By Brojen Thangjam
“Empires come and go; we remain.” — Afghan saying
Arrival in Afghanistan — A Different Kind of Encounter
My association with Afghanistan began in 2013 with curiosity and caution in equal measure. After serving in the African continent for some time, I was ready for a change of environment. I had read the security assessments of Afghanistan and knew the tight security protocols in place. The blast that occurred just a day after my arrival confirmed those forebodings.
It came in the early hours of the morning. The explosion was so powerful that, for a moment, I thought the building would collapse. The windows rattled violently as I rolled out of bed, pulling a pillow over my head, instinctively bracing in case the roof gave way. For several seconds, it felt as if the structure itself was holding its breath.
Later that day, friends showed me the damage. A tanker packed with both oil and explosives—a lethal combination—had rammed into a military logistics base barely a few hundred metres away from the UN compound where I was. Seen in daylight, the scale and intensity of the attack were unmistakable. This was a conflict on another level, and it made clear, from the very beginning, the environment into which I had arrived.
Yet Afghanistan revealed itself in other ways as well. Unlike in many other places, the instinctive warmth Afghans showed toward Indians made building relationships easy. The easy recall of Hindi films, Bollywood songs, and the casual use of Indian idioms created shared cultural echoes that quickly bridged distance.
I was not, however, the “typical Indian” they anticipated. My Northeastern features drew curiosity. I was familiar and unfamiliar at once, and that ambiguity softened interactions and loosened the burden of stereotypes. Their broken and my imperfect Hindi, interestingly, made conversation easier —our shared incompleteness creating a sense of parity rather than distance. Where warmth elsewhere often took time to grow, here it was immediate; the human connection came easily.
It was into this layered landscape—marked by violence and warmth—that I joined the United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan (UNAMA). Established in 2002 after the US-led invasion and the fall of the Taliban, UNAMA was meant to give civilian shape to a country emerging from war. Working alongside a heavy international military presence, the mission sought to anchor politics, humanitarian action, and development within a multilateral framework. For me, it became both a professional assignment and a deeply personal encounter with a country that resisted simple categories.
The Land and its People
My first sight of Afghanistan came from the plane window—not the city of Kabul, but the mountains that rose like colossal waves of stone, barren and immense. As we descended, they appeared alarmingly close, their sharp ridges almost within reach of the wings. Kabul, it is often said, sits cradled in a bowl—a valley ringed by mountains nearly 1,800 metres above sea level—and from above it truly feels like a city both protected and imprisoned by stone.
What surprised me most after landing, however, was not the dust on the streets or the surrounding austerity, but the roses. Inside the UN compound, behind high walls and layers of security, they bloomed in quiet abundance—red, white, and deep pink—thriving in soil that seemed too dry to yield anything at all. It was here that I first encountered one of Afghanistan’s many paradoxes: a rugged land capable of producing some of the sweetest fruits and nuts—pomegranates that stain the fingers crimson, apricots dried slowly in clear sunlight, almonds, pistachios, and saffron. In many ways, the Afghan people seem shaped by this same terrain—outwardly hard-edged, yet capable of unexpected tenderness and great warmth.
Affinity: Safety in Familiarity
Some of the Afghans I first met and grew close to were Zorbi, my helper, and colleagues in the office, among whom Noori stood out. Zorbi was Hazara and an Ismaili, a follower of the Aga Khan. The Hazara live mostly in central Afghanistan. They speak Persian and their features often reflect their Central Asian and Mongol roots.
My Northeastern Indian features, Zorbi once told Noori, made me look “a bit Hazara.” She appeared pleased by the resemblance and even gave up another apartment so she could spend more time working in mine. Perhaps, for a community long accustomed to suspicion and persecution, resemblance can be reassuring indeed.
The writer Khaled Hosseini captures this deep division within Afghan society powerfully in The Kite Runner. Hazara identity here is marked not only by difference but by discrimination. Few readers forget the moment when Assef, articulating a brutal hierarchy, declares: “Afghanistan is the land of Pashtuns. It always has been, always will be. We are the true Afghans, not this flat-nosed Hazara.” The line is fictional, but the sentiment it reflects is painfully real.
Trust followed in small, practical ways. Beyond what she was expected to do, Zorbi would sometimes bring a bowl of home-cooked biryani, heavy with nuts in true Afghan style, cleanly and carefully wrapped. She was mindful too, that I might not be a beef eater, like most Indians she knew. Then, there came a moment when she stopped asking before helping. One afternoon, I returned to find her husband rewiring my room and fitting the extra lamps I had bought but never installed. She had noticed them lying unused and decided to act. Even Fridays, usually kept free, became days she would stop by, simply to check if I needed help.
That sense of familiarity widened during a trip to Bamyan, the heart of Hazara land. Here, the great Buddha, once carved into the cliffs had been blasted by the Taliban. As ease grew, local staff began to joke that I could pass as a local if only I wore their cap and coat. In fact, when my tenure ended, my farewell gift included a Hazara cap. Noori kept the connection alive long after I left Afghanistan. He visited me once in New York and, months later, took the trouble to send to New Delhi a bulky gift I had left behind—an Afghan clock that still adorns our home.
Looking back, why do people who look alike so often develop an easy affinity? Social scientists describe this tendency as homophily—the inclination to form trust and bonds with those perceived as similar, especially under conditions of uncertainty (McPherson, Smith-Lovin & Cook, 2001). The lesson stayed with me. In places shaped by fear and discrimination, resemblance can become safety. In such moments, identity is not asserted or argued—it is simply recognised.
Hail Gurkhas!!
This was an audacious and determined attack on a UN compound in Kabul. Later, as the investigator, I went through the entire episode frame by frame on CCTV footage. It felt like watching a live broadcast of both the attack and the response.
It was a Friday afternoon, the beginning of the weekend in Kabul. Around four o’clock, a white Toyota Corolla pulled up quietly at the rear gate of the compound. Seconds later, it exploded. The blast tore through the steel gate and sent the brick wall flying. As the dark smoke, dust, and debris began to settle, three attackers—armed to the teeth, including RPGs—emerged and rushed toward the shattered entrance.
What they did not know was that the guard at the gate had not fled. A few people ran across the courtyard, instinctively looking for cover. The lone guard dropped flat to the ground and waited. The guard—a Gurkha—held them off single-handedly until reinforcements arrived. From barely twenty-five metres away, he pinned the attackers down with sustained fire. They opened fire from their RPGs, yet he did not retreat.
Inside the compound, several staff were completely exposed. Doors had been blown open and windows shattered. Had the attackers breached the gate, there would have been no escape. The Gurkha’s courage, resolve, and calm discipline prevented that.
In the days that followed, as I conducted interviews, I came to know many of the men who guarded the compound. Many were former soldiers of the Gurkha Regiment of the Indian Army; a few had served in the Assam Rifles, some even from my own state. Over simple breakfasts, we spoke about home, service, and savings. It was an affinity of another kind.
The Gurkhas have built an inimitable image and reputation for courage, discipline, and loyalty. That reputation has opened opportunities across conflict-ridden regions, particularly in West Asia or the Middle East, where international security companies rely on them to protect critical infrastructure and perform high-risk frontline tasks. Having known them and having seen them in action, I can say without hesitation that this respect and reputation is fully and justifiably earned.
Lives Interrupted
Part of my work in Afghanistan involved responding to serious incidents affecting UN personnel, including cases that resulted in death. It was a responsibility that required dealing with people at their most vulnerable moments. Over time, many cases blurred together, but two incidents remain with me with particular clarity.
The first took place at a five-star hotel in Kabul, widely regarded as one of the most secure locations in the city. It was Nauroz, the Afghan New Year—a day meant for renewal. That evening, a terror attack shattered the calm. Several people were killed, among them a UN staff member. He had arrived in Kabul only that afternoon to attend a conference and had checked into the hotel. By eight o’clock, he was no more.
The first harrowing task was identifying him among the many victims brought to the mortuary. Ill-equipped to handle such numbers, bodies lay strewn across the floor. Later, while inventorying his personal belongings, we found small, carefully wrapped gift packets. They were meant for his grandchildren—items he had picked up from the hotel’s gift shop that very afternoon: Afghan handicrafts, bits of jewellery, modest but thoughtfully chosen. The care with which they had been wrapped stayed with me. Those children would grow up remembering their grandfather, and Afghanistan would be inseparable from that memory.
The second incident involved an attack on a restaurant frequented by internationals. Several staff members were killed. As we prepared the remains for repatriation, we handled their personal effects—photographs taken in happier times, handwritten notes, everyday objects that suddenly felt heavy with meaning.
Dealing with death is always difficult. Dealing with violent death, far from home, creates a strange intimacy with grief. In those moments, duty goes beyond procedure; it becomes a quiet sharing of loss that words can never fully convey.
Cradles and Corridors: Jalalabad and the Plains Beyond
The road from Kabul to Jalalabad is steeped in history. Jalalabad, in eastern Afghanistan, is noisy and untidy in the way frontier towns often are. Its streets carry everything at once—hand-pulled rickshaws, animal carts, motorcycles, battered taxis, and the occasional gleaming SUV—each claiming the same narrow space. Beyond the town, however, the land rises sharply into the Hindu Kush.
The road follows the Kabul River, and once these mountains are crossed, the terrain changes decisively. The land flattens, and the broad plains stretching toward the Peshawar valley and the greater Indus basin come into view. There is an old saying that if you place a stone at the top of these mountains, it will roll all the way down to the Punjab plains. The image captures a deeper geographical truth: gravity, terrain, and history all pull in the same direction.
This corridor has shaped South Asian history for over a millennium. It was along these passes that Mahmud of Ghazni crossed repeatedly in the early eleventh century to launch his campaigns into the Indian subcontinent. From his capital at Ghazni, he raided rich cities—Mathura, Somnath, and others—and returned laden with spoils.
Historians tell us that in the Middle Ages, people often imagined heaven in earthly terms—not as stone fortresses or cities, but as green land, gardens, and abundance. Seen from the stony austerity of the Afghan highlands, the Indo-Gangetic plains would have looked like such a paradise—fertile and bountiful. Little wonder that Babur, encountering India’s richness for the first time, wrote: “If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this.”
That contrast endures even today. A flight from Kabul to Delhi takes little more than an hour, yet few Afghan travellers miss the moment of descent, as the land below turns visibly flatter and greener. From Mahmud of Ghazni to Babur, and from medieval chroniclers to modern passengers jostling near aeroplane windows, the pull of the flat and bountiful plains has remained constant.
On the Western Corridor: Herat to Islam Qala
On the western edge of Afghanistan, the drive from Herat to the border town of Islam Qala stood out for its ease. At a time when travel elsewhere in the country was slow and uncertain, this stretch of road was smooth and well laid, the surface holding firm mile after mile. It formed part of Afghanistan’s western transport corridor, linking the country directly to Iran.
As the road neared the border, a large billboard came into view, declaring that it had been built with the generous support of the Islamic Republic of Iran. The message echoed a familiar pattern, seen most clearly in Africa, where China has invested heavily in roads, ports, and railways—not as charity, but as a long-term strategy to move goods, secure access, and anchor influence through connectivity.
The contrast with our own ambitions closer to home was striking. The highway linking Myanmar and Southeast Asia has long been described as a strategic gateway, yet progress has been slow and uneven. Where others have acted with urgency and clarity of purpose, even amid conflict, our efforts have remained woefully modest.
The Two Faces of the Afghan
Our perception of the Afghan has long swung between two extremes—from the gentle humanity of Rabindranath Tagore’s Kabuliwala to the hardened image of the Taliban fighter with his signature headgear. Tagore’s Kabuliwala, the old fruit seller from Kabul, embodied warmth, trust, and quiet dignity—a man far from home, bound by affection for a child who reminded him of his own daughter. For generations, this was the image many in South Asia carried: the Afghan as kind, stoic, and deeply human beneath a rugged exterior.
Yet after decades of conflict, and especially after 9/11, this image darkened. The Afghan became the faceless fighter, a militant cloaked in ideology and suspicion, a symbol of violence. Between these two portrayals lies the real Afghan—complex, proud, and shaped by history’s harsh winds. To see him only as the Kabuliwala is to romanticise; to see him only through the lens of the Taliban fighter is to dehumanise. The truth, as always, lies in between—in lives lived amid war and loss, and in an enduring will to survive.
The Irrepressible People: Why Afghanistan Endures
Afghanistan has long carried the sobriquet the Graveyard of Empires. The phrase is not merely rhetorical. Across centuries, formidable powers have entered this land with confidence and departed with diminished certainty. Alexander the Great campaigned here in the fourth century BCE, winning battles yet failing to suppress persistent resistance. The Mongols razed cities such as Bamyan and Herat, leaving devastation but not durable rule. The British suffered catastrophe in the nineteenth century, with the near-destruction of an entire army in the First Anglo-Afghan War. The Soviets in the 1980s and the Americans after 2001 likewise believed superior arms, resources, or ideology would succeed where others had failed. Each proclaimed progress: each withdrew when control could no longer be sustained. Once pressure eased, Afghan society reasserted its own sense of power.
How do scholars explain this recurring pattern? One influential account comes from Seth G. Jones in In the Graveyard of Empires. Jones argues that the US did not lose for lack of early military success, but because its strategy fractured. Attention and resources shifted to Iraq, and insurgents benefited from cross-border sanctuaries—especially in Pakistan. Geography, he insists, is insufficient as an explanation. The deeper failure was political: foreign powers repeatedly misread how authority functions in Afghanistan and overestimated their ability to replace local systems with institutions that Afghans would trust.
A complementary historical lens is offered by William Dalrymple, particularly in the Return of a King. Writing about the First Anglo-Afghan War, Dalrymple shows how imperial confidence collided with a society organised around local loyalties, religious authority, and shifting alliances. What British officials read as submission was often tactical accommodation. When imperial resolve faltered, resistance returned with force.
Taken together, these accounts converge on a simple explanation. Afghanistan has rarely been ruled through a strong, centralised state. Authority traditionally rests with tribes, local commanders, clerics, and regional networks—flexible structures that adapt under pressure. External powers can seize cities, fund governments, and train security forces. What they struggle to accomplish is displace local authority with institutions regarded as legitimate. Cooperation lasts only so long as it serves local interests. Jones’s most telling insight is temporal: Afghanistan does not need to defeat empires outright; it needs only to endure them. Foreign powers operate on compressed political timelines. Afghan resistance operates on generational time. Waiting can be more effective than fighting. This is what I have learnt.
Yet beyond structure and strategy lies a deeper moral world. Afghans often invoke Zar, Zan, Zamin—a Pashtun triad commonly rendered as wealth, women, and land, but more precisely understood as dignity, family, and ancestral soil. It is not a slogan but a moral order: certain things are non-negotiable, and therefore worth enduring hardship for. From these flows a capacity for patience, for sacrifice, and for a memory that stretches across generations.
Closing the Circle: Leaving Afghanistan
Two years on, my time in Afghanistan was drawing to a close. There were small farewells, but those that stayed with me were the ones arranged by local colleagues. Among the many gifts, one stood out: traditional Afghan attire, in the style made familiar by President Hamid Karzai. It was offered not as a ceremony, but as inclusion—a gesture that placed me, briefly, within their world.
Afghan hospitality had always been generous. I had attended official meetings where meals were laid out with astonishing abundance. Yet what I remember most are the people, especially my Afghan colleagues—their reserve, their quiet appreciation of good things, the elaborate lunches shared during work breaks. These were moments of normalcy, carefully preserved amid uncertainty.
When America’s longest war ended in August 2021, and the Taliban returned with startling speed, the country was once again thrown into flux. At the time, I was in Baghdad, conducting an online meeting with colleagues in Kabul. Midway through a sentence, one of them paused and said simply, “They are here,” before excusing himself. When he returned, he explained that a few Taliban fighters had reached the UN compound—not to threaten, but to enquire, and to offer protection.
The moment carried a quiet irony. Power had shifted once again, yet the response was measured, almost understated. There was no drama, no display – only adjustment. It felt unmistakably Afghan: change taken in stride.
(Brojen Thangjam recently retired from service with the United Nations. He can be reached at [email protected])