life after war
A 7-year-old orphan boy hobbled on crutches down the chaotic streets. An active land mine had blown off his left leg three years earlier. His face was smudged with dirt, his clothes were in rags, his hair was matted and his belly growled with chronic emptiness. He was desperate as he extended his unfilled hand to those he passed. He begged for small currency and pieces of bread. Something. Anything.

After two decades of unrelenting civil war, poverty is an epidemic in Afghanistan. It is difficult to believe it even when you see it.

Most Americans think the work in Afghanistan is finished. But bullet-scarred buildings still teeter on every block in Kabul. Reconstruction is slow, and the only real work taking place is on the part of small businesses, which subsidize themselves.

Despite two years of marginal peace, Afghans remain on edge. There is a thick tension in the city that won’t pass with the introduction of yet another government.

The Taliban’s brutality spawned one of the largest refugee crises in world history. Millions of Afghans fled their homeland to countries such as Pakistan and Iran. Millions have since returned to Afghanistan after host countries made it clear their presence was unwelcome.
But for many, the homecoming has been joyless. They find their homes destroyed, schools demolished and employment opportunities non-existent.

Education is considered a privilege for most Afghans. Many have no choice but to work in the streets, begging or selling everything from sponges to blessings.

Thousands have found their only option is to stick together. They form camps of 10 to 50 families in patches of open land or amid ruins.
I was told before I went to a camp to prepare myself because the conditions were squalid. I listened to the warnings, but nothing could have prepared me.
The buildings along a busy, main street in Kabul are evidence of the lack of reconstruction.
my reality
Passion for my work generated a deep need for understanding. And slowly, almost without my knowing, Kabul became my reality.

Yet, there were some things I never fully adjusted to.

Being American in a Middle-Eastern Islamic country is difficult. Being an American woman in the same situation is life-altering.

Whenever I stepped outside the guest house gates, I wore a chador, a scarf-like head covering. I also concealed my arms, midriff and legs with a long shirt and pants. I viewed the garments as symbols of cultural respect, and the only time they bothered me was when the heat spiked to 120 degrees.

In public, I was stared at constantly. Some of the attention could be attributed to innocent curiosity. But I was often taunted and even groped.


Some Afghan men stereotype Western women as promiscuous. The majority of the men are respectful, but it was prevalent enough that I, and anyone with me, was incessantly watching for stray hands. I learned enough Dari to tell off my aggressors, but I had to choose my battles. Drawing more attention to myself than I already garnered could have been dangerous.

While it was a nuisance, unwanted interest was not the most trying aspect about my position in Afghan society — it was my loss of freedom. I could not drive a car or ride a bicycle. I couldn’t speak whenever I felt like it. I had a strict dress code to follow. I couldn’t go anywhere alone or without permission.

I understood it all to be precautionary safety measures, but being stripped of choices was extremely frustrating.

After a while, though, Afghanistan has a way of forcing you to look outside of yourself.

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