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Every story has a beginning... and the journey is never easy.

In times of instability or religious control, when women had to be careful to go out in public, men had still ventured here at one time, to see their favourite Hollywood films and the beautiful actresses from over distant seas or land. Farshad himself had fond memories of evenings spent here in his younger days absorbing the culture of the West and of the Soviets, and enjoying the gloss and beauty of the foreign women, so much more alive and alluring than local Afghan women were ever allowed to be. He had loved their poise and elegance, their dangerous independent ferocity. Despite their being actresses he had always known that these women were being their real selves. They had character, were allowed to show their beauty, and they controlled or inspired men, in ways their Afghan counterparts had rarely been allowed to.

He went to the door, which was open in the afternoon sun. The reserve he would have felt in the recent past was gone today. Once he would have been scared to investigate for the fear of being reported to the Taliban police or the militants of other previous warlords. The reports of enemies could so easily be embellished, and it was always better to avoid creating suspicions. To stay in your own house or apartment was always the safest plan. But he had seen the northern fighters returning to the city under the leadership of their warlords yesterday, with their tanks and with American allies. He had seen the Taliban peasant warriors and their Arab fanatic allies fleeing the city just before, as they set torch to certain buildings. The men of the city were out in the open today, laughing and joking with their liberators, the returning exiled soldiers of the city and their northern allies.

To a man who had loved Hollywood and all it represented so much it seemed so marvellous to see the American tanks and to welcome them as liberators. How long had he prayed for Hollywood to liberate his godforsaken country. He had spoken to Americans in his broken half learned and long unused English language about his favourite films and actresses. He felt as if he was in Europe after their massive war which he had seen in films so often before, welcoming the generous heroes from the West. Together the Americans and the Russians with their allies had defeated the intolerant Nazis. He had heard the Russians were now at peace with the Americans again, past differences buried, allies again, as it should always have been. The rivalry of the superpowers had caused the country to be torn apart, but now they were together against the religious fanatics who had so rudely been able to take over the land in the civil wars. Now the Taliban fanatics had gone and because he saw Americans with their tanks here at last he believed it would be forever. He fervently hoped so. All would be healed and the country could at last be at peace.

Farshad entered the old cinema through the old door, and to his surprise could hear music along the corridor. He had not heard music in a long time. Music had been banned by the Taliban, and certainly the listening of European or American music had been punishable with strong deterrents. He had heard of neighbours whose musical equipment had been destroyed when the Taliban police had searched their property. They had taken his own record player away a long time ago, but it had not been working at that time. Frequent power cuts prevented most people from listening even if they had managed to hide equipment from police or neighbours. Those caught actually playing music had faced beatings and even imprisonment. The music sounded like rock'n'roll. He hadn't heard that for years, but loved it when he was younger. He liked all the music of America and Europe. He loved the great musicals, the classics, jazz, rock and soul. He had been deprived of all of it, like all of his countrymen. All of the good things in life, all of the things that should have made life good!

The ticket kiosk was open.

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