26/07/2006
stampa
invia
Welcome to Kabul. It was the only sign in the entire city, because the Taliban strictly forbade
any sort of images. In its place now there is an advertisement for some kind of
soap, with a smiling, pretty girl wearing make-up. The sign warning of mines is
gone, but the mines are not. The smiling face of the pretty girl in the advertisement
is one of the few women’s faces that can be seen; as we move down the avenue toward
the center of the city, the same shapes of bourka-clad women appear here and there,
indistinct in the fog of dust blown up by the wind. Choked by the constant noise
of horns from the anarchy-ridden flow of junk-heap vehicles and pickups with the
markings of the hundreds of international organizations that have appeared here,
Kabul, “liberated” though it may be, is in ruins, as it has been for years. The
black turbans of the Taliban militiamen are gone but in their place are the steel
helmets of the new Afghan army, and the Kalashnikov machine guns are the same
at the unending checkpoints that choke the streets of the city.
No safety for civilians.
War victims. It was a bomb, on the other hand, the one that went off near the Ministry of
Justice on July 5th, that ripped off Mohammed Amin’s left leg. Mohammed Amin is 33 and has 6 children.
He is also a patient in the Emergency hospital where the doctors are trying their
best to save the other leg. Amin sold fruit and vegetables with his karachi (little cart): “While I was wrapping some vegetables for a client”, he says,
“it seemed as if somebody had put a package under my karachi, and I can’t remember anything else except a huge explosion.” There is a little
pest wandering around the hospital. His name is Sami and he is 9 and he likes
to suddenly hit the patients in traction. He strikes them with his good hand,
since his other one is wrapped in bandages. Sami picked up “a small dark object”,
as he describes the mine that exploded in his hand, tearing off three fingers.
When visiting hours are over and Sami’s mother leaves, he becomes sad and needs
petting. The back of his neck is ravaged by a burn, a domestic accident with a
rudimental kerosene stove. Sami’s little body is a catalogue of the marks of Afghanistan’s
eternal history: unending poverty, continuous war. The smiling, made-up face of
the pretty girl in the soap advertisement near the airport is the only futile
sign of change in Kabul, which is the same as ever.
stampainvia
A renowned cartoonist travels in Afghanistan, where war seems never-ending
From our correspondent
Vauro Senesi
Kabul, July 7th 2006. At the exit of the Kabul airport terminal there used to be a large sign in the
square. It warned that there are about 10 million mines in Afghanistan and showed
various types of these explosive devices.
Welcome to Kabul. It was the only sign in the entire city, because the Taliban strictly forbade
any sort of images. In its place now there is an advertisement for some kind of
soap, with a smiling, pretty girl wearing make-up. The sign warning of mines is
gone, but the mines are not. The smiling face of the pretty girl in the advertisement
is one of the few women’s faces that can be seen; as we move down the avenue toward
the center of the city, the same shapes of bourka-clad women appear here and there,
indistinct in the fog of dust blown up by the wind. Choked by the constant noise
of horns from the anarchy-ridden flow of junk-heap vehicles and pickups with the
markings of the hundreds of international organizations that have appeared here,
Kabul, “liberated” though it may be, is in ruins, as it has been for years. The
black turbans of the Taliban militiamen are gone but in their place are the steel
helmets of the new Afghan army, and the Kalashnikov machine guns are the same
at the unending checkpoints that choke the streets of the city. No safety for civilians.
The US troops can hardly be seen inside the armored convoys that race through
the streets. They are under orders not to stop even if they cause accidents or
hit somebody, they must not risk their safety, the safety of others is not a priority.
Nabi, 30, with dark hair and lively eyes in a thin face with a shadow of a beard,
was in the area where, on May 29th, the last of many accidents caused by a US armored convoy led to a popular revolt.
Stones were thrown at the armored vehicles and they were answered by high-speed
bullets, the kind that plow through bodies and smash bones. Nabi had his pelvis
crushed by one of those bullets. Now he is in the hospital run by Emergency, on
a bed, with an iron bar from his leg to his chest to allow the nurses to turn
him and tend the wound he has in place of his left buttock. On May 29th 70 people came to the hospital, all hit by high-speed munitions, and seven died
almost immediately. Nabi speaks in a quiet voice: “The Americans say they have
come to help us, but then why are they shooting at us?” It may be because of his
quiet tone, but there seems to be no anger in his voice, only an ancient resignation.
War victims. It was a bomb, on the other hand, the one that went off near the Ministry of
Justice on July 5th, that ripped off Mohammed Amin’s left leg. Mohammed Amin is 33 and has 6 children.
He is also a patient in the Emergency hospital where the doctors are trying their
best to save the other leg. Amin sold fruit and vegetables with his karachi (little cart): “While I was wrapping some vegetables for a client”, he says,
“it seemed as if somebody had put a package under my karachi, and I can’t remember anything else except a huge explosion.” There is a little
pest wandering around the hospital. His name is Sami and he is 9 and he likes
to suddenly hit the patients in traction. He strikes them with his good hand,
since his other one is wrapped in bandages. Sami picked up “a small dark object”,
as he describes the mine that exploded in his hand, tearing off three fingers.
When visiting hours are over and Sami’s mother leaves, he becomes sad and needs
petting. The back of his neck is ravaged by a burn, a domestic accident with a
rudimental kerosene stove. Sami’s little body is a catalogue of the marks of Afghanistan’s
eternal history: unending poverty, continuous war. The smiling, made-up face of
the pretty girl in the soap advertisement near the airport is the only futile
sign of change in Kabul, which is the same as ever.
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