Taliban in the treetops
An hour before sunrise, the streets of Kabul are empty. The wedding party drag racers all gone to bed. It’s a tradition here after weddings, brigades of Russian ladas and Toyota minivans and beribboned taxicabs all honking and swerving to beat the newlyweds home, so if you figure on several dozen weddings a night + the absence of traffic lights + the potholes of Kabul, early morning hours can be a bit mad.
But now everything’s quiet. We drive quietly through the checkpoints and stop at a gas station just outside the city gates. In the backseat my friend Vanessa looks wide-eyed at the asphalt and well-lit pumps. She was last here in 2003, when there were no gas stations, just dark shacks and some dude with a bucket. “What’s next,” she jokes. “A Getty Mart?” I look towards the building where, if this were a Getty Mart, the clerk and the coffee and the maps and snacks and newspapers and twinkies would be. They are, of course, not. Neither is the ATM sign or stickers on the door or cans of motor oil or ICE machine. No sink or table or anything else in the small enclosed room. Just, on the floor in the corner, an electric tea kettle and glass mug. And in the center of the room, under the fluorescent light, two hooded figures. One is kneeling in prayer and the other is about to. Their breath rises, visibly.
I give our driver money for gas. It’s more expensive than home—40 bucks to fill the tank. Just as a point of comparison: our driver Daud is a surgeon in one of Kabul’s biggest hospitals. The hospital pays him $60 a month. I pay him more than that in one day. I can do this because there is a market in America for stories about Afghanistan. It’s a funny way to think about the news. Try it maybe. If you listen the story I do from this trip, which should air on the BBC sometime next week, think to yourself: this story helped Daud feed his wife and four kids and continue saving lives at the hospital. That's a pitch you never heard on public radio pledge drives.
Of course, for Daud it’s not only about the money. He’s had some adventures working for journalists. He got to be in the first car to enter Kabul in 2001 after the Taliban were defeated. He was with a four star general and a reporter from the Washington Post. They were driving a Taliban car so at first people didn’t know who they were. When people realized they were Northern Alliance they started throwing candy at the car. The reporter thought they were throwing stones and got nervous. Daud laughed. Taliban had imprisoned his brother for a year. Taliban had made it almost impossible for him to get his medical education. Now the people were throwing candy.
Inside Kabul the Taliban had fled. They found only seven fighters who had climbed a tree. They were foreigners who didn't know their way out of Kabul. From the treetop they fired on the people. They shot a child and a woman before the northern soldiers arrived with their guns. Bang, bang, bang. Plop, plop, plop. Daud watched seven taliban dropping from the branches, like overripe apples.
By sunrise I’m doing my turn at the wheel & Daud is in the passenger seat worrying I’m going to wreck his gearshift. Vanessa grumbles in the back under her hijab because Muslim custom forbids women in the front seat and though it’s okay in Kabul here in the countryside we’d call attention. Daud is thinking about moving to Australia. His cousin is there now driving a taxi. Would you have to drive a taxi too I say no he says there is a course maybe only one year and then I can work as doctor. We drive through the mountains and then along a river and then turn left by a tributary towards the village which is our destination. The riverbed here is dry and filled with garbage but I do notice, under a little bridge, a puddle and a circle of seven ducks. Stiff-necked they face each other pretending that this is exactly where they meant to end their days, under a footbridge in Afghanistan, in a dry gully filled with garbage. I wonder if they know their way home. I wonder if Afghan ducks can fly. I wonder how long before someone sees them and kills them for dinner.
But now everything’s quiet. We drive quietly through the checkpoints and stop at a gas station just outside the city gates. In the backseat my friend Vanessa looks wide-eyed at the asphalt and well-lit pumps. She was last here in 2003, when there were no gas stations, just dark shacks and some dude with a bucket. “What’s next,” she jokes. “A Getty Mart?” I look towards the building where, if this were a Getty Mart, the clerk and the coffee and the maps and snacks and newspapers and twinkies would be. They are, of course, not. Neither is the ATM sign or stickers on the door or cans of motor oil or ICE machine. No sink or table or anything else in the small enclosed room. Just, on the floor in the corner, an electric tea kettle and glass mug. And in the center of the room, under the fluorescent light, two hooded figures. One is kneeling in prayer and the other is about to. Their breath rises, visibly.
I give our driver money for gas. It’s more expensive than home—40 bucks to fill the tank. Just as a point of comparison: our driver Daud is a surgeon in one of Kabul’s biggest hospitals. The hospital pays him $60 a month. I pay him more than that in one day. I can do this because there is a market in America for stories about Afghanistan. It’s a funny way to think about the news. Try it maybe. If you listen the story I do from this trip, which should air on the BBC sometime next week, think to yourself: this story helped Daud feed his wife and four kids and continue saving lives at the hospital. That's a pitch you never heard on public radio pledge drives.
Of course, for Daud it’s not only about the money. He’s had some adventures working for journalists. He got to be in the first car to enter Kabul in 2001 after the Taliban were defeated. He was with a four star general and a reporter from the Washington Post. They were driving a Taliban car so at first people didn’t know who they were. When people realized they were Northern Alliance they started throwing candy at the car. The reporter thought they were throwing stones and got nervous. Daud laughed. Taliban had imprisoned his brother for a year. Taliban had made it almost impossible for him to get his medical education. Now the people were throwing candy.
Inside Kabul the Taliban had fled. They found only seven fighters who had climbed a tree. They were foreigners who didn't know their way out of Kabul. From the treetop they fired on the people. They shot a child and a woman before the northern soldiers arrived with their guns. Bang, bang, bang. Plop, plop, plop. Daud watched seven taliban dropping from the branches, like overripe apples.
By sunrise I’m doing my turn at the wheel & Daud is in the passenger seat worrying I’m going to wreck his gearshift. Vanessa grumbles in the back under her hijab because Muslim custom forbids women in the front seat and though it’s okay in Kabul here in the countryside we’d call attention. Daud is thinking about moving to Australia. His cousin is there now driving a taxi. Would you have to drive a taxi too I say no he says there is a course maybe only one year and then I can work as doctor. We drive through the mountains and then along a river and then turn left by a tributary towards the village which is our destination. The riverbed here is dry and filled with garbage but I do notice, under a little bridge, a puddle and a circle of seven ducks. Stiff-necked they face each other pretending that this is exactly where they meant to end their days, under a footbridge in Afghanistan, in a dry gully filled with garbage. I wonder if they know their way home. I wonder if Afghan ducks can fly. I wonder how long before someone sees them and kills them for dinner.
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