What Will Afghanistan Be Like in Fifteen Years?

As part of a collaboration with NewEurasia.net, I’ve been asked to write about what Afghanistan for their speculative symposium. Since this is clearly a difficult task—fifteen years ago the country had just thrown off the Soviets and no one outside of Kandahar had heard of the Taliban or Al-Qaeda—I’m naturally going to take some big short-cuts. The most obvious is avoiding the larger geopolitical picture—at their request I am writing a non-descriptive piece, so I’m pretending to write a letter from a normal Afghani citizen, living in the relatively calm Herat province in the west, to his cousin in Montreal (this is loosely based on the framework of the movie “Kandahar”). Other shortcuts will include not focusing on the tiny details of daily life—this isn’t a book, and I’m not Asne Seierstad, though her work’s influence will clearly shine through. As a last caveat, I’m not terribly skilled with fiction, so I’d appreciate everyone humoring me on style and flow.

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June 17th, 2021
My Dear Afzal,

This morning was tough. There weren’t any mortars this time, but that same fear was still there, gnawing at my belly. Lamiha barely stirred at the muezzin, not really wishing to face God or the new day in prayer. I was told her how shameful this was—how could she turn her back on God?—but in my heart I shared her feelings and didn’t press it further. Aside from the few, all too brief years when you were here with us, I can’t remember a time without fighting, or running, or desperarely wishing to grow old and see my son marry.

I even thought I had managed to forget that jubilation, that wonderful feeling of lightness I had when Ismail Khan had declared us free forever. But I hadn’t. None of us thought about what would follow—the years of car bombings and assassinations, the horrible weeks of war between Iran and America, the grinding fear that the light of day would peter out and die behind a rain of mortar shells. Remembering the day he was murdered still makes my stomach drop. He was always our hope, the one man who would stop at nothing to defend and rule us. All my life, it seemed neither the Soviets, nor the Taliban, nor even his own treacherous deputies could stop him. The day his car was bombed still jolts me, even though it was so many years ago—like losing another father to the damned Taliban.

I’m afraid there really isn’t much news. The fighting continues as always, and our weariness neither grows nor abates. I stopped counting how many times the Taliban have come close to running us through; they are almost a myth at this point, some illusion of threat designed by all the foreigners to keep us huddled in agonizing fear. A man came to town yesterday. He had bright white skin, but spoke with a Waziri accent. I don’t trust him, though I let him stay at the inn. He pays, and I need the money. I hope I don’t meet the same fate as the others who have helped outsiders here—I rather enjoy my thumbs. I pray he doesn’t bring disaster on my family.

I loved the the last picture you sent. You have such a beautiful family, and your sons look strong. I suppose it’s ironic the only one of mine to live this long was Haseeb. Lamiha couldn’t have another child after Jamaal was killed at university, and I have grown tired of trying. It’s so hard even to walk out to the inn, to sit at that desk and pray for life to settle into normalcy, to your comfortable world of school and food and TV and peace, I can’t bear to think of trying to protect any more children. This world isn’t kind to the young.

I don’t understand why I feel this way. When I was younger, when the Taliban were driven from Herat the first time, I felt I had finally conquered my fear. I didn’t flinch when the American tanks rolled through on their way to Mashad, even though people died in the protests. Even when the car bombings started up in 2004, during that long half-peace before the Taliban came back, I felt in control. Then again, I was only 20. Fear should not increase with age, it should be conquered. Am I a coward for not mastering it?

At this point, I can only hope the Persians keep the Taliban beyond the river. The jets don’t startle me any more, or even the deep rumble of explosions I always feel right in my chest. I dont trust the Americans, or NATO, or any any more. They only seemed to care about us when we were dying, and even then the women were rude and the men lecherous. The Persians haven’t been much better, though they at least pretend to follow Islam. I’ll be happy when they leave us alone forever.

Do you have any more news about the possibility of us joining you? I know I said I couldn’t leave my home, but I hate living here. You have a nice life, and I wish I could share it. Whatever the annoyances you’ve shared, I would prefer them to the last five years of my life. Please, let me know more of your life, and send as many pictures as you can spare. They brighten my days.

With love always,
Dilawar

This entry is cross-posted over at NewEurasia along with articles from other bloggers across Central Asia writing on the same topic: what will the country you live in be like in 15 years? The other posts, which are really interesting, can be found here.