Shots in Kandahar
I intentionally don’t write about the war parts of war. Too many of the stories I read about Iraq and Afghanistan fetishize bullets and explosions without exploring the impact it has on individuals, families, and communities. This is one of the few passages where I try to describe what it feels like to be attacked. And to see someone die.
I shared this moment because it had an impact on me that will never go away. I will always experience that day in a way that requires me to constantly process it. In my writing and speaking, I’d rather talk about the impact of war—how our lives were changed and the struggles we go through to put our lives back together. It’s important to me that I share these parts of my story with those who also struggle to put their lives together after having spent time at war.
“Get down!”
Lewis was yelling at me, his ordinarily polite South African accent twisted into a violent scream.
“What?” I was paralyzed. “Why?”
“I said get the fuck down!”
I took a quick glance out the window of the armored Toyota pickup truck and saw a man in a long white dress underneath a bulletproof vest about fifty yards away running towards us with a gun at his shoulder.
As I threw my head down against the leather seats, David, our American driver, gunned the engine towards the red metal gate that protected our house.
“Open the fucking gate!” Lewis screamed into his radio. “Open the fucking gate!”
We were stuck in the middle of downtown Kandahar between our office building and the safe house across the street. The gunman was on foot, but had been closing in on us fast and my mind was overwhelmed by what looked like the beginnings of an ambush.
When the Afghans had barely opened the gate to let us in, Lewis started shouting again.
“Shut the gate! Shut the fucking gate!”
When the Afghans hesitated, Lewis and I hopped out of the truck and threw our bodies against the gate.
“pop-pop-pop”
The sound of gunfire whipped my head around and I saw a tall, slender figure collapse on the sidewalk.
Lewis saw her fall to the ground, but never stopped giving orders to everyone in earshot. He grabbed me by the shoulder and yelled, “Get to the safe room!”
I ran up the marble staircase into our 10-bedroom house, sprinted to the basement, and ran through the metal door into the safe room. Once the last person broke the barrier of the doorway, we bolted it closed and huddled on the floor.