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Daily Word Search. Mah Jong Quest. Subscribe Top Menu Current Issue. Apollo 50 Shop. While walking down the main street in Bamyan City, the writer and her traveling companion attracted curious stares and many invitations to step inside and shop. Kristin Ohlson. A building-supply store is one of the many shops in Bamyan City.
Chicken Street Lane John
A farmer stops planting potatoes for a few minutes of conversation with the korregi , or foreigners. Families work their fields on the lush Bamyan Valley floor against the backdrop of the Koh-e-Baba mountains. Ohlson stands atop the ruined Russian tank near the Bamyan City checkpoint. Courtesy of Kristin Ohlson. The view of Bamyan City from a small cave near the spot where the head of one of the giant buddhas stood. These 6th Century stone statues were dynamited by Taliban in Two schoolboys on bicycles accompanied Ohlson and her companion on their walk.
United States | The Economist
They were eager to try out their little bit of English and to invite them home to tea. Like this article? Next Article El Paso, Texas. It would become the longest re-entry blackout in the history of the space program. Comment on this Story. About this product Product Information This captivating work tells of Afghanistan before the Taliban - a land of majestic mountains and arid plains, plains contaminated by the deadly remnants of war; landmines and unexploded ordnance, silent killers ready to kill and maim the innocent and unsuspecting.
A historic and timeless land of fearless warriors and never ending-conflict. A country where there have been many losers in years gone by - and where there will be many more - A no-man's land where nobody wins. This is the true story of civil war and the broken lives of everyday citizens caught in the crossfire of events in Afghanistan, a tale of courage and stoicism, domesticity and death in the turbulent times that followed the Soviet withdrawal of , and which saw the rise of Taliban control and destructive succession of events since that time, all of which sets the context for the current conflict.
Additional Product Features Illustrated. Many of them say they have become resigned to paying bribes to perform their altruistic labor. At present, the six camps here seem to have enough tents and hovels, though this was not so at the end of January when a freak storm smacked Herat with snow and sub-zero cold, killing at least people -- most of them children. The disaster received media attention, with cameras aimed at the small graves in the rocky cemeteries.
Soon after, both the United States and Norway sent in shipments of blankets and tents. The amount of aid remains modest, however, and allocating the limited supplies has sometimes created peculiar difficulties. The tents donated by Norway are outfitted with double insulation and heaters. They are "too nice to give out," said Mr. Poulsen of the United Nations. There might be a riot. Spare as the camps are, relief workers are concerned about the "pull factor," worried that if too much aid is given, this will lure people who are less needy.
For the moment, neighboring Pakistan, a traditional catch basin for fleeing Afghans, has addressed this anxiety by shunting 60, refugees into the purposefully deplorable Jalozai camp, 25 miles south of Peshawar in Pakistan's northwest. People there live in the stark openness under nothing more than thin plastic sheets strung to poles. Little is given them. They purchase the plastic from vendors at 20 cents a meter. Women spin wool into yarn to earn money, but a day's pay is only barely an antidote for hunger, enough for the purchase of five loaves of flat bread.
Traditionally, men do not do such work, so instead they stand around idly, waiting for something to fetch their attention away from the melancholia. At Jalozai, the temperature still dips in the evenings, and almost any gust is enough to lift the plastic walls off their moorings. Still, Peshawar's weather is more benign than that of Herat, where the cold has been such an essential part of the mass grief.
Last Friday, just before morning prayers opened the day at Maslakh, Mir Ali used the dim glow of his flashlight to see how his ailing 1-year-old son, Abdullah, had fared during the night. A few days before, the chill and wetness had conspired in the baby's chest and left him breathing with a rasp.
A doctor had given the family some tablets and syrup with penicillin and told them to keep the boy warm. They bundled him in his hooded jacket, the one with pink roses on a field of green, then covered him with blankets. For a time, in the darkness after midnight, they kept a flame going with wood scraps in a metal pot. But the boy did not survive.
His sorrow had transported him into a daze. He was surrounded by fellow villagers, from Jilga Mazar in Ghor province. Finally, with the proper white cloth in hand, Mr. Ali took his son from the family's mud hovel, leaving behind the baby's weeping mother and sisters who, by custom, could not attend the burial. Abdullah looked like a child's doll in his perfect stillness.
He was brought across the road and laid gently on a piece of yellow plastic. The father slowly tore off the boy's clothes -- the parka, a green shirt, a good luck charm worn around the neck. Another man washed the baby with shampoo, rinsing the suds with water poured from a black kettle. Dabs of perfume were applied from a little bottle.
Abdullah was then wrapped, first in the shroud, then in a tan blanket. The men carried this tiny bundle to one of the camp's four cemeteries. It was a mile walk through the breeze. There, the baby was set down on a flat patch of ground while the prayerful removed their shoes and faced West. A mullah, with appropriate gravity, chanted, "God is great," followed by another man who sang a verse from the Koran.