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Hazarajat or country of tears. (4)

04/06/2011 18:33 (comments: 0)

A short story

Flags for the matyrs. Road to Bamiyan, Afghanistan

I spent the years 2000 to perform as well as possible my Taliban’s duties and those of my new status as head of household.

The duties of a Taliban in the Shiite country were reduced to its simplest expression. We were patrolling the city to make sure that the Koranic law was respected as the Kabul authorities had enacted.
Wearing the burqa for women, a beard of at least ten centimeters in length for men, raid homes to seize and destroy musical instruments, cassettes, televisions, VCRs… All human representations, pictures of the family, the dolls of the little girls were seized and destroyed. We also control the morality, homosexuality was punishable by death, fornication hundred lashes. Our presence was felt at weddings in order to verify the absence of music and especially in schools where we prepare future generations of this land of purified Islam.
My condition of Taliban was increasingly incompatible with my new life and I refuge me in prayer to overcome this contradiction.

I went often on the Buddhas, as once in the cool early morning. I let my fingers touched the sandstone and I found back this insouciance of this child that I was for a few moments. The call of the muezzin didn’t more recall the peace and the people now, it recalled hatred of men and stupidity reigned in this world.

Gradually the Sura « An-nas », the men, took a new sens and I began to ask me if the wrong councillor who whispered evil in the chest of the men was not one of the people I most respected so far.

The crack grew up and became a chasm when one of my dear childhood friends was arrested with his lover. He was homosexual but he was my friend, I knew him since the begin of my life, I knew that he was unable to do the lesser evil. Both men were placed near a wall that was collapsing on them and a bulldozer moved on the rubble to finish the job. His tears and his imploring eyes remain forever engraved in my soul…

I was appalled, a powerful and destructive conflict was taking place in my breast. My faith was shocked by what gone over here. I may have been hardened by years and years of war, years of studies and religious indoctrination, what was happening in the country, my country moved me deeply. The simple tears of a child when I snatched her toy from her hands, as if it was the devil himself, touched me as the tears of my mother on the lifeless body of my father.

My boss realized my « devolution ».
He transferred me in a combat unit and I was back in my beloved mountains to pursue armed bands who threatening the peace.
We chased after the troops of Khalili’s Hezb-e Wahdat-e Islami party. We harassed them so much that they concluded an agreement with us in the valley of Suof. A kind of cease-fire was declared and the Taliban promised to not attack the Yakaolang Hazâra if Khalili’s troops remained in remote areas.

After that agreement, I went back at the end of 2000 at home to find my mother very sick. The traditional medicines was unable to help, so I had to take her to hospital. I borrowed a vehicle to a friend and I drove to the Taliban field hospital. My mother was lying unconscious in the jeep I ran and asked for help to the men who were in front of the building. They came hurry and looked at me surprised when they discovered that the patient was a woman. They refused to touch her and told me that Mullah Omar said that women had to be treated by women and there was no scientist woman in this hospital.

I cried…
I cried out that I was a Taliban, which fought with them since the beginning, that my mother was dying in this car and had an urgent need of care, Mullah Omar or not.
They shook their heads and returned to their occupations.
I was mad of pain and I roared:
 » I curse you and your families. I curse the Taliban and Mullah Omar !  »

I heard the characteristic noise of arming a Kalashnikov and I was ready to die at this moment…

One of them was showing signs of appeasement and waved me to leave. He was one of my brother in arms of Mazar-i-Sharif…

I went back at home and carried mom in my arms to her bed.
She was burning with fever and I bathed her lips with a damp cloth.
The clay walls of my house screamed to me that I was Hazâra, that my mother was this country and that the foreigners wanted our misery, our disappearance.
I cried on my own fate, on this vicious circle where I put my fingers.
You could leave the Taliban just as small pieces like a human bomb or dead on the field of honor, fell as a martyr for the glory of… Of whom? Of God? Of Omar? Of some wealthy and exalted Saudi ?. I didn’t know more.

I felt my mother hand on my own.
She smiled.
 » My son, I will met your father… »
 » Be quiet mom, keeps your forces ! You will going to heal !  »
 » My son, I saw your father in a dream…
He said that it didn’t matter that we don’t rest beside each other…  »

She had pain to speak and burned her last reserves of energy for giving me the message of my father. I took her in my arms and pressed my ear to her lips in flames…

 » He told me that it didn’t matter that we are Shiite or Sunni…
He said that what is important is to be good human beings and good Hazâras…
He told me that we should die in peace with this world, it was the only thing that coun…  »

The last breath of my mother carrying her last words worked one’s way up in the mass of obscurantism, idiocy, arrogance and evil that existed in my mind and it landed as a kiss on my heart. As if by magic, the carapace, the Taliban straitjacket exploded and Taqadus, the Hazâra reborn. His mother had given him life for the second time.

I screamed and my ancestors screamed with me and the country screamed with me and all Hazâras throughout the world screamed with me…

This work is protected © 2008 Thierry Benquey - All rights reserved

Image - Flags for the matyrs. Road to Bamiyan, Afghanistan - Carl Montgomery - 22/10/2008 - Licence :

Licence Creative commons bysa

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