Defy Taliban dogma to build a brighter future for Afghan children

It was a view too good to miss. We had driven along a winding mountain road that opened up to the most spectacular view of the snow-capped mountains stretching off into the distance.

I asked the driver of the Afghanaid vehicle to stop. Trundling along the road was a small bus overloaded with luggage struggling up the same mountain road, giving me a focal point in which to frame my photograph.

I took a few frames then saw, to my right, two men on a motorcycle riding up the same road with the mountains behind them. I turned to take a picture of them and then went back to focusing on the bus. The motorbike came to an abrupt halt on the gravel road and the men dismounted with AK assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

My stomach turned. “I’ve just taken a photograph of two Taliban fighters,” I thought. I put my hand on my heart and said the customary greeting, but unlike all the other Afghans I had met on this trip they neither smiled nor greeted me back. They started asking me questions that I did not understand and within seconds our Afghanaid official was at my side talking to them and gently pushing me away.

I handed over my passport which one of them took, talking loudly into his mobile phone as he walked away. The other stood straight in front of me and started taking pictures of me on his phone. I tried smiling. He came back and listened as our Afghanaid official talked to him in rapid-fire Dari. I could feel the mood start to change.

They started looking over at me and smiling, nodding their heads in my direction. I was desperately trying to smile back and look casual.

The Taliban eventually handed my passport back, gesturing to me with their hands on their hearts and smiled.

Our Afghanaid guide grabbed my elbow and ushered me towards the waiting car. I looked over my shoulder at the Taliban standing casually with their AKs and the mountains behind them.

“Do you think they would like their picture taken?” I asked. “Please, Mr Richard, get in the car,” the guide said.

I was in the remote Ghor province with Catherine Philp, the veteran Times foreign correspondent. We were documenting the amazing work of the humanitarian charity Afghanaid for The Times and The Sunday Times Christmas appeal.

That was my first direct encounter with the Taliban, who have ruled Afghanistan since the collapse of the Afghan government last year. It had been nearly ten years since I was last in the country. Back then I made several visits to cover the war by embedding with British and American forces in Helmand, Zabul and Kandahar provinces and the Taliban were the enemy.

Now I was working with an aid agency and for the first time I was meeting local people on equal terms and not in wartime surrounded by intimidating armed soldiers. Away from the heavy security restrictions of Kabul, as well as the noise and traffic chaos, I felt remarkably relaxed.

I could not be in the same car as Catherine and another female Afghanaid worker because of guidance from the new authorities that deems it inappropriate. I could not eat with them and had to join the men who sat outside around a mat laden with food while Catherine and the aid worker ate in a room by themselves. This was later relaxed.

In one Pashtun village I was told by the village elder that it was forbidden to photograph any women whether they consented or not, an edict apparently from the local Taliban leader.

Thankfully, as we headed into a Hazara community, they became less concerned about me taking photographs of women and in fact encouraged it.

On one day a group of women laughed and joked as they took me by the arm and ushered me into the private home of a woman who had set up a tailor’s shop with help from Afghanaid, which funds women’s self-help groups, so I could take pictures of her at work — something that would be unthinkable in many areas of Afghanistan.

We were given privileged access to many tiny and remote villages.

Most memorable for me was photographing the Afghanaid food distribution point in the village of Dolaina, where women were collecting food to support their family for one month. In line with Pashtun custom, they had to cover their faces.

I arrived to see the male maharams waiting outside the gates. These are the male escorts to the women, usually a relative, who have to be with them, by order of the Taliban, when women travel more than 72km from their homes.

With Catherine and a few Afghan aid officials, I was led inside the food compound. The food was neatly laid out in individual piles and after the women had their fingerprints taken they sat quietly and patiently next to it.

On another occasion I photographed young schoolchildren in a Hazara mountain village. Unusually the class was mixed, but the boys and girls sat separately. To allow more girls from the surrounding area to have access to primary school education, Afghanaid has introduced a sanitation programme so they can go to the toilet without fear or embarrassment.

I photographed the children as they sat wriggling and whispering to each other. We now know that the Taliban have banned secondary school education for girls and I watched as a girl stood up in front of the class and gave a speech. It was unusual for a girl to do this with such confidence in front of strangers. Catherine later told me that her name was Marzia, 17, and because of the Taliban ban on girls’ further education she was forbidden from pursuing her dream of going to Kabul university and studying to become a doctor.

Afghanistan is a wonderful and diverse country. I feel my time there has been very special. But as I focused my camera on these bright young faces, I couldn’t help fear for their future.