IT was in the wee hours of the morning when our house was set ablaze in the South of Kabul. I tightly clung to my dad’s robe while my mum held the hands of my two sisters. We were running for our lives, yet once again.
I was studying at a missionary school. My father, Yamin, was a civil engineer, while my mother, Dr Farishteh, practised medicine as a resident at the National Medical Centre in Kabul, Afghanistan.
We were leading a prosperous life. There were parks, theatres, shopping centres and hotels in the city. Each morning, dad would drop Gul, Lala and me in his station wagon. Life was peaceful and happy, until the day our teacher informed us that school would remain closed indefinitely due to war.
Unaware of the grave nature of the situation, for us it was a time of merrymaking. We used to play for hours in the garden and small sheds encircled by grapes, pomegranate and apple orchards, though our movement was restrained inside the boundary walls.
One fateful morning, father told us that Kabul had come under attack by Russian forces and we would have to leave for our paternal home in the outskirts of Kandahar. We drove fast and amidst heavy aerial bombardment, finally reaching grandpa’s home.
It was a suburban town, possessing natural serenity and a clam atmosphere. There were a few landlord families trading in cultivation and processing poppy and tobacco crops. Others were peasants. Father had to return back to Kabul where damaged buildings and roads were being restored, while mum started practising in the local dispensary. Left with no choice, we had to go to the local Madressah.
News of fighting between Afghan and Russian forces were being heard with great interest. Time passed and the war ultimately stopped. As I turned sixteen, dad took me back to Kabul for readmission in the same school that was now in a dilapidated condition. There was nothing but debris all around. The undulated land, charred barks of once lush-green trees, discarded shells and pungent smell welcomed me back to what I called home. There were strange and cowardly faces everywhere. Kabul, my city, was ruined.
Gradually, life started to gain the momentum of the past. Our house was totally devastated by missile attacks, so my father designed and built a small townhouse with timber. After a long period of war, my family had reunited. Our parents had gotten busy with their jobs and we started going to the same school. There were some new teachers, but no old friends. Steadily progressing, I secured six As in the junior Cambridge exams that I took from Quetta. Dad bought me a Toyota car as a prize. I had an insight of the political affairs of my country and would debate with my friends, the main issue being religious fundamentalism.
Afghanistan’s situation, on the whole, wasn’t good and we had to be very careful in moving around the broken streets. The rage of the religious radical faction rose to its peak and ultimately, they took over after fierce fighting. It aggravated the crisis of a country whose economy was already in tatters and with no social values. They took hold of the food and drug supplies, shutting down schools and colleges and restrained women inside the houses. A reign of terror was let loose, this time by our own people. There was no room for arguments. Not realizing the fact that my father’s presence was inevitable for the department of engineering, he was considered as pro-Western with anti-Islamic thoughts, and the same was the reason for setting our house ablaze, following a cleric’s Fatwa. We somehow fled the place and this time our destination was to be Pakistan. I am unable to recall the later events, but all I remember was a loud explosion of a land mine planted near our house, while fleeing with my family. I woke up in a Red Cross hospital in Peshawar, only to find that I was deprived of my legs. In the silent and clean atmosphere of the hospice, I was informed of the demise of all my family members. I didn’t shed a single tear, as I knew this would happen. The only surprising thing was my own survival.
What is the future of a 20-year-old disabled Afghan, when the whole world has turned hostile against us? The freezing winter season is knocking at our door, laughing at the misery of poor Afghans. International meetings, political and religious agendas, visits and relief aid — is this all the world can do for us? But I know that the sufferings of my fellow countrymen will never end. Egotistic Afghans will always beg for a piece of bread, after all, we are the cursed nation of refugees.
IT was in the wee hours of the morning when our house was set ablaze in the South of Kabul. I tightly clung to my dad’s robe while my mum held the hands of my two sisters. We were running for our lives, yet once again.
