The lie of the ‘renovated’ Salang Tunnel
Salang is one of the most famous highways in Afghanistan, and one of the most important as it connects Kabul with the northern provinces of the country. The highway’s most renowned section is the Salang Tunnel, a 2.7-kilometre tunnel that is crucial for keeping that north-south transportation route open throughout the year. Originally built by the Soviets in 1964, this feat of engineering is one of the highest road tunnels in the world.
In late December, the Taliban regime showed off their reconstruction of the Salang Tunnel, with a senior official promising that they’d used good quality materials in the work. I was puzzled as the hype over its reconstruction and development by the Taliban authorities in Kabul escalated. My mind couldn’t reconcile the contradictions that such boasts raised: How could the officials of a group whose hands are stained with the blood of the people and who gloriously exploded roads, bridges, and infrastructure in the past two decades make a 180-degree turn to become builders of prosperity and comfort for the people? I was curious to experience the Salang highway in person, especially the Salang Tunnel.
As we approached the Salang Tunnel from the Baghlan end, the highway was being repaired, resulting in a dusty, dirty road to vehicles. We were in an old Canadian-made, grey-coloured Corolla, whose driver, a calm and composed young man, enjoyed recounting stories of other passengers he’d driven on this route. As we approached the only pass before the Salang Tunnel, we noticed that, while the road was asphalted, it felt like it hadn’t been done by professionals. Still, our goal was the tunnel, which had become a powerful symbol of Taliban propaganda, which promised a smooth and peaceful passage.
As our vehicle entered the tunnel, I expected to see a well-lit tunnel with abundant golden lights and cars swiftly driving through it. Reality quickly intruded. Nothing was recognizable in the dust and darkness – no asphalt could be felt under tires, and there were no working lights in the tunnel. Instead, drivers used their vehicle headlights. Passing through that tunnel was a hellish experience as every moment brought the possibility of a deadly event.
The honking of the vehicle horns echoing in the confined space sounded so loud that it felt like we were in a full-blown catastrophe.
After maybe two or three minutes after entering, our car stopped to allow a cargo truck coming from the opposite direction to pass us. The dust in the air of the tunnel was so thick we could barely discern the truck as it approached. Its windows were caked with dirt, with only a small section of the front window cleared by its wipers, acting as small snow plows.
Our car waited for a signal – it was unclear from whom – until the congestion slightly decreased and we began moving again. “Have they really repaired the tunnel, sir?” I asked the driver.
With a tone of regret and sorrow, the driver replied with a drawn-out “Hmmm, sister …” He then told me to watch but not ask. As I looked around, I thought, “Would a government that closes schools, shuts down universities, takes bread from my mouth, imprisons and tortures people repair the tunnel for me?” At that moment, the driver showed me a piece of paper, explaining, “Sister, that is the receipt. They take 80 afghani from each small vehicle and 1,500 afghani from each truck as a tunnel toll. This money was not paid before. They collect money from people under the pretext of tunnel repair. Think about how many vehicles pass through this tunnel daily, and the state of the tunnel itself, as you have seen – it is a joke.”
I pressed my fingers to my teeth in astonishment. I could see that the tunnel wasn’t asphalted and hadn’t been properly repaired. A few lights had been added, but they were not visible due to smoke and dust. They hadn’t even installed proper ventilation to reduce the dirtiness of that perilous tunnel. When I asked about the air quality, the driver replied, “They didn’t bother with ventilation. They say that 100 million afghani have been spent on repairs. See for yourself.” I wanted to take a picture, but the camera lens couldn’t detect anything – just the front of a vehicle with its glass covered with dust.
The driver said, “Film it. They are manipulators. They collect money from the people for everything without doing anything. I wonder what they do with all this money.” As we approached the tunnel opening to the south, the driver said, “This was the end of the asphalt, sister.” They hadn’t even repaired the tunnel opening, let alone the asphalt. I thought about the contractors who had taken the repair money while telling themselves that it didn’t matter. Not even 10 million afghani from a 100 million had been spent.
As our trip through the Salang Tunnel ended, I said that a group that closes the gates of schools and universities to half the population (women) should not be expected to have the capacity to develop the country. It has always been like this. But perhaps most distressing is that we do not appear to have learned any lessons from the disasters that befall us.
*Alma Begum is the pseudonym for a female writer in Afghanistan.
