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I Saw Kabul Fall

On the morning of 16th August, a day after the Taliban entered the capital and took over Afghanistan, I got a disturbing phone call about the Taliban looking for me. That began my frantic efforts to evacuate from the country.

The Kabul of August 15, 2021, was nothing like the one I experienced over the last three months that I spent in the country. It was chaotic, hurried, panic-stricken, and disoriented. Everyone on the streets was rushing to someplace safe–some inside their own homes, others outside their own country. The city was gridlocked with traffic–both human and vehicular. The capital was in disarray and a 20-year effort in building civil liberties and freedom was in jeopardy.

I was sucked in the middle of it all. I left that morning to interview a few women at the Ministry of Women’s Affairs. I wanted to understand how, in light of the changing situation, they planned to execute their rural skill development project with women being 60% of the beneficiaries. The head of the department, also a woman, was presiding over the security briefing of her female staff. Even though she had been a first-hand witness of the Taliban of the ’90s, she was skeptical and strangely hopeful.

“We are working for the citizens of this country, in compliance with the rules set by the government. Even if the Taliban comes to power, we will work as per their directives.”

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That hope now seems to have been dashed as the Ministry of Women’s Affairs has been abolished in the newly formed Afghan cabinet.

It was during that conversation, with the all-female staff in a colossal office, when I got the news that the Taliban entered the city. In that instant, all hell broke loose. There was panic and fear in the eyes of the women who built their lives with care and hard work. They were scared of being pushed into the shadows once again–the shadows they escaped many years ago. The sense of betrayal was palpable and the death of hope painful to watch.

I was a silent spectator of this scene. It unfolded in front of my eyes. I stood there, helpless, feeling angry and frustrated. There was very little I could do at that point, my primary thought was to go back to the safety of my home and plan my exit. I was waiting at the office contemplating my options when the security staff wanted me, an Indian, to leave their complex, lest I put everyone else in trouble. Luckily, a friend who worked at the Ministry intervened and sought permission for me to stay until they found a way to safely send me home.

Looking outside the window, I sat there, my vision of the street interrupted by blast walls. I could only hear the panic, I couldn’t see it. My mind conjured up images of roads filled with white pick-up trucks loaded with young long-bearded, kohl-eyed Talibs, their shoulders adorned with guns and RPGs. I didn’t know what was happening outside. I didn’t dare look.

An image from the author’s perilous journey to reach the Indian Embassy in the Green Zone.Kanika Gupta

But when I found a ride home, I found the streets to be empty, a sharp contrast to the manic activity that I’d imagined only an hour ago. It was ominously silent. People glued to their TV sets and strapped to their radios, listening intently about the fate of their country. Around 1 p.m., the interior minister confirmed on a Facebook live telecast that President Ashraf Ghani had relinquished power and fled the country. The fate of 35 million people was sealed. They would now be ruled by the Taliban, a rag-tag army of Soviet-era soldiers who were driven deep into the mountains when the U.S. invaded in 2001, only to regroup and return 20 years later with the Americans fully withdrawing their troops.

I was taking stock of the situation around me, peering out the window of my 9th-floor apartment in the city center, still hopeful that I’d be able to take the flight out on August 18, the one I booked one month before, to be home in India for Raksha Bandhan. But now it appeared that the next three days might be the longest of my life. Meanwhile, more disturbing news started coming in. People were rushing to the airport in a last-ditch effort to leave the country. I watched in absolute horror, the commotion, the occasional firing that pierced the Kabul sky, plumes of smoke coming from the American embassy in the distance, Chinook helicopters flying back and forth from the U.S. embassy to the airport, transporting their citizens to safety.

I tried calling the Indian embassy to know what we should do. No one answered the phone. I left it at that. The situation appeared alarming but I already had a plane ticket–I knew I would be able to leave, eventually.

But then, sometime late that night, the U.S. state department announced that the airspace was being closed and all commercial flights suspended until further notice. My worst fears were coming true. I was now all by myself in a hostile country with no way out.

For some obscure reason, I was hopeful that the airspace would open again in a day or two. I would be able to board my designated flight and go back to my country unharmed. I was wrong.

The next morning I woke up to a message from my flatmate.

“The Taliban came looking for us at our previous house. Apparently, they were complaining about us not covering ourselves properly.”

At this point, I lost all semblance of the world around me. The air was thick with rumors that the Taliban were conducting house-to-house search operations. It was only a matter of time until they found out that we are still in the country. I could not risk falling into their hands.

In my moment of frenzy, I deactivated my social media accounts and eliminated my visibility online. I started calling friends in government offices to find a way to evacuate. I asked my parents to pressure the Indian Ministry of External Affairs. I don’t know what worked but sometime mid-afternoon, the embassy coordinator, the same one who had avoided my calls, called me back and asked me to reach the embassy within the next 2 hours. My request for an embassy vehicle to pick me up was denied.

I was truly on my own. So I decided to risk it.

1. Smoke over Kabul.Kanika Gupta 2. Abandoned desks at the Kabul airport. 3. The author on board her evacuation flight.

Along with another Indian journalist, I took a cab to the Green Zone in Wazir Akbar Khan in Kabul, the area where all the embassies are located. The checkpoint, which was earlier guarded by the police, was now manned by the Taliban.

They refused to let us in and asked us to go away. I called the embassy coordinator to request them to let us in. His reply: “Sorry, we cannot talk to them. Please negotiate your way in. Use the woman card.”

In exasperation, too tired to argue, I decided to take the embassy’s suggestion–I used the woman card. It failed miserably. They refused to talk to me, acknowledge me, or pay any heed to my request. After two hours of struggle, going back and forth with the embassy, we were finally allowed to cross the checkpoint and into the safety of our embassy.

From that point onwards, our security was facilitated by the Taliban outside the airport and American and Turkish forces inside. It was devastating to watch all the people waiting outside the airport perimeter, waiting for the gates to open just enough for them to slide in. The families sat there helplessly, in dirt and Kabul heat, hoping to get that one shot at escaping the country.

I was wondering what would become of Afghanistan when a silent tear rolled down my cheek. I looked around the tarmac, the commotion splayed out before my eyes in small images: broken shoes and empty water bottles strewn all over the place. I felt guilty for running toward a safe exit when it’s necessary for journalists to stay behind and tell the story. But I also knew that I’m only able to tell those stories if I’m alive. I’ll never know if I made a hasty decision of leaving the country at such a crucial hour. But it felt right at that time and I’m happy to be home, to be safe.