We are in 1994. I’m staying at the Red Cross in Afghanistan and I’m moving from town to town with humanitarian aid convoys. At the beginning of May 1994, we arrive in Kabul. The city is located on high plateaus at an altitude of about 1800 meters. The heat is less stifling than in the other cities we passed through. The wind is strong and the air is full of dust. The country is in civil war. From time to time I hear shooting in the distance, but the battle front has moved to the northern regions and the situation is fairly stable for the moment in the capital. I hire a translator and a driver for a few days and I go with them to find out what has become of the people of Kabul, a city destroyed by years of war. The life of the inhabitants seems meaningless. There are only 3 schools that remain active in a city of 2 million inhabitants. A few children aged 8 to 16, mostly boys, attend school irregularly and without any school materials. All the other schools are occupied by thousands of refugee families who have fled the bombed-out areas of the city. The classrooms are divided into several rooms with simple hanging sheets. There is no privacy, no work and very little humanitarian aid. Only their prayers and the hope that the war will end one day remain. At least that is what the people I meet every day tell me. People from different backgrounds and social classes, all gathered in these shelters. People who are waiting, living from day to day.
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