TRAVERSE 154
“ father Buddha,” was visible from afar, a northern star guiding me to the site.
There I met a TV crew from Shamshad who invited me for an interview. I took the chance to ask them questions.
“ Why,” I said,“ after twenty years of American presence, do so few Afghans speak English?”
They smiled.“ The Americans? Who saw them? They stayed inside their fortresses. When they came out, it was in armoured convoys— and that never meant anything good.”
Then I asked about the destruction of the Buddhas— why the Taliban, who now seem to protect what remains, once destroyed them.
One man’ s answer struck me deeply:
“ When our deaths meant nothing to the West, we understood that our lives were worth little. But the monuments— those mattered. So, we destroyed what they valued, to show we would do anything to reclaim our land.”
From there, a winding dirt road led to Band-e Amir— perhaps the most astonishing place in the country.
Seven sapphire lakes lay in a canyon cut into a high plateau at 3,000 metres. The peaks around rose to 3,700. The plains were covered in wild steppe grass, where herds of sheep and goats grazed. The scenery was majestic; the people, unfailingly kind.
I left reluctantly, heading back toward Kabul. As I descended from the mountains, Afghanistan changed again— the beauty fading into dust and chaos. Poverty, potholes, the roar of scooters and three-wheelers, the endless line of checkpoints.
Near the capital, I passed the airport— the same one seen worldwide during the American withdrawal. I couldn’ t help but remember those images, and how different the place felt now.
Kabul, in some ways, almost seemed normal. Women walked the streets— veiled, yes, but one wore stiletto heels; another, bright red shoes peeking from under her jeans. In a phone shop, three men stood idle while a young woman repaired my mobile. In the park, a couple walked together, her head resting on his shoulder. Small fragments of ordinary life.
And yet, everywhere, the reminders of fragility: two-metre concrete barriers, barbed wire, armed guards. It wasn’ t normal— not yet.
Leaving Kabul, I took the road to Jalalabad— a treacherous two-lane highway carved along the Kabul River Gorge. For sixty kilometres it twists between 600-metre cliffs, one of the most dangerous roads in the world. Tight turns, crumbling edges,
TRAVERSE 154