In the forgotten Afghan province of Kunar, a village rebuilds after the earthquake – far from the world’s attention
In the village of Spedar, walnuts fall from the trees, and if you listen closely, you can hear the thud. There’s also the babbling of a stream, the lowing of cows, and the distant crowing of a rooster breaking the silence. Girls carry bundles of dry corn stalks and grass from the fields.
From above, from the mountainside, the village appears serene. But on the other side of the valley, ruined houses mar the pastoral idyll.
“My son died in one of those houses,” says a man with a dark, weather-beaten face. “Some of our animals are also buried in the ruins.”
On August 31, 2025, around midnight local time, the village – like the wider Kunar and neighboring Nangarhar provinces – was struck by a magnitude 6.0 earthquake. A few aftershocks followed. According to official figures, at least 2,000 people were killed and more than 4,000 injured. Chawkay district, where Spedar is located, ranked second among the most affected areas.
Now it’s mid-autumn, and we’re drinking tea on the roof of a mud-brick house. The structure doesn’t look particularly sturdy – the roof bends and sags slightly when I walk, and I’m warned not to come too close to the edge.
During the earthquake, these mud-and-wood houses collapsed like stacks of cards, burying entire families under the rubble.
My companions at this unexpected green-tea gathering are all men. Men of all ages sit around me, while boys crowd the yard below, eager to pose for photos. The teenage girls with bundles of grass on their heads look no older than thirteen or fourteen. Adult women are nowhere to be seen.
Centuries-old traditions and religion shape mentality and dictate daily life. Kunar is a conservative province with a predominantly Pashtun population. Even in Asadabad, the provincial capital, women are rarely seen in the streets – and here, nearly three hours away by mountain road, a woman’s world is confined to the walls of her home.
The male and female worlds are strictly separated. Any interaction between unrelated men and women is forbidden, considered dishonorable, and can have deadly consequences.
“There was a particular area in the earthquake zone where cultural norms meant that women themselves didn’t want men to touch them, and men also didn’t want to touch women as they were trying to rescue them,” said Susan Ferguson, UN Women’s Special Representative in Afghanistan.
A few days later, The New York Times reported that a ban on physical contact between men and women had prevented rescue teams from helping female earthquake victims.
I ask the men sitting next to me on the roof whether such claims are true. The imam of the local mosque, a stately man in a black turban, shakes his head.
“In emergencies, when it comes to saving lives, Islam allows what is normally prohibited,” he explains.
“If there were more women among the dead, it’s because women are more responsible and care more for their children. Mothers tried to save their children when fathers simply ran away.”
Among the tents
Camps for earthquake survivors stretch along the highway from Jalalabad to Asadabad – white tents, blue tents, dark blue tents, tents from China, tents from Pakistan, the UN tents, and Red Crescent tents.
More than 5,000 houses were destroyed. International organizations, together with the current government, have tried to provide shelter to everyone deprived of it. Some camps are located inside former American military bases, empty since 2021.
In every camp, crowds of men and children gather around me. The women continue to live in their closed world, and, as before, access to their tents – like to the village houses – is closed to me.
Here, among the canvas walls, wind, dust, and the smell of sewage, grief and loss are more palpable than amid the measured pace of village life.
There is no shortage of drinking water, food, or medicine, but no one has come to terms with the loss – of family, home, and the familiar rhythm of life. Many have experienced loss twice in a short time: among the earthquake victims are refugees deported from Pakistan just a few weeks earlier.
“Two months ago, my family and I returned from Peshawar. We rented a new house and hoped to start over, but the earthquake ruined everything. It was a terrible night – I’ll never forget the rocks falling from the mountains. My wife was pregnant and lost her child.”
“My wife and three children died, and I didn’t have time to do anything. Neighbors helped me dig the graves.”
“My brothers’ houses collapsed in two minutes. Of the forty people who lived there, only eight survived. My nephews are with me now, and I’m taking care of them.”
“My youngest daughter was two months old. We never even found her body.”
Autumn in Afghanistan is deceptive. The weather stays warm during the day, but after sunset the temperature drops sharply, and a cold wind blows from the mountains.
This tragedy – one of many in Afghanistan’s modern history – is now in the past. The rescue operations are over, and the remaining rubble can only be cleared in spring.
Abdullah Haqqani, the deputy governor of Kunar province, has announced the start of new housing construction in the affected areas. But the return of the victims – the return home, to safety, familiarity, and predictability – will be long.
The road to Spedar
The road to Spedar winds like a narrow ribbon around the mountain – a cliff on one side, a precipice on the other. It’s unpaved, and speeding up is impossible: sometimes the tires sink into sand, sometimes a rock strikes the bottom of the car.
Far below, in the valleys, the white tents of the camps gleam in the sun. On this road, for the first time in Afghanistan, I feel uneasy enough to suggest to the driver that we walk instead.
He laughs – walking three or four hours on such a road would be much harder than driving – and I close my eyes as our Toyota squeezes past an oncoming Land Cruiser.
Whatever happens in Spedar, getting there or back takes hours. The nearest hospital is 7km away – though, given the terrain, it feels like 17. Female medical staff are not always available, though there is a midwife in the area.
One of my companions proudly tells me that some villagers know how to treat illnesses through Quranic prayer, and miraculous recoveries happen quite often. Still, over a cup of green tea, the villagers dream of a healthcare center – for both men and women – and probably a new school, as the current one is in a residential building.
“And someone should tell the UN we need new tents for winter – the weather’s getting colder.”
Navigating the village is hardly easier than getting there. What locals call a street may be a narrow, slippery path between boulders, crossed by a mountain stream and now littered with logs, boards, and mud left by the quake.
Some houses stand at the valley floor; others cling to the slopes like small medieval fortresses. A few, including the local mosque, are built of small stones and clay mortar – if such walls collapse, getting out from under them is almost impossible.
“Over there,” one of the farmers points to the forested mountain peaks, “several villages were practically wiped out, and almost no one survived. The only way to reach them is on foot, so volunteers grabbed backpacks and went.”
Earthquakes are common in this part of Afghanistan. During my stay, the ground shakes for about ten seconds, and the next day an aftershock rattles the windows of my hotel in Asadabad.
The villagers say the last major quake was about five years ago and recall the relatives they lost.
I ask what help the Republican government provided back then. My question causes a brief silence.
“Representatives of the Republican government never came here,” says a man with a henna-dyed beard.
“We were already under Taliban rule. Now they have more power and more ability to help us. That’s good.
On the other hand, people like you never came either – it was too dangerous. Having someone who tells the world about our needs is also good.”
After the midday prayer, they walk me back to the car and hand me a plastic bag full of walnuts – a gift from the village.
As we drive down the mountain, I hear them again – the same sound that opened the morning – walnuts dropping one by one into the dust. A quiet, stubborn rhythm that says: life, even here, goes on.