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Before most Americans had even heard of the Taliban, American John Weaver entered Afghanistan to help those living in the destruction of years of war and the restrictive Muslim government.

In September 2000, the Northern Virginia native began work in the country as a relief worker with Shelter For Life International. There he saw how the lives of families had been destroyed by a ravaged land and cruel leadership. After the events of September 11, Weaver stayed in the country to help those families. He tells his story in Inside Afghanistan (W Publishing Group).

In these excerpts from the book, Weaver writes about the terror that raged before September 11 and his prayers for change.

Before the Taliban or Al Qaeda exported their malicious hatred and evil acts of terrorism to the rest of the world, they practiced them for years in Afghanistan. In fact, during the last several years, humanitarian aid workers have frequently evacuated northern Afghanistan because of the Taliban's savage treatment of anyone they perceived as an enemy.

For example, the first week of September 2000, the Taliban bombarded Taloqan, the capital of the Takhar province. Explosions and fires razed parks, orchards, and neighborhoods. Ten thousand families fled for their lives, but hundreds of civilians died, and the survivors experienced intense suffering. There, as in so many and towns of Afghanistan, destroyed homes collapsed on the innocent families within. Simple grave markers usually appeared in front of the rubble indicating to passersby that what remained of the house had become a tomb. No one in the family was left to dig out the bodies and give them a proper burial.

The Taliban's next target was Khvajeh Ghar, which they attacked around the middle of September, destroying 80 percent of the area. They massacred innocent civilians, planted hundreds of mines, and booby-trapped empty houses. The village was instantly transformed into a ghost town. At least 5,000 families barely escaped with only the clothes they were wearing and what they and their donkeys could carry.

Their appetite for mayhem unsatiated, the Taliban applied their own version of scorched-earth policy to the towns they overran, tossing incendiary devices on the roofs of homes and businesses. Plumes of smoke from smoldering villages blackened the air for days, like ominous low-hanging thunderclouds. Those who lived to tell of the atrocities knew they had no homes to which they could return.

Mud houses don't burn, but Afghan builders use wood timbers, woven mats, and straw-laced mud layers to roof their homes. Unfortunately, those materials blaze like tinder; fires catch quickly and consume the thatch, in turn igniting the heavier wood frames. The roof eventually collapses onto the rooms and families below. After the leaping flames die down, the glowing coals continue to burn until everything in the house is destroyed. After the embers cool, an eerie sight remains. Doors gone and windows empty, the skeleton houses resemble hollow-eyed Halloween masks, staring morosely into deserted streets.

Never looking back, the Taliban then set their sights on Dasht-e Qaleh. I had just moved into town. This area was strategic in the war effort, because it includes an important Tajik/Afghan border crossing on the Amu Darya River. The first bombs screamed into my neighborhood around September 20, 2000. We quickly stopped our work on the girls' school project, because our workers presented tempting targets to Taliban fighter pilots. Moreover, if the Northern Alliance lost this area, the school might be destroyed or used to house soldiers. In either case, it could not serve its intended purpose.

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September (Web-only) 2002, Vol. 46