Landing in a foreign country is a bit of a culture shock, especially when that country is Afghanistan. Dirt was homogenous with everything; a thin layer in the air making it a constant dust storm and inches coated the buildings. All the buildings looked like they were still in the beginning stages of construction even though they had been up for years. People aimlessly strolled beside the segments of the demolished buildings. Men in camouflage trekked alongside the musty dirt roads carrying massive duffels full of ammunition. Children stained in muck race up to the nearest cars and plead for some spare change. My 8-year-old self was astounded by the living conditions of these people. Comprehending such a complex imbalanced system was near impossible until I was educated enough.
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Simple tasks, like going to the bank, became the Hunger Games. Members of the Islamic Militia become the game makers while the citizens participated in the imbalanced arena. Citizens must succumb to the odd rules laid out and pan out the safest route possible. This may seem a bit dramatic but my dad had to stop his vehicle two blocks away from the bank out of fear of jeopardizing me. Not only do citizens have to worry about the Taliban, suicide bombers constructed a chronic state of terror. One of the last times I was allowed out of my Grandmother’s house was on a trip to the bazaar. A loud explosion echoed in the middle of our errand. Screams pierced through the air as herds of people rushed into the roads. Shards of broken glass rained onto the people. Dirt and grime showered their faces to the point where there wasn’t a difference between the people and the street. A 30 year old man had strapped with explosives on his chest had strut to the shop merely 200 feet next to us. Looking back, I can see some of the reasons my parents limited my time
Simple tasks, like going to the bank, became the Hunger Games. Members of the Islamic Militia become the game makers while the citizens participated in the imbalanced arena. Citizens must succumb to the odd rules laid out and pan out the safest route possible. This may seem a bit dramatic but my dad had to stop his vehicle two blocks away from the bank out of fear of jeopardizing me. Not only do citizens have to worry about the Taliban, suicide bombers constructed a chronic state of terror. One of the last times I was allowed out of my Grandmother’s house was on a trip to the bazaar. A loud explosion echoed in the middle of our errand. Screams pierced through the air as herds of people rushed into the roads. Shards of broken glass rained onto the people. Dirt and grime showered their faces to the point where there wasn’t a difference between the people and the street. A 30 year old man had strapped with explosives on his chest had strut to the shop merely 200 feet next to us. Looking back, I can see some of the reasons my parents limited my time