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Herat wasn’ t the centre of the war. Kandahar and Kabul had suffered more intensely. Yet the armoured cars and checkpoints were constant reminders that safety here was never guaranteed. Still, Barak insisted the situation was calmer than two years ago.
Entering the newly restored citadel was a thrill. The Taliban guard at the entrance told me foreigners were rare and invited me to sit beside him for a chat.
The 500 kilometres from Herat to Kandahar forced me to weave between countless checkpoints and navigate the dangers of the only road— a strip of broken asphalt, shattered by war. Deep ruts, some half a metre deep, forced me to slow constantly. Every few hundred metres, the surface dropped away again, and I had to swerve between trucks, all slaloming towards the“ easiest landing.”
They say these cuts were once part of war tactics.
The trucks, overloaded to absurd limits, swayed dangerously. Some had toppled. Along the road lay abandoned American bases, concrete casemates now silent and sand-filled. The Taliban ones, though, were still manned— as were the entrances to every town and village.
Incredibly, none of these guards gave me trouble. A“ Salam” and a smile were always enough— sometimes even rewarded with selfies, tea, or laughter.
In the city, in a hive of markets, scooters, soldiers, and guns, life went on. Poor, but dignified. Curious about the Western stranger, eager for contact. In just a few days I’ d gathered more human encounters than I could count.
In Kandahar, the Taliban stronghold, I ate dinner at two tables— one with locals, another with children flying kites. A hairdresser rescued me from a swarm of mischievous kids by offering tea in his tiny salon. I saw monuments transformed into barracks, wrapped in barbed wire and concrete.
After Kandahar, I rode for Ghazni— the last stop before the mountains. A few hundred kilometres of brutal road: endless checkpoints, shattered asphalt, a landscape of ruin. The citadel was crumbling, a ghost of its former grandeur. Rubble and military wrecks were now part of the scenery.
As I wandered alone through the ruins, a group of university students approached, eager to show me their city. They became my guides for the day, and my hosts for dinner. Later, a baker offered me a wheelbarrow of freshly baked bread; others brought tea. Everywhere I went, there was company— people willing to give the little they had, asking nothing in
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