Expat Bubble

It's Friday night, closing in on midnight, in Kabul's Shahr-i-Naw, or New City, neighborhood. Spring is here, my window is open as I sit by the computer, working. There is a party close by, foreigners only, and European dance music makes the warm air shiver as if it knew the degree of its own offensiveness. Friday is the holy day. Afghans don't throw loud parties. If I were the Taliban, I would bomb that noisy expat haven, if I were an ordinary Afghan, I would simply condemn it. Sometimes I wonder how clueless we are, us Westerners in our big cars and barbed-wired houses, trying to affect change in a country stuck in the 11th century. Our presence here is offensive to some, necessary to others, crucial to a few. Either way, nobody gave us permission to disturb the peace with our drunken parties and "foreign passports only" restaurants and clubs. It's disgusting. I need a drink.