This story is part of our Your First Published Article series. An NGO worker ventures to Taliban-run Afghanistan, where she experiences the hostility and wonder of Afghan culture and scenery, from sex-segregated eating halls to snowy mountain paths.
“Afghanistan is not just another trip, Maureen,” Ori insisted. His words, though irritating, resonated with truth. Yet, the pretense remained–that this journey was just another adventure similar to my previous travels. But the tightening knot in my stomach, present for weeks before departure, betrayed my anxiety. Ori’s constant reminders that his loved one was heading to a terrorist-controlled country did nothing to soothe my nerves. I did not know what to expect from Afghanistan. And that unknown was unsettling. I was trying to make something up, anything that could fill the blank space in my mind. My imagination came up with a place with traits of countries I had been to in the Middle East. And with that image in mind, I left Brussels.
We drove away from Kabul International Airport in a small German car. The security guy from the NGO I was working for sat by the driver, and I was in the back, trying to cover my head with an ever-falling hijab. Finally relaxing, I tried to absorb the first impressions emerging from the car window: street vendors lining the dusty roads, their colorful fruits piled high against a backdrop of chaotic traffic with bicycles weaving precariously around battered cars. The air was thick with the aroma of spices from roadside stalls and the earthy scent of clay buildings crumbling under the weight of negligence and rough times. Tiny houses in a deteriorating shape had roofs of corrugated iron. There were men–primarily men–filling the streets. The car arrived at the compound after a twenty-minute drive into this new reality. Far from the bustling NGO hubs seen in movies, the compound was a single building housing both offices and a guesthouse. After a thorough search for explosive devices on the car, we were let in.
Security protocols were strict, and I was confined to the compound–with the exception of approved outings. The days passed quickly and after a week in Kabul, the city remained a mystery to me. Only our office offered a glimpse of what life was like outside. The few female staff members were kept in a room where men could not enter. As a foreigner, I was allowed to work alongside male colleagues. Eating, however, was strictly between the same sex, highlighting the privileges and limitations of my position. Female staff were served lunch only after the men. For weeks, going outside for a walk felt like a dream. The compound guards brought us produce from outside: fruits, sweets, whatever they could find. Evenings were spent huddled by the heating system in the guesthouse salon. I craved honey for my hot tea, something to soften the cold. But the city seemed to be out of it, and so I was left longing for a trace of sweetness to cut through the bitter, caged days.
Finally, a field mission to the Bamiyan province was approved. Leaving the compound became possible. Getting out of Kabul was trickier than expected amidst the bustle of Ramadan preparations. The streets were full of vendors selling fruits, dates, and vegetables. The drive offered a glimpse into the lives of Afghan men and the rare sight of women fully covered in burqas. Faces, colors, and buildings rushed by the car window, revealing a strange Central Asian landscape. Yet, the street signs, written in Dari, carried the elegant curves of Arabic script. After we left the city and hit the road to Bamiyan, the mountains reached an even more dramatic appearance. I had already seen them in Kabul, where they were in the background, almost invisible. Now, the mountains were engulfing us, and soon, everything around us was white. Temperatures in Afghanistan had dropped before my arrival, and the landscape was draped in snow, giving the trip the air of a Himalayan escape.
As we exited the city, cemeteries stretched on both sides of the road. In the lowlands, small stones marked the scattered tombs across the fields. There seemed not to be a delimitation to the cemeteries themselves, like a growing stain of dark aquarelle across a white page. Flags of different colors and scorched by the wind could be seen here and there. Did those who died in the last decades of conflict ever find a place to rest? And what of the women, given the little importance they were granted in Afghanistan’s society, despite their centrality in raising the men of the country? I wondered for a long time as we drove on, reflecting on death, in a country that had seen so many.
The weather grew bitterly cold as we advanced toward Bamiyan, the car tires crunching through fresh snow that glistened under the weak afternoon sun. Towering mountains looked down on us on either side, their peaks disappearing into low-hanging clouds. The silence of the landscape was broken only by the sound of the wind. Reaching a passage where the snow was still thick and slippery, cars stopped to put on chains while heavy trucks were going down the mountain at full speed. We reached the highest point in Afghanistan early afternoon, not without effort. Foxes were wandering on the slopes of the mountains, my eyes catching their movement on the snow. Large rodents were also peaking their nose in and out, checking on predators before rushing from one hole to another. I wondered how they had adapted to the new rush of cars and trucks now using Maidan Wardak Road. With its narrow passages and snowy paths, the road had proven a strategic asset during the Taliban insurgency and had only reopened since their takeover.
After passing through one of the city gates, we finally entered Bamiyan, only to be stopped again for registration. While a Taliban handled our travel authorisation, my gaze fell on a group of young men playing volleyball, their guns lying next to them. They almost seemed like kids, if not for the typical beard mandated by the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan. The scene felt surreal. The male colleague in the front seat was casually chatting with one of the armed young men when they realized they were from the same region. Later, he would tell me how his family had fled Afghanistan for Pakistan during his childhood, their home rendered unsafe by the fighting between the Taliban and American forces. As we drove on, the image of that makeshift volleyball pitch, its corners marked by Kalashnikovs, lingered in my mind.
We drove further towards the city. Bamiyan’s landscape, with its ancient houses carved into pastel-colored sandstone mountains, evoked a Wes Anderson film brought to life. Snow-capped peaks loomed in the distance, casting long shadows over the quiet valleys, while children herded sheep through narrow dirt paths lined with wildflowers. Though a provincial capital, Bamiyan was small, with one or two-story buildings surrounded by fields. A river ran through the city, crossed by small bridges that reminded me of Southeast Asian water towns. But here, everything was concrete, and the snowy mountains in the background firmly anchored me in the Afghan countryside.
It was striking to see people with features more typical of Central Asia. Most of the population in Bamiyan province was Shia, in a country that was predominantly Sunni. Religious rites, daily habits, and even the food reflected this difference. The market was alive with colors and scents, dried fruits, fresh bread, and spices all around. We wandered the stalls until a sweet aroma caught my attention. A young boy was selling jars of honey from the local fields, and buying one felt like a small act of freedom I could carry back to Kabul.
For the three days we were there, we could walk around freely: a rare privilege. A short fifteen-minute stroll along a busy road led from our accommodation to the city center, yet that alone was more than we could ever dream of in Kabul. Every morning, my lungs filled with fresh air, and my eyes took in the alcoves where the Buddhas once stood. The space was empty, the statues destroyed by the Taliban in 2001. Yet the mountains and the snow behind them made it look like a postcard. The missing statues were even more impressive now, their absence a silent reminder of both what once was and the idiocy of humankind that made it disappear.
Returning to Kabul, its narrow alleyways teemed with life. Boys in ragged clothes ran between cars, their hands outstretched for spare change. Overhead, kites soared in a patchwork sky, a rare sight of joy in a city weighed down by its struggles. And yet, in this colorful chaos that was Kabul, its street vendors selling anything you could dream of, from dates to goldfish, its shoe shiners at every corner, its military tanks with Taliban soldiers at every roundabout, its markets of colorful fruits, everything seemed to have its rhythm. Stuck in traffic, I could only daydream, gazing out the car window. As we drove further into Kabul, the sky bright and the sun shining after weeks of harsh weather, I felt a quiet recognition, neither belonging nor distance.
Back in the guesthouse’s kitchen, I took a spoonful of the honey bought in Bamiyan. Its golden hues caught the fading sunlight streaming through the window, and as it melted on my tongue, a symphony of flavors emerged. Earthy, floral, with a faint tang that reminded me of the rugged mountains and people I had come to know. Its unique taste, like Afghanistan’s, was a blend of many different flavors; the taste of honey from different flowers.
