When we entered Afghanistan airspace, the mountainous terrain full
of snow reminded me of when I flew over them as an air force pilot.
Where I live in the United States, I am close to a mountain range
where it snows during the winter, but these mountains, of my native
land, are very different. Seeing them took me back to another time
in my life. It reminded me of the people who live around these
mountains in the most primitive way of life with roots so deep and
structured by tradition that they are perversely proud that the
most powerful nation of the world, the United States, has
difficulty understanding why they behave the way they do. We landed
at Kabul International Airport. Things looked very different from
what I remembered from forty years before. It did not look like the
same country I left so long ago. Everything was filthy and broken.
My wife, Fahima, and I couldn't hold back our tears. Through them
we saw our country, which besides being primitive, was now ruined.
The innocence of the country that I knew was gone. When we got out
of the airplane, my cousin Mary (Mauree jan Ashraf) was waiting for
us with a car. She warned me not to hug and hold her like we used
to. Unlike the way she dressed while in the west, she was now
covered from head to toe. The road to Kabul was totally different;
many traffic circles and shack-like stores all around the street.
Most buildings had barbed wire surrounding them for safety. One
traffic circle named after the Soviet war hero Ahmad Shah Massoud
(according to what I heard) was the most dangerous where suicide
bombers (a tactic from Iraq) got close to a car they suspected was
carrying foreigners, then blew up themselves and the cars around
them. Check points by coalition and Afghan security forces were all
around us. We headed toward the house where my cousin lived, which
was next to the palace. I remembered the palace and the streets
around it but I couldn't tell where I was. Most of the roads were
barricaded and unrecognizable, barbed wire and guards were
everywhere. To my disappointment I couldn't find my own home-where
I was raised as a boy. The roads were blocked and when we got out
of the car there were beautiful kids begging everywhere. As we
passed by every corner, the flashback of my youth, my friends, our
playgrounds; nothing matched-nothing I saw was the same. Fahima,
and I cried for days for what was lost. I think it was at that
point, even if only subconsciously at the time, when I knew I must
write this story. It's largely about me and my family; where we
came from, some of our past and present-and some about the future.
Throughout it you'll find a message of faith and belief in one's
self and in following your heart. And it's about doorways that we
step through in life. It's been said, "When one door closes,
another one opens." I believe this to be true-it has been so for me
personally. It is sad that for Afghanistan those doors continue to
lead to tenuous structures often without walls and ceilings; no
roof, no stability. Just an opening that exposes its people to any
number of outside influences and interference. To understand more
of how and why that is so, in this story, I've included some of
Afghanistan's past, present and thoughts on its future as well. I
hope that you will sit for a while, read my story and even listen
to the words and what they share with you. For the reader I promise
that there are things you will glean from the reading and that you
will learn about Afghanistan you did not know before.
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