Colleagues on the ground in Kabul have reported a massive influx of refugees from the provinces.  They tell stories of families weeping outside embassy gates and passport offices, desperately seeking a way out of the country.  Many others have set up mattresses and makeshift tents in the local parks knowing they have nowhere else to run. 

From a place of righteous anger and frustration, people are asking questions about persistent racial, economic, and social inequality in America. With the rise of white nationalist hate groups and the unveiling of privilege weaponized (as in the Amy Cooper Central Park incident), people are asking why we have turned a blind eye to blatant racism for so long.

Limitations on freedom of movement are extreme in a conflict zone. There is no such thing as a leisurely stroll in Kabul, and even quick jaunts to the supermarket or corner store are discouraged.

There’s an art gallery just off Armenia street in the Mar Mikhail district of Beirut that sells a variety of novelty goods – soap from Aleppo, hand-stamped Iranian linens, black and white photographs from the Lebanese Civil War, books on art.

Our official tour of the Old City began the next day in the Armenian Quarter, where our guide paused along a narrow corridor to reflect on the Armenian Genocide. “Do you know what happened to the Armenian people under the Ottoman Empire?” he asked.

In New York it was the sirens that nettled, piercing through triple-paned glass seventeen stories above the avenue at all hours of the day and night. In Kabul it’s the call to prayer that distracts, albeit less frequently, and which I wake to most mornings.

Aside from a sleepy as-salaam alaikum, sob bakhair (greetings, good morning), “Could you lower that RPG” were the first words I spoke today. We were stopped at a checkpoint on the way to the gym when dozens of Toyota pickup trucks equipped with revolving machine guns roared into the main street.

Last Friday, as we were driving through downtown Kabul, our car was stopped briefly as the traffic ahead slowed at the checkpoint. Looking out from my backseat window, I was struck by the lack of rhythm, the absence of a familiar flow of city movement.

It’s fighting season, I’ve been told, and this year is particularly bad because it’s the first season after the NATO drawdown and the Taliban is ready to prove a point. Their message is simple: We own this country and all foreigners should get lost.

She was a 27-year-old student of Islamic law and a devout Afghan Muslim. After praying at the Shah-e Du Shamshira mosque at the center of Kabul, Farkhunda Malikzada confronted the caretaker of the mosque about the practice of selling charms or tawiz, amulets containing Quranic verses and incantations.

Practicing law in Afghanistan is frustrating and difficult, and in my first two weeks I’ve found that a little humor goes a long way. I laugh at the little things, like the strange punctuation in memos addressed to government offices: "To Esteemed Ministry of Energy and Water!" and "To Respected Office of Bidding of Goods and Spare Parts!"

My first week in Kabul has been filled with takeout dinners at home, homemade English breakfast, all day brunches in private gardens, and bonfires at night. These are things you wouldn’t think possible in Afghanistan.

Of course I am worried about the Taliban, about the gains ISIS has made in the past few months, and about the recent targeting of Westerners in Kabul, but even the fear is theoretical; I can only project what I will feel when sheer luck and good sense are the only things between the intentions of terrorists and myself.