story by Rachel Myers photos by Glenn D. Luther

Why would you walk into a raging fire?” someone asked me just before I left for Afghanistan.

“I guess for the same reason firemen do,” I replied after some thought. “To help put it out.”

In June, Glenn Luther, another Kent State student who had been in Kabul teaching photojournalism since February, recommended me for a position as an English editor for a non-governmental organization called AINA.

Three weeks later, I was on the first of many flights that would take me to another world — and another perspective.

arrival
When the plane descended over the Kabul International Airport, an airplane graveyard appeared through the dust cloud. Mangled metal and flight equipment lay scattered on either side of the lone dirt runway.

The heat was intense and the shock immediate upon entering the airport. A mild panic crept over me as I realized I couldn’t understand a word being said to me.

As I looked around at all the brown faces framed with dark hair, I developed an uneasy self-awareness. With pale skin and red hair, I felt as if every eye in the terminal was fixed on me.

But I was never more terrified than during the ride from the airport to our guest house in Karte Se on the west side of the city.

There are no traffic laws in Kabul. There are no speed limits. There are no streetlights or painted lines on paved roads. There is no designated side of the road on which to drive, and the steering wheel can be found on either side of the vehicle. The roads are congested with taxis, bicycles, beggars, pedestrians, fruit vendors, stray children and goat herds. The only rule: Don’t hit anything.

By the time we got to Karte Se, my eyes were wide and my knuckles were white.

“What the hell am I doing?” I thought.

one month later
I stirred at 3 a.m. when the Muslim call to prayer resonated over loudspeakers throughout the city. I tossed for a few minutes before slipping back into dreams.

At 4:10 a.m., tremors from a small earthquake rattled light items on the shelf, and briefly woke me again.

A rooster began its squawking at 4:30 a.m. and continued through the early morning as I held the pillow tightly over my ears.

Traffic horns began blaring at 5:45 a.m.

At 6:15 a.m., the sun shone through my frosted window from over the mountains.

When my watch alarm sounded at 6:30 a.m., I awoke groggy but alert.

{top} Rachel Myers talks with children at a refugee camp in Kabul. Children in Kabul often must work to feed themselves, and most own nothing more than the clothes they wear.

{bottom} A small Afghan girl crawls off of a bullet-torn taxi that rests in front of her home in west Kabul. Children often play on vehicles and in buildings that have been disabled by war, landmines and bullets. Undetonated rockets can still be found all over Kabul and throughout Afghanistan. The explosives remain inert until someone stumbles across them.
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