 fighting men, all well-equipped, any Amir
would hesitate to make the “red-heads” his enemies. Major Hastings has
prepared a short account of these aliens, which is of some interest at
the present time, but little having been previously known of this
important section of the Cabul populace. Elphinstone, it is true, states
that they are members of that colony of Turks which predominates in
Persia, and traces its descent from Kijan. To them was given the place
of honour in Nadir Shah’s conquering army, and when a military colony
was formed in Cabul, their quarter was called “Chandaul,” which, by
interpretation, is “vanguard.” Elphinstone’s opinion of them was thus
expressed:—“The Kizilbashes in Afghanistan partake of the character of
their countrymen in Persia. They are lively, ingenious, and even elegant
and refined; but false, designing, and cruel; rapacious, but profuse,
voluptuous, and fond of show; at once insolent and servile, destitute of
all moderation in prosperity and of all pride in adversity; brave at one
time and cowardly at another, but always fond of glory; full of
prejudice, but affecting to be liberal and enlightened; admirable for a
mere acquaintance (if one can bear with their vanity), but dangerous for
a close connection.” They are, according to Major Hastings, still
distinct in many respects from those around them; and being of the Shiah
section of Mahomedans, there is great religious animosity between them
and the Afghans, who are Sunis. They all speak Persian, but the
Kizilbashes of Aoshahr, in the Chardeh Valley and some of the older men
among the Jawansher of Chandaul, still talk Turki in the privacy of
their own families. The portions of Cabul city occupied by the
“red-heads”—so called because of their distinctive turbans of crimson
cloth—are Chandaul, immediately at the foot of the Sherderwaza Hill and
Moradkhani, looking towards Sherpur. In Chardeh their chief villages are
Nanuchi and Taiba. The total number of families in and about Cabul is
3,220, but these can furnish only 6,000 fighting men—a small proportion
compared with Afghan families, every male in which is a fighting unit.
In Candahar and Herat there are a large number of families descended
from Nadir Shah’s vanguard, and a few Kizilbashes are also located in
Turkistan. The Jawansher section, occupying the greater part of
Chandaul, is the most important clan in Cabul, and has at the present
moment several of its members holding commands in the Turkistan army.
Appointments under Government, such as those of secretaries,
accountants, and similar grades, are always largely held by Kizilbashes;
while in years gone by there were several Kizilbash regiments in the
regular army. Hussein Ali Khan, of the Jawansher section, was once
Commander-in-Chief of the Afghan army, and many others of the clan rose
to important commands. The red-capped regiments were so powerful in
Ahmed Shah’s reign that to prevent civil war in Cabul that monarch sent
them to Turkistan, with orders to conquer Balkh. This they did with very
little trouble, and Ahmed Shah was then possessed with a fear that they
would become independent, and finally prove dangerous enemies. At the
suggestion of Morad Khan, Populzai, he recalled them, and assigned to
them permanently the portion of Cabul and Chardeh which they now occupy.
Moradkhani was called after Ahmed Shah’s adviser. In Shah Suja’s and
Shah Zuman’s reigns they were harshly treated, and with their usual
independence they joined Haji Jumal and Paenda Khan, the father of the
Dost Mahomed. When the Dost was in power, he singled his allies out for
many distinctions, the fact of his mother being a Kizilbash lady having,
no doubt, great weight with him. The clan refer to their treatment by
the Amir Shere Ali Khan and his son, Yakub, in anything but grateful
terms. Both Amirs, it would seem, were rather inclined to tyrannize over
the Shiahs. Major Hastings gives some carefully-prepared genealogical
tables, showing the status and place of residence of the chief families,
and concludes his report by stating that, though the Kizilbashes still
represent a certain amount of strength in Afghanistan, their power is by
no means so great as in former years.
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