TWO
Kabul, winter 1979 – Masih tried to ignore the irritating noise of the military aircraft that buzzed over the city. About every hour, one of the stout transporters headed either north or south. It has been several weeks since the aircrafts, loaded with heavy military equipment and personnel have been flying back and forth between Moscow and Bagram Airbase.
“Why are there so many airplanes in the sky?” Masih asked as he held the spool to help his father fly the kite.
“They are coming from Shorawi, the Soviet Union,” Dr. Sharif answered, keeping his eyes fixed on the giant kite. As the wind billowed under its belly, it yanked on the glass-coated thread and caused the spool to spin violently in between Masih’s fingers.
“Go on. Watch what they are doing, and watch carefully,” Father whispered as if the kite could hear him. Although Dr. Sharif knew that it was impossible for his kite to reach the aircraft, slash its chest, and send it tumbling to the ground, he fantasized about it anyway.
***
That night, when a thin layer of ice had covered the outer surface of the windows, a fierce shuddering of Masih’s bed and the rattling of the house’s walls shook him awake. Startled, he asked himself, “What is happening? An earthquake?” Unable to see much in the dark, he sat up on his bed.
The commotion woke up Dr. Sharif and Nadia as well. Minutes later, the convoy arrived behind the doctor’s house, pushing up toward the Bagh-e Bala hills. As the military vehicles roared forward, their chains chewed up the road and shook the ground underneath. Dr. Sharif slowly opened the front gate a crack and peered through. What he saw amazed and at the same time horrified him. A flood of headlights, seeming to stretch all the way from Bagram Airbase, steadily crept toward Paghman Valley.
In the midst of the darkness and a heavy fog of dust and smoke, Dr. Sharif witnessed what he had only read of in the history books occurring over and again in Afghanistan—foreign invasion.
“Go back to bed. The Soviets are passing by. It’s going to be alright,” he said to Masih, who stood behind him, shivering in the freezing temperature.
Is it really going to be okay? Sharif asked himself, and dreaded that this might be only a wishful thought.
He pulled the comforter over his son and blew out the candle that Masih had lit just minutes ago, “Sher-e Padar, Dad’s lion, don’t ever be afraid of anything, okay?”
“I am not scared. I am just mad,” Masih said, closing his eyes.
***
When Masih woke up, it was too quiet to be morning. The sun had risen, but the traffic noise, which could normally be heard from the street, was silenced. The Soviet tanks were still out there, engines killed. He could see some of their antennas extending beyond the wall that separated their front yard from the sidewalk. The fume of diesel still polluted the air. As he cracked open the gate, he saw the most monstrous vehicles that he had ever seen in his life. A Soviet tank seemed even larger than the elephant that he had seen in Kabul Zoo six months ago. No wonder the entire house was shaking last night.
He stepped out, and looked to his left and right, but was unable to locate the head or the tail of the convoy. The serpent stretched beyond his field of view on both sides.
“Let’s go son, find out what this is all about,” Father said, standing behind him. His Mazari cloak, as thick as a comforter, with red, blue, and green stripes, draped over his shoulders. Masih zipped his leather jacket and began to walk next to his father. They hiked uphill toward Bagh-e Bala, stepping on patches of snow and ice scattered on the sidewalk.
Wearing thick woolen uniforms and furry round military hats, the Soviet invaders sat on top of their vehicles and enjoyed the crisp air under Kabul’s sunny winter sky. Some lit up cigarettes; others scooped food, most likely haram, forbidden in Islam pork out of a can and ate it without minding the taste. Many yet remained almost motionless, glancing around and trying not to appear nervous. Perhaps they were as shocked by seeing crowds of mainly Afghan boys and men for the first time as were the Afghans by their sudden visit.
“Zdrast, kahk dyeh lah?” said a street vendor in Russian, hoping to make a sale. The Soviets answered with a nod, a fake smile, and a few words of their own, which including the vendor, nobody seemed to understand.
Masih realized that he had been mistaken in assuming the tanks were the most frightening machines. The roar of two helicopters hovering above made the hair stand on his skin. The belly of one almost brushed against the tip of an acacia tree. Accompanied by a tornado of crisp air, the flying monsters circled around the neighborhood not too far above the convoy. Exhibiting heavy weapons mounted on their sides, they flew at low altitude to intimidate the crowd with their sheer size and deafening roar. Masih was certain that if they opened fire, no one standing on those sidewalks would return home alive. Yet, no one seemed to care.
***
As they were walking, a soldier with a round face and features similar to the Uzbek carpet merchants of downtown Kabul locked eyes with Masih. He seemed relaxed, sitting atop his armored vehicle. The young man, who appeared no more than four years older than Masih, smiled and shouted, “Salam alaikum, peace be upon you.”
For a moment or two, Masih kept his gaze locked with the soldier’s and then spit far enough to hit the chain of the tank on which he was sitting.
“Wa alaikum assalam, peace be upon you too,” Dr. Sharif shot back and kept walking.
Some fifty steps farther, he stopped and faced Masih, “Listen. You are a Muslim, an Afghan. Every time someone greets you with Salam, even if he is your enemy, you answer with Wa alaikum assalam, not with spitting. What you did was not right. Do you understand?”
“Bale, yes, “Masih mumbled looking at the frozen sidewalk.”
“Look at me. I didn’t hear you,” Father stepped forward to face him.
Lifting his chin, Masih answered, “Bale Padar jan, yes Father,” then he added, “I don’t like them. They have no right to be here.”
“Me neither. But don’t worry, son. They won’t last too long in this country. No one has.”
The sight of the Soviet soldiers reminded Masih of the stories Father had told him about the British invasion of Afghanistan. He couldn’t remember the details of all the events and the names of the people who led the freedom movement. But he knew that only a few decades ago, the Afghans had been able to fight off the British and defeat them on three occasions. Every time Masih heard those stories, he felt the hair standing on the back of his neck. He admired his ancestors, those honorable men and women who did not bow to the British bullies and made the ultimate sacrifice. Would he ever be able to exhibit such bravery? The question twirled in his mind.
But, meeting the Soviets on the battlefield in this day and age would be an entire new challenge. When the Brits invaded, helicopters and tanks didn’t exist. Besides, according to Father, Afghans possessed better guns than the enemy did. This time, however, it is much more difficult, if not impossible to get rid of the foreigners. Where would the mujahedin, freedom fighters get the firepower that matched that of the Soviets? Despite the disparities in force and technology, it would be an honor to fight against the Soviets. But, would his parents allow him to become a mujahed, a fighter? As these thoughts rushed through his mind, his heart pounded with excitement.
Unlike most other pedestrians, who stared at the convoy with curiosity and confusion, Dr. Sharif kept his gaze fixed on a point far away. As they walked, he too was thinking about the future of his son and his wife, and the future of Afghanistan. Despite his assuring remarks to Masih, he feared that the advent of a bleak period was inevitable, much darker than he ever could have imagined.