Am I crazy to be navigating the streets of Kabul, Afghanistan, while the Taliban warlords are watching my every move?
Benny Waxler, Kabul, Afghanistan
AS I deplane and enter the terminal in Kabul, Afghanistan, I’m approached by three tired-looking guards holding mean-looking rifles.
“Kam kam, to the kam,” one of them mumbles, signaling with his weapon for me to follow him.
“Everything okay?” I ask with a smile that belies my nervousness. “Hey, at least say, ‘Welcome to Afghanistan,’ ” I say, trying to break the tension. He doesn’t respond.
Minutes earlier, I had been sitting in a modern Air Arabia plane, surrounded by men with white knitted skullcaps and long beards, some of whom could easily pass for Bukharian market vendors in Jerusalem, looking down on the runway of Kabul’s international airport. Right here, just three years ago, the whole world watched in horror as people tried to grab on to the wheels of the taking-off planes in a desperate attempt to escape the incoming terror regime after the American forces retreated from Afghanistan with their tails between their legs. And into the power vacuum came the Taliban, with whom America had been at war for twenty years.
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