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me, this bird unfailingly emitted his first crow of the day a few moments before dawn; it's
not for nothing that the cock's first crow is known as the call to prayer.
Hafiz had exercised the bird that morning, driving him around the courtyard to build up
his muscles and stamina. Now he placed him on the floor and snapped his fingers. The cock
pirouetted aggressively, his dark eyes gleaming. In Afghanistan they call the onset of ma-
turity, when a cockerel becomes an adult and will fight any adult male who comes near, his
“drunkenness.” Hafiz's eyes gleamed, too. “He's ready to fight! He'll cause a revolution in
the pit—just see if he doesn't!”
I asked Hafiz's eldest son, Omid, a solemn 11-year-old, whether he would be coming on
Friday. Omid shook his head, and Hafiz explained how, unlike many other owners, he has
not encouraged his children to get involved in the sport. In this, and in his charas smoking,
Hafiz's approach to fatherhood is to point to himself as a negative example. “Who do you
learn manners from?” he asked, then supplied the answer himself: “From the ill-mannered.”
Hafiz placed an iron tablet flat on the room's wood-burning stove. When the tablet was
hot, he laid some lengths of old cloth on it and unscrewed a container that was full of a dark,
glutinous pomade. Several times in the days leading up to a fight, Hafiz coats the heated
cloths with this pomade, which he has concocted from a dozen concentrates and infusions,
andwrapsthemtightly aroundthebird'shead,breast,andthighs.Thisisintended totoughen
the skin and make it harder for a spur to penetrate. Hafiz started telling me which ingredi-
entsgointothepomade:“alum,pomegranateskin,tamariskblossom,walnutshell. . .”Then,
wrapping a length of cloth around the bird's neck, he interrupted himself: “Hold on! I'm not
going to tell you the rest. They are a secret that only I know!”
The following day, Hafiz was due to attend a meet in the Shomali Plain, about two hours'
drive from Kabul, and he agreed that Karim and I could accompany him. Traveling is one of
the aspects of cockfighting that Hafiz likes best, and the trips he has made around the coun-
try are his fondest memories of the sport. From Mazar-i-Sharif in the far north to Kandahar
in the south, Hafiz has carried birds from one fight to the next, staying with fellow cockers,
smoking his charas , and watching the young men whose dancing, in this sexually segregated
society, constitutes an acceptable evening's entertainment.
Karim and I picked Hafiz up at dawn and drove northward, out of the capital. He told us
thattheTalibanexertsgrowingcontroloverthecountryside,includingmanymainroads,and
that traveling is becoming less and less feasible. If members of a Taliban roadblock find a
gamecock being transported, they will confiscate the bird and fine or whip the owner.
Shortly after the Taliban took Kabul, in 1996, Hafiz was caught attending an underground
cockfight. “They hung me up from the ceiling by my right wrist and flogged me on the right
side. Then they did the same to the left side of my body. I was covered in wounds.” But
Hafiz was dedicated, and two days later he attended another meet. “Suddenly,” he recalled,
“someoneshoutedthattheTalibanwerecoming.Iranforhome,alongwayaway,andbythe
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