My Time in Afghanistan
It will always be like a grim fairy tale
Last night, I returned to Afghanistan. To the place where I spent three of the most demanding years of my life and which has never really abandoned me.
When I think back, I am struck by one emotion above all. Longing. For a different kind of truth, concealed and well-hidden behind Afghanistan’s many walls and veils. Behind all those terrible upheavals that have torn the country and its people apart since time immemorial.
When I first landed in Kabul in 2012, I was terrified. Convinced that my decision to come here had been wrong, that I would become the victim of an ambush on my ride from the airport into town. That I would never reach the hearts of the Afghan people. And find an alienness I might be unable to endure.
But I stayed.
I found the Orange House—my home—which I shared with five other development experts and went about my job. Despite the dangers lurking everywhere and the endless roadblocks and checkpoints, I somehow felt I had landed in Kabul.
I remember the heavenly smell of freshly baked flatbread that was available in small, humble bakeries at every corner of every city and town. In every imaginable size.
