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Kabul? My first thought was, Hell yes! Yes to Kabul, yes to bombs, yes to that electrical jolt I got just thinking about Kabul. Yes to chaos and crazy, yes to toga parties, yes to Kabul High, yes to insh’Allah, yes to endless cups of tea, just yes. I thought about it seriously for a few days, before waking up one morning and realizing—no. Just like I couldn’t go back to Chicago, I couldn’t go back to Kabul. I had already graduated, after all, and everyone knows you can’t go back to high school. Especially when that high school is a war zone, especially when that war zone is falling apart. I rationalized my decision: I could always go back for the class reunion, which if the past was any guide would be in another ten or twelve years, when history would probably repeat itself, when all the same players or their latest incarnations would start the dance again.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book started out as comic relief, as an antidote to all that was falling apart. I would never have been able to write it without the help of Farouq and my other Afghan friends—they’re some of the funniest people I know, even if I still don’t get the Mullah Nasruddin jokes. Credit also goes to my friends in Pakistan, especially to my unnamed translator. You know who you are. If comedy is tragedy plus time, time has been compressed into minutes in that part of the world.

For their insightful comments on early drafts, a DJ Besho–like shout-out to Lisa Cowan, Nicole Ruder, Bay Fang, Katherine Brown, MP Nunan, Dorothy Parvaz, Jasmin Shah, Ronan McDermott, and Rebekah Grindlay.

Although most of the journalists in Afghanistan and Pakistan are more like my extended family, special thanks are due to Soraya Sarhaddi Nelson for handing me that shot of whiskey at 9 AM, Jason Straziuso for talking books and teaching me to play poker, and Aryn Baker for running around three countries with me. Thanks also to Tom Coghlan, Jeremy Foster, Tammy Haq, and especially Sean Langan for their collective sense of humor and fact-checking. For late nights and unwavering support, I owe countless favors to Nurith Aizenman, Sophie Barry, Belinda Bowling, Paula Bronstein, Carlotta Gall, Joanna Nathan, Rachel Reid, Candace Rondeaux, Mary Louise Vitelli, and Frauke De Weijer.

For obvious reasons, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank the Chicago Tribune and my editors, who gambled and sent a unilingual green reporter overseas. The Tribune is still home to some of the best journalists I’ve ever worked alongside.

Back in the United States, I’m also extremely grateful to my agent, Larry Weissman, who understood this book as soon as I pitched the idea, and to my editor at Doubleday, Kristine Puopolo, who believed in my absurd vision.

I’m indebted to the Council on Foreign Relations for rescuing me, supporting me, and reminding me which fork to use. And to ProPublica—thanks for keeping me grounded and giving me new challenges.

Last, but never least, much love and gratitude to my family. To my brother, Todd Barker, for pushing me to jump. And to Gary Barker and Connie Collier for putting up with my disappearing act. It’s almost too much to ask of parents, even former hippies.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kim Barker grew up in Montana, Wyoming, and Oregon, and graduated from Northwestern University with a degree in journalism. She worked at the Spokesman-Review in Spokane, Washington, for four years, and the Seattle Times for two years, winning awards for her investigative reporting. In 2001, at age thirty, she joined the Chicago Tribune and began making reporting trips to Afghanistan and Pakistan the next year. Barker was the Tribune’s South Asia bureau chief from 2004 to 2009. She was then awarded the Council on Foreign Relations’ Edward R. Murrow press fellowship to study Afghanistan and Pakistan. She now lives in New York City, where she works as a reporter at ProPublica.