BIBI Nekbakht with her grandson in Kabul.—Photo by writer

Bibi Nekbakht, 50, still remembers the fear that engulfed her family when they realised they had run out of money.

Nekbakht and her son Feroz, 20, knew that with their funds quickly dwindling, their days in Pakistan were numbered.

For much of the seven years they spent in the northern city of Attock, the family managed to keep a low profile.

They lived in the relative comfort of a community of fellow Afghan migrants, many, who like them, also subsisted by weaving carpets.

But all that changed after the 2014 attack on an army-run school in Peshawar that led to the death of 145 people, including 132 schoolchildren.

“For years we had no problems, we worked to support ourselves and kept out of people’s way, but after the Peshawar changed everything.”

The Tehreek-i-Taliban Pakistan claimed responsibility for the attack, but reports that the massacre was coordinated on the other side of the Durand Line, meant Afghan migrants were quickly placed in the cross hairs of politicians desperate to drive attention away from the killings themselves.

That increased public attention proved doubly detrimental to Afghan migrants.

Not only were they constantly questioned by police looking for increasingly exorbitant bribes, but the carpet-weaving business, which for many was the only means of income, took a major hit as well.

Nekbakht said her family was not spared.

For them, the first few months of 2015 will be remembered by the sounds of Pakistani police pounding on their doors, demanding registration documents the family did not have.

Though they tried repeatedly to obtain the Proof of Registration cards that allows refugees to legally stay in the country, Nekbakht said her family was constantly turned away.

“At first, [in 2007], they told us the cards were no longer being distributed. Then later they would just keep saying there are none left.”

Without registration cards, the family was forced to pay bribes on two separate occasions — Rs7,000 the first time and Rs2,000 the second.

Even with the exorbitant demands, Nekbakht said her family was relieved, other neighbours had paid even Rs30,000 in bribes.

But with the carpet-weaving business having come to a near halt, the family was out of money by March.

When the police came for the final time in mid-March, the family knew their fates were sealed.

Unable to assuage them with a bribe, the police told Nekbakht, Feroz, his wife and son, only three months at the time, to leave.

They packed up what they could and boarded a crowded lorry headed to the Torkham border separating Afghanistan from what is now Pakistan.

Along the way they spent one night in Peshawar, before finally arriving in Torkham on March 20.

“At the border crossing the Afghan police were banging on the cars, telling the drivers to get across as quickly as possible.”

Upon arrival in Afghanistan, Nekbakht knew her family could not return to their watan, fatherland, in Samangan province.

Though the Taliban presence that originally led the family to flee the northern province in 2008 has largely dissipated, Samangan, with its mountainous terrain and harsh winters, is one of the poorest provinces in the nation.

“If everyone from there comes to Kabul to work as day labourers, we knew there was no hope for us in Samangan.”

But life in the capital hasn’t been much easier.

Feroz, who only ever received a basic education, stands at roundabouts and street crossings hoping to secure construction work.

The family quickly realised that even in Afghanistan, they are once again victims of the times.

With the economy having taken a huge hit since last year’s presidential elections, many construction projects have been scrapped or delayed, meaning Feroz has a hard time securing consistent work.

Last week, Nekbakht said her son worked only two days.

“The other four days he just stood on the streets for hours, only to come home frustrated and unpaid.”

Adding to the pressure Feroz feels is the fact that his wife, Begom, stays at home to watch their six-month-old son, Mohammad Amin, leaving him the family’s sole breadwinner.

Nekbakht said her son has become so desperate that he has considered enlisting in the Afghan National Army, a decision she says she will never support.

“I would sooner we all die of hunger than force him into the army.”

Along with the dangers — as of 2014, more than 13,000 members of the Afghan National Security Forces (including police) have been killed in the line of duty — Nekbakht looks at Feroz’s own father and grandfather as embodiments of what the life of a soldier leads to.

“So many men from our community fought in the jihad, but where are they now, what have they seen from it?”

Despite the hard times her family has faced in the last year, Nekbakht says she does not harbour ill will towards the people of Pakistan.

“On so many occasions, it was our Pakistani neighbours who would go to the police and say: ‘They’re simple people, all they do is work, leave them alone.’”

Who she cannot forgive, however, are the police.

“They beat us, they came knocking at our doors, all for money.”

Published in Dawn, July 7th, 2015

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