Rima Safi used to walk through different neighborhoods in Kabul to stay healthy. As a 27-year-old Afghan woman, Safi occasionally felt unwelcome and unsafe in public parks, but she and her friends still visited them to relax and exercise. She also took trips to the mountains to feel free and breathe in the clean air.听Open spaces offered a refuge from life in a city plagued by suicide bombings, targeted killings, and corruption. The greenery was a pleasant break from the thick smog that hung over her city year round.

All听that changed on , when the Taliban鈥攚hich听seized control of Afghanistan during the summer of 2021鈥攑assed a law banning women from accessing all public parks. These days, Safi cannot even leave her home for a recreational walk.

鈥淲omen are dealing with so much despair that not having the freedom to go outside for a temporary peace of mind is driving many of us into depression,鈥� she told me.

The restriction is among more than 42 laws enacted by the Taliban to constrain Afghan women. It is now illegal for a woman to enroll in a university or any school past sixth grade. They cannot eat in restaurants, work in government, or even leave their homes without a male guardian.

Before the outright ban, the Taliban had restricted women鈥檚 access to the outdoors to specific days of the week. They also had to adhere to strict hijab rules if they wanted to go outside.

Afghanistan鈥檚 outdoor recreation scene听is largely underdeveloped, but Afghan people do spend time in nature. While there may not be robust trail networks and government-funded campgrounds, Afghan families still enjoy cookouts in the mountains and go on day hikes.

Prior to the Taliban鈥檚 takeover, a small but growing number of Afghans鈥攊ncluding women鈥攈ad been participating in outdoor sports, such as cycling, skiing, and even rock climbing. Their visibility on national TV and social media showcased the sports to younger generations.听More importantly, women鈥檚 participation in outdoor sports was a highly visible act of women鈥檚听freedom in defiance of Afghanistan鈥檚 male-dominated society.

鈥淛ust two years ago, one could see droves of women jogging and riding their bikes on the streets. Now, there are hardly any women outside, let alone jogging. The Taliban law has taken our society backwards by centuries鈥� Nasrin Nawa, an Afghan journalist and advocate of women鈥檚 cycling, told me.

Although many female outdoor athletes have left Afghanistan, the ban immediately impacts ordinary women like Safi, who now cannot enjoy a simple picnic. Prior to the Taliban鈥檚 takeover, Safi enjoyed summer excursions with friends and her husband to Paghman, a mountain town 20 miles northwest of Kabul. Approaching the town, Safi would get excited as the sky 鈥渃hanged to a clear blue.鈥� Kabul, meanwhile, was constantly covered by a layer of dust and smog.

Safi told me that she and friends would rent a sheet metal shed overlooking the pristine Paghman River, which transfers snow melt from the surrounding peaks. While her friends built a fire to grill kebab, Safi liked to walk down to the river with a large watermelon bought from a roadside stand. She would carefully place it between rocks to keep cool. In the afternoons, the group would hike in the surrounding peaks, seeing how far up they could go. Sometimes the friends would race each other鈥攁n adrenaline rush Safi said she misses.

鈥淪pending time in nature calmed my mind and made me less stressed. I had more energy at work and used to be more patient,鈥� Safi told me.

When the outdoor ban was announced, Safi and other women were unsure of whether it only applied to walled-off parks in the cities, or if mountain recreation spots like Paghman were also included. In recent months, the Taliban鈥檚 enforcement has made it clear that any outdoor recreation by women will not be tolerated. I asked Safi if she had attempted to visit Paghman since the law. She said stories were circulating of Taliban guards harassing husbands for bringing their wives and female children to the outdoors鈥攑laces that only men are allowed to enjoy nowadays.

鈥淚 am afraid of sitting in the car with my friends, let alone going somewhere with them,鈥� Safi told me.

Another damaging element of the law is that women are now forbidden from entering gymnasiums and indoor recreation areas. This has effectively closed down gyms that catered only to women. Some Afghan women find the indoor environment of a gym safer and more comfortable than outside, where stares from men and catcalling are abundant. When Safi was a medical student a few years ago, she was a regular gym goer.

鈥淓xercising is a need for a healthy body, just like eating is,鈥� she told me. 鈥淣ow as a doctor, I can鈥檛 even ask my patients to exercise because that鈥檚 recommending an illegal activity.鈥�

Another young woman, whom I will refer to as Tamana to conceal her identity, told me there were only ten gyms for women in Kabul, which has a population of five million, but those gyms accounted for the well-being of a lot of women. 鈥淢any [women] came to my gym on doctor recommendations to manage chronic conditions like diabetes,鈥� she said. From people on the ground, I also heard accounts of the Taliban turning away elderly women from walking the hills in the city鈥攐utings that helped them maintain their health.

The ban on outdoor recreation has some groups worrying about a mounting mental health crisis in the country. Even before the Taliban took power, Afghanistan consistently ranked as the worst country for women, and the most unhappy country in the world, owing to rampant poverty and insecurity. A warned about escalating suicide rates among Afghan women.

Women for Afghan Women (WAW), a nonprofit that鈥檚 dedicated to protecting and promoting the rights of Afghan women, views the park and gym ban as the last straw by the Taliban to alienate Afghan women. 鈥淭hese restrictions not only dehumanize half of Afghanistan鈥檚 population but also jeopardize the mental health of millions of women who are forced into unemployment and economic hardship, isolation, deprivation of education, and societal humiliation,鈥� WAW said in a written statement. WAW repetitively calls on the international community to 鈥渟tand in solidarity with Afghan women and to ensure their basic human rights are respected by the de-facto authorities.鈥�

The Taliban has shown little interest in reversing the ban, forcing women in Afghanistan to either avoid outdoor places entirely or find creative ways to sidestep the law. For exercise, Safi now walks the half hour to her work鈥攖he Taliban have allowed women in some professions like medicine and teaching to continue their jobs. But whenever she goes outside, she is scared of being stopped by Taliban soldiers.

鈥淣o matter how much I cover myself, I fear they will find something to pick on,鈥� she said. I asked Safi about the first place she would visit if the bans were lifted tomorrow. 鈥淢y birthplace, Dare Noor,鈥� she said, referencing the mountainous district in Eastern Afghanistan, with peaks that tower above 14,000 feet. A forest of pine and fir trees cover the steep mountainsides. Safi used to go there with her husband during their marriage engagement. But for now, she is restricted to the dusty streets of Kabul.

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A frantic SMS with an urgent plea for help triggered a series of events that led to a daring rescue and evacuation of 165 people鈥攁mong them dozens of young women cyclists鈥攐ut of Afghanistan.

Just weeks ago, as the U.S.-backed government in Afghanistan was collapsing under Taliban pressure, a journalist sent urgent SMS messages to contacts at WorldTour team Israel Start-Up Nation.

The message was succinct and urgent: 鈥�Help them get out.鈥�

From there, the wheels of international solidarity began to spin.

On Monday, October 11, the UCI sent out a confirming the successful evacuation of 165 Afghans who, with the help of many within the international cycling community, were able to escape the clutches of the Taliban.

鈥淸Some] 125 Afghan citizens, including female cyclists and members of cycling management, artists, a judge, a number of journalists and human rights campaigners, all of whom have been able to reach Europe via Tirana in Albania,鈥� a press release stated. 鈥淭hirty-eight are being settled in Switzerland with the others going to Canada, France, Israel and the USA.鈥�

The press release, however, did not tell the complete story how Israel Start-Up Nation owner Sylvan Adams, along with听dozens of officials from the UCI, Afghan cycling officials, an Israeli NGO, and the governments of Canada and Switzerland, among many others, helped to pull together the rescue operation.

Speaking to VeloNews on background, sources close to the evacuation and rescue efforts helped filled in some of the blanks of how and what happened in the daring project.

SMS: 鈥業 urgently need your help鈥�

A journalist working closely with the Afghan women鈥檚 cycling team noticed how the Israel Start-Up Nation team was , and wondered if the team could help in an even more desperate and urgent situation.

The SMS message was quickly relayed to听Adams, the billionaire owner of the WorldTour cycling team as well as a leading philanthropist in Israel and Canada. Adams was quick to respond to the appeal.

Adams vowed to do what he could to help, and reached out to officials from IsraAID, a non-profit NGO that was already working on other evacuation plans in Afghanistan.

Adams also contacted other governments, NGO鈥檚, and governing bodies, including the UCI, and all quickly stepped up to help.

It was a desperate race against time, and almost a Catch-22-like scenario.

In order to get out, the听Afghans would need sponsors and asylum countries. And without a way out, the Afghans couldn鈥檛 ask for refugee status or jump through the bureaucratic loops in time before the Taliban took full control.

And time was running out as the Afghan government collapsed, and the Taliban took control of Kabul and cut off access to its international airport.

In the closing chaotic days of the U.S.-led evacuation, a charter plane paid for by Adams flew to Kabul to help evacuate as many as possible, including dozens of women Afghan cyclists who realized their days as promising athletes would soon be over under Taliban rule.

The cyclists and some of their family members had to evade the chaos of Kabul and try to get past Taliban checkpoints to reach the airport. Sometimes people traveling across Kabul were turned back by the Taliban, and were denied access to the airport, only heightening fears and uncertainty.

Others could not make it past Taliban checkpoints and arrive to the airport, forcing them to try to escape via land borders with neighboring countries to Afghanistan.

A source described the efforts as 鈥渋ncredibly risky鈥� and one filled with 鈥渉uge risk.鈥�

鈥楴ot everyone out yet鈥�

In what was described by the UCI as a 鈥渧ast operation,鈥� evacuations were carried out for several weeks, including even after the hasty American exit of U.S. military forces, and it鈥檚 not yet confirmed exactly how many cyclists were able to leave Afghanistan.

Sources also say there are still young cyclists and their families trapped inside Afghanistan who were unable to get out.

Everyone vows to keep working to get as many out as possible, sources said.

After decades of war, cycling was starting to take foothold in Afghanistan, and women organized their first race in 2017. Women cyclists are especially vulnerable under the Taliban, a radical interpretation of Sharia law in its return to power.

In its press release Monday, UCI president David Lappartient said that Switzerland agreed to accept 38 Afghans among those who were evacuated, and that the UCI said it would help house them at the UCI鈥檚 World Cycling Center as they become resettled.

In a press note, Lappartient thanked the many actors involved in the daring escape.

鈥淚 would like to express my sincere thanks to the governments of Switzerland, France, Canada, Albania, the United Arab Emirates, and Israel, and other countries which have worked on this project,鈥� Lappartient said. 鈥淚 would also like to thank Mr. Philippe Leuba, Head of the Department of the Economy, Innovation and Sport of the Canton of Vaud, who has been involved in the operation since the fall of Kabul and spent the whole of last week in Tirana in order to facilitate the practical and administrative procedures for their entry into Switzerland. I would also like to thank Mr Osama Ahmed Abdullah Al Shafar, UCI Vice-President and President of the Asian Cycling Confederation, for his decisive commitment to the operations that are currently under way, and of course, IsraAID and its CEO Yotam Politzer, and Sylvan Adams who presented the project to IsraAID and financed the evacuation.

鈥淚 would also like to acknowledge and pay tribute to the Afghan cycling community, who worked under the aegis of our National Federation and of their President Fazli Ahmad Fazli to provide crucial help with the evacuations.鈥�

The above statement revealed the scope and complexity of the operation to try to help young Afghan cyclists escape the clutches of the Taliban.

The human story remains to be told.

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When Army captain Luke Bushatz returned home from the war in Afghanistan, he was seemingly in one piece. Yet he was struggling far more than either he or his wife, Amy, realized. The first signs of a problem were lapses in his short-term memory. Soon, though, he found it impossible to connect with other humans, especially those closest to him. He tried to numb himself with alcohol and sex, and ended up struggling with addiction. Then, at his lowest point, he sought out the one place where he could be himself again: the natural world. In this episode, Luke and Amy share the story of how their marriage crumbled, and how venturing into the wilderness together set them on a path to recovery.

This episode of the 国产吃瓜黑料 Podcast is brought to you by Tracksmith, a proudly independent running brand that makes high-performance products for amateur athletes striving to be their best. Learn more at .

The post A Soldier鈥檚 Long Road Back from Afghanistan appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Jason Motlagh, who鈥檚 been reporting in Afghanistan off and on for the past 15 years, wrote an unforgettable 国产吃瓜黑料 story in 2017 about the wild and dangerous horseback sport called buzkashi. Working in a nation at war required developing a network of dependable journalists, translators, and travel facilitators. And when Afghanistan devolved into a state of chaos during the rapid takeover by the Taliban, we asked Motlagh if he鈥檚 involved in efforts to get people he knows out of harm鈥檚 way. He said he is. How many? 鈥淩ight now it鈥檚 more than 100.鈥�

Motlagh happened to be in Santa Fe, and he came to the 国产吃瓜黑料 offices to discuss the evacuation effort with editorial director Alex Heard. Just as they were sitting down, Motlagh鈥檚 phone rang. On the other end was a man who鈥檚 currently hiding in Kabul and in fear for his life. Motlagh tried to calm him down鈥斺�淩emember that there鈥檚 a plan and we鈥檙e working on it鈥濃�攂ut his words only seemed to be of partial help. The man was terrified and despondent, and he said he鈥檇 just gotten word that two of his colleagues had already been captured and killed by the Taliban. Their crime? Working with Westerners.

OUTSIDE: Don鈥檛 use names, obviously, but walk us through the particulars of somebody who you and others are trying to save.
MOTLAGH: One is a friend I worked with a few months ago in Kandahar on a National Geographic assignment. He鈥檚 an experienced Afghan journalist, one of the beneficiaries of the post-Taliban era who received training and some funding from Western organizations to become a reporter. He鈥檚 from Helmand Province. Several of his closest reporter friends have been assassinated over the past year, part of a systemic campaign to take out people who, under the Taliban regime, would be considered undesirable.

So his being a journalist is, by itself, enough to get him targeted?
Not necessarily. It鈥檚 the fact that he has aggressively reported on Taliban lies and abuses. When the militants were encircling Kandahar, he had to get his family out because he was on a hit list. He knows that for a fact.

And if he鈥檚 caught he鈥檒l be executed?
He鈥檚 been told as much. He has a wife and six children.

What has to happen to rescue people like this? How do you get somebody out?
This man and his family already got out of Kandahar and fled to Kabul. Now they鈥檙e hiding there. We鈥檙e trying to get them on a flight鈥攐ne of these ad hoc flights organized by the U.S. military. The challenge in this case is emblematic of a lot of the cases we鈥檙e managing. He has the documents he needs. His children don鈥檛. That complicates the exit process.

Have you seen any improvement in the logjam we keep hearing about?
It seems like some of the bureaucratic hurdles are now at least starting to melt away. People are getting how urgent this is, and that we have to act as quickly as we can and work together. The folks I鈥檓 working with at National Geographic, and a network of journalists who have worked in Afghanistan, are doing everything they can to get people out.

Once the paperwork is set, what happens?
It鈥檚 a matter of gathering everyone and getting them to the airport, through the chaos outside. That鈥檚 the real challenge now.

Do they have to go through Taliban-controlled checkpoints to get there?
Yes. Which, as you can imagine, is not going to be easy for a lot of evacuees to swallow. They鈥檙e fleeing the Taliban. They have a mortal fear of the Taliban. It鈥檚 a waking nightmare.

Moving back in time a bit, I assume that the deal made by the Trump Administration was like a signal for you, in that you knew it was time to start preparing for this massive transition. Did you assume it was going to be this chaotic, or has that been a surprise?
I think we saw the writing on the wall鈥攖hat the Taliban were gathering force, and that things were falling apart in the provinces. But I don鈥檛 think anyone anticipated that the fall would be this precipitous. You know, until about two weeks ago, the Taliban didn鈥檛 even have a provincial capital. No one saw this happening as quickly as it happened.

What鈥檚 been so damn frustrating is that a lot of us鈥攋ournalists and people who have worked with Afghans, foreign military, NGOs鈥攈ave been trying to coordinate visas for Afghans听 for months and months. And it has felt like a totally futile process, just full of bureaucracy, basically sending messages into a black hole. The U.S. could have made this a lot easier by expediting that process. That鈥檚 one of the reasons we鈥檙e stuck with this massive bottleneck now.

The Trump and Biden Administrations are very different, but did you expect Biden to handle this better than he鈥檚 done? Or are you not really surprised?
Trump made his commitment to withdraw, and after that the question became: Will Biden stick to Trump鈥檚 timeline鈥攚hich had the U.S. military exiting completely by May 1鈥攐r would he bump it back? He ended up delaying it just a few months. Biden made it clear, as he has in the past, that he wanted U.S. troops out, ending the so-called Forever War. And I think that both Trump and Biden were in alignment on this. Politically, it was the place to be: support among the U.S. public for this war was gone. I think it worked in Biden鈥檚 favor to continue the Trump playbook and get troops out. But he definitely owns how it has played out. We never saw any meaningful signs that he was planning for the worst case scenario and streamlining the bureaucracy to issue visas and begin to evacuate the people whose applications have been pending for years. My people are journalists, but there are thousands of people who worked with the U.S. military, bet their lives on support, and were promised an exit card when the time came. It simply hasn鈥檛 happened. And then there鈥檚 this fiasco at the airport. With all other outlets gone, how on earth did anyone in the U.S. government or military think a mass evacuation could be carried out at a facility smack in the center of a city of 4.5 million? A total failure of leadership at the highest levels.

Looking at the people in your group, where would they go if given the choice?
Every person I鈥檝e worked with over 15 years, man or woman, would come to the U.S. right now鈥攁cross the board. I think some see that their prospects and support may be better in some European countries or Canada, but if given the option versus what they鈥檙e facing now? Absolutely, 100 percent, they would leap at the chance to live in the U.S.

What makes them still want to come here?
For all the disappointments and the betrayal that a lot of people are feeling, many Afghans have had strong relationships with Americans. Many have family members who fled previous wars and went to America. So they have roots here. I think many Afghans, based on their impressions of the U.S., still have a high degree of hope about life here, an expectation of security and opportunity. At least compared to the alternative at home. But they鈥檙e devastated to leave the land they love.

There鈥檚 been a predictable amount of racism about the prospect of large numbers of Afghans suddenly coming here. There was a picture of a planeload of refugees on social media, with a caption that went something like: Do you want this landing in your town?
I would. I鈥檝e been fortunate to meet a lot of extraordinary people in Afghanistan over the years, people who take the values that the U.S. stands for very seriously, even bet their lives on them. These are people who have really enriched our understanding about what鈥檚 happened in Afghanistan. I couldn鈥檛 have done my work without them.

Have you lost anybody yet鈥攖hat is, have any of the people you鈥檙e trying to save already been killed?
Not that I know of. Though people we鈥檙e trying to get out of the country have already lost family members and friends.

And have any of your friends and colleagues gotten all the way out?
Yes, this morning we got the first bit of good news. A man named Aziz Tassal, a reporter for the Washington Post who is one of my closest friends and someone I鈥檝e worked with for the last five years, had made it from Kabul to Doha, Qatar. We just got word that he and his family arrived in Washington, D.C., with his wife and four children. We started working on projects for Al Jazeera years ago, and have since teamed up on some documentary films and several stories for Rolling Stone. He鈥檚 been my right hand man and we鈥檝e become very close friends. I鈥檓 so grateful that he鈥檚 out. It gives me hope for others.

As Afghan refugees make their way to the U.S., how can Americans best support them?
There are plenty of organizations, national and local, that are preparing to receive Afghan refugees. We have to remember that a lot of these people have left their homes in the dark of night with maybe nothing more than a backpack. So, good places to start are by volunteering to pick people up at the airport, and help with living arrangements and meals. Donating food, clothing, and other basic essentials will go a long way. And when the time comes, Afghans will need help securing jobs, arranging, child care, and getting the emotional support they need to integrate in their new communities. Among established organizations, two good ones are the and . Boundless has to US Immigration, including information for refugees.

What scares you most about what鈥檚 happening in Afghanistan right now?
I think there鈥檚 a huge disconnect between what you鈥檙e seeing in Kabul day to day鈥攚here the Taliban, who are savvy about听 cultivating the media, are trying to make a good impression鈥攁nd what鈥檚 happening in the provinces. We don鈥檛 know the full extent of what鈥檚 going on because reporters are just unable to get there. But it鈥檚 clear that really bad things are happening in the dark. We know, through word of mouth, through social media, that there have been summary executions of people connected to Westerners. We know that people are disappearing鈥攏ot to be heard from again.

The post Operation Afghanistan Rescue appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

In 2012, Kirstie Ennis was on her second tour as a helicopter door gunner in Afghanistan when her chopper crashed. She lost her left leg, sustained spinal injuries and brain trauma, and had extensive facial lacerations. Four years and 43 surgeries later, she took her first step. 鈥淚t was the moment I knew it was going to be OK,鈥� she says.

Ennis, now 28, didn鈥檛 grow up as an outdoor athlete; she played team sports as a kid. But after her recovery she started climbing, mountain biking, snowboarding, and mountaineering near her home in Glenwood Springs, Colorado鈥斅璦nything to get away from hospitals and pain meds. She spent hours welding and tinkering with prosthetics to better suit her increasingly ambitious goals. In 2017, she decided to complete the Explorers Grand Slam (climbing all Seven Summits and reaching the North and South Poles), in addition to swimming the English Channel, biking the 3,084-mile Great Divide route, and running a marathon on all seven continents in seven days. All by 2022. 鈥淭hese endurance feats aren鈥檛 being done by the adaptive community, because the prosthetics don鈥檛 exist,鈥� Ennis says. 鈥淭he design of my mountain-bike leg took ages before I came up with a system that worked.鈥� There鈥檚 also a lack of role models, she says. Ennis wants to fix both problems.

She has already climbed Aconcagua, Carstensz Pyramid, Mount Elbrus, and Kilimanjaro. In May, she was on Everest, just 650 feet from the summit when she made the call to turn around. Her team members were running out of supplemental oxygen, and she wasn鈥檛 going to leave them behind. 鈥淚t wasn鈥檛 lining up,鈥� she says, 鈥渁nd there鈥檚 no dollar amount that鈥檚 worth death. I鈥檒l scrape my pennies together and do it again.鈥�

The post Kirstie Ennis Is the Toughest Mountaineer on Earth appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Bonnie Carroll knows the unspeakable grief of losing a family member to war. In 1992, her husband, U.S. Army brigadier general Tom Carroll, died in the crash of an听Army C-12 transport plane in Alaska.听Carroll responded to her husband鈥檚 loss by establishing the (TAPS), which supports听family members who have lost parents, siblings, and children serving in the U.S. armed forces.

In 2003, she expanded the program to Kabul. War widows in Afghanistan听鈥渙ften lack money to buy food and keep a roof over their heads,鈥� Carroll says. Many Afghan women have never had听access to an education, and without a breadwinner, they struggle to support their children.听But she knew the program would have to offer more than peer-based emotional support. It had to offer war widows a path to financial security鈥攁nd making lapis bracelets provides that opportunity.

Semiprecious stones are readily available听everywhere in Afghanistan. Women commonly wear them in colorful jewelry, while emeralds, rubies, and other gems are mined for export. Afghanistan鈥檚 northeastern Badakhshan province is the world鈥檚 leading producer of lapis lazuli. TAPS partnered with a woman-owned gemstone business in Kabul to provide widows with the materials and training required to make lapis bracelets.

罢丑别听 sells for $59 on the TAPS website (and at , where it鈥檚 called the and the sale also funds a day of education for an Afghan girl鈥攁s do all purchases at Combat Flips Flops). 鈥淭here鈥檚 a pretty elaborate training program that [women] have to go through,鈥� Carroll explains. Each widow apprentices with a skilled jeweler听who teaches her how to shape and polish the lapis beads before knotting them into bracelets. Working with other widows at the studio, women share their stories, coping resources, and grief鈥攚hich, says Carroll, 鈥渋s frankly more therapeutic than critical mental-health counseling.鈥�

Once the women master the jewelry-making techniques, they can sign out the necessary tools and materials to produce the bracelets at home. Doing so allows them to balance moneymaking with child-rearing. Recent figures estimate that about 250 Afghan women have signed on as lapis workers.听By working for TAPS, says Carroll, women鈥檚 incomes听can exceed Afghanistan鈥檚 median household income.

Meanwhile, if women need literacy training, TAPS funds that through a partnership with听, which operates schools for Afghan women and girls. Aid Afghanistan鈥檚 motto is听鈥淭o educate a woman is to educate an entire family.鈥�

鈥淲e meet the widows where their needs are,鈥� explains Carroll. Those听who don鈥檛 need education or a source of income can simply plug into TAPS听resources in Kabul听for emotional support.

Making bracelets is听a skill that鈥檚 transferrable,听Carroll says. Should the widows outgrow the TAPS听studio, they can take their expertise elsewhere. The work also lets women become role models for their children: kids see their mothers providing a comfortable life for their families. And with mothers bringing in a stable income, children have the opportunity to seek an education.

鈥淲e鈥檝e had women tell us that, with time, they鈥檝e been able to become both a mother and a father for their children,鈥� Carroll says.

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鈥淥h my God, oh my God, oh my God.鈥�

Hanifa Yousoufi speaks only a little English, but the words she knows she repeats over and over again. She鈥檚 a member of an all-woman Afghan mountaineering group called Ascend: Leadership Through Athletics, and along with three of her teammates, she is attempting to climb 24,580-foot Mount Noshaq, the country鈥檚 highest peak. So far, Hanifa鈥檚 journey has consisted of a four-day trek to base camp, at about 15,000 feet. This is her first test climbing higher on the mountain, and her eyes are filled with terror. She鈥檚 gripping a large rock band, looking down 800 feet at the steep, icy slope beneath her.

Emilie Drinkwater, the 41-year-old American mountain guide leading the expedition, is a few feet ahead, hacking steps into the ice to create a path so that Hanifa and her teammate, Shogufa Bayat, can reach steady ground on a small rock terrace. A few moments earlier, they watched as I fell and then slid down this slope, which consists of densely packed ice broken only by jagged rocks. I was tethered to the expedition鈥檚 medic, Rob Gray, by a short rope. Had I not rammed my crampons and ax into the ice at his order, I wouldn鈥檛 have been able to regain my balance before he lost his, and we both could have fallen to our deaths.

Carefully, Hanifa begins to climb, stumbling as she follows Emilie, who she is roped to. She pants and moans, less from exhaustion than fear.

Hanifa is anything but frail. She has thick, black hair and long eyelashes. When she tilts up her chin, she looks proud and taller than her five-foot-two frame. But at times she appears tired, vacant鈥攚ith a sense of hopelessness in her expression. She can look you in the eye from a distance that can never really be crossed.

Her family lives in poverty in Kabul, Afghanistan鈥檚 chaotic capital, where in 2018 alone, . She鈥檚 the youngest of six sisters and two brothers, and like , she is illiterate. Her family has never celebrated her birthday, and she doesn鈥檛 know how old she is. She assumes about 23. Before the climb, when I asked her through a translator at Ascend鈥檚 office in Kabul if she had any happy childhood memories, she fell silent for a moment before mumbling, 鈥渧ery little.鈥�

Hanifa talks about her past only reluctantly, but when she does, words pour out as she cries. Like many young girls in Afghanistan, she was married off to an older man when she was about 14. She was sent to Pakistan to live with him.

鈥淥ther girls in my husband鈥檚 family were going to school,鈥� she told me in Kabul. 鈥淚 was like a slave for cooking and cleaning.鈥�

Hanifa knew that she would rupture her family鈥檚 peace if she left her husband. Still, she recalled thinking, 鈥淚t is my life and I can decide what to do with it. I didn鈥檛 want to live with this man.鈥�

After two years, she fled back to Kabul. When she arrived at her parents鈥� door, she feared that her relatives and neighbors would shun her. Other women in the country have been ostracized鈥攂urned with acid, noses cut off鈥攐r even killed for shaming their families. But her parents took her in. Hanifa says that they were heartbroken when they learned how deeply unhappy she鈥檇 been. For years after her divorce, Hanifa barely left the house. 鈥淚 became this quiet girl,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 started to dislike everything. I would think people were bad-mouthing me. I didn鈥檛 want to go anywhere.鈥�

Then, three years ago, her cousin, 18-year-old Shogufa, encouraged her to join Ascend. Founded in 2014 by an American former international-development worker named Marina LeGree, Ascend aims to empower Afghan women by teaching them athletic and leadership skills. In addition to physical training鈥攍ike strength workouts, hiking, and climbing鈥攖eam members volunteer for local nonprofits and attend workshops on subjects including interpersonal communication, public speaking, and self-esteem. Spending time together exercising created a bond among the women that Hanifa had never experienced before.

鈥淚 couldn鈥檛 sing, dance, or play with the other girls at first,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 wanted to be in a corner.鈥� Since then, mountain climbing has transformed Hanifa from a woman who walked hunched over and rarely spoke into one who keeps her head high and her back straight. She helps support her family with the small income she earns working as an Ascend program assistant, teaching new members about rock climbing and fitness, among other responsibilities. 鈥淪uddenly, I had hope for my life,鈥� she told me.

Some family members and neighbors have criticized Hanifa for mountain climbing, shamed her for divorcing her husband, and insisted that she should remarry. And while many women are part of the Ascend team because it鈥檚 fun, it鈥檚 freeing, and it gives them something to focus on, for Hanifa it鈥檚 about survival. She persevered through two years of training just to make it to Noshaq base camp. Her tolerance for pain is serving her well on the mountain. She never complains while climbing鈥攏ot when she鈥檚 tired, not when she鈥檚 thirsty, not when she鈥檚 hungry. 鈥淕o up?鈥� she asks impatiently, always eager to continue. But the mountain is proving to be more difficult than any of us anticipated.

Noshaq isn’t听a particularly technical climb. More challenging is its remoteness. It sits in the Hindu Kush range of northeastern Afghanistan, along the Wakhan Corridor between Pakistan and Tajikistan. There are no detailed topo maps for the mountain, and there鈥檚 little information available about possible routes to the top.

Noshaq was summited by a number of expeditions in the 1960s and 鈥�70s鈥斺�攂ut violence in the region has deterred most climbers since the 1979 Soviet invasion. To this day, there are few expeditions. In recent years, some individuals and small groups have climbed the peak and blogged about the experience. (During our expedition, we encountered a Polish solo climber, a Polish team of four, and a multinational team that turned around after a few days at base camp due to an outbreak of intestinal illness among its members.) But reliable data about summits, injuries, and fatalities is almost impossible to come by. One thing is certain: Noshaq has never been climbed by an Afghan woman.

To Marina LeGree, that represented an opportunity. 鈥淭here have only been three Af颅ghan men who summited Noshaq, and I wanted to prove that girls can be just as strong as men,鈥� she says. 鈥淎fghanistan is full of mountains, but they are only used by shepherds and insurgents. I wanted to bring change to women, using something that was already there.鈥�

Marina lives in Arlington, Virginia, but she鈥檚 no stranger to Afghan culture. Starting in 2005, she worked for various development programs and other organizations in Afghanistan, including NATO and USAID. In 2014, she decided to start her own NGO and named it Ascend. Her goal is to use climbing as a means of personal growth for young Afghan women. 鈥淢ountaineering is a way for them to find their own path and develop their own voice,鈥� she says.

To run Ascend, which typically has 11 employees, seven board members, and multiple volunteers, Marina travels to Afghanistan four times a year. She visits girls鈥� schools to promote the program and invites students to apply. There are usually about 20 members, ranging in age from 15 to 23. The economic background of the young women鈥檚 families is varied, but most are poor. Team members must participate six days a week, after school and on weekends, for at least nine months. They interview with Marina, Ascend program leaders, and prominent women in the community to demonstrate their commitment. Once accepted, the girls need to get their families鈥� permission.

鈥淎fghanistan is a predominantly Muslim, very culturally conservative country with strict rules about what women can and can鈥檛 do,鈥� Marina says. 鈥淚t would threaten the girls鈥� lives if their fathers didn鈥檛 approve. Each woman who鈥檚 part of Ascend takes a risk. So does her family. There鈥檚 a lot of extremism in Afghanistan. Honor killings still happen. Male relatives feel obligated to protect the family honor, and a girl who does something perceived to dishonor the family can be punished by any of them.鈥�

Over the years, Marina has brought in athletes to provide first-aid and fitness training and to lead trips, like Emilie Drinkwater, ultrarunner Megan Kimmel, and mountain guide Danika Gilbert, who has worked with Ascend since 2015 and has accompanied the women on multiple outings. The four Ascend members climbing Noshaq鈥擧anifa, Shogufa, Freshta Ibrahimi, and Neki Hai颅dari鈥攚ere chosen for their physical strength and the skills they demonstrated on training climbs, in addition to their emotional endurance and commitment to the program. Just a few years ago, none of them could have imagined coming to Noshaq鈥檚 rugged terrain.

鈥淚 had never heard of girls climbing mountains before,鈥� says 24-year-old Freshta, Ascend鈥檚 program coordinator and a team member since 2015. She loves to read and spends much of her time deep in thought, usually about human rights and Afghan society. She was ten years old when she first realized how unjustly women were treated in Afghanistan. 鈥淭hey made me wear a head scarf for my ID-card picture. I didn鈥檛 like that they forced me to do that,鈥� Freshta says. 鈥淭hey took that decision away from me.鈥�

Freshta knew that her ticket out of poverty was education. She studied hard, competed for scholarships, and in 2017 earned a bachelor鈥檚 degree in business administration from the American University of Afghanistan. The other Ascend members look up to her and seek her advice. Freshta was scared when she first started to climb. But she says, 鈥淚 got to know myself, found self-颅confidence, and tapped into hidden abilities.鈥�

Like Freshta, Hanifa knew nothing about mountaineering before Shogufa convinced her to give it a try. Once Hanifa was in the mountains, she says, 鈥淚 felt like I got free from a cage. I decided that from now on, I want to be a powerful woman who, when I see someone whose hand has fallen, I will take their hand and help them. No longer should women feel weak.鈥�

Shogufa learned about Ascend when the organization gave a presentation at her high school. 鈥淚 was flying when they talked about it,鈥� she says. She saw an opportunity to spend time in the outdoors, something she loved as a child, climbing trees in her home province of Ghazni. Shogufa, who like Hanifa works as an Ascend program assistant, refuses to adhere to what鈥檚 expected of Afghan girls: being quiet and subservient. She鈥檚 a joke-cracking tomboy who鈥檚 quick to challenge her teammates to an arm-wrestling match and just as quick to comfort them when they鈥檙e sad.

Neki, 18, is the quietest team member. Her friends call her Panda because of her round, smiling face and calm demeanor. She spends much of her time painting, everything from pastoral landscapes to incarcerated women. 鈥淚 learned how to express my feelings through art,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 want my name to remain after I鈥檓 gone and continue to shine a light on the plight of women.鈥�

Though their families hail from different provinces, the women have spent most of their lives in Kabul, which can be a grim place. The city sits in a basin surrounded by mountains; the heavy traffic produces thick clouds of smog, and sewage clogs the canals. Decades of violence and continued fighting between the Taliban and the state鈥檚 security forces, in addition to the presence of ISIS, have turned Kabul into a city where many citizens are traumatized and distrustful of one another. Terrorist attacks occur frequently, often weekly. Some Ascend members exhibit signs of possible trauma; one woman, an 18-year-old originally chosen to climb Noshaq, suffered a series of seizure-like episodes while hiking. A doctor didn鈥檛 find evidence of epilepsy and thought the incidents might be panic attacks.

Many in the Ascend group have never exercised before, let alone climbed a mountain. In Afghanistan, it鈥檚 considered shameful for women to do sports. In early 2018, when a trainer asked a new team member to hold her body in a plank position, she almost immediately collapsed under her own weight. Training outdoors is difficult because of safety concerns. During a day trip in March 2017, as the team descended a mountain on the outskirts of Kabul, some teenage boys appeared on the ridge. At first they only shouted obscenities, but soon the harassment escalated to violence. They used slingshots to launch rocks at the women, forcing them to rush down. 鈥淭hey hate us,鈥� one Ascend member said.

While the women鈥檚 fathers have given permission for them to participate, not all have done so enthusiastically. One let his daughter join because 鈥渉e had nothing better for her to do.鈥� He made sure to tell Marina what he thought of her efforts: 鈥淵ou鈥檙e wasting your time. Everybody knows that girls are worthless.鈥�

Many Afghan girls internalize these sentiments. When asked to describe herself, Neki responded, 鈥淲hen I was born, no one was happy, because I was a girl.鈥� Shogufa, who has a close relationship with her father, remembers an old story that her grandmother told her: 鈥溾�夆�榃hen a girl crosses underneath a rainbow, she will turn into a boy.鈥� Whenever a rainbow appeared, I chased it.鈥�

For Shogufa, Neki, Freshta, and Hanifa, summiting Noshaq would be the ultimate proof that they are stronger and more capable than society would have them believe. 鈥淥f course we will make it,鈥� Shogufa said confidently a few days before the climb.

First they have听to get there. Marina and Danika Gilbert had been attempting to pull off the expedition for a few years, but it had to be postponed for a variety of reasons: because of safety issues, to fill gaps in training, or because Ascend hadn鈥檛 yet raised the tens of thousands of dollars needed to fund the monthlong undertaking. In July 2018, the project finally came together. (Ascend funded the expedition through the support of private donors, the Danish Government, and two family foundations; American photographer Erin Trieb and I funded the film team with money from a Kickstarter campaign. Ascend and the film team shared in the costs of guide Emilie Drinkwater. Gear was donated by Aclima, Marmot, and Scarpa, among others.)

Less than two weeks before the team was scheduled to leave for Noshaq, however, the expedition was nearly cancelled when Danika had to pull out. Her partner had been seriously injured while running in the Colorado mountains. Emilie stepped up and agreed to lead the team.

Then, two days before everybody was scheduled to fly to Ishkashim, in the northern province of Badakhshan, where Noshaq is located, the expedition was challenged again. , near the mountain. Marina negotiated with the charter airline to reroute our plane to a safer village, located 13 hours by car from Qazi Deh, the hamlet where the trek to base camp would begin.

Emilie, who earned a prestigious IFMGA accreditation from the American Mountain Guides Association and has extensive international experience, was part of the climb from the start. Originally, her role was to guide Erin Trieb and me as we reported this story and shot a documentary film. To support our efforts, Erin and I had also brought on Sandro Gromen-Hayes, an accomplished British climber and videographer, his friend Vibeke 鈥淰ibs鈥� Sefland, and Rob Gray. Vibs, a 43-year-old Norwegian armed-forces member and medic who works in South Sudan, climbs 8,000-meter peaks in her spare time. Rob, 48, is a former member of the British special forces with extensive work experience in Afghanistan and would serve as an assistant, medic, and security expert.

In 2015, Emilie and Danika co-guided a different group of Ascend members on an expedition in Afghanistan near 19,058-foot Mir Samir. But Emilie had never guided the women going up Noshaq. She was aware that they, like Erin and me, were novice climbers, and she was cautious from the start. (Marina was joining the team as well to stay at base camp for a few days before returning to family obligations in the U.S.) Still, way too much had gone into the planning to just walk away.

After so much uncertainty, starting the trip was a relief. Forty-one porters carried most of the loads on the four-day, 22-mile trek to base camp, walking ahead of us with donkeys. The air was warm, about 60 degrees, and the path was surrounded by sunlit mountains, green fields, and a wide river to the right. The women鈥檚 steps kicked up dust, perfuming the air with the scent of lavender. But it was dangerous, too. One of the local porters pointed at white stones marking the path ahead.

鈥淢ake sure to stay on this trail,鈥� he advised. 鈥淲e鈥檙e in a minefield, and this path is the only bit that has been cleared.鈥� .

Emilie had mapped out a 28-day journey. At base camp, the team would acclimatize for a few days, then make a series of reconnaissance trips to the higher camps, carrying up gear and food, before descending to a lower elevation to rest. Above base camp, we鈥檇 encounter snow and ice. Crampons, ropes, and axes would be required.

When the team arrives at base camp, the women blast Persian music from their phones as they set up tents. A few makeshift structures remain from previous expeditions, including two pit toilets and a cooking area surrounded by a small rock wall to shield it from the wind. While we acclimatize, the women spend their days basking in the sun, listening to music, and dancing. Hanifa and Shogufa brought prayer rugs with them and pray five times a day, as the Koran dictates.

Emilie, Vibs, and Rob sit outside the group tent and talk over the climbing schedule. 鈥淲e鈥檒l have to get to know the terrain,鈥� Emilie says.

鈥淲e also have to see how the girls will be doing,鈥� Vibs says.

Emilie and Rob agree. 鈥淓verybody has to be strong from the very beginning,鈥� Rob says.

鈥淣o one can get weak up there,鈥� Vibs adds.

鈥淚 think this mountain is being vastly underestimated,鈥� Emilie says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not going to be a walk up.鈥�

On day seven, Emilie and Vibs decide to take the women on a supply run to camp one, which sits at about 18,000 feet. Freshta, her short black hair framing her serious face, opts to remain at base camp. She鈥檚 been struggling with a back injury for months, and the hike in didn鈥檛 help. As the team begins the ascent, the slope quickly turns steep and icy. Most of the women struggle to climb in crampons while carrying 45-pound packs. Shogufa complains about stomach pains, and Neki鈥檚 crampons get tangled up. She slides and falls often. Vibs tries to coach her, but after a few hours, Vibs and Emilie decide that Neki should return to base camp. 鈥淯nfortunately, Neki is very slow today and has bad footwork,鈥� Vibs informs the group. At first, Neki refuses. She sits down on the slope, crying behind her sunglasses. 鈥淚f you don鈥檛 go down, we all go down,鈥� Emilie says. Eventually, without saying a word, Neki gets up, and Vibs takes her back to base camp.

Hanifa and Shogufa move on with Emilie. There is no clear route to camp one. At times we鈥檙e on a long rock moraine where the team risks sliding or kicking off boulders. At other times the terrain is so icy that each step takes tremendous concentration and downward force to avoid falling.

On the way up, Hanifa proves to be the strongest and fastest of the Ascend women. Shogufa keeps up with her for a while. Then, after a few hours, she falls behind. Exhausted, Shogufa loses hold of her pack when she removes it at a rock band, and we watch as it tumbles down the slope. It鈥檚 getting late in the day, and Emilie decides to turn the team around to head back to base camp. The climb was a reality check. Based on what the guides saw of the women鈥檚 abilities, they reevaluate their plans. Emilie and Vibs agree that if they want a chance at the summit, they would only be able to take Hanifa. Gathered in the cooking area at base camp, they give the women two options: work together to try to get everyone to camp one as a training experience, forgoing a summit attempt, or let Hanifa head up alone.

Marina has known from the beginning that summiting Noshaq would be a huge reach for the women. She discussed their expectations with them before the trip, explaining that just being on the expedition qualified as success. 鈥淲e won鈥檛 have a chance at the summit if everybody goes, and that鈥檚 OK with me,鈥� she says to them now. 鈥淏ut it鈥檚 a decision that should be taken by the girls.鈥�

Emilie adds, 鈥淥ne thing that concerns us is that we are all roped together. I am an anchor. So if somebody falls, I could be pulled off too, and we could all go falling down.鈥�

Freshta speaks English and translates the conversation. Shogufa, who also speaks some English, appears increasingly exasperated as they weigh the options, crossing her arms. Eventually, she admits: 鈥淚t is harder than we were thinking.鈥�

Prior to the climb, the women had practiced using crampons on snow on occasion, but none of them had walked in them for hours while carrying a heavy load. Ascend members have to travel far from Kabul to find safe terrain with snow to train on, and the organization can鈥檛 always afford those trips.

The women decide to take a couple of hours to think everything over. Eventually, Neki and Shogufa agree to stay behind, giving Hanifa a chance to make history. Also, for safety reasons, Emilie and Vibs decide that only Sandro and I from the media crew will follow Hanifa on her summit attempt.

Over the next few days, as Hanifa acclimatizes at higher elevations, Neki and Shogufa struggle with their decision. On day 12, when everybody is back at base camp to rest, Shogufa sits on the floor of the group tent with the team. Her voice trembles as she speaks. 鈥淚f you guys think only Hanifa is strong, OK,鈥� she says. 鈥淪he can go up. I don鈥檛 have any problem with that. And I鈥檓 weak. I want to go back to Kabul, to make my body stronger for another time.鈥�

Neki is sitting next to her. She fidgets but doesn鈥檛 speak. Shogufa breaks into tears, shaking with disappointment. 鈥淚 would never have come here if I had known I wasn鈥檛 allowed to climb beyond base camp,鈥� she says. 鈥淚鈥檓 worried that if I go back to Kabul, I will have to tell my father that I鈥檓 weak and slow.鈥�

Marina tries to reassure her. 鈥淵ou are not weak,鈥� she says. 鈥淣one of us knew what would happen when we got here.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檝e only been climbing for three years,鈥� Shogufa pleads. 鈥淚 need more help to go up.鈥�

鈥淚t鈥檚 a matter of safety,鈥� Marina says, trying to reason with her.

Shogufa looks away. Eventually, she says: 鈥淭hank you for everything. If my words bothered you, I鈥檓 sorry.鈥� Hanifa doesn鈥檛 say anything and stares vacantly at the floor.

On day 14, Emilie prepares the climbing team to move higher up the mountain. From this point on, we won鈥檛 return to base camp until after a summit push. Hanifa hugs and kisses her teammates who are staying behind before heading up to camp one. Two days later, on the way to camp two鈥�2,300 feet of vertical gain鈥擧anifa begins to struggle.

She fights, but the mountain fights back, and each step becomes more difficult than the last. The air is icy, and breathing it burns her lungs. There鈥檚 never enough oxygen to bring relief. As Hanifa ascends, new mountains become visible all around us in the distance, layer upon layer of jagged, snow-capped peaks. It鈥檚 difficult to say where Afghanistan ends and Pakistan or Tajikistan begin.

After a night at camp two, Hanifa wakes with a raging headache. She unzips her tent and staggers out. Managing to take a few steps, she bends over and throws up. Emilie measures the oxygen levels in her blood. Between 95 and 100 percent is normal at sea level; a number in the seventies (with only minor altitude-sickness symptoms) is considered safe at this elevation. Hanifa is at 49. 鈥淚f she doesn鈥檛 get better by the afternoon, she has to go down,鈥� Emilie tells Vibs.

Hanifa doesn鈥檛 get better. She throws up tea. She throws up chicken soup. She throws up anti-nausea medication. Emilie, who has been checking on Hanifa hourly, tells her that they need to go back to camp one to get her oxygen level up. If her health doesn鈥檛 improve there, she might have to go back to base camp where there鈥檚 a bottle of supplemental oxygen for emergencies. Despite Emilie鈥檚 reasoning, Hanifa is defiant. 鈥淣o,鈥� she says, 鈥渃amp three.鈥�

But Hanifa doesn鈥檛 have a choice. That afternoon, Emilie helps her pack her bag, making sure she has the few things she always likes to have: her favorite snack of dried dates, a makeup mirror, and a leaflet with a prayer from the Koran. Hanifa left her green and gold prayer carpet behind at base camp to save weight. After two nights of rest at camp one, Emilie radios camp two. 鈥淕ood news,鈥� she says. 鈥淗anifa is better. We鈥檙e coming up again.鈥�

On day 20, Hanifa is back at camp two, squatting in the snow and talking on the radio to Shogufa at base camp. Neki and Shogufa are fighting boredom and disappointment. Shogufa wakes up with nosebleeds, causing her to cough up blood. Hanifa barely sleeps at all. They share their anxieties about the expedition and concerns about the safety of their families back home. Shogufa hints that she wants to return to Kabul. She fears that something bad happened to one of her family members, based on contact she鈥檚 had with them via satellite phone. 鈥淓veryone is in Gardez,鈥� Shogufa tells Hanifa, referring to a small city in Paktia Province where many of her relatives live. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know what happened in Kabul that they all went to Gardez.鈥� Every time she asks her family if everyone is OK, she says, they won鈥檛 answer her.

Hanifa and Shogufa become impatient with each other. The mountain has put enormous strain on their bodies and minds. They underestimated the acclimatization process, the time needed to rest and refuel, and the number of days a summit attempt would take.

鈥淚鈥檓 totally confused about what to do,鈥� Shogufa says to Hanifa on the radio. 鈥淒o I sit here or go down?鈥�

鈥淗owever you feel at ease, do what you want to do,鈥� Hanifa responds. 鈥淚f you go back to Kabul, say hello to our families. Goodbye now, I don鈥檛 want to talk anymore.鈥�

Hanifa hands the radio over to Emilie, throws herself into her tent, and cries.

From that moment on, Hanifa speaks very little. Her blood-oxygen level is now between 55 and 65, and most of her altitude-sickness symptoms have subsided. The team decides it鈥檚 time to move to camp three, at 21,800 feet. The mountain is shrouded with clouds, and at times it鈥檚 hard to see farther than 30 feet. Still, she marches on. We arrive at camp three in a snowstorm, which doesn鈥檛 die down for 24 hours.

As dawn breaks on the morning of day 23 and we prepare to climb to 23,000-foot camp four, Hanifa tells Emilie and Vibs that she dreamed something bad happened to her mother. Then she falls silent again. A 200-foot rock wall stands between the team and camp four. It鈥檚 very steep, and Emilie decides to use a fixed rope to make the climb easier and safer. Hanifa is visibly uneasy. Emilie has to coach her on how to move the climbing knots to progress upward. 鈥淚 go?鈥� she asks, her voice muffled by the balaclava that鈥檚 shielding her face from the cold.

The sun is setting as the team reaches camp four. An icy wind blows over the vast snowfield. We are now about 1,500 feet from the summit. Emilie and Vibs stomp down the snow to build a campsite. Hanifa, in an almost catatonic state, sits on her pack and watches. She鈥檚 too weak to help.

鈥淚t doesn鈥檛 look good,鈥� Emilie says to Vibs and Rob once the tents are set up. Vibs asks Rob for dexamethasone, a medication that reduces skull pressure and helps with the symptoms of altitude sickness. But before they can administer it, Hanifa falls asleep. Emilie and Vibs keep a close eye on her over the next few hours, and Vibs is in frequent contact with a Norwegian military doctor via InReach to monitor Hanifa鈥檚 condition.

No one expects Hanifa to summit anymore. We console ourselves by saying that we have already made it further than anyone could realistically have hoped. The next morning we sleep in, mentally prepared to descend to the lower camps and end the expedition. But to everyone鈥檚 surprise, Hanifa wakes up bursting with energy. Over the course of the night, she got some rest. The sun is shining. Hanifa breaks into a smile, spreading her arms and pointing to the top. 鈥淵es,鈥� she says, beaming.

Normally on a summit day, the team would rise before dawn to make an attempt. It鈥檚 already past 9 a.m., and with every passing minute our chances of reaching the top decrease. The ascent and return to camp four will take at least ten hours, and we still need to eat and melt snow for drinking water. The guides decide to see how far we can get. Shortly before noon, Vibs helps Hanifa put on her pack, securing the straps and her ice ax. 鈥淭oday maybe we鈥檒l make history,鈥� Rob says. Hanifa looks at the ridgeline above her. She鈥檚 anxious but excited. She鈥檚 lost weight over the past three weeks, but she looks stronger and more determined than ever.

The team moves slowly, with Emilie and then Sandro, who has proven to be a tireless climber, breaking trail in deep snow. Each step requires a tremendous amount of effort. It takes hours to zigzag up the slope, with a break every 20 minutes. Around five o鈥檆lock, we reach a ridge, still at least two hours from the summit. The climb feels endless, and the wind has picked up. Emilie and Vibs discuss whether it鈥檚 safe to continue.

鈥淚t means we鈥檒l have to go down in the dark and the cold,鈥� Emilie says. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think that鈥檚 safe.鈥� The others are torn. I feel increasingly sick and have to stop myself from vomiting with every step. I haven鈥檛 been able to eat or drink since morning, and I know that pushing on would be gambling with my health and safety. Emilie doesn鈥檛 feel well either, and I ask her to guide me back to camp four.

鈥淲e鈥檝e come so far,鈥� Vibs says. Being the one with the most high-altitude experience, she feels well enough to move forward. So do Sandro and Rob. Eventually, she asks Hanifa: 鈥淒o you want to go up? Do you want to 颅summit?鈥�

鈥淵eah,鈥� Hanifa says with an exhausted smile.

Emilie feels confident about Vibs being in charge but leaves her with a stern warning: the second Hanifa starts to feel unwell, they must turn around. 鈥淧lease be safe,鈥� Emilie says before joining me to descend. As we head down, Vibs gives Hanifa a kiss on the cheek and some water, wraps her arm around her shoulder, and motions for her to keep going. They resume walking, in silence. Speaking requires air that can鈥檛 be spared. Hanifa is roped to Vibs and doing her best to keep up. Her will and persistence overcome her exhaustion. Hanifa is beyond stopping.

A year and a half earlier, Hanifa said, 鈥淚 want to stand on the highest point, strong on my feet, to lift up those who have fallen and be a hero for women in Afghanistan.鈥� At 7:02 P.M. on August 10, 24 days into the expedition, as the sun sets below Noshaq, Hanifa reaches the summit. Vibs, Sandro, and Rob cheer as she drops to her knees and kisses the ground. After a moment, she gets up again and pulls the Afghan flag out of her pack. 鈥淟ong live the girls of Afghanistan,鈥� she shouts over and over again while the flag flutters above her head in the wind.

Two days after becoming the first Afghan woman to summit Noshaq, Hanifa returned to base camp, exhausted but proud.

鈥淪hogufa! Neki! Freshta!鈥� she called out as she entered. No response. 鈥淪hogufa! Neki! Freshta!鈥� She looked around. The tents had been abandoned; the only sound was the wind blowing through them. Hanifa sat on a rock and lowered her head into the Afghan flag she鈥檇 been carrying, trying in vain to hide her tears.

While we were higher on the mountain, there had been some confusion about who would stay at base camp and who would leave. When Emilie realized that no one would be there upon our return, she tried to communicate it to Hanifa. But without Freshta to translate, it was difficult, and Hanifa appeared to have held on to a sliver of hope that someone would be there to greet her.

What Hanifa didn鈥檛 know is that Shogufa had returned home and had learned that, on August 3, during Friday prayers, . Women and children were among the 23 killed. Four of them were Shogufa鈥檚 relatives. For various reasons and obligations, the other expedition members at base camp had returned to Kabul, too.

Four days later, Hanifa arrived at the Kabul airport to find her friends and family gathered outside the terminal. As she turned the corner, they cheered and showered her with flowers and confetti. And there was Shogufa, cheering along with them. The cousins fell into each other鈥檚 arms and didn鈥檛 let go. All, it seemed, was forgiven.

A few months after the climb, things are back to normal at Ascend. Freshta is still the program coordinator, and Shogufa and Hanifa continue to work as program assistants. Neki has started university and joined the program again for 2019.

It鈥檚 clear that the climb took a toll on everyone. In the weeks that followed, Shogufa, who is now studying medical technology in college, wondered whether she should continue mountaineering. 鈥淚 trained so hard for this,鈥� she says. 鈥淓ven in the month of Ramadan, I was running on the treadmill. I couldn鈥檛 drink water during the day because it is forbidden. I was so thirsty, but I pushed myself because I had this goal in my mind.鈥� Ultimately, she decided that she didn鈥檛 want to give up because of one disappointing experience. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 like the word 肠补苍鈥檛,鈥� she says, her face brightening. She mentions other mountains she鈥檇 like to climb, including Everest.

Marina was realistic about the team鈥檚 chances of summiting Noshaq from the start. 鈥淚t was always a possibility that just one would make it,鈥� she says, pointing out how little training the women could receive living in a place like Kabul. For Marina, Noshaq was more about the symbolism than the summit. 鈥淚 am thrilled with the result,鈥� she says.

Marina made the decision not to speak to the Afghan media about the expedition, to avoid placing the women on extremists鈥� radar, but she says that as a result of Noshaq, change is happening at a grassroots level. 鈥淭he girls are talking in public schools about the climb and sharing their stories, acting as role models for future generations and raising the ceiling on what women can do,鈥� she says. Marina and her staff are working on a new training curriculum and creating a system to evaluate members鈥� skill levels. In June, Hanifa, Shogufa, and another Ascend member will travel to Chamonix, France, to take an alpine mountaineering course sponsored by the Jonathan Conville Memorial Trust, which supports training young climbers. And Ascend has six expeditions planned in 2019. 鈥淲e won鈥檛 do Noshaq again this year,鈥� Marina says, but adds that 鈥渙ne of them will be big.鈥�

Meanwhile, Hanifa and her immediate family are proud of her achievement. She exudes health and confidence and is learning to read and write. But there had been an underlying hope that her summit would change her life in a more profound way. She wants to be known for her accomplishment, but when a bakery in her neighborhood hung up a picture of her on the summit and a family member discovered it, for safety reasons Hanifa went there to take it down. In the future, she wants to become a mountain guide. Freshta and Hanifa also hope to open an Ascend branch one day in Bamiyan, a mountainous province west of Kabul, but the organization currently doesn鈥檛 have the funding to pursue it.

But ten days after she summited and returned to Kabul, all that鈥檚 on Hanifa鈥檚 mind is her welcome-back party. She looks like a princess in a white dress embroidered with flowers, layers of makeup on her face and rhinestones in her hair. Afterward, she鈥檒l go home to help her parents cook and clean. But today is about her triumph. For herself and all the women of Afghanistan.

Theresa Breuer () is a writer and filmmaker based in Berlin. Erin Trieb () is a photographer and filmmaker based in Istanbul. Breuer and Trieb鈥檚 film about Ascend will be released in 2020.

Editor’s Note: The story has been updated to clarify how the expedition was funded.

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On August 10, 24-year-old Hanifa Yousoufi became the first female Afghan climber to summit 24,580-foot Mount Noshaq, Afghanistan鈥檚 tallest peak. It is a stunning accomplishment in a culturally conservative country where there are almost no听resources for women to get into mountaineering.听

Yousoufi was part of an expedition put together by a nonprofit called , which empowers women through training in climbing and leadership skills. The organization鈥檚 founder, American Marina LeGree, started the organization in 2014 after years of development work in Afghanistan. LeGree assembled a group of Afghan women to train for the climb in 2016. Three of the women were on the Noshaq expedition, but due to unexpected conditions on the mountain, Yousoufi was the only one who made the full ascent.听

鈥淭o see Hanifa standing up there, and to be able to show the world what Afghan women are capable of doing, feels incredible,鈥� LeGree says. 鈥淪he and her teammates have worked for years toward this expedition, showing up every day to work with the Ascend program, volunteering in their communities, studying and practicing not just mountaineering but also leadership. Their efforts will make a difference.鈥�

The expedition was led by mountain guide Emilie Drinkwater, an accomplished climber and skier who is one of only nine American women with the coveted IFMGA guiding accreditation. Because of decades of unrest during the Soviet invasion, civil war, and Taliban rule, Noshaq was closed to trekkers and climbers for nearly 30 years, opening back up in 2009. Only three other Afghans have summited鈥攁ll men. The day before the Ascend group was due to fly from Kabul to the nearest airstrip to hike to Base Camp, the Taliban attacked a nearby district. LeGree quickly arranged for the group to fly to a safer village in order to continue with the climb.

鈥淭he danger is real,鈥� LeGree says. 鈥淓ach woman that is part of Ascend takes a risk. So does her family. There is a lot of extremism in Afghanistan, not to mention the daily hazards of life in Kabul. The country is still dealing with an active insurgency. Our expedition was very close to delay or cancellation because the Taliban shot down two Afghan National Army helicopters in the neighboring district the day before we were set to fly to the mountain. So we flew to a different airstrip, a 13-hour drive away from Noshaq.鈥�

Yousoufi, who was married at the age of 15 and is now divorced, had never done a sit-up three years ago. Now she has made history and wants to serve as a role model for other women in her country. 鈥淚 did this for every single girl,鈥� Yousoufi told LeGree after the climb. 鈥淭he girls of Afghanistan are strong and will continue to be strong.鈥�

American photojournalist Erin Trieb, who was on 国产吃瓜黑料鈥檚 May 2017 cover, and Berlin-based writer Theresa Breuer were also on the expedition. They will be producing a story about Yousoufi and the climb for 国产吃瓜黑料 and plan to make a documentary film.

鈥淚 have photographed war and conflict for ten years, but this expedition was the most difficult project I have ever worked on,鈥� Trieb says. 鈥淣one of us realized how treacherous Noshaq is, because so little is known about the mountain. That the Taliban attacked the area the day before we were due to fly had all of us feeling very nervous. Despite all possible odds, Hanifa reached the top. I鈥檓 incredibly proud of her and of the entire climbing team. What Hanifa did for women in her country will have a ripple effect for women everywhere. It was a monumental physical and mental effort of true grit, and I can鈥檛 wait to tell the whole story.鈥�

Meanwhile, LeGree has future climbing plans for other Afghan women on the Ascend team. 鈥淲e鈥檙e not stopping with this expedition,鈥� she says. 鈥淎fghanistan has a lifetime of great climbing to do, and we鈥檙e just getting started.鈥�

Lead photo: Hanifa听Yousufi on the summit of 24,580-foot Mount Noshaq听(Sandro Gromen-Hayes)

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When she showed up in Kabul for the first time, five years ago, Sarah Menzies thought she鈥檇 be making an upbeat short film about young women in Afghanistan learning to ride bikes. Easy. Fast. Maybe a ten-minute short at most. The women on the nascent Women鈥檚 National Cycling Team of Afghanistan had just started going to international races. They鈥檇 also been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize in the beginning of decade, when the power of the dangerously gender-biased Taliban was limited. They were on the leading edge of independence in a country where it was widely considered immoral for women to ride bikes. But as Menzies got to know the young women on the team, the country slipped back into Taliban control, and cycling for women once again became fraught.

鈥淚t was much more complicated than 鈥業鈥檓 going to get on a bike and ride,鈥欌�� Menzies says. 鈥淭hese women were young and idealistic. Their families told them, 鈥榊ou鈥檙e the generation that鈥檚 going to change this country.鈥欌�� And they believed that, but as the Taliban gained power, things have gotten more complicated. 鈥淎s soon as the country starts to slide backward, it鈥檚 women鈥檚 rights that go first.鈥�

The film grew in scope as the girls on the team faced threats, physical violence, and corruption from coaches. As things got worse, some of the members stopped riding and others fled the country. Menzies dug into the history of the Taliban, traced the marginalization of Afghan women, and continued filming as that changed the way the team was able to ride. She ended up with a feature-length documentary, which she鈥檚 now submitting to film festivals. The forthcoming follows team members as they break cultural norms.

鈥淚t鈥檚 developed into a story I never would have envisioned,鈥� Menzies says. 鈥淪ometimes I forget that we鈥檙e making a movie about cycling.鈥� Now, instead of just being a narrative about learning to ride, it鈥檚 about the choices Afghan women face when their freedoms are taken away.

Menzies says she remembers being fascinated by war-zone reporters as a kid. She studied broadcast journalism at Gonzaga University in Washington but went straight into environmental nonprofit work after graduation. While Menzies was documenting the effects of the 2010 Gulf oil spill, she decided she liked the documentary part of advocacy work best, so she decided to try making a living as a filmmaker.

鈥淚 quit my job. I didn鈥檛 have much money, but I bought a little DSLR鈥攚hich I still have鈥攁nd I sailed with some scientists from Namibia to Uruguay studying plastic pollution,鈥� Menzies says. 鈥淎s a sailor, I was in heaven. As an environmentalist, I was in heaven. As a new filmmaker, I was in heaven.鈥� But when she got home and tried to put a film together, the footage was shaky and she didn鈥檛 have a narrative. After beating herself up for weeks, Menzies abandoned the idea of the plastics film and resolved to learn everything she could about shooting and storytelling. Her next big project, in 2013, was , a ten-minute film about French surfer L茅a听Brassy, who moved to Norway to follow winter swells. It won best short at the San Diego Surf Film festival and spent years on the outdoor film festival circuit.

The success of Catch It came with a wave of insecurities. Menzies worried that she鈥檇 fallen into the role of token female filmmaker in an industry that tends to be male-dominated, especially in the outdoor world. 鈥淚 constantly had this voice in the back of my head saying, 鈥業t鈥檚 only doing well because I鈥檓 a woman and festivals are getting shit for not having enough women and this is a film about a woman by a woman,鈥欌�� she says. 鈥淚t took me a really long time to quiet that voice and accept that people might actually like the film.鈥�

People liked Catch It for the same reason Menzies was drawn to Brassy鈥檚 story. It鈥檚 a portrait of obsession without ego and working toward a goal that came without much acclaim. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not intentional that most of my films have centered on women. I try to think, 鈥業f I came across this story not as a filmmaker, would I still be interested,鈥欌�� Menzies says. 鈥淵ou look at whose stories aren鈥檛 being told, and often it鈥檚 women.鈥�

She has a knack for finding those untold stories. This fall, Menzies put out a film about Mirna Valerio, a self-identified fat black ultrarunner. focused on an email Valerio received 27 miles into a 50K race, which she read during a rest stop when Menzies happened to be filming. It was filled with vitriolic body shaming and threats. Menzies鈥� film is about the harassment and the microaggressions Valerio encounters by just showing up to run and how narrow the scope of the outdoor world can be鈥攁nd how Valerio unflinchingly deals with that. Valerio says she and Menzies clicked as soon as they met, and they鈥檇 like to work on more projects about race in the future.

The previous May, Menzies released . She tailed amateur angler Terry Myers on her mission to catch a wild steelhead in a different North American river every month of the year, even though steelhead populations have dropped off by more than half since the 1980s. Myers, who is in her sixties, has the same focused drive and self-deprecating sense of humor that Menzies鈥� other subjects have. And by focusing on her, Menzies is able to subtly tell a bigger story about climate and rivers.

Meanwhile, Menzies is closing in on the end of her own quest. It鈥檚 not easy to make a five-year-long, independently funded film about women鈥檚 sports in a conflict zone. She says Afghan Cycles is almost done, but it鈥檚 taken five times longer than she thought it would. There have been endless rounds of fundraising to make sure she could pay the camera operators and editors on the crew. Travel plans have crumpled鈥擬enzies says she鈥檚 often told by fixers or interviewees that it鈥檚 not God鈥檚 will for her to shoot鈥攁nd the plot has completely changed. And then there鈥檚 the guilt that comes with being able to leave a war-torn country when the people you鈥檙e covering are forced to stay.

She鈥檚 thought about canning it but says the film feels even more pressing now because of the Trump administration鈥檚 attack on Islam. 鈥淚t started as this short, happy film about women riding bikes, but now I want to contribute to fighting Islamaphobia. We鈥檙e told to be afraid of Islam, but in my experience, these people are the people on the ground actually suffering because of the Taliban.鈥�

Menzies says she feels a huge amount of responsibility, especially as an outsider, because the girls have entrusted her with their story and because they鈥檝e risked so much to be able to ride. 鈥淭he work that I鈥檝e been the most proud of, the common thread is that the person is willing to do anything for their passion, whether that鈥檚 L茅a听trudging through snow or the girls risking everything to ride a bike. I don鈥檛 think I鈥檓 that passionate about anything,鈥� Menzies says, after talking about five years of sleepless nights and editing struggles. She鈥檚 worried she won鈥檛 be able to do justice to the persecution the girls faced. It has consumed her to the point that Menzies鈥� partner has to remind her to break away from her editing cave on nights and weekends to say sane.

But that鈥檚 exactly the kind of story Menzies likes: the obsessive ones that take over everything else. As Brassy says in Catch It, 鈥淚t鈥檚 not just surfing a wave. It鈥檚 the whole surf experience I鈥檓 looking for.鈥�

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A dead black calf is dumped from the back seat of a Toyota Corolla. The game ball, in other words, has arrived. Deflated. All the intestines have been yanked out and the head and hooves sawed off, to avoid cutting the hands of the 40-odd horsemen warming up their stallions for a buzkashi battle, here on the bone-dry steppe of northwestern Afghanistan.听

Jahangir is a 38-year-old champion from Shiberghan, a sprawling district of 160,000. He steps down from the grandstand into hard sun. Draped in a silk riding robe and clean-shaven but for a faint mustache, he walks with the bull-necked swagger of a man known to all by his first name. The arena floor鈥攖he size of three football fields, walled off to keep the horses from bolting鈥攊s beaten down from five months of play. Jahangir鈥檚 groom unfurls a blanket and helps him change into match attire: quilted gray jacket and pants, layers of wraparound padding, and high leather boots reinforced with wooden stakes, to keep his shins from snapping under the force of the one-ton beasts that will soon be crashing into him. He swaps his turban for a telbek, the fur-trimmed hat favored by his Turkic ancestors. An AK-47-wielding bodyguard, a war veteran on crutches, and several boys watch the ritual in rapt silence.听

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Swinging onto his mount, Jahangir struts out to join the ragged mix of riders donning secondhand judo jackets and Russian tank helmets. They line up and pay their respects to local VIPs and fans (all male), then implode into a horse-powered meat grinder, fighting to get within arm鈥檚 reach of the calf. To win a cycle of buzkashi, a player, while remaining on horseback, must bend down into a maelstrom of thrashing legs and teeth and snatch the roughly 100-pound carcass from the ground, sprint around a flag at the far end of the arena, and drop it inside a chalked circle, all while opponents do everything they can to steal it from his grasp. Sometimes teams compete head-to-head, but usually it鈥檚 every man for himself. Matches last about two hours or until the supply of calves runs out. Deaths are rare, but fractured limbs and nasty cuts are inevitable.听

During today鈥檚 match, one of the first players to score approaches the stands with blood seeping from his eye. The announcer shouts 鈥淟ong live Gholam!鈥� into a megaphone. The player nods, tucks a $20 cash prize into his jacket, and turns back toward the scrum. The game is rumbling again at midfield, folding into itself and spitting riders back out, only to see them whack their horses鈥� flanks, rear up on hind legs, and thrust once more into the chaos of flesh and bone.

This is Buzkashi, the national sport of Afghanistan. The word means 鈥済oat grabbing鈥� in Persian, but goats are seldom used anymore because of their tendency to tear apart. Though buzkashi is , easy analogies don鈥檛 fit. No mallets or sticks are involved, and there鈥檚 nothing remotely elegant or aristocratic about it.

Think of buzkashi鈥檚 place in Afghan culture this way: if America鈥檚 most beloved professional sport, football, offers viewers the spectacle of ritualized violence, buzkashi is closer to all-out combat, a contest stripped of excessive rules and play stoppages. Instead of billionaire owners, top riders and teams are often bankrolled by former warlords with a lot of blood on their hands. Some of these men still want to destroy each other鈥攁nd might try, were it not for political and financial incentives to maintain a veneer of stability. In lieu of direct conflict, mutual hostilities are sublimated into buzkashi, a wildly popular proxy contest where reputations are made and broken.听

Jahangir鈥檚 renown as a chapandaz (buzkashi player) spans northern Afghanistan, thanks to a swashbuckling style that blends raw power and technique. On horseback, he maneuvers his 240-pound bulk with the ease of a man half his size, able to swivel and dive and pick up a calf with one hand. Several local aficionados鈥攎ost of them Uzbek鈥攖old me that he鈥檚 the best in all of Jowzjan province, and therefore, to them, the best听in the land.

But on this warm March afternoon in Shiberghan, near the end of a tough five-month winter season, Jahangir hangs back from the action as his younger brother, Najibullah, and eldest son, Akbar, take turns winning play cycles that have the slack feel of a pickup game. Fans squat in the half-empty stands, the crack of sunflower seeds audible as the match grinds on.

The lone flash of Jahangir鈥檚 dominance comes when a Turkish diplomat arrives with a detail of gunmen. Turkey, a major investor in the region, helped pay for the upgrade of the local buzkashi grounds, as well as schools and a new mosque. Jahangir approaches the stands to greet the visitor. Then, flaunting his status, he barrels into the fray and seizes the calf. Whip clenched in his teeth, he charges through the circle to claim the highest prize of the day: $50 cash. For the rest of the match, though, he looks bored. Pocket money and coffee mugs stamped with the Turkish flag are hardly worth the effort.听

鈥淲hen the general is around, the competition is much better,鈥� Akbar says near the end, lamenting the dull level of play. 鈥淩ight now we鈥檙e just keeping the game alive.鈥�

The general is Abdul Rashid Dostum, 63, the godfather of Afghanistan鈥檚 Uzbek minority, a leading buzkashi sponsor, and the nation鈥檚 current vice president. Once a street-brawling gas-field worker, he rose from obscurity to become Afghanistan鈥檚 most notorious warlord, through legendary feats of battlefield bravery, butchery, and opportunism. In the 1980s, as a militia commander under the Communist regime, he fought against the U.S.-backed mujahideen. He allied with Islamist radicals during the civil war, switching sides several times before joining the Northern Alliance and fighting alongside U.S. Special Forces on horseback to overthrow the Taliban government in 2001.

For a time, Dostum was America鈥檚 man in Afghanistan, a hard-charger who got things done. But in the early aughts, as the U.S. ramped up its nation-building efforts, American officials tried to sideline him for reckless behavior and alleged war crimes鈥攊ncluding the killing of several hundred surrendered Taliban prisoners who were suffocated and shot inside metal shipping crates in the desert. For his part, Dostum has bragged that he has a Ph.D. in killing militants.

If the general has a soft spot, it鈥檚 his love of horses. Once a chapandaz himself, he听recruited riders to his first militia campaign and led epic cavalry charges against the Taliban on his favorite white mount, Sorkhan. War spoils enabled him to become one of the country鈥檚 top buzkashi sponsors, with his own team and stables stocked with stallions imported from Central Asia. His affection for the sport is so well-known that the Taliban once tried to assassinate him by sewing explosives into a saddle.

In the past, on most Friday afternoons in winter, Dostum could be found holding court on a sofa at the center of the grandstand in Shiberghan, handing out $500 prizes鈥攐r, if he was feeling especially generous, the keys to sport-utility vehicles. Not this season. For the past four months, the general has been holed up in one of his mansions, hundreds of miles away in Kabul, the Afghan capital, fighting for his political life.听

In late November of 2016, Dostum鈥檚 lust for buzkashi and bullying . A surreal YouTube filmed before a match shows him sobbing in the snowfall as musicians sing a tribute to a pair of his bodyguards, killed three weeks earlier during a Taliban ambush of his convoy in a neighboring province. Emboldened by gains in the south and east, the militants had intensified their campaign across northern Afghanistan. It was the latest of many attempts on Dostum鈥檚 life, and he was angry about the lack of support from the technocrats in Kabul.

According to witnesses, buzkashi play began, and a rider sponsored by Ahmad Eschi, a former governor of Jowzjan and longtime Dostum rival, won the first round. The general may have been triggered by what he took as disrespect in his own backyard. Eschi, 63, was called over to Dostum and, according to Eschi and other witnesses, thrown to the ground and punched in the face. In front of a crowd numbering more than 2,000, Dostum听stepped on Eschi鈥檚 chest and threatened to kill him. Eschi was then taken to one of Dostum鈥檚 properties, where he alleges that he was beaten, humiliated, and anally penetrated with the barrel of an AK-47. Eschi shared this story publicly, offering inconclusive medical evidence to support his claim.

Dostum鈥檚 camp, which didn鈥檛 respond to 国产吃瓜黑料鈥檚 request for an interview, has denied the charges. In late 2016, a Dostum spokesman named Bashir Ahmad Tayanj said the allegations were false. Dostum鈥檚 supporters have also claimed that Eschi had been arrested鈥攏ot abducted鈥攂ecause they believed he was aiding the Taliban.

Western officials and human rights groups urged Afghanistan鈥檚 president, Ashraf Ghani, a brainy former World Bank executive, to take swift action, calling the case a critical test of civilian rule. The attorney general opened a criminal case against Dostum and nine of his bodyguards that is still pending.听

Sixteen years after the Taliban were evicted to set Afghanistan on a tentative path to democracy, Dostum鈥檚 alleged act of barbarism is emblematic of the power warlords still hold. That he would attack Eschi while serving as vice president exposed both the weakness of the government and the folly of Western countries that endorse men of his repute to build up a credible, functioning state. Such impunity is what gave rise to the Taliban in the first place, and their stubborn grip on every level of authority now poses as dire a threat to the country as the insurgency itself.听

Yet it was no coincidence that the general鈥檚 outburst happened at a buzkashi arena.听The sport may seem like nothing but brutish entertainment. In fact, it remains the best context for understanding a chronic颅ally unstable, strategically vital region where power is always in flux and symbolic challenges to authority can spill dangerously out of bounds.听

The origins of buzkashi are a matter of dispute. Some historians believe it dates back more than 2,000 years, to the time when Alexander the Great marched through present-day Afghanistan. Others say it evolved as a training exercise for Genghis Khan鈥檚 Mongol raiding parties. Whatever the truth, the sport has endured for centuries across the vast and rugged Central Asian heartland, with slight variations.

In Kazakhstan they call it kokpar, and riders dump the calf into a raised earthen goal. In Kyrgyzstan, kokboru players carry the calf to opposing end zones, and matches are held in hippodromes. In parts of western China, they play with yak carcasses. Only in Afghanistan does the game rise above mere sport to become an arena for the political struggles that have convulsed the multi-ethnic, tribal nation throughout its history.

鈥淏uzkashi, like Afghan politics, features powerful individuals rather than fixed rules,鈥� says American anthropologist Whitney Azoy, author of , the definitive study of the national pastime. 鈥淣orms for both games exist in theory, but the incessant struggle for control鈥攆or a carcass or a country鈥攊s played with slight regard for the niceties of loyal teamwork or agreed-upon rules.鈥�

When Azoy began his fieldwork in the 1970s, Afghanistan was nearing the end of a peaceful interlude, after decades as a stomping ground in the Great Game between Russia and Great Britain. Buzkashi was still the domain of rural khans whose ability to sponsor days-long events鈥攋udged by the quality of the riders, guests attracted, and prizes鈥攚as a barometer of social standing. Successful chapandazan became folk heroes, known widely by their first names. The Afghan government seized on the sport to deepen its authority at the provincial level. The traditional one-against-all format, tudabarai, in which riders must break free of the pack and keep control of the calf, was phased out for a more organized form known as qarajai, with teams and flags. But the imposed order didn鈥檛 last.听

In 1978, a Soviet-backed Communist party seized power in the capital, sparking an armed uprising in the countryside. Moscow dispatched advisers and troops to bolster the regime, while the U.S. and Saudi Arabia ramped up support for the rebels. The following year, according to a report in Newsweek, 50 Russian soldiers were massacred at a buzkashi event in Mazar-e-Sharif, the largest city in the north. A deadly attack at another event moved officials to ban the sport, declaring it 鈥渂ackward.鈥�

More than six million Afghans were uprooted by the Soviet-Afghan War, mostly to Pakistan, and buzkashi went with them. Though some of the best horses were conscripted to run guerrilla guns through the borderlands, top chapandazan competed in the refugee camps around Peshawar. These events were usually sponsored by ambitious mujahideen commanders flush with foreign money and weapons. When the Red Army retreated in 1989, the factions lost a common enemy and turned on each other. As Azoy notes, Afghanistan鈥檚 鈥渇igurative goat grab became ever more chaotic.鈥�

Over the next three years, Kabul was leveled and another 700,000 people fled across the border. This vacuum spawned the Taliban, a fundamentalist movement that pledged to restore order while forbidding almost everything: Western music, films, singing, dancing, kite flying, even marbles. (Buzkashi was tolerated in some parts of the country.) Then came the 9/11 attacks. The Taliban were blamed for sheltering Osama bin Laden, and America鈥檚 attention swung back to Central Asia. Dostum, exiled in Turkey at that time, returned to spearhead part of the CIA-backed Northern Alliance that ousted the militants.

Meanwhile, foreign money poured in. Better security and a windfall of reconstruction funds from the U.S. and its NATO partners helped fuel a buzkashi renaissance, led by commanders and agile businessmen who had thrived in the wartime economy. Buzkashi let Dostum indulge in his favorite hobby and burnish his name as the undisputed guardian of his ethnic kinsmen, on a stage where he was the star and director.

Ahmad Eschi had long defied Dostum鈥檚 power over the country鈥檚 two million ethnic Uzbeks. The two had been allies under the former Communist regime鈥攁nd had even started a political party together鈥攂ut they fell out when Eschi refused to support Dostum as head of a regional militia. Eschi went on to hold top government positions in Jowzjan, and his sons were rising stars on the regional political scene, which represented a challenge to the Dostum family dynasty. More recently, Eschi had started building up his own team, going so far as to host Tuesday matches ahead of the usual Friday competition sponsored by the general.

鈥淲hat better place to show who鈥檚 boss than at a buzkashi,鈥� Azoy told me in an e-mail when news first broke of Dostum鈥檚 alleged assault on Eschi. 鈥淎gain the question is: To what extent can the will of one individual dominate the buzkashi landscape? A real question, because it seems that even in this century, buzkashi remains the most public arena for displays of naked power.鈥�

Big brother鈥搒tyle billboards of the bearish Dostum are everywhere in Shiberghan: in a suit and tie next to President Ghani, praying in white robes opposite the main mosque, reading a book to children. The predominant images are versions of a poster mounted at the city gates. It shows the buzz-cut general in camo fatigues and a flak vest, on the front lines of a gunfight with the Taliban, black eyebrows arched in a wrathful scowl.

When I first visited the city, in August 2009, Dostum, then the army chief of staff, had just flown back from exile in Turkey. It was the day before national elections, and the general was invited home by then President Hamid Karzai to deliver Uzbek votes critical to Karzai鈥檚 eventual victory, despite public warnings from the U.S. ambassador that Dostum鈥檚 presence would 鈥渆ndanger much of the progress made in Afghanistan.鈥澨�

In the center of town I found Dostum鈥檚 palace, a square-block property ringed by flesh-colored walls and whimsical cupolas. Gunmen loitered in hundred-degree heat, slung with machine guns and grenade launchers. A group of men near the entrance confirmed that they鈥檇 vote for Karzai simply because the general said so. One man said he鈥檇 jump down a well if Dostum wished.

鈥淭he main reason I came back was concern about the fate of my people in our country,鈥� Dostum told me after I was called inside. 鈥淚 thought, if Dostum does not come back, my region, the most powerful in the country, will not take part, and this would be bad for the image of Afghanistan.鈥� He claimed that 20,000 people had come to see him over the past two days. 鈥淲hy did they come to meet me? Because they are afraid the Taliban are approaching. By having General Dostum in the northern provinces, the people will again feel like they are in the belly of their mothers.鈥�

Eight years later, in March of 2017, the Taliban were resurgent in the north and Dostum was AWOL again. Several weeks before I turned up in Shiberghan with photographer Balazs Gardi, at least ten people were reported kidnapped in the area, one of them murdered in captivity. Militants were moving freely in the suburbs. Although Dostum had dispatched 200 gunmen from Kabul to secure the streets, a menacing pall hung over the city.听

At the palace, concrete walls now block the side entrance, but the pale pink paint is still here. Inside the courtyard, giant portraits of Dostum are complemented by posters of his eldest son and heir, 29-year-old Batur, who runs a charity and TV station, in large part to soften his father鈥檚 image. Short and pudgy cheeked, Batur needs some hardening. A picture of him posing next to his dad with a gun does not inspire confidence.

In the morning, we meet with Haji Gholam Sakhi, the 65-year-old Dostum-appointed head of the provincial buzkashi federation, and his son Asif at a crumbling mud compound that houses their extended family. With a yellow grin, Sakhi says he was never much of a player, but his three sons are all respected chapandazan. At the rear of the courtyard, past hay bales and dried sheepskins, I find a yard sale of gear: jackets, helmets, tactical elbow pads, and shin guards made from sections of PVC pipe.听

Sakhi takes me to the stalls where his horses are boarded. He shows me a small brown stallion on the left: until two years ago, it was the only horse he could afford. One day in 2015, at a buzkashi, the general called Sakhi over and asked, 鈥淲hy do you ride such an un-noble horse?鈥� He told Jahangir to give Sakhi a white mare from his personal stables. It was the same horse I saw Sakhi riding at the buzkashi, shuttling between the scrum and grandstand, happy to be in the orbit of play.听

When I ask Sakhi for his thoughts on Friday鈥檚 match, he flares up about the pitiful prizes. The season tanked after Dostum left town, and the government is doing nothing to help the struggling chapandazan. 鈥淲ithout Dostum, buzkashi is dead,鈥� he says.

I ask about the alleged violence against Eschi. He pauses and throws me a leery glance. 鈥淭hese are lies, lies created by enemies of the general,鈥� he says. 鈥淭he horses crashed into the stands, that鈥檚 why Eschi was hurt.鈥�

鈥淵ou know that Eschi is a Communist,鈥� he adds鈥攏ever mind that Dostum has been one himself. Then the final insult: 鈥淎nd none of his sons play buzkashi!鈥澨�

I鈥檓 trying to shift back to small talk when Asif, who is Sakhi鈥檚 middle son, interrupts. 鈥淗ow come the United States is not supporting Afghan buzkashi?鈥� he says. 鈥淲e are great sportsmen, playing the hardest game, and we get nothing!鈥� Considering how much the U.S. has squandered on half-baked goodwill initiatives, it鈥檚 a fair question. I reply that we have a chance to promote the sport in print, which sets up something I鈥檇 wanted to ask: Would he be willing to arrange a buzkashi lesson for me? I鈥檇 pay, of course.听

Sakhi鈥檚 mood brightens鈥攅asy money is coming his way. 鈥淵es,鈥� he says, smiling, 鈥渂ut you have to be prepared to get hurt.鈥� We settle on a price that includes the cost of a buz, a slaughtered, sewn-up calf. Not too large, I tell him. And no need to invite anyone else.

The next morning, two cars full of men are parked in front of Sakhi鈥檚 house. I have unsettling visions of a crowd gathering as chapandazan from the far corners of the province mobilize to compete against a foolish American. I remind Sakhi that this is a training session. 鈥淏ut we must have guests!鈥� he insists, adding that he needs more money up front to buy gifts for them.

鈥淣o, no, this is not a real buzkashi,鈥� I say. 鈥淗alf the money now for the calf, the rest when it鈥檚 done, as we agreed.鈥� I hand him $100. He takes it and shrugs.

A fierce wind is licking sheets of dirt off the ground as our caravan pulls into the arena. It鈥檚 deserted, to my relief. I take cover in the grandstand and let Sakhi鈥檚 grandkids go to work fitting me with buzkashi garb. Asif has an exam this morning, so his grizzled older brother, Gholam, shows up to lead the lesson, sporting stitches on his face from a horse kick. He walks me over to a stallion named Brown. Scar tissue at the corners of his mouth attests to a lifetime of manhandling.

We鈥檙e joined by five young chapandazan and Commander Saifullah, a stocky provincial recruiter for the Afghan Army. He had participated in the Friday buzkashi and had fallen off his horse, and he didn鈥檛 want to miss a chance to show me up. I鈥檓 just winging it, as green as they come. The last time I was on a horse was more than a year before鈥攐n a slow joyride through a Cuban sugar plantation.听

I climb onto Brown and try to guide him with my hips. He鈥檚 unresponsive. A gentle smack on the behind doesn鈥檛 help, either. Gholam grunts and shows me how it鈥檚 done. Jerking his reins hard right, then left, whipsawing his mount鈥檚 head, he tells me to steer 鈥渓ike driving a car.鈥�

The buz I paid for weighs no more than 50 pounds, half as much as the ones used in a normal match, but I can鈥檛 pick it up, even at a standstill. After some awkward groping, Gholam grabs my reins, allowing me to get a grip on the buz while trying not to fall off the horse. Instead of heading toward the flag, Brown trots straight into the corner of the arena. Then he lurches through an open gate slot to shave me off his back.听

I swap for a shorter horse and snatch the buz without much trouble. Soon we鈥檙e bolting across the pitch. I turn around to see Gholam flogging my horse鈥檚 rump to make him go faster. I鈥檓 in a steady rhythm, head back, savoring the rush of flight鈥攗ntil Gholam鈥檚 mount, baring teeth and frothing pink from the harsh work, exacts revenge on my thigh, chomping down hard. The pain is electric, but adrenaline is surging and there鈥檚 no stopping us. We round the flag and charge another 80 yards toward the scoring circle, where I manage to accurately drop the calf.

Soon, back in the scrum again, flailing for a grip, heels over head, I feel the graze of a hoof against my beard. Any closer and I鈥檇 be missing teeth. The other riders are not so much competing as seeing how hard they can push my limits. After an hour of rough riding, I鈥檓 caked in dirt, crunching grit between my molars, aching all over, and totally exhilarated.听

Gholam gives me a firm handshake and, in a bit of tip-seeking flattery, says that if I keep training I have promise. I pay out what鈥檚 owed to Sakhi. The filthy buz is thrown in the back of his station wagon for dinner. Sakhi听is grinning again.

鈥淪o now what do you think of buzkashi?鈥� Jahangir asks afterward. We鈥檙e late for our lunch appointment at Dostum鈥檚 stables, but the champion is amused that I鈥檝e tried it, even more so by my limp.

鈥淚t鈥檚 much harder than it looks.鈥� He gives me a gap-toothed smile.听

During our first meeting at the Friday buzkashi, Jahangir kept his distance. As a confidante of Dostum鈥檚, he was probably wary of foreign journalists using the sport as a way to dig up dirt about Eschi. A phone call from a former Dostum staffer seemed to ease his mind, and he was keen to show us hospitality as a pahlawan, the honorific title given to leading buzkashi players.听

Now we鈥檙e his guests at Tolai Sawar, an equestrian fortress owned by Dostum,听with a commanding view of the arena and surrounding plains. 国产吃瓜黑料, some 50 horses听eat from adobe grain silos, watched by guards in crenellated turrets. We sit on rugs as servants arrive with trays of food: pulao with shards of carrot, freshly picked greens, home颅颅made yogurt, and baby lamb fried in onion, complete with the head. Jahangir cracks its skull open with his meaty hands and offers me a spoonful of brain. 鈥淪o long as you are with me,鈥� he assures us, 鈥測ou have nothing to worry about.鈥�

What about something to drink? Balazs and I look at each other鈥攚e鈥檙e in a strict Islamic country鈥攂ut it鈥檚 clear Jahangir expects company. A bottle of vodka appears and he pours out a round, filling his small tea glass to the brim and shooting it down. We obligingly sip ours. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e not drinkers,鈥� he says with a hint of disappointment.听

Heaping more pulao on our plates, Jahan颅gir says that the role of a pahlawan far exceeds playing the game. 鈥淲e must have good morals and be an example to the people.鈥� Sometimes he pays school tuition and medical costs for the poor. He also helps mediate disputes, like the time last year when two men were arrested in a nearby district on suspicion of being Taliban. Family members traveled to Shiberghan to plead with Jahangir, who relayed their message to Dostum. The general asked them to guarantee that their sons were not militants. They did, and the men were released. Jahangir was invited to a feast of thanks.听

Jahangir was born in Khoja Doku, the same hardscrabble farming district Dostum comes from. His elder brother died while fighting for the general in the early 1990s, during the civil-war battle for Kabul. Jahangir started playing buzkashi as a teenager and, in his first year competing full-time, won an automobile at an event sponsored by Dostum. His skill attracted sponsors in Shiberghan, and later Mazar-e-Sharif, the epicenter of northern buzkashi, 50 miles to the east.

In the mid-nineties, when the Taliban ruled Kabul, Mazar was the seat of a Dostum mini state. He printed his own money, launched an airline, kept order, and championed women鈥檚 rights while cruising around in an armored Cadillac. But in 1995, a rival warlord took power and forced him into exile. He came back and briefly regained control of Mazar, until the Taliban drove him out. Three years later, he stormed back to liberate the city.

With the Taliban gone, Dostum and his arch-rival, Atta Mohammad Noor, a Tajik militia commander, fought each other for northern supremacy. Gun battles between their forces continued until a 2003 United Nations disarmament campaign kicked in. Dostum withdrew to his Shiberghan stronghold, and Noor became governor of Balkh in 2005鈥攁n ancient Silk Road town鈥攖rading fatigues and a long black beard for sleek suits and carefully groomed stubble.听

Under Noor鈥檚 heel, Mazar has prospered relative to the rest of Afghanistan, with tight security, smooth roads, and a new rail link to other parts of Asia. Nothing happens without his knowledge. So when two Dostum portraits were removed last March from the city center, allegedly by men driving police vehicles, hundreds of Uzbek protesters raised hell in the streets. The portraits were soon restored, but renewed factional bloodshed seemed imminent.听

In this volatile climate, the buzkashi arena has become a potential flash point for real violence. The Noor-Dostum feud barred top Uzbek players like Jahangir from competing in Mazar, while Tajiks stayed away from Shiberghan. And across the north, militant suicide bombers have been attacking buzkashi events with greater frequency, to sow fear among the public.听

When Dostum asked Jahangir to lead his team in Shiberghan, Jahangir didn鈥檛 think twice. Along with horses from Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan, Tolai Sawar boasts a clubhouse with a staff cook, fully equipped gym, pool table, and big-screen TV. Walls are plastered with pictures of Dostum and his favorite roughnecks, including Jahangir, Najib, and other top chapandazan.听

Riding for Dostum earned Jahangir up to $50,000 in a good season, but his long-term outlook is iffy. His earnings during the 2015鈥�16 season were less than half what they were the year before. When I talked to him, Naw Ruz buzkashi, a big New Year鈥檚 event that usually promised the fattest prizes, was just a week away, but no sponsors had come forward. Now, four months after Dostum鈥檚 departure, it was not clear when the general would be back in Shiberghan. His prolonged absence had cut deeply into the riders鈥� livelihoods and left the door open to saboteurs and schemers who would exploit the slightest advantage鈥攁s Dostum himself had done throughout his career.

鈥淭hings are disorganized,鈥� Jahangir says. 鈥淚f there is not one strong man at the top, there will be chaos.鈥� He was referring to buzkashi, but he might as well have been talking about Afghanistan.

With competition in the cities debased by factional politics, the best buzkashi was to be found in the hinterlands. One afternoon we turned north off the highway that connects Mazar and Shiberghan and drove toward the outskirts of Balkh. Traveling through a craggy moonscape, we passed the remnants of towering fortress walls to reach a plateau where a match was under way. The air, thick with hash smoke, was charged by the announcer鈥檚 breathless commentary as riders swarmed over the calf, which was invisible in the dust. If not for the parked cars and Kalashnikovs, the scene could have been from a thousand years ago.听

Idling on the fringe was Gulbuddin, a Pashtun regarded by many to be the best all-around chapandaz in Afghanistan. With wide, square shoulders and a short neck, he was unassuming except for the huge horse beneath him. He watched as the scrum crashed through a line of spectators and a breakaway pack chased the rider with the calf several hundred yards into an open field. The game drifted for a couple of minutes before the pack stormed back on the heels of two chapandaz, each pulling a calf leg so hard, it looked like the carcass might tear in half.

Finally, a rider managed to wrest away the calf, and Gulbuddin sprang into action. Bolting into a blind spot behind the man, he moved tight inside and deftly reached across his body to grip the calf鈥檚 hind leg, then pulled his mount hard right, wrenching the carcass free. The brazen theft, or chakkagir, had fans across the ethnic spectrum鈥擯ashtuns,听Uzbeks, Tajiks, Hazaras鈥攐n their feet. 鈥淕ulbuddin! Gulbuddin!鈥� they howled as he came around for an easy score.听

At week鈥檚 end, back in Shiberghan, the final Friday buzkashi was abruptly canceled, a fitting conclusion to a disappointing season. Jahangir, Najib, and a handful of Dostum鈥檚 top riders were summoned to Kabul to have tea with the general before catching a morning flight back north and driving to a buzkashi near the Uzbek border.听

Malik Tatar, an Uzbek militia commander and Dostum ally, had called for a two-day event in the northeastern province of Takhar to celebrate his marriage. The Taliban were active in the area, but with Dostum footing everyone鈥檚 travel costs, the chapandazan were willing to make the roundabout journey. In an effort to catch up with them, we booked a morning flight to Kabul, but the only connecting plane had left by the time we arrived.

The trip, we were later told, did not go well. On day one, about 200 competitors turned up, but Tatar provided only one horse for each Shiberghan guest, rather than the customary three or four, forcing them to borrow from locals. Jahangir still won three rounds, and Najib, his younger brother, took the last play cycle. That night the Taliban attacked the district administrative center.

鈥淭hey heard General Dostum鈥檚 chapandazan had come, so they wanted to kidnap us,鈥� a teammate of Jahangir鈥檚 told me. Taliban fighters struck again the next day, targeting the buzkashi with two long-range rocket-propelled grenades. There were no casualties, but the chapandazan fled under fire. Gun battles raged into the night between police and the militants, further damaging the host鈥檚 reputation.

With several days to spend in the capital before our flight home, we reached out to Dostum one last time, on the off chance that he might be in the mood to break his months-long silence. No go. The general was still holed up in his fortified compound, sleeping past noon and not speaking to reporters.

One man who did grant us an interview was Ahmad Eschi, his alleged victim. Eschi was staying in Kabul鈥檚 diplomatic quarter at his party headquarters, just a five-minute drive from Dostum鈥檚 place. Sandbags and an armored Humvee guarded the front gate. In the lobby, we passed a campaign poster for Eschi鈥檚 son Babaur, a member of the Jowzjan provincial council. Looking regal in an Uzbek turban and robe, his image was accompanied by a horse icon鈥攁 symbol used to identify him to illiterate voters at the polls.听

Eschi entered with the cautious steps of a senior citizen recovering from illness. He told me he came from a family in Khoja Doku, where horses are at the core of existence and communal identity. 鈥淚f you have one day in your life, you must buy a horse,鈥� he explained. 鈥淚f you have two days, you must be armed. If you have three days, you get married. The horse is the priority鈥攖hey have been life partners of Turkmen since the beginning. It鈥檚 difficult to express how much I love them.鈥澨�

In recent years, Eschi conceded, he had invested in his own team to challenge Dostum鈥檚 reign. He was importing horses from Kyrgyzstan, and his chapandazan were getting better, competing head-on against the general鈥檚 riders.

The day of the attack, Eschi said, Dostum was already 鈥渁cting strangely,鈥� pacing around in the snow rather than taking his usual seat. When one of Eschi鈥檚 riders won the opening play cycle, Eschi called his team over and told them to lay off to avoid angering the general.

But it was too late. He recalls Dostum shouting at him: 鈥淚 know what you have been doing. What if I make you the calf and order the players to play with you?鈥�

After getting beaten up on the playing field, Eschi said, he was forced into a black armored vehicle and driven to one of the general鈥檚 homes, where Dostum roamed the courtyard, cursing and circling back to punch him more, before ordering him taken to a basement, where, allegedly, he was to be gang-raped. Eschi alleges that Dostum鈥檚 men, unwilling to perform the act, instead shoved part of an AK-47 barrel into his anus. He blacked out. For the next five days, he was locked in an empty room, bloodied and pantsless. On the third day, he was allowed to wash himself; he was unable to recognize his own swollen face in the mirror. He was handed over to local intelligence officers and held ten more days in a detention center.

Eschi suspected that this was done to allow his wounds to heal in private, with the hope that shame would shut him up later. It didn鈥檛. In December of 2016, he appeared on national TV to share his sordid account鈥攁 taboo-breaking move in a macho, conservative society. 鈥淎ccording to laws of the Afghan constitution, he should be punished,鈥� Eschi said of Dostum. 鈥淚f nothing happens here, I will not rest. I will take this to the international criminal court if I must.鈥�

For six months, efforts to bring Dostum to justice went nowhere. He bucked the attorney general鈥檚 requests to appear for questioning, and when police surrounded his Kabul mansion to arrest his guards, the general called in reinforcements and seized checkpoints on a strategic hill overlooking his property. Afghan officials dared not force a confrontation, fearing that Dostum would retaliate by unleashing violence in the north. But a well-placed source in Dostum鈥檚 camp told me that he would soon leave the country in a face-saving move, likely under the pretense of seeking medical treatment.听

In late May, the general decamped for Turkey on a nighttime flight, ending the embarrassing standoff at a dire moment for Afghanistan. A month after we left, Taliban suicide bombers disguised as army personnel struck a base in Mazar and killed more than 140 soldiers, the deadliest attack against Afghan forces since 2001. Then, on May 31, a massive truck bomb went off during morning rush hour in Kabul鈥檚 heavily fortified diplomatic quarter. The blast claimed more than 170 lives and injured some 500, the worst strike yet on the capital.听

Now under siege by the Taliban and Islamic State, roughly half the country is controlled by insurgents. After two previous administrations spent 16 years to fight the longest war in U.S. history鈥攁t a cost of $800 billion and some 2,400 American lives鈥擯resident Donald Trump recently pledged to send thousands more reinforcements to avert the collapse of a government widely viewed as illegitimate. He has vowed to 鈥渇ight to win,鈥� but Afghans know better. For many, the state鈥檚 failure to hold Dostum accountable for the Eschi assault is proof that warlords are as strong and corrupt as ever, the rule of law a farce.听

Public distrust has been compounded by the immunity granted to Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, an Islamist militia leader behind some of the worst atrocities of the civil war. Protesters fill the streets nearly every day in Kabul, and many politicians, including cabinet members, are calling for President Ghani and his security ministers to resign.听

In an about-face that would be stunning anywhere but Afghanistan, Governor Noor and General Dostum, sworn enemies for decades, have since formed an opposition alliance of ethnic minorities. Calling themselves the Coalition for the Salvation of听Afghanistan, they accuse Ghani and fellow Pashtuns of monopolizing power and have threatened to take control of northern ministries and airports to 鈥減aralyze鈥� the government if they are not heeded.听

In July, Dostum tried to fly back home from Turkey to lead the insurrection. His private jet was denied permission to land in Mazar, on orders from the central government. But it鈥檚 just a matter of time before he returns.听

The buzkashi is on again.

Jason Motlagh () wrote about traveling through Central America鈥檚 Dari茅n Gap in the August 2016 issue. He is an international reporting fellow at the Pulitzer Center. Balazs Gardi () is an 国产吃瓜黑料 contributing photographer.

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