I drive past my village often. It is less than one mile from the main road from Kabul to Kandahar, four hours from the capital.

From the road I can see my house. But I can no longer look at it. It is too painful. Going there is impossible.

My village of Spinagbaragha is only seven miles from Qalat, the provincial capital of Zabul province, yet government forces and the American soldiers based there were helpless when my father was beaten, my house searched and my money stolen, and I was threatened with death if I ever returned. This was all because I work with Westerners and they accused me of being a spy and a Christian. Both accusations are false and, as a devout Muslim, hard to hear.

It is five years since American forces first entered my country offering the peace and stability that we had been denied for the past 30 years.

Thousands have died since that day, the countryside is overrun by Taleban rebels and thieves, and the prospect of a peaceful Afghanistan remains but a dream.

Even the road from Kabul to Kandahar, which cost $500 million (£270 million) in Western aid money to build, is becoming too dangerous. Earlier in the year I would drive Western journalists working for The Times. Now that would be a death sentence.

When I drove along the road two weeks ago armed Taleban rebels had set up a checkpoint less than two miles from Qalat. The roadblock was in clear view of a police post, yet the officers did nothing.

My own troubles in my village, the place where I grew up, started three years ago. After repeated threats I decided to move my family to the relative safety of Kabul. The threats were partly because I was working with Westerners, but also because I had a job and was making money; unemployment is high in Zabul after seven years of drought.

The night before we were set to leave, four armed men burst into our house while another eight waited outside. They claimed that they were Taleban and were looking for things that proved I was a spy. (I once worked for the Taleban as an official, including in the public works and interior ministries in Zabul province between 1998 and 2001, although I never carried a gun.)

They found nothing that night but money, and they took more than $4,000. One of my wives managed to hide some money, so we were not left penniless.

This time they did not beat my family. Luckily I had already returned to Kabul to work, otherwise they may have left my five children fatherless.

Although those who broke into my house said that they were Taleban, they could just have been bandits; many people commit crimes and blame it on the Taleban.

My father was the first member of my family to return to the village, a year later. He had to sort out a land dispute and collect the grape harvest. His trip almost cost him his life.

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Six armed men burst into the house and grabbed him. They tied his hands and legs, staked him to the ground and put a noose around his neck. He was then beaten with a metal pipe and the butt of a Kalashnikov rifle for being “the father of an infidel”.

My father was 76, an old man, and he lost consciousness. He was saved only when another of my relatives managed to alert villagers, who chased off the attackers. My father was lucky to survive; they broke two ribs, blinded him in one eye and dislocated two vertebrae. He still walks with a stick and suffers great pain during the winter cold.

I knew after this attack that nothing would be the same.

Yet it is not only my family who is suffering. The youth of my village are being deprived of an education. Even under the Taleban there were two schools. In the years immediately after their fall, there were three serving 2,000 children from the five surrounding villages.

Today not even one is open. A campaign of intimidation, which included the beating and murder of teachers and the burning of schools, has closed them all. The Taleban say that the schools represent a government that they do not recognise and, as such, are a legitimate target.

My village is the site of our family graveyard. Eight of my brothers and sisters are buried there. Two were martyrs; they died after a Soviet rocket hit our house in 1983. The graveyard is also the home to five of my children, all born prematurely. They died because there is only one hospital in the province.

We used to go to the graves every Friday to pray; now it is impossible. For us — my wife who has lost five children and my mother — that is the hardest part of all.

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