#...this got spurred on bc i saw some beautiful art about DID and. man. it just kinda hit my heart in the exact spot it hurt.

[cyanidas]

we integrated. 

[clarenecessities]

what’s up sluts i actually made some art for once

my interpretation of Hero!Touya/Dabi, as per my fic Dragon Head, Snake Tail

patented nerd rambling below the cut

let’s start from the head down! the hair thing.. idk, he’s 22. i’ve never met a 22 year old who could keep their hair dyed consistently, and the stakes are much lower for Touya than they are for Dabi.

the mask i was initially basing on like those protruding jaw/cheekbone masks you see in kabuki theatre, but nothing had the right dragon feel to it. in reading about the color symbolism in kumadori (blue is usually villainous lmao) i saw comparisons with Chinese Opera. while kabuki isn’t descended from chinese opera, the aesthetics of the face-painting share similar approaches to emphasizing expression and alignment. so i flipped through some designs and stumbled across this one, the mouth of which in particular inspired me (well, i say inspired; the mouth is more or less identical in design).

oh fuck i’ve given him an extra piercing. well. that’s canon now

the jacket is sort of a cross between classic biker gear and traditional japanese firefighting coats. the material is hardy, dyed with indigo, and insulated with the aforementioned liquid nitrogren. since Touya is cold-resistant, he can touch it with no ill effects for about as long as Shouto can use only his ice side.

what’s the red u may ask? welllll traditionally hikeshi banten are reversible! and as a reward for trying to parse my bullshit, you get to see the inside of the jacket:

i was going back and forth on the reverse side tbqh. couldn’t decide if i wanted to draw my own or find a pre-existing image. i did find a lovely print of the stage at kiyomizu that i almost went with, but in the end this Daoguang tapestry won me over with its bold colors and beautiful representation of a flaming pearl. since the tapestry is chinese, i had to edit some things, which is why i ultimately decided against putting this on the ref sheet–i feel almost as weird editing this kind of stuff as i would making my own shitty attempt–but it was mostly to naturalize the dragon to japanese depictions of them. like i changed it from the imperial 5 claws to the japanese 3, took out the bats because the pun doesn’t translate (they’re lucky, it’s a whole thing, don’t ask) and then the clouds because they looked weird without the bats. and of course, took it down to one dragon. both for size constraints (it’s not that big a jacket) and because touya’s counterpart is the phoenix

god i didn’t realize how much i had thought about this shit until i started writing it all down. there’s something wrong with me man we’re not even through his torso yet

the necklace looks at a glance to be either a magatama or half of a heart, but it’s actually a stylized red wing, bc i’m not subtle at all

kept the elbow braces from Dabi’s villain costume, bc it makes sense with the backdraft his quirk has exhibited

the bracers have more concentrated cells of liquid nitrogen because his forearms seem particularly vulnerable, particularly the way he wields his quirk hand-first. if the pattern is incidentally similar to someone’s hero shirt, well, that’s none of my business

the claws were a spur of the moment, how-can-i-distinguish-these-as-dragon-scales-and-not-fish decision. there are three because again, japanese dragon. the resemblance to wolverine is unintentional but retrospectively hilarious. the tricky part with those was actually figuring out how he gets them to retract–i didn’t want him to like accidentally hit a button and spear his coffee or some shit. so he can either smack his fists together or slam one into a hard surface. he doesn’t actually use the claws much, since his quirk discourages would-be melee battles, but they sure do look cool

ah, the fire pole thing. another borrowed element of traditional japanese firefighting. he uses it to maneuver in burning areas, not for combat. i wish i could say it was telescoping because i thought “oh, it would be inconvenient to carry” but uh. the reason is much less rational. in journey to the west Sun Wukong got his Ruyi Bang from the Azure Dragon and i was like ‘oh that’d be cool’ lmao. anyway it attaches to that red strap at his hip

the belt buckle! i spent way too long on the belt buckle. it’s kind of his ultimate ‘fuck you’ to Endeavor, tbh. the shape is the same as All Might’s belt buckle (though inverted) and the character inside is… well, you know how Enji’s a narcissistic bastard and put the 炎 from his name on his belt? Since that’s just two fire kanji stacked, this is going for something similar–except the kanji for ice (氷) doesn’t stack. nor does the ice radical. but you know what has the same aesthetic?? the Old Chinese version of the ice radical, 仌! that’s right baby. touya was so psyched to flip off his dad that he resorted to old chinese. yeah. his decision. don’t mind me

the boots are cobbled together combat boots & hiking boots, and are treated with the same material as Endeavor’s. so like theoretically, he could be walking around with hotfeet all the time, but that’d be like, silly. it’s great for kicks though

alright, i think that’s it. god help me. god help you, the reader at home

[jack-fruit]

Paint the Stars

Hey gamers this fic is apart of my personal swap au which I also wrote this for. You really don't need to read that one to understand this one, but its short lol. All you need to know that's mentioned there is Aziraphale is a bat demon so like

-----

When the starmaker first learned to paint, he was going by Anthony. He had no reason to go by an alias, but he had grown rather fond of it after providing it to a rather polite demon. His decision to dip his fingers into what was the original sorry excuse for paint, however, had nothing to do with his name, but everything to do with his title.

He had hoped after the fiasco with Adam and Eve, She would allow him back into the expanse of space to make stars once again. She told him he had more to do on Earth, much to Anthony's chagrin. So he walked among man bitter and with hands itching to create.

They'd only been a few generations into humanity when a girl first found that mixing together egg yolk and red soil would make a substance that would trail bright and stick to the rock. She used it to make crude drawings, which Anthony watched, impressed.

It wasn't until there was a suitable array of colors avaliable that Anthony felt the tug of longing hard enough that he sheepishly approached a group painting across an expanse of cave walls and scooped up some of the yellow paint.

He created starbursts across stone and nebules across rock. He didn't have all the colors he wanted to work with, but the thrill of a challenge only spurred him on. He may have also been there to nudge the Egyptians in the right direction of finding blue paint, okay? Sue him- blue was one of his favorites.

-

It wasn't until around 300 BC that Anthony picked up a paintbrush. There had been other attempts at something similar before, but all the crude sticks and leaves could not capture the fine detail a brush of a fingertip could.

Anthony was perfectly content using his hands and fingers, just as he always had, but the man selling the brushes assured him they were intended for caligraphy. The angel picked up the thin bamboo with animal hair attatched to one end, and decided that perhaps a certain demon would get a kick out of it. After all, Az loved the written word, perhaps he would like a tool to help create it.

He had originally only meant to try it out. To make sure it worked as advertised, but as he dipped it into the ink that he'd purchased alongside it, he slowly realized things were not going to go as planned.

The gentle sweep of the brush across parchment was a sensation he liked almost as much as fingerpainting. And it kept his hands blessedly clean. He created a void in the paper, a sinkhole from which there was no return. He then got up, grabbed his paints, and wove a galaxy around it. He tucked the concept into the back of his mind, deciding to ask Her to let him abandon post for just a while to play around again.

-

He was going by Raphael when he realized that he could paint more than just space. He had been out in the cosmos for a few decades, having gotten the okay to return to where he belonged. He had ended up quite liking the brush idea, which is where the staff came from.

His staff was a long piece of carefully maintained bamboo that he was able to miracle from brush to staff with minimal effort. The staff worked a bit different from an actual paint brush, it didn't even have a proper brush end, really, but the angel would push his power through it in arcs and waves in ways he hadn't really been capable of before.

But he missed Earth, much as that fact irked him. He missed the browns and the greens and the greys. He missed the food and the wind and the sounds. Above all, he missed the sparkling darkness of a certain demon's gaze, which he would certainly never admit.

So he returned to earth and decided to give a new name a whirl. Raphael. When he told Az about it, he laughed, but did start calling him by the new name. It put something at ease in his chest, that approval.

Raphael had known that people painted things other than space, of course he did, but he never thought to do it himself until he saw a man painting a landscape.

"Mind if I join you?" Raphael had asked without thinking. The man looked at him, curious, but nodded his consent and offered Raphael the paints he was using. All earth tones, nothing like the angel liked to work with.

Withholding a sigh, Raphael decided to paint the same landscape. It was more challenging then the colorful and shapeless bursts he was used to, but it was easy enough to get. Sharp bursts of brown-green, yellow spikes of grass, grey-brown bark. It was the same concept, the pallete was just different, the angles a bit sharper.

"What are you doing?" Raphael jumped and whirled to face the fanged grin of his adversary. The original painter and his canvas had vanished.

"Why are you here?" The angel tried very hard not to sound pleased.

"I asked first, Starmaker," Az said, taking his brush from him and narrowing his eyes at the carvings on it. "Are these snakes?"

"Snakes are cool," Raphael hissed, turning back to his painting. "And I'm painting, now you."

"Oh just spreading some chaos here, michief there."

"Which I will inevitably thwart," Raphael noted. "You know, maybe-"

"No! No we are not..." Az's voice dropped to a harsh whisper, "we are not teaming up Ant- Raphael."

"Antraphael?" The angel teased momentarily, before his expression turned thoughtful. "That sounds like an angel I knew- a principality. Wonder what happened to him...haven't heard from him in ages."

"Doesn't matter," Az snapped, aggrivated. "I know what heaven is like. They find out you're helping the enemy and you know what they'll do? They'll toss you out, and thats if you're lucky!"

Raphael's brushstroke shot up, ruining the entire painting.

"Let's go get drinks," he grumbled, waving the project away. It would be years before he would finally rediscover, fix, and finish the damn piece.

-

The name didn't last, of course it didn't. Anthony knew Az was really quite uncomfortable with the name Raphael, despite his insistance of it being fine. The closest the angel got to an answer was 'reminds me too much of someone else. Not you.'

So he was Anthony again when he realized how truly and utterly fucked he was. It was the 19th century, and realism- true realism- was coming into style. The more detailed and real looking a painting looked, the better. And for the first time since paint had been invented, Anthony couldn't master a style of art.

Of course, he would eventually, but at the present everything he painted looked cheap and fake. The concept of shading was new to him, nothing cast shadows in space and his landscapes were more stylized than anything. Along with that, still life was a bit drab to him- lots of looking and staring at inanimate objects doing nothing and feeling nothing for hours.

In contrast, portraits had the opposite issue. The subject was too squirmy, and the constant annoyance and boredom that flared up would effect his brushwork.

Plants were a good compromise, just alive enough to entertain him, but not squirmy enough to distract him. He spent hours trailing greenery across his canvases, adding bursts of color where flowers decided to plant themselves.

He ended up surrounding himself with plants, expresing his annoyance if they began to wilt, which would quickly make them perk up once more. He accidently scared the plants, he thought, what with all his frustrated yelling and the torn canvases strewn across the floor, but it did lead to them looking exquisite. He'd be lying if said he hadn't been hamming up the dramaticness that came with destroying his less than perfect works.

Az had come over once, sitting properly in a plain, stiff wooden chair he summoned while Anthony sprawled out across his own sofa. Az was looking at a half finished painting of a plant.

"Do you ever paint anything other than plants?" Az asked suddenly. Anthony sat up and followed his gaze.

"Space."

"Other than space and plants."

"Like what?"

"People?"

Anthony snorted and fell back against the cushions, "nah, people move too much."

"Oh," Az said. The two fell quiet for a few minutes before Az spoke again. "Well if you like, I could...you know, model for you. If it would help."

"I- you- what?" Anthony sputtered. The demon scowled at him.

"Mind out of the gutter, Anthony. It's simply that...look I can hold much more still than any human could, I would be an easy model to start with to get the human-esque form down."

Anthony was quiet in his consideration. Much as he loathe to admit it, it did make sense. And as much as he loved painting plants and stars, he did want to branch out, if only to prove he could. He was a stubborn bastard that way.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Just...stay there, then," he launched himself off the couch and collected his paints.

"Now?" Az asked, and when Anthony turned to face him, his dark eyes were curious and wide and just...beautiful.

"I- er- that okay?" Anthony asked, taking his brush and twirling it in his fingers. Az nodded; Anthony nodded back in reply. The angel turned his easel towards the demon and, with a slow breath, began to paint.

He had always found Az remarkable- with his intelligent eyes, his soft, slightly singed curls, the curve of his delicate pink lips...

He was practically in a trance, looking more at Az then his canvas. It felt like no time at all before he had finished enough for Az to move if he wished. The demon cracked his neck at an inhuman angle, then stood to look over Anthony's shoulder.

"Oh...Anthony," his breath ghosted across his ear and he had to surpress a shiver, "this is perfect, how have you been having trouble?"

Slowly, Anthony tipped his head back. He let his curls brush against Az's shoulder as he did so, and when he looked to the left he could see how close the demon really was. With his eyes that reminded him so much of his night sky that it hurt.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

"S'not done, still time to mess up," he said over his mounting panic. Az laughed that soft laugh of his and grinned, revealing those delicate little fangs perfect for-

Anthony's entire brain ripped like a canvas in a desprate attempt to get that image out of his head. In the meantime, Az had pulled away and offered him an apologetic farewell. Anthony was still sewing his brain back together when the door closed firmly behind him. He was still stitching his sanity back into place as he found himself setting up a new canvas. He was still lost in a daze as he found himself wondering how many years it would take to draw Az perfectly from memory.

-

The first time he wrote out the name "Anthony J. Crowley" had been on the deed to his studio. A studio he had not planned on getting at all, but when a giddy bat demon bounced up to him only about 60 or so years after the whole gay crisis thing Anthony had no choice but to follow. He wasn't sure if the blindfold made him more or less eager, if he was being honest.

"Watch your step!"

"I can't see, idiot, there's a blindfold over my face."

"Stop sassing me or I'll gag you, starmaker."

"Kinky."

"No!"

Anthony laughed, feeling a warm flutter in his chest as Az very firm stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Then, he removed the blindfold.

"Tada!"

"A...building?" Anthony raised an incredulous eyebrow at the demon.

"It's for your studio!" Az enthused.

"My-?"

"I originally bought it thinking about making a bookshop out of it, but then I realized thst would require me to, um, you know, sell my books? And so I thought instead I'd give it to you. I've already found a quaint little cottage for my books And I to stay, so I have no need for it, obviously-"

"Azzy..."

"No need to thank me, you're just taking it off my hands," the demon pushed on, shoving a deed into Anthony's hands and then bolting like the devil himself was after him. Anthony looked at the deed, then at the building.

It could use some paint...

-

1967, he'd been going by Crowley for 25 years as far as close friends were concerned. Well, close friend. After tonight, though...

He leaned heavily against the door to his studio, against the painted grasses and flowers that stretched across its surface, growing towards glow and the dark stars. Against his chest, Crowley clutched a jar containing a single, wild spark of hellfire. Uncontrollable, untamable, and all Az's.

'What, not going to offer me a lift?" Crowley had quietly asked, sitting behind Az on his motorbike.

Crowley moved as if he were walking through the thickest of oil paints. He entered his room, set the jar on his desk, then returned to the studio itself. Half finished projects were littered everywhere. Crowley looked at them and felt empty.

A soft, pained laugh. 'I know I go too slow for you, Crowley...' Then, the most heatbroken admission, 'I am... quite unsure if I will ever be capable of catching up with you.'

Crowley's whole body began to shake. Hands balled into fists, and then he screamed. He grabbed a wooden stool that Az could often be caught sitting on and threw it right into one of his paintings. It splintered and ripped and Crowley felt good.

He tore paintings from the wall, shattered frames against the floor. He ripped apart each brushstroke, each secret hope. He only stopped when he tore his paintbrush off the chain around his throat and tried to snap it. Lucky for him, past Crowley had enchanted it to be basically invincible, so his efforts simply drained him. He let it expand into his staff so he could lean heavily on it as sobs wracked him. He was angry, he was heartbroken, and he had never felt less holy.

-

In the years leading up to the apocalypse, Crowley hadn't been painting much. Any attempts to bring his brush to the canvas were hindered by the fact that the world was ending, and that in less than eleven years all these things he was making would be destroyed. Again.

He thought maybe after everything, after escaping heaven and hell, he would be able to paint avain. Yet, as he sat with a sketchbook in his lap in Az's livingroom he felt no spark, no drive.

Well, that wasn't true. He felt something, but it wasn't the need to create. He took a swig of wine and looked up to where Az was quietly contemplating his own glass.

"I-"

"It's Aziraphale."

"...what?" Anthony sat up straight for the first time possibly ever. Az flinched.

"My- my name...my angel name. I never," he bit his lip, "all the other demons were changing their names, but I never meant to fall. I liked the name the Almighty gave me, even if She...so, so perhaps you can call me Aziraphale from noe on? Since I guess I'm technically not a demob anymore..."

The name was familiar. It brought Crowley the memory of a flash of white wings and blue eyes watching him work. However, that image very comfortably faded to fit the face of the demon he so loved.

Aziraphale.

"Aziraphale," he spoke it in a way that made one think of blasphamy. He caught the demon's shiver. Slowly, Crowley set aside his sketchbook and his wine and he prowled forward.

"Crowley?"

"Yes, Aziraphale?" He breathed, close enough to count the lashes framing Aziraphale's dark eyes. They fluttered closed.

Lips pressed against lips, soft and full of longing and hope. It took Crowley a moment to realize he hadn't been the one to close the gap. He framed Aziraphale's face in his hands, like the work of art it was, and kissed back.

A gasp and then hands fluttered against his back, gripping at his jacket as the angel pushed him back in his chair, thoughts scattered so only one thing remained.

Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale.

-

They laid in a bed conjured earlier that evening. Aziraphale didn't own one, since he was used to hanging upsidedown from the rafters when he slept at all. He made an exception tonight, though, and was now curled up fast asleep in Crowley's arms. He traced the blue-purple-red bruises scattered across his lover's skin and smiled fondly as Azirphale wrinkled his nose and turned in his arms. Slowly, Crowley untangled himself and moved towards the easel he'd put in the room back when Aziraphale was sleeping for a century. He had wanted to be around the demon, even if he was fast asleep with no plans to become concious again until he thought his books were in danger.

He brushed the dust off a blank canvas and set it on the easel. It was facing out the small window, revealing the expanses of space for Crowley to record again and again. He hesitated a moment before changing the angle of the easel, pointing it towards the bed where Azirphale was still curled up.

He looked over at where his brush had been reverently placed on the nightstand at contrast with everything else he'd been wearing previously. He looked at it and then shook his head. He opened a pot of red paint and dipped his fingers into it. The excess dripped from the tips before Crowley set then to the canvas, and he began to paint.

[aftaabmagazine]

Istalif in Peace and War

Edited by Farhad Azad 

[caption: Untilted, by Yama Rahimi, Istalif, Spring 2019]

Istalif استالف, the beautiful vineyard town nestled on a large hill north of Kabul کابل, attracts hundreds of visitors a year. Its name originates from the Greek word "σταφύλια" (stafýlia) meaning grapes. No doubt since the time of the Greek colonization around 200 BC, the town was a destination resort admired for its beauty, the abundance of its grapes, lush flower gardens and red wine.  

By the 1800s, the British set eyes on the hamlet. We’ll explore two accounts. One is in a time of peace, before the first Anglo-Afghan war. The other is in a time of war, at the closing of the first Anglo-Afghan War.

Time of Peace: Istalif October 1836

In October 1836, the Scottish agent Alexander Burns, in the service of the British East India Company, traveled north of Kabul and wrote about the Istalif. He experienced the breathtaking scenery and procured its rustic local wine. Burns spoke fluent Dari, favorited the country in also every facet, yet, as a genuine colonist, felt the locals should be treated as children. He told Charles Masson, the first amateur archeologist in modern-day Afghanistan, “the Afghans were to be treated as children.” 

The following an account from Burns' book, Cabool, A Personal Narrative. It was published in 1842, over a year after his death-- hacked to bits by a Kabuli mob at his home in Shor Bazaar. Harboring the girlfriend of an Afghan nobleman was his offense. This scandalous incident, along with other financial blunders by British political elite, sparked the Afghans resistance in Kabul, which led to the British Indian army exit from Kabul resulting, in the well documented and discussed, disastrous retreat to Jalalabad.

Here is Burn's cheery account of Istalif.

After the turmoil of eating dinners and receiving visitors had been got over, and our business put in train, we all of us determined to visit the far-famed mountain-skirts of Kho-damun and Kohistan, which are situated north of Cabool.

We set out from Cabool on the morning of 13 October, and halted at Kareez-i-Meer, about fifteen miles from which we could see, in the hazy distance, a vast vista of gardens extending for some thirty or forty miles in length, and half as broad, terminated by Hindoo Koosh itself, white with snow. Next day we reached Shukurdura, where there is a royal garden, but which is now in a state of decay. Our next march was to Kahdura, and thence to Istalif, the great point of attraction.

No written description can do justice to this lovely and delightful country. Throughout the whole of our route we had been lingering amidst beautiful orchards, the banks of which were clustered over with wildflowers and plants, many of them common to Europe, and which were also in profuse abundance along the margins of the innumerable brooks which intersect the valleys.

The roads were shaded by noble and lofty walnut- trees, which excluded the sun's rays, never powerless in this climate. Every hill with a southern aspect had a vineyard on it, and the raisins were spread out on the ground and imparted a purple tinge to the hills. There were very few songsters however, to enliven the scene, most of the feathered tribe having flown to a warmer climate.

The coldness of the air, which had driven them away, was to us bracing and delightful, and only served to increase our enjoyment. I must not, however, speak in detail of this charming country, nor do the far-famed gardens of Istalif require any aid from me to establish their supremacy.

The roads were shaded by noble and lofty walnut trees, which excluded the sun's rays, never powerless in this climate. Every hill with a southern aspect had a vineyard on it, and the raisins were spread out on the ground and imparted a purple tinge to the hills.

There were very few songsters; however, to enliven the scene, most of the feathered tribe having flown to a warmer climate. The coldness of the air, which had driven them away, was to us bracing and delightful, and only served to increase our enjoyment.

I must not, however, speak in detail of this charming country, nor do the far-famed gardens of Istalif require any aid from me to establish their supremacy. Thessalian Tempé * could never have more delighted the eyes of an Ionian**, than did Istalif please Boetian Britons.

The people illuminated their town in the evening, in honor of their visitors. It had a pretty effect, but the beauties of art could not, in our opinion, compete with those of nature. Not so with our escort: they declared that Istalif had at all times been the abode of pleasure, and that, without wine, not only would the illumination lose its value, but Nature herself would be worth nothing.

We accordingly sent a few bottles of wine*** to which they did the amplest justice, although the "Moohtussib," a chief constable of Cabool, was of the party.

On the following day, I taxed him with this departure from the rules of his sect. He bore my bantering with great equanimity, and replied, with mock-heroic dignity, "Who, my lord, suspects me,—me, the 'Moohtussib,'—of indulging in wine? My duty is to reform the morals of others."

* Inspired by the lushness of its vegetation, the ancient Greeks dedicated Tempe to the cult of Apollo. 

** Ionian a member of an ancient Hellenic people inhabiting Attica, parts of western Asia Minor

*** Winemaking is an old tradition in the region and throughout Afghanistan even today.

Time of War: Istalif October 1842  

Six years after Burns' touristic stay, Istalif was destroyed by the British Indian Army of Retribution, in reprisal for the massacre of their comrades’ retreat from Kabul. By September 1842, once the word spread of the British arriving in Kabul to cast revenge, hundreds of Kabulis evacuated to Istalif.

The atrocities in Istalif is amply recorded in Sir Neville Chamberlain's personal narrative. He led the cavalry forces north of Kabul. Along the way, the army and the camp followers burnt, looted, killed teenage boys and men and raped the women. The whole war stirred Western xenophobia in the hearts of Afghans well into the following century.  

In perfect colonialistic tone, Chamberlain, one of the leaders of the plundering forces, depicts himself as a fair gentleman and savior of the pretty Afghan women. He even records a “romance” between a young British officer and an "Afghan maiden" encountered during the raping and pillaging-- enter the cliche of the "noble Englishman" saving the native from the plunder. Ironically, this chaos was instigated by the British. 

Here is Chamberlain's log about his arrival and pillage of Istalif. It was published in 1909 in the book Life of Field-Marshal Sir Neville Chamberlain by Sir George Forrest.

28 September— Marched towards Istaliffe, our road lying through a most beautiful country, sometimes through vineyards filled with the most luxurious grapes of all colours and kind, sometimes along the banks of a clear stream and through green fields. We pitched our camp opposite the place about three miles distant, a fine plain intervening. About three in the afternoon the General and a party went to reconnoiter preparatory to an attack next morning. On our approach, some horse and foot came into the plain to annoy us and prevent our going too close. The point of attack being determined on, we returned to camp, skirmishers following us. We had a horse killed and a man or two hits. A quiet night and no firing.

29 September— At daybreak formed two columns of attack and moved on the place. The cavalry were left in the plain to guard the baggage, as they would be useless among hills and gardens. Before I tell you any more it may be as well that I should endeavour to give you some description of Istaliffe. The town is built upon the spurs that run from the Hindoo Koosh range of mountains into the valley of Kohistan so that when seen from the valley it appears half-way into the skies. The ravines of the mountain are clothed with the most luxuriant vines, and many springs issuing from the rocks at the back of the town went their way into the plain, carrying with them fertility; gardens, orchards, magnificent trees, and here and there a water-mill and cottages adorn the foot of the mountain; and behind Istaliffe its summit towers almost perpendicularly.

We could perceive the tracks by which one can pass into the countries towards Turkistan, but they must be very difficult of ascent. To continue my story. Of course, we soon drove the enemy from the gardens; they attempted to defend the heights, but height after the height was taken, and we found ourselves in the town. When we had nearly gained it we saw a quantity of figures dressed in white ascending the mountains, and taking them for Ghazees our guns opened on them, and I am sorry to say some fell; when we got a little closer we perceived they were women!

Of course, when we found our mistake the poor creatures were allowed to go unmolested, but they must have had a terrible night, poor innocent things, as it was very cold; and fancy what they must have suffered, so many thousand feet above us, without clothing or shelter! And some must have died, I think, from the mere exertion of walking, never having in their lives been farther than the garden attached to the harem.

Fortunately, there was some brushwood on the mountain, so that they were able to make fires; and when it became dark hundreds were to be seen dotted about, and at such a height that they appeared as if they were hanging in the air. The scene on entering the town is beyond description.

Tents, baggage, things of all description lying about the streets, and the bodies of the unfortunate men who had delayed their departure too long, or who were too brave to fly and leave their wives and children to our mercy without first sacrificing their own lives in their defense. I suppose I need not tell you that no male above fourteen years were spared, and some of the men (brutes except in form) wanted to wreak their vengeance on the women.

Horses and cattle of all descriptions were to be seen about the place without owners; but they soon found claimants, for as soon as all visible enemies were disposed of the work of pillage commenced. I should tell you that the greatest part of the merchandise of Cabul and the harems of the principal chiefs had been removed to Istaliffe on hearing of our advance on the capital, as it had always been deemed impregnable by the Affghans; and they considered all their treasures safe here, and which accounts for the Ghazees fighting so badly, being at first over-confident; and when, to their consternation, they saw the fancied impregnable posts fall into our hands, they thought only how to provide for the safety of their families and carry off their valuables, instead of defending the town to the last.

The scene of plunder was dreadful. Every house filled with soldiers, both European and native, and completely gutted. Furniture, clothes, merchandise of all sorts flung from windows into the streets (it being too long a process to bring them downstairs) and scrambled for by those below.

On the bazaar being discovered, it was soon taken possession of by hundreds: the confusion baffles description. The rich shops had a dozen owners who quarreled about the distribution of its contents, while bales of the commoner kind were lying about unheeded. Some who had already made their assortment were returning towards camp, nearly blocking up the road by the immense loads they carried off, and certainly appeared more like hucksters than soldiers.

Others, who had not been so fortunate as to find anything they fancied, were running to take the place of their luckier companions. It was curious to see their various tastes displayed in the selection of booty. Some took arms, some jewels, other books! Some, again, fancied silks and satins, shawls; those who, I suppose, had a liking for ladies, possessed themselves of their clothes, of which there were a great quantity; tea and tobacco had great attractions with many; and more than one sweet-toothed fellow might be seen labouring under a load of sugar and bonbons.

When the soldiers had satisfied themselves, the camp-followers were let loose into the place, and they completed the business of spoliation. The goods found in Istaliffe were valued at some two hundred thousand pounds; and a great deal of the property that had belonged to the unfortunate Cabul force was found in the town, the sight of which, relics of their comrades, exasperated the men to the highest pitch.

Some soldiers were fortunate enough to find money to a large amount. A Captain Webster, wanting a bridle for his horse, bought one of a sepoy, which, on being cleaned, was found to have gold mountings of great value. The women and children that had been left behind were collected, placed under a guard, and taken to camp.

The loss of the enemy was about 200 killed; ours very trifling. We lost a very nice young fellow of the name of Evans. It being reported to him that our own people were ill-treating the women, he flew to their protection, when he was shot dead.

His servant (a soldier) on seeing his master fall ran towards him when he also fell to rise no more. A third went forward, but he also was struck to the ground by a severe wound. An ineffectual attempt was made to break open the house where the persons were concealed who did the deed; it was then set on fire.

Whilst we were taking the town we saw a poor little chubby-faced boy sitting on one side of the road crying fit to break his heart; the poor little fellow had been deserted, or in the hurry left by his parents, and fearing that he might get killed, several of us endeavoured to bring him away, but nothing could induce him to stir.

No harm befell him, as on leaving the place I saw him in the same position, and crying as bitterly as ever. Poor little fellow, I can well fancy his despair! But all this time you may perhaps ask how I participated in the attack when I have told you that the cavalry were kept in the plain.

The truth is that I was sent with orders to the infantry on their clearing the gardens, and when once among the fun, I could not tear myself away from it. I got rid of my horse by getting a commissariat officer to mount him, so was then unencumbered, and free to go anywhere."

The young man then proceeds to relate how he rescued an Afghan maiden and fell fiercely in love, and how his affections were, "as is too often the case, trifled with."

On forcing open a large house in the town, we found it contained merchandise of the most valuable description, which immediately fell a prey to my followers, a motley band, composed of men of all regiments and all colours — British, Hindu, Mussulmans, Goorkal.

My share of the booty of Istaliffe was a rifle that I found in one of the lower rooms of this house, and which I took at the time as a defensive weapon, and afterwards gave away to an officer who was killed by my side in the Khyber Pass.

Most of the men, over whom I had no control, stopped below to plunder, but some of the less avaricious followed me to the upper apartments. On the roof, which was flat, were built some summer rooms facing into the courtyard. As I stepped on it, the first object that met my eyes was a woman in her walking dress and veiled. I rushed towards her to prevent the men on the stairs close behind me from firing, as generally when any living object presented itself a dozen muskets were discharged.

My ears were now assailed by the wailings of many women from the summer rooms. I caught hold of the poor girl, who was sobbing bitterly, and entreated her to go to the other women, and promised she should be safe, but she prayed and beseeched to be allowed to remain there; but as I knew if I consented it would be her ruin, I at length prevailed on her, by dint of promises and kind words, to rise and leave the place.

As she did so, I discovered for the first time a hole in the wall against which she had been leaning which was half-built up with loose bricks, and I asked her if anyone was concealed there, but she answered with agony depicted on her face, ' No; oh no! '

I thought at the time that she was not telling the truth, but I took her to the other ladies, and what a scene of sorrow was that! There were about thirty of them, screaming, tearing their hair, smearing their faces with white, and presenting a most pitiable spectacle. They were most of them dressed for a start, only we had been too quick for them.

Fear had banished modesty, and they were all unveiled! Chiefly young women, and some of them very pretty. My young lady was perhaps not so fair as the others, but she had a very pleasing and amiable countenance. Just now another officer joined me, and while he stood sentry over the doors of the women's rooms I went to search the place my fair one had tried to conceal.

Whilst the above interesting scene was taking place, every corner of the house had been filled by the soldiers who were loading themselves with the spoil, and many a musket shot was also heard which sent some male of the family who had not been fortunate enough to conceal his hiding- place into the next world.

Several were killed before me. Tears, supplications were of no avail, fierce oaths were the only answer; the musket was deliberately raised, the trigger pulled, and happy was he who fell dead! Sometimes they were only wounded and were finished by a second ball, and sometimes the powder only flashed in the pan as if in mockery of their agony.

These horrible murders (for such alone must they be in the eyes of God) were truly wicked; the only thing to be said in their extenuation is, that the Affghans who then suffered were the very men who had inflicted every kind of torture on our own countrymen and Hindustanees. To return.

On pulling down the bricks with which the hole was stopped up, I perceived that it was the entrance to a dark cavern, and the aperture leading to it was only sufficiently large to allow of one man at a time drawing himself through on his stomach.

I thrust my own head into the place to try and see if anyone was inside, little thinking of the danger I ran in so doing, as I might have been shot or have had my head cut off without seeing my executioner. We commenced digging down into the cavern, but finding that that would be a tedious job, we left off; and whilst I stood at the mouth a shot was fired from inside, which whizzed past my legs and struck the opposite wall.

This fully proved to us that there were some fellows in it, and we crammed the hole with musket barrels and fired a volley. On this, out rushed my heroine with a scream, calling out, 'You have killed him, you have killed him!'

I raised her from the ground, but she knelt to me, and then threw her arms round my waist, and, looking into my face, said, 'Spare him, spare him.' It was not possible to withstand the pleading of that beautiful face, and then she appealed to me to save his life for the love of the Prophet Christ, and for the sake of my mother and sisters! Of course, I promised to save all that might be there, and then she went to the aperture and called on 'her father to come out.'

First of all, three or four little boys came out and toddled over to the women's apartments; then came a fine old man, her father, with a beautiful grey beard, and then three other men.

It was with the greatest difficulty that I could keep my word, as there were some bloodthirsty fellows who swore they would kill them, poking at them with their bayonets, though they did not dare to fire because of me. I may mention that in their hiding-place, we found guns, swords, pistols, and shields, and also by firing out at us they had forfeited their lives by the rules of war.

The officer who was with me, of H.M. 41st Foot, and I were obliged to keep watch over them and the ladies' rooms, or the moment we left them the doors were knocked open, and they were frightened to death at the sight of the men and their firearms, and also by their rough behaviour.

It was only by being determined that we could prevent them from searching for any jewels the ladies might have on their persons. When we proposed taking them to the Persian camp (it being the only safe place), which was close alongside of our own, they were at first afraid and wanted me to remain with them; that was out of the question.

And at length, on informing them that a chief of the Kuzzil-bashes was with us, on whose protection they could count, they consented to come, and off we started. It was a long way to camp, and the poor women, who had not been much accustomed to walk, were completely tired; so after getting them away from the town and out of danger, I left them under the charge of a few men who had accompanied me, and proceeded myself to the Kuzzilbash chief, told him what had occurred, and procured horses for the whole party. On my return we mounted all the ladies and conveyed them safe into camp, receiving their thanks and blessings.

It even now gives me pleasure to think of the heroine of my tale, and her fair form often flits before me, and I felt at the time that I would willingly have sacrificed my life at her word; yet it was not her beauty which captivated me, for there were many others perhaps prettier, but it was her devotion and affection towards her father.

I must not omit to mention one or two little incidents which occurred whilst bringing the women from the town. We had several watercourses to cross, and, of course, I did the polite in handing them over. On my telling one of the soldiers to take care not to be rough to them, he replied:' Lord bless you, sir, I wouldn't hurt one of these poor creatures for the world, but I would shoot one of those (pointing to the men) like a dog! '

One of the others was killed, but by whom or when or how I know not. I fancy he must have been endeavouring to escape, for the next day I found his body lying in the street. As we proceeded towards camp the ladies requested I would halt, as they were thirsty.

Vanity even at this moment held its sway, for on watching their movements, I saw them busily engaged washing the white off their faces and arranging their hair! Now and then, when the loss of property came to their recollection, they would burst into tears again.

You may picture to your self my uncomfortable and odd position. All reserve was thrown off by them, and they talked to me as freely as if I had been their husband!

Their veils were thrown back, and this, in a Mussulman country where they are so strict about their women that they are never to be seen but in close veiled dresses, and speaking to a Feringee at any other time would have been death if seen by an Afghan; however, it must be owned that often in Cabul and Candahar, if one happened to meet a woman in any by-street, she could seldom withstand the pleasure of throwing up the horrid veil and showing her pretty face!

Well, imagine to yourself your humble servant with an infant in his arms, at the head of twenty or thirty fair ones, occasionally being called 'Aga Jan,' — my Lord, my Life, or the Lord of Life, — 'not to walk so fast!' And thus we wended our way through the pretty gardens to camp.

Modern Day Destruction and Xenophobia

In 1999, Istalif was destroyed, including its main mosque and the ceramic workshops-- one of its primary industries. The grapevines were burnt and the fruit trees chopped to the base. This destruction was orchestrated by the forces of the Taliban and their foreign allies. 

I took a trip to the area in September 2002, almost 160 years after the British Indian Army of Retribution. A posted sign read, “Welcome to the burnt land of Istalif.” On route, our van was stopped at a checkpoint guarded by local militiamen. They immediately peeked in the vehicle scanning for Pakistanis and Arabs. I asked what would you do if they found one? One guard replied, "Shot them." These locals clearly demonstrated their aggressive sentiment against these lates outsiders.

Inside Istalif, I met a group of French soldiers enjoying the early afternoon sun. They were unmolested by the locals because they hadn’t caused any harm to the population. 

Today Istalif is rebuilt. The vineyards produce plenty of grapes, the ceramic industry is active and folks continue visiting the town. Hopefully, peace prevails and this heavenly spot can be enjoyed by more people across the world. 

More About Istalif 

[caption: The ceramic workshop returned in Istalif following the Taliban’s scorched-earth campaign of 1999. September 2002.  Photo by Farhad Azad]

Revisiting Istalif, Famed For Pottery And Picnics December 23, 2011, NPR

Afghans Return to Garden Spot Wasted by Taliban January 2002, Washington Post An account of the  Taliban's scorched-earth campaign in the region and the slow return of the population.

Ceramics from Istalif Turquoise Mountain Foundation, sponsored by Prince Charles, Prince of Wales