The air was thick with humidity and stifling heat that hung with the oppression of a burka. Although relatively large, the room was packed beyond capacity. This was a big event for a relatively rural province and villagers had come for miles around to witness it. Bodies crammed into every nook and cranny of the room; men sharing chairs, sitting on the ground, or standing along the wall for a simple glimpse of the actors on the judicial stage. Today, a man stood trial for murder – accused of killing another man much hated and feared by most of those in the room.
At the front of the room was a wooden fence of sorts, used to keep the masses separate from the court actors. To the left and right, chairs for the prosecutor and defense attorney, respectively. Next to the defense attorney, an elevated platform, enclosed by a waist high wall, was reserved for the nervous-looking defendant. Further from the masses, centered at the front of the room was the elevated bench for three judges – the Chief Judge’s bench slightly higher than the other two.
Attached to the fence separating the bench from the gallery were photos of the crime scene. More photos hung on a placard suspended from the ceiling just behind the defendant. Included within this collage, were fairly graphic photos of the victim – not a copious amount of blood mind you, but a clearly dead body with a bandage around the neck. The prosecutor sat confidently on the left side, periodically looking on the crowd as if to appreciate the fact that he would soon perform in front of this audience. The defense attorney, his beard died in red henna, seemed preoccupied and simply stared into space, oblivious to the commotion as the audience sought to seat themselves. The defendant, on the other hand, was acutely aware of everything. His nervousness was evident from his erratic head and eye movement as he desperately attempted to soak in every movement and sound in an attempt to discern some clue that everything would be okay.
As if on cue the commotion within the courtroom ceased and all eyes looked toward the opening door at the front-left of the room. As the first judge crossed the threshold all stood in respect of the process of law, the act itself a victory for rule of law in this war-torn country. Each was bearded and wore a traditional Lulngi hat (a turban-looking hat with part of the scarf hanging down below the shoulders). The Chief Judge surveyed the room and nodded to each of the attorneys before motioning for the Court Reader to begin.
The court reader, a skinny man wearing traditional Perahan wa Tonban clothes (a white pajama-type outfit that seems to be quite appropriate for the hot weather here) stepped to the microphone and began a recitation from the Holy Quran. The recitation had a pleasing, melodic cadence to it that seemed to calm the tense atmosphere in the courtroom. As he finished, the judges brushed their hands over their faces as if to cleanse them. The reader then began reading the charges and facts of the case.
The Defendant was accused of murder. It seems that the victim and the defendant’s family had a history. The victim had allegedly killed the defendant’s father and three uncles about 15-20 years ago and a recent land dispute gave the defendant cause to believe the victim might try to kill him as well. One day, in downtown (a relative term) Asadabad, the victim and defendant met in the street. The defendant, fearing for his life, fatally shot the victim in the neck. The defendant immediately went to the police and surrendered. As the facts were being recited, hushed murmurs could be heard from the crowd. I got a sense that the crowd clearly favored the defendant.
Once the recitation of the facts was complete, the prosecutor stood and set forth his case. He argued that the defendant had no cause to kill the victim as the defendant had no reason to fear for his life at that time. There seemed to be a question of whether the victim had a weapon at the time. Once the prosecutor finished, the Chief Judge looked at the defense attorney and asked whether he or “the killer” would speak. This shocked me and I looked at our interpreter for confirmation that the judge just referred to the defendant as “the killer.” He did.
The defense attorney then stood and began to argue self defense. As part of his defense, he argued that the victim’s prior history with the defendant’s family, combined with the land dispute (a much larger issue here than in the US), gave the defendant sufficient reason to fear for his life. The defense attorney glossed over the question of whether the victim had a weapon at the time he was killed. As he sat down, all eyes turned to the defendant. He would speak.
His manner clearly demonstrated his nervousness. He shifted his weight back and forth constantly, periodically gripping the railing in front of him as if to steady himself. Still not yet looking at the judges, he reached down and grabbed a bottled water. Slowly he unscrewed the cap, as if stalling for time in order to collect his thoughts. He took a drink, looked to the crowd with sad eyes, perhaps silently asking for support, took a second drink and then looked at the judges. Softly at first, then a bit louder and more confident he said, “The Holy Quran says he who has killed shall himself be killed.” All three judges nodded in agreement. The defendant then began to craft his argument by weaving the self-defense argument of his attorney with his own justifiable homicide argument. He reached into the Quran to argue that he had to protect himself and his family’s honor by killing this very bad man. This caused louder murmurs within the courtroom and it was clear that these people were indeed supporting the defendant. The defendant then went through the entire history of the conflict between his family and the victim. By the time he was done, I fully understood, within the context of this man’s culture, why he took the other man’s life.
As the defendant finished and took another drink of water, a commotion started in the back of the room – nothing violent, just a lot of movement. I looked to the interpreter and he explained that it was time for these people to testify. As approximately 30 people exited the room to stand in the hallway to await their turn to testify, I wondered why witnesses would be permitted to observe the trial prior to their testimony (this isn’t something our system allows as it could taint testimony). However, I needn’t have worried. In Afghanistan, witnesses are not subject to direct or cross examination. They merely enter the room, stand in the well, and address the judges. Occasionally, a judge will ask a question, but for the most part the witnesses simply make a brief statement and leave.
Most of the witnesses were there to testify that the victim had indeed killed the defendant’s father and uncles. Some of this testimony was quite solemn as village elders testified from personal experience. Other testimony was clearly not relevant in the slightest bit. For example, one middle-aged gentleman walked in, looked at the court, and said that everything the elders before him had said was true (mind you that he hadn’t heard their testimony). In another case, a very young man (clearly too young to have personally witnessed the victim killed the defendant’s father as he would have been about 5 or so) said he knew it to be true that the victim murdered the defendant’s father. When asked by a judge how he knew this, he said that he had attended the wake and received a small gift from the family as is customary here. This drew laughter from the gallery and a smile form the judge.
I wondered about all this clearly irrelevant testimony and questioned whether it should be allowed. Our Rule of Law field agent for the province explained that relevance wasn’t really the issue here. In attempting to bring rule of law to Afghanistan, it was more important for folks to feel like the system is working. The best way to do this is to give them a voice in the proceedings if they desire. In this judicial system, judges are provided all evidence and written statements from both sides before the trial even begins. Thus, the trial is a show; it is for the public. By letting the public participate, they feel a part of it and are more likely to support it as a result.
After the last witness finished, the prosecutor and defense attorney made their closing arguments. The defense attorney, predictably, asked for acquittal. The prosecutor, surprisingly, asked for the death penalty (a clear overreach in my opinion). The judges then excused themselves to deliberate. The entire trial, to this point, lasted approximately 1.5 hours. After eight minutes (yes, I timed it), the judges returned and announced a verdict of guilty and a sentence of six years. Efficiency is clearly a hallmark of the justice system here. The crowd in the courtroom was clearly unhappy with this result, but accepted the court’s decision. This, itself, is a victory for rule of law here. Acceptance demonstrates buy in; whether one is satisfied with a verdict and sentence is really irrelevant, the question is whether one is satisfied with the process. The people living in the very province that houses the violent Pech and Korengal Valleys and brought us the movie Restrepo had bought into the process. While not a perfect example of rule of law in the western sense, it is a workable example and one that can now begin to take root in Kunar. Here, you have to enjoy the light, what little there is, whenever you can find it.
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