The Doha Agreement between the Taliban and the United States was signed on Saturday, February 29, 2020.
I was supposed to be off that day, but I came to work anyway. How could I stay at home? History was unfolding before my eyes. The signing of the Doha Agreement, which set the stage for the complete withdrawal of American troops from Afghanistan, was the defining event of the day for major media outlets.
As a journalist based at Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty’s headquarters in Prague, I received daily news and information from my reporter colleagues in Afghanistan and broadcasted it to the Afghan public. That day, no update felt more significant than this one.
But it was more than a headline for millions of Afghans, both in the country and across the world; it was a turning point in Afghanistan’s modern history – one that would shape its fate for years to come. The air was thick with unspoken tension, a quiet, collective unease.
As I reached my desk, Mohammad Illyas Dayee was calling the office phone.
Dayee was my colleague responsible for reporting from Helmand province. He had a special talent for long-form storytelling and a deep appreciation for the history, literature, and culture of his native province. In the rare moments he wasn’t covering Afghanistan’s most volatile region, he immersed himself in these passions. But more often than not, when Dayee called, it meant he was on the frontlines, reporting a suicide attack, an airstrike, a bombardment, or a fiery battle in some remote corner of Helmand.
For Dayee, Helmand was more than just a battleground – it was home. He spent nearly 14 years reporting from the province, covering not only the relentless fighting between Taliban insurgents and government forces but also the hidden struggles that war overshadowed, such as corruption and child abuse. He faced threats not only from the Taliban but also from drug warlords and government officials desperate to keep their crimes hidden from the public. Yet he refused to let violence define his work.
Dayee focused on the lives caught in between: the farmers whose lands were swallowed by poppy fields, the children forced to trade their schoolbooks for labor, the families who rebuilt their homes after every airstrike, only to see them destroyed again. He understood that war was not just about those who fought but about those who had no choice but to endure. In sharing their stories, he ensured they would not be forgotten.
Dayee was typically lighthearted, even when reporting from the heart of war. But on the phone on February 29, 2020, he sounded unusually unsettled. His usual humor had vanished as his voice carried a question that weighed on the minds of many Afghans: Were the Americans truly leaving Afghanistan? And what would come after the Americans were gone?
There were questions no one could answer with certainty. There was no blueprint, no clear vision of what Afghanistan’s future would look like once U.S. forces withdrew. History, however, offered a grim precedent. When the Soviets left in 1989, their departure ushered in a brutal civil war — a period of anarchy that devastated Kabul, turning it into a battlefield of warlords.
The capital bore witness to unspeakable atrocities: mass rapes, looting, and the forced exodus of its residents. From 1992 until the Taliban’s rise in 1996, Afghanistan was plunged into lawlessness, leaving deep scars on those who survived.
By the time the U.S. arrived in 2001, Afghans had endured nearly a decade of chaos. Millions were living in refugee camps in neighboring countries, and Kabul had become a desolate wasteland, its residents starving. Under the oppressive rule of the Taliban, Kabul’s people were not even allowed to hum to the sound of the wind.
The years that followed the U.S. invasion were far from peaceful – suicide bombings, night raids, and airstrikes became a horrifying reality of daily life. Yet, amid the violence, positive change was slowly taking shape. In parts of the country, schools had reopened, and women had reentered the workforce in major urban centers, though not everywhere. Despite rampant corruption and deep instability, there remained a fragile hope – that in 50 years, perhaps, a foundation would endure, a country that could eventually stand on its own.
Dayee believed that it was the responsibility of Afghans, not outsiders, to rebuild their country. He was so adamant about his conviction that it nearly led to a confrontation between us during his visit to Prague for a journalism training.
Over breakfast one morning, as he prepared to return to Kabul, I casually suggested he stay in Europe. Afghanistan was perilous – especially for journalists – and Helmand, I warned, was a war-torn hellhole.
His wide smile, framed by deep dimples that made him instantly recognizable, quickly faltered. A flicker of unease crossed his face, and he stood up abruptly, the weight of the conversation shifting as he absorbed the gravity of what I was saying.
Slinging his heavy gray backpack, filled with recording tapes, microphones, and the tools of his trade, he looked at me and said, “Why? If we all leave, who will build Afghanistan?”
Dayee refused to abandon his homeland even when doing so would have meant safety; he chose to stay, to bear witness, to tell the stories of those who had no voice. But for Afghans to truly build their country, the war had to end.
The deal signed between the United States and the Taliban laid the groundwork for the U.S. departure; the war was, in theory, coming to a close. Yet the real question lingered: Would the war truly end once the Americans left?
For Afghans like Dayee, this was not an abstract geopolitical question; it was a matter of life and death. In 2019, Dayee’s wife had given birth to triplets – two boys and a girl – after a painful battle with infertility. With the birth of his children, Dayee told me that his life was complete. But in a land scarred by conflict, such moments of happiness are fragile.
Only one child survived – the daughter, Mehrabani, whose name means “kindness.”
Dayee was tired of reporting on war. We all were. He longed for the war to end so Mehrabani could grow up in peace, and thus be spared from the cruelty that war breeds. But at what cost?
That day, on the phone, I could offer little more than hope. “Let’s hope for the best,” I told Dayee. “What else can we do? The war will end – Inshallah.” But we both knew that in Afghanistan, hope was a rare commodity.
On November 12, 2020, a magnetic bomb was attached to Dayee’s car. It exploded as he left to cover a news event; he was killed instantly. He was just 33 years old.
At the time, his daughter, Mehrabani, was just a year and half old.
Five years ago, the Doha Agreement paved the way for all U.S. troops to leave. For the Taliban, it meant a return to power. For the Afghan people, the war technically ended, but the war of poverty, isolation, and despair continues unabated. Afghanistan remains sanctioned, its government unrecognized by the world, and Afghans remain trapped.
If this is the price paid for the end of the war, then the cost of peace is a tragedy too vast to measure.