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In Afghanistan, An Anniversary Is Hardly Marked

It is 9 p.m. in Kandahar, Afghanistan. Five years ago at this very hour, the first bombs were dropped on this country by the U.S.-led coalition.

A large plane actually just flew overhead. That's not normal, since the only flights in and out of the city are small U.N. planes. And they run about twice each week, during the day.

In 2001 -- with the time difference -- the launch of the bombing campaign at 9 p.m. here would have been around lunchtime on the East Coast. It would have been time for a late breakfast on the West Coast.

Then, it was evening. There was a nearly full moon.

Now it is also evening in Afghanistan. And my hotel room is partially lit by the dusty glow of a nearly full moon.

Perhaps, though, we American journalists are making too much of this anniversary. Perhaps we're making too much of an effort trying to compare then with now.

Renee Montagne and I spent an entire day reporting in and around the city of Kandahar today, but not one person we met said anything about what happened five years ago. They were either concerned about homes destroyed during NATO's recent military operations against the resurgent Taliban, or they were concerned about keeping their village safe, or they were looking forward to breaking today's Ramadan fast at 6 p.m.

There's even a popular song on the radio called "Kandahar" by musician Habib Qaderi. Our hotel manager played it over and over again in the lobby last night. Qaderi sings about a man bringing his lover to this city of romance. It says nothing, of course, about bombs, bombing anniversaries -- or anything else about Afghanistan's hard, war-torn past.

People do have memories from Oct. 7, 2001. And we photographed them as they talked to us about that day.

Copyright 2023 NPR. To see more, visit https://www.npr.org.

Jalal Mahsoud was 19 when the bombs fell. Gesturing to the boys nearby playing marbles in the dust, Mahsoud says that Oct. 7, 2001, was so normal that kids were playing in the street "just like today."
Jim Wildman, NPR /
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Jalal Mahsoud was 19 when the bombs fell. Gesturing to the boys nearby playing marbles in the dust, Mahsoud says that Oct. 7, 2001, was so normal that kids were playing in the street "just like today."
Most of these boys on Jalal Mahsoud's street weren't even born when the bombs fell in 2001. They don't have the memories their parents and grandparents do of so many wars and so many foreign invasions.
Jim Wildman, NPR /
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Most of these boys on Jalal Mahsoud's street weren't even born when the bombs fell in 2001. They don't have the memories their parents and grandparents do of so many wars and so many foreign invasions.
Two boys are photographed on the street in Kandahar. Children in Afghanistan are always flying kites, and many boys defied a Taliban order against kite-flying.
Jim Wildman, NPR /
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Two boys are photographed on the street in Kandahar. Children in Afghanistan are always flying kites, and many boys defied a Taliban order against kite-flying.
During the bombing campaign, Weiss Kakur climbed this hill above Kabul to watch the bombs fall. Though they were occasionally violently close, he says he and his friends found some degree of peace watching the war unfold on this hill high above his neighborhood.
Jim Wildman, NPR /
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During the bombing campaign, Weiss Kakur climbed this hill above Kabul to watch the bombs fall. Though they were occasionally violently close, he says he and his friends found some degree of peace watching the war unfold on this hill high above his neighborhood.
Mirwais Baheej told us how some older men in his neighborhood created a kind of news center in a curbside shop they rented. Unlike younger men, they could avoid Taliban scrutiny. He spoke with Renee at a school where he now teaches English to the next generation of Afghans.
Jim Wildman, NPR /
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Mirwais Baheej told us how some older men in his neighborhood created a kind of news center in a curbside shop they rented. Unlike younger men, they could avoid Taliban scrutiny. He spoke with Renee at a school where he now teaches English to the next generation of Afghans.
Arifa (center) was widowed by a coalition bomb in 2001. She had to collect the pieces of her husband and oldest son before they could be buried. She supports her large family by cleaning houses.
Jim Wildman, NPR /
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Arifa (center) was widowed by a coalition bomb in 2001. She had to collect the pieces of her husband and oldest son before they could be buried. She supports her large family by cleaning houses.
Arifa's two youngest daughters, seen here with their brother, came and went during our interview. Their home is sparse, spotless -- and quiet.
Jim Wildman, NPR /
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Arifa's two youngest daughters, seen here with their brother, came and went during our interview. Their home is sparse, spotless -- and quiet.
This photo was taken at the beginning of our interview with Arifa. Toward the end of our time with her, she called her children into the living room for a family picture. Her son was the last to arrive.
Jim Wildman, NPR /
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This photo was taken at the beginning of our interview with Arifa. Toward the end of our time with her, she called her children into the living room for a family picture. Her son was the last to arrive.

Jim Wildman