{"id":191959,"date":"2021-08-16T12:01:03","date_gmt":"2021-08-16T11:01:03","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/?p=191959"},"modified":"2021-08-16T06:28:20","modified_gmt":"2021-08-16T05:28:20","slug":"afghanistan-no-exit","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/2021\/08\/afghanistan-no-exit\/","title":{"rendered":"Afghanistan: No Exit"},"content":{"rendered":"
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12 Aug 2021 – As the Taliban Seize Cities, Desperate Afghans Are Trapped in an American-Made Fiasco<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

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Hundreds waited inside Afghanistan’s only passport office in Kabul on July 17, 2021, hoping to secure travel documents that could help them leave the country. Photo: Andrew Quilty<\/p><\/div>\n

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1.<\/h3>\n

Afghan friends and colleagues began asking for help leaving the country in June. The requests were nothing new, but in the past they\u2019d mostly been in jest. Now they were serious and urgent. The people who made them weren\u2019t just seeking a better life but refuge.<\/p>\n

The man\u00a0who manages the house where I live in Kabul was among the first to ask. He had worked at three iterations of the house for more than a decade, doing maintenance and looking after the property and guests when my housemate and I were traveling. He\u2019d started in the job long before I arrived and had become a familiar fixture in one of a shrinking handful of Kabul houses where visiting journalists, filmmakers, and researchers could rent a room. We\u2019d been forced to move twice: When our first house was destroyed by fire in 2018 and a year later, when a second place was found to be on a supposed Islamic State\u00a0target list. Both times the house manager, who I\u2019ll call Wali to protect his identity, moved with us, along with a cleaner, an occasional gardener, half a dozen ducks, and the two dogs Wali had brought in from the street as puppies early on.<\/p>\n

Paying electric bills, repairing leaking roofs, and buying firewood for a bunch of freelance journalists could hardly be considered the work of an \u201cAmerican stooge,\u201d but Taliban fighters in Wali\u2019s home village in a rural area north of the city were angered that he was working with foreigners. \u201cMy brother told me I should not come to the village anymore,\u201d Wali confided in June. If the Taliban took control of Kabul, he said, he wouldn\u2019t be safe there either.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Our proximity to war determines how deeply it affects us. I\u2019ve lived and worked as a photographer and writer in Kabul for nearly a decade, but my connections to the city are through friends and memories rather than family or heritage. As long as airlines are flying, I can board a plane anytime and leave. Like all visitors, I\u2019ve been privileged to live with a sense of detachment that has always allowed me to view events in Afghanistan as stories, not as life.<\/p>\n

The shift in the war\u2019s dynamics in recent months \u2014 American troops leaving, the Taliban surging toward the capital as the government struggles to hold them back \u2014 has altered many Afghans\u2019 proximity to the war. It has also altered mine. Around 230 of the country\u2019s roughly 400 districts are now in Taliban hands. Most provincial capitals, including Kandahar in the south and Mazar-i Sharif in the north,\u00a0are surrounded. The first to fall, on August 6, was Zaranj, the capital of Nimroz province in the remote southwest. By Thursday, at least 11<\/a>\u00a0were in Taliban control, including Herat, a major western city\u00a0near Afghanistan\u2019s border with Iran. I\u2019d seen the Doha Agreement<\/a> that set the terms of the U.S. withdrawal as the Americans\u2019 parting gift to the Taliban, giving the insurgents little incentive to halt their military advance. As a senior Taliban military commander told me last year, an end to Taliban violence would only come in exchange for a full government surrender.<\/p>\n

But even I hadn\u2019t anticipated they would advance so quickly.<\/p>\n

The risks associated with a Taliban takeover for people like Wali are real, whether they materialize or not. I described his circumstances to a Taliban source with whom I chat regularly about topics ranging from dating to war crimes. \u201cIt is a very sad situation,\u201d the Taliban member told me, adding that Wali was right to be worried. But, he said, \u201cit depends on the local Taliban intelligence commission. If they don\u2019t have any issue with him no one will say anything to him. Taliban won\u2019t kill everyone.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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People wait in long lines at sunrise to enter Afghanistan\u2019s only passport office in Kabul on July 12, 2021. Photo: Andrew Quilty<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Before dawn one day in July, Wali, his wife, and their three children joined the queues that snake through backstreets to Afghanistan\u2019s only passport office. After the half day it took to lodge their application, they returned at dawn a week later, queued outside through a summer storm and submitted to fingerprinting and retina scans.<\/p>\n

Acquiring an Afghan passport is almost guaranteed for those who apply. But a passport is only as useful<\/a> as the visas inside, and the gates to the most desirable countries are now more closely guarded than ever, with several European countries warning the bloc\u2019s executive against halting the deportation of Afghans amid the current crisis. Even a passport devoid of visas, several applicants told me, provides a sense of progress toward getting out through official channels, regardless of whether it\u2019s realistic. Most will likely end up trying to take treacherous routes west, piling into crowded pickup trucks for a long drive through desert borderlands, over mountain passes, into Iran and on to Turkey and, if possible, beyond. Many will ultimately risk perilous journeys by boat toward Europe. In July, at least 30,000 Afghans were already leaving each week. Margo Baars, the International Organization for Migration\u2019s deputy country director in Afghanistan, told me that figure is \u201cpresumably rising,\u201d as is internal displacement<\/a>. \u201cPreviously, it was mostly young men,\u201d Baars said. \u201cNow it\u2019s families. That\u2019s desperation.\u201d<\/p>\n

With the help of former housemates, I had already started compiling a small stack of documents attesting to Wali\u2019s work over the years. I consulted two friends who served as judges in a European court that rules on asylum claims. Such evidence, they agreed, could help him secure refugee status. Whether such informal affiliations with foreigners would convince the embassy of a Western country to grant him a visa, however, was unlikely.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Survivors and security personnel in the immediate aftermath of a bomb blast in central Kabul on Jan. 27, 2018. Photo: Andrew Quilty<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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2.<\/h3>\n

I\u2019ve long since<\/u> lost count of the number of bombings I\u2019ve covered in Kabul. At those grisly scenes, I\u2019d encounter Afghan photographers and journalists working for international wire services and local outlets, some of whom became friends, and some of whom were subsequently killed or hurt, more than once while covering such attacks. I\u2019d usually find out while scrolling through a messaging group and coming across a photo of their faces, protruding from the collars of blue flak jackets, covered in grey dust, or via a panicked phone call. I\u2019d interact with them in their professional capacities, just as I had with photographers covering dull news conferences and sporting events at home in Sydney. For the Afghan journalists, though, the bombings were not just stories but also the deaths of their countrymen and women \u2014 and often their family and friends. I was close by when a bomb killed more than 100 people on a brisk winter\u2019s day in 2018. I\u2019d tied makeshift tourniquets around shredded legs and felt a man\u2019s exposed brain on my palm while helping carry him to a nearby hospital. Afterward, a street vendor poured water over my hands and watched the watery blood trickle onto the pavement.<\/p>\n

For 20 years, the war has disproportionately affected rural Afghans, who are less likely to have formal connections to the government and are generally less educated and more conservative. Civilians in these areas have grown accustomed to navigating shifting front lines and complex battlefield dynamics, along with more existential fears of death and displacement due to ground offensives, aerial bombing campaigns, and night raids. In many cases, aside from the initial violence required for the Taliban to take control and implement their harsh interpretation of Sharia, or Islamic law, their arrival was a mere formality. Rural Afghans have also seen the fewest benefits from the U.S.-led intervention.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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What has changed with the hasty departure of American forces and air power is the kind <\/em>of Afghans who are facing Taliban and government violence and the existential questions it poses in the absence of international protection. As the front lines converge around provincial capitals, those who lived under Taliban control or near front lines before the countrywide offensive began in May are almost certainly living more peacefully than at any time since 2001, because their villages are not battlegrounds any longer. For Afghans in cities, and especially in Kabul, the war has been felt only through isolated attacks, though they have been large and bloody. Partly because of the media\u2019s concentration in the capital, news coverage can make Kabul seem eternally in flames. In truth, it has rarely felt like a war zone for more than a couple of hours at a time. (The city\u2019s Hazara population is an exception; the ethnic minority have been ruthlessly targeted, ostensibly by the Islamic State, since 2015).<\/p>\n

Since 2001, urban Afghans have enjoyed a return of ordinary freedoms, opportunities to flourish and, with the war at a mostly manageable distance, a semblance of peace. They threw their weight behind the post-2001 order largely for pragmatic reasons: It gave them a reliable government, police, or army salary with which to build a home or raise a family. The more cynical used the international funds, laundered through various public, nongovernmental, and business entities, to build fortunes and power. There were also idealists who saw potential and hope in a new beginning, and refugees and exiles who came home, rejecting religious fanaticism, challenging conservative cultural norms, and embracing progress.\u00a0Now they have the most to lose.<\/p>\n

A portion of this group also constitutes one side in a clash of reciprocal resentment with the uneducated, rural working class, whom urbanites tend to view as broadly complicit with Taliban fighters who control their areas. Conversely, many rural Afghans resent city dwellers and government officials, whom they perceive (correctly) to have disproportionately benefited from the post-2001 order.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Friends and relatives mourn at the burial of Shah Marai Faizi, Agence France-Presse chief Kabul photographer, in the city\u2019s Gul Dara district on April 30, 2018. Photo: Andrew Quilty<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Even though most of my friends and colleagues are from Afghanistan\u2019s cities, I\u2019ve always empathized with rural communities, which are generally scornful of both sides in the war. Early this summer, though, I began to sense my sympathies shifting toward urban Afghans as the war rolled inexorably closer. \u201cThis is now a different kind of war, reminiscent of Syria recently or Sarajevo in the not-so-distant past,\u201d Deborah Lyons, the United Nations\u2019 top representative in Afghanistan, told the U.N. Security Council recently.<\/p>\n

The atmospheric change in Kabul has been swift. When May 1, the date by which international forces were to have withdrawn under the Doha Agreement, came and went without the Taliban\u2019s promised violence, I felt an unfamiliar sense of relief. But we knew it couldn\u2019t last. A joke with a friend who hadn\u2019t shaved in a few days about preparing for the coming Taliban, who often require men to wear beards, no longer seems appropriate. I started feeling more guilty than usual asking Afghan friends at social events to speak in English. I congratulated a friend after hearing he\u2019d fallen in love, knowing his partner had decided she would leave the country while he wouldn\u2019t do so without his siblings. I blink away tears speaking with local friends at summertime soir\u00e9es, the kind that used to be carefree occasions but that have started to feel more like peremptory wakes for the country as we knew it. At one gathering, I sat cross-legged on the grass with two women, one working in education and the other with the U.N., as they described the conflict between their desire to stay and keep working and that of their parents, who had seen how young, forward-thinking women were disposed of at the intersections of earlier conflicts.<\/p>\n

Foreign journalist colleagues who live in Kabul and I cringe when journalists who have flown in specifically to cover the U.S. and NATO departure say they feel \u201cexcited\u201d to be here. I glance around to make sure no Afghan friends are in earshot.<\/p>\n

Discreet conversations about the success or failure of Afghan friends\u2019 visa applications occur daily. The U.S. and U.K. governments recently announced the broadening of entrance criteria for Afghans who worked alongside their citizens. The French embassy also provided visas for several hundred who worked with French organizations, sparking a race to apply. For those who don\u2019t qualify for such programs but have tens of thousands of dollars to spare, Turkish residency permits<\/a> are available to anyone willing to buy property. Others, whose costly visa applications for the same country have been declined, are paying profiteering brokers several thousand dollars each to secure a visa or calling on foreign friends to petition embassies on their behalf.<\/p>\n

These entreaties rarely succeed. A representative of one European country in Kabul told me they were being \u201cextremely restrictive.\u201d Even \u201cstaff and [their] family members\u201d from their delegation in Kabul weren\u2019t getting visas.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Against the backdrop of a mural with text pleading for Afghans not to risk migrating with their families, a line of men wait outside the Afghan Passport Office in Kabul on Feb. 19, 2018. Photo: Andrew Quilty<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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3.<\/h3>\n

A peeling mural<\/u> on the wall of the Afghan passport office depicts a row of stooped figures, silhouetted against a crepuscular sky, trudging toward the edge of a cliff. Beside them, a message in Dari reads: \u201cDon\u2019t risk your life and that of your family. Migration is not the answer.\u201d<\/p>\n

When I visited the office one morning last month, a man named Habibullah told me he had been waiting in line with his three young children since 5 a.m. He had no specific reason to fear for his safety or that of his family, but he wanted to be prepared in case they had to leave. \u201cThe situation is getting worse,\u201d he said. \u201cThere is no hope for the future. If the Taliban take control, we don\u2019t know what kind of education system [they will permit].\u201d Many government officials have dual citizenship, he said, and so have no incentive to fix the country\u2019s problems. \u201cWe don\u2019t believe them,\u201d he said. \u201cThis is why people in Kabul are preparing in some way to leave.\u201d<\/p>\n

Another man, Abdul Jamil, drew me aside. He told me he had four children and produced a document indicating his \u201cconfirmation of service\u201d as a driver for a logistics company inside Bagram Airfield, the largest U.S. military base in Afghanistan, from which the last American troops withdrew<\/a> under cover of darkness, without telling their Afghan partners, in early July. \u201cI\u2019ve been receiving phone calls and text messages. I don\u2019t know who is behind the curtain, but they keep sending me messages: \u2018You worked with the Americans, and I will kill you.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

The police had warned me not to take photographs. I asked to be allowed inside the passport office to seek permission from the director, at whose request I\u2019d obtained a letter from the Ministry of Interior Affairs, but the police wouldn\u2019t let me pass. After two hours, when the officers who\u2019d been blocking my entry turned their backs, a couple of men and I hurried under the barrier and disappeared into the crowd.<\/p>\n

The lines outside had been patient and orderly, but inside, it was chaos. I found the director, Muslima Amini, flanked by a few police, trying in vain to keep passport applicants at bay. What seemed like thousands of people were inside: waiting in a queue that traversed a quadrangle, sitting despondently in the sweltering heat, or ducking the swinging rifle butts of overwhelmed police in the hope of completing another step in the process.<\/p>\n

Further inside, at 10 a.m., a young man spoke to me in English. \u201cI came around 3:30 a.m., but still we\u2019re waiting,\u201d he said over the clamor of voices echoing off the steel roof. \u201cThose who have connections are going inside, they will do their biometrics and get their passports. Those with no connections will wait in the line for a long time. Now they\u2019re saying some people should go home and come back after Eid.\u201d<\/p>\n

I ran into a passport official who\u2019d helped me for years with my own visa applications. More than 5,000 people were applying for passports each day, he said. \u201cThe situation is out of control,\u201d he told me over voices yelling for his attention.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The runway at Qala-i-Naw airport, now only used by military and humanitarian carriers, on June 20, 2021. The tarmac has become a popular hangout for men and children as security worsens in nearby areas. Photo: Andrew Quilty<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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4.<\/h3>\n

I spent the<\/u>\u00a0month of June flying from one province to another to work on photographic assignments that had been arranged weeks in advance and had little to do with the Taliban\u2019s rapid advances.<\/p>\n

In the small capital city of Badghis, Qala-i-Naw, where I hoped to illustrate the drought that was gripping the country\u2019s northwest,\u00a0I worked with a local radio journalist whose wife and three daughters were visiting from Herat, three hours through Taliban territory to the south, where they\u2019d lived in a kind of soft exile since security in their hometown worsened a couple of years earlier. On a Friday \u2014 the first day of the Islamic weekend \u2014 instead of driving to a favored local picnic spot outside the city which was no longer safe, we joined groups of men and bicycling children on the city\u2019s infrequently used airstrip.<\/p>\n

A short drive away, at the radio station, two young women were preparing for a broadcast. \u201cI have\u00a0$1,000 to upgrade the studio,\u201d the journalist, who asked not to be named because he fears his work could make him a Taliban target, told me. \u201cBut I\u2019m waiting to see what happens.\u201d<\/p>\n

Two weeks later, Taliban fighters entered Qala-i-Naw on motorcycles, freeing scores of prisoners from the city jail and trading fire with government forces in the streets. The assault had come with so little warning that the journalist, with whom I was communicating by phone, could only shelter in a friend\u2019s home with his family, where he would not be suspected of hiding if the Taliban seized the city.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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By the following morning, government forces had driven the Taliban out. Not wanting to take any further chances, the journalist and his family set off down a remote highway under Taliban control, hoping to reach Herat. The studio in Qala-i-Naw was intact, but in nearby Qadis district, which the Taliban had also overrun, they \u201cbroke our door and windows and took some assets,\u201d he told me.<\/p>\n

On August 1, he texted me from Herat that the \u201csituation is getting worse day by day. Fortunately I am still fine.\u201d\u00a0After the Taliban seized Herat on Thursday, he told me he was safe but that \u201call media stopped their activity,\u201d and he didn\u2019t know what would happen next.<\/p>\n

In Lashkar Gah, the capital of Helmand province, a friend was trying to escape the city with his family the same day a private hospital was partially destroyed<\/a> when an Afghan war plane targeted Taliban fighters the government says were inside. (Hospital staff disputed that Taliban were present.) \u201cI am fine,\u201d he told me via WhatsApp, but \u201cthe situation is critical.\u201d<\/p>\n

The friend, who works with an international humanitarian organization, was hoping to reach Kandahar, where he could catch a flight to Kabul. But Kandahar\u2019s airstrip had been damaged by rocket fire and was closed to flights. He decided to turn back, driving west through the desert to the desolate, windswept province of Nimroz in 110-degree heat. There was an airport there too. He and his family got a flight on August 2, days before the Taliban swept in and took control of the provincial capital, virtually unopposed.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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A woman carries a young child and cookware toward their nearby village after washing dishes in a spring near Bamiyan City, the capital of central Afghanistan\u2019s Bamiyan province, on June, 6, 2016. Photo: Andrew Quilty<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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5.<\/h3>\n

On another June assignment,<\/u> I accompanied a French journalist, Sol\u00e8ne Chalvon, to Bamiyan province, in Afghanistan\u2019s Central Highlands, to work on a story about archaeology. Bamiyan is famous for the towering 6th and 7th-century Buddha statues that were destroyed by the Taliban before the U.S. invasion in 2001. Its population is mostly made up of Hazaras, a Shia minority long tormented<\/a> by the Taliban, but in the last 20 years, Bamiyan has consistently been one of the most peaceful places in the country.<\/p>\n

Even there, however, the mood had shifted. The Taliban hadn\u2019t yet invaded the province, but they controlled all routes in and out. Older residents \u2014 who recalled their brutal intrusion<\/a> in 2000, the massacres<\/a>, and destruction of the Buddhas \u2014 were weighing whether to take up arms or, as they say in Afghanistan, \u201cgo to the mountains\u201d to hide out.<\/p>\n

A Bamiyan tour guide I\u2019d met in 2015, and with whom I\u2019d worked and grown friendly since, dismissed our suggestion that he return to Kabul with us by air. He couldn\u2019t leave his mother behind, he said. Twenty-one years ago, she had been fleeing with others toward Baba Mountain, one of the highest peaks visible from Bamiyan\u2019s central valley, with the then-infant tour guide in her arms, when a Taliban bullet struck her leg. She was unable to find medical treatment for weeks; her leg decayed and eventually, the tour guide recalls, dropped off. Now widowed, she relies almost entirely on her son to survive.<\/p>\n

A week after Chalvon and I returned to Kabul, districts bordering Bamiyan began falling to the Taliban. Our friend told us he was packing the family\u2019s house and planning to drive west to the more easily defensible Yakawlang valley. By July 10, two districts in the north of Bamiyan fell. In the middle of the night on July 12, he messaged to let me know that he couldn\u2019t sleep. A checkpoint 30 miles north had fallen to the Taliban. For a day afterward, Chalvon\u2019s and my calls and messages went unanswered. He had run the risk of driving through Taliban-controlled territory, fearing that, if fighters identified him at a checkpoint, he wouldn\u2019t be allowed to pass because of his work with foreigners. At last, he made it safely to Kabul with his mother, his wife, and their two infant children. They joined the queue at the passport office the next day.<\/p>\n

In the weeks since, as some of the territory overrun by the Taliban in Bamiyan was retaken by government forces, and the tour guide and his family contemplated returning home, his mother-in-law and several other relatives applied for Iranian visas. She told her daughter \u2014 the tour guide\u2019s wife \u2014 that their visas had been issued; they had not. The group traveled to Nimroz, along the border with Iran, where they admitted by phone that their applications had been rejected. Instead, they said they had found a smuggler and planned to cross into Iran without documents. \u201cThey told me, \u2018Everything is\u00a0OK and lots of people are here and going to Iran,\u2019\u201d the tour guide said. \u201cBut it wasn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

They reached a wall dividing the two countries in the early morning on the back of a pickup truck crammed with other asylum-seekers. The smuggler seemed uncertain but told the group to climb over. Someone else would collect them on the other side and take them further into Iran.<\/p>\n

Only steps across the border, Iranian security forces fired on the crowd. Many were struck, including the tour guide\u2019s mother-in-law, as his own mother had been 20 years before.<\/p>\n

Half an hour later, she was dead.<\/p>\n

Go to Original – theintercept.com<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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