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Kuwait Times
a day ago
- Politics
- Kuwait Times
Nearly two centuries on, quiet settles on Afghanistan's British Cemetery
Aynullah Rahimi's family has for decades tended the old cemetery in Kabul reserved for non-Afghans, but since the country's latest war ended and foreigners left in droves, he says few now enter the oasis of quiet in the capital. Dating back to the Anglo-Afghan wars of the 19th century, the small plot of land in the city center has interred and memorialized foreign fighters, explorers and devotees of Afghanistan who have died in the country over some 180 years. In the two decades of war between Western forces and the Taleban that ended in 2021 with the latter's victory, there were a handful of burials and memorials attended by ambassadors and dignitaries at the British Cemetery. But these days, Rahimi quietly tends to the garden of roses and apricot trees, the calls of caged partridges louder than the rumbling traffic beyond the high stone wall that secludes the cemetery. 'Before the Taleban came to power, many foreigners used to come here to visit every week,' he told AFP. 'No one visits here much now, only sometimes a few tourists,' he said. The paint on the walls -- hung with commemorative plaques for the dead of NATO countries who fought the Taleban, as well as journalists who covered the conflict -- has chipped and weathered since the Taleban takeover in 2021, when Western embassies emptied. Where Kabul was once teeming with Western soldiers, diplomats, journalists and humanitarians, their presence has thinned dramatically. Adventurers from around the world are increasingly travelling to the country, despite lingering security risks and Taleban-imposed restrictions primarily targeting Afghan women -- including a general ban on women entering Kabul's parks. For those who know what's behind the wall marked only by a small sign reading 'British Cemetery', they can pause in the shade in one of the few green spaces in the city fully open to foreign women. 'This is a historical place,' Rahimi said, noting he hasn't had interference by the Taleban authorities. Those whose countrymen are memorialized there are welcome, he added -- 'it's their graveyard'. This photograph taken on May 22, 2025 shows plaques bearing names of British officers and soldiers who died during the Anglo-Afghan Wars in the 19th and 20th centuries, mounted on a memorial wall at the British Cemetery in the Sherpur neighborhood of Kabul. This photograph taken on May 22, 2025 shows gravekeeper Aynullah Rahimi unlocking a door at the British Cemetery in the Sherpur neighborhood of Kabul. This photograph taken on May 22, 2025 shows gravekeeper Aynullah Rahimi reading a nameplate displayed at the British Cemetery in the Sherpur neighborhood of Kabul. The Ritchies The last time the cemetery was full of the living, Rahimi said, was the burial of the latest person to be interred there -- Winifred Zoe Ritchie, who died in 2019 at the age of 99. Ritchie's family brought her body from the United States to Afghanistan to be laid to rest next to her husband, Dwight, who was killed in a car crash in southern Afghanistan 40 years earlier. The Ritchies had worked and lived in Afghanistan, one of their sons later following in their footsteps -- cementing the family's ties to a country far from their homeland. The couple's daughter, Joanna Ginter, has memories of her family wandering through markets, flying kites and raising pigeons in Kabul years before the city was engulfed by the first of many conflicts that wracked the country for 40 years. Their mother's burial 'was the first time (we visited) since we were there for my dad's funeral', Ginter told AFP, having travelled back to Kabul with relatives. 'I was very happy to get to go there, even though it was for a funeral.' Her mother's grave marker stands out in light marble among the headstones, wobbly letters next to a long cross -- a rare sight in Afghanistan. Older gravestones of some of the more than 150 people buried there bear the scars of conflict, names pockmarked into near unrecognizability by weapon fire that breached the wall. Other than thieves who broke through a fence where the cemetery backs onto a hill dotted with Muslim graves -- 'our graveyard', Rahimi calls it -- the caretaker says he is left mostly alone to his watch. The 56-year-old grew up helping his uncle who raised him tend to the cemetery, taking over its care from his cousin who fled to Britain during the chaotic withdrawal of foreign forces as the Taleban marched into Kabul. He had in turn taken up the post from his father, who guarded the cemetery and dug some of its graves for around 30 years. 'They also told me to go to England with them, but I refused and said I would stay here, and I have been here ever since,' Rahimi said, certain one of his sons would follow in his footsteps.—AFP
Int'l Business Times
5 days ago
- Politics
- Int'l Business Times
Nearly Two Centuries On, Quiet Settles On Afghanistan's British Cemetery
Aynullah Rahimi's family has for decades tended the old cemetery in Kabul reserved for non-Afghans, but since the country's latest war ended and foreigners left in droves, he says few now enter the oasis of quiet in the capital. Dating back to the Anglo-Afghan wars of the 19th century, the small plot of land in the city centre has interred and memorialised foreign fighters, explorers and devotees of Afghanistan who have died in the country over some 180 years. In the two decades of war between Western forces and the Taliban that ended in 2021 with the latter's victory, there were a handful of burials and memorials attended by ambassadors and dignitaries at the British Cemetery. But these days, Rahimi quietly tends to the garden of roses and apricot trees, the calls of caged partridges louder than the rumbling traffic beyond the high stone wall that secludes the cemetery. "Before the Taliban came to power, many foreigners used to come here to visit every week," he told AFP. "No one visits here much now, only sometimes a few tourists," he said. The paint on the walls -- hung with commemorative plaques for the dead of NATO countries who fought the Taliban, as well as journalists who covered the conflict -- has chipped and weathered since the Taliban takeover in 2021, when Western embassies emptied. Where Kabul was once teeming with Western soldiers, diplomats, journalists and humanitarians, their presence has thinned dramatically. Adventurers from around the world are increasingly travelling to the country, despite lingering security risks and Taliban-imposed restrictions primarily targeting Afghan women -- including a general ban on women entering Kabul's parks. For those who know what's behind the wall marked only by a small sign reading "British Cemetery", they can pause in the shade in one of the few green spaces in the city fully open to foreign women. "This is a historical place," Rahimi said, noting he hasn't had interference by the Taliban authorities. Those whose countrymen are memorialised there are welcome, he added -- "it's their graveyard". The last time the cemetery was full of the living, Rahimi said, was the burial of the latest person to be interred there -- Winifred Zoe Ritchie, who died in 2019 at the age of 99. Ritchie's family brought her body from the United States to Afghanistan to be laid to rest next to her husband, Dwight, who was killed in a car crash in southern Afghanistan 40 years earlier. The Ritchies had worked and lived in Afghanistan, one of their sons later following in their footsteps -- cementing the family's ties to a country far from their homeland. The couple's daughter, Joanna Ginter, has memories of her family wandering through markets, flying kites and raising pigeons in Kabul years before the city was engulfed by the first of many conflicts that wracked the country for 40 years. Their mother's burial "was the first time (we visited) since we were there for my dad's funeral", Ginter told AFP, having travelled back to Kabul with relatives. "I was very happy to get to go there, even though it was for a funeral." Her mother's grave marker stands out in light marble among the headstones, wobbly letters next to a long cross -- a rare sight in Afghanistan. Older gravestones of some of the more than 150 people buried there bear the scars of conflict, names pockmarked into near unrecognisability by weapon fire that breached the wall. Other than thieves who broke through a fence where the cemetery backs onto a hill dotted with Muslim graves -- "our graveyard", Rahimi calls it -- the caretaker says he is left mostly alone to his watch. The 56-year-old grew up helping his uncle who raised him tend to the cemetery, taking over its care from his cousin who fled to Britain during the chaotic withdrawal of foreign forces as the Taliban marched into Kabul. He had in turn taken up the post from his father, who guarded the cemetery and dug some of its graves for around 30 years. "They also told me to go to England with them, but I refused and said I would stay here, and I have been here ever since," Rahimi said, certain one of his sons would follow in his footsteps. The grave of Winifred Zoe Ritchie (L) lies next to that of her husband Dwight, who died in a car crash in Afghanistan some 40 years earlier AFP Aynullah Rahimi's family has tended to the graves of foreigners in Kabul for decades AFP Plagues bearing names of soldiers who died during the Afghan War are displayed on a memorial wall at the British Cemetery in Kabul AFP
France 24
5 days ago
- Politics
- France 24
Nearly two centuries on, quiet settles on Afghanistan's British Cemetery
Dating back to the Anglo-Afghan wars of the 19th century, the small plot of land in the city centre has interred and memorialised foreign fighters, explorers and devotees of Afghanistan who have died in the country over some 180 years. In the two decades of war between Western forces and the Taliban that ended in 2021 with the latter's victory, there were a handful of burials and memorials attended by ambassadors and dignitaries at the British Cemetery. But these days, Rahimi quietly tends to the garden of roses and apricot trees, the calls of caged partridges louder than the rumbling traffic beyond the high stone wall that secludes the cemetery. "Before the Taliban came to power, many foreigners used to come here to visit every week," he told AFP. "No one visits here much now, only sometimes a few tourists," he said. The paint on the walls -- hung with commemorative plaques for the dead of NATO countries who fought the Taliban, as well as journalists who covered the conflict -- has chipped and weathered since the Taliban takeover in 2021, when Western embassies emptied. Where Kabul was once teeming with Western soldiers, diplomats, journalists and humanitarians, their presence has thinned dramatically. Adventurers from around the world are increasingly travelling to the country, despite lingering security risks and Taliban-imposed restrictions primarily targeting Afghan women -- including a general ban on women entering Kabul's parks. For those who know what's behind the wall marked only by a small sign reading "British Cemetery", they can pause in the shade in one of the few green spaces in the city fully open to foreign women. "This is a historical place," Rahimi said, noting he hasn't had interference by the Taliban authorities. Those whose countrymen are memorialised there are welcome, he added -- "it's their graveyard". The Ritchies The last time the cemetery was full of the living, Rahimi said, was the burial of the latest person to be interred there -- Winifred Zoe Ritchie, who died in 2019 at the age of 99. Ritchie's family brought her body from the United States to Afghanistan to be laid to rest next to her husband, Dwight, who was killed in a car crash in southern Afghanistan 40 years earlier. The Ritchies had worked and lived in Afghanistan, one of their sons later following in their footsteps -- cementing the family's ties to a country far from their homeland. The couple's daughter, Joanna Ginter, has memories of her family wandering through markets, flying kites and raising pigeons in Kabul years before the city was engulfed by the first of many conflicts that wracked the country for 40 years. Their mother's burial "was the first time (we visited) since we were there for my dad's funeral", Ginter told AFP, having travelled back to Kabul with relatives. "I was very happy to get to go there, even though it was for a funeral." Her mother's grave marker stands out in light marble among the headstones, wobbly letters next to a long cross -- a rare sight in Afghanistan. Older gravestones of some of the more than 150 people buried there bear the scars of conflict, names pockmarked into near unrecognisability by weapon fire that breached the wall. Other than thieves who broke through a fence where the cemetery backs onto a hill dotted with Muslim graves -- "our graveyard", Rahimi calls it -- the caretaker says he is left mostly alone to his watch. The 56-year-old grew up helping his uncle who raised him tend to the cemetery, taking over its care from his cousin who fled to Britain during the chaotic withdrawal of foreign forces as the Taliban marched into Kabul. He had in turn taken up the post from his father, who guarded the cemetery and dug some of its graves for around 30 years. "They also told me to go to England with them, but I refused and said I would stay here, and I have been here ever since," Rahimi said, certain one of his sons would follow in his footsteps.
Telegraph
19-04-2025
- General
- Telegraph
This memoir from an ex-Taliban fighter is astonishing
'When I was 16, I wanted to become a suicide bomber for the Taliban in Afghanistan.' This must be the strongest opening sentence of any memoir of the 21st century, and the following 300 pages do not disappoint. Delusions of Paradise is the story of how and why Maiwand Banayee was brainwashed into believing that the rewards of martyrdom were preferable to life on earth. Banayee was born in a slum in western Kabul in 1980, the year the Soviet Union invaded his country. He does not know the date of his birthday, but he was named after a pivotal battle that took place during the second Anglo-Afghan war in 1880. 'Maiwand is a heavy name,' his father told him. 'You must live up to it.' A less burdensome name might have made his inner life a little easier. The conditions of his childhood were medieval. Through the frozen winter of 1991, he shared a single blanket with three of his sisters. A fourth sister had developed a malignant lump on her forehead that soon covered her right eye and extended down her cheek. Eating into her brain, it left her paralysed. Bed-bound and doubly incontinent, she could not leave the house. 'God is a gangster,' cursed Banayee's father, an atheist, a communist and now his daughter's carer. Then, when Banayee was 12, the mujahideen took over the country, bringing famine and a civil war that reduced Kabul, once the Paris of Central Asia, to ashes. Banayee, who belonged to the Pashtun tribe, grew up to be bookish and sensitive in a culture obsessed with masculinity. Ali, the boy next door, was a Hazara, and the local bully; Banayee became his principal victim. For years, Banayee was kicked, beaten, spat at, pelted with mud and sewage, called a 'sissy' and a 'faggot'. His failure to defend himself, despite taking lessons in martial arts, led to taunts from his father and elder brother; an elderly aunt even mocked him, making him eat whole chilli peppers in order to prove he wasn't 'a girl'. Once, while Ali and his gang tried to choke him, Banayee's trousers fell down. In Afghan culture, a 'pantsing' is – short of rape – the ultimate humiliation. The incident brought shame on his entire family and became a trauma from which he could not recover. Aged 14, Banayee fled with his mother and younger sisters over the border to the Shamshatoo refugee camp in Peshawar, Pakistan, where Osama bin Laden recruited his soldiers. 'This world is nothing but a mirage,' he was taught by his mullah in the mud-hut that passed as a school. 'A home that perishes is not a real home. A life that falls to death is not a real life.' Because anything seemed better than real life, these words 'sent a pleasant hum through my blood'. Dying a hero was the only thing worth living for. As a martyr, Banayee looked forward to an eternal youth spent partying in palaces with 72 big-bosomed virgins whose beauty would increase each time they had sex. With his hormones running wild, this was the closest he came to imagining a relationship with a woman. The closest he came to being in the Taliban was when, as a madrasa (student) Talib, he spent two weeks with a group of soldiers in Maidan Shar, a city in central Afghanistan. Parading around with a gun on his shoulder, he 'felt that the world was at my feet'. Banayee initially embraced everything the mullahs told him: the earth was flat, for example, and male sperm was produced between the ribs and the backbone. But his mind was instinctively scientific, he had a tendency to 'overthink', and he had not, like his fellow pupils, been raised on tales of miracles. His secular doubts soon overcame his religious fervour. By the time he was 22, he decided that instead of joining the Taliban, whose violence now sickened him, he would train as a doctor in Europe. He therefore paid a team of people-smugglers $5,000 to get him out of Afghanistan. 'It all happened so fast,' Banayee says of his escape to the UK, and it does in the book as well: it's covered in two swift paragraphs, and we learn little about the journey besides the fact that he was imprisoned for three months in Lahore for travelling on a false passport, released only when his smugglers paid a bribe. Other writers would have described their adventures in detail, but Banayee's focus throughout is his internal hell. Barely aware of the outside world, he is haunted not by the corpses of his neighbours killed by the mujahideen, the men's castrated penises stuffed into their mouths, or the Taliban's weekly decapitations. It is the memory of Ali that he cannot expel. After working as a pizza cutter in Cardiff, Banayee was granted asylum in Ireland, where he learned English, married an Irishwoman, had a daughter, opened his own surgery treating back pain (which he still runs today), and wrote this vivid and courageous book. His privileged new life is something to celebrate, but 'life was not about what you had. It was about what you felt.' The marriage failed after 14 years because Banayee found intimacy too difficult. 'Fourteen years dripped away,' as he puts it in one of his startling images, 'like slow-melting ice.' Delusions of Paradise is described by its publisher as 'inspirational', but there is little to lift the soul in this tale of traumatised obsession. What began as a generalised description of the brainwashing of thousands of impoverished Afghani teenagers turns into the magnificent and deeply personal story of one man's ongoing struggle to find meaning in suffering, against all odds.
