![]() Leslie, a slight, ruddy-cheeked South African architect with a widow’s peak of closely trimmed white hair, first came to Afghanistan in 1989 with the United Nations he has been working here ever since. “This area is interesting because it was never poor,” Jolyon Leslie said to me as we left one of Taimani’s main roads and headed toward a hill called Kolola Pushta. ![]() A boy on a bicycle carried a stack of flatbread wrapped in a black-and-white scarf the aroma of the baker’s oven lingered in the air after he rode by. Older men in pale, starched robes stood in pairs, murmuring salutations as friends passed by. In Taimani, a residential district of tree-lined avenues and walled courtyards in the center of town, groups of young boys ran down the road in sandals, calling happily to one another. It was a Monday in November, the second day of Eid al-Adha 2011, and the streets of Kabul were free of their usual knot of honking vehicles.
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