Out with the West 

IN a city of over two million residents, there are only a few dozen tourists a year, and they stay at one of two local hotels (actually, in order not to besmirch the hotel industry, it’s more accurate to say they’re more like shabby guest houses).

A giant billboard greets us outside the airport, stating “I Love Afghanistan.” Behind it, there’s an advertisement for the “Super Cola” brand of “X Bull” energy drink. It’s a new brand using a knockoff of the familiar logo, but it’s not to be sold short — in national sales, it’s been moving ahead of the western Red Bull and Coca-Cola, both here and in the surrounding countries.

“De-deh bator anokor, de-deh bator anokor — This is the home of the brave, this is the home of the brave,” blares the new anthem that the Taliban have instated. Yet on the streets, the faces of passersby tell a different story: misery, pain, and helplessness. Definitely not bravery.

The anthem, somewhat resembling Moroccan Shabbat songs, is only sung by vocal choirs, as musical instruments are forbidden here — music is a serious sin.  The absence of music seems like a minor detail, but you still feel it. There’s no background music, not in the hotel, not in taxis, not on the street. Only a dry, tense soundtrack of people scurrying by, preferring not to be noticed.

And here I make my first mistake — asking one of the local passersby to take a picture with me.

In Afghanistan, photography is problematic, especially when you might accidentally capture a Taliban member in the background, which is almost every second person here.

Our luck is that the Afghan citizens, unlike the Taliban soldiers and police, are actually pretty friendly. It’s almost as if they have no choice but to try to enjoy what exists. And we, the foreigners in Afghan dress, are an attraction that reminds them of better days.

By the way, the streets here are actually safer than they were when the Americans were in control. Back then, it was dangerous to walk the streets for fear of Taliban attacks. The irony is that today, when they’re the ones in power, there is absolutely no insurgency.

A week earlier, in a clothing store in the local market of one of the Emirates, Ali the shopkeeper dresses me in surgical green pants and a matching robe, with a hat that resembles a Bukharan kippah with the front part cut off.

The rules in Afghanistan are very clear. The first rule is that you must not stand out. This makes me want to blend in as much as possible. And with no music and no photography allowed, a lot of tricks need to be used to take photos without getting caught.

Where’s the Coffee?

Here I am in the heart of Kabul, the capital of the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan, occupied by the Taliban, the infamous terrorist organization whose name, “Taliban,” means “the students,” and one of its main lessons is how westerners deserve to die (although they’ve shown some restraint over the past two years because they see Americans as people they can exploit for their own interests).

Now I am Ibrahim Waxler, the Arab-American, whom they want to impress so that next time he’ll bring his rich friends along. If for every ten executions there was one tourist, the hotels would be full.

The predominant language here is Pashto, with some Dari, which is somewhat reminiscent of Western Persian.

But the language of our group is strictly English. One word in Hebrew, and we’re finished. A frightening moment occurs at the entrance to our hotel. Someone from our group accidentally utters a sentence in Hebrew, which causes the armed hotel owner to jump at us with the question: “What are you saying?”

“We’re speaking something in German. Why?”

“German? Are you sure? You’re Americans, right?”

“Yes, but after years of working in Germany, you know,” we said with absolute confidence, though our hearts were pounding.

When he sees us later, he starts up again. “What were you talking about?”

And again, we explain that it was German and politely ask if the language bothers him, and he shakes his head to indicate no. At this point, everyone understands that Hebrew must be avoided at all costs.

Still, we take the opportunity to ask him about the leaky faucet in our suite (it’s only one faucet, because no water is coming out of the shower). “Ah, that’s a problem,” he says, breaking his teeth in English. “In a week, they’ll fix it.”

So there’s no air conditioning, and no water. Makes sense. Rumor has it that in the other “luxury” hotel, the one where ambassadors stay and which is located in a fortified area, there is running water.

At least there’s coffee, no?

While in many Muslim countries, coffee is part of the culture, there are zealots who believe coffee is a satanic and intoxicating substance. They call it “Qahwat al-Ban,” which means “coffee wine.” When the Americans left in 2021, all the coffee shops were locked up. Need a hot drink? There’s tea.

I look at the door of my room and discover there’s no lock. That’s the rule. Everything is open here, and you can’t lock yourself in. This will force us to be creative with our prayer times. Our tefillin are carefully packaged in a crinkling cellophane gift bag with a ribbon and the logo of tourist shop in Dubai. If I get caught with this, I’ll just tell them I have no idea what it is — some kind of ancient souvenir I picked up in the Emirates. Personally, I’m not one of those who hides every bit of information or inscription in Hebrew. If you get caught, nothing will help in any case. And anyway, I’ll just tell them that I’ve visited Palestine more than once, the dream of many Afghans.

Welcome to the “New” Taliban

IT was far from my first adventure in a hostile Arab country. I was in Dubai eight years ago, long before the Abraham Accords normalized relations with that country and Israel, and in 2020, my onetime travel partner Avi Goldstein and I took a jaunt to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia (we had a tour company together then, called Avi and Benny Travel. Today it’s Waxler Travel).

While in Riyadh, we stayed in the home of Muhammad Saud, the famous Israel-lover and social media star. He loves Bibi, he loves Jews and Israel, for which he incurs non-stop threats (although they’re also afraid of him and suspect he works for the Shabak). We sang Hava Nagilah together, plus a lively rendition of Ki Eshmera Shabbat — he knows the words to all the Shabbos zemiros by heart.

In the Arab countries, all they know about Jews and Israel are the lies they’re fed by a hostile media. One of the agendas in our travels is to make a kiddush Hashem, to let them meet Israeli Jews firsthand, which we hope will contribute to a sea change in the attitudes of the Middle East.

Spoiler alert: You can’t be a foodie and go to these places — the menu for the entire time you’re there is basically fruits and vegetables. If you’re with a group it’s something else, but if you go alone, you basically have to pass on all cooked food.

In the malls, which are for men only, all the stores close five times a day for prayers. If you’re inside, you can’t leave, and if you’re outside, you can’t get in.

It might seem like another adventure in one more exotic part of the world — I’ve been to just about every country where they don’t take an Israel passport — but this time, I’ll admit that maybe we took our adventure to the limits. People have asked me how I decided to put such a dangerous place that every travel advisory says to stay away from on my itinerary, so I’ll try to explain:

It all started out when I first traveled to Dubai. People said to me, “Are you crazy, why are you traveling to such a dangerous place like Dubai?” Today, people understand that Dubai isn’t so dangerous, that it’s just a matter of wanting to experience different cultures and to challenge yourself to another kind of adventure.

And besides, this was supposed to be a “new” Taliban after the Americans left. But women again can’t go out without a face covering and can’t speak in public, there’s no freedom of expression, and the economy, which was never great, took an even bigger hit. The mountainous vistas from Kabul are breathtaking, but the poverty in this city of two million people is appalling.

Press Delete

What do tourists do when they arrive at their destination? Of course, they go sightseeing. But it seems the joke is on us, as Aziz, a young Afghan with excellent English who sees us as his chance to make a few thousand Afghani, explains. (One dollar is around 68 Afghani.)

“You need permission to travel,” Aziz announces. This is not funny. If someone goes sightseeing without permission, it could be his end. So what should we do?

Aziz explains that there’s no choice but to go meet with the Taliban leaders. If we’ve already made it into the heart of their terrorist capital, we’ll just have to go through the “fortress” and reach the inner chambers.

Well, this is a little more than we bargained for. Maybe we should just give up and get out while we can?

“We’re going!” announces Aziz.

Driving down the main streets of Kabul, we pass a few old cars, and a lot of new ones. Black Toyota SUVs seem to be in abundance, a relic from the United States, which left behind great spoils in its flight, including thousands of cars.

One of my friends tries to film the bustling street while we’re driving. Suddenly, Aziz lets out a scream. A Taliban checkpoint is ahead of us, just like the thousands of checkpoints that stand haphazardly in the middle of the road.

A group of wild men surrounds the vehicle. The Taliban at the checkpoints are the toughest and most dangerous. One of them, with long hair flowing over his shoulders, looks like a full-fledged ISIS terrorist, including the knife on his belt. He approaches the car window and starts trying to smash the glass with the butt of his rifle.

He points at the camera, and we beg him, explaining that we didn’t intend to do anything wrong. After his little temper tantrum, he calms down. “Delete all of it,” he orders.

In front of us is a thick concrete wall — the outer wall of the Taliban fortress. On the wall is a mural of an upside-down American flag with the words, “By Allah, the nation has defeated America,” written all over the wall.

The security here is hermetic. Hundreds of guns surround us, as Aziz zigzags between checkpoints and we give our documents to one soldier after another.

It seems that, amid the donation of an endless supply of ammunition, the United States left behind plenty of barbed wire, because it’s found everywhere: all over the city, in government offices, on the streets, in the market.

Bring Your Friends

O

ur car arrives at the main headquarters. At this stage, the task is filling out details with clerks who can read and write. In the second office — interrogations. “What are you looking for here?” they ask, writing down every word. But here, unlike at the airport, at least they’re actually friendly.

“We definitely want tourists,” explains Nasser, an Afghan man with a black turban neatly wrapped around his head. Here, they’re also happy to take photos. He stands behind the bureaucrat, who is wearing a large white kippah and writing everything down with a pen, even though he’s sitting next to a fairly modern computer.

Deep inside the compound, everyone is much nicer. This is one of the tactics the Taliban has begun using after successfully driving out the US. They’re trying to be accepted by the international community, which somehow deals with the fact that they execute people for drinking coffee.

After several offices and departments, we finally reach the impressive wooden doors leading to a large lounge. A guard stops me. He’s in charge of filtering out the people entering the inner sanctum. He walks barefoot, revealing a foot missing several toes, and I don’t want to know what kind of bombing operation cost him those. He adjusts the “gartel” around my tunic, really making sure I look dignified.

“Now you!” he commands and theatrically opens the doors.

Before us sits a kind of Taliban council. Four men on sofas — two of them younger, while the other two look like Nasrallah’s friends. The one sitting at the edge, in a cross-legged position, plays with his gold watch. He looks like the highest-ranking one. He sips from a cup of tea with frothy milk, dipping thick biscuits into it.

They seem particularly excited. I try to figure out who they are and what their status is, perhaps members of the government or the Taliban Supreme Council.

“We’re happy,” says the senior one, “really happy that you’ve come.” Don’t be fooled by them, these are especially cruel terrorists, I tell myself. But now that they have an interest, He talks about how our arrival might open the door for a better future for Afghanistan, one where tourists will visit. Someone enters the room and hands him a page with the government’s logo. He signs it and tells us: “Travel wherever you want and tell your friends to visit!”

Should I mention that I know that just a few months ago, three tourists from Spain were murdered in one of Afghanistan’s cities?

At this point, the process of granting the travel permit begins, followed by souvenir photos. A particularly surreal moment. If these terrorists only knew they were sitting with people from Jerusalem, not Ibrahim from the United States….

For a Bottle of Water

While the Taliban has erased most traces of the leisure life that once thrived in Afghanistan, there are still a few shopping malls for men only, a local bazaar that sells fragrant flatbread and sugarcane juice, and the city’s famous bird market, featuring endless cages of roosters and parrots.

Aziz explains that I’ve made a wrong turn walking through the market, but he has no idea that I know the neighborhood map by heart. Finally, I stop in front of a kebab stand that hasn’t opened yet today. It stands in front of the facade of an office building.

“Nice stall,” I mumble, and carefully take a photo with the building in the background. This building is the last remaining synagogue in Kabul, once guarded by the last Jew left here, Zebulon Simantov, who also fled along with the Americans.

Unlike the magnificent synagogues of Afghan Jewry, like the one in Herat, this is an especially simple structure that Simantov concealed with a kebab stand so that the synagogue wouldn’t attract attention. Apparently, after Simantov’s departure, the stand continued to operate, the new owner unaware of its original purpose.

“All right, we were wrong,” I admit to Aziz.

Night is falling, which means we must return to the hotel.

While parts of the city still bear signs of Americanization, other areas look as if they’d been thrown back thousands of years. The hunger and grinding poverty here are horrific. People stretch out their hands for food, begging for charity. There used to be hope here, but now even that has vanished. A small child runs after our car, dressed in rags and holding out a few pens, pleading with me to buy one. I take one pen, and in exchange give him a bottle of water I’m carrying. He’s ecstatic, quickly opening the cap and drinking the whole bottle in an instant, as if he hadn’t drunk in days. Who knows, maybe he hasn’t.

Victory Party

A two-story old building in blue and yellow, with a rusted drone on its roof, greets you at the entrance to the OMAR Museum, the display place of terrorism in the capital of the Taliban.

Around the building is a huge park with manicured lawns that looks like a large playground, except that instead of playground equipment, there are aircraft and weapons left behind by the Americans, including combat helicopters, missiles, and planes. For the Taliban, there are no greater symbols of victory over the Western enemy.

The guide, who speaks fairly decent English and looks like someone who might have been a translator for the American army, takes us to a dimly lit room where we can look at bombs, suicide vests, and other tools of destruction and killing.

The guide calmly explains what each explosive can do. “This is a suicide bomber’s vest,” he says as he picks up the article and invites us to touch it. Then he shows us a magnetic mine, which is attached to a vehicle and activated remotely, so that the driver and car become engulfed in flames.

On the shelves, you can see both what the Americans left behind and what the terrorists made. Someone lights a match, and I have a vision of all of us being blown to smithereens.

“Didn’t they leave tanks?” asks someone of our group, and the guide explains that just like the jeeps and other weapons, the tanks were not meant for the museum, because they’re being used. Does that mean that they don’t know how to operate the helicopters, which are in the museum?

We complete our victory tour with a visit to the ruins of the American embassy, where a giant, scorched American flag still remains. I pass on visiting the execution platform.

Soon we’re surrounded by a group of children who’ve arrived with their teacher, all of them trying out their limited English. I line them up for a picture, and together they sing in unison the little jingle I teach them “We only fly with Waxler Travel.” Who knows, maybe this is the only commercial to ever come out of Afghanistan for the Western world.

You Terrorists Are the Best!

After two more days of sightseeing with Aziz, it’s time for our departure. Now, I’ve heard that leaving Afghanistan is harder than entering, and my heart begins to pound as the security agent at the airport commands me to open my suitcase and unzip all the compartments. This, I will admit, is the most frightening few minutes of the entire trip.

The screening procedures look like a mix of old Russian equipment and failed American attempts to revive the place. But now, the agents are manually going through each compartment, one by one.

And then they reach the zipper where the “Israeli” items are, including a siddur and a tube of toothpaste with Hebrew writing. I had to think fast. Now, I’m generally pretty shy, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I stand up, approach the armed guard with open arms, give him a big hug, and shout their praises, creating a real scene — “They told us the Taliban were just a bunch of terrorists, but you guys are the best!! Such an amazing nation!! You’ve treated us so nicely, you have such a great country, and you’re all so special!! I haven’t met anyone like you guys in all my travels!”

While the security fellow was still beaming from this loving declaration, I quietly zipped up one compartment after another, and he was apparently so astounded by the flattering words that he didn’t even notice.

But there’s a final point — don’t do this trip. You have no idea how many beautiful and adventurous places the world has to offer, without risking your life. Listen to someone who knows from experience.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1036)