A glimpse of Kabul’s enigmatic face
On August 1 this year, I started an office job. It was a one-month contract, but they said it could be extended if I proved my competence. I didn’t. My contract wasn’t renewed. Yet, that month of work and wandering around the city gave me a closer look at Kabul’s new face. Going to work early in the morning, staying busy all day, eating lunch at the office, meeting colleagues, and encountering different people on the way — showed how much has changed in the last three years.
I commuted from Khair Khana to Kote Sangi using shared taxis, then switched to city buses to Pul-e-Surkh. Depending on the time of day, weary commuters quickly filled up taxis, but buses were nearly empty. City buses now follow a new rule where women sit in the seats, and men stand in the middle of the bus. Some buses exclusively carry either men or women. Drivers aren’t happy when only women board, as there are fewer women in the markets, leaving buses underutilized. A few women and girls sat in their seats — one heading to teach at a private school for a meager salary of 3,000 afghani a month, another to work as a nanny for the same pay. Some young women were attending health institutes to study midwifery or nursing. During that month, I might have seen three women carrying laptop bags.
I realized that people’s faces had changed more than the city itself. I didn’t see anyone smiling. Everyone seemed either overly serious or entirely indifferent. No one asked others where they were coming from or going to. Drivers no longer played music in their vehicles and had grown quieter. They kept to themselves. Chatty passengers were also rare.
Once, I asked a young-looking woman sitting next to me, with a child in her arms, about her destination. She answered and shared a bit about her life. Despite her youthful appearance, I learned she had another 7-year-old child besides the one she held. Most days, I traveled the hour-long route in silence, observing nothing noteworthy. The city seemed enigmatic and withdrawn. It was impossible to guess or discover anything new about it. Kabul felt like a silent film — one that endlessly repeated the same dull scene, far removed from its lively days when the streets were filled with purposeful people. A regime change can completely transform a city’s character.
The head of the office that had hired me often asked what I had aspired to become in life and why I had pursued an education. He emphasized that if I showed loyalty to the organization, they could keep me long-term. He didn’t ask whether I wanted to stay after the end of my month-long contract but rather reminded me that loyalty would earn me a long-term contract. I didn’t know how to demonstrate loyalty. He had managed to establish an office under the radar of the ruling regime by hiring a few men and women. Perhaps that’s why he worried about his employees causing trouble.
Karte Char, once nicknamed “Food Street” for its abundance of restaurants and cafes, had turned into a street of abandoned, customerless eateries. The cafes and restaurants still stood, but, except for a few patrons at lunch or dinner, they were empty. Restaurant owners seemed to carry on with faint hope, waiting for a future they couldn’t foresee. One day, I visited Café Cupcake. On the second floor, there were only three of us, including my companion. Downstairs there were two or three men sipping tea. It truly felt as though everyone had left. That day, Kabul seemed so deserted. Everyone had gone, and yet, I was still there.
For a month, I passed through Pul-e-Surkh but never entered the book market. I couldn’t bear to witness the decline of the booksellers — those torchbearers of enlightenment. On the last day of my job, I went as far as the entrance to the book market but couldn’t step inside. I turned back and called a friend, who invited me over. Her home was in one of Karte Seh’s beautiful buildings. She told me she had struggled to get out of bed when she received my call. A week earlier, she had lost her job and was now unemployed. She said she was planning to go to Iran to continue her studies.
Her unemployment and impending departure deepened my melancholy. Yet, like the last soldier in a trench, I stubbornly held back tears, refusing to let them fall. Leaving her home, I returned to my small, dimly lit apartment.
Khadija Haidari is a Zan Times journalist.
