The River Village

ONE

Kabul, winter 1980 - Mother's cry pierced through the wall separating Masih's room from that of his parents. Shaken awake, he sat on his bed and rubbed his eyelids. He listened for a few seconds. Mother wasn't the only one shouting in distress. Father too sounded frustrated. The thirteen-year-old had heard his parents argue before, but they had never yelled at each other with such intensity. No, it wasn't a nightmare. He tried, but couldn't understand what they were arguing about as their voices sounded muffled through the concrete barrier.

Then, he heard a third voice—a stranger's voice that sounded calm, as if he was explaining a process or making an argument. Who was this man? At hours past midnight, no one, not even a friend of Father should have been allowed in the house, let alone inside their bedroom. Was he a burglar? Was he going to hurt them? Something must be terribly wrong. His heart began to race, as he noticed a sliver of light penetrating through the crack of the closed door of his room.

Terrified and confused, Masih yanked the blanket away, jumped out of his bed, and barefoot dashed through the ice-cold cement hallway.

Father was stepping out of the bedroom, wearing a navy blue jacket over his traditional white clothes. As he gritted his teeth, veins popped on his temples and his eyes widened in fear. The tips of his disheveled hair hung over his wire-framed glasses. Masih's heart dropped when he saw two soldiers gripping his trembling arms on each side. However, he did not seem to resist the arrest. He had tried to explain to the intelligence officer and the military men accompanying him that he had no connections with the antigovernment forces, the mujahedin at all. And the fact that some twenty years ago he was educated in the U.S. did not necessarily mean that he was a spy of the CIA. But they didn't believe him. Prior to planning the raid on the doctor's house, they had received reports that he had been trying to undermine the Marxist regime by spreading antirevolutionary, pro-imperialist propaganda.

Looking inside his parents' bedroom, Masih saw books and papers scattered all over the floor. The intruders had searched every bookshelf, every box, and every closet. Yet, they had found no evidence indicating that Sharif was a CIA agent. They had also paid a visit to Masih's bedroom, only to realize that there was nothing there worthy of investigation. Besides, if the boy woke up, he would likely begin to make a scene, crying and clinging on to his father. Separating the two would be an unnecessary waste of time and a disturbance for the entire operation. It was best not to wake him up.

On several occasions, Father himself had told Masih that he was supposed to be a ba-ghairat, an honorable Afghan boy, and that he must never be afraid of anything. But behind the clear lenses of his spectacles, his eyes seemed glossy with a layer of profound grief and intense fear. For the first time, Masih had witnessed his father not merely scared, but terrified. He could not detect the slightest trace of hope anywhere on his face—a kind face, which appeared as white as the color of the robe he wore at work every day. Yet, Father managed to maintain a defiant expression, keeping his chin militantly up.

At five foot ten, Dr. Sharif was not a small man. But a much taller, burly Khadist, a secret service agent in a black suit and a wrinkled red tie towered over him from behind. Tips of a dark mustache hung loosely on two sides of his wide mouth. As Masih ran toward Father, Dr. Sharif freed his arms with a powerful yank that stunned his young captors. He pressed his son's head against his chest and kissed it, drawing the scent of his straight hair into his lungs. Then, cupping his hands around Masih's face, he wrinkled his forehead, assuming a serious expression, bent down to meet his eyes, and cleared his throat, "Take care of your mother. Always obey her, and finish school."

He laid a kiss on each cheek of the face that always reminded him of his own boyhood, and then let go of him. 

"Father, what's going on? Where are they taking you? Are you coming back tomorrow?" Masih asked, fear striking his young heart. He knew of two boys in school whose fathers had been imprisoned in Pul-e Charkhi, Afghanistan's most dreaded jailhouse, and of one other boy, whose older brother was kidnapped on his way home from Kabul University by men in military uniform. No one had ever heard from them again. "Bachem, Son, I'll be okay."

The pleading voice of Mother quivered from behind the broad shoulders of the mustached man in black, "I beg you. Fear God. Don't take him, please! He has done nothing wrong."

Judging by the coarse sound of her voice and the look in her bloodshot eyes, Masih could tell that for a long while his mother had been weeping and pleading for the release of her husband.

Then, he caught a glimpse of a handgun dangling on the Khadist, secret police officer's right hip. The soldier who clutched Father's right arm had a machinegun slung over his shoulder, and the one grabbing his left arm had secured a firm grip around the midsection of an identical weapon. Masih could do nothing to rescue Father. And no, he was not going to implore for his release either. These men had already decided to take him away. Besides, begging for mercy would not have been honorable; it was not what Father would have approved. He circled his arms around Father's waistline, as though trying to restrain him from leaving.

"Father, I will wait for you," his tears left dark marks on Sharif's clothes.

"It's okay son, Khoda mehraban ast, God is kind," he forced those words through a chocked throat, and patted Masih's back.

Then, he turned and hugged his wife, Nadia, the only woman he had ever loved.

"There must have been a misunderstanding. I will be back in no time," he assured her with a trembling voice. Through a brief eye contact, lasting only a couple of seconds, they affirmed their love for each other without uttering a word.

"Don't worry hamshira, sister. As I said, tomorrow as soon as the investigation is over, I will personally bring Dr. Sharif home. I promise," the intelligence officer said to Nadia, trying to sound sincere. Yet, both Nadia and the Khadist knew that the assurance meant nothing. He said those words and allowed the farewell to proceed only to keep Dr. Sharif's wife and son calm. He had executed similar night raids at least a dozen times before. Usually, if the wife and the children of the detainee begin to wail and scream, begging for mercy, the neighbors would wake up, and the mission would turn into a show. Under such circumstances, it would become too embarrassing to get the suspect into the vehicle while everyone watched, standing on the doorsteps or the flat rooftops of their houses. 

In addition, the officer didn't want to stay there any longer than necessary. He just wanted to finish the mission and go home—to his own wife and children.

Father sat in the rear seat of an idling Rosee, a Soviet jeep, and the soldiers sat next to him on each side. Sharif looked out of the half-fogged window to his right. He watched his wife and son standing on the sidewalk and staring at the vehicle with tearful eyes.