I first came into contact with Afghanistan during my time in Iran in the second part of the nineties. At that time Opium from Afghanistan was easier to get in Iran than alcoholic drinks. Most structuring workers who were converting the posh parts of northern Tehran into a forest of high rises came from Afghanistan as well as Ismael, the gentle man with his soft English and his sad eyes who was helping us in our house. When we moved from Tehran to New York in 1999 he went back to Kabul to look for his ailing  parents. I later tried to find Ismael in Kabul, but sadly couldn’t.

In 2004 it was me who was finally on his way to Kabul, sitting as a lonely civilian in a military plane full of American, French, Canadian, Norwegian and German soldiers. Gazing out of my tiny window I for the first time saw the snow-capped mountains of the fabled Hindukush, towering above deeply jagged valleys, villages with no road to reach them, endless desert. Afghanistan has seen armies and empires, prrophets come and go, I ponder in the midst of the engine noise in the cargo hold: Can this land really be pacified and ridden from all the bad guys?

Above Kabul our aircraft dives steeply down – actually it feels less than a descent and more like a kind of controlled crash. To possibly divert any air surface-to-air-missile the pilot fires signal rockets into the air. Touchdown  – the chaos of Kabul enfolds: Herds of sheep and donkey carts mix with heavily-armed military convoys. Ruins of buildings and its war-torn inhabitants, 25 years of war had left a mark. Regular pier cuts and sandstorms. Embassies look like fortresses. Young Afghans proudly tout their English study books or business management tutorials. Despite striking poverty, hope is in the air. Yellow cabs are everywhere and remind me of New York.

What an arc of fate : Before 9/11 we could see the two World Trade Center towers from our NYC apartment windows, a friend of us had been working in the 67th floor of its South Tower and luckily survived, two thousand six hundred others in New Yorktragically did not. Without Bon Laden and 9/11 I would not be in Kabul. And now, somewhere out there, somewhere behind these beautiful mountains ringing Kabul, this guy is hiding. Pondering about more evil doings. “You love life and we love death” he was once heard saying. I love my life, I love my life in Kabul, sitting on balmy evenings in the garden of my little house in Wazir Akbar Khan, finally reading Khalid Hosseini’s “Kite Runner”. From my balcony armchair I can see the rock where Amir and his friend Hassan were flying their kites. It always feels special to read books at the place where they play. In the meantime the Taliban are not backing down. With the aim of obstructing the upcoming presidential elections they fire self-made rockets on  a nightly basis into Kabul. One day after my arrival they even launched a rocket from a pushcart, coming down a mere two kilometers away from my little house. Most rockets, simple as they are, did no harm. And nobody seemed really yo bother.

Until the end of the 70s Chicken Street was the major attraction for foreigners during the famous Hippie trail from Europe en route towards Kathmandu. Hippies indulged in smoking hashish and opium here. Now, instead of hippies, expats like me arrive, in droves. Money pours in, restaurants and even clubs mushroom and enlarge the dining options (for well-to-do) in frantic speed. Where once were just kebap joints (still delicious!) there is now a French restaurant with a sensual pool garden called “l’Atmosphere” and a “Feelings Club” A Thai Chef who is already famous for opening Thai restaurants at war-torn places dies her trick in Kabul, too. Her Green Coconut Curry is fantastic and becomes my regular lunch staple. An ex German Army soldier opens a German restaurant, Deutscher Hof, serving ice-cold Köstritzer Schwarzbier,  mostly to expat customers who are regularly informed by the monthly magazine “What’s on in Kabul? Duty free stores, wach a bit specialised on either Italian, French, Spanish or Anerican goodies pop up.  Does Afghanistan all need this? I ponder after schlepping lots of toys to an orphanage. I earn big eyes and big smiles by more than a hundred kids. They all have lost their parents, and are just a few of many more. I talk to my driver had been imprisoned in 1998 by the Taliban, for hairs too long and a beard to short…

First, I am a a bit timid and try to avoid the atmospheric old quarter of Kabul. But after a couple of days of isolation in the bland expat enclaves – I decide I want to break free: I enter the teeming life of Kabul, visit the bazaar, sip tea and chat with carpet dealers, enter the street of the fairytellers and listen to their stories. There is even a street solely dedicated to singing birds on sake, Even these little creatures seem to be happy again after the fall of the Taliban. The latter had blemished their singing as “not corresponding with the rules of the Koran” and had consequently banned their sale. Everybody whom I meet offers me a hearty welcome, seems to be happy that I am here and interact. Repeatedly I am asked to pose with them for an “ax”, a photo. The entire old quarter is a photographer’s paradise, with lots of men wearing big bushy beards like on a al Kaeda-wanted-poster.

On a tour around the city I pass the stadium, cruel site of mass executions under the Taliban, and the skeleton of the former king’s palace. A bit further we reach the Garden of Babur, a forner

Mogul emperor. That Babur who had loved his late wife so fondly, that he let built for her the most beautiful building on earth: the Taj Mahal. Babur himself had asked to be buried here, in this formerly grand green oasis gated by masive clay walls. The walls were gone, the terraces where water was once cascading down, were dry. The former  fruityards had been turned into minefields. Red kurbs signaled “uncleared”, white = “cleared”.

Many millions of Euro had been delicated by western governments to bring this garden back to its former glory. In 2004!I can visit the abandoned site on my own and in total harmony while chatting with the friendly locals. In 2006 when I return on a business trip, the water finally splashes and the garden shines. But I may only visit in the company of two heavily-armed bodyguards. In early October 2004 my three months in Afghanistan are coming to an end. A German Army plays on a party full of expats. I walk home early through another wonderfully balmy Kabul night. Even after arriving at my little house I can still hear the music. Now it plays „Time of my Life“. Somehow fitting. Just two days before my departure to Dubai a huge bomb blast, aimed at the offices of an American CPT service provider a few kilometers away, thrills me in my office  Later in the day I finally walk to the site of the blast to get an idea what has happened. The mayhem is cleared but a few meters away I suddenly detect a single bloody hand probably blown away by the blast.  A true sign of the horrible things to come.