The strongest principle of growth lies in human choice, says George Eliot.

Here in Peshawar there is a little baker’s shop. The shop overlooks what could have been the most beautiful canal promising long lasting good health and ruddy cheeks to the people whose lands it irrigates.

But it is not so since the canal always runs thick with fluids of all unmentionable wastes as if by habit. The people living on the left and right banks of the canal through its long meandering lengths offer garbage of all descriptions to the canal as though it is a kind of charm that would make its water fecund. And though there are some officials posted alongside the banks of the canal to protect it, their only duty seems to be to beat the water with their staff if it dares go wayward.

It is in matters of hygiene that the baker’s shop vies with the canal that carries water to the fields and orchards of Peshawar. But otherwise the shop, having no shape or form, could be seen as the epicenter of mirthful laughter in the peak business hours.

The shop is manned by half a dozen young Afghans who could be seen as happy as birds in their bowers inside their mud-walled shop while performing their assigned duties from kneading flour to wrapping hot baked crispy breads in different shapes in used newspapers.

The shop is apparently owned by a slim middle-aged man from Laghman with a goatee beard and a very jovial disposition. A broad smile of sheer rapture takes hold of his thin face when he is reminded of an old Afghan folk song ‘za che zu Laghman tha’ sung by Naghma and her first husband Mengal. ‘Yes, Mengal (he follows it with something unprintable) was from Laghman,’ he replies with a roaring laughter.

One would never stop wondering why Afghans are loath to returning to their country

His young flippant workforce comprises half from Laghman and the other half from Kunar. In idle moments those from Kunar tease their fellow workers from Laghman calling the cheekiness of the latter so outrageous that it had the poor old devil run for his money. Those from Kunar bear the taunts of being unashamed beggars (sharee in Pashto) with uncontrolled bouts of laughter.

The six bakers ask in unison ‘which homeland?’ when they are asked if they were planning to go back to Afghanistan after the withdrawal of Americans.

‘Look, we were born here and we have not seen an inch of what must have been our forefathers’ homeland in what you call Afghanistan,’ they blurt out a joint statement with an incredible conviction.

It is not possible to argue with these young Afghans now, not for the fear that they might turn hostile but their peculiar status as unwanted guests arouses hard to explain feelings of pity and sympathy. Born and bred in Peshawar and other parts of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Afghanistan to these young men sounds incongruous with their existence in this ephemeral world.

Living in Peshawar it is not possible not to bump into an Afghan every next step.

A brief encounter with Danish, who looks after his family shop in the Karkhano Market, revealed how dearly the young man missed Peshawar during his maiden visit to Kabul.

‘I was so ill at ease in Kabul that I rented a cab for the double of its normal fare to rush back to my home in Peshawar,’ Danish says with palpable feelings of great relief.

‘As the sun set on the penultimate evening before the onset of the month of fasting, I felt myself in a state of unbearable restlessness and decided to run from Kabul,’ he informs while recounting the reason for his escape from what is considered to be his ultimate homeland.

Such feelings of belonging to an alien land are widespread and those experiencing them do not feel inhibited conveying them to those willing to lend an ear.

Waheed, who sells carpets in a big shop in Abbottabad, was born to Afghan parents in a refugee camp in Hangu and grew up in Kohat before he shifted to the hill station with his extended family lock, stock and barrel.

‘My father would never settle for a house that does not have a guestroom to accommodate at least 20 guests, and you know I am one of his 18 children, all from the same other,’ he concludes his rather longish statement with a sheepish smile.

‘Shifting back to Afghanistan any time in future is not on our itinerary,’ he makes it known.

December 31, 2015 will come and disappear into obscurity like many other such deadlines in the recent past, but what we call the Afghan refugees would still be here. It is settled now; they love waking up, walking, talking, singing, dancing and working and of course laughing unrestrainedly on this side of the Durand Line before retiring to their comfortable and relatively less comfortable quarters for their well deserved nightly sleep.

We in Peshawar, and elsewhere in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, have also resigned ourselves to the profundity of this truth. Nevertheless, one would never stop wondering why on earth these Afghans are loath to returning to a country whose singers love singing ‘Da zamung zeba watan, da zamung Laila watan’ (this is our beautiful country, beautiful as Laila).

If one were possessed of supernatural powers, one would have invoked the spirit of Ustad Awal Mir to once again sing this timeless song. It might have worked to induce these young Afghans to rethink.

Published in Dawn, November 30th , 2014