Not such a good morning . . .

Shar-e-Naw street, across from the Safi Landmark building, is scented with pine. Branches litter the street under the tall pine trees that grow at the edge of the park. The street is crowded with curious onlookers, watching the armed guards clean the glass from the entrance to the mall, as cars drive past over a downed police line. This morning’s bombing shook me from my bed around 6:20. As in the past, I rolled off my bed away from my shattered window thinking “how close was it this time”. Gunshots and more explosions quickly followed. It was hours before they slowed down, and hours more before they stopped. I walked out to the courtyard to speak to the guards. They showed me a twisted piece of metal from a car door that had landed in courtyard, blown there from the morning’s first suicide bombing. Black and shiny with rain, it looked vaguely like a dead crow. The fighting was just down the street. I found this time I had no desire to venture out for a photograph or a quick look. I went back to bed. Though one side of my room was now open to the cool air, I didn’t bother to light the sawdust heater. With the curtains closed, I pulled the blankets over my head and fell asleep. When I ventured out, hours later, the streets were crowded. The scene after a bombing is surreal, everything changed, people walking the middle of the street as though a festival were underway. I followed the crowd to the blast area, shattered glass everywhere. Kabul’s window sellers will do a lively trade. For days there will be panes of glass moving down every street on the backs of pickup trucks and balanced precariously on bicycles. At the local grocery, all the shop boys were busy picking up glass and righting shelves. I got a laugh, then a shrug (”why not?”) when I asked if I could buy groceries. I found only dollars in my wallet but the calculator wouldn’t work.  I wondered if something inside it had snapped in the blast.  I settled for an estimated afghani to dollar conversion, not caring that it was a little on the high side. Back at home the power had come to life, so I finally got around to reading the news. 17 dead. Every article crowded with comments. Armchair pundits weighing in with delight, indignation, disgust. I’ve reached the conclusion that it’s easier to comment the further away you are. Nobody in the street was talking politics.