End of Taliban regime is start of hope for Kandahar

KANDAHAR, Afghanistan -- At the Pamir Hotel, in the heart of Kandahar, it was talent night for young musicians.

Crammed into a cement-walled room, sitting cross-legged in the glow of a kerosene lamp, dozens of men wrapped in traditional woolen shawls swayed gently to music. Men played the harmonium, beat drums and sang in deep baritones of love, life and religion.

"This is the first time since the Taliban left that we have opened our hotel for the singers," said Sultan Mohammed.

And it is the first time since the fall of the Taliban and its fiercely puritan doctrines that music, education and the simple promise of freedom can be heard, seen and felt in this ancient, southern Afghan city.

Normality is still a long way off. The city of 300,000, the Taliban's stronghold during its five years in power, bristles with weapons. Truckloads of turbaned men hugging rocket launchers and Kalashnikov rifles roar through streets cratered by 20 years of fighting. Daily, it seems, more men with more guns enter the city in convoys.

It's not clear to whom they're loyal -- new governor Gul Agha, or his archrival, Mullah Naqib Ullah, the deputy head of security, with whom he has a fragile power-sharing agreement.

But for now, the taste of freedom is savored.

Now, in daylight, the markets of Kandahar bustle. Cars with blaring horns compete with horse-drawn carts and noisy rickshaws. There are new shops selling music cassettes and videos.

On a wall, a sign from Taliban times says: "In our religion the highest honor is jihad." Next door, Fazil Mohammed and his brother, Abeil, sell dozens of music cassettes each day.

And at night, soft melodies waft from the Pamir Hotel through streets blackened by night and no electricity. Patrons climb a stone staircase, following the sound of music.

Pointing at towers

In his small restaurant, owner Haji Khalil provides a chilling reminder of what led to the U.S.-led bombing campaign in Afghanistan. He tells of three Arab men staring at his large poster of New York's skyline, pointing to the World Trade Center towers and mimicking the sounds of explosions. That was four months before Sept. 11, Khalil said.

Behind a blue burqa, a teacher named Rubina searched for words to explain how life has changed since the Taliban fled.

She was working again and that was good.

But it was so much more.

"It's not only that I feel as if I can breathe again, but that I can dream again," she said.