None of these jihadis who say they miss the jihad ever remind us that what they’re doing now with their desk work is just a different form of jihad. That kind of thing is only for Western non-Muslim consumption, and of course there are multitudes of ignorant Western non-Muslims who eagerly lap it up.
“New Lives in the City: How Taleban have experienced life in Kabul,” by Sabawoon Samim, Afghanistan Analysts Network, February 2, 2023:
A large number of Taleban fighters have moved to Afghanistan’s cities since the movement’s capture of power, many of them seeing life in the city for the first time in their lifetime. These fighters, many of whom are from villages, had lived modest lives, entirely focused on the war. Their circumstances have changed entirely since the Taleban’s victory. Guest author Sabawoon Samim has interviewed five members of the Taleban who have come to live in Kabul, a city they had seen as being at the heart of the ‘foreign occupation’ with its ‘puppet government’ and a population degraded by Western ways. How have they found the actual Kabul and its people, and what do they think about having to earn a living for the first time, keep office hours and live in a city full of traffic and millions of other inhabitants?…
To this end, the author conducted in-depth conversations with five members of the movement about their new, post-takeover life. They ranged in age from 24 to 32 and had spent between six and 11 years in the Taleban, at different ranks: a Taleban commander, a sniper, a deputy commander and two fighters. They were, respectively, from Paktika, Paktia, Wardak, Logar and Kandahar provinces….
The interviewees refer to ‘the fatha’, pronounced fat-ha. This is the Arabic word for conquest or victory, used for when new lands are ‘opened up’ to Muslim victors, or lands ‘recovered’ from non-Muslims. The interviews also refer to the war as a jihad and themselves as mujahedin. They speak of going on ‘tashkils’, which are similar to deployments – specific periods of time when they were away fighting.
In the Taleban hierarchy, fighters were organised into ‘groups’, bands of a few dozen men under a sub-commander, known as a ‘sar-group’ (head of the group). Several groups formed a ‘dilgai’, headed by a senior commander, known as a ‘dilgai meshr’. He was directly associated with the Emirate’s Military Commission.
Throughout the text, the interviewees refer to their old commanders as ‘Mawlawi Sahib’, as a mark of respect, combining the term used for an advanced religious scholar with the word for ‘sir’.
Omar Mansur, 32, Yahyakhel district of Paktika province, married and father of five, head of a group…
What I don’t like about Kabul is its ever-increasing traffic holdups. Last year, it was tolerable but in the last few months, it’s become more and more congested. People complain that the Taleban brought poverty, but, looking at this traffic and the large number of people in the bazaars and restaurants, I wonder where that poverty is.
Another thing I don’t like, not only about Kabul but broadly about life after the fatha, are the new restrictions. In the group, we had a great degree of freedom about where to go, where to stay, and whether to participate in the war.
However, these days, you have to go to the office before 8 AM and stay there till 4 PM. If you don’t go, you’re considered absent, and [the wage for] that day is cut from your salary. We’re now used to that, but it was especially difficult in the first two or three months….
Some people have a very negative picture of Kabul. What I experienced here in the last years, though, is that one can come across the perfect Muslim and the worst. Unlike villages where a lot of people go to the mosque to impress others, people in Kabul go there just for the sake of Allah. Unlike the villages where people endeavour to be called generous, people here do charity for the sake of Allah – people know little about each other and so they don’t need to impress each other.
Similarly, there are plenty of bad and wicked people. They’re morally corrupt, Muslim only in name, sinners. I can’t make up my mind whether there are more good people or bad here, though there are both, and it’s up to you who you interact with. Living in Kabul could have either consequence; it could corrupt a very good mujahed or turn a very bad mujahed into a good man. It all depends on who you socialise with.
Huzaifa, 24, from Zurmat district of southeastern Paktia province, married and father of two, sniper…
I was a lizari [sniper] and spent most of my time in Paktia, only on some occasions going to Khost and Paktika provinces. In the time of jihad, life was very simple. All we had to deal with was making plans for ta’aruz [attacks] against the enemy and for retreating. People didn’t expect much from us, and we had little responsibility towards them, whereas now if someone is hungry, he deems us directly responsible for that.
After the fatha, we moved to Kabul and our dilgai meshr was appointed head of a police district and later head of a directorate at the Ministry of Interior. I, along with a few other friends, were given masuliat (official jobs) in the police district the day we arrived in the city, while other friends were sent to the MoI.
It was the first time I ever saw Kabul. I haven’t seen all the provinces, but people say Kabul is the most beautiful city in Afghanistan. When I joined my group, I was of the idea that Kabul would be full of bad people, but to be honest, in the last couple of years, after we met some of the people living here, I realised I was wrong. Of course, it has plenty of negative aspects, like their support for the occupation, women not wearing proper clothing, youths flirting with girls and cutting their hair in a style even people in America might not adopt, but these are the problems that nowadays exist also in the rural areas.
After we arrived in Kabul, we were stunned by its complexity, its expanse, its size. We didn’t know where to go. Everything was strange to us and of course, we were strange to the local people – to the extent that they were afraid of talking loudly to us. When we came to our hawza [police district] and saw the compound, the weapons and the security measures, it was unbelievable how they’d abandoned such places without firing a single bullet. We were stunned by the cowardice of the [former] army and police. If even a very small number of them had tried to fight us, we couldn’t have made it to Kabul for years, given its complexity and the weapons they had. Praise be to Allah, [the victory] was directly because of His help….
And the savageness of people against each other, in particular against women – dozens of women approach the hawza on a daily basis and register their complaints. They’re victims, subject to different forms of brutality. The head of the hawza and all other mujahedin pay special attention to solving their problems. During the first days when women approached us, many mujahedin, including myself, were hiding from them because never in our whole lives have we talked to strange women. In the days that followed, the head of the hawza instructed us that sharia does allow us to talk to them because we are now the authorities and the only people that can solve their problems….
There is another thing I dislike and that’s how restricted our lives are now, unlike anything we experienced before. The Taleban used to be free of restrictions, but now we sit in one place, behind a desk and a computer 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Life’s become so wearisome; you do the same things every day. Being away from the family has only doubled the problem.
I’ve made friends with three guys who are from our province but have been living here [in Kabul] for more than 15 years. We sometimes go to Qargha, Bagh-e Wahsh [Kabul Zoo], Sarobi and Tapa-ye Wazir Akbar Khan. To be honest, every time I go with them, they pressure me to play and listen to music in the car. At first, I was resisting, but now I have given in, with the one condition that they turn it off when passing through security checkpoints because many other Taleban don’t like it, and it’s bad for a Taleb to be seen listening to it.
Although my new friends are from good families and are good lads, there are a lot of bad circles of youths in Kabul who smoke, use drugs and do bad things, so it’s hard for us to become friends with them. Our nature and values differ, and therefore most of our friends don’t make many friends in Kabul because we don’t fit in with them. Despite this, some Taleban have now become friends with such youths and are inclined to do many bad things, such as going hookah cafes [qilun khana].
Kamran, 27, Sayedabad district, Wardak Province, married, father of two, deputy group commander
I graduated from a government school in Sayedabad and then abandoned any other studies for the sake of jihad at the age of 19. This has been my 8th year in the Emirate. Most of the time, the areas our group controlled were in the various districts of Wardak province. I participated in many battles. Sayedabad was a place in which the Americans left dozens of dead bodies. The intensity of Sayedabad battles is well-known throughout Afghanistan.
In the last three years, I was deputy to the commander of our group, responsible for most of the day-to-day activities we dealt with since the head of our group was busy doing other non-military stuff.
During the jihad, the fear of drones followed us like a shadow, and the area where we operated was geographically very small in the early years. When travelling along the road to Ghazni city, we frequently attacked the Americans with RPGs, dashakas [DShK, a type of heavy machine gun] and roadside bombs, inflicting dozens of casualties on them. They then came after us in retaliation. Their drones often bombarded our positions. Everywhere we went, went the fear of drones. Even though the situation changed in the last two or three years [of the fighting] – the Americans and government army [owrdu] completely disappeared from the scene – the danger of drones still affected our movement. In fact, excluding their bombardments, we never considered the Americans and their puppets superior to us, [certainly not] in face-to-face battles….
I was appointed to a job in the Ministry of Interior. I’m sort of happy with my job but often miss the time of jihad. During that time, every minute of our life was counted as worship.
After the fatha, many of our friends abandoned the cause of jihad. Many others betrayed the blood of the martyrs on which foundation this nizam [the government] is built. Nowadays, people are fully busy gaining wealth and fame, more and more, in this worldly life. Previously, we were doing everything for the sake of Allah, but now it’s the opposite. The first priority of many is to fill their pockets and become famous….
I’m very concerned about our mujahedin. The real test and challenge was not during the jihad. Rather, it’s now. At that time, it was simple, but now things are much more complicated. We are tested by cars, positions, wealth and women. Many of our mujahedin, God forbid, have fallen into these seemingly sweet, but actually bitter traps. They forgot their old comrades on whose shoulders they secured victory and instead seek the praise and approval of sycophants. The old, the real mujahed doesn’t know the meaning of sycophancy. So they are sidelined, while their places are filled by people who, until the past year, were against us in so many ways….
Abdul Nafi, 25, Logar province, Baraki Barak district, married, father of two, fighter
I grew up in Baraki Barak. I studied school up to sixth grade and then continued the rest of my education in a madrasa up to 12th grade, joining the Taleban from there – almost seven years ago.
At that time, we were doing jihad, it was a holy path and gave us real delight. During jihad, you couldn’t have known the difference between a commander and a foot soldier like me. We sat together, we talked without any inconvenience, and they were sympatric towards us. Our superiors fought shoulder-to-shoulder alongside us, and we all wept together for our martyrs. It was an environment of sacrifice. We fought the war with high morale and determination.
However, all that changed after the fatha. I am myself a mujahed, but now I struggle to get to see a small director, let alone a deputy minister or minister. This isn’t true of all of them, but many of the leaders have turned their backs on their comrades of the hard times.
On the second week of the fatha, I made it to Kabul. I hadn’t been there before. It seemed a very big city and I worried about how we’d all find our way around. Now, I might better know the streets of Kabul better than many Kabulis. I go home once a month, sometimes twice. In the village, I look like a haji because when a haji comes back from pilgrimage, his skin looks soft and his face pale and I’ve, similarly, come back from pleasanter weather and the cleaner environment of Kabul.
In the first days [of our coming to Kabul], our dilgai meshr was assigned to a key position in the Ministry of [name withheld]. He told two other comrades and me to be his guards. The rest of our dilgai was strewn about in Kabul and Logar. Mawlawi sahib is a very kind man and hasn’t abandoned his old friends. For the first five months, I was with him with no official status. He paid some of my expenses from his own salary. After that, he told me he’d appoint me to a job in the ministry and registered the two other friends as official guards. He said I’d easily learn how to work. Thus, I was appointed to a grade 4 position as executive director, and in the meantime, I continued my job as his guard. I live with him in his house. It’s a big villa that [a senior leader, name withheld] has given him. He’s always telling me to bring my family and live on one of the floors. But I’m hesitant because of the cost….
I sometimes miss the jihad life for all the good things it had. Similarly, in the beginning, I yearned for the village, but I’ve now become accustomed to my new circumstances.
In our ministry, there’s little work for me to do. Therefore, I spend most of my time on Twitter. We’re connected to speedy Wi-Fi and internet. Many mujahedin, including me, are addicted to the internet, especially Twitter.
In those first days, when we sometimes came out of the ministry to Macroyan bazaar, there were a lot of women wearing indecent clothes. We anticipated they would wear hijab,[7] but after the initial days when women feared the mujahedin a lot, their attire has actually become less proper.
Now, they’ve become assertive to the extent they’re entirely heedless of us. Many of our friends say that, apart from us coming and replacing the police and officials of the former regime, little has changed from the Republic’s time in Kabul. During the first few days, many of my comrades and I hardly dared to make our way to the bazaar because of them [women]. We hoped the situation would soon get better, but it didn’t. Even worse, one of my classmates in his computer course is also a woman. We sit in the same classroom. Although I despise women that don’t wear proper clothes, nonetheless, I can’t turn my back on the bazaar or my class because of them. If they’re unashamed, let us also be so. This is the only thing I never imagined a Taleb would encounter in his lifetime….
