The Cost of Victory: How the Taleban used IEDS to win the war, despite the misgivings of some

During their long and ultimately successful insurgency, the Taleban, like their foreign enemies, were faced with choices over battlefield tactics, between military effectiveness and trying to win over, or at least not alienate, local people. As insurgents, the Taleban were up against well-drilled foreign forces with advanced weaponry and a monopoly on air power, but little local knowledge. This situation drove the Taleban to turn to IEDs, one major type of which, the pressure-plate IED (PPIEDs, or victim-detonated IEDs), had been banned in 1998 by then Taleban leader, Mullah Muhammad Omar, who called them inhuman and unIslamic. This report by guest author Sabawoon Samim* (with input from Kate Clark) looks into the Taleban’s use of improvised explosive devices (IEDs), even after the ban ordered by Mullah Omar. Highly effective against the enemy, they were probably also the leading killer of civilians of any weapon by any party during the conflict. Yet, like the foreign forces, which eventually realised that civilian casualties were hurting their war effort, the Taleban political leadership also pondered the use of IEDs and attempted, albeit half-heartedly, to stop their use.

An explosives specialist conducts mine clearance operations after detecting a piece of metal in Afghanistan. Photo: UNMAS/Cengiz Yar,

As the Taleban slowly re-mobilised following their 2001 defeat, they faced a very different enemy from the Northern Alliance – although those who had fought against the Soviet army in the 1980s would have had that earlier experience of fighting a superpower’s army to draw upon. The fight against the Northern Alliance had involved, for both sides, frontlines, artillery, limited access to air power and amassing fighters to assault or defend, as well as efforts to entice the enemy to switch sides and civilians to switch support. By contrast, as insurgents, the Taleban faced well-armed, well-drilled professional military forces with a monopoly on airstrikes. The question, then, was how to fight successfully against the foreign backers of the new Afghan government.

The Taleban’s battle against the well-equipped and well-trained international forces was initially through small-scale guerrilla attacks against government and international targets, using road mines, deploying small squads to capture police and army check posts, trying to persuade locals to join the ‘jihad’ and, gradually, pushing to capture villages. However, as the international military deployment grew after the mid-2000s, particularly because of the formidable air power facing them, the Taleban’s small numbers and small local operations proved insufficient to take and defend territory (see, for example, this article by Theo Farrell). In those early years, the Taleban took up several controversial tactics, including within their own ranks. These included beheadings (dropped early on), suicide bombings (adopted and used continuously during the insurgency and valorised even after the Taleban captured power) and IEDs.

Beheadings of those considered the enemy were adopted as a gruesome way to kill someone and thereby spread fear (see, for example, this Islamic Affairs Analyst’s paper). They were particularly associated with Mullah Dadullah who, along with Mullah Omar, was the first Taleb to publically call for armed jihad against the new government and the foreign forces in early 2003. Dadullah brought his Emirate-era reputation as a brutal but effective frontline commander and, in the early years of the insurgency, was seen as part of the group that had adopted ‘al-Qaeda tactics’, which included beheadings (see this AAN report). The inspiration may have come from Iraq, from where ‘kill videos’ featuring beheadings travelled to Afghanistan in the form of DVDs, encouraging the Taleban, some reports said, to make their own (see, the Islamic Affairs Analyst paper cited above).However, the tactic did not spread much beyond Dadullah, largely disappearing after his death, although there were also later, fairly isolated incidents of beheadings.[1] According to some media reports, the Taleban leader Mullah Omar ordered a ban on this practice in 2008, a year after Dadullah’s death. There were also reports that the Taleban leadership was unhappy not only with his use of beheadings but also another – for Afghanistan – novel tactic, suicide bombings.[2]

The first known suicide bombing in Afghanistan was carried out by two Arab members of al-Qaeda in September 2001 in a lethal attack on the Northern Alliance military leader Ahmad Shah Massud. In 2002, a failed suicide bomb in Kabul was thought to be connected to al-Qaeda rather than Afghans, as was a successful suicide bombing of coalition forces in 2003, which killed three German soldiers. In January 2004, a suicide attack targeted a British forces vehicle in Kabul, which a man claiming to be a Taleban spokesman asserted was perpetrated by a 28-year-old Palestinian (See this RFEl report). Meanwhile, for the first time, in January 2004, an Afghan suicide bomber is known to have blown himself up in an attack targeting a vehicle of the international coalition.[3]

Initially, the idea of suicide bombings caused disquiet and revulsion among many Taleban because of the explicit Quranic order not to kill oneself. Against this, some Muslims have countered that self-sacrifice in the cause of armed jihad is not just permissible, but the best way one can end life. This thinking became the orthodoxy among the Taleban, with suicide bombers established as an everyday ‘weapon’ during the insurgency, and would-be bombers making ‘martyrdom videos’ following training and before ‘deployment’. They have remained a feature of the army of the Emirate even though they are now in power; see, for example, reporting in The New York Times and as Taleban spokesman, Zabiullah Mujahed said on 6 January 2022, “Our mujahidin who are martyrdom brigades will also be part of the army, but they will be special forces.” (as quoted by The London Times).

A brief history of IEDs in Afghanistan

Another type of weapon, the anti-personnel landmine, however, which was used daily during the insurgency and had a longer history than suicide bombings or beheadings, is the subject of this report. These had been used by all parties, governments, armed groups and foreign forces fighting in Afghanistan pre-2001, although after that, the international forces and the Afghan National Army did not use them. They were a familiar weapon to the Taleban and indeed every Afghan. Everyone was fully aware of the costs and consequences of these weapons: according to an estimate by the Landmine and Cluster Munition Monitor, as of 1999, landmines had disabled more than 400,000 people in Afghanistan, and until 1993, had killed or injured 20 to 24 people every day. According to Afghanistan National Disaster Management Authority officials, landmines are still killing and injuring 120 Afghans every month. (see this Pajhwok report). However, what made anti-personnel landmines potentially controversial, and at least questionable for the insurgents, was not the cost they extracted from civilians, but the fact that Taleban leader Mullah Muhammad Omar had banned them during the first Emirate.

This happened on 6 October 1998, when the Emirate issued a statement signed by Mullah Omar “strongly supporting” the Ottawa Mine Ban Treaty of 1997, with “a total ban on the production, trade, stockpiling and use of landmines.” It said they had made a “commitment to the suffering people of Afghanistan and the international community that the IEA [Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan] would never make any use of any type of landmines.” Omar called them “un-Islamic” and “inhuman.”

The Ottawa Treaty (article 2.1) bans anti-personnel mines that are “designed to be exploded by the presence, proximity or contact of a person and that will incapacitate, injure or kill one or more persons.” In other words, the type of mines banned are those which are victim-activated and cannot discriminate between combatants and civilians, making them an inherent violation of a key principle of International Humanitarian Law (IHL) that obliges all parties to a conflict to distinguish between combatants and civilians and to protect the latter.[4] Remote-controlled mines (RCIEDs), which are ‘command-detonated’, are not banned because they can be targeted. The treaty also does not ban anti-vehicle mines, often known as anti-tank mines, designed to destroy or disable vehicles. These contain more explosives than anti-personnel mines and typically require more pressure or weight to detonate. If they have sensitive fuses and function like anti-personnel mines, their use is also banned by the treaty (more information in this Landmine and Cluster Munition Monitor article). Omar’s words, however, appear to have banned all types of anti-personnel mines, whether victim-detonated or remote-operated.

For Mullah Omar, who was a veteran of the anti-Soviet war, decreeing anti-personnel mines to be illegal may have been driven by his lived experience of the harm they had done to both civilians and comrades during that war. However, the fact that the Taleban were at that time the de facto government of most of the country and on the offensive might also have encouraged his ruling. Anti-personnel mines were of limited use in the war against the Northern Alliance, given that the Taleban were on the front foot. They were much more useful for the retreating Northern Alliance. Denouncing them as illegal paid tribute to the many civilians who had historically suffered from landmines, put the Emirate on the moral high ground vis-a-vis President Burhanuddin Rabbani’s Islamic State, and brought the Emirate in line with most countries internationally: banning them looked good and demonstrated that the Taleban were an accountable and responsible government, all with little military cost.

Mines had been used by the Soviet army during its nine-year occupation and then by the mujahedin who, according to Laster Grau, first recycled the Soviet mines and then began to manufacture their own explosive devices. Many years later, when the insurgency began, the Taleban also used remnant mines from the Soviet era. After 2006-07, when the insurgency was becoming more widespread, the Taleban began manufacturing more complex and destructive forms of IEDs.[5]

Internal debate gives way to IEDs as a weapon of choice – and to soaring civilian casualties

21 interviews, all conducted during the insurgency between March and June 2021, with a mix of Taleb and local civilian interviewees, point to a debate within the Taleban on the use of pressure-plate IEDs.[6] There was a discussion on whether to use this weapon, given ethical concerns about the harm it poses to civilians. Some considered landmines illegal, such as this Islamic scholar affiliated with the Taleban from the Giro district of Ghazni province who said in an interview in March 2021:

The use of things such as mines that are harmful to ordinary people is prohibited in sharia. If someone [civilian] is killed by a mine, and the mine is placed by the order of the Amir, they must give his family diyat (blood money).

Others came up with sharia-based justifications for their use of what Mullah Omar had declared to be an illegal device, driven by its military effectiveness, as a Taleban IED specialist from Helmand province explained in March 2021:

If it was called haram then [in 1998], it was because there were no invaders, no tanks, no drones, but now there is everything. And we need to kick them out and bring in an Islamic system. It’s therefore permitted in sharia because, without using such tactics, it will be impossible to bring an Islamic order to the country and kick out the infidels.

Whatever the ethics of the matter, IEDs became the Taleban’s weapon of choice and were used on a large scale until the very end of the insurgency. In 2010, the Taleban carried out 7,000 IED attacks in a single year.[7] Their use peaked in 2011, when the group’s IED attacks increased, according to a US Army report, to 1,600 in just two months of that year. Civilian casualties soared. Since UNAMA began systematically documenting civilian casualties in 2008, as published in its Annual Reports on the Protection of Civilians in Armed Conflict, IEDs were usually the main killer of civilians (in all the years between 2008 and 2013 and in 2021), or the second most deadly (from 2014 to 2016 and 2019 to 2020) or the third (2017 and 2018). Although all types of IEDs caused civilian casualties, pressure-plate IEDs accounted for the majority of these casualties because of their explosive force, indiscriminate detonation and widespread use (see the table below). According to one Taleban fighter interviewed for this report, in March 2021, the group had plenty of IED ‘engineers’ by then: “We have on average five to six IED makers in our local groups – each of which are 20 to 30 fighters strong.”

Source: UNAMA Protection of Civilian Casualties Reports from 2008 to 2021 (see here).

In the initial years of the insurgency, the Taleban mostly relied on remote and wire-command IEDs. However, since these needed human operators – who were easily detected by NATO – over time, the Taleban shifted to pressure-plate IEDs. They were less risky for the Taleban’s own forces, but much more dangerous for civilians as they explode automatically when any person steps on them, or if less sensitive, when any vehicle drives over them.

For the Taleban, IEDs, especially pressure-plate IEDs, made military sense. They put their fighters in less danger than confronting either foreign or Afghan government forces directly and were an effective weapon in an asymmetric conflict against better-armed forces who had a monopoly on air power. In 2009, 2010 and 2011, IEDs caused about half of all United States troop casualties (45.5 per cent, 51.5 per cent and 43.8 per cent respectively), according to Brookings, leading NATO to launch a counter-IED campaign. NATO troops, the Inter-Press Service news agency reported, spent over 18 billion dollars on this. Despite its efforts, the Taleban’s IED campaign was a significant factor in their resilience and ultimate capture of power.

IEDs and the need not to alienate local support

The initial reason for the Taleban using IEDs was to counterbalance the international and Afghan government forces’ better weaponry and, especially their monopoly on air power, to secure footholds of territory. As long as the tactic proved successful on the battlefield, the Taleban’s use of landmines, widespread and indiscriminate, continued. Eventually, however, other considerations began to emerge.

As the insurgency gained momentum in the early 2010s, the Taleban, at least on a leadership level, became concerned that the insurgency was unwinnable without local support. “Even though the population is often unable to stand up to the Taleban,” as an AAN report in 2011 argued, “in this war, winning the support of local people is seen as crucial – for all sides.” (See page 18 of AAN report on the Taleban Layha or code of conduct.) While the leadership was aware that civilian lives could not be saved entirely (as is always the case in war even when all parties follow IHL), for pragmatic reasons, ie keeping local support, they wanted to reduce civilian harm.

The Taleban never recognised the IHL definition of a civilian as a non-combatant, insisting, for example, that government officials and buildings, clearly civilian under IHL principles, were legitimate targets. Rather, they spoke about the need to protect the ‘common people’. Even so, this protection was not across the board. In their suicide attacks in Kabul, for example, insurgents deliberately attacked purely civilian targets that were not even connected to the government, such as hotels and restaurants. They also attacked government and military targets without regard for passers-by and other civilians inevitably killed and injured. They appeared to regard those living in areas under their control, or potential control, whom they regarded as the ‘common people’ – potential supporters – as worthy of some protection, whereas others, including some urban populations, appeared to be considered low status and entirely unworthy of protection.

Even so, their revised Layha or code of conduct issued in 2010 was marked by a change of tone. It ordered: “…all mujahedin [Taleban] with all their power must be careful with regard to the lives of the common people and their property…” (See page 21 of AAN’s report on the Layha). As to “the general ‘hearts and minds’ policy of the Taleban,” the AAN report continued, it “is summed up in article 78”:

Mujahedin are obliged to adopt Islamic behaviour and good conduct with the people and try to win over the hearts of the common Muslims and, as mujahedin, be such representatives of the Islamic Emirate that all compatriots shall welcome and give the hand of cooperation and help.”

The report argued that a major focus of the Layha was to “restrict the worst brutalities of Taleban fighters: not all methods of warfare would be acceptable.” This was also suggested in another analysis of the Layha which concluded that it was intended, among other reasons, to ensure that “jihadist operations do not negatively impact the Taleban’s public support.”[8] Following the announcement of their spring operation in 2011, Mullah Omar again declared to his fighters that “strict attention must be paid to the protection and safety of civilians during the spring operations by working out a meticulous military plan.[9]

Pressure had been coming from the communities in the Taleban’s rural strongholds from which they recruited fighters, where they felt they enjoyed a large measure of public support and sought refuge and shelter, and where their IEDs were causing the greatest harm. The deaths and injuries to civilians caused by Taleban IEDs were tarnishing the Taleban’s image locally and precipitating criticism in their heartland. The casualties were also sparking widespread condemnation in both the local and international media, human rights groups, UNAMA and presumably behind the scenes, also, the International Committee of the Red Cross. Partly in response to this pressure, the Taleban leadership began to engage in dialogue with a range of political and diplomatic figures, including UNAMA, who were keen to get Taleban policy on IHL, including the group’s use of the indiscriminate pressure-plate IEDs, changed.

UN reporting on civilian casualties was seen, wrote Jackson and Amiri in a 2019 USIP report on Taleban policy-making, as particularly problematic for the Taleban:

On August 15, 2010, the Taliban released a public statement in response to UN civilian casualties reporting. They proposed a joint commission to investigate civilian casualties, comprising members of the “Islamic Conference, UN’s human rights organizations as well as representatives from ISAF forces and Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan.” The UN publicly responded that it would be willing to engage in dialogue with the Taliban if it were “premised on a demonstration of genuine willingness to reduce civilian casualties.” This exchange eventually led to the creation of a private channel of dialogue between the Taliban and the United Nations.

In June 2013, the Taleban announced the establishment of a commission for civilian complaints casualties, sitting within the military commission, to investigate incidents caused by all sides in the conflict. It actively supplied UNAMA with information and complaints.

The Taleban, stung by UNAMA’s annual ranking of their fighters as causing the most deaths and injuries to civilians in the conflict, were certainly engaging in a propaganda battle, accusing UNAMA of partisanship, and putting the ‘real blame’ on foreign forces. But were they actually also engaged in trying to reduce their own civilian casualties?

In October 2012, the Taleban issued an open letter to UNAMA about civilian casualties in which they denied that their fighters used ‘live mines’, a reference to pressure-plate IEDs. The Taleban stated that their fighters, “never place live landmines in any part of the country, but each mine is controlled by a remote and detonated on military targets only.” (see the text of the letter in this article – original link not working) The question always was whether such denials represented anything more than words, ie was there any shift in battlefield tactics to try to protect civilians?

Internal debates on pressure-plate IEDs

It seems that at a senior level, the political leadership was convinced of the need to take practical steps to protect civilians in order not to alienate local people – the political leadership here meaning the supreme leader, chief of justice, heads of civilian commissions, and at a lower level, provincial governors and other civilian officials. However, this only happened when the movement was in a relatively better military position, in 2012. That year, according to Antonio Giustozzi: “the Rahbari [leadership] Shura ordered a suspension of the mine campaign to prevent losing political capital among the communities.”[10] What exactly happened, though, is confusing.

Giustozzi reported that the Military Commission did not accept the suspension, so only village-level fronts and governor groups obeyed the order. Furthermore, he said that about six months after the ban, the Taleban in the south began to receive Iranian-made remote-control mines, which could be targeted effectively, and this prompted the Rahbari Shura to lift the suspension. However, a senior Taleban source described to the author how the need for a ban on pressure-plate IEDs had been raised that year by several senior leaders and that the remaining leadership approved it. “There was a ban,” the source said, but it was not issued as “a direct order from Mullah Omar.” He said Omar’s then deputy and successor, Mullah Akhtar Muhammad Mansur, who took over effectively in April 2013, but officially only from July 2015 after Omar’s death was belatedly announced, had been “among those leaders strongly lobbying to stop using pressure-plate IEDs.” Members of the military commission, though, the source said, were “not in a position to accept an outright ban and proposed instead that pressure-plate mines should continue to be used but that they should be laid more carefully.” Another senior official involved in the discussion gave a similar explanation:

Some mashran [leaders] were against the [use of] pressure-plates and were determined to place a ban on them. After discussing the issue with us [the military commission], however, we told them our reasons why we couldn’t just stop using them completely. We suggested that only in exceptional circumstances, after completely ensuring that civilians wouldn’t be hurt, would we use them. We didn’t reach a conclusion. They insisted on the ban and continued [publicising] it, and we went on with using pressure-plates in very limited circumstances.

Interviews with Taleban fighters suggest an order banning pressure-plate IEDs was disseminated, or at least known about. One fighter from the Nad Ali district of Helmand province, for example, interviewed said: “Pressure-plate mines were banned by our leaders a long time ago. In April 2021, our Amir ul-Muminen told us not to use these types of mines because they cause civilian casualties.”  Another Taleban commander from Ghazni province explained how they had used landmines in Ghazni province:

We were told [by senior commanders] that we could only use pressure-plate IEDs in a few exceptional situations. If a road or area was completely free of civilians and we and the enemy [Afghan security forces] were the only ones concerned, then we were allowed to use them. Last year [1400/2021], we used heavy pressure-plate IEDs in Arzu [an area in Ghazni city] to fight because civilians were totally evacuated from there. We also used them on the Qarbagh road after we’d damaged some parts of the road to ensure that civilians couldn’t pass on it. Apart from these exceptions, pressure-plate IEDs weren’t allowed. Our friends used wire command mines more, connecting a five-hundred-metre-long wire and detonating the mine through it.

On the ground, however, any drive to completely cease their use was neither consistent nor sustained. The battlefield priorities of the military wing weighed too heavily on the leadership.

Actual battlefield tactics were shaped by local commanders rather than the political leadership. Even though the political leadership may have wanted to assert control, ensure discipline and move on with a more population-centric strategy, it was also aware that the rank and file would not tolerate too much pressure. Fighters were excessively sensitive when it came to being told what to do on the battlefield, as a Helmandi commander told the author in early April 2021: “If they are ordering such things [the ban on pressure-plate IEDs], then they themselves should fight. We cannot fight on those terms. They aren’t aware of our situation on the battlefield.” The military commission and senior commanders did have more influence on the battlefield, but they were often not convinced of the need to ban pressure-plate IEDs either.

Given the effectiveness of this type of weapon against the enemy and the limited alternatives available, it is perhaps not surprising that Taleban fighters remained hostile to any ban. Meanwhile, the political wing continued to brief that there was a ban and the use of pressure-plate IEDs had ceased. Except for a few exceptions, they attempted to explain away their use by saying they had been laid by local rogue commanders or that they would investigate.

It may have been sensitivity over pressure-plate IEDs, as well as continuing claims of an official ban that led to most attacks using this weapon going unclaimed. In 2016, for instance, the Taleban only claimed responsibility for 49 pressure-plate incidents out of a total of 560 incidents documented by UNAMA. In 2017, they claimed responsibility for only 22 out of 482 UNAMA-documented incidents. It was an indication that the group’s media arm thought it better to remain silent.

Many Taleban commanders also denied accusations that their IEDs caused any harm to civilians or at least insisted that if they did, they were not responsible. They asserted that the claims were disinformation pushed by Kabul and the media, as a commander from Maidan Wardak province explained:

It’s all government propaganda. Our mines do not kill or injure civilians; civilians are not our targets. It is the fatwa [order] of our Amir ul-Muminen that it is not a problem to target whoever is in front of infidels and is sheltering [the ANSF].

The idea that the civilians themselves were responsible if they happened to be harmed by IEDs because they were ‘sheltering’ enemy combatants looks like an attempt to deflect blame. Yet it might have been this sort of thinking that allowed local Taleban fighters to assure their superiors – and themselves – that their IEDs only ‘occasionally’ killed or injured civilians. Mullah Omar, however, appeared to have been aware of this issue, saying in his 2011 Eid message:

If civilian casualties are caused in IED strikes, martyrdom attacks and other operations but the Mujahedin of the area repudiate these allegations while all testimonials and evidence point otherwise then all the suspects should be forwarded to the legal offices.

He went on: “If the same officials persist in their neglectfulness in relation to civilian casualties then more Islamic penalties should be handed out, in addition to his termination from post” (see this AAN report).

Enacting the ban – or not

On the battlefield – the Afghan countryside – the Taleban’s use of pressure-plate IEDs continued. Indeed, according to UNAMA’s 2012 annual report, when the ban was supposedly established, the use of landmines actually increased slightly as that year wore on. Most of the IEDs that were known about, UNAMA said, were victim-activated, with pressure-plate IEDs being the most common. It quoted ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) data that there was no statistically significant difference in the type of IEDs used between 2011 and 2012. “Approximately 70 percent of IEDs remain victim-activated,” it said. Moreover, victim-activated IEDs were most widely used in the southern provinces, where, UNAMA said, “they constitute the vast majority of IEDs used.” In the year of the reported ban, Taleban IEDs caused 2,531 civilian casualties – 868 deaths and 1,663 people injured.

UNAMA was sceptical about Taleban intentions. Certainly, they were speaking more about protecting civilians: 25 of the Taleban’s 53 public statements issued in 2012, UNAMA said, concerned civilian casualties or human rights protection. The Taleban had made a public commitment to protect civilians, denied using pressure-plate IEDs and sometimes asserted that they had taken specific measures to protect civilians in certain attacks. The 2012 Protection of Civilians annual report said:

UNAMA observed a shift in the Taliban’s public messages regarding attacks against Government officials with a greater emphasis on targeting of military objects and promoting ‘insider attacks’. This apparent shift may reflect a heightened awareness by Taliban leadership of a need to both show and address public concern for protection of Afghan civilians and support for a wider political objective related to the peace process and winning Afghan “hearts and minds.”

However, UNAMA added: “While Taliban statements calling on its members to protect civilians are welcome, the situation on the ground has not changed. The Taliban increased their direct targeting of civilians through targeted killings and continued to indiscriminately use IEDs including illegal pressure-plate victim-activated IEDs.”

The following year, however, the number of civilians killed and injured by pressure-plate IEDs did fall, and quite considerably. UNAMA reported that this weapon killed and injured 39 per cent fewer civilians in 2013 than in 2012 (although that still meant a total of 557 civilian casualties, 245 deaths and 312 injured). Those watching the war did wonder if the Taleban had finally implemented an effective ban, for example, AAN’s Kate Clark:

[In 2013], there were some small signs of improvement in Taleban tactics: the number of civilians killed in suicide and complex attacks while still high – 15 per cent of all civilian casualties, ie 255 deaths and 982 injuries – were 18 per cent less than in 2012, even as the number of attacks remained similar. A sign perhaps of better targeting? Taleban orders also led to a decrease in the use of pressure-plate IEDs which are completely indiscriminate, being detonated as easily by a child stepping on them as an armoured vehicle driving across. This move follows a great deal of criticism, not least from UNAMA.

Unfortunately, said UNAMA, casualties from the now more often used remote-controlled IEDs had risen, often because the operator had not taken enough care to protect civilians. In any case, the following year, 2014, the numbers killed and injured by pressure-plate IEDs recovered: UNAMA reported a 39 per cent increase compared to 2013.

After the ISAF withdrawal

Interviewees have suggested that after the withdrawal of ISAF in 2014, rank-and-file Taleban fighters and commanders themselves took some steps to reduce civilian harm. Some local Taleban commanders began increasingly informing local people where they had planted IEDs, and in many cases, they blocked civilian access to mined roads. In Ghazni province, for example, local Taleban were announcing in local mosques that they had lined a road with IEDs and ordering people not to use that road. One Taleban fighter said:

Whenever we plant mines on highways, we block the road. We tell the people in nearby villages; we announce in the mosques and on loudspeakers that the road is blocked. Whoever goes on it and gets killed, it is their fault, because they are informed of mines.

Similarly, after the Taleban mined sections of the Kabul-Kandahar highway, a resident of Maidan Wardak province, interviewed in late March 2021, said they informed the surrounding population: “For the past two years, the Taleban ordered local villagers not to go on the road because we [the Taleban] planted IEDs there. They were telling people to use alternative routes.” A resident of Zurmat district in Paktia Province made similar comments:

The Taleban once blocked our road with IEDs. They told people living nearby not to go on the road and wrote ‘Mainuna di’ [there are IEDs] on the walls. They also put noticeable stones on many parts of the road for anyone who had not heard about the closure. The Taleban also told some people who had farmland nearby to stop people using It [the road].

A commander from Zurmat district, now holding a job in the provincial police, said once the Afghan National Security Forces (ANSF) became their primary enemy,[11] Taleban thinking changed:

In the time of the Americans, after we were told they were coming for operations, we’d encircle more than a dozen of villages with fishari mines [pressure-plate IEDs] and weren’t telling locals [about them] because of jasusan [informers]. They often targeted ordinary people and even our own comrades, but once the Americans were gone, we were good enough at fighting the Afghan army, and also to decrease the harm to locals, we didn’t use mines in the villages.

Another Taleban interviewee said which mine they used depended on the enemy: “We were told by our [senior] commander that we can use them [pressure-plate IEDs] when Americans and [Afghan] Special Forces w coming for operations. We only used those mines [pressure-plates] after our spies told us that there was an American and commando operation.” In normal situations, he said, they mostly used remote and wire-commanded IEDs, along with mobile-call-activate IEDs. He said he did not, personally, know of any formal bans on pressure-plate IEDs.

In some cases, as our interviews revealed, Taleban fighters hid their use of pressure-plate IEDs from the leadership because of their sensitivity. For example, a Taleban source told the author that a commander had laid pressure-plate IEDs on both sides of the Paktika-Ghazni highway from 2018 onwards, without informing the leadership. The Taleban source said that in April 2021, a visiting Taleban delegation travelled along the road and heard about the use of pressure-plate IEDs. They warned him that planting such devices again could end his career in the Taleban.

Some of the variations in use were geographic. In the Nad Ali district of Helmand province, for instance, the vast majority of IEDs used, according to interviewees, were pressure-plate IEDs per the order of the district’s senior commander. (In 2017, according to UNAMA, half of the civilian fatalities from pressure-plate IEDs were in the southern three provinces of Helmand, Kandahar and Uruzgan.[12]) In other provinces of Afghanistan, such as Paktia and Ghazni, either their use was ceased, or local commanders took measures to save civilians from harm. It may be that in these areas, local communities were stronger and more organised vis-à-vis the insurgents and could mobilise to demand better protection.[13]

Also possibly contributing to a change of tactics at this point in the conflict more generally was that, after the ISAF withdrawal and the decision by President Barak Obama not to target the Taleban, the insurgents went on the offensive, trying to capture more and more territory. When the ANSF began to re-take territory, Taleban tactics changed accordingly. In 2015, there was a decline in the civilian casualties caused by IEDs generally, but again an increase in those caused by pressure-plate IEDs, reported UNAMA, a further 35 per cent increase compared to the previous year (1,051 civilian casualties, 459 deaths and 592 injured).

The increase in civilian casualties from pressure-plate IEDs stems from the growing use of these devices by Anti-Government Elements as a defensive weapon to slow or prevent advancement of Afghan security forces before, during and after ground engagements. UNAMA documented multiple incidents of pressure-plate IED detonations in civilian agricultural areas, footpaths, public roads and other public areas frequented by civilians. These IEDs killed and maimed civilians as they went about their daily lives, traveling between villages and grazing livestock.

The final years of the Republic

UNAMA statistics show that 2012 was the peak year for civilian fatalities from IEDs, and after that, they declined until 2019 and 2020. In those two years, IEDs were the second most effective tactic used by the Taleban against the Afghan National Army (ANA) after direct fires (see page 19 of this 2020 US Department of Defence report to Congress). 2021 would have been the worst year for IED use and civilian casualties by a long way if the war had continued at the same intensity until December.

In those last years of the insurgency, IEDs again became a highly effective weapon against government forces, extremely intimidating for the ANA and resulted in some major defeats. Since the reinforcement of ANA bases in areas of conflict was mostly carried out by road, given the lack of sufficient air power, Taleban IEDs managed to cut off most of the reinforcement routes by lining roads with enormous IEDs. An ANA commander in Maidan Wardak province told AAN in early April 2021:

The Taleban’s mines block our reinforcement routes. Many of our bases and even district centres fall to them due to this blockage of reinforcements because with that you can’t fight for too long. Last week, a base fell to the Taleban in the Sheikhabad area after they blocked the road by planting mines. Reinforcements and ammunition did not reach [the base], and after one week under siege, they left the base with everything inside and retreated to our base in the night.

An ANA commander from Zabul described to the author in April 2021 interview what it was like facing IEDs:

Mines are the hidden enemy. You wouldn’t know [what has just happened], but you see the limbs of your friends in the air. In the war with the Taleban, mine detection and protecting your life from them is the most difficult task we deal with. It causes us to slow down our operation and at the same time, they [the Taleban] often attack us. Our mine detectors are also targeted by the Taleban snipers during detection operations, and that is a huge loss for us. I can say that if the Taleban didn’t use mines, they could be defeated in the war.

How to weigh up the Taleban’s use of pressure-plate IEDs?

The leadership did recognise that particular brutal or ‘unnecessary’ violence could alienate the population. Civilian interviewees, asked years later about the Taleban of the early insurgency, described a movement that became less brutal. They cited the insurgents stopping beheading people as a terror tactic, reducing the number of extra-judicial killings in their areas, and that they now placed IEDs more carefully. A resident of Sayedabad district in Wardak province, interviewed in March 2021, for example, referred to such changes in tactics and attitudes towards civilians and said the Taleban “were very brutal in their first years, but now they have become [more] human.” The leadership also sometimes removed or disarmed commanders if they had been particularly harsh, presumably because they caused a backlash. For example, in 2018, a notoriously ruthless commander in the Yahyakhel district of Paktika province was replaced because his extremely hard attitude toward people in his home district had prompted criticism of the movement as a whole. He was only moved sideways, appointed as the supervisor of the Taleban ‘hideouts’, the houses for injured fighters, madrasas and so on, in Peshawar, Pakistan.

Taleban leadership concerns over civilian harm from IEDs stemmed from the damage they were doing to the Taleban’s overall war effort and the movement’s reputation. Those concerns mirrored similar worries felt by the senior US military leadership over their forces killing and injuring large numbers of Afghan civilians in air strikes, search operations and escalation of force situations when, for example, civilians driving ‘too fast’ towards checkpoints were killed too swiftly. General Stanley McChrystal, commander of ISAF and US forces in Afghanistan, 2009-10, and his successors began to prioritise reducing civilian harm seriously. The number of civilians killed and injured by foreign forces fell dramatically as they put in place new rules of engagement, better investigation and reporting and pre-deployment training (see AAN reporting from 2012 and this 2016 report from Open Society Foundations).

There were many differences in Taleban efforts to reduce their use of pressure-plate IEDs. The Taleban senior leadership were aware of the need to keep rural communities onside and to present the Emirate as competent and fair, a government-in-waiting, both to international audiences and other Afghans. Yet, they were either unable to control Taleban fighters and commanders on the ground or greatly influence the military commission. Another contrast is the US impetus to reduce civilian harm which had come from the US military leadership. On the Taleban side, it had come from political figures, not those in charge of the war effort. US and other foreign soldiers did complain that the changed rules of engagement which gave far greater priority to the protection of civilians, inevitably led to greater risk to their lives. Nonetheless, they, largely obeyed orders. Moreover, unlike foreign armies, there was no single clear command about pressure-plate IEDs for the Taleban to obey; instead a continuing difference of opinion prevailed at the highest levels. A direct order from Mullah Omar would have carried more weight with the rank-and-file and their commanders, but it did not come. Perhaps he was not in a position to order it at a time when the debates over it erupted, given his deteriorating health around this time.

Taleban insurgents were always more sceptical of any restrictions on their room for manoeuvre and were far more autonomous. Fighting Taleban weighed military advantage and the risk to themselves of not using pressure-plate IEDs with the harm to their civilian compatriots and the need to keep civilians onside as part of the war effort. For the most part, they were not persuaded and continued to deploy pressure-plate IEDs, as they felt they were needed. As AAN reported:

It is also worth recalling that the number of civilians killed and injured by US forces remained high and increased every time the US decided to push for military advantage in the conflict and/or widened their rules on targeting (eg carrying out offensive as well as defensive air strikes) or ‘relaxed’ measures to protect civilians. In 2018, for example, the US air force released 70 per cent more weapons in air operations than in 2017 (7,362 compared to 4,36; itself a significant increase on the 1,337 weapons released in 2016), but caused more than double the number of civilian casualties. UNAMA says this followed additional deployments to Afghanistan at the end of 2017 and “a relaxation in the rules of engagement for United States forces in Afghanistan, which removed certain ‘proximity’ requirements for airstrikes.” It suggested, as well, that the US military was taking a more ‘robust’ line against insurgents using civilian homes as cover. If the rules brought in by McCrystal and his successors had been adhered to, the US air force would not have killed and injured so many Afghan civilians. Like the Taleban, then, there was always a weighing of concerns; battlefield contingencies could cancel out worries of the harm civilian deaths would do to the war effort.

Always, as well, whatever protections the Taleban might have given to civilian populations in their heartlands fell away when it came to the cities. Suicide bombers targeting urban centres rarely appeared to try to spare civilians. The justification, as seen when speaking to Taleban in private discussion, was that they viewed the capital’s population, for example, as default supporters of the US and its allies’ war against them. “Those living under the control of an apostate regime,” a Taleban-affiliated scholar from Ghazni told the author, “who don’t denounce its anti-Islamic policies and don’t support jihad also share [responsibility for] what the Americans and the government is doing.”

Edited by Kate Clark and Rachel Reid


[1] For example, there were 12 reported beheadings documented by UNAMA in 2014, 9 of which were attributed to the Taleban. See “Protection of Civilians in Armed Conflict, 2014,” page 56.

[2] See Thomas Ruttig’s 2012 report, “The Mulla Dadullah Front: A search for clues,” in which he notes concerns within the Taleban that the methods used by Dadullah (and his brother who took over his mantle) were ‘un-Islamic’, with many first-generation Taleban rejecting Dadullah’s methods.

[3] Brian Glynn Williams: “Suicide bombings in Afghanistan,” Islamic Affairs Analyst, September 2007, page 4.

[4] The first rule in the International Committee of the Red Cross’s database of customary International Humanitarian Law concerns this:

The parties to the conflict must at all times distinguish between civilians and combatants. Attacks may only be directed against combatants. Attacks must not be directed against civilians.

[5] Some anecdotal reports suggest that Taleban were assisted by al-Qaeda and other foreign groups providing training in IED-making, for example, this Taleban fighter interviewed by Newsweek:

The Arabs taught us how to make an IED by mixing nitrate fertilizer and diesel fuel, and how to pack plastic explosives and to connect them to detonators and remote-control devices like mobile phones. We learned how to do this blindfolded so we could safely plant IEDs in the dark.

See also “The Taliban at war: inside the Helmand insurgency, 2004–2012,” Theo Farrell and Antonio Giustozzi, page 845, and “The Battle for Afghanistan, Militancy and Conflict in Kandahar,” Anand Gopal, 2010, New America Foundation, page34.

[6] Out of the 21 interviews, seven were with Taleban fighters – three from Ghazni, four from Helmand, two from Maidan Wardak and two from Paktia – and nine with residents, a journalist and two former government soldiers from the same provinces. Three interviews were conducted via mobile phone and the rest face-to-face.

[7] UNAMA Protection of Civilians in Armed Conflict Annual Report 2010, page 2.

[8] Thomas H. Johnson & Matthew C. DuPee (2012) Analysing the new Taliban Code of Conduct (Layeha): an assessment of changing perspectives and strategies of the Afghan Taliban, Central Asian Survey, 31:1, 77-91, DOI: 10.1080/02634937.2012.647844 (see here).

[9] Statement of Taleban’s Leadership regarding the Inception of the Spring Operations, 30 April 2011, paragraph 4 (link is no longer working, but the statement was seen by the author).

[10] Giustozzi, Antonio, The Taliban at War: 2001-2018, Hurst & Company London, 2019, page 143.

[11] After 2014, the US alone among the foreign forces had a potential combat mission and their involvement in offensive operations, largely air or special forces on the ground, waxed and waned until their final departure in 2021.

[12] A Protect of Civilians in Armed Conflict Annual Report 2017, page 32.

[13] Some local Taleban groups banned the pressure-plate IEDs locally, Giustozzi reported in “The Taleban at War, 2001-2018,” page 144.

The Cost of Victory: How the Taleban used IEDS to win the war, despite the misgivings of some
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Zeal, Dogma, and Folly: How the Taliban Bungled Afghanistan

The National Interest
August 15, 2022

Editors note: In August, The National Interest organized a symposium on Afghanistan one year after the U.S. withdrawal and the Taliban takeover of Kabul. We asked a variety of experts the following question: How should the Biden administration approach Afghanistan and the Taliban government? The following article is one of their responses:

The U.S. decision to withdraw from Afghanistan extricated the United States from a worsening, unsustainable quagmire with no end in sight. It liberated U.S. intelligence, reconnaissance, and surveillance assets, special operations forces, and other highly valuable resources for employment in places crucial to U.S. geostrategic objectives, such as Ukraine and the Indo-Pacific. However, the speed with which the Afghan government and its forces melted down under the Taliban onslaught—reflecting years of profound misgovernance and waste of international support, as well as the venality and self-interested parochialism of the fractious Afghan political elite—meant that the Taliban felt few constraints on its rule. And the Taliban’s rule has so far been that of a revolutionary regime consumed by zealotry and the prevention of defections, mismanaging both Afghanistan and its external relations.

The Counterterrorism Picture

The counterterrorism picture in Afghanistan has worsened. That the Taliban—or at least its key factions, including powerful Acting Interior Minister Sirajuddin Haqqani—was willing to host Al Qaeda leader Ayman al-Zawahiri is merely the tip, albeit the most egregious part, of the iceberg.

Foreign fighters have been flowing into Afghanistan from the Middle East, Pakistan, and Central Asia. With the excuse that Afghanistan’s borders are porous and it lacks the capacity to stop the inflows unless the West helps provide border surveillance equipment, the Taliban has also been unwilling to stop the influx of foreign fighters. Doing so would alienate crucial jihadi sponsors in the Middle East and Pakistan on whose support the Taliban depends—amidst a tanking Afghan economy—to pay its own existing fighters. Tehrik-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), sometimes referred to as the Pakistani Taliban, has used its safe havens in Afghanistan to further increase its attacks against Pakistan, a trend well-preceding the Taliban takeover.

Moreover, visibly pulling back from the jihadi brotherhood—whether by not allowing foreign fighters or by publicly breaking with Al Qaeda, something the Taliban has never been willing to do—would cause factionalization within the movement.

The Taliban leadership’s single and dominant preoccupation, to which all decisionmaking has been subordinated, has been preserving unity and avoiding defections. All the more so because the Taliban’s principal on-the-ground rival, the Islamic State of Khorasan (ISIS-K), remains potent and would receive some Taliban defectors. The Taliban has been battling ISIS-K and has succeeded in decimating its rural presence at various times, but it has not been able to wipe out its urban cells.

The key question is whether the Taliban will be willing and able to live up to its promise not to allow terrorist attacks to be carried out from Afghanistan.

The Political, Social, and Economic Picture

Despite its promises of moderation, the Taliban has been ruling with tightening authoritarianism. Women have particularly suffered, with girls not allowed to attend secondary schools in most of the country, restrictions on women’s presence at workplaces, a head-to-toe covering again mandated, and a requirement that a male guardian accompanies women during travel. Moreover, freedom of expression and media have been severely curtailed, and journalists and protestors have been brutalized. The Ministry of Interior has been operating as a thuggish force to repress any voice of dissent against the Taliban-only exclusionary regime. And despite early declarations, the resurrected Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice has been intrusive and aggressive in imposing and enforcing all kinds of social mores, such as beard length.

The Afghan economy, declining since 2014, has tanked. Western sanctions have meant that liquidity has been critically lacking. Economic output has substantially fallen, affecting everything from the financial sector and rural households’ coping mechanisms. Even though the Taliban regime has been able to improve revenue collection, poverty, affecting more than one-third of the population before the Taliban takeover, has risen dramatically. Western donors have been generous with humanitarian aid that is to bypass the Taliban regime through non-governmental organizations and go to the Afghan people, but famine looms on the horizon this winter. Without sustained financial liquidity and the regularized capacity of the economy to function, humanitarian aid merely suppresses one peak of economic crisis before another emerges.

Multiple cleavages and axes of division and alignment pervade the Taliban. Among them is the division between Taliban leader Mullah Haibatullah Akhundzada and the so-called sheikhs around him in Kandahar and several other key poles of power, such as the more internationally-oriented Mullah Baradar, Acting Minister of Defense Mullah Yaqub, and Sirajuddin Haqqani. Although chosen for his religious credentials and ostensible weakness as someone seen as unable to threaten other powerful Taliban commanders, Haibatullah has been able to rule with an iron fist, impervious to input from others within the Taliban and the outside. He has focused on the doctrinaire re-creation of the 1990s system of rule in Afghanistan, rejecting the validity of man-made laws, taking it upon himself to establish in Afghanistan a vision of sharia that harkens back to centuries ago and whose purpose is to prepare people for the afterlife. Thus, the more internationally-oriented segments of the Taliban, like Baradar, or those who care about ruling for decades, not just a few years (such as Yaqub and Sirajuddin), have not been able to sway the regime on reopening girls’ schools or other matters.

The National Resistance Front of Tajik and other opposition figures from the former Afghan regime remains feeble, unable to draw tribal support, and is performing far worse than many expected. The Taliban has effectively shut down even its low-level tactical efforts. The broader Afghan opposition is as divided and fractious as ever and hopelessly fantasizes about the possibility of a new U.S. on-the-ground military intervention, such as if a terrorist attack from Afghanistan takes place.

Just like the West, Russia, China, Iran, and Central Asian countries have been frustrated with the Taliban both on terrorism issues, such as foreign fighters and Al Qaeda, and social issues, principally restrictions on women’s education and minorities. (The loss of human rights, civil liberties, and political accountability does not bother these non-Western authoritarian countries.) Even Pakistan, the steadfast and decades-old sponsor of the Taliban, particularly the Haqqanis, has not achieved satisfaction on issues related to the TTP. No country has recognized the Taliban regime, but Russia, China, Iran, and others operate embassies in Kabul and verbally cozy up to the Taliban regime. However, they subordinate their frustrations with the Taliban to global power competition, eager to see the United States out of their backyard.

Looking Forward

The immediate fallout from the Taliban’s sheltering of Zawahiri will likely be a U.S. pullback from engagement. The United States has adopted a very sensible and pragmatic policy of limited, cautious engagement, seeking to influence the Taliban’s stance on counterterrorism cooperation and social issues.

Appropriately, the United States has also attempted to figure out how to enable some liquidity inflows into Afghanistan while staying in legal compliance with sanctions and various U.S. lawsuits related to the September 11 attacks, such as by working through international financial institutions to deliver cash to an independent Afghanistan central bank. In what was inevitably going to be a complex, one step forward, two steps back effort, the United States has received little from engagement, and it is now likely to give the Taliban a much colder shoulder. The international community is also most likely to once again deny Taliban leaders the ability to travel, as urged by a group of former U.S. diplomats. But even this important signal will not alter the Taliban’s policies as long as the internal power balance between Haibatullah and others remains as is.

But isolating the Taliban, however emotionally satisfying, will not make the Taliban change its behavior either. Moreover, the likely terrible humanitarian situation this winter will necessitate some engagement.

The possibility of Taliban policy shifts can emerge if the power distribution within the Taliban changes, with the restorationists centered around Haibatullah losing power. This could happen as a result of Haibatullah’s death or an internal power reshuffle. Baradar, Siraj, and Yaqub are in line as some of the most likely successors, and they would eventually likely be far more pragmatic and responsive on social issues than Haibatullah and the sheikhs around him. However, Sirajuddin Haqqani has lost much of his already very limited credibility with the international community as a responsible interlocutor on counterterrorism issues. Will the Taliban come to understand that it will struggle to survive if it does not at least quietly provide counterterrorism intelligence and thus comes to face extensive international isolation? Or will it bank on the international community remaining too fragmented in its response?

Alternatively, the Taliban regime could simply implode and fragment into factions fighting each other in a civil war. The counterterrorism picture would likely be worse in such a civil war scenario due to even greater opacity and more limited actionable options. And the likely winner of years of bloodshed would merely be some constellation of the Taliban’s factions.

Zeal, Dogma, and Folly: How the Taliban Bungled Afghanistan
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Afghanistan’s crisis started well before August 2021

Samira Sayed-Rahman

When we landed in Istanbul late afternoon, the beeps and dings of cellphone notifications from people’s devices were soon replaced by gasps and cries. Within seconds, I saw grown men and women fall to the airport floor in tears. While we were in the air, Afghanistan’s elected leadership had fled and the Taliban had arrived in Kabul. I would eventually see images of Taliban fighters walking on the grounds of my old offices in the presidential palace.

Everything I had spent the past seven years working towards unravelled in the time we were in the air. In the weeks and months prior, my colleagues and I were negotiating long-term power-purchase agreements and investments in Afghanistan’s energy sector. We were discussing 10 and 25-year plans. We were developing strategies to turn Afghanistan into a regional hub for connectivity. I believed in a vision of a sustainable, self-reliant country if only the latest war would end.

The war did end, but instead of connecting Asia with the world, Afghanistan — which sits at the heart of the continent — is now isolated. Its people are without money, jobs and increasingly food, a year after the Taliban came back to power. When I returned in March to a very different Kabul from the city that I had left last August, it was as a humanitarian worker no longer focused on long-term strategies but on programmes aimed at ensuring basic survival.

A country that has seen so many political upheavals over the last five decades is in a more dire situation than it has ever been. Still, the cessation of active warfare allowed me to travel to some of the most remote areas of the country that were difficult to access under the democratic governments before the return of the Taliban.

From the earthquake zones deep in the mountains of Paktika province to Sangin district in Helmand province, I drove through riverbeds and dirt trails. After the earthquake in June, when I travelled to affected areas, we lost network coverage halfway there, with no cellphone or electricity tower in sight.

I thought back to my days in the energy sector, and how I would get upset with our commercial team when they would list Paktika as having zero revenues. There was no grid, I would argue, so why did we even need to list it in our collection reports?

Now I saw things differently. Billions of dollars of foreign aid had poured into the country, and national strategies for development had been created year after year, some of which I had directly worked on. Yet, regions like Paktika have seen little progress and remain disconnected from the rest of Afghanistan, let alone the world.

Governments have come and gone, regimes have changed, and the lives of much of Afghanistan’s population remain the same, stuck in cycles of basic survival with little to no access to any public services vital to uplift their human and economic conditions.

I sat with women in makeshift tents in Barmal, Paktika, after their mud homes were destroyed in the earthquake. They asked me what I was holding in my hand. How do you explain what a smartphone is to people who have never had electricity?

In Kajaki, Helmand, I met with community elders who had never seen a clinic in their lives: They talked about the struggles of surviving from basic ailments. I met with women in Spera district of Khost province. They spoke of their adult children having no economic opportunities as they never got an education, and their grandchildren who now face the same fate.

In Kamaa, a district of Nangarhar province, I spoke with a woman who said the only way she can feed her children is by picking food from the garbage: If she can get enough of the hair and dirt off, she brings it home. This was in a district only 40 minutes from the provincial capital, Jalalabad. Kamaa was largely spared from the violence of the last 20 years, but this woman came from a community that suffered from endemic poverty.

This is not to say that there hasn’t been progress in Afghanistan. Incredible gains have been made, particularly in the areas of public services, education, economic growth, and most critically, women’s participation across all sectors. Many of these advances are now under threat and must be protected.

However, my recent visits have revealed to me that while the Taliban introduce policies that cause trepidation, previous authorities and the international community also bear responsibility for the multiple crises Afghanistan faces. Whether it was from shortsighted Western technocratic models or the violence targeting infrastructure and development, we must come to grips with the idea that we have collectively failed the Afghan people repeatedly over the past several decades.

Only then will we realise that the way to move forward is through acknowledging the needs of ordinary Afghan citizens. The status quo cannot continue: Every single Afghan deserves to have access to basic services and an opportunity to build a life on their terms.

Afghanistan’s crisis started well before August 2021
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In Afghanistan, a legacy of U.S. failure endures

By Ishaan Tharoor
with Sammy Westfall

The Washington Post

August 16, 2022

In Afghanistan, a legacy of U.S. failure endures
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The Taliban’s year-one report card

The Taliban’s first year back in power was one of crisis, but they also scored victories that deserve to be acknowledged.

Indeed, in the eyes of many Afghans, the year since the Taliban seized Kabul with little to no resistance has been shaped by a bewildering mix of half-realised hopes, unexpected blessings, many disappointments and devastating economic, social and political crises.

According to the West, however, Afghanistan’s first year back under Taliban rule was marked by just three main events: the chaotic evacuation of Western nationals from Kabul airport; the decree by the Taliban leader to stop girls’ secondary education; and the drone killing of al-Qaeda leader Ayman al-Zawahiri – in a clear violation of Afghanistan’s sovereignty – in a Kabul safe house allegedly owned by the Haqqani network and the Taliban’s interim minister of interior, who is responsible for law and order in the country.

So what exactly were the many gains and undeniable losses and failures of the Taliban during their first year back in power?

US and the Taliban

Given the emphasis the 2020 Doha Agreement – which paved the way for the withdrawal of US-led foreign forces – places on the Taliban’s guarantees that it will not allow transnational armed groups to operate on Afghan soil, many observers concluded that the assassination, which exposed enduring ties between al-Qaeda and the new Afghan leadership, would lead to a total collapse of trust between the US and the Taliban and perhaps even trigger a new military confrontation.

However, the situation is much more complex in reality. To start with, the relationship between the two parties was never built on trust, but on a set of pragmatic interests which both are determined not to abandon even if pursuing them requires turning a blind eye to potential violations of the Doha Agreement.

Despite appearances, both parties are keen to protect their alignment around the strategic objective of preventing Afghanistan from becoming a failed state that could provide a haven to “terror” organisations such as the ISIL (ISIS) group and a base for the distribution of narcotics to the rest of the world.

A nation hostage

Despite efforts by the Taliban and the US to maintain a delicate relationship, however, in the past year Afghanistan experienced severe economic devastation, largely due to the ongoing efforts by Washington – and the rest of the Western alliance – to prevent the group from further consolidating power through economic pressure.

First came the sudden decline in international aid. Billions of dollars that were used to finance the war effort and to support a wide range of developmental projects, including funding a thriving civil society, in the past two decades have suddenly dried up, causing a sharp rise in unemployment, particularly in the public sector.  Almost simultaneously, the country was isolated from the international financial system, which crippled local banking. Adding insult to injury, the US froze almost $9bn in Afghan foreign exchange reserves held abroad and started to float the possibility of using some of that money to compensate the families of 9/11 victims.

As a result of all this, for most Afghans, the first year under the Taliban’s rule has been defined by increased levels of poverty, unemployment (more than one million people lost their jobs), brain drain, uncertainty and loss of confidence in the future.

Although a serious threat of famine was averted last winter thanks to the Taliban’s willingness to cooperate with the international community – which provided the Afghan people with $1bn in humanitarian aid – the country still came to the brink of universal poverty soon after the change of government, with the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) warning that as much as 97 percent of the Afghan population could sink into poverty before the end of 2022. Incomes dropped so starkly since the Taliban takeover that the World Bank said in April that about 37 percent of Afghan households did not have enough money to cover food while 33 percent could afford food but nothing more. Moreover, given Afghanistan’s dependency on imported food and skyrocketing global food prices due to the war in Ukraine, a deadly famine is still on the cards for Afghanistan.

As a result, while most of this economic devastation was beyond the control of the Taliban, many in Afghanistan – just like those in the West – are struggling to see any positives in the group’s year-one report card.

And yet, the group took some steps – and implemented some policies – that if they did not significantly improve the living conditions of most Afghans, at least helped avert bigger catastrophes.

Acknowledging Taliban achievements

Indeed, the country could not have absorbed the combined effects of the above-mentioned economic shocks if it was not for some of the Taliban’s achievements.

First and foremost, the security situation in Afghanistan has significantly improved since the Taliban’s takeover. After NATO forces left, the Taliban officially ended their armed struggle, declared a general amnesty for all political and military opposition and announced a nationwide decommissioning of weapons. As a result, civilians started to feel safe once again and mobility increased significantly across the country.

Second, at the regional level, except for some tensions with Pakistan, the Taliban have managed to maintain good relationships with all of Afghanistan’s neighbours. Despite UN sanctions, for example, China maintains diplomatic and economic relations with the Taliban and has plans to not only provide humanitarian assistance but invest in the country. Uzbekistan also has friendly relations with the new Afghan government and has opened its border to trade. None of the countries in the region is interested in supporting a proxy war in Afghanistan today.

Third, the Taliban managed to protect Afghanistan’s public sector institutions and infrastructure, including its security apparatus. Most public institutions maintained their employees and continued to provide a reasonable level of services. By far the most important institution the Taliban managed to protect was the Central Bank. Under the Taliban, the bank’s acting governor was given a good degree of independence and was allowed to work closely with national and international advisers to protect Afghanistan’s currency. As a result, the local currency was quick to recover much of its value against many international and regional currencies and newly printed bank notes were quickly brought from Poland to circulate in the local market. The Taliban government also managed to recruit almost 100,000 young men to the national army and up to 180,000 to the national police in the past year. Admittedly, many were former Taliban fighters, although not all were.

Fourth, in just a year, the Taliban, having lost international budget support, were able to put forward a national budget dependent only on national income. By tackling the culture of corruption that held the country back over the last 20 years, the Taliban were able to increase state revenue to the unprecedented level of $100 million per month despite the economic difficulties facing the country and the low tax base that this has resulted in.

While these achievements undoubtedly deserve some acknowledgement, it cannot be denied that they have all been overshadowed by the Taliban’s confused and regressive social policies. For example, while girls are still allowed to go to secondary school in several provinces, in most localities their access to education has been restricted to please a minority view within the movement. This combined with the crackdown on liberties, including press freedom, cultural expression (music and dance) and political activism has resulted in many Afghans feeling detached from the Taliban government and becoming wary of its rule. Counterproductive social policies also placed the country on a path to international isolation despite its officials’ occasional ability to participate in regional and international bilateral visits and conferences.

The Taliban’s year-one report card
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The Afghanistan Deal that Never Happened

By LARA SELIGMAN

Politico

A Q&A with General Frank McKenzie, one year after his negotiations with the Taliban and the chaotic American withdrawal.

General Frank McKenzie was on his way to negotiate with the Taliban when he got the call that Kabul had already fallen.

It was Aug. 15, 2021, and the then-commander of U.S. Central Command had watched anxiously for weeks as the group seized provincial capitals across Afghanistan in one of the most stunning guerilla campaigns in modern history.

But by the time McKenzie landed, the offer was DOA. Taliban fighters were already inside the presidential palace, and Afghanistan’s president, Ashraf Ghani, had fled the city. The Afghan government the United States had worked so hard to keep afloat for 20 years had collapsed in a matter of hours.

McKenzie had to think fast. His mission, to conduct a massive air evacuation from Kabul’s one functioning airport, had not changed. So, on the way to Doha’s Ritz Carlton, he came up with a new proposal. Don’t interfere with the airlift, he told the Taliban’s co-founder, Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar, and we won’t strike.

The general, who spoke to POLITICO Magazine by video call almost exactly one year after the fall of Kabul, walked away from the meeting with a deal that would allow the U.S. military to control the airport while they undertook the largest air evacuation in U.S. history, flying out more than 120,000 people in the span of two weeks.

But during the meeting, he also made what critics say was a strategic mistake that contributed to what became a chaotic, deadly evacuation: refusing the Taliban’s offer to let the U.S. military secure Afghanistan’s capital city.

McKenzie defended his decision during the interview, noting that he did not believe it was a serious proposal, and in any case securing the city would have required a massive influx of American troops, which could have triggered more fighting with the Taliban.

At the end of the day, the U.S. military didn’t have many good choices.

Does McKenzie think the withdrawal from Afghanistan was a mistake? Yes – but it wasn’t his decision to make.

“My belief is we should have stayed. I believe that everything that happened flowed from that basic decision,” says McKenzie, who retired from the military on April 1. “My recommendation was that we keep a small presence where we could maintain a level of support for the Afghans. That was not the advice that was taken.”

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Seligman: It’s the week before Kabul falls. What is happening? What are you thinking? Set the scene for me.

McKenzie: In the last formal intelligence assessment I sent up on the 8th of August, I said, ‘It is my judgment that Kabul is going to fall.’ I did not think it was going to fall that weekend. I thought it might last a little bit longer, 30 days or so. But I felt Kabul would be surrounded in the immediate short term.

On Thursday or Friday, I got the direction to go to Doha to talk to the Taliban. What we wanted was about a 30-kilometer exclusion zone: You guys stay out of there while we do the evacuation. And if you stay out of there, we will not strike you anywhere in Afghanistan.

I got on the airplane on Sunday morning. While I was on the airplane over, I was getting reports that the Taliban is in downtown Kabul, they’ve actually overrun the city. By the time I met with them, they had significant forces inside the city. So I said, ‘Look, we can still have a solution here. We’re going to conduct an evacuation. If you don’t interfere with the evacuation, we won’t strike.’

Mullah Baradar said, off the cuff, ‘Why don’t you come in and secure the city?’ But that was just not feasible. It would have taken me putting in another division to do that. And I believe that was a flippant remark. And now we know in the fullness of time that Mullah Baradar wasn’t actually speaking for the hard-line Taliban. I don’t know if he could have delivered, even if he was serious about it.

I felt in my best judgment that it wasn’t a genuine offer. And it was not a practical military operation. That’s why they pay me, that’s why I’m there.

By and large, the Taliban were helpful in our departure. They did not oppose us. They did do some external security work. There was a downside of that external security work, and it probably prevented some Afghans from getting to Kabul airport as we would have liked. But that was a risk that I was willing to run.

Seligman: So after Kabul fell, the evacuation began. What happened next?

McKenzie: The next day, Aug. 16 it was my plan to fly to Kabul. But the airfield, the runway, was overrun by people coming in from the south. It took us about 16 hours to bring that under control — a combination of us, the Afghan commandos and the Taliban. We had 400 Taliban fighters beating people with sticks. It’s not what you want, but you’re in the land of bad choices now. It let the commander on the ground regain control of the airfield, and we never lost control again after that. But that was certainly intense.

Seligman: Had you personally warned the president at any point that Afghanistan would almost certainly collapse if U.S. troops left?

McKenzie: I wrote a number of letters over the course of the fall and into the spring, saying if we withdraw our forces precipitously, collapse is likely to occur. I was in a number of meetings with the president, the commander of U.S. forces in Afghanistan, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the secretary of Defense. We all had an opportunity to express our opinions on that.

It was my opinion that if we went from 2,500 to zero, the government of Afghanistan would not be able to sustain itself and would collapse. It was initially my recommendation that we should stay at 4,500. They went below that. Then it was my recommendation we stay at 2,500.

Seligman: Indefinitely?

McKenzie: Indefinitely. I know the criticism: the Taliban are going to come after you and you’re going to have to beef up your forces. The commander on the ground and I didn’t believe that was necessarily the case. For one thing, at 2,500 we were down to a pretty lean combat capability, not a lot of attack surface there for the Taliban to get at. Two, we would have coupled the 2,500 presence with a strong diplomatic campaign to put pressure on the Taliban.

What would have happened if we stayed at 2,500? It’s just difficult to know that. Here’s what we do know as a matter of history — if you go to zero, they collapse.

Seligman: Why did they collapse? We spent so long training the Afghans and then as soon as we were gone, they fell. How did that happen?

McKenzie: I believe the proximate defeat mechanism was the Doha negotiations [on a peace deal]. I believe that the Afghan government began to believe we were getting ready to leave. As a result, I think it took a lot of the will to fight out them.

Seligman: Do you blame the Trump administration for what happened?

McKenzie: It goes even back beyond that. You can go back to the very beginning of the campaign, when we had an opportunity to get Osama bin Laden in 2001, 2002 and we didn’t do that. The fact that we never satisfactorily solved the problem of safe havens in Pakistan for the Taliban. There are so many things over the 20-year period that contributed to it.

But yes, I believe that the straw that broke the camel’s back and brought it to the conclusion that we saw was the Doha process and the agreements that were reached there.

It’s convenient to blame the military commanders that were there. But it was the government of Afghanistan that failed. The government of the United States also failed.

Seligman: It was a political decision to leave. How much blame should the Biden administration get for the collapse?

McKenzie: Well, I think both administrations wanted to leave Afghanistan, that’s just a fact. But look, that’s a decision presidents get to make. I recommended something different. But they get to make that decision. I don’t get to make that decision. We are where we are as a result of that. They both ultimately wanted out.

Seligman: After the evacuation, did you see a reemergence of al Qaeda or other terrorist elements after we left?

McKenzie: Clearly. It’s very hard to see in Afghanistan after we left. We had 1 or 2 or 3 percent of the intelligence-gathering capability that we had before we left. All our intelligence told us that the Taliban would probably allow space for al Qaeda to reassert itself and at the same time, they’re unable to get rid of ISIS. I think both are going to be entities that are going to grow.

The fact that al Qaeda leader Al-Zawahri was in downtown Kabul should give us pause. It tells you first of all, that the Taliban obviously negotiated the Doha accord in complete bad faith. They said they wouldn’t provide a safe haven for al Qaeda. What’s the definition of a safe haven if it’s not the leader in your capital city?

The Afghanistan Deal that Never Happened
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The Taliban’s Dangerous Collision Course With the West

New York Times Magazine

After barring girls from high school — and harboring an Al-Qaeda leader — the regime now risks jeopardizing the billions of dollars of global aid that still keeps Afghans alive.

Afghanistan’s ministry of education sits on a chaotic thoroughfare in downtown Kabul, not far from the presidential palace. When I visited this May, I was able to walk straight into the main building without having to state my business or undergo more than a light frisk. The country’s four-​decade civil war is at its lowest ebb in years, and many of the capital’s draconian security measures have been scaled back by the new Taliban government. The crowds of petitioners inside the ministries have changed, as well: Women are seldom seen, and the traditional garb of robe and trousers has become nearly ubiquitous among men.

It was my first trip back since I covered the collapse of the republic the last summer. Regular flights had resumed from Dubai and Islamabad. At the Kabul airport, site of last year’s chaotic and bloody evacuation, there was a new sign on the side of the terminal, near the white flag of the Taliban: “The Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan seeks peaceful and positive relations with the world.”

It had been 20 years since the United States and its allies overthrew the first Taliban government, which refused to allow Afghan girls to be educated, one of many repressive measures against women that cemented the regime’s pariah status. During the 1990s, only Saudi Arabia, the U.A.E. and Pakistan ever recognized the group as the nation’s legitimate government. Soon after the United States began airstrikes on Afghanistan in 2001, Laura Bush, the first lady, took over her husband’s weekly radio address to tell Americans that “only the terrorists and the Taliban forbid education to women.” Since then, the liberation of Afghan schoolgirls was held up as a justification for the thousands of lives and trillions of dollars expended by the United States and its allies here, and as a symbol of the moral superiority of the republic that came crashing down last August, after the Taliban seized power and re-established the Islamic emirate.

The new government stirred outrage last fall when it allowed only boys to return to Grades 7 and up, but the Taliban insisted this was only a temporary measure. In January their top spokesman, Zabihullah Mujahid, said it “was a question of capacity,” and said he hoped that girls’ high schools would reopen at the beginning of the Afghan school year, on March 23. “We are not against education,” he told journalists.

But on the first day of classes, the education ministry suddenly announced that the girls’ schools would not reopen after all. With such late notice, many went ahead unaware, only to have to kick their students out later that day. Other girls showed up to find the doors of their school locked. These scenes were captured by the foreign press, who turned up to cover what was supposed to be a hopeful day for the country; instead, they broadcast images of crying teenage girls. If the Taliban wanted to sabotage relations with the West, they couldn’t have planned things better.

‘Quite honestly, we had all been counting the days toward March 23 and had been seeing it as, you know, that fork in the road,” Rina Amiri, who was appointed in December to the newly created position of U.S. envoy for women, girls and human rights in Afghanistan, told me. “We had really concrete and detailed discussions with the Taliban and had received reassurances from everyone that we had spoken to that they would actually deliver on this.”

I had come to the education ministry to understand what happened, and what this revealed about the balance of power within the new government. Climbing the stairs, I entered a waiting room, where several men with newly grown beards ignored me until I explained I had come to see their boss. Much of the lower- and midlevel Afghan bureaucracy has remained in their posts, but above them now sit Taliban appointees, men who served in the militant movement and studied in religious seminaries. I was shown into the office of a senior education official who, like many Taliban I met during my trip, asked to remain anonymous in order to speak frankly on such a

Wearing a black turban, he sat behind his large wooden desk and listened politely as I posed my question: Why did Taliban, alone out of any government in the world, refuse to allow adolescent girls to study? He smiled — of course, that was what every Western journalist came to ask. He was eager to point out that, first of all, Afghan girls were already allowed to attend primary schools, universities and private high schools. In several provinces, even the public secondary girls’ schools had reopened, albeit unofficially. Moreover, girls’ primary schools, which reopened along with boys’ schools in the fall, had in fact seen a significant increase in enrollment since the days of the republic, a result of improved security and the fact that some conservative families felt more comfortable sending their girls to school under the Islamic emirate. “We want education for girls,” he told me, “and cooperation with the international community, but within our values.”

It was true that in some formerly war-torn districts, like Andar, in Ghazni Province, girls were attending elementary school for the first time in more than a decade. A World Bank-funded survey published in March estimated that the share of rural households sending their girls to primary school had increased from one-third to one-half. The jump in high school enrollment was unlikely to be as sharp, but it seemed quite possible that, if all schools reopened, more Afghan girls would be receiving an education under the Taliban than under the U.S.-backed republic.

“Why don’t we announce it?” he said. “Well, Kabul is not Afghanistan. People are not educated, they’re tribal. We don’t want a reaction.”

Opposition to girls’ education among the Taliban was rooted in a particularly strict interpretation of traditional gender roles practiced in rural Afghanistan. It was this vision of a virtuous village lifestyle, where a woman’s place was at home, that the Taliban tried to impose nationwide in the 1990s. But over the last 20 years, millions of Afghan families — some of them Taliban supporters — experienced firsthand the economic and social benefits of educating their daughters. The country had modernized, a fact that many in the emirate understood. For months, the issue was debated by the interim cabinet, an all-male group composed of Taliban stalwarts.

“Munir has argued for girls’ education many times,” the official told me, referring to his boss, the education minister, Mawlawi Noorullah Munir, an Islamic scholar who served as the Taliban’s chief justice during the insurgency. “He said that if anyone disagrees on the basis of Shariah, I’m ready to debate them.” (A spokesman for Munir declined to comment.)

According to several Taliban officials, by the end of the winter, a majority of the cabinet was in favor of reopening the schools, including military leaders like the minister of defense, Mawlawi Muhammad Yaqoub, and Sirajuddin Haqqani, the interior minister with an F.B.I. bounty on his head. “If it was up to him, girls would have already been back in school,” one of Haqqani’s aides told me.

At the beginning of March, the education ministry prepared a plan to reopen the schools, calling back teachers and prepping classrooms around the country. But there was a problem. “When we sent our plan to the cabinet, they replied that they didn’t have the authority to make this decision, since it was a sensitive issue,” the education official told me.

Final say belonged to the leadership shura, or council, based in the southern city of Kandahar and presided over by a supreme leader called the amir al momineen, or commander of the faithful. This theocratic structure had been grafted onto the government after the Taliban’s sudden victory, an arrangement that revived the overlapping power centers of the ’90s regime, with a formal cabinet in Kabul and a more powerful shadow government in Kandahar.

It wasn’t until a few days before the start of the school year, on March 23, that a meeting of the shura was called. Munir, the education minister, and the other cabinet officials, many of whom were also members of the shura, were summoned to Kandahar, where the Taliban first arose amid the chaos of post-Soviet factional fighting in the ’90s, promising to rid the country of warlords and institute Islamic law. It was in Kandahar City that, in front of an ecstatic crowd in 1996, Mullah Muhammad Omar held aloft a cloak said to have belonged to the Prophet, laying claim to the mantle of the amir, a leadership role that dates back to the earliest Muslim state. Omar, who was known for his ascetic lifestyle and aversion to foreigners, died in hiding in 2013; his successor, Mullah Akhtar Muhammad Mansour, was more worldly. As the Taliban’s chief of aviation during the ’90s, Mansour traveled abroad to countries like Germany and, as amir, proved to be a pragmatic leader who authorized negotiations with the Americans. “If he was still alive, we wouldn’t be stuck on the girls’-school issue,” a Taliban diplomat told me.

But Mansour was assassinated by a U.S. drone strike in Pakistan in 2016. His successor, Sheikh Haibatullah Akhunzada, whose son became a suicide bomber, is an austere cleric who has adopted the reclusive mystique of the original amir. “He’s more like Mullah Omar than Mullah Omar,” a senior Taliban bureaucrat, who knew both men, told me.

The leadership council’s meetings in late March, which stretched over several days, were off limits to the press, but I spoke with several Taliban officials familiar with the details, including a member of the cabinet. Haibatullah and the shura had not been consulted, I was told, about the decision to allow all university students, including women, to return to class the previous month; some in the cabinet may have been hoping that the high school girls’ return had become a fait accompli. But when several hard-line clerics, who were seen as expressing Haibatullah’s own position, spoke out against the reopening, no one was willing or able to move them. And if there was no consensus, then the girls’ schools would not open. Kandahar had asserted itself over Kabul.

The education ministry had been planning a ceremony to mark the first day of school, and had invited the foreign ambassadors still remaining in the capital. It wasn’t until 11 the night before that Munir informed his staff of the news. “We got the call from Kandahar,” the education official said, lifting his hands in dismay. The girls weren’t going back to school tomorrow. “It was like being hit by an atom bomb.”

Crippled by sanctions and the sudden cutoff of development aid, Afghanistan’s economy is on the verge of collapse. According to the United Nations, Afghans are facing the world’s largest humanitarian crisis, with half the population threatened by starvation. Since last August, the country has been offered billions in emergency assistance, of which the United States was the largest contributor. The Taliban have welcomed this aid, and their control over rural areas means that humanitarian workers can go to places that were inaccessible for nearly two decades. And yet the Taliban’s refusal to allow Afghan girls to return to high school has overshadowed this cooperation. No country has yet officially recognized the emirate, but a delegation of Taliban officials was invited to Oslo to meet with Western counterparts in January, where they gave assurances that the schools would reopen. “I can remember particular Taliban leaders using the word zhmena, you know, this is a promise, this will happen,” Thomas West, the State Department’s special representative for Afghanistan, told me.

The timing of the controversy was egregious. On March 23, the same day the girls were held back from class, West had a conference call scheduled with his fellow envoys from the G7 countries. The U.N. had made a record-breaking $4.4 billion appeal for humanitarian aid, and a pledging conference for donors was a week away. “Not surprisingly, this issue absolutely dominated our discussion,” West recalls. “I think we all understood that this was a turning point in our engagement with the Taliban, and we all needed to fundamentally reassess our approach to Afghanistan.”

Cooperation between the United States and the Taliban began in earnest during the evacuation last summer, in order to avoid a blood bath in the capital. At the Americans’ request, the Taliban helped keep crowds back from the airport; on Aug. 23, the director of the C.I.A., William Burns, traveled unannounced to Kabul and met with Taliban leaders, to date the highest-level contact with the new government, the “de facto authorities” in diplomat-speak.

With the embassy in Kabul shuttered, the United States’ relationship with the Taliban has been taken up by West, who has met repeatedly with the Taliban foreign minister, Amir Khan Muttaqi, in Doha, Qatar. He inherited the role of special envoy from his former boss, Zalmay Khalilzad, who stepped down last fall after his efforts to broker a peace settlement between the Afghan republic and the Taliban ended in failure.

Now that U.S. troops were out, what were America’s vital interests in Afghanistan? Apart from preventing terrorist threats to the homeland from groups like Al Qaeda, the Biden administration has prioritized the fate of U.S. citizens like the contractor and veteran Mark Frerichs, held by the Taliban since 2020. I was told by multiple sources that West had planned his first official trip to Kabul to mark the release of another American, a Navy reservist and humanitarian named Safi Rauf, but canceled after March 23, with the C.I.A. station chief traveling in secret instead. (Both West and the C.I.A. declined to confirm or deny this.)

The most urgent task for West and his team, however, has been Afghanistan’s looming humanitarian disaster. The United States is in the peculiar position of being both the largest donor to aid efforts and a prime actor in the country’s economic crisis. After the Taliban takeover, the Biden administration seized $7 billion in Afghan bank assets in the United States, earmarking half for victims of the Sept. 11 attacks and their families. Sanctions against the Taliban were now strangling the country’s financial system. Since then, West and the Treasury Department have worked to issue multiple exemptions for humanitarian aid, even at the risk of bolstering the new government.

“It is fundamentally in our interest to support the Afghan people,” West told me. “We do not want to see a situation where the economy utterly collapses. We do not want to see a situation that drives millions to become refugees.”

The scale of suffering in Afghanistan today is difficult to fathom. Despite more than $100 billion in development spending by the West, Afghanistan has remained one of the poorest and most aid-dependent states in the world. Three-quarters of the republic’s budget was financed with foreign grants; outside assistance amounted to nearly half of G.D.P. After the Taliban takeover, that money was cut off, with predictable results. Joblessness soared, imports plummeted and poverty reached near-universal levels. A cholera outbreak has gripped the south, while hunger, worsened by a drought in its second year, has become a crisis for millions of families. At meal times in the capital, crowds of women and children sit outside bakeries, hoping for a piece of bread.

The response has been a “humanitarian surge,” with more expats now working inside Afghanistan for aid agencies than before the Taliban’s takeover. In Kabul, I visited a World Food Program distribution site, where men stood in a line that wound for several blocks through a residential neighborhood. Beside them was a second queue of day laborers with wheelbarrows, who’d shown up in the hope of earning the equivalent of 50 cents, if that, to cart heavy sacks of flour and beans back to people’s homes. Those waiting for food were mostly middle-aged heads of families; the porters ranged from elderly men to boys who looked 9 or 10 but were probably older.

As I reached the front of the line, a white, armored S.U.V. with World Food Program markings pulled up and dropped off Philippe Kropf, the organization’s head of communications. I followed him into the rented compound where a group of Afghans were getting their allowance of flour, beans, cooking oil and salt. They were from Qala-e Wazir, a downtown neighborhood where many people had held jobs with foreign contractors and N.G.O.s. “This was the middle class,” Kropf said.

Many of the people in the line lost their jobs after the collapse. One of them was Nasib Nazari, who told me he had taught German in a program sponsored by the now-shuttered embassy. He had supported an extended family on his $700 monthly salary, which was cut off when the Germans evacuated. “This is my first time in a food line,” he told me. He smiled weakly. “There’s no shame when you have no choice.”

Even under the republic, many Afghans didn’t get enough to eat. Before the collapse, the W.F.P. was providing assistance to around one million people each month. Afterward, they scrambled to expand aid distribution around the country, a monumental task made easier by the improved security situation and the Taliban’s willingness to coordinate. By the peak of need over the winter, the W.F.P. was supplying food to 18 million, their largest scale-up in history. “We’re feeding almost half the population,” Kropf said. “It’s mind-blowing.”

The entire country was being kept on humanitarian life support. With the Afghan financial system still mostly paralyzed, the U.N. has been flying in pallets of cash to fund its operations, more than a billion dollars to date, which has in turn kept the country’s currency afloat and stabilized local markets.

“We avoided the worst predictions of the fall,” West, the U.S. special envoy, told me. But he worried that donors’ interest would eventually wane, especially given their anger over girls’ education. Need abated during the summer, but winter would come again — this time with the world facing a food-price crisis as a result of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, along with the threat of a global recession. Donations had already slowed, but the U.N. said it needed billions more just to get through the year. “How sustainable is this massive humanitarian response?” West said. “Unfortunately, I think it is not sustainable.”

For two decades, the United States and its allies have spent lavishly in Afghanistan on schools, hospitals and roads in support of the nation-​building project that grew out of the U.S. invasion. This level of spending was not only wasteful but also pernicious, because of the corruption it encouraged. Yet there were meaningful results, including a sharp increase in life expectancy and literacy rates — goods that became, over time, part of the circular logic for why American troops were fighting there. The faces of Afghan women became the face of the war.

Since development aid has political aims, it typically depends on collaboration with a host government. After the Taliban seized power and this assistance was frozen by donors, many of the gains of the last 20 years threatened to come crashing down. The government’s coffers were empty, threatening the country’s public hospitals, which might have collapsed had the International Committee of the Red Cross not stepped in. Unlike organizations that administer development aid, humanitarian groups like the I.C.R.C. are typically insulated from donor governments and adopt politically neutral stances. In Kabul, I visited a hospital with Reto Stocker, an official at the I.C.R.C.

“A lot of people would have died,” Stocker said as our S.U.V. navigated Kabul’s traffic, much lighter since the crisis. “It was an absolute emergency situation.”

In its four decades working in Afghanistan, the Red Cross has seen regimes come and go. Stocker, who is Swiss, served on his first mission here during the 1990s, and he worked with some of the same Taliban officials then. After 2001, the I.C.R.C. visited many of them in U.S. custody at Guantánamo and Bagram. “This is obviously something that has, with those individuals in particular, created an appreciation for I.C.R.C.’s neutrality,” Stocker told me. He met regularly with the Taliban health minister, who was a medical doctor, unlike the religiously trained leadership whom Stocker recalled from the 1990s.

The I.C.R.C. could insulate Western donors and enable them to continue funding government programs inside Afghanistan without giving money directly to the Taliban. The organization had taken responsibility for 33 public hospitals across the country, a role that doubled its budget here to $200 million. “To recreate such a system after it collapses is extremely complicated,” Stocker said. “Even if you don’t sustain it perfectly, the benefits of trying to sustain it are enormous.”

Our S.U.V. pulled into the walled courtyard of Malalai Maternity Hospital in downtown Kabul, where a group of women sat waiting outside the outpatient department. We were met by Dr. Mursal Rasool, a young public-health specialist and Stocker’s colleague, who was coordinating the I.C.R.C.’s support here.

“It’s one of the biggest and most important hospitals for women in Afghanistan,” she explained. The patients were female, of course, but so were nearly all the members of the medical staff. As we walked through the corridors, which smelled of disinfectant, she pointed out that they were clean and freshly painted — a drastic change from a year ago, when they were fetid with bodily fluids and waste. The hospital, too, had suffered from the corruption and dysfunction endemic to the republic. Much of the Civil Service stopped receiving salaries as early as April or May. The former government had been trying to switch to a new payroll system, while simultaneously burning through its cash reserves in a last-ditch attempt to fund anti-Taliban militias. At the hospital, the staff kept working for months without pay, and begged for donations of food and other supplies from local businesses. “It was heartbreaking to think that this was on the verge of collapsing,” Stocker said.

In the recovery room, the nurses were transferring a young patient from a gurney into her bed, her back arched in agony. Twenty-four years old, she was suffering from eclampsia, a complication from pregnancy that caused seizures so intense she’d lacerated her tongue and cracked her teeth; the doctors had performed an emergency abortion to save her life. Her gray-haired mother sat at her bedside, the relief apparent on her face. “She would have died,” she told me.

Now that fighting had stopped in the countryside, more patients were able to make it into the capital from remote areas, where women’s reproductive health, in particular, was often abysmal. As a result, the staff was struggling with very serious cases: women who, like this young patient with eclampsia, would have simply died at home. The economic crisis had gutted the private sector and ended medical tourism abroad, so public hospitals like Malalai, where treatment was free, had experienced a surge in admissions — in some, outpatient visits were up tenfold. The strain on the medical workers was evident, but at least — unlike much of Afghanistan’s public sector — they could expect regular salaries. But for how long?

In addition to its appeal for emergency aid, the U.N. was seeking funding for a $3.42 billion plan to provide basic services directly to the Afghan people, bypassing the Taliban government, what some call “humanitarian plus.” But as Stocker pointed out, the intervention of groups like the I.C.R.C. entrenched the very dependency that was the problem. “Our sense was that a national health care system needs a ministry holding it together,” Stocker said. “You need a state.”

As a teaching hospital, Malalai also helped to train the next generation of Afghan maternity specialists, nurses and midwives, women like Dr. Rana Afzali, whom I met in the neonatal ward, where a young mother sat in the corner, holding her newborn. Dressed in a white coat and colorful head scarf, Afzali was fresh out of her residency. It was a daunting time to be entering her profession, but she told me she was glad to be working, unlike many of her classmates who had fled abroad. “They’re sitting inside, depressed — I stayed,” Afzali said, and shrugged. “I’m a hopeful person.”

Higher education had also been thrown into crisis by the collapse of the republic. The Kabul airlift evacuated more than 100,000 Afghans, many of them the country’s educated professionals. Those with Western connections had a better chance of being let through the desperate crowds outside the airport. Others fled to neighboring countries like Pakistan, hoping to be resettled in the West. In a country where nearly every profession had received development aid, the evacuation meant stripping the society of technical experts, bureaucrats, lawyers and doctors, turning them into refugees. Of course, you couldn’t evacuate a whole country, and those left behind were struggling to take up the slack.

“Women are still allowed to go to medical school, but there’s no teachers anymore,” Rasool said. “Most of them escaped.”

We followed the shift warden, Dr. Shahrbanu Ghazanfar, into the intensive-care unit, pausing in front of an incubator where a premature infant rested, looking as fragile as a newly hatched bird. “This one is extremely low birthweight,” Ghazanfar said, using the English term. The infant weighed just over 21 ounces, less than a quarter of a newborn’s normal weight.

As hospitals like Malalai make clear, reproduction depends on women’s labor. The paradox of the Taliban’s patriarchal vision was that it necessitated female doctors to serve women, and female teachers to train them — thus ensuring that a core of educated women would endure.

“Twenty years ago, we put on our burqas and went to work,” Ghazanfar said. “We’re going to keep working. Of course, I can’t say the same for engineers and lawyers.”

Even in the 1990s, when women were forced out of almost every workplace, the Taliban allowed some doctors to continue. This was why their ban on secondary education was not simply a matter of damaging international goodwill; it was also jeopardizing the future of the country’s work force. After already having lost a year when schools closed during the pandemic, adolescent girls were still sitting at home. Unless the Taliban allowed them to study, the pipeline of women doctors and nurses would eventually run dry.

At the center of the Taliban’s plan for an Islamic society is the Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, which became notorious in the 1990s for enforcing rules against music and television, and regulations on beards and women’s clothing, sometimes through public beatings. The ministry, which takes its name from a phrase in the Quran, was rebranded as the Invitation and Guidance Commission during the insurgency, when it was also responsible for persuading republican officials and soldiers to surrender in exchange for amnesty, a strategy used to devastating effect during the collapse last summer. It was a deft illustration of the Taliban’s religious logic: If the emirate was mandated by Islamic law, then calling on Afghans to defect was summoning them to be good Muslims.

After the Taliban’s rise to power, the ministry reinstated its more forceful name, and installed itself in a conveniently empty building, the disbanded Ministry of Women’s Affairs. But when I paid a visit to its spokesman, Akif Muhajer, we met at an annex in the south of the city, next to an intelligence facility. His ministry, with several thousand personnel, was expanding; signs for the H.R. and logistics departments hung in the corridors.

“The Taliban hasn’t changed — the Taliban is the Taliban, as it was in 1995,” he told me, as we sat in his office. Muhajer, who often gave interviews to the foreign press, had become a prominent defender of the emirate’s ideology. In his view, the question of a reformed Taliban was based on a false impression of the original regime, which he denied was violently repressive. “There was so much propaganda against the Taliban — that we were murderers, savages and terrorists.”

Muhajer believed that the U.S.-backed republic, though Islamic in name, was a corrupt tool of Western imperialism, whose leaders not only stole billions intended for their own people but also allowed sins like alcohol and adultery to flourish. “I can say that the majority of the activities of the previous government were against Islam,” he said. His ministry’s task was to root out that corruption; its officers, clad in white tunics resembling pharmacists’ coats, roamed the capital in search of vice, though he said they were under orders to use verbal persuasion, not violence. “I believe that through advice, people influenced by Western culture and beliefs will also be reformed and guided in the right direction.”

After the ban on girls’ high schools was upheld on March 23, Virtue and Vice stirred further outrage by announcing a decree on hijab, or Islamic veiling, which stated that women who were “neither too young or old” should cover their faces in the presence of unrelated men, and wear a full-body cloak, or burqa. The best hijab of all, the decree noted, was staying at home; male guardians, not women, would be punished for violations. While in many of Afghanistan’s rural communities and conservative households, face-veiling was the norm, for others, especially urban professionals, it was an attack on their own beliefs and dignity, one that sought to erase women’s faces from public life. Some critics called it gender apartheid.

Now in his early 30s, Muhajer was part of a new generation of Taliban who grew up with television and the internet — both forbidden under the 1990s regime. In our conversation, he espoused an Islamist modernism where both men and women participate in society, albeit segregated from one another; it was a model closer to conservative Persian Gulf societies like Saudi Arabia, one symbolized by Afghanistan’s now-veiled TV anchors. In this view, the controversial hijab decree was in fact setting the conditions for a return of women to classrooms and offices. “The hijab is the first step in the reopening of the schools,” he said. Indeed, one of the religious scholars who signed the decree was Munir, the education minister who had argued for the girls’ schools to reopen.

“A woman can become a doctor, she can become an engineer, she can become a teacher, she can become a director and work in government,” Muhajer said. “There may be areas in our country where people do not allow their wives to leave their homes, but my opinion is based on Islam, not the norms of part of the country.”

In a country as impoverished as Afghanistan, strict rules for a gender-segregated society have meant that, in practice, many Afghan women are simply excluded from formerly mixed offices and public places. As with the ongoing closure of girls’ high schools, the excuse is that it is a question of capacity, of building separate facilities — that it is simply a matter of time, and therefore patience.

Yet in my meetings with the Taliban in Kabul, I was surprised how much frustration there was with the ongoing ban and Virtue and Vice’s culture war, particularly among those in government tasked with reviving a failing state and feeding a hungry nation.

“Why are we making problems for ourselves with these announcements? Just do your work,” said the Taliban bureaucrat who knew Mullah Omar. A former military commander and an Islamic scholar himself, he worried the emirate would miss the opportunity offered by peace to rebuild the country and win over Afghans. “People are just hearing these announcements about clothes — they aren’t seeing any actual work.”

More surprising was how even senior Taliban officials seemed to struggle to explain the decisions of their own government, or the distinction between the cabinet in Kabul and the shura in Kandahar, or even the role of the amir himself, who they complained was out of touch and inaccessible. Although Haibatullah has recently begun speaking at publicized meetings outside Kandahar, including at a conference of religious scholars in Kabul, the amir — no doubt mindful of his predecessor’s assassination — has operated in a secrecy so profound that it has fueled rumors of his death. The modus operandi of secrecy and consensus that served the Taliban through its guerrilla years was now hampering its ability to rule the nation.

Yet I was also often told by reform-minded Taliban that outside pressure would only make matters worse, since those in favor of reopening the girls’ schools could be portrayed as kowtowing to the West. The emirate needed to proceed cautiously, these officials said; the Taliban’s rank and file, who did not receive salaries, had been motivated to jihad against their own countrymen by tales of a corrupt, immoral republic. In its latest propaganda, the Islamic State, perhaps the gravest internal threat to the Taliban, has accused the emirate of compromising its Islamic principles in return for aid.

Even Taliban officials in favor of opening girls’ schools stressed the imperative of eta’at, or obedience, an Islamic virtue essential for preventing fitna, internal strife — a term applied to the disastrous civil wars of the early Muslim states, as well as to the inter-mujehadeen struggles of the 1990s, when Kabul was destroyed in factional fighting. Obedience to the amir, coupled with the inherent conservatism of the shura’s consensus mechanism, explained why the Taliban are likely to remain beholden to their most hard-line elements.

“The leader has decreed it, so we have to obey,” the bureaucrat said of the ban on girls’ schooling. “It’s more important than what’s allowed as halal. We have to avoid fitna.”

On mornings when I got up early enough to beat Kabul’s heat and traffic, I’d lace up my sneakers and jog up a hill that overlooked the former Green Zone. On my way, I’d pass through a neighborhood called Sherpur, notorious for its gaudy “poppy palaces” with wedding-cake balconies and mirrored windows, built on land appropriated by warlords and government officials after the U.S. invasion. Some were later rented out to U.S.A.I.D. contractors. Now, the Taliban occupied many of these vacant properties and set up checkpoints to protect their V.I.P.s; there were rumors as well that Arabs and other foreign fighters had been seen in the neighborhood.

Early on July 31, two missiles fired by a U.S. drone struck a house in Sherpur, not far from where I’d been running; the next day, President Biden announced that he’d taken out Ayman al-Zawahri, the leader of Al Qaeda. It was proof, the president said, that America no longer needed troops in Afghanistan to defend itself. What it meant for the Taliban, who issued a muted condemnation of the strike, was less clear. Antony Blinken, the secretary of state, said by “hosting and sheltering” al-Zawahri, the Taliban had “grossly violated” their assurances that they would not allow Afghanistan to be used by terrorists as a base to threaten other countries. But a senior U.S. official told me that most of the Taliban leadership apparently had been unaware of al-Zawahri’s presence in Kabul, and that sheltering him had been the work of a faction connected to Haqqani, the interior minister. (The aide to Haqqani did not respond to a request for comment.)

The killing raised the question of how long the Taliban, who are nearing their first year in power, can endure in the face of international isolation. While I was in Kabul in May, I heard many reasons the emirate would not last, and many reasons it would — often mentioned by the same people, in the same breath. The Taliban have moved to extend the reach of the state and bolster its fiscal self-reliance, dismantling the many illegal checkpoints that lined the highway under the republic, increasing trade and customs revenue. They have arrested warlords and announced a ban on opium cultivation. Yet while the totality of the republic’s moral and political collapse has left them with no serious rivals, the Taliban leadership remains a small and insular group, almost entirely Pashtun. In their tight grip on power, they risk making the same mistake as previous victors: marginalizing swaths of a heavily armed population in a country rived by grievances from decades of civil war, where the state remains weak. In July, the U.N. released a damning report on human rights violations under the new government, including extrajudicial killings. (A Taliban spokesman called it “baseless and propaganda.”)

“I think that, at the end of the day, what we have to bear in mind is that the Afghan population itself is not going to be that patient,” says Amiri, the U.S. envoy for women and human rights. “There will be more violence. This conflict has not ended. It is on pause.”

But the most important factor fueling Afghanistan’s conflict has been foreign intervention. For now, no major or regional powers appear willing to support an armed opposition to the Taliban. “I think there is a fair degree of consensus in the world on this,” West, the State Department’s special representative, told me. This includes the United States, which has, according to both American officials and members of the Afghan opposition, declined to offer any material support to the anti-Taliban resistance.

On the contrary, the past year has seen a quiet normalization of the emirate’s relations with its neighboring countries, most of whom, along with Russia and China, have accepted Taliban-​appointed diplomats in their capitals. India, once bitterly opposed to the Taliban, has recently re-established a presence at its embassy in Kabul. According to a German official, their mission has prepared to do the same, pending final approval from Berlin.

While the revelation that al-Zawahri was hiding in downtown Kabul will cast a pall over the Taliban’s foreign relations, the group’s entanglement with Al Qaeda, which deepened during their joint war against the Western occupation, has long been known. The senior U.S. official told me that pragmatic engagement with the Taliban would continue. Indeed, even as formal meetings between the U.S. special envoy and the Taliban foreign minister have resumed, West has broadened his contacts with leaders closer to the center of power in Kandahar. When the Taliban defense minister, Yaqoub — who is the son of the first amir, Mullah Omar — traveled to Doha in July, he met, unannounced, with West. Among the issues they discussed was the American captive Frerichs, in exchange for whom the Taliban have demanded Haji Bashir Noorzai, an Afghan tribal leader convicted on drug charges. (Both West and a spokesman for the Taliban foreign ministry declined to comment on the negotiations.)

In terms of the country’s so-called vital interests, much of the fallout in the year since the republic’s collapse has been contained by the United States and its allies. Famine in Afghanistan has been averted, thanks to the vast humanitarian machine that has cleaned up after political disasters in places like Somalia and Yemen. While the European Union has seen an uptick in Afghan asylum seekers, thus far it has been nothing like the huge numbers that arrived by boat during the migration crisis of 2015. Investments in border defenses since then, along with regular deportations by Iran and Turkey, both of which receive E.U. money to manage migration, have helped to cage Afghans within their own country.

Apart from its counterterrorism efforts, the White House, focused on the challenges from Russia and China, has pursued a strategy described to me by a U.S. official as “making sure Afghanistan stays off the front page.” In this, the Biden administration has been helped by a marked lack of interest from Congress in the country since the withdrawal, an apathy as bipartisan as support for the war in Ukraine, which has replaced Afghanistan as the largest recipient of U.S. foreign aid. “For a minute the world was really concerned about the Taliban takeover,” Amiri says, “and there was enormous sympathy for Afghans. And then Ukraine happened.” People inside Afghanistan didn’t have the luxury of giving up, but she was worried their struggles were already being forgotten.

In June, after I returned to the United States, I awoke to messages on my phone from friends and acquaintances worried about my safety. Overnight, there was a deadly earthquake in Afghanistan. I went online and quickly learned that it had taken place in a remote area in the southeast. No one I knew personally, it seemed, was harmed, but more than 1,000 people were killed. There were heartbreaking tales of whole families being wiped out when their houses, built of mud and straw, collapsed on them as they slept. The United States promised to send more humanitarian aid; the Taliban pledged to cooperate. For a day, Afghanistan was back on the front page.

As much as the war waxed and waned in the public consciousness, Afghanistan was, by virtue of the troops serving there, part of the American body politic for 20 years. But when the last soldier stepped onto the last C-17, that connection with the country and its people was severed. What remains is a painful sense of how much we owe them, and how little we can do about it. When I was in Kabul, I visited two teenage sisters named Zakera and Husna, who were stuck at home, waiting for the Taliban to allow their school to open. Zakera wanted to be a doctor, Husna a journalist. The sisters told me that they were, in spite of everything, hopeful that they’d soon be back in class. “They keep saying that the schools will reopen,” Zakera said. “They promised.”


Additional reporting by Zabihullah Padshah.

Matthieu Aikins is a Puffin fellow at Type Media Center and the author of “The Naked Don’t Fear the Water: An Underground Journey With Afghan Refugees.” This year, he won the Pulitzer Prize for International Reporting, as part of a New York Times team that investigated civilian casualties from U.S. airstrikes.

A version of this article appears in print on Aug. 14, 2022, Page 29 of the Sunday Magazine with the headline: Collision Course.
The Taliban’s Dangerous Collision Course With the West
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If the Taliban take power again, will Afghans have died in vain?

Pamela Constable

April 18, 2021
The flawed U.S. presence lifted expectations about what kind of society they could have.

When I first heard this past week that President Biden had decided to send home the remaining U.S. troops in Afghanistan by Sept. 11, I felt the same chill of dread that many Afghans did. Would Taliban extremists sweep into Kabul as they did in 1996, whipping men late to mosque prayers and forcing women back into cloistered homes? Would local militias spring up to fight them, engulfing the exhausted country in the same kind of chaotic civil war that destroyed the capital in 1992? I thought back over the past 20 years, remembering all the people I had known or written about as a foreign correspondent, who’d sacrificed to bring their country into the free, modern world; the soldiers who had lost legs and lives in battle; the citizens who had braved Taliban threats to vote in national elections; the journalists and civic activists, college teachers and clerics who had died in countless suicide bombings and armed attacks.

If the American withdrawal leads to a Taliban takeover or a bloody civil war, as many experts predict, would the sacrifices of 158,000 Afghans, including 43,000 civilians, killed by wartime violence have been in vain?

I want to believe they would not. And the post-Taliban years — a period of extraordinary change in the culture, expectations, opportunities and worldly exposure of a once-isolated and tradition-bound society — support my optimism. Despite the petty, self-destructive behavior of the political elite, and despite the still-powerful hold of religious and tribal taboos, Afghanistan is a far different country than it was when the Taliban seized power in 1996. Even if the Taliban retakes control, that can’t be completely erased.

Since the Islamist regime collapsed in 2001, a new generation of young women and men has been educated and exposed to the world. Millions of people have cast ballots in several presidential and parliamentary elections. Elders and officials in remote villages now have access to mobile phones and the Internet. Some rural schools for girls have closed because of Taliban violence, but women work and study and hold public office. Afghanistan is still an impoverished, conservative Muslim country, but it is no longer a prisoner of the past.

When I think of the Afghans I knew or wrote about who died in wartime violence, I also think of the legacy they created and the people they inspired. Some were poor and unknown, like the gentle high school teacher I met in a southern village, whose home library was covered with his beautiful calligraphy and drawings of animals. The community was destroyed by the Taliban, but when he passed away later, one of his six sons called to tell me, in near-perfect English, that the others were all doing well.

Some were well-known civic leaders, journalists or political activists who died in suicide bombings or were targeted for assassination by the Taliban or the Islamic State. Yousuf Rasheed, the soft-spoken director of an election monitoring organization, was dedicated to the cause of democratic rule. I met him often to talk about the challenges of improving the country’s flawed and fraud-prone electoral system. Last Christmas, he was gunned down by unknown assailants waiting near his house, but within a few days his staff was back at work, determined not to show that they had been cowed.

Some were friends who had no political ambitions but welcomed journalists like me into their homes or establishments to escape from the relentless pressure of war reporting. Kamel Hamade was not an Afghan, but he was a gracious host and a fixture in Kabul life as the proprietor of a lively Lebanese bistro, where I often went on weekend nights. He discreetly served us wine in teacups and often refused to let us pay for dinner, saying we should spend our money helping homeless animals.

One night in 2014, Taliban commandos bombed the front door, then rushed in with guns drawn. They killed Kamel and all 21 diners; a cherished oasis was lost forever. But the outpouring of messages I received from people who had once gathered there — an engineer from Texas, a lawyer from Ireland, a veterinarian from Maine — reminded me of the astonishing commitments made by so many foreigners who moved to Kabul over the years, wanting to help rebuild a scarred and long-suffering nation.

One of the first Afghans I reached out to this past week was Nader Nadery, a senior official in the government of President Ashraf Ghani. I met him almost 20 years ago, soon after the Taliban fled Kabul, where he was working for a human rights group after being imprisoned by the Islamist regime. He recounted that in those early months, as Western officials and experts began flocking to the capital, all conveyed a similar message: “Every one of them stressed the importance of promoting democracy and human rights,” he said. “Those of us who had fought for those values felt inspired and empowered. We felt we were not alone.”

Now, Nadery says he is “sad and angry” about the U.S. troop withdrawal, the news of which has thrown the country into a state of panic and confusion. Yet he also said that the sacrifices made by Afghans who died trying to build a new, democratic nation had not been wasted and that Taliban religious hegemony would not be so easy to reimpose. “Some good people have paid the ultimate sacrifice, but the things they believed and fought for became the rules,” he said. “We are facing difficult times, but those beliefs cannot just be stamped out.”

There are still reasons to fear that other Afghans’ darkest predictions of extremist mayhem and violence will come true, and that the country’s history of brutal ethnic conflict and political revenge will return in the absence of American military force. Ethnic rivalries remain fierce, and warlordism lingers beneath the surface of modern Afghan life. Members of the Taliban remain committed religious fanatics, convinced that they have defeated the mighty United States and could easily retake power. They have essentially boycotted peace talks with Afghan leaders and rejected plans for new, internationally sponsored talks in Turkey. Ghani’s government is weak and divided, and the Afghan security forces, struggling to hold on, may lose both morale and capacity without American backup.

Over the years, some Afghans came to resent the American military presence as a foreign “occupation.” Anti-American riots erupted after a U.S. military vehicle accident killed civilians in 2006, and again in 2012 after reports spread that copies of the Koran had been thrown out and burned at a U.S. military base.

But other Afghans clung to the hope that the heavy price paid by their security forces was worth it and that there was still a chance for a peaceful settlement of the conflict. Just as a rising generation of young Afghan civilians has embraced democratic values and aspirations, the same has been true of the best soldiers and members of other security forces, many of them trained and mentored by American officers.

One was Lemar Safi, a young Afghan army captain who was killed in a Taliban ambush in northern Kunduz province in 2017. I never met him, but over the course of several conversations with his family and former commanding officer two years later, I came to think of him as representing the best of what the Afghan military could be — but often failed to achieve. Safi, 29, had earned a college degree in psychology, but something inspired him to join the army. His parents had lost one son in the civil war, and a second had been crippled in combat training; they were reluctant to let Safi enlist, but he insisted it was his duty. His former commander described him as highly motivated and eager to go out on high-risk operations.

By the time I interviewed his family in Kabul, Kunduz was again under heavy Taliban assault, but peace talks were underway between the group’s leaders and U.S. officials. Still grief-stricken, his relatives continued clinging to one hope. “Lemar’s death has been a heavy burden for our family to bear, but we don’t believe that his sacrifice was for nothing,” one of his brothers told me. “Thousands of soldiers like him have died for the same cause. He wanted to defend his country and its future as a democracy. He lost his life, but he did it for the sake of peace.”

Pamela Constable is a staff writer for The Washington Post’s foreign desk. She completed a tour as Afghanistan/Pakistan bureau chief in 2019, and has reported extensively from Latin America, South Asia and around the world since the 1980s.

If the Taliban take power again, will Afghans have died in vain?
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Biden, Trump, and the missing big picture in Afghanistan coverage

LAST SUNDAY, in the hours after Kabul fell to the Taliban, swathes of the mainstream US news media instantly savaged President Biden for losing Afghanistan. In the week since then, he has stayed under an intense spotlight. News organizations have disputed the accuracy of many of his claims about the situation on the ground—a “credibility gap,” Politico’s Playbook newsletter wrote over the weekend, “that is dominating the coverage right now and could threaten Biden’s standing with the public.” The credibility-gap narrative has extended overseas, with American commentators and foreign outlets alike stating that Biden has taken a wrecking ball to global perceptions of US prestige and reliability. “Our allies are furious,” Andrea Mitchell, chief Washington correspondent at NBC News, said on Meet the Press yesterday. “We have destroyed morale that [Biden] was rebuilding. I mean, it is a real problem for America’s leadership abroad.” Where doubts as to truthfulness and American world leadership go, Trump comparisons surely follow. The withdrawal has “undercut some of the most fundamental premises of Mr. Biden’s presidency,” Peter Baker wrote in New York Times news analysis piece on Friday—that “unlike his erratic, self-absorbed predecessor, he brought foreign policy seasoning, adults-in-the-room judgment and a surfeit of empathy to the Oval Office.”

This framing—and the wider media frenzy over Afghanistan—has annoyed the White House. According to CNN’s Brian Stelter, Biden aides view the coverage as “overheated and out of step with the American public’s views” of the withdrawal, points echoed by his political allies. “The media tends to bend over backwards to ‘both-sides’ all of their coverage, but they made an exception for this,” Eric Schultz, who served in the Obama administration, told HuffPost. “As a Democrat, I’m very relieved and encouraged and heartened that the White House knows they’re speaking to the country, not just Playbook subscribers.” That the White House would be irked by critical coverage is not a surprise—and the public mood is not a reliable assignment editor for the press. Still, the outraged moral tone coursing through much of the coverage does indeed seem out of step with mainstream news organizations’ traditional self-conception: that they are disinterested chroniclers of the truth. As regular readers of this newsletter will know, I am no fan of that self-conception. What’s jarring here, rather, is the apparent inconsistency: these same outlets regularly cover suffering overseas—or, very often, hardly cover it at all—without the indignant editorializing. This has been true, in the all-too-recent past, of Afghanistan coverage. It is arguably true, in the present, of Haiti, where urgent health and political crises were further compounded by an earthquake that struck the day before the fall of Kabul, and has since been almost totally overshadowed by the latter story in the news cycle, despite some solid reporting from the ground. No American action directly precipitated the earthquake. But America is complicit enough in Haiti’s other crises that the story hardly exists in a separate moral sphere to the Afghanistan story. The issue here, perhaps, is not that the latter is overheated so much as other stories are underheated. In coverage of cruelty abroad, the double standard is the point.

Related: The journalists leaving Afghanistan, and those who haven’t made it out

In recent days, the likes of Matthew Yglesias and Hunter Walker have made the case that major US outlets will focus on humanitarian crises only when doing so, as Yglesias put it, “is complementary to aggressive use of American military force.” Others have pushed back, arguing that many reporters have worked closely with Afghans on the ground, and so are personally invested in their safety. This argument is wholly understandable—but it doesn’t resolve the double-standard problem; as with the public mood, the direct investment of Western journalists is not an adequate gauge of moral righteousness. Nor does it, in itself, defeat the Yglesias/Walker argument. As many observers have noted in recent days, the outrage in coverage has not only been driven by war reporters with track records of paying close attention to Afghanistan, but by Washington-based politicians and national-security pundits with well-established hawkish views—and in some cases, as The Intercept has reported, ongoing professional and financial ties to the military-industrial complex. Major outlets have treated such figures as expert observers, not as subjects with their own, deep complicity in the Afghanistan mess. Longtime opponents of military intervention, by contrast, have been much less visible.

Senior journalists have frequently argued that criticizing the execution of the withdrawal is not the same as advocating Forever War. This position makes sense, on its face; there is much to criticize in the withdrawal that is squarely on Biden, and there are undoubtedly many critics out there who are making such points without a hidden, bellicose agenda. Again, however, a double standard shows the limits of this position—namely, that the overall level of media focus on the withdrawal has massively dwarfed its focus on any number of prior horrors in Afghanistan that reflected poorly on the US military presence, rather than its absence. Even if you accept that the withdrawal is objectively a bigger story than such horrors—and that’s a big if—it doesn’t explain why so much current coverage is so lacking, as I wrote last week, in the basic context of how we got to this disastrous point. The news deals primarily in what’s new, but in this case, history isn’t some luxury that would have been nice to include if we had more time, but an essential, fundamental part of the story. You cannot honestly cover—let alone criticize—the execution of the withdrawal without addressing the execution of the entire war. In neglecting the latter, news outlets are, as New York’s Eric Levitz put it last week, “helping hawks recast an indictment of martial adventurism into an object lesson in the hazards of military restraint.”

Another strand of context has often been missing from coverage, too—that Biden’s withdrawal reflects a radical, possibly generational, redefinition of America’s role in the world, and that this demands serious media engagement, whether you agree with it or not. This redefinition started, arguably, under Trump, who it made it easier for the liberal press to dismiss it as unserious: Trump’s isolationist vision was inseparable from his racism and nativism, and besides, pundits assured us, Trump was an aberration from the finest traditions of American global leadership. When Biden won, these pundits hailed a return to the status quo ante; in many ways, this was fair—unlike Trump, Biden does prize cooperation with US allies—but it also misread how Biden would define the boundaries of that engagement. Biden is altogether harder to dismiss than Trump, and some good coverage in the past week has, indeed, engaged seriously on an intellectual level with his worldview. Other coverage has discredited Biden by lazy Trumpian association, writing off the withdrawal as the sort of awful thing the last guy would have done.

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One month after Trump took office, Bill O’Reilly, then of Fox, asked him about Vladimir Putin, referring to Putin as a “killer.” “We’ve got a lot of killers,” Trump replied. “You think our country’s so innocent?” Trump’s remarks were grist, at the time, for the frenzied Russia news cycle, and sections of the press savaged him, not unfairly, for excusing Putin’s behavior. At root, though, they communicated a deeper truth about America’s behavior on the world stage—perhaps the most profound of a presidency defined by thousands of lies. Contrary to the narrative of total, “America First” isolationism, Trump’s actions, in office, were often militaristic—not least early last year, when he assassinated Qassem Suleimani, Iran’s top general. The mainstream coverage of that episode was not perfect—but on the whole, it channeled broader skepticism than we’ve come to expect about the limits of military force, in no small part because such a notoriously reckless and dishonest president was the one administering it.

As I wrote at the time, a key challenge, going forward, would be for the press to “apply at least this level of attention and skepticism to future administrations,” since “governments of all stripes routinely lie about war.” Biden is no exception to this, and his demonstrable falsehoods about the situation on the ground deserve, urgently, to be called out. In his recent interviews and speeches, though, Biden has also been startlingly candid about how he sees the limits of American force—honesty that pundits have sometimes written off as a deficit of “empathy.” Again, you don’t have to agree with what he’s saying to understand its importance for American foreign policy. Many reporters and pundits, it seems, would rather stick their fingers in their ears.

Below, more on Afghanistan:


Other notable stories:

ICYMI: Journalism failed in Afghanistan too

 

 

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Jon Allsop is a freelance journalist. He writes CJR’s newsletter The Media Today. Find him on Twitter @Jon_Allsop.

Biden, Trump, and the missing big picture in Afghanistan coverage
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Petraeus: Doha Deal ‘Among the Worst Diplomatic Agreements’

Deputy spokesman for the Islamic Emirate, Bilal Karimi, rejected Petraeus’s remarks and called the Doha agreement effective.

The former head of US and NATO forces in Afghanistan and former head of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), David Petraeus, said the deal signed between the Islamic Emirate and US “has to rank among the worst diplomatic agreements” that the US has been party to.

“Moreover, the ultimate peace deal that we reached with the Taliban in 2020 that committed the US to withdrawal the following year, which we negotiated without the elected Afghan government at the table, has to rank among the worst diplomatic agreements to which the US has ever been a party,” Petraeus wrote in an article for the Atlantic Magazine. “We acquiesced to Taliban demands because the resulting agreement gave us, in the narrowest sense possible, what we wanted.”

Deputy spokesman for the Islamic Emirate, Bilal Karimi, rejected Petraeus’s remarks and called the Doha agreement effective.

“The Islamic Emirate believes in negotiations and engagement. We believe that there should be negotiations with all the countries over the concerns they have,” he said.

Petraeus said that the lack of sufficient commitment over the years had innumerable knock-on effects.

“The Doha agreement was a temporary step for the problems that the US should overcome,” said Asadullah Nadim, a political analyst.

This comes as Kabul and Washington accuse each other of violating the Doha agreement after a US drone strike hit a residence in Kabul. US President Joe Biden announced that Ayman al Zawahiri, leader of the al-Qaeda network, was killed in the strike.

The Islamic Emirate once again assured the international community that there would be no threat to the US from Afghan soil.

Petraeus: Doha Deal ‘Among the Worst Diplomatic Agreements’
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