Paul Workman: Return to Afghanistan amid Taliban rule

KABUL -

A heavy snowfall and a 6-hour flight delay. Dogs on the runway. Armed Taliban gatekeepers. Two angry men fighting over baggage. That was my return to Kabul after more than a decade.

Stopped by a zealous airport official, or maybe he was Mukhabarat—security forces, disguised as a civilian. You can never tell.

You must fill out these forms. Name, passport, local address, one photo, who invited you to Afghanistan? We already have visas. You must fill this out. Okay, okay.

He was pleasant enough and polite. Not pushy, or stern. Didn’t look Taliban. You must keep this and show it on the way out, he said, not as a warning, but advice. Believe me, it will be better for you.

Leaning in closer and lowering his voice. Could you give me some “tipping” he asked. For my helping you. Tipping? I stammered, considering the 10 pound note in my pocket. The only cash I had.

Please, he said, I am not getting paid and I need to buy food for my family. Not sure if he was telling the truth, but he walked away with my 10 pounds.

Others approached. Do you need a car? Are you with the UN? You need help maybe? Welcome, said a middle-aged Taliban man, singled out by his black turban. A paj, and no mistaking who wears them. Where are you from, he asked? One of the feared men in the shadows, now in the light of an airport arrival lounge, and smiling.

It is still hard to comprehend they again control Afghanistan. Pretending to make nice, or is it for real?

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Exhausted, upset stomach after 36 hours and little sleep. No driver. Where is our driver? I can be of assistance maybe, says another man in English. He used to be a translator. That work disappeared with the arrival of the Taliban.

He was certainly an educated man but left to his own survival instincts now, like millions of other out-of-work men and women. There are no jobs for the men and women aren’t allowed to work. Bitter combination.

Every voice seemed to carry a tone of need. It never used to be like that. Not in such numbers. Proud Afghans lowered in life to scrounging, if not begging.

I’m sorry, I answered, as we walked towards the parking lot. We already have a translator. I wish I could help. Here, he said, stepping forward with his name and number scrawled on a scrap of paper. In case anything changes. I am available.

To a hotel that I’ve stayed in before, a very smart hotel by any standards of the world. It was attacked at least twice by the Taliban, with suicide bombers and armed fighters who hunted through the halls and the sauna looking for westerners to kill.

It is sealed off from the street and armoured like a fortress now, with heavy metal gates and layers of security that weren’t in place when I was last there.

The paradox of the reconfigured Afghanistan suddenly becomes obvious. Just outside the main gate, armed Taliban now stand as defenders of the place they once terrorized. Ready to fight any new enemies of their country who might come to harm and kill the guests inside. Like me.