A group of young girls walk in the midday sun, backpacks on their shoulders and books in their hands. No one knows where they study or which institution has allowed them to study—but in any case, they carry backpacks and books, moving patiently through the heat of Kabul’s exhausting sunlight. When they reach the divider, they notice a military vehicle across the road, with several stern, armed men standing beside it. The girls pause, look at one another, and decide to first cross to the other side of the street and then continue through the intersection. Not only do they cross to avoid passing directly in front of the armed men, but they also quicken their steps, trying their best not to draw attention.
A young man walks near a checkpoint, cheerful from afar, headphones in his ears. The closer he gets, the more he slows down, delaying the moment of passing by. When only a few steps remain, he removes his headphones and slips them into his pocket. It is clear he fears being called over, having his phone taken and searched, and being questioned about every minor detail inside it. He fears the possibility that they might seize his headphones and discover that in a city of death, he listens to the loudest sound of life—music. And so his fear compels him to remove his headphones before reaching the checkpoint, hoping to prevent that very scenario.
Four close friends stand at the entrance of an alley in Kabul, sharing the events of their day. Night patrol officers approach and not only search them physically but also subject them to a kind of psychological interrogation right there in the narrow, dim alley. They ask their names, inquire about their work, and question whether they have performed their evening prayer—warning them about the consequences of not doing so. Even after finishing, the officers remain standing nearby and order the young men to continue their conversation, applying as much psychological pressure as possible. After exchanging only a few strained sentences under the officers’ piercing gaze, the friends say goodbye and head home. All night, they worry about why their names were taken and whether this encounter will later cause trouble for them.
A young man who used to go out every night at 11 p.m. to buy ice cream near his home—sitting for a few minutes before strolling around the neighborhood to enjoy the cool late-summer nights—one evening notices dual security cameras installed at the entrance of his alley, recording every movement. He suddenly feels watched, monitored. He feels that in this city, even if he commits no wrongdoing and simply walks, being seen could still get him into trouble. He decides no longer to leave the house after 9 p.m.—or at all, unless necessary.
Kabul is a city where fear and silence manifest themselves in everyone’s behavior more than anything else. A city of detours and staying indoors. A city of surveillance cameras, night patrols, and sudden, unexplained raids on neighborhoods—raids whose purpose residents are not even allowed to question. Kabul is a city where fear reigns.
