Word: mudding
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...must get its eyes and ears down to ground level. It might start the search in the mud-brick city of Peshawar, Pakistan, hard by the Afghan border at the foot of the Khyber Pass. This is where the terrorists meet, form cells and deploy--and where access to the closed world of the Taliban begins. Bin Laden's foot soldiers regularly slip through the walled enclaves and jostling bazaars to recruit jihadis or send out instructions. Taliban fighters float through to spy and resupply. Every Afghan faction has its representative in some dim house. Intelligence agents linger...
Northern Alliance officials continue to paint a rosy picture of a regime on the verge of collapse. Over cups of tea in their calm command posts or in small mud houses near the dozy front, they assure visitors that Taliban morale is nosediving, that desertions are widespread. Checking such assertions can be bewildering. A group of journalists spent a day looking for the sole confirmed deserter on the Kabul front, and at first they were told he could not be reached because he was at the front line working the radios, calling on his former colleagues to surrender. Many hours...
Almost every art has its technology. Painting is an ancient mud process. Welded-steel sculpture required the invention of the welding torch. Janet Cardiff's breakthrough work required--the Walkman. Ten years ago, while thinking about a new artwork, she was walking through a cemetery in the Canadian town of Banff, reading into a tape recorder the names she found on old gravestones. At one point, she rewound the tape, then replayed it to find where she had left off. That is how she first had the disorienting experience of hearing herself describe a walk while she was still...
...allies want to get Omar, it should be far easier than nabbing bin Laden. For the past six years, Omar has worked from his guarded, palatial Kandahar bungalow. Just a year before that, he was a mere village clergyman living in a two-room rural house made from mud...
...learned that fighting around Bamiyan had stopped a month before and we would be the first foreign visitors since the Buddhas were destroyed. Ten hours north in the back of a truck brought us to a stop where a group of Taliban fighters escorted us to a stone-and-mud compound. In each corner stood a militiaman armed with a locally made AK-47 assault rifle and guarding piles of ammunition and missiles loosely stacked against a wall. We sat on the ground and tensely drank tea with our hosts. The mood lightened as more Taliban members arrived, hugging...