I visited a group of aid workers in Afghanistan in
May 1996. I traveled from Peshawar to Kabul by Red Cross plane.
We landed on a rough airstrip and completed the entrance
formalities on the tarmac by the plane. They drove us in a Red
Cross station wagon along the countryside toward Kabul. It was
like stepping back 2000 years in time as we saw the tents of the
nomads with the animals around them. The terrain looked harsh.As we entered the city, the destroyed buildings along the wide streets bore evidence of the warfare of the last fifteen years. The sandbags in front of the guest house and the sounds of an occasional outgoing missile flying over our heads toward the Taliban position reminded me that fighting was still in process. In May 1996 the Taliban were fighting for control. At the sound of the incoming missiles we took cover. My host knew the difference.
I remember my hostess who shared her spacious accommodation with me. She was a nurse from Finland who worked in a clinic for women and children. We had one electric light and hot water made possible by solar power. We had several types of food, but my memory is stuck on the long buns of naan bread that we bought in the bazaar and reheated in the home. I remember her health clinic crowded with women and children and the aid workers, who treated the whole body with medicines, teaching and recreation. I spent many hours of conversation over our naan bread and green tea with two American eye specialists who were responsible for a very comprehensive eye program in the country. The young women students of the Physical Rehabilitation School, not yet under the harsh restrictions of the Taliban, enjoyed visiting with us. One-legged victims of land mines walked the streets. The boys and girls on the way to school were friendly.
I remember the 173-mile trip by road along the Kabul River and Khyber pass. The ride through the Kabul gorge was spectacular. For two hours high rocky hills of colorless rock rose up on both sides of the river, then the river gradually widened and finally became a swampy valley. After three hours we had a rest stop when we competed with each other to find the largest rock to hide behind. After that we sat on the floor in a tea shop filled with flies and drank green tea from disposable clay cups.
We stopped at Jalabad, a large laid out city with little evidence of war. From there it was not far to the Pakistan border. Our vehicle stopped some distance from the Pakistani entrance gate. We took our baggage, quickly cleared immigration, and walked through the gate as large numbers of Afghans fought with the soldiers to follow us. The soldiers harshly beat them back. Pakistan had no more room for Afghan refugees. That memory of the crowds fighting to enter Pakistan is a nightmare that often haunts me now, more than five years later.