KABUL, Afghanistan: There is a small flyover, called the Friendship Bridge, which transfers passengers across the Amu Darya River that separates Uzbekistan from Afghanistan. It takes a few minutes on a small Uzbek military bus and about a 15 minute walk, but it is an expedition to a different place and time.
On the Afghan side is a border town called Heraitan, and a few sleeping Taliban sit with guns around a small shack next to a missing “Welcome to Afghanistan” side. I can’t help but notice different signs and stickers promoting literacy in “Balkh province” and various educational initiatives for girls and I wonder how long they will last.
Passport control is an insignificant building, manned by a lone Taliban sitting in a small office full of files. He says nothing as he discards our passports and checks our valid media visas issued by the former Afghan government, writing details in a notebook before stamping my photographer and I with a new “Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan” imprint.
And then the long, snake journey through the new or old Afghanistan begins from the northern border to the capital Kabul. It’s about 280 miles, and Google Maps predicts it should take about seven hours. However, any locality knows that it takes almost twice as much as the state of the roads and evidence of corrupt construction offers from the past, which involved cheap materials decimated by winter erosion and never finished.
There are an estimated 16 checkpoints in total, and while most make you pass, the presence of a woman in the car usually makes the Taliban ask some questions. No one has eye contact with me and if they do it by chance, they quickly look away. Some Taliban are especially welcoming in the eyes of foreigners, wishing their country’s “guests” a safe journey. With guilt, I cannot help but acknowledge that none of my Afghan friends and colleagues will be treated in such a cordial manner. The main thing anyone wants to know is where you came from and where you are going.
For a moment, my view from the window was full of piles of dust-dried earth and little girls wrapped in colorful hijabs with their backs bent in the scorching heat that carried heavy beams on their heads. Burqa-clad beggars sit with their children on bombed-out roads, waiting for passers-by to toss a coin or bottle of water as they pass.
There is evidence of heavy fighting everywhere: decimated houses with chewed contents that rot in the light of day, barren and broken villages that turn gray through relentless aerial bombardment and even mosques were burned and razed. to oblivion. Taliban flags go up in the clear sky at the advanced ruins that belonged to U.S.-backed Afghan forces a few weeks ago. Dozens of destroyed armored personnel carriers, a basic blow to the missing Afghan military, splash the sidewalks; their flattened tires sink to the ground as stray, slender dogs seek refuge beside them.
We deviate around potholes and overturned cargo trucks, careful to avoid the many spots where pieces of tar and dirt have been torn from the ground by years of war. In the words of our companion Gul, the roads in his country have been “damaged.” He tells us that everyone wants to flee Afghanistan, but there is no place where everyone can go.
“When I saw the Taliban flag enter my village for the first time, I couldn’t eat and cried for days,” he says. “And I asked the Taliban commander to please allow us to fly the Afghan flag next to it as well.”
For Gul, this rectangle of red, green and black stripes represents much more than President Ghani, who finally fled the palace weeks ago and allowed the Taliban to attack without resistance. But his simple request to the Taliban received an aggression, and a swarm of rifles aimed its way, prompting the college student to carefully withdraw.
“How can we stand up? One person is not enough “, he says tired.
Gul learned to speak English by watching Hollywood action movies (his favorite was the “Fast & Furious” franchise) and he loves Michael Jackson and Justin Bieber. He also enjoys singing and reading poetry in his mother tongue, Pashto, also the language of the Taliban, which publicly forbids such pleasures.
What happens to the Taliban is that almost everyone you know has relatives who are members of the insurgency and Afghan forces. This is not a clear delimitation, but rather a murky change of loyalties, depending on the difficulty that the opinions of religion have and how they can better feed their family and provide them with protection. Locals say many Taliban remained hiding in the hills awaiting the appointed date of the US withdrawal, but are now swarming freely through the streets.
Our driver and his brothers constantly ask for opinions and want to understand how the outside world sees their country. Everyone is disappointed that the United States is leaving, though none express anger or guilt. No one supports the Taliban, insisting that life was better before, but expresses genuine confusion about why the U.S. military destroyed millions of dollars worth of high-powered equipment given to Afghan forces before its frenzy. final departure from Hamid Karzai International Airport last week. They warn that their country still has the ISIS-K battle ahead.
“Afghans are unfortunate,” the young driver says. “But we would be the luckiest people if wars ever go away: look at this magical place outside.”
Certainly Afghanistan is a bloody country, but it is still beautiful. Unfortunately, it’s easy to forget that it’s a beautiful place, torn apart by a history of beatings and beatings.
The next moment, the views are ripe with the fertile Afghan lands: almond trees on one side and peanut crops on the other, the lush vegetation that sinks against the incessant Hindu Kush mountain range. Those in rural areas are seemingly immune to life in states of uncertainty, conflict and change.
We stop in Samangan Province for lunch, where restaurants take out brass trays of sheep kebabs and goat yogurt and life goes on. It’s weird to think how quickly mindsets, including mine, adjust as I lift my face mask and casually mention why the Taliban are grouping out, a concept that would have instilled serious concern less than a month ago.
I realize this is the first time, somewhat ironically, that I can travel by vehicle through Afghanistan. This was something he could not do for years before, given the unequal control the Taliban already had over many of the roads and road infrastructure, which made it too dangerous to do so. Even more ironically, the only package I can’t get into now is the Panjshir Valley, a picturesque place we used to visit during the weekends of horseback riding and hiking, picnics and parties stuffed with flying stars and baking bread. in a small mud. huts equipped with old wooden stoves dug into the ground.
The journey through the Salang Pass is perhaps the strongest microcosm of Afghanistan’s bitter past. It is a disastrous trail through tunnels and tracks that connects the northern part of the country to Parwan province and then to Kabul province and the south of the country. Recent conflicts mean roads have never been repaired and, in times of heavy leaks and traffic jams, Afghans would die from carbon monoxide poisoning in poorly ventilated tunnels. In addition, the relatively empty corridor means that few are willing to face the streets, except the Taliban, who shout passing by with flashing lights and demonstrations of skill, who must be given a rite of passage.
After the fall of darkness, we reach Parwan and, above all, Jabal Sijaj, the sinking point in the Panjshir Valley, the iconic resistance province, and the last Taliban checkpoint. The presence of Taliban around the front door is the largest we have seen and the only time a checkpoint pulls the deck and calls a commander to come check passports and wake up questions while it is rumored that the Taliban they launch a dramatic offensive against pushing deeper.
By the time we get to Kabul, until Saturday night, the streets outside are already very quiet. We sit in the dark, have tea and work by candlelight to save the small generator from the famous capital with electricity problems.
On Sunday morning, at the beginning of the work week, there are remnants of “old” Afghanistan: fruit shops open in the corners of the streets, men gathered in small groups watching a video with a smartphone, women away from home without male companions. half without a burka, and there are still some car horns left. Only the streets are a faded shadow of the past; vitality and laughter have given way to a feeling of low lying and constant anxiety.
“Have you had any problems? Aren’t you afraid? Whispers a watermelon salesman, his brown eyes browned with worry.
The Taliban patrol in white armored vehicles, in police cars and on foot (always armed), with their signature black and white flag, already unfurled by all they possess. As I approach a vehicle, I see the flag painted on the back, but underneath is a sticker promoting the “Brooklyn Zoo.”
It is a discordant juxtaposition of the world before and now, still struggling to find its footing.