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. 

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.

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.