Mother of All Bombs

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Throughout the years of war, we had come to make lists of many firsts in Afghanistan — horrors, military victories, defeats, weapons used, atrocities committed, improbable lives saved. The explosion of the “mother of all bombs” on April 13 was a striking addition to the list of “firsts.”

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Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump barely mentioned Afghanistan during the long presidential campaign. Yet President Trump had chosen to use the most powerful non-nuclear weapon in the world on a remote Afghan village.

Afghanistan was simply a convenient landscape for the reality star turned president to unleash a startling, theatrical display of his might. A strange sense of unease enveloped me, despite the years of war and despite being a journalist, as I watched my country being featured as the dehumanized landscape where the biggest non-nuclear bomb had been exploded. “What gives them the right to use this type of weapon on us, or anywhere?” I asked my cousin.

I watched Nangarhar being highlighted on maps of Afghanistan as if it wasn’t home to more than 1.5 million people, as if everything human had instantly been eradicated by the sheer mention of this alpha and omega of military weaponry. News reports described Achin, the district closest to the bombed village, as nothing more than an area populated by Islamic State fighters.

The bomb had become “babao,” the monster that Afghan children were warned was lurking around the corner. It had swallowed up the people, the life from Achin. The civilians who had suffered three years of brutality under the Islamic State ceased to exist. They were inconsequential; what mattered were the terrorists, their caves and the great, big, scary bomb.

I went to bed that night sad with the knowledge that my homeland was still simply a staging ground for foreign nations to project their power. On Friday morning I woke up to find Kabul had chosen to stay quiet and not protest the decision to explode “Madar-e Bamb-Ha,” the Dari translation for “mother of all bombs” Afghans began using.

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I set out for Nangarhar. Leaving Kabul can be a dangerous affair. If you travel south of the city, every mile on the road is living with the prospect of an encounter with the Taliban, the possibility of a tire rolling over a lethal roadside bomb.

I was, fortunately, driving east to Jalalabad, one of the largest Afghan cities. I drove for three hours through tunnels carved into the mountainside, past streams flowing beside forested mountains, and arrived in Jalalabad in the afternoon. The bombing site was two hours away. The city did not betray any anxiety. Rickshaws whizzed from roundabout to roundabout; kebab stands on sidewalks did brisk business; men and women filled the bazaars, shopping before the Friday prayer.

Some Afghan officials from Jalalabad took a group of journalists to Achin district, about 40 miles south. We drove through Bati Kot and Shinwar, two districts in between, where the Islamic State had established a significant presence in 2014. Thousands of residents had fled and sought refuge in Jalalabad and Kabul, among other places. Most of them were yet to return, but people carried on with their lives in village bazaars.

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We passed an unfinished luxury-housing complex named for Amanullah Khan, the beloved former king of Afghanistan. We passed the site of a proposed university. As we approached Achin, white and purple poppy plants popped up in the green grass fields.

A few miles before Asadkhel, the bombed village, the road turned into a mountainous stretch of rock, dirt and gravel. A market of about 200 stores lay abandoned; the stores had been destroyed in weekslong military operations against the Islamic State fighters. Crumbling foundations, caved-in roofs and some tattered pieces of cloth were all that remained.

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Not far from the ruined market, I met two boys: 11-year-old Safiullah and 13-year-old Wajed. They described the explosion as “very loud” but insisted that it did not scare them. Safiullah held on to his unruly goat that he was walking home. “I am used to it,” he said. “I have heard so many bombings.”

Wajed, who had come to bring water to the police, agreed. They said they were glad that the Islamic State fighters were gone. Safiullah had interacted a little with Islamic State fighters as he took his goat for grazing. The