
Kabul street market
Photo : Wikimedia Commons / Scott Clarkson
The driver opened the door and a young militiaman, swinging a pointy kebab rod, stepped in. He was covered in a stained woollen shawl. He scratched his patchy beard as he looked around at the passengers. He smiled and combed his fingers through his long black hair, coming towards the middle of the bus, where I was sitting.
He whistled an old Bollywood tune as he searched the shelves above the seats. Then he probed under the seats. As he moved from one seat to the next he spotted my little sack. He pulled it out from its hiding place and stuck his kebab rod into it, jerking it back and forth.
“Who does this food belong to?” he asked, very calmly. I hesitated. He looked at the driver and asked again, louder and more angrily this time.
“It’s mine,” I ventured, my voice cracking.
“Didn’t you know that smuggling food is illegal?” he shouted. His dark, skinny face turned crimson.
I started to cry. “Please, uncle! It is only some flour and some bread. It’s not much,” I begged.
“Grab your sack and follow me!”
“Please, uncle…”
Without saying a word or looking at each other, we followed him to his outpost. As we walked towards a large two-story house, I snuck quick glimpses at the faces of the other boys. They looked cold and scared.
“I am not your uncle. I am your sister’s husband,” he replied aggressively, and poked me on the shoulder with his rod. I’d heard that phrase before but it had never been directed at me. It was the first time I had winced at the words. I thought of my little sisters at home, and what this fighter was implying.
“Please, young man!” entreated the nice uncle, on my behalf. “Have mercy, he is a child. It is snowing and cold outside. This poor child…”
Before he could complete his sentence the young militiaman slapped him across the face. “It’s none of your business,” he shouted. “Yallah, grab your food or I will shoot you right here.” He brought out his Kalashnikov from under the blanket and pointed its barrel at my face. I looked around and hoped that someone else would intervene. No one did. Even the nice uncle was now looking the other way.
I stumbled out of the bus, trembling but holding fast to my food sack. The cold air hit me in the face and jolted me from my thoughts of what might happen next.
There was already enough snow on the ground to cover my ankles. Five or six other boys, all my age or younger, stood a few metres away with their sacks of food. They had hidden their hands inside their sleeves to protect them against the cold. At first I was happy to not be alone; then I felt sorry for them, for all of us.
“Follow me, bastards!” the young militiaman shouted.
Without saying a word or looking at each other, we followed him to his outpost. As we walked towards a large two-story house, I snuck quick glimpses at the faces of the other boys. They looked cold and scared.
The militiaman knocked on the gate of the house. Another young man opened the door.
“What have you brought us, Reza?” he asked.
“Smugglers,” Reza answered. “And you know what the punishment is for smuggling?”
We were led out onto a lawn, covered with ankle-deep snow.
“We have a party for you motherfucking rats!” Reza snarled.
We were instructed to kneel in the snow and hold our hands behind our heads. We all obeyed, silently. The sky was still pouring snow and I regretted asking God to make it snow faster.
Reza went inside and soon returned with a small boy, who couldn’t have been more than five years old. I smiled, because for a moment I felt that the presence of another, younger boy meant that we would be safe. He noticed, and smiled back shyly.
“Here, take this,” one of the militiamen told the boy, holding out his Kalashnikov for him to take. “Beat every single one of them.”
The boy tried to grasp the weapon but it was too heavy and slipped from his fingers. He was embarrassed, and picked it up again with a show of effortlessness. He walked behind our kneeling row. I could hear his heavy breathing and the sound of his steps on the snow. He paused.
I thought he was struggling to decide whether to beat us or not, but then I felt a blunt jab to my upper back, and fell on my face. Writhing, I bit down on my screams.
The little boy watched me twist like a snake. He then walked to each boy, stopping only to strike them between the shoulders. When he had beaten the last boy, he dropped the weapon and ran towards the building. When he reached the entrance he stopped and looked back at us. I could see regret in his face; I was still in pain and was sure he could see that. We stared at each other for a few seconds, and he smiled before he disappeared inside.
The men told us they would let us go, but without our sacks of food. But just as we prepared to leave, Reza was beckoned inside the house. He re-emerged a few minutes later, and told us that we must finish digging the half-dug ditch that connected the two sides of the main road.
I was ready to dig all the ditches in the world for my freedom. We were given some shovels and pickaxes. I volunteered to dig first, renewed by the prospect of freedom as soon as we were done. We took it in turns like this for what felt like hours, but the digging kept us warm. As our trench reached the other side of the road it was getting dark. The gutted houses all around were silhouettes. Occasionally, a car would pass on the road and would be stopped at the check point. I thought about home and knew that my mother would be at our front gate, looking for me.
Our hands were numb, our clothes were wet and covered with mud, but nothing could keep us from digging. My heart beat fast, but this time from happiness as I felt so close to freedom. I could tell from the other boys’ fast work that they were happy, too.
I shovelled my last piece of dirt and climbed out of the ditch. “We are done, boss. Can we go home now?” I asked Reza, excited.
“Not that soon,” Reza replied. “The night is still young and the party hasn’t yet started.” The men laughed.
We were ordered to carry our tools and follow the men to a nearby house. We walked in a line, as we were ordered. One militiaman walked at the front, the other followed from behind, to make sure we didn’t run away.
The house we were led to had a collapsed upper floor. Reza kicked the door open and ordered us to go inside. We were instructed to put our shovels and pickaxes in one of the rooms, and to follow one of the men into the cold, dark basement.
It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. The stench of stale human faeces clung to the damp air. It had stopped snowing, but the wind could be heard, howling like a wounded animal against the buildings.
We were ordered to stay where we were, so I whispered to the boys that we should huddle together to stay warm. I remembered my mother telling me that whenever I was in trouble, I should recite specific versus from the Quran. I closed my eyes and began to murmur the Arabic words. A couple of the other boys followed. One began to cry, sobbing that he wanted to go home. I wanted to be with my mother, too. I asked for God’s help.
We heard heavy footsteps approaching. The door was opened and the basement was flooded with a yellow light. Reza and his friend came in, carrying a large oil lamp. We were ordered to stand in line. The lamp was brought close to our faces. The man holding it smirked, and I could smell the hashish on his breath mixed with the smell of the lamp’s oil. The look in his eyes terrified me, and a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the snow or wind travelled through my body. The stories that father told me about young boys being snatched from their fathers were true after all.
“You, come with me,” Reza’s friend ordered. It was impossible to see who he meant, and I feared he was talking to me. I felt dizzy but stepped forward. But he hadn’t meant me.
“Not you, I want him.” He grabbed the boy beside me. He screamed, and tried to step away. He was grabbed again, and dragged kicking and screaming upstairs.
I didn’t know how to react. I was happy that it hadn’t been me, but I felt scared for the boy who was taken. As the door was kicked closed behind us, we were too scared to cry or pray. We were completely silent as we listened to the fading screams and thudding footsteps upstairs.
I knew it had been foolish to believe that we would be let go after we’d finished digging the trench.
Reza shouted after us, laughing: “You will remember this night!”
In the darkness I felt a small, shaky hand grasping me on the arm. The smallest of the boys was shaking, so I pulled him closer in an attempt to comfort him. He grabbed onto me so hard that the shaking of his body transferred to me.
We sat there like that in the dark for a long time, trying to stay warm and comfort each other without words. Suddenly, we heard a burst of laughter approach and the door was flung open. A beam of yellow light entered the basement. The boy who had been taken was shoved inside. The door was slammed and we were locked back in again.
He stood still, in silence, for a few seconds. Then he covered his face with his hands and began to cry. We surrounded him, arms outstretched, trying to calm him. We kept him in the centre of our circle to keep him warm. Nobody said a word. The only sounds I could hear were the blood flowing in my ears and the boy’s sobbing. I wondered who would be next.
Minutes passed and there was no further sign of our captors. I started to think that they were going to keep us for the night, if not forever. Eventually, footsteps approached again and Reza opened the door, alone. He didn’t enter, but stood by the door and lowered the lamp so we were all illuminated. He told us that we were free to go. I couldn’t see his face, just his shadow in the threshold. His voice shook, as did the lamplight, from his shivering.
We did what we were told, eagerly but with suspicion. Were we really being let go now? We clambered up the stairs after Reza. As soon as the last boy stepped out of the house Reza slammed the gate shut and jammed it shut with a big rock. We were told to leave and not look back.
“I will shoot you in the face if you try to look back,” Reza’s friend warned, and waved his gun in our direction. “Run! Now!”
We ran. Reza shouted after us, laughing: “You will remember this night!” We did not know where we were running, but I remembered that we had been brought from the east, so I told the boys that we should head east.
We eventually made it to the main road. It felt very late as the sky was completely black, but at least the shining stars meant that there would not be any more snow for a while. We shared the road only with a few stray dogs. The boy who had been assaulted was in pain and couldn’t run any further. Some of the boys suggested that we should continue to walk towards the downtown area. I didn’t think we should leave the injured boy alone, and suggested that we wait for a car to pass. We waited, but many cold minutes passed with no sign of a vehicle, so we decided to walk after all.
I volunteered to be the first person to carry the injured boy on my back. I had had no breakfast, lunch or dinner that day, but the thought of being free and seeing my family again filled me with energy. We walked in silence. The only sounds were the barking of dogs and our footsteps crunching against the snow and ice. I was determined to get home soon and wake from this nightmare. The other boys must have felt the same.
The boy on my back began to cry, silently. I knew because I felt a warm tear drip down my neck. I tried to start a conversation, but he refused to tell me his name. The only thing he said was that he lived close to the airport.
When we arrived at our destination, two of the boys left without even saying goodbye. I didn’t blame them. The rest of us couldn’t decide what to do with the injured boy. We decided to wait again to see if a car would pass. I had some money left, and the other boys pitched in so that we could pay for a taxi if we could find one. But there were no cars on the streets. I cursed the wind, the cold and the darkness. I was ready to take the injured boy home with me.
Eventually, a bicycle approached through the darkness. We became excited. I ran towards it and called out for the rider to stop, but he wouldn’t. Perhaps he thought we were a group of street boys up to no good. I ran and tried to grab the back of his bicycle. It dragged me a couple of metres as I clung on, but then, came to a halt.
The cyclist shouted at me. “What do you want, you bastard?” He was angry. I told him what had happened to us. But he thought we were trying to steal his bicycle. I asked him to come and take a look at the injured boy, to see for himself. He was reluctant, but agreed. “You’d better be telling me the truth,” he warned.
We approached the circle of boys. When the cyclist saw the blood of the injured boy he realised I was telling the truth. He agreed to take the boy to his home on his bicycle. We sat him on the back, told him where to hold on tight, and he peddled away into the night.
***
My mother was still awake when I knocked on the door. Indeed everyone, except my two little sisters, were awake and waiting for me. Patience and faith can be very powerful. Much later, my mother told me that because of her patience and faith in God, she knew I would return.
My father’s reaction was as I had imagined it would be. He pulled me inside and beat me. I did not cry. I did not shed a single tear. I enjoyed this beating because I was happy that I was back home, among my siblings and parents. I used to always feel antagonised after beatings from my father. This time, when he tired of beating me, I ran after him and hugged him from behind. I told him that I was sorry and burst into tears.
After the excitement and anger of my return had settled, everyone else went to bed. I couldn’t sleep. I tiptoed to the door of my parents’ room and listened to their snoring and heavy breathing.
“Thank you God, for bringing me back home,” I whispered into the darkness.
I brought my blanket and lay down in the corridor outside my parents’ room because I wanted to be as close to them as I could. That is what I would do whenever I was scared and could not sleep. I closed my eyes to tried to sleep but remembered to assaulted boy. I wondered what would happen to him. Did he make it home? Where was he now? Would he recover from the physical and emotional trauma? What was he doing or thinking about? What if they had taken me instead? I realised how wrong I had been about my father. There was a reason he did not want me to take the risk, I told myself. There was plenty of time to be a man, later.
~ Abu Taha is a Kabul-based journalist and fiction writer.