Kabul’s face has changed in many ways in recent years. Areas such as Shahr-e-Naw and Qala-e-Fathullah continue to expand commercially. New tall and impressive buildings rise one after another, and the streets of the city’s wealthier districts grow increasingly “urban” and “standardized.” But is this the full story of Kabul? What about the village-like corners of the city that remain hidden? What of the slum dwellers whose lives are deprived of even the most basic human necessities?
I set off from Haji Yaqub Square and try to find my way toward Khair Khana. Darkness is falling, and I need to reach my far-off destination quickly. Through junctions and side streets, I move northward, glancing at the city’s facades as I walk. “Princess Plaza,” and next to it, a butcher shop called “Jawanmard Qasab”—contradictions that have reached the point of explosion in a city like Kabul.
As I continue into the darkness, the wide main road narrows into tight, dim alleyways—paths that cannot accommodate even three people walking side by side. I see old mud houses, walls crumbling in ways that reveal decades without repair. The faint lights inside suggest they will not be repaired for many years to come. No one speaks. Everyone passes silently, stopping only to stare.
It is hard to believe this is Kabul—the largest and supposedly most modern city in the country. The small stalls offer nothing beyond basic goods; there are no fancy restaurants, no tech shops. The people don’t resemble the “typical Kabuli” either: their clothing is old and traditional, and everything about them reflects the quiet resignation of life on the margins.
Farther ahead, even the stone-paved alleys disappear, giving way to dirt paths. The drainage channels running down their center warn every passerby to watch their steps carefully. Dust rises with each footstep, stirring a strange unease—a haunting sense of, “Where is this place? Why does it feel so dreamlike and mysterious?”
In the heart of the city, only minutes after wandering among the upscale lanes of Qala-e-Fathullah, I now find vast empty plots enclosed by rough, silent passageways—so wild and overgrown that tall weeds have taken root everywhere.
Beside these empty lots stands a single water tap. Here, in this darkness, in this city, several children and young women sit with yellow plastic containers, waiting to carry water home. Their clothing resembles that of villagers. The children’s lips are dry and pale, their worn garments harboring countless unseen bacteria.
Just as the uneven, dusty ground and the pervasive darkness burden one’s eyes and feet, a mix of sharp, unpleasant smells overwhelms the senses—each odor a blunt reminder of the poverty and exhaustion that rule this neighborhood.
I reach a mosque—so small and plain that if not for its short minaret, one could hardly recognize it as a mosque. Yet the slum dwellers flock toward it eagerly, as if seeking refuge. One might imagine that inside, some antidote to life’s cruelty is offered, and by entering, these people feel they have taken a step toward escaping their harsh reality.
Eventually, streetlights appear again, and I emerge near Taimani. The slum ends, though I do not know its name. The signs and stalls suggest it might be Wazirabad.
But the memory of the slum lingers—a place whose way of life is utterly alien to the bright streets and highways surrounding it. It is so battered, deprived, and worn down that it lacks even the strength to raise its voice. And unless someone from the “better” side of this very “bad” city accidentally loses their way and stumbles into the slum of the hungry, the place remains unseen. It lives in darkness and filth, endures in silence, and in the end, it simply dies.
