Issue link: http://bluemagazine.uberflip.com/i/25120
"0"+0"'" �",'r amputation and he asks me I thought of the event. I told him I rather see the beauty of Afghanistan. me quietly he did not feel very good a maiming. His eyes say everything. He d yet have the hard dead eyes that older fighters have. The hardest will be to prevent the I,.,"n"'�" "r from dying from the inside out. LIFE IN THE CITY I am learning to enjoy the sights and so Kabul: clattering Chinese bicycles eir happy bells; Toyotas full of Tali down the street; aging, beard cops with little paddles, acting as p traffic lights; anti-aircraft guns on the of checkpoints; early morning rocket and a crumbled skyline against the Icn, ,, .... r.o,nn,,rl backdrop. A pick-up truck of Taliban drives by. The metallic, red, four-door truck is decorated with upside down F-16 emblems, with Dubai export-only license lates. The sunburned Talibs bounce and lare impassively from the rear jump seats, eir worn guns looking like agricultural ements. They are heading up to the nt, just a few kilometers north of the city. nd-painted snaky writing on the sides and ndshields of the trucks says things like: "Martyr Abdul Rahman's friend's car, " or, "We will follow the way of our martyred commander. " Not exactly Dukes of stuff, but appropriate to this time and place. The more I learn about the Taliban and Kabul, the more I understand that the choice is either the Taliban or more chaos. Kabulis talk wistfully about Massoud but they also remember the hellish warfare. They know the Taliban is here to stay. ALL PROFITABLE ON THE NORTHERN FRONT It is off-to-the-front day and from Kabul at's never a long ride. The Taliban front line just over ten kilometers away. Then there is er ten kilometer no-man's land to the position side. Our car is a Russian replica a 1950's Studebaker. It is a perfect vehicle to visit the front lines in: it is large, slow, bright low and stalls a lot. We pull up to the commanders' and meet a group of about 20 sitting in a square on a raised di ,.,1 ,,"�.r.,., The men have the hard, cracked, An older fighter invites me to join them and tells me to leave my boots on. This lashkar, or fighting group, has just come from anothe line and is eager to get back to fighting. The ages of the men ra 21 to well over 60. They cradle Russian-made weapons polished ht silver and some are decorated with inlaid metal stars. They n all these weapons from their enemies, along with the tanks iers around us. Tank shells are scattered around the ground; a co men are busy fixing a smoking armored personnel carrier. The fighters enjoy my strange company and are just interested in me as I am in them. The older men have been fighting years and have the crisp, tanned squint of cowboys. They play with r beards and worry beads while they sit and listen. They let the young ghters talk. Apparently they are letting the other side fight a so right now they just sit up on the hills and wait. I am invited to lunch and a young fighter says, "I hope you will longer and you can be a mujahideen with us." My new friend is a g, black-turbaned mullah no older than 25 years old. He has taken liking to my direct questions and wants to answer more. I am intrig by the North's accusations that there are foreign fighters here, notably Pakistanis. "Yes, there are a few foreign fighters here udan, Saudi and other countries, " my young mullah friend replies. Then he laughs and says he has snuck in a few Punjabis from hi madrassa, or Islamic school, to fight. I thank them for the food and my young friend remarks is is a party: "When there is no food we eat grass and drink snow. " He not exaggerating. As I walk by a metal shipping container the only ing inside is a small pile of about ten flats of bread. ALlEXt�N[)ER'S VALLEY we head up to the forward fire area, I notice that there are children Iking around the battlefield, picking up small bits of wood and scraps. Once in a while a solitary car drives across the battlefield. A few puffs of oke in the distant valley do not look like deadly shellfire. Despite the constant warfare, it seems that life goes on in Afghanistan. The last stop is marked by two poles stacked in a limp X, leaning on empty oil drums. Asking if I could cross the front lines to visit other side, I am told that sometimes people make it, sometimes they I look out over the plains ahead of me. Massoud's stronghold of ajik fighters, busy shelling the Talib positions, is only one kilometer away in the steep mountain ranges of the Panjshir. Massoud is known as "The Lion of the Panjshir" for his success in pushing the Soviets out of Afghanistan. No invaders, including the Taliban, have ever dislodged him from his mountain fortress. After two decades of warfare, he still fights on, laying waste to what has already been laid to waste. The silence on the exposed ridge is suddenly broken by a high, eerie wailing. A Talib fighter is standing on the next ridge, his hands cupped behind his ears. He, the muezzin, has a strong voice and is calling fighters to prayer.