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I spent the day before the signing of the US-Taliban pact experiencing the vast contrasts in the country where I was born. In the morning I had driven back to the Eastern province of

Nangarhar to meet with three women, all widows, from a single family. The three illiterate women — ranging in age from somewhere in their 30s to their 80s — were responsible for 17 children.

Though they had each lost the men in their lives in the decades-long conflict, none had seen the benefits and advancements promised specifically to Afghan women at the onset of the US-led

invasion. Each was married at a young age to a man who had also been shut out from the opportunities espoused by the US-backed governments in Kabul. Two of them gave birth to a total of 12

children in Dara-e Noor, a district without proper medical services or schooling. Each lost a husband to war, either at the hands of the communist governments of the 1980s or in battles

against the Taliban two years ago. Their poverty has denied the opportunities to go to school and work, much less to follow the travails of the aspirational characters on the Turkish serials

that have become so famous among urban Afghans. Their poverty has cost them everything, though. Still, what they desire is peace, even if it means making a deal with the very group that

killed two of their husbands. For them, the US-led invasion did not empower them to cast ballots in democratic elections, nor did it allow them to re-assert the rights that been taken from

them since the Civil War of the 1990s. What it did lead to was the struggle of trying to raise their families amid drones, suicide bombings, landmines, night raids and funerals for loved

ones killed by one side of the war or another. By the evening, I had returned to Kabul to celebrate the birthday of a 26-year-old female photographer at a bowling alley in a multi-level

mall. When we discussed the impending peace deal, we thought of all we had gained in the last 18 years. For me, a one-time child refugee who fled the Soviet occupation, it allowed me to

return to the city of my birth as a journalist after decades in the United States. For the others, all of whom had grown up between Kabul, Bogota, Tehran and Peshawar, it allowed them to

gain an education, start multiple businesses, work in the Presidential Palace and a government-allied media outlet. More than anything, the US-Taliban deal has exposed these contrasts

between the haves and have-nots of Afghan society. For those of us living with even the smallest modicum of relative comfort and safety in the urban centres, the deal could mean the end of a

life of liberties and possibilities in a fast-changing city. We were reminded of this possible outcome during a conversation with the father of a friend of mine in the weeks leading up to

the signing of the deal. “If the Taliban feel disempowered politically, they will try and force societal change. If they can’t get the ministries and governorships, they will try and exert

themselves in other ways. Soon, they may start asking about your beards or try and close down the cafes, to cancel the TV shows. You will have to fight for your rights all over again,” he

warned. Such an outcome would force us to face the societal fault lines of Afghanistan head-on. After all, it’s not just the Taliban who may desire a more traditional, simple life, dictated

by long-held religious and cultural beliefs. Even in the bowling alley, we saw hip young boys, smartphones in hand, turning from their games and shishas to stare at the two successful young

girls, both of whom had removed their headscarves, walking in. Ultimately, the last 48 hours reminded me of a line from a Netflix show about the Latino community of Los Angeles trying to

live in an increasingly gentrified and polarised city. “Life isn’t just about survival. We can thrive,” an older female character said in Spanish. This statement, so simple, yet so specific

on its face, can just as easily be applied to an Afghanistan currently on the precipice of a US-orchestrated political deal that will impact the lives of 32 million people. It begs the

question: is it better for millions and millions of people to simply survive in a life free of bombs, airstrikes and night raids? Or do we, a small subsect of society have to keep pushing to

thrive, insisting that the rights that reached only a specific group of us be preserved? I don’t know the answer. Does anyone?