Coming back to the States was an experience similar to having my spleen removed while on laughing gas. Parts of reentry were pleasant. Others were like being cut open without anesthetic. At one point Sean called, concerned about how I was adjusting. He was in Africa on a project, his first time traveling on a story after leaving the Taliban’s clutches in Pakistan.
“So, are you finding yourself spending too much time at home, by yourself?” he asked.
“Definitely.”
“And you’re drinking too much?”
“Possibly.”
“And you’re dancing around your apartment a lot, listening to loud music, doing a lot of cocaine?”
“Um, no. Perhaps that was you.”
But he was right. It was no picnic coming off the adrenaline of a war zone cold turkey, or losing that sense of importance that infused even the most banal activities in Pakistan and Afghanistan. I felt like I was trudging through life, waiting for the “what next,” craving airports and a fix. I constantly felt uneasy, like I should be doing something else. Out to dinner with friends, I sensed some unknown deadline hanging over my head. I angered easily. I could not relax. I could not sit still. I could not connect. I had more in common with many U.S. soldiers than I did with my family. I talked often to Farouq, who earned straight A’s in his first semester of a master’s degree. Eventually his family was able to join him in his new Western home. He wanted to return eventually to Afghanistan to help lead the country; he worried that it wouldn’t be safe for his children.
With the passage of time the pull lessened slightly, and the adrenaline monkey on my back shrank to more of a sea monkey. The longer I was in the States, the farther away the war seemed. Maybe it was the loft party in Brooklyn with a misshapen-apple mirrored disco ball dangling from the ceiling and a giant inflatable rat in the corner, but New York started to feel more like home.
Still, the region wouldn’t let me go that easily. An amateurish bomb was planted in an SUV in Times Square, just blocks from my apartment, and for hours, my neighborhood was shut down. The wannabe bomber clearly had attended the jihadi short course in Pakistan as opposed to summer camp; he used the wrong kind of fertilizer and left his keys in the car. Improbably, the Pakistani Taliban—a group that was very skilled at bombing, much more so than the Afghan Taliban—was blamed for the botched effort. The Taliban was stalking me! Even if I was moving on, clearly they could not.
Then, in May 2010, with my fellowship almost over and unemployment looming, the call came. It was a major news organization. Would I go back to Kabul? My first thought was, Hell yes! Yes to Kabul, yes to bombs, yes to that electrical jolt I got just thinking about Kabul. Yes to chaos and crazy, yes to toga parties, yes to Kabul High, yes to insh’Allah, yes to endless cups of tea, just yes. I thought about it seriously for a few days, before waking up one morning and realizing—no. Just like I couldn’t go back to Chicago, I couldn’t go back to Kabul. I had already graduated, after all, and everyone knows you can’t go back to high school. Especially when that high school is a war zone, especially when that war zone is falling apart. I rationalized my decision: I could always go back for the class reunion, which if the past was any guide would be in another ten or twelve years, when history would probably repeat itself, when all the same players or their latest incarnations would start the dance again.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book started out as comic relief, as an antidote to all that was falling apart. I would never have been able to write it without the help of Farouq and my other Afghan friends—they’re some of the funniest people I know, even if I still don’t get the Mullah Nasruddin jokes. Credit also goes to my friends in Pakistan, especially to my unnamed translator. You know who you are. If comedy is tragedy plus time, time has been compressed into minutes in that part of the world.
For their insightful comments on early drafts, a DJ Besho–like shout-out to Lisa Cowan, Nicole Ruder, Bay Fang, Katherine Brown, MP Nunan, Dorothy Parvaz, Jasmin Shah, Ronan McDermott, and Rebekah Grindlay.
Although most of the journalists in Afghanistan and Pakistan are more like my extended family, special thanks are due to Soraya Sarhaddi Nelson for handing me that shot of whiskey at 9 AM, Jason Straziuso for talking books and teaching me to play poker, and Aryn Baker for running around three countries with me. Thanks also to Tom Coghlan, Jeremy Foster, Tammy Haq, and especially Sean Langan for their collective sense of humor and fact-checking. For late nights and unwavering support, I owe countless favors to Nurith Aizenman, Sophie Barry, Belinda Bowling, Paula Bronstein, Carlotta Gall, Joanna Nathan, Rachel Reid, Candace Rondeaux, Mary Louise Vitelli, and Frauke De Weijer.
For obvious reasons, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank the Chicago Tribune and my editors, who gambled and sent a unilingual green reporter overseas. The Tribune is still home to some of the best journalists I’ve ever worked alongside.
Back in the United States, I’m also extremely grateful to my agent, Larry Weissman, who understood this book as soon as I pitched the idea, and to my editor at Doubleday, Kristine Puopolo, who believed in my absurd vision.
I’m indebted to the Council on Foreign Relations for rescuing me, supporting me, and reminding me which fork to use. And to ProPublica—thanks for keeping me grounded and giving me new challenges.
Last, but never least, much love and gratitude to my family. To my brother, Todd Barker, for pushing me to jump. And to Gary Barker and Connie Collier for putting up with my disappearing act. It’s almost too much to ask of parents, even former hippies.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kim Barker grew up in Montana, Wyoming, and Oregon, and graduated from Northwestern University with a degree in journalism. She worked at the Spokesman-Review in Spokane, Washington, for four years, and the Seattle Times for two years, winning awards for her investigative reporting. In 2001, at age thirty, she joined the Chicago Tribune and began making reporting trips to Afghanistan and Pakistan the next year. Barker was the Tribune’s South Asia bureau chief from 2004 to 2009. She was then awarded the Council on Foreign Relations’ Edward R. Murrow press fellowship to study Afghanistan and Pakistan. She now lives in New York City, where she works as a reporter at ProPublica.
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Kim Barker
The names and identifying characteristics of some of the people mentioned in this book have been changed to protect the privacy and preserve the confidences of those individuals and their families.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DOUBLEDAY and the DD colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Jacket design by Emily Mahon
Jacket photograph by Jared Moosy/Redux
Photo retouching by Benjamin Weisman
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Barker, Kim, 1970–
The Taliban shuffle : strange days in Afghanistan and Pakistan /
Kim Barker.—1st ed.