Urban Desert

After much pleading and a grovelling apology on behalf of my sister to Mullah Mohammed Omar, I was finally granted access to Kabul. My companions were four diplomats, who were from various countries. Being male, they had an advantage over me in this fearsome part of the world.

    Melanie, my younger sister was the sole reason I was here. My efforts to talk her out of coming here so soon after the tragic events in New York, held no credence with her She remained stubborn, unmoved by the obvious dangers.  Mel, the angel with a heart of gold was born to be an International Aid worker, only this time she had opted for the wrong country at the wrong time.

    Confusing accounts of why she and her three colleagues had been arrested were still to be clarified. Illegally preaching Christianity in a devout Muslim country was one of the reasons offered, the other being spying, which was much more worrying, as it carried a death sentence.

    I felt most uncomfortable, wearing a black burqa, which covered me from head to foot, but still hostile stares and strange utterances were thrown my way. The heat of the sun pleasantly surprised me, as I expected much harsher conditions in October.

    The black-robed Taliban soldiers, who were armed with Kalashnikovs did not fill me with confidence when we approached a shabby, white, stone building. The large man with the jet-black beard offered no handshakes, and I could not help but notice the attention that he was paying to my feet.

    “Passports,” he grunted. “It was not a request, but an order. He examined each one
carefully, ordering me to lower the veil on my face for a moment. A large portrait of Mullah Mohammed Omar adorned the soiled, whitewashed wall. The chanting of prayers from somewhere outside, and the odour of cooked lamb and spices, made me realise that I was a long way from home.

    Our scrutiniser picked up the telephone that looked like it belonged in another century and dialled. His aggressive tone worried me, as he was evidently in conflict with someone. He slammed down the receiver and handed us back our passports.

    “You will be escorted to the Pakistani border. You must return home.”

    “Now, wait a minute,” intervened Francois, the French representative. “We’ve been authorised to see the International Aid workers here in Kabul. Here is our documentation.”

He passed over the piece of paper to our host, who promptly tore it up. “You’re in Kabul now. You have been denied extended visas and must leave immediately.”

     “I'm not going until I’ve seen my sister,” I yelled, putting on a sense of false bravado.

    I was grateful that Blackbeard could not spit bullets as he snarled at me. “Do you know what happens to women who speak back in this country?”

    I ignored the threat. “I have a letter of authorisation from Mullah Mohammed Omar. I demand to see my sister.”

    “You demand! You demand nothing!”

    Lanfranco stepped forward. “This is most irregular. I demand to see someone in authority.”

    The rifle butt slammed against his back made us jump, and we now realised what a mistake it was to come here.

    “Now, no more demands. You will be escorted to the Pakistani border. Forget your friends; they have committed crimes against Islam and will be rightly punished.”

    We realised that something was wrong when a soldier entered the building, yelling to his superior. The distant humming and then the loud explosions confirmed our fears. There was a lot of confusion as the bombs were getting closer. Our captors fled, probably to the safety of an underground shelter.

    We abandoned the building and saw the carnage all around, as the bombs found their targets. The noise was deafening and we covered our ears, fearing for our lives. A bright orange flash hit a building directly opposite us, and I witnessed a young boy crawling out of the debris, minus his left arm.

    Some of the civilians were actually celebrating by dancing in the streets, whilst others around them lay screaming, some of them maimed and dying. The thick oppressive dust made visibility difficult, and my burqa did nothing to enhance my breathing. We ran blindly, our hands still covering our ears in an attempt to eliminate the horror that we had encountered. I cried when I saw a baby, weeping for her dead mother, who was stretched out alongside her.

    I tripped and watched as my colleagues vanished into the dust, my screams for help unheard. The earth shuddered when another loud explosion in front of me erupted. I heard the screams and then fought for breath, as a severed leg landed by my side. I scrambled to my feet and saw my companions, or what was left of them, scattered on the desolate waste in a large pool of blood.

    What happened next was beyond reason. I wandered aimlessly through the cloud of smoke, sobbing uncontrollably. I felt a hand grip my arm and lead me to the safety of an overhanging rock, where several women and children were huddled together, weeping for their lost ones. I felt ashamed, noticing the small accusing eyes of these people burning into me. We must have been standing there for over an hour, before the onslaught ceased.

    “You must come with me,” demanded the woman who had rescued me. I followed her quickly, viewing the extent of the damage. This urban desert was no more, as scores of houses and buildings were flattened. The stench of burning cars, and worse still, burning flesh, hung in the still air. Numerous people were going to the aid of the injured, but for some it was too late.

    I was ushered into a house, or what was remaining of it. One of the outer walls no longer existed, and the sparse furniture was in pieces. I looked at the woman who had rescued me and expected her eyes to be filled with hate, but she showed no signs of loathing.

    “Thank you, I am…”

    “I know who you are,” she interrupted. “You were foolish to come here.”

    I was curious and confused. “Why did you save me?”

    “Because, today was the first step to our liberty from the evil regime we have lived under for over five years.”

    I was more confused than ever. “You mean, you’re glad of what happened today?”

    The woman smiled. “Did you not hear the people cheering? Yes, many have died, but our salvation will come.”

    I offered my hand. “I’m Helen.”

    “Shafiqa,” she replied. “You must leave Kabul. It is not safe for you here.”

    “Not until I see my sister,” I insisted.

    “Don’t you see? You will never see your sister again. The Taliban will not permit it. Forget your sister and flee Afghanistan.”

    “I cannot.”

    “Then you will die.”

 

    I accompanied Shafiqa to the hospital later that afternoon, as she was a qualified doctor who had studied in London, hence her outstanding usage of the English language. I must admit to being a trifle worried, but Shafiqa persuaded me to go along, once she discovered that I was a journalist. Besides, the Taliban had more pressing matters than to waste time searching for an English woman who was probably dead anyway.

    What I encountered at the so-called hospital, I was not prepared for. A thick film of dust had crept into every crevice of every building in Kabul, and the hospital was no exception. The air was heavy and the patients were wheezing erratically, fighting for every breath. There was no oxygen, and the worst of the patients were moved close to the windows. Wires hung from the walls, and glass covered the floor. The stench of the hospital ought to have been of antiseptic and other chemicals, but it was not. There was a stale, musty smell associated with death, and I witnessed several needles wrapped in dirty pieces of rag.

    Shafiqa worked endlessly, moving from patient to patient and tending to their various needs as best she could. The scene was one of chaos, as doctors in off white coats scampered in their haste to comfort the hopeless victims of the bombing. I realised that what I took for granted in the western world, these people could only dream of.

 

    I was obliged to accept the muddy-brown, tasteless stew and bread that was made
from grass and barley flour. Shafiqa had introduced me to her elderly parents as a colleague, and they never suspected that I was a foreigner beneath my burqa. Her parents were sad and silent, which suited me, as my knowledge of Afghan was nil.

    I discovered that she had lost her husband in the conflict with the Russians, which led me to believe that he must have been some years older than her. We had to remain indoors at night, as there is a curfew against women; another uncivilised law introduced by the Taliban.

    “Shafiqa, have you ever tried to leave Kabul?” I quizzed.

    “To leave is impossible. My parents are too old and there would be severe repercussions against them if I left… Since the Taliban came to power, life here has been hell. The women have no status in this society. Make-up is banned, along with brightly coloured clothes. There are no televisions or cassette recorders, no white shoes or socks, and even the children are affected. They’re not allowed dolls, kites or stuffed animals. In fact, it would be easier if I told you what was not banned.”

    “Shafiqa, where will my sister be held?” I asked.

    “Do you not listen? Forget her.”

    “Will you please answer my question?”

    “If she is still alive, she will probably be in the main prison in Kabul. Entry is not possible.”

 

    The next morning, we were woken by the sounds of distant explosions. We looked to the north of the city and saw the huge plumes of smoke rising to the blackened sky. Some of Shafiqa’s relatives had joined us in our short journey to the hospital. A tall man who was wearing a white coat, uttered something to Shafiqa.

    “Faqir says that many died through the night. The bodies must be moved.”

    The two black robed men approached unseen. They each yelled at Shafiqa and Faqir, pointing their weapons at them. I pulled down my veil, ensuring my face was concealed, as I watched the argument progress. One of the Taliban turned to us and demanded that we escort them.

    My heart was beating furiously when I walked amongst Shafiqa's relatives, confused as to what was happening. A dark, damp building was our destination, and we were made to stand before an elderly man, who was wearing a black turban and sporting a long, grey beard.

    A long debate followed, which ended in the relatives wailing loudly. They were obviously disturbed by the events. The old man pointed at Shafiqa and Faqir, shouting until he was red in the face. He eventually left the room and left us alone.

    I approached Shafiqa, and for the first time saw her face when she lifted her veil. She was much younger than I thought, probably in her mid twenties, I guessed. Her tearful eyes told me that all was not well.

    “What’s going on, Shafiqa?” I asked.

    “They saw Faqir talking to me. It is forbidden, unless we’re blood relatives.”

    “He’s your colleague. You must tell them that you were discussing the hospital.”

    “It is no use, Helen. It matters not if we work together; we have broken Taliban law.”

    “What’s going to happen, Shafiqa?”

    “We’re to be taken to the sports stadium, where we’ll be punished accordingly.”

    I could not believe what I was hearing. “Punished? How?”

    “For me, one hundred lashes… For Faqir, death.”

    “No! This cannot be. You haven’t even stood trial.”

    “This is Taliban law, Helen. There does not have to be a trial… Faqir’s wife must shoot him, or she will also face the death penalty… If I was married, I too would be facing death.”

    I pondered. “There must be something I can do?”

    “Helen, you’re not in London now. Whatever happens, you must tell the western world of the atrocities that take place here.”

    I gazed into the eyes of the stricken woman and felt shame and remorse. Shame, because somehow the politicians of this world allowed such an evil regime to govern this once great country. My eyes turned to Faqir. His head was bowed when his wife was brought to him for a final reunion.

    Shafiqa whispered to me. “Helen, they think you’re a relative, and so you must witness the punishment. Be brave and tell the world what you see today… My wounds will heal, and I accept my punishment willinglywith my head held high, knowing that one day the Taliban will be ousted from government.”

    I hugged her, before two guards entered the room and escorted us at gunpoint to the stadium. Street hawkers outside were selling nuts, biscuits and tea to the queue of the bloodthirsty crowd. I was taken aback by the immensity of the spectators. There must have been thirty-thousand people inside the stadium, awaiting the gory entertainment.

    We took our places as Faqir and Shafiqa were led away. Two men were ushered to the centre of the arena and made to stand as an elder read out the charges. I shuddered when a surgeon amputated their right hands with a scalpel type instrument, and held his trophies aloft for all to see. The loud cheers from the enthusiastic crowd drowned out the screams of the thieves.

    A girl, who could not have been more than eighteen was dragged to the centre of the arena. I felt my eyes well up with tears and my throat was dry with fear. The elder screamed at her, before reading out her crime, which later, I found out was to have worn nail varnish. I closed my eyes and grimaced when her thumb was detached from her hand. This barbaric action was followed by the manic cheers.

    I fought back the nausea, partly caused by the grass bread that I had eaten earlier, but mainly because of the horror that I had the misfortune to witness. A man was hanged from a crane, and his body was driven around the stadium to the delight of masses, his crime unknown to me.

    I mumbled to myself. “Please God,” as I saw Shafiqa being escorted into the arena. I realised the futility of my plea in this land of Islam, and suddenly felt so alone. I closed my eyes when the lashes were administered forcefully, and felt every stroke. To her credit, Shafiqa did not scream, which seemed to annoy the crowd. I stood shaking, rooted to the spot, as her relations comforted her and helped her from the arena.

    The next scene, I will never forget for as long as I live. Faqir was on his knees, screaming at his distraught wife to shoot him in the head. The Kalashnikov seemed to be so out of place in the hands of the diminutive woman. Faqir never relented, pleading for his wife to shoot him, knowing the consequences if she never. It was if I was in a dream, as I found myself unable to block out the horror, when the loud crack startled me. The smoke, followed by the blood escaping from his head, confirmed that his wife would live a widow’s life.

 

    I left the stadium and shuffled back in a daze to what was left of Shafiqa's house. I stayed with her for two weeks, until she had fully recovered. She eventually talked me into giving up my quest for Mel. If the governments of the EEC could not achieve the release of my sister, then what chance had I?

    The bombing never ceased, and finally, Shafiqa and her relatives, along with thousands of other refugees headed for the Pakistani border. I have never before experienced anything like the horror and starvation that these people endured, but we finally reached the border, leaving behind a desert of corpses. The hostile coldness of the severe winter had taken its toll.

    I arrived back in London and wrote of the plight of this abused and sorry race of people. To this day, I do not know what happened to Mel and her colleagues, but live in hope that one-day; I will be reunited with her.

    Shafiqa has since returned to her homeland, where she has her wish, as a civilised government is hopefully about to rule over Afghanistan after the Taliban fled to the mountains.

    I will never forget her, and the everyday poverty and horror that those people had to face. I will never ever again take things for granted, and think myself lucky every morning that I rise and look out onto the River Thames. The events that befell me have changed my life forever.