Afghanistan: My journey beyond the blood

The following article/blog post is inspired by two books written by Khaled Hosseini. It is purely a fictional account however the mentioned locations and images are real. 

All rights belong to Ammarah Adam. 

Never has the history of a land been so afflicted by hatred, turmoil and death. A land only remembered by the blood smeared on every alleyway, Afghanistan is more than just war; with a population of over 30 million, something enchanting lurks beneath the soil.

As a journalist, I have had the privilege of travelling to Afghanistan often; writing reports of fearless soldiers, each with a unique story yet joined on the same road to Afghanistan. With twenty-three years of war, 1.5 million killed and 3.5 million refugees, it was easy to imagine it as a lost and forlorn place where hope could barely hang on. But the story doesn’t begin there; it begins in the forests of Kabul with the towering mulberry trees. It begins in the Spin Ghar; the White Mountains of Eastern Afghanistan. 

My journey began in the Kurram Valley, on the road from Pakistan to Afghanistan's North Eastern border. The valley is currently under the control of the British Government who are using it for military operations, but the breathtaking landscapes don’t go amiss. Everywhere I turned, White Mountains dominated the scenery, whilst birds flew free. It was like a scene from a film I had seen so many times, yet this time it felt like I had woken up, ready for the film to really begin.

The White Mountains: Spin Ghar

On crossing the Afghan border, we made our way to Gulkhana, located in the capital city of Kabul, which means 'home of flowers'. We were greeted by locals and children, rushing forward to meet the foreign tourists. I was profoundly struck by their warmth and compassion. The children’s eyes were filled with excitement and wonder, as they all rushed to smile deep into my camera lens.

Left to right: Abdel (7), Rahim (9), Tariq (10), Adam (9)

It was more than just the way the locals spoke to me about their homeland that made me view Afghanistan in a different light; it was the genuine love in their eyes. However, they all bore the same face of sacrifice and hard labour. They were people, working hard and trying live - not knowing whether there would be food on their plates that night.

“I have come to write about Afghanistan”, I say to the daughter of my local guide, Ahmad. “Of the war?” she replies. This was a regular thing for them, of course. I was alien to these children with their sheepskin coats and Pashto tongue, failing to understand the world’s fascination with their war-torn country.

Children ran around aimlessly firing sling-shots as mothers called out for them. Fathers chatted about their day's earnings and whether they'd have enough money to buy more cattle. It was like the war never existed.

Locals flooded around me, all eager to tell their similar stories- some who had moved from neighbouring villages to higher ground for safety, and some who had been born and brought up in this very land. Many said the same words again and again, "I grew up in Afghanistan and I remember the beauty of the sky, when the sun rose and sat between the mountains..."

I wasn't the same woman on the drive home to my city hotel. It didn't feel right, walking into the marble en suite room with plentiful hot running water and a bed layered with duvets and pillows. I had spent many days in this same hotel on my previous visits, yet this time I was frustrated at the mere sight of the scented shower gels and monogrammed bath robes.

Kabul's holy haven: some of the only land untouched by the war

I felt as though I wasn't in Afghanistan anymore, I was in a land far away, filled with paint-dipped flowers and trees that swayed in the peaceful breeze... It truly was the 'home of flowers'. I was slowly brought back to reality by Ahmad's friend, who explained to me how this land had been untouched by the war. I thought it impossible: Twenty-three years of war, and this beauty had managed to survive- it felt like a message of hope from Afghanistan’s part to its future.

My journey in the city of Kabul was coming to an end but I was not going to leave without seeing the reputable Afghan kite demonstration. Just like it was described in Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner, children and parents gather at the top of Kabul to fly their kites. It is the perfect place for families to get together and set their pieces of paper free. I felt privileged to be present for the monthly kite flying, which brought the whole city together. One local woman told of how sometimes, they sell upto 2,000 kites a day during peak season.

Flying high: the kites are usually flown just before sunset

Watching them tie the pieces of string together with great concentration, I soon realised it was something they held onto- the anticipation of letting the kite go. “It’s free! It’s free!” I could hear all the children scream. Somehow, I felt like they were dreaming of themselves being the kites. I didn’t expect the array of kites to be so beautiful, dancing in the sky. Looking at the children’s faces, it was hard for me to imagine how much happiness some paper and string could bring.

On saying farewell to the people of Ahmad’s district Gulkhana one sentiment was held by all; "Show the world our beauty". My last day was spent in Herat, where I was to see the famous Citadel of Herat. Herat is an ancient valley, which was said to have been the fort that Alexander the Great built in 330 BC. The fort is now known as the Citadel of Herat today, a kingdom towering over the Old City. Built on baked bricks and valuable roof-beams, its 250m east-to-west exterior never failed to amaze me. It told stories of centuries ago through the painted pictures on its countless walls, welcoming archways and hallways. I thought to myself, if these walls could speak, imagine what they would say.

Citadel of Herat: some call it the 'reigning sandcastles of Afghanistan'

My journey was coming to an end, yet I wasn’t sad. For once, I felt a sense of longing and hope for the land I had grown to love. I was happy to let go and watch its seed grow into something beautiful for the people to be truly proud of.

Some say Afghanistan’s story is of death and destruction.

I say my journey is the story of Afghanistan.