Afghans Driven from Pakistan Rebuilding Lives from 'Zero'

Afghan refugee Shazia (2R), mother to three children, holds an infant aboard an overloaded truck heading to Jalalabad. Wakil KOHSAR / AFP
Afghan refugee Shazia (2R), mother to three children, holds an infant aboard an overloaded truck heading to Jalalabad. Wakil KOHSAR / AFP
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Afghans Driven from Pakistan Rebuilding Lives from 'Zero'

Afghan refugee Shazia (2R), mother to three children, holds an infant aboard an overloaded truck heading to Jalalabad. Wakil KOHSAR / AFP
Afghan refugee Shazia (2R), mother to three children, holds an infant aboard an overloaded truck heading to Jalalabad. Wakil KOHSAR / AFP

Rocked gently on his mother's knees, a fly on his nose, a baby sleeps fitfully in a tent in a barren border camp as his family prepares to leave the waypoint to rebuild their lives in Afghanistan.
In the transit camp at Torkham, where returnees driven out of Pakistan sweat in burning heat during the day and shiver through the night, many of the blue tents at the foot of rocky mountains standing stark against a cloudless sky have already emptied, said AFP.
Trucks overloaded with several families, carrying cushions, brightly colored blankets and kitchen utensils, are readied to set off.
Border officials say at least 210,000 Afghans, including many who have lived decades, if not their whole lives, outside their country, have passed through the Torkham border point since Pakistan ordered those without documents to leave.
From the reception camp, they have dispersed to various Afghan provinces with a handout of around 15,000 Afghanis ($205) -- just enough to support a family for a month.
For many, nothing, and no one, awaits them.
"We have nowhere to go, we don't have a house, or land, I don't have any work," said Sher Aga, a former security guard in Pakistan.
He bundled his nine children and all the family's belongings into a truck to head north, to Kunduz province, where he was born.
But the 43-year-old has no memory of his homeland, having left Afghanistan when he was five.
"I don't have any family there anymore," he told AFP.
"My children ask me, 'What country are we going to?'"
'We fear starvation'
In a tent that she, her husband and their 10 children are sheltering in, 40-year-old Amina hides her face behind a red headscarf.
They are destined for Jalalabad, capital of Nangarhar province where Torkham is located, and where she has "many brothers".
"I asked my family to find us a house" to rent, she said, "but they say there are none".
"No one has called us or come to see us," she added.
In Pakistan, her sons worked selling vegetables or driving rickshaws to pull in enough money to sustain the family, but Amina fears for their prospects in Afghanistan, wracked by economic crisis and unemployment.
"If the boys don't work, we're not going to make it."
Another nearby tent is crammed with the 16 members of Gul Pari's family, who have been sleeping on cardboard boxes without blankets since arriving at the transit camp.
Her voice is drowned out by the honking of tanker trucks delivering much-needed water to the camp, with clusters of laughing, barefoot children clinging to the back.
The 46-year-old grandmother, her grandchild's rail-thin body cradled in her lap, said that in five days they will leave for Kunduz to start a new life in a country she hasn't seen in four decades.
Life was precarious for the family collecting scraps in Pakistan, but in Afghanistan, "We have nothing," she said.
"We fear starvation. But if we find work, it'll be OK. We will be happy in our homeland. In Pakistan, we were being harassed."
Most of those returning fled an Afghanistan ravaged for decades by deadly conflict, but the end to fighting since the Taliban's return to power in 2021 has encouraged some to come back.
'Starting from zero'
Amanullah and his family were stranded in a temporary camp in the neighboring province of Laghman, having nowhere else to go in Afghanistan.
Amid a dozen white Red Crescent tents sprouting from the lunar landscape, the 43-year-old, who lived 35 years in Pakistan, said life in the camp was hard on him, his wife and their six children.
"There are no toilets," the former construction worker said, and the women "are having a very difficult time" because they have to wait until nightfall to go out to relieve themselves in groups for safety.
There is barely any electricity either.
"All the tents are pitch black" as soon as night falls, he told AFP, holding up a small red flashlight.
"We have small children, so we have a lot of hardship," he said, adding that all his children were in school in Pakistan, but he fears for their future now.
"If we stay here for five days, a month, a year, it could be alright, but we need work, a house... we're starting from zero."
On the road to Jalalabad, Shazia and 20 other women and children piled into a small truck that leaned precariously as it veered around bends in the road, whipping the women's blue burqas around a teetering mound of bundles.
Of the Afghans returning from Pakistan, she is luckier than most: her husband went ahead of them to Jalalabad and found a four-room house to rent for four families.
"The rent is expensive," said the 22-year-old mother-of-three, her youngest child only two months old.
"But tonight we will be able to sleep."



Watching the Sun Rise over a New Damascus

Damascus is seen at sunrise from Mount Qasyun, which for years was off limits to regular people. (AFP)
Damascus is seen at sunrise from Mount Qasyun, which for years was off limits to regular people. (AFP)
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Watching the Sun Rise over a New Damascus

Damascus is seen at sunrise from Mount Qasyun, which for years was off limits to regular people. (AFP)
Damascus is seen at sunrise from Mount Qasyun, which for years was off limits to regular people. (AFP)

After the fall of Bashar al-Assad, Afaf Mohammed did what she could not for more than a decade: she climbed Mount Qasyun to admire a sleeping Damascus "from the sky" and watch the sun rise.

Through the long years of Syria's civil war, which began in 2011 with a government crackdown on pro-democracy protesters, people were not allowed access to the mountain.

But now they can return to look down again on their capital, with its high-rise hotels and poor suburbs exhausted by war.

When night falls, long queues of vehicles slowly make their way up a twisting road to a brightly lit corniche at the summit.

Once there, they can relax, listen to music, eat and, inevitably, take selfies.

On some evenings there have even been firework displays.

Afaf Mohammed told AFP that "during the war we weren't allowed up to Mount Qasyun. There were few public places that were truly accessible."

At her feet, the panorama of Syria's capital stretched far and wide. It was the second time in weeks that the dentist in her thirties had come to the mountaintop.

A man sells tea on Mount Qasyun, from which government artillery used to pound opposition-held areas under Assad's rule. (AFP)

- Ideal for snipers -

Her first was just after a coalition of opposition fighters entered the city, ousting Assad on December 8.

On that occasion she came at dawn.

"I can't describe how I felt after we had gone through 13 years of hardship," she said, wrapped close in an abaya to ward off the chilly breeze.

Qasyun was off limits to the people of Damascus because it was an ideal location for snipers -- the great view includes elegant presidential palaces and other government buildings.

It was also from this mountain that artillery units for years pounded opposition-held areas at the gates of the capital.

Mohammed believes the revolution brought "a phenomenal freedom" that includes the right to visit previously forbidden places.

"No one can stop us now or block our way. No one will harm us," she said.

Patrols from the security forces of Syria's new rulers are in evidence, however.

They look on as a boy plays a tabla drum and young people on folding chairs puff from water pipes as others dance and sing, clapping their hands.

Everything is good-natured, reflecting the atmosphere of freedom that now bathes Syria since the end of Assad rule.

Gone are the stifling restrictions that once ruled the people's lives, and soldiers no longer throng the city streets.

Visitors to Mount Qasyun can now relax, listen to music, eat and snap selfies. (AFP)

- Hot drinks and snacks -

Mohammad Yehia, in his forties, said he once brought his son Rabih up to Mount Qasyun when he was small.

"But he doesn't remember having been here," he said.

After Assad fell, his son "asked if we would be allowed to go up there, and I said, 'Of course'," Yehia added.

So they came the next day.

Yehia knows the place well -- he used to work here, serving hot drinks and snacks from the back of a van to onlookers who came to admire the view.

He prides himself on being one of the first to come back again, more than a decade later.

The closure of Mount Qasyun to the people of Damascus robbed him of his livelihood at a time when the country was in economic freefall under Western sanctions. The war placed a yoke of poverty on 90 percent of the population.

"We were at the suffocation point," Yehia told AFP.

"Even if you worked all day, you still couldn't make ends meet.

"This is the only place where the people of Damascus can come and breathe a little. It's a spectacular view... it can make us forget the worries of the past."

Malak Mohammed, who came up the mountain with her sister Afaf, said that on returning "for the first time since childhood" she felt "immense joy".

"It's as if we were getting our whole country back," Malak said. Before, "we were deprived of everything".