Kabul feels like my city, but I know it’s not. I can up and leave at any time. Most Afghans don’t have that choice
Last Wednesday, the deep thump of the bomb woke me up, shaking my bedroom and sending the dogs in the garden into frantic barking. Looking out over Kabul from my roof, a plume of smoke offered a vague sense of direction of the explosion. Social media lit up: Wazir Akbar Khan.
It is an area I know well. During my three years here, I have driven there hundreds of times, on my way to see friends, attend briefings at the palace or pick up groceries. It is referred to as the diplomatic quarter due to the many foreign embassies here. But outside the towering blast walls protecting diplomats, it is also one of Kabul’s busiest areas. Amid a cacophony of horns and cars defying road rules, throngs of pint-sized schoolgirls weave through traffic holding hands. Mobile card sellers hawk their wares for a few bucks alongside disabled beggars on crutches.