Global Courant
There is a glimpse of the old Kabul hidden in the new – if you know where to look.
It is there in the crowded snooker halls where young men in jeans hover around velvet tables shouting “nice shot” in English. It lives on in the dark rooms of video game dens where teenage boys lounge on couches and play “Call of Duty” and “FIFA,” posters of famous football players pasted on the walls. It’s in coffee shops where women sip cappuccinos, their robe-like abayas hiding skinny jeans, while a tune from Taylor Swift blares softly from the speakers.
Since the Taliban toppled the Western-backed government nearly two years ago, the group has erased the most obvious remnants of the US nation-building project in Afghanistan. The classrooms of high schools and universities have been emptied of women. Religious scholars and strict interpretations of Sharia law replaced judges and state criminal laws. Parliament was dissolved, all semblance of representative politics was gone.
But more difficult to eradicate is the cultural legacy left behind by two decades of American occupation, those much more subtle ways in which Western and Afghan cultures collided in big cities, shaping urban life along with the generation of young people living within It.
“It’s completely changed in those 20 years,” says Ahmad Khalid, 37, sitting at a steakhouse in central Kabul. “There are more schools, every brand of clothing and shoes is here, sports academies, we have all the new technology – we are connected to the world.”
The enduring Western influence is most noticeable in the capital. Before the US-led war began in 2001, Kabul was a city in ruins, littered with rubble after years of fighting during the civil war and later between resistance forces and the first Taliban government. But after the American invasion, it became a center of international attention.
Thousands of foreign aid workers, soldiers and contractors poured in and tall buildings and cell towers were erected. New restaurants and shopping malls appeared catering to nouveau riche Afghans who joined in the economic boom. Since 2001, the city’s population has nearly doubled to about five million people, or about half of the country’s total urban population.
There are pizzerias, burger joints and bodybuilding gyms in every neighborhood. Outdoor vendors sell second-hand T-shirts emblazoned with “I
For members of the young, urban generation, the restaurants and bookshops have become cherished corners of the city. There they can step through a door and escape the sometimes dire reality of a country now being rebuilt by a government that often feels stranger to them than the Western-backed government.
On a recent afternoon in western Kabul, a popular cafe buzzed with the screeching of an espresso machine. Acoustic tunes reverberated through the room as men and women mingled between potted plants and a bookshelf of English and Persian literature – ignoring verbal ordinances banning music and gender segregation requirements.
A man in his twenties in a white T-shirt stared at a laptop screen, his fingers tapping along with the music playing in his headphones. Nearby, two teenage girls in crimson lipstick and thick eyeliner were taking selfies on their iPhones.
At another table, Taiba, 19, beckoned the waiter to bring tea, while her friend Farhat, 19, flipped through the pages of Elif Shafak’s “The Forty Rules of Love,” her white headscarf pushed back so that he covered only her shoulders. covered . The girls usually meet here for coffee once or twice a month, as often as they can afford. It’s a world unto itself, one of the few remaining public spaces where they have access and where their very existence is not threatened, they explained.
“I like the smell, the books, the music they play,” Taiba said. “Although,” she added with a wry smile, “I don’t like pop music anymore since I became a good Muslim in the past two years.” The girls looked at each other and burst out laughing. “It was just a joke,” she joked.
It can be a shocking juxtaposition: a city where girls above sixth grade are banned from school but allowed to read English-language books in cafes; where male officials have to grow their beards while teenage boys rock stylish faded haircuts and sweatshirts with American sports franchises.
That disagreement is partly explained by Taliban officials’ conflicting views for the country. The top of the government – who rarely leave their southern heartland in Kandahar – believe in a strict interpretation of Islam and have enacted laws that reflect that. More moderate officials in Kabul — who have interacted more frequently with foreign diplomats and traveled outside the region — have pursued less restrictive policies and dropped certain norms in the city that would likely not survive in Kandahar.
Yet top officials across the board approach foreigners in the country with suspicion. The few foreign journalists granted visas are closely watched by intelligence officials. The government has accused some Western travelers of espionage. Officials, skeptical about what is being taught in schools supported by nonprofits, are currently debating banning foreign aid groups from working in education.
For companies trying to navigate Afghanistan’s new reality, the red line of what is and isn’t allowed is often unclear. A popular burger joint in downtown Kabul still plays Iranian music and American pop because, while music is banned in other public places, officials have not explicitly banned it in restaurants, the waiters say. Still, the staff closely monitors the security camera footage and turns off the stereo when they see a Talib about to enter the restaurant.
At a video game center across town, dozens of boys sprawled on leatherette couches as they maneuvered PlayStation consoles and stared at 50-inch television screens. When customers arrived, the owner, Mohsin Ahmadi, 35, pointed them to a table in the middle of the dark room with a notebook illuminated by a green neon light. The boys scribbled down their names and the time – they were charged 50 cents for every hour they played – before finding an empty couch and controller.
“These zombies keep trying to kill me,” murmured 18-year-old Qasim Karimi, who sat on the arm of a couch next to three friends. On the television in front of him, a virtual platoon of soldiers sprinted through smoldering buildings, the “pah-pah-pah” of gunfire echoing through the loudspeakers.
“We’ve been through so much war that it’s become our culture,” Mr. Karimi explained, his eyes fixed on the screen. “I like to fight,” he joked.
The boys used to come here every afternoon – it was one of the few stores they had left, they said. With the country’s economic decline, many of the cafes they once frequented closed. The government banned their favorite hookah bars. Even the future of the gaming zone was unclear: police officials recently barred boys under 10 from entering, raising concerns that authorities might eventually ban the gaming centers entirely.
“I’m afraid that could happen,” said Mr. Ahmadi, the owner. “But we need these places. They’re the only places where people feel comfortable right now.”
Safiullah Padshah reported from Kabul, Afghanistan.
