Strap yourselves in:

I have been in Afghanistan for 2 weeks now. It has been absolutely wonderful. The people of Afghanistan have been so hospitable to me and they are undoubtedly some of the kindest souls anywhere in the world. My 2 weeks here have been quite an adventure but the story that is about to unfold here dwarfs all else.

The story begins in the Kandahar province. Kandahar is the nest of the Taliban. It is where the Taliban originated from and it is where the main powers of the Taliban are based. I am in a rural village about 1 hour from the city. Really rural. I met a friend named Sultan and another man, whose name I have forgotten, in the restaurant of my hotel on Thursday night and they invited me to spend the night here with this family.

35 people live in this house I have been told. It is one big extended family, brothers, uncles cousins etc. The women also live here but I have not seen them. Afghanistan is a highly segregated society and the men and women do not mix in this kind of social scenario. Last night, when I arrived, the men sat around in the guest room playing Ludo. The women are in the other part of the house, socialising among themselves, I am told. I am received extremely well, as I always am in this heartwarming country and although only a few of the men here speak English, there is no doubt that they are welcoming me here.

Dinner is served. The elusive women of the house have cooked all this. When I finish, I tell the men to make sure that they send my thanks to the ladies who cooked this food, and tell them that I really enjoyed it. I would rather thank them myself, but of course, that isn’t possible. After the meal, we all sit around to eat pomegranate, a fruit that Kandahar is famous for. Even with a lack of a common language, I’m having good fun with the men. At night, I am given my own private room to sleep in.

The next morning after breakfast, I am given a tour of the village. We are in an extremely rural and traditional part of Afghanistan now, it’s fascinating. All the buildings are made of clay. The village consists of a hospital of sorts, a school and houses. That is all. I visit the hospital first, and sit and talk to the doctor, who is part of the family that I am staying with. I visit the school, where I am greeted by the principal and some teachers. I pop my head into a few classrooms and interact with the kids, who are extremely excited to see me. I would not be surprised if I am the first foreigner to ever come to this village, or at least the first one since war began in Afghanistan more than 40 years ago.

I am sitting in the main guest room of the house with about 10 other men. Everyone is chatting and joking, just the usual. Suddenly, I see everyone sit up straight and prepare themselves. One man quickly tidies the room. I see people outside. Important guests, I think to myself. Maybe they acted the same when I arrived last night. I spot one machine gun out the window, and another one, and another. These aren’t just any guests. This is the Taliban. And there’s about 8 of them. Fuck. The atmosphere in the room is super tense.

As they enter the home, I think that perhaps they are friends of the family or perhaps this is just some kind of a routine check. A few of the Taliban enter the guest room while some stay outside. Two of the unarmed Taliban walk around the room greeting everyone. It is custom in Afghanistan, when someone enters the room, that everyone else stands, shakes their hands and greets them. As the men are approaching me, I think to myself that I’ll just keep it simple with a “Salam Alaikum”, without trying my Pashto greetings which I am not so familiar with. I’m thinking that maybe they won’t notice that I’m a foreigner, but deep down I know that they know that I’m a foreigner and more than that, I know that they are here for me.

I see that some of the other Talibs are searching the house. The man of the house is invited outside and is talking to the Taliban. There is a strict hierarchy in this household and I presume in most in Afghanistan. This man was described to me as “the boss”. He always received the food first, followed by me as the guest. While others needed to go outside to wash their hands after eating, this man always had the basin brought to him. I wonder what this man must have done in his life to earn this amount of respect, or is it simply because he is the eldest or the father of most in the house, I don’t know.

Not long after, Sultan is invited out too. On the way, he asks for my passport and tells me to sit back down, and that he’ll go outside alone. I can see out into the garden. There are 5 Talibs grouped around him. There are Talibs in the hallway too, staring through the glass at me. Talib eyes are different. Those eyes would pierce right through any man with no backbone.

At some point, two more cars pull up and more Taliban get out. What? Everyone in the room is extremely uncomfortable. Beside me, a young man’s leg is jittering. Across from me, an elderly man is using his subha beads, the Muslim equivalent of saying the rosary. One man keeps spitting into a spit bucket of sorts. It’s hard to believe that these are the same bubbly men who joked and laughed less than 30 minutes ago. My other friend who invited me here is still in the room but he is avoiding eye contact with me. I resist the urge to ask him “Is everything okay?”. I know that he doesn’t know and I know that he’s probably thinking that everything is not okay.

The questioning goes on for about 30 minutes when another 2 cars pull up. More Taliban. Fucking hell. What is going on? Now there are more Talibs in the guest room. I, as well as the other family members here, are still sitting on the floor. These Talibs look a little more professional. One of them is about 6 foot 3, with an immaculate beard and glasses. He is well groomed and wearing a classier, more formal version of typical Afghan dress. I later learn that he is the head of intelligence for the Taliban. Taliban are scary-looking people, ready-made villains for any movie. They all have long beards, and most have a turban, some wearing just the Kandahari hat, which I and everyone else in the house is also wearing.

One of them walks towards my friend and asks him to hand over his phone. He has 2 phones, so he hands them both over, while also handing Sultan’s phone from the couch to the guy. He doesn’t ask me. I am happy about that because I have been getting more paranoid about certain videos on my phone, especially of an earlier interrogation that I had with the Taliban and the fact that I posted it on Instagram. This Talib now has about 5 phones in one hand and is speaking Pashto to the family. I understand nothing but I think to myself how this is quite a scene.

One Talib approaches me, I stand to shake his hand but he says “Sit, sit”. He speaks good English. After some greetings, he asks “Do you know this man?”, pointing outside to Sultan, “Yes, he’s my friend. I met him at my hotel, NFC, and he invited me here to be his guest”. “When did you meet him”, “Ehhhm, Friday night” (I later realise I fucked up here and it was actually Thursday night).

“Did you see him in any other place?”.

“No”.

“Are you sure?”.

I think for a second, “I am sure”.

“Okay”, the man walks back outside.

Sultan enters the room surrounded by Talibs. The Taliban have been interrogating him outside for close to one hour now. He looks exhausted already. “Come” he says. The head of intelligence suggests that I give him my phone. I quickly oblige and he slips it into his pocket. I am escorted outside and walked towards one of the cars, where I am told to wait.

The garden is full of Taliban. I count them. 18. 18 Talibs in this fucking random ass village in the middle of nowhere. I have never seen such a big Taliban group in my whole 2 weeks here. It’s rare to see a group bigger than 6. There’s 18 here. This is crazy. I’m sure that this is just as wild of a situation for the other people here as it is for me. This is something out of the ordinary. There’s something serious going on here.

There’s a huge group of kids at the entrance to the garden. They are the school kids and they recognise me. Unaware of the seriousness of the situation, they are giving me the “thumbs-up” sign, which I had jokingly been doing with the kids earlier in the school. I give them a gentle smile but I think it’s better not to interact with them. Then two of the kids who live in the home and whom I am familiar with from last night, are also give me the thumbs-up sign. I return the sign to them. They wave happily and energetically at me. A Talib shouts at them and shoes them away. The kids turn around frightened and run into the house. Afghan kids are my favourite. Despite such a brutal upbringing for many of them, there is such joy and excitement in their eyes. Many have witnessed things from our worst nightmares or that we think only exist in movies. They are beautiful beautiful beings.

There is a lot of waiting around, adding to the tension. I know that they’re putting me in the back of the car but I don’t know when, why or where we’re going. The English-speaking Talib approaches me again and asks me about how exactly I met Sultan. I tell him simply that I was eating at my hotel restaurant when Sultan and his friend invited me to join him, as is often the case in Afghanistan. He asks me “Did you give your contact to Sultan or did he give his contact to you?”. I say I don’t remember. He accepts my answer and he walks away.

There are a few Talibs hovering around me. Most are armed with heavy machine guns, AK47-type guns. Guns are extremely common in Afghanistan so I’m used to it by now. The Talibs around are quite cheerful and even joking. I feel tense but my character is naturally cheerful and up for the craic, so I find myself playing along at times. One points at the gun of his compatriot and says “America”. I raise my eyebrows, they all laugh. I laugh too. The Americans left many weapons here, almost like a goodbye present for the Taliban.

One of them asks me “Pashto?”. Pashtun is the largest ethnic group of Afghanistan with about 42% of Afghans being Pashtoon, and the Taliban are a Pashtoon group so their language is Pashto. I only know a few words so I smile and say no. “Dari?”, they ask. Dari is the most commonly spoken language in Afghanistan and is a dialect of the Farsi spoken in Iran, so I can speak very little having spent a month in Iran and thanks to my Iranian friends. I answer “yey kam” (a little) in Farsi. “Arabi?” he asks. My Arabic is better than my Farsi but still nowhere near a conversational level. I answer in Arabic “khali lan” (a little). He starts to speak Arabic but I don’t understand. Another guy says in very simple Arabic “Ana Muslim, wa inta?” (I am Muslim. And you?), I pretend not to understand and just reply “mmhhmm”.

One of them gestures towards my moustache in a “what is this shit?” type of gesture? I ask him in Farsi, “dusdaree?” (do you like?). He replies simply “dusnadaram” (I don’t like). My limited Farsi is enough to get the message.

The reaction to my turned-up moustache, which is long, curly and outlandish having been grown for over a year and my hair, which is wild, unusual and messy looking with blonde tips, have received overwhelmingly positive responses in this country. So many have commented how they love this unusual look and they say they like my style. I remember on my first evening here, a number of kebab sellers saying simply “Mashallah” as I walked by, which is an Islamic phrase used generally to be thankful to God for something wonderful. My friend with me told me it was because they liked my look.

The positive comments about my moustache are almost constant and I love it. However, before coming, I was tentative about both my moustache and my hair. Muslims believe that the prophet Muhammad said that Muslims should cut their moustache short and leave their beard. I did not shave my beard in the weeks prior to my arrival but hoped that my precious moustache would be well received, and up to this point, it was. The hair is not very Afghan style or even Islamic either but so far, I had no reason to think it would cause me any problems.

I am finally put into the back of the car. I see that Sultan is also being ushered into the back of a car. The English-speaking Talib tells me “No problem. Everything is okay. You will be okay”. I tell him that I’m scared and I signal to the guns all around. I hear the other guys confirm that there is nothing to worry about, with a smile and nod and a “Mushkelli neest”, meaning “no worries” in Dari. This simple message was to be my saving grace mentally in the tough times ahead and what I clung to when things were looking gloomy. And gloomy, they were indeed to become.

The convoy of Taliban drives out of the village. Some of the kids spot me and wave at me excitedly. Innocence. I can only imagine what the village people are thinking as we drive out of here. Before these Talib boys rocked up, there were hardly any cars in this village at all. This incident will surely be the talk of the village for years to come. The morning that the Taliban came to arrest that funny-looking foreigner.

We drive about 10 minutes outside of the village and we stop. We are surrounded by farms on all sides, and mountainous desert looms in the distance. We are on a dusty dirt road. It doesn’t get any more rural than this. This is the second time that execution crosses my mind. The first time was when they brought Sultan outside of the house. I know it’s a silly thought, but it’s a thought. Having read The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini, the most popular Afghan novel of all time, I still have vivid images in my mind of the Taliban unfairly and ruthlessly executing disobeyers on the street.

There is more waiting and eventually, I am made to swap car. I see in the corner of my eye that they have also arrested my other friend who invited me to the house. They are taking the three of us somewhere. I wish I knew where.

Out of the car window, the English-speaking Talib asks me where I’m from, and then asks if I was part of the Irish military that was here with NATO in Afghanistan with the previous government. By the previous government, he is referring to the US-backed government that was in power from the US invasion in 2001 to the time that they fled the country in 2021, leaving the Taliban to retake control of the country. “No” I answer, “and Ireland is not part of NATO so I don’t think our military was here”.

“They were here. We saw them. They had the Irish flag and Ireland written on the side of the cars”.

 “I don’t know. I have no idea”.

There is a kid cycling around us, curious about what’s going on. A Talib signals him away and throws a stone behind him.

A Talib is gesturing at me from another car. He doesn’t like my moustache either. He’s making a scissor-snipping gesture now. I start to turn it down to make it less ridiculous. He approves of this. “If they want to cut it, I’ll let them”, I think to myself. My hair too, if that will make them happy.

We take off. This time, it is the English-speaking Talib that is driving me. “We are going to play some music. Holy music”. “Ah okay. From the Quran?”. “No, no, jihadi music”. “Okay nice”. Jihad, in this context, refers to war against the enemies of Islam. Perhaps it is their version of a good rebel tune. Afghan Wolfe Tones, I imagine.

The Taliban have officially banned music in Afghanistan, saying it’s haram (forbidden in Islam). Many people still play music from their cars but they turn it off while approaching a Taliban checkpoint or driving near a Taliban car. Checkpoints are everywhere, by the way. I presume these Taliban guys think that an exception can be made to the rule for this religious jihadi music, or perhaps they don’t think the general rules apply to them.

We ride through the countryside villages. I look out the window and take in the wonder that is Afghanistan. Every so often, I catch a local’s eye and they are shocked to see me.

Arrested, riding through rural Afghanistan in the back of the Taliban car, headed to God knows where and for God knows what reason, listening to Jihadi music. This is living life and I am happy.

Those of you who know me or have been following me for a while know that I like a bit of a thrill and you might not be surprised to know that I relish this kind of adventure. However, those that really truly, deeply know me know that this is what I live for, this is what makes me tick and in the deepest parts of my soul, it is experiences like this that I feel like I was born for. I am like a kid at Christmas. I don’t fear the worst. I think I’ll be okay. Anyway, whatever will be, will be.

At some point, the driver uses his phone to take a selfie of me. I see that my moustache has bounced up again. I instantly lick my fingers and try to adjust my moustache to keep it down.

The two Talibs laugh. The big stupid head on me, even Irish people would say I look like a right eejit. I can only imagine what these guys think of me.

We drive about 1 hour, right into Kandahar city. I start to recognise some buildings and it looks like we are heading to my hotel. That’s a relief. Then we turn off in another direction.

We are driving into some kind of huge Taliban complex. Huge walls stretch as far as the eyes can see and there are Taliban flags everywhere. There is a gunned guard at the entrance. The car stops. After a while, the door opens and I go to step out. I am gently pushed back inside and one of the Talib shouts “Close your eye”. “Close my eye?”. Before I know it, my scarf is being wrapped around my eyes as a blindfold. Holy God tonight, I think.

We drive about 5 minutes, presumably inside this complex. The door opens. I hear a lot of voices and the Talibs greeting each other. A hand grabs mine and gently takes me out of the car. I feel a smile come across my face and I try to fight it back. This is just too bizarre and I am lapping up every second of this. I’ve really outdone myself this time. I worry that a smile may be seen as disrespectful so I concentrate fully on not allowing it. I have no idea how many eyes are on me as I stumble forward slowly, but it feels as though all the Taliban of Kandahar are watching me.

I enter a room. I feel a hand pushing down on my shoulders, signalling me to sit. Like a real dumb, uncultured westerner, I am searching with my hands for a seat. Of course, there’s no fucking seat. I’m in Afghanistan. Seats are rare, and it’s much more common to sit on the floor.

I am sitting on the floor and I can hear many people around me talking amongst themselves. It has been more than 20 minutes now since I’ve heard a word of English and I worry that the only English-speaking Talib has left me alone.

Then I hear “Dylan Robert”.

“Yes”.

“Your father’s name?”.

“William”

“Spell it”

“Your country?”

“Ireland”

“Which place in Ireland?”

“Wexford”

“Spell it”

Some time passes and then I feel someone grab my power bank from my pocket.

“Do you have anything else?”.

“Just these Airpods”, he takes them from my hand.

“Anything else? Knife?”

“No, no. No knife”.

“Do you have money?”.

“Yes, I have money”.

“Where? Give it to me!”

I take a chunk of money from the inside pocket of my jacket and he counts it. There is 14,200 Afghanis here (€183) is that correct? Do you have any doubts?”.

“No, that sounds about right.”

What I have not confessed to them is what is in my other inside pocket. I have US Dollars. A lot of US Dollars. About $1,500 US Dollars. This is an absurd amount of money in Afghanistan. It is not uncommon for people to be making $250 per month here, so it’s 6 times a normal monthly wage. This $1,500 could be the equivalent of €10,000 in Ireland, presuming that €1,600 is a normal monthly wage in Ireland.

This is all the money that I have for the remainder of my time in Afghanistan. ATMs do not work for foreign cards in Afghanistan so foreigners need to bring in a load of cash. I entered the country with about $2,500 USD and I have been exchanging small amounts regularly at the money exchange stalls that are common on the streets of Afghanistan. Sometimes, I leave my stack of dollars in the hotel room but sometimes, I feel like it’s safer in my pocket.

My mind begins to race. Should I tell them about the dollars? Is it dumb for me to tell them? Will they just steal it? Is it dumb for me not to tell them? Am I betraying their trust and worsening my situation significantly by not telling them? Where even am I? Who are these guys exactly? Will they snap away my money never to be seen again? Or maybe they’d never imagine stealing from me? $1,500 is a hell of a lot of money for me. But is it really, in the grand scheme of things? My mind is racing now. I know I need to make a decision but my brain is lagging.

While the last few hours had passed slowly, now time feels like it’s speeding up. They’re standing me up. They’re patting me down. They’re searching me meticulously, numerous times, up and down. I decide I should tell them. I can’t get the words out. I feel them touch the inside of my pockets. I’m not sure if someone’s hand has just reached into my inside pocket and withdrawn the stack of cash. “Oh yeah”, I say, “I have money here also”. I reach into my pocket hoping that they did not just discover and remove the money moments before. My money is still there. Relief.

“It’s in this pocket but it’s a lot of money. I want to count it myself”.

“You can count it. Give it to me”.

“Can I take the blindfold off. I can’t count it if I can’t see it.”.

“No, don’t take it off. Give me the money”.

I actually don’t know how much is there in that stack of cash. I know it’s somewhere between $1,000 and $2,000.

I hand it over to him. I visualise him sneaking a few hundred dollar bill notes into his pockets, giving a cheeky giggle to those around him, but I know this is very unlikely. As funny as it sounds, I do trust the Taliban in many ways. One may use many negative terms to describe these boys, but dirty, sneaky thieves? I think not.

A few seconds later, someone brings me a few steps away by hand and lifts my blindfold up slightly. “Count”, I hear from behind me. The bright light blinds my eyes. I count to $1,300 and then I estimate that there’s about another $100 in smaller notes.

“Okay, I’ve counted”.

“How much?”.

“Approximately $1,400”.

“Let’s count together”, he insists.  

He counts it out in front of me. The whole time, my head is staring straight down at my feet. I can just see one wall beside me that has a pile of handcuffs hanging.

He counts $1,420. He places both of my stacks of money back into my pocket and then seconds later, he says “They tell me I can not put the money back in your pockets. It will cause problems in your room”. “My room?”, I think, “Oh noo, it’s the fucking prison cell isn’t it.”

I am being led through the building. They never fixed my blindfold. It is still just above my eyes. I am staring at my feet but I am trying to tell them that my blindfold is not on correctly and maybe they want to fix it. I’m worried they’ll think that I was purposely trying to look without it. They’re ignoring me and I am continuing to be led. I just keep staring straight at my feet. My blindfold is being unravelled now. I look up. I’m in a block of jail cells. Fuck. It is a wide corridor, with metal cell doors on both sides. There is some English writing on the doors, “Cell number xx”. “Well, here we are”, I think to myself. “This is actually happening. Taliban prison”.

There is just one guy with me now. A small, chubby guy. He leads me upstairs. On the staircase, I pass two elderly men. I greet them with Salam Alaikum. They do not greet back but they don’t totally ignore me either. They just acknowledge me. It is arguably haram in Islam to not return a Salam Alaikum. Perhaps, they are suspicious that I am an enemy of sorts.

I am brought to my cell. The door is open. Cell number 228. I am shown the inside, and shown the bathroom. There isn’t much here. It’s a tiny room. It is very basic but it is tidy. There is no bed. The floor is carpeted. On the floor, there is a mat, a blanket, and a pillow. Beside, there is a cup and a jug. On the wall, there is a shelf holding the Quran. That is all.

The bathroom is an on-suite, which is nice, because it smells bad. It is of course a typical squatting toilet, but it’s not in the worst condition. There is a tube of used toothpaste on top of the toilet tank.

I am the only one here. A private room. That’s nice. My thoughts at this moment are “How long am I going to be here for? 30 minutes, a few hours, days, weeks, months, years?” I have been left totally in the dark. The guy who brought me here is trying to leave the cell already and close the door. I know that my time here will be significantly more painful if I have no idea whatsoever how long I need to hold out for.

I make the strategic move to try and get some info from this guy even though he speaks no English. I point to my wrist, and make a “what” gesture. He takes out his phone and shows me the time. I’m trying my best to get him to understand that I am asking how long I will be here for. He is pointing out the window, fuck knows what that means. I say “one, two”, he repeats “one, two”. This isn’t working. I admit defeat and thank him. He closes and locks the steel cell door.

I stand in the centre of my cell. I am laughing. My hands are on my head. I’m in disbelief. The grandkids are gonna like this one.

There is a window, which is surrounded by concrete security bars. I look outside. I am on the second floor so I can take in the surroundings. A few meters from my window is a tall barbed-wired fence surrounding this building. Behind that, is a no man’s land of sorts for about 30 metres. Then there is a huge wall that surrounds the whole complex. There are watchtowers with armed Taliban patrolling. I’ve only ever seen this kind of shit in movies or video games.

I take in more of the details of my cell. The upper walls and ceiling are lined with cobwebs. The concrete walls have graffiti-type writing all over them. Some of the writing has been scraped on there while a pencil or pen has been used for some. All the writing is either in Pashto, Dari or Arabic. I can’t tell the difference between these written languages. It’s probably all three. There is no English. The only writing that I recognise is the name of Allah in Arabic. That’s in a few places. There are some pictures too, of flowers or of some random shapes or symbols. There is one light on the ceiling, which has a lot of thin strings coming out of it and a piece of cardboard attached to it. Instead of a light switch, there is some manual system where the strings need to be pulled in order for the cardboard flap to cover the light.

I hope that I won’t be here long enough that I need to take a shit in that toilet. I’ve never been a fan of those toilets and although there is water to wash myself afterwards, there is nothing to dry myself with. I amuse myself with the thought of using the pages of the Quran to dry my arse. The boys would surely chop my head clean off my shoulders for such a blasphemous act.

I lie down on the mat, stare at the ceiling and try to take all of this in. You’re probably wondering how scared I am at this point. I feel okay. I’ve certainly been more scared at other points in my life. The Taliban have treated me well so far. They have been very gentle and polite with me. That one man did tell me that everything is okay, and not to worry.

Of course, the idea of being executed is absolutely terrifying. I like to push boundaries a bit but I absolutely do not want to die. The Taliban aren’t shy to executing a foreigner or two but as far as I know, they have not executed a single tourist since they have taken power this time around. Have they recently executed foreigners who were part of the previous government or who fought against the Taliban? I believe they have. Ultimately, I don’t feel death is a likely outcome here, so I don’t think about it too much.

As David Goggins would say, I’ve hopefully chosen the path of most resistance enough times in life, and calloused my mind to prepare for this. Now is not the time to feel sorry for myself. Besides, let’s not pretend that I wasn’t asking for this. And for those of you listening to this story thinking I’m getting what was coming to me; sure.

Instead, I consider the very real possibility of a prison sentence. A few days would be fine, as would even a few weeks, on the contingency that I could contact someone on the outside to say I’m okay. The worst thing about a prison sentence of two weeks or more where I could not contact anyone would undoubtedly be knowing that people outside were worried sick about me and imagining the worst. If it’s a few months, I am prepared for that. I have an Egyptian wedding to attend in December of a good friend. To miss that would be heartbreaking but I can handle it.

I think of Lord Miles, a self-professed “danger tourist” who was just released last week having been arrested by the Taliban for 8 months on suspicion of being a spy and for not having a permit for entering a region with gold. Surely I can’t get any longer than eight months. Eight months would absolutely suck but it’s doable. I remember Lord Miles saying that the official Taliban punishment for admitting that you are an international spy is two years, so surely they can’t put me away for years. I’m trying to think of how long my sentence could be but I have no idea what my crime is, or if there even is one.

I don’t spend too much time thinking about why I’m here. Surely it has something to do with me being in that village in the middle of nowhere, but really, it’s a waste of mental energy for me to hypothesise why I’m here. I haven’t knowingly done anything that should make the Taliban want to punish me, so let’s see.

Every time I hear noise outside my cell, I have hope that I’ll be let out now. I soon learn that is more mental torture than anything, so I stop doing it. Not long after I’ve been there, the steel shutter opens and I jump up, thinking I might be out already. My scarf gets flung inside. “Manana” I shout. It’s thank you in Pashto and one of the only phrases I know besides “Hi, how are you?”. I might as well show manners to these people, and say thanks at every opportunity.

Some while later, I hear keys rattling and my door creaking open. It’s the little fat fella. He lines me up against the wall and goes to take a picture of me, with a stone-age phone. He tells me to position my arms by my side and to put on my Kandahari hat. He leaves.

Hours pass without any update. I am prepared for an interrogation. Of course, I know I’m innocent but I know that I can easily fuck this up. And the punishment for a fuck up in this situation, I’ll leave that up to your imagination. I think of how the lessons learned in the last book I read “How to Win Friends and Influence People” by Dale Carnegie and the book I’m currently reading “Can’t Hurt Me” by David Goggins might come in handy right about now. More like, “How to Make Friends with The Taliban and Influence Them” and “The Taliban Can’t Hurt Me”. My competency in dealing with people might well be tested here and “How to Win Friends and Influence People” should help in that regard. My mental resiliency too might be put to the test and no better man than David Goggins to prepare me for that.

One of my main concerns is Celtia worrying about me. My replies to other people are more sporadic but I talk to Celtia every morning and night. She’ll know something is up and she might be imagining the worst-case scenario. I had no internet in the village so it is coming up to 24 hours already since she heard from me. One positive note is that I told Celtia I will be doing a long, potentially 24hours+ journey in the coming days so I hope she will presume that I’m on that.

I got into prison at about 11am. The sun is starting to set now which means it’s about 6pm. I guess I’m here for the night then. Hopefully, they won’t leave it days without even giving me an update. I watch the sunset from the window. It’s beautiful.

Not long after darkness, I nod off. I am awoken by my cell door rattling. I jump up. The fat guy is telling me to come, and it looks like he’s gesturing for food. I’m a bit groggy. I throw on my waistcoat and my hat and head out. The fat man walks ahead of me down the corridor. I think of how in the movies, now would be the time for me to choke him asleep and plot my escape. Express ticket to the grave that would be.

I’m ushered into a small rectangular room. There’s 8 Talibs in here, all sitting around on the floor against the wall. Everyone is staring at me but no one greets me. I’m told to sit. I see the tea in the corner but no one offers me a glass. To not be offered tea in this culture is a big deal. As ridiculous as it might sound, the non-offer of tea in this Pashtoon culture is what confirmed to me for sure that this was a serious ordeal. Not the random arrest by a huge Taliban convoy, the blindfolding, the hours in a shitty cell with no word, but the non-offer of tea. In hindsight, it seems idiotic but forgive me, Pashtoon hospitality has been a constant of my time here and I know that not offering tea to a guest is a real sign that these guys mean business.

“Pashto?”, “No”, nodding my head with my hand on my heart. “Arabi?”, “A little” (in Arabic”)

“What’s your name?”, “Where are you from?”, and then a question which I don’t understand. The guy sitting across from us, the only guy with a gun in the room translates “How long have you been in Afghanistan?”, “Where in Afghanistan have you been?”. I answer the questions and then he continues to interpret for the older man beside me. The older man, with a long skinny beard, and caged eyes that look like they have seen a thing or two, stares at me while he speaks. My head is swinging from him to the interpreter across the room.

“Your job, you are in the military”. It’s a statement, not a question.

“No, I’m not military”.

“You are a military man. You have been in Afghanistan during the last government with NATO”.

“No guys, I am in no way related to the military”.

Now, the older man turns to me and says quietly in English, “You are Intelligence”, with almost an air of arrogance.

“Intelligence” I say in shock. “NO, I’m not Intelligence”.

“We know you are Intelligence for your country. You are here for surveillance. You are a spy”.

I laugh. How could I not? “Guys, come on, I’m not Intelligence. I promise. I’m just a tourist”.

This guy is acting like he “knows” that I’m a spy. “We know”. I laugh again. The conversation sidetracks then to them asking me about specific details of my trip to Afghanistan, why I came here, who invited me, what were my favourite places, wanting to know exactly what I done in the house in the village and what exactly I eat. “Pilau, chicken and sheep. Later, we had pomegranate”.

The man beside me is now passionately saying something. The other guy translates “NATO have killed more people than anyone else”, I cut him off “Ireland is not part of NATO.”. I had already mentioned this to them minutes before. “Ireland is not in NATO?”, they say.

“Correct, Ireland is not part of NATO”.

“Yes, it is” they tell me, “We saw people from your country here working for NATO during the previous government”.

NATO is a military alliance of 30 member countries established to promote collective defence and security cooperation, that played a big role in the recent 20-year war in Afghanistan.

“I don’t know if any people from my country were here but I promise that Ireland is not part of NATO and anyway, that has nothing to do with me”.

It’s funny that only the previous night I had the same conversation with Sultan and I made him Google to see if Ireland was in NATO because he wouldn’t believe me either. They refuse to believe me.

One other guy butts in, surprising me that he can speak English, “Let me ask you this, you say that you are not involved in the military. Then how do you get this information?”.

“How do I get the information that Ireland is not in NATO? Google”.

“But who told you this information?”.

“Google”. I could be handling this better but as they say, ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.

“You said that you are not military, then who told you about Ireland and NATO?”.

“Ehh I used my phone to search on the internet. The internet. It is easy to find this information”.

He pushes a few more times, either not willing to believe that Ireland is not part of NATO or that it is impossible for me to know such information without being involved with the military myself.

The whole room is telling me that Ireland is in NATO. At some point the guy translating seems sharp so I say to him “Hey man, come on. You seem like a smart guy. You must realise how ridiculous this conversation is. You keep asking me again and again how do I get this information. Is it so difficult to understand that I got it from the internet? This internet is accessible to anyone. Come on, this is ridiculous.” This was the only moment that I lost my cool a little bit.

I convince the guys to let me use their phone to prove that Ireland is not in NATO. The result pops up “Ireland is one of five members of the European Union that are not members of NATO”. I show the English speaker the phone. He mumbles something in Pashto but doesn’t acknowledge to me that he, and everyone else in the room, was wrong. A man can be measured on how he handles such moments when he is proven wrong. Does he hold his hands up and admit he was wrong or coward away? There is no apology and we quickly move on to the next topic.

At one point, he gets me to hold out my hands in front of him. He is checking to see if my hands are shaky, I presume. A human-lie detector. If I am nervous and shaky while being interrogated in prison for being a spy by eight Taliban then surely I must be guilty. Thankfully, I am calm and my hands are stable.

“These people who brought you to the village, how can you trust them? They could kidnap you. Hurt you. Kill you”.

I explain that I understand there was some risk involved but that I felt like these were good people, and I am usually a good judge of character, and I felt like I could trust them.

The focus of the conversation then switches to why I didn’t ask the Taliban for permission to visit the village in order to get a permit. I tell them I didn’t know it was necessary.

“You didn’t study the rules of Afghanistan before you came?”

“I did try my best to understand the rules but I didn’t know this was a rule. I’m sorry”.

They circle around this topic again and again, saying that I have broken the rules and that every tourist is responsible for knowing the rules in the country he visits.

I agree with them that it is my responsibility and I repeatedly say “I’m sorry”. What else can I say?

“Why didn’t those people that invited you get permission?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask them.”

Between the questions directed to me, there is a lot of internal conversation among the group.

“Now, you have broken the rules, you go to prison”.

This sounds like I’m being given a prison sentence. My face drops. “What? Really?” I just sit back and take a deep breath. I am panicking.

“You are already in prison. You know this?”.

“Yes, of course.”

After a while and after talking among each other, he says something like “No problem, the punishment will not be big. We will let you leave”.

“Now? I can leave now?”

“We will make the decision in the morning”.

From then on, the conversation becomes more informal.

I’m looking around the room and all these Taliban men are making disapproving gestures about my hair.

One elderly Taliban standing above me is saying something about it. “They ask about your hair. They ask why did you do this. Put the colour in your hair. This is only for woman”.

He’s jeering me.

I snap, “Goway you ya ugly old prick, your wife only has sex with you coz she’s afraid you’ll bate her”.

No, obviously I don’t say this. I am apologising for my hair.

“Do you have wife?”

“No”

“Girlfriend?”

“Yes”

“How many?” (this is a common question in Afghanistan)

“1”

“Are you Muslim?”

Oh no, here we go again. This is a more common topic in Afghanistan than any other country I’ve been to. Usually, I relish these chats and am happy to speak openly about my beliefs and about their religion. Now, however, considering the situation and the power dynamic, it’s the last conversation I want to have.

“No”, I reply.

“What religion are you?”

I hate lying and I’m really bad at it but this time, I go for it, “I’m Christian”.

I am aware of how being one of the “people of the book” is so much better in Islam than being a total non-believer. If these guys are as extreme and brutal as the world makes them out to be, it might be better that I use my knowledge of Islam to gain any tactical advantage I can.

It’s not totally wrong, I guess. I’m an Irish Catholic boy.

They start to try and convince me of Islam and give me the basic teachings, including telling me where Christians have got it wrong, believing that Jesus is the son of God, rather than just a holy prophet, which they believe, for example. I just nod and smile.

At some point, I see them struggling for a word. “Muslim, Christian, what is the other one?”

I presume it’s Judaism but I don’t dare say it. I am sure the hatred of Jews burns deep in each of these men’s hearts.

After a while he asks, “Who is the president of Israel?”, I think that now it’s better if I act ignorant but I reply anyway

“I think Netahanyu is his name”. It’s actually Netanyahu, but I butchered the name.

“What is his religion?”

“Jewish.”

“Yes, do you speak Jewish?”

“No, I don’t speak Hebrew”. After a few seconds I joke, “I just know “Shalom”.

“Shut up Goody ya spastic” I’m thinking.  My big mouth has got me in trouble far too many times. Let this not be another.

“There are Jews in your country?”.

“No, just Christians”.

I’m having a private conversation now with the interpreter and another man. The rest of the room is talking among themselves.

“He wants to know, do you accept Islam now?”

They want me to take the shahada. The shahada is the Muslim profession of faith (‘there is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah’). Every few days this happens.

“I am still studying Islam. I need to learn more. Maybe later”.

I ask them, “Don’t you think this is an extreme punishment for a little mistake. I know I made a mistake and I’m sorry but it feels extreme to put me in prison for this”.

“No, this is a very big mistake. Not a small mistake.”

We are all on our feet, getting ready to leave. “If you need anything, ask this man. Food, water, whatever.”

“Yeah, food and water sounds good.”

“You can have whatever food you want. What would you like?”

“I guess you only have Afghan food?”.

“Afghan food, okay”. He has misunderstood.

“But sir, I have just one request”.

“Yes”

“Can I please send one text message to my girlfriend or make one phone call?”

He asks the boss. “No, you can not.”

“My girlfriend. She will be really worried. She will be crying, crying so much and she won’t sleep. Please can I just send one message”.

“No. This is your mistake.”

“Okay”

“Also, why girlfriend? You should have a wife, not girlfriend.”

“How long you know this girl?”

“3 years”

The boss rolls his eyes. “You need to marry her”.

“Yes, soon. Afghanistan, Ireland; different.”

I am led to a different cell this time, on the ground floor. It looks like someone has been living in this one. It isn’t tidy and bare like the first one. There’s a load of random shit scattered around the room. Shampoo, soap, moisturiser, aftershave, a tiny mirror, a topper, a rubber, two little balls which are like Christmas tree decorations. There are small bowls on the ground too. Who owns all this random shit? Where is that person now?

I understand just one thing on the wall. It’s a date, written not just with the numbers that we use but in the American form, 2023/07/15. Perhaps it was an American that was once imprisoned here. I wonder where he is now and if all this stuff was his. I think of where I was on the 15th July this year. I believe I was heading from Oaxaca to Mexico City, slightly disappointed that Oaxaca had not blown me off my feet and hoping that Mexico City would provide me with more of an adventure. I never quite found an adventure like this in Mexico anyway, that’s for sure.

I am tempted to scrape something mad on the wall myself like “UP THE RA” or “UP THE YELLA BELLIES” but the idea of them somehow seeing it and not liking it puts me off.

Food eventually comes. The shutter opens and a man hands me in a big piece of Afghan bread. Minutes pass and I wonder if this is all I’m getting. Then he comes around again and gestures that I hand him my bowl. He fills it with rice and then fills the second bowl with a chicken leg. It’s basic food but it’s not bad at all.

I find ways to pass the time. With the wrong strategy here, time can really stretch on looking at the 4 walls. I sing songs, like The Streets of New York and You’ll Never Walk Alone. Singing is banned in Afghanistan but fuck it. I think a lot about whether I will cut my Afghanistan trip short once I’m released, or if I’ll continue on this mad adventure as planned. I play around with those decoration balls. With my back to the ground and staring at the ceiling, I throw the balls up one by one and catch them. When both fall out of reach, I’m too lazy to retrieve them. I do a mental run-through of my whole life from my earliest memories up until this very moment. This was actually quite an enjoyable experience and passed a lot of time. I squeeze in one workout too, of push-ups and squats.

I am still most worried about Celtia and about her worrying about me. I had planned to learn the Shahada in Arabic (‘there is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah’). It was on my to-do list but I never got around to it. My thinking was that if I learn this, in an absolute worst-case scenario, where I am on my knees with a gun to my temple, I would start to recite the Shahada, seeding doubt in the minds of my executioners who don’t want to kill a fellow Muslim, and potentially saving my life. I regret not getting around to this task now.

It’s time to sleep now and I can’t figure out how to turn off the light in my room. I’m worried that if I start pulling randomly out of the thin pieces of string that are the make-shift “light switch” I’ll break the whole thing.

My fat helper guy was outside my window earlier so I start to call for him. After a while, I hear back “hello”. It’s from the cell beside me. The other prisoner is talking to me. After telling him I only speak English, he says what is surely one of the only English phrases he knows “what is your name?”

“Dylaaan. What is your name?”

“Basheer”, some moments of silence, and then “Basheer, Islamic State”.

“Islamic State?” I say shocked. “ISIS?”

“Yes, Islamic State”

ISIS are currently one of the Taliban’s main enemies in Afghanistan, with ISIS accusing the Taliban’s interpretation of the Quran of not being strict enough. Better that I don’t start liaising with ISIS, I think, as I stop replying to his shouts, almost all of which are not in English. At later times, he also randomly shouts in at me, usually just “How are you?”. I do answer now and again. Anyway, no one comes to the window so I figure the light out myself.

I hear fireworks at night, something that I have not heard since I’ve been here. Upon release, I learn that Afghanistan beat Pakistan in the cricket World Cup that night and locals celebrated on the streets.

I don’t sleep too well at night. I’m basically lying on the carpeted floor. Every time I wake up, I glance out the window to see if it is getting bright yet, signalling the supposed decision time.  

In the morning, breakfast is delivered. An apple, two hard-boiled eggs, bread and tea. The tea is more like hot water and sugar and it’s served in a filthy jug.

The hours pass and no one comes to tell me of the decision. I was under the impression that a decision would be made early in the morning, but so far, no sign of anything. Sometimes people seem to just open the shutter to look at me. For their own amusement perhaps.

At one point, out of boredom, I am wrapping my scarf around my head. I’m thinking that maybe I can make myself look more like the Taliban and win them over that way. On completion, I release how much of a twat I look like and decide that it’s a bad idea. Literally at this very moment, the shutter opens and two Talibs look in. I’m standing there like a right fool, probably looking like ISIS to them or something.

The hours pass by and we must be into the afternoon now. Many times, I resist the urge to ask for an update. Besides my own mental piece, surely it can’t help much. Instead, maybe it just annoys them somehow and it makes it even harder for me to ask for something then in the future. I want to keep my asks to a minimum.  Eventually, I break and try to get the attention of a guard by knocking on the metal door, and then shouting. It seems like these rooms are soundproof and I really have to shout to get someone’s attention. Eventually, someone comes and I ask for an English speaker.

The guy who comes to the door is a Talib that I am familiar with and one that speaks only a little English.

“Do you have any update for me?”

“No understand”

“What is happening?”

He shakes his head, not understanding.

“Me? What?”, I gesture with my hands.

He tells me that we are waiting for someone to come to make a decision. He should come today.

“Will I leave today?”, I desperately ask.

Maybe”. Well, that’s positive.

He tells me that he worked with Americans in a hospital and that he spoke good English then but now he is forgetting everything.

A while later, I’m escorted out of my cell and I think I’m about to be released. I see Sultan being escorted by the Taliban too. He is standing at a door that says “Exit”. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the village. He looks relaxed enough. Freedom, at last, and a happy ending for us, it seems. Sultan tells me that he will leave now and later an officer will come to take me out. I’m happy with that and I’m escorted back to my cell.

More hours pass and the sun is beginning to set now. I start to have doubts about whether they were freeing Sultan and about whether they will free me. I try to think of the exact words that Sultan said. They will take me “out”. Out where? To freedom surely? Or to another prison? I’m confident I’ll be freed but a seed of doubt remains.

Finally, someone comes to lead me away from my cell again. It seems like I’m heading straight out the exit door until I am steered into another room. The head of Intelligence is here again, as well as a couple of new faces. I’m not getting out that easy. Let the interrogation begin.

“How was your stay? Did you sleep good? The food was nice?”

The boys are acting like it’s a hotel. They are super polite this time though, the man beside me is shaking my hand over and over and saying something in Pashto. One man with great English is saying that he is asking about my health, and my family’s health etc. Surely I’m in the clear.

Then the gruelling begins again.

What exactly were you doing in Kandahar from the time you arrived to the time you left? Why do you trust these people that brought you to the village? Don’t you know the rules? What did you think when the mujahideen came to get you in the morning? Mujahideen is an Arabic term that broadly refers to people who engage in Jihad (fight on behalf of Allah or Islam). This is the first time I’ve heard the Taliban referred to as mujahideen. I answer truthfully and simply and they seem to be satisfied with my answers.

Then the questions get a bit trickier.

“When you go back to your country, what will you tell people about the Taliban?”

“I don’t know lads, you’re all mad cunts if you ask me”.

No, I tell them that the Taliban have been good to me. They have treated me nicely and I have no problem with the Taliban. Taliban are good men.

He responds “Tell them that we are strict. The world knows that the Emirate (The official name of Afghanistan is the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan) is strict and that our rules should not be broken. The world knows this already.”

“Do you think we have been fair in how we have treated you? That we have treated you nice? Noone has shouted at you or treated you badly?”.

“Definitely. Everyone here has been very nice and polite to me at all times.”

It’s not a lie. I can imagine a similar situation playing out in many countries worldwide where the prisoner is treated like an absolute piece of shit. Everyone here has been very respectful to me. No one has raised their voice to me once or been rude to me. Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome, but I respect these gentlemen for how they have treated me.

“So, what do you expect from us now?”

“Sorry?”

“We are here for you. We want you to tell us what you expect from us now.”

“Oh okay”, I think, “I better get this one right”.

I need to be articulate. And convincing. And charismatic. But not overconfident. Not obnoxious. And don’t, God forbid, say the wrong fucking thing. Put an early, less-developed version of myself here and I would have nervously mumbled some incohesive shite, putting myself further into deep shit. There were times when I would have cracked under this pressure. There were times when I couldn’t speak to a large group, to a pretty girl, or attempt to make a sale without my heart pounding and my thoughts getting mumbled, and now I am being tasked with competently delivering this message to the meanest-looking Talib motherfuckers you ever did see: Let’s go.

“I believe that you will be fair. I know you will do what you think is right. I am willing to accept any punishment that you give me. I know that I broke the rules and that is my fault. Again, I am sorry for this. I hope you will forgive me and you will understand that this was an honest mistake and you will think that already I have been punished enough. Staying two days here and not knowing what will happen has been very scary for me. I can promise you that I will never make a mistake like this again. I really hope you will let me leave now”. At least, that’s how I remember delivering my hero’s speech, but it was probably a lot rougher than that.

The time waiting for my answer to be interpreted and to have the response feels like an eternity. Just let me leave, be fucked.

“Yes, we have come here to free you. To take you out of the prison.”

Thank the Lord.

“This time, we will forgive you without punishment but if you do this again, if you break the rules again, it will not be forgiven like this.”

“What the fuck does that mean”, I think?

“Okay, I can promise you it definitely won’t happen again”.

They tell me about how NATO imprisoned the mujahadeen. “Many of us have been in prison for 9 years, 10 years. Why? Just for doing jihad. For no reason at all. Just jihad.”

Again, just for good measure, they try to convince me to accept Islam. I politely tell them that I am still studying, maybe later.

As they stand up, they say “Do you want to leave with us right now or do you want to stay another night here?”

“Now. Leave now”, I hurriedly answer.

They all laugh.

All my goods are returned to me, including all of my money. I am led out of the prison, presumably through the same way I came in. This time, not blindfolded. There are many Talibs watching. In the car, they explain that they looked for me all night when I was in the village. They searched everywhere.

They tell me about the amount of damage NATO has caused in their country and the amount of deaths. It’s a tale I’ve heard many times. Even those few who have dared to tell me their anti-Taliban thoughts have been quick to tell me how the USA destroyed their beloved home. “They killed our children and our women. Raped our women”.

Something that I did think about many times during my time in Afghanistan is how Afghans have treated me so well in spite of what “my people” have done to them. I’m not American but I’m a Westerner and to these people, I shouldn’t be too different to the Americans. My country shares most of its values with the USA, its beliefs, its religion. If every Afghan looked at me and felt their blood boil, felt hatred and bitterness after what “my people” have done to their country, I wouldn’t blame them for a second. A lot of these people have had an innocent friend or a family member brutally killed by the Western forces here, and now here I am, a Westerner, having the cheek to come here on a holiday?

However, their response to me could not be any different to this. I feel a warmth here that I have not felt anywhere in this world. When I walk the streets, there are smiles, waves and shouts coming from all directions. I feel the love deeply. I could write a book alone on the interactions that I have had with the most heart-warming people here. So so many people have gone totally out of their way, in ways that you could hardly believe, in order to help me or to make me feel welcome in their land. Rather than wanting to kill me, which could be justifiable and that might be what the Western media wants you to think, I get the feeling that these men would die for me. Every day it touches me, and it’s the main reason that I have loved being in this country. So often, I’m walking around with a goofy smile on my face and a warm feeling in my belly. And that’s because of these absolutely fucking wonderful people.

Back in the car, they talk about how this is a Muslim country and the rules must be followed. “All of the rules, not just some of the rules, properly followed.” They tell me about how the Americans came here and tried to make the country go against God. That the Taliban needed to do Jihad to free their country and make sure that everyone is safe. I don’t care much for the politics in this moment, or thinking about who is right or wrong, I just agree with everything he says.

At some point, he looks back at me and says “You are not fine.”

I feel fine, considering the fucked up events of the past two days. I explain to them that it’s not normal to arrest a tourist and put him in a cell for two days, and that this is scary.

They laugh, “Did you think you would be there for weeks, or months or years?”

“Yes” or execution, making the gun shot sign.

They laugh, “No, we make Jihad so that you are safe here.”

They drop me back to my old hotel. The receptionist, who is also my friend and has been getting the better of me at PES (it’s a football game on the PlayStation that we have been playing at night) first asks if I want to join the Taliban for tea or if I’d like to rest in the room. I say rest in the room. As we walk up the stairs together, he asks “Are you okay, man?”, “Yeah I’m okay”, “I don’t think you are okay. You can’t be”.

Later, I sit down for a long chat with him. He fills in some of the blank spaces. He called the Taliban when I left because he is required to tell the Taliban when tourists arrive and leave. He has even had to do a two-day prison stint himself in the past for disobeying these demands. After he told the Taliban, they came and asked him aggressively where exactly I was, and when he said he didn’t know, they demanded that he find out. They checked the cameras to see the car that we left in and took a picture of it, including of the driver. They searched all night for me. How they found me in the morning is still a mystery, but since they turned up roughly one hour after my “village tour” of the hospital and school, I imagine someone there was alarmed to see a foreigner so they gave the Taliban a call.

Things have cooled down now and I need to decide if I stay and continue my trip in Afghanistan or get the fuck out. I have roughly two weeks left. I love it here and there’s many places that I still want to see and things that I want to do. Two weeks is too long though. I think about what the Taliban said in the final interrogation, that they won’t forgive me the next time. I make the decision to apply for my Pakistan visa and once it is granted, cross the border as was initially planned. However, when I find out that Pakistan visa processing time is actually two weeks rather than five days, which I thought, the decision becomes a lot tougher. I make a U-turn and decide that I just want to get out. I ultimately decide to scrap my Pakistan trip altogether, sacrificing the flights I had booked from Lahore to Egypt, and instead catch a flight to Uzbekistan in the coming days.

I am paranoid here. The Taliban are everywhere, not just at checkpoints. They’re in every restaurant and all over the streets. They’re staring at me. But haven’t they always been staring at me? What I once saw as friendly looks and opportunities to react with the locals, I now feel are dodgy looks. Two weeks of this couldn’t be enjoyable.

On the way into the centre of Kandahar in a tuk-tuk the next day, there is a family in the back of a truck looking at me waving. I’m waving back. Suddenly, the father angrily makes the hand gesture of ripping off my moustache. What the fuck. I’m on the way to the airline ticket office to book my flights, and this moment makes me think that I’m doing the right thing. I would have laughed this off before the events of the previous days and probably wrote it off as a joke, but now I think that man hates me and hates my moustache.

After I pay for my tickets, I go to walk out of the airline office. A man, who I had presumed to be a customer, stands up and asks me if I am going to the bus station. He starts offering to help me get there and to drop my hotel keys back to my hotel for me. I’m confused. Where the fuck did this guy come out of? The staff are confused too and ask me “Do you know this man? Is he your friend?”

“No, I’ve no idea who he is”.

After they converse a little, the staff member tells me “He said he knows you, that he came with you from the hotel”.

“No, I don’t know know this man”.

He takes out his ID. Department of Intelligence. He is a Talib and says that he has instructed to follow me around in Kandahar for the day “for my safety”. What the fuck? I’m fine with this but he could have told me rather than just popping up out of nowhere. So the Taliban have a spy following me around for the day now. On the way to the bus station in the taxi, he follows right behind me the whole way on his motorbike. He puts me on the bus to Kabul and just before we take off, he gets on the bus again to say a final goodbye.

On the bus to Kabul, I think about how I don’t want to leave. I love it here. Speaking to these people and trying to understand them is so interesting to me. All that happens around me in this country is worthy of being written about. At one bus stop, I notice men squatting facing a wall. I’m confused about what they’re doing and ask someone. Maybe it’s some unusual praying ritual. He tells me that the men are peeing. They’re squatting but somehow peeing forward. Don’t ask. A local guy randomly speaks to me in German and helps me to find the toilet. A group gathers around me. They ask me if I smoke. I tell them that I’m surprised that so many Afghans smoke since it is “Makruh” (disliked in Islam). They tell me they need to smoke to relax the brain. They’ve seen a lot.

Some of the conversations here have killed me. This country has practically been at war for 40 years. The horror scenes have left unimaginable scars on the minds of these people. I remember well a conversation I had with one man, with a friend. He told me about how, as a very young boy, he witnessed a shoot-out only metres in front of him, and how the image of an Afghan man being slaughtered with bullets right in front of him still haunts his mind. He says his mind still isn’t right and it has caused him depression. He tells me about how he remembers when the American jets dropped bombs on the city of Kandahar, how he felt the whole city shake, before huge mountains of black smoke rose into the sky in the distance. He tells me how his father was killed when he was 11 years of age. His father was a truck driver. The Taliban shot him dead as he was driving a truck, delivering goods for NATO. “They didn’t care if he was Afghan or not. Muslim or not. They saw he was driving for NATO and shot him dead”. This same boy whose father was murdered in a truck at 11, had to quit school at 13 in order to support his family. Driving trucks was his job, and sometimes for NATO too. Can you imagine what kind of damage that does to your brain?

I have had the most interesting of conversations on this bus journey. One guy is an English teacher so he translates for the rest. A lot of the conversation is about religion, and Islam specifically. You know I love this. It makes me think how nice it would be to stay but my inability to resist such juicy but potentially problem-provoking topics reminds me why it might be better for me to leave. Tourists are advised to avoid such discussions with locals and to avoid group conversations. I have a group of about six locals, on the edge of their bus seats clinging to my every word as I explain to them my views on their religion, my own personal beliefs, Christianity and why I do not want to convert to Islam at this very point. I tell them of how Christianity is dead in the West. They ask me if Christianity has any suicide bombers and when I tell them we do not, they use this as a source of pride, and justification for why Islam is better. One foreigner told me that a Talib showed him videos of his brother doing a suicide bombing, and supposedly the Talib was not at all sad about it but actually proud.

Afghanistan is, by far, the most religious country I’ve ever been to. Additionally, there is no country where I have felt religion so forced upon me, but they mean well. The bus stops numerous times within a few hours in order for people to get off and pray. Every single man gets off to pray. The women and children stay on the bus.

Some will look at Afghanistan’s problems; terrorism, extremism, and oppression of women to list a few, and they will use it as justification that Islam is inherently evil or at least, that these guys are living the true essence of Islam. Others look at the Taliban and say that these guys have nothing to do with Islam, and their actions should not be linked to Islam in any way. In my opinion, both of these people are way off the mark.

The Islam that these men so passionately follow is the same Islam that the many kind, loving and fair Muslim people that I know follow. The same books and the same teachings. However, the way in which these men interpret and understand their religion is drastically different to most.

Interpretation is everything in Islam. That is the most important thing that I have learned from studying Islam. Two Islamic experts who have dedicated their whole lives to understanding this religion can have differing opinions on even the most important of topics. What is “real” Islam, or what did Allah actually want from Muslims? Have the Taliban understood their holy books the right way or is it the Muslims who oppose the beliefs of these guys that have got it right? Well, only God knows.

To say that the actions of these men are a true representation of Islam is wrong and to say that these men have nothing to do with Islam is ignorant and naive.

I want to finish by saying that this whole experience did not dim my feelings towards Afghanistan in any way. Absolutely not. I came here for an adventure. And that was quite an adventure, right?