2018 - 2019
Hundreds of thousands of Afghans are heroin addicts. Politics wants the problem under the carpet return, while the life of those affected already takes place on the social floor.
Something rare breaks the silence in Kabul this morning: it is the loud voice of one
Woman. As every morning, Miriam washes the small veins of the Kabul River, which is the place to be Transport garbage from one end of the city to the other. Today she is in a rage. Together She is trying to reconstruct the day with her son-in-law, Reza, last week her husband, Mohammad Baz, was killed by a stone. "You killed him!", roars Miriam, her words scratching the air as she passes by. Angered, he looks at her: "No, you killed him and everybody knows it! "" Why should I? "," To have fun with others ". Now Miriam gets up. She has enough. Enough garbage in the face and enough of Reza. The Recalling details of said day is difficult for them. They were so high that they turned can barely remember. For years, the two bickering hard Heroinabhängig, as well Miriam's five children, her dead husband and an estimated four million more Afghans. "My man forced me into prostitution. I was not even 13 damn. "She's angry, but her Voice has caught. Cool, she says: "I slept with many men. Every evening with another. I had to. He left me no choice. I have taken care of all of us. " Furnished - the magic cue has fallen. Miriam gets up and starts the riverbed without a word to walk along. Practiced, she jumps in her plastic slippers over the water and bypasses the big piles of garbage that cover the sand. Reza dumbles after her, cursing. It is time for the first dose of the day.
They walk until they arrive at the bridge, their bad reputation always ahead of their heads is. Still farther ahead than the stink of human excrement, which hits you from afar sneaks: Pul-e-Sukhta, Kabul's subaltern heroin city. In the shadow of yellowed washed concrete seek refuge for thousands of addicts. Here you are among yourself and can do anything an addict inevitably must: buy drugs, consume, and finance them: by buying and selling of stolen goods or prostitution. Arrived they look for an entrance, because the dependent ones
have hung old blankets to the inner life of this mysterious world in front of onlookers shield. The rattle flutter softly as a curtain of desolation in the wind of commuters, who rush over their heads. Miriam pulls on a purple fabric. It works,
behind it the black interior gapes. The two enter and disappear. When she was twelve, Miriam was forcibly married. She did not know her husband then Heroin addict is. She did not even know what heroin is. Today she does it all too well:
Afghanistan is the world's largest exporter of the drug with a market share of 90%. Since the American intervention In 2001, the cultivation tripled.1 The fact is: Business is booming, the drug is everywhere and people are suffering. Every tenth person in Afghanistan is dependent. After a quarter of an hour, the curtain opens again and Miriam is back in the lax Riverbed. A few seconds later, Reza is there too. The two search hastily for a quiet Cookie. Now everything can not go fast enough. You lay the fabric on a rolled-up Chewing gum paper and light it. With the straw cut off, they breathe the sour smoke one. The eyes roll in the back of the head. Slowly, they tip over. Now they are fine. For a at least a few hours.