Kidnapped by the Taliban Read Online Free PDF

dress shirt and jeans. We sat on couches in the team house living room and made small talk. I learned that Rafiq was in his early thirties, was a well-respected member of a tribe in the nation’s eastern provinces, and had earned a medical degree and completed a public health internship. He had a wife and three children.
    I realized that his background wasn’t so different from mine. I was ashamed to think I’d anticipated someone a bit narrow-minded, with limited education or understanding of world affairs. Rafiq, however, was intelligent, knowledgeable, fluent in English, and passionate about his work. He was so accomplished, in fact, that an international organization in Afghanistan would later nominate him for the 2013 Nobel Peace Prize for his contributions to the nation’s rural communities.
    It would not be the last time I’d have to adjust my thinking in this surprising country.
    That afternoon I met Rafiq’s driver and assistant, Farzad. He was in his late forties, about five inches shorter than Rafiq, with a more typical Afghan appearance—full beard and adorned in the long, loose shirt with pajama-like trousers known as the salwar kameez . Farzad greeted me with a “Hello, sir, how are you?” though I soon learned his English did not go much further than this. He was always smiling and extremely friendly, even stopping to pat dogs as they ambled by.
    Later that week I traveled out of the city for the first time. The occasion was the dedication of the Pul-i-assim Community Center. Morning Star had received permission from the area’s tribal elders to operate the center, giving people a place to come for medical care and training as well as education. It served more than fifty surrounding villages, including four thousand children.
    On the drive out of Kabul, I expected to find a countryside devastated by war. Except for Afghan National Army patrols, however, Iobserved no evidence of conflict. Instead, I took in views of wheat and rice fields as well as orchards of apricot, plum, and apple trees.
    We were still on the paved section of the Kabul-Jalalabad Highway when our driver slowed. I saw, ahead of us on the road, a brown, dusty cloud moving toward us on what seemed to be a million legs. We pulled off, and I watched, fascinated, as weathered men with long headscarves and walking sticks slowly guided hundreds of sheep past us and toward Kabul. These nomads, known as Kuchis , number more than two million people throughout Afghanistan. Revered by their countrymen for maintaining a lifestyle that Afghans had practiced for centuries, they earned their living by herding and selling sheep, goats, donkeys, and even camels.
    Farther on, we reached a village with one-story adobe homes lining both sides of the highway. The homes, more like huts, were constructed of mud and sun-dried bricks made from sand, clay, water, sticks, and manure. Many of these homes featured an opening that served as a storefront. Residents attempted to catch the attention of passersby with goods such as biscuits, fruit, soda, and sugar.
    In that same village we slowed nearly to a stop when we came upon a game of street soccer. Kids ranging in age from about as old as twelve to as young as two were kicking a sack cloth tied with string on the pavement. Some wore sandals while others played in bare feet. The game halted as we drove through. They watched us carefully until we’d passed, then immediately resumed the game.
    Soon after, the highway pavement petered out. As the twisting dirt road led us closer to the community center, I saw more single-story adobe homes scattered on the brown, rolling hills around us. Each structure was contained by a wall of rock and mud.
    At last we arrived. The community center itself was a compoundthat included a one-level brick-and-concrete medical clinic, an education building, and a small agricultural plot. The clinic was funded and built by a NATO-sponsored team five years before, while the education