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Hazarajat or country of tears. THE END

04/06/2011 18:48 (comments: 0)

A short story

Besutee Hazara Chiefs

The journey was long and perilous.
The Americans had a great desire to preserve the lives of their warriors and often fired on anything that moved.
Arrived in Kabul, I was looking for my sister and her family.
I found a place to sleep with very nice view on the street, the building had lost its facade during the civil war.
She lived there in the greatest destitution with her six children. The man was disappeared and she did not know what he became. Was he gone ashamed of that he was unable to support his family? Had he been abducted by the Americans? Was he fell into a struggle whose sole purpose was to kill? Nobody can ever known…

I promised her to provide for her family when I will have a pay and I went to an office of recruitment.
They informed me that I was too old for the army. Me who knew nothing done other than kill and fight…

Then I went back to Bamyan, with nothing to do and not knowing what to do to support myself and my sister.
An American unit was stationed there and in the country they said that they needed men of experience to track down the Taliban.
Then I went to their barracks to come face to face with two survivors of the massacres from Mazar-i-Sharif who denounced me as soon as an agent of the Taliban and great killer of innocent people.

I was arrested and discovered the rigors and subtleties of interrogation techniques.
During the torture, to the great dismay of my torturers, I laughed…

I laughed with the ghosts that enjoyed to see me pay for my crimes.
I laughed because I was already dead for a long time.

A lock noise snatches me to my memories.
A butt strike push me out of bed.
The sun on the horizon.
It is time to leave this body worn out by war.

 » Syed, give me a cigarette !  »
He asks the other with his eyes and they spend me a Lucky Strike.
Syed gives me fire and I hear that he is praying.

Prays he for me?

We go out and the light of rising day hurts my eyes.
The air is cold, fresh air of our mountains.
I think that the heat will settle over the valley when the sun will be at the zenith.
A zenith that I will never reached.

The platoon is already gathered.
They bind my hands behind my back and the officer wants to blindfolded me.
I say NO !.
He moves away.

Facing me the two cavities of the Buddhas, which seem to watch to me.
One moment, it seems to me to see the statues again and a small point on the top which gazes the valley.
The cloud of his breath in the air is the only evidence of heat.
He awaits the call of the muezzin who will soon resound in the valley, inviting people to prayer.
I smile…

The blind orbits of the mountain take back their rights.
The mountain looks at me.
She speaks to me, she speaks louder than the orders which fuse a few metres from me…

She says:

 » Taqadus is gone ! The Buddhas are gone !  »

I still hear rattling weapons, the time freezes and the mountain, my mountain tells me:

 » But the Hazarajat will live ! »

THE END

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

Image - Besutee Hazara Chiefs - John Burke -The british Library - 1879 - License :

Public domain

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