Escaping the TalibanThe Last Way Out of Afghanistan

Christoph Reuter and Julian Busch

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Quietly, quickly and with no light: Such are the orders from the young man as they prepare to set off. A group of 40 men, women and children are gazing at him in this bare, pitch-black room – frightened, exhausted faces in the wan glow of two flashlights. Those who fall back will be left behind.

They have come to Nimruz from many different provinces in Afghanistan, to this arid and austere southwestern corner of the country. Only from here is flight across the border still possible for those who aren’t rich enough to buy a visa or who don’t have relatives in Europe or America. Neighboring countries have tightly secured their borders to the "Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan," but the frontier is difficult to control here. The last path out of desperation and poverty leads through the desert. If you survive.

Every day, according to the estimates of several different human smugglers, more than 3,000 people arrive in Nimruz in order to sneak across the border on their way to the West. Young men fleeing the country in the search for work is nothing new, but ever since the Taliban took over power last August, they have been joined by farmers, engineers, public servants and entire families with children seeking to make it to Iran or beyond. "We have peace now, yes, but no economy, no jobs, no salaries," is the explanation given by almost everybody. They are joined by former soldiers, police officers and intelligence officials who were essentially given a bleak choice by the Taliban: leave – or die.

As the evening progresses, the people are brought in small groups to a farmhouse at the edge of a village to avoid attracting attention. For hours, they have been waiting for the signal to head out. At 2:30 a.m., they are told departure is imminent, only to be followed by the next message: no, not yet. Whispering can be heard, along with the whimpering of a small child.

"Now! Go!" hisses a smuggler once all his scouts have reported that there are no longer any patrols in the area leading up to the Iranian border. Quickly, they all silently head out into the night. There is no longer any time to bid farewell to those who had recounted their fates during the preceding hours of waiting: Nasrullah, the tailor from Herat, whose work since the Taliban takeover has merely consisted of patching holes, and who sold his last possessions to leave the country with his wife and three children. Ghulam Yahya, a 54-year-old who looks closer to 70 who used to sell fruit from a handcart in Kabul, but hardly anyone can afford his wares any longer. And Ali Akbar, 17, who has essentially spent the last five years trying to get to the West, once even making it with his parents to Moria, the notorious refugee camp on the Greek island of Lesbos, where he learned Greek. At some point, he was rounded up in a raid and, after a week behind bars, voluntarily allowed himself to be deported to Afghanistan to escape prison. "Now, I want to get back to my family! They have made it to Athens. I have to make it. I don’t have anybody here."

Bild vergrößern Waiting at the Zaranj bus terminal Foto: Julian Busch / DER SPIEGEL

The night is chilly, and the terrain is forgiving for those who don’t want to be seen. Bushes and hollows between the sand dunes offer cover. The smuggler leads the way, with an assistant bringing up the rear. Between them are the escapees, stumbling on occasion and swearing quietly at rocks or sticks, or sinking up to their ankles in sand.

The route runs just a few kilometers south of the provincial capital of Zaranj. Spotlights from the Iranian guard towers can be seen in the distance and the barking of dogs is a frequent companion. Every now and then, a gunshot pierces the night and a pack of golden jackals howls for several minutes at a time, a surreal cry that sounds like human laughter at a rollicking party in the distance.

A couple of elderly and women in the group are exhausted, but are urged by the whispers of others not to give up now. Someone leaves a bag of clothes lying in the sand. The DER SPIEGEL team has to stop half a kilometer from the border, not just because of the danger that the Iranian border guards could open fire, but also because the group will be handed off to another smuggler there who is unaware that foreign journalists are accompanying his clients.

Shortly before the border wall – a barrier that was originally five meters tall, but which has almost been completely swallowed up by the sand dunes in some spots – the "coordinator" takes over who has made arrangements with Iranian border police and ensured that they have been properly bribed. Often, he leads several groups across the border at the same place, sometimes hundreds of people. Nevertheless, most will be arrested just behind the border anyway, particularly when units from the Iranian military or intelligence show up. Or if the border guards didn’t get their money after all.

But nothing has slowed to stream of refugees for long. Even though there aren’t many jobs to be had in Iran either, with the economic crisis there hitting the poorest the hardest – particularly for illegal workers from Afghanistan who are viewed with increasing hostility by the desperate Iranians. Everyone here is aware of the hurdles, but they say they don’t care. They just want to get out of Afghanistan, no matter where they end up. And the route to Iran isn’t all that expensive, with each attempt costing just $50. The trip to Turkey costs $1,400. Hardly anybody speaks of Europe, with the dream seemingly unreachable.