By Freshta

By Freshta

Idris covered his new haircut with both hands and ran toward his house. I was standing at my front door across the street and saw him, his head down, a grimace on his face.

“What’s up?” I asked him.

Seeming determined to reach his yard, he didn’t answer. He arrived at his front door, opened it, entered his house, and closed the door hard.

I saw the group of boys approach. “What’s going on, boys?” I asked.

“Khala,” said one, calling me auntie, “It has been two days since our teacher told us to be respectful and cut our hair, but some of our classmates didn’t obey him.”

“That made our teacher upset,” said another boy. “And he took the scissors and cut Idris’s hair to look like a plus sign.”

I thought of my own seventh grade class when my teacher humiliated me, too. During our breaks between classes, we would usually go out to the yard or to buy something to eat. One day, we girls didn’t leave the classroom. We stayed to tell each other stories and play around.

Our next class, history, was in the same room. Our teacher had given us homework: we were to memorize a new lesson and be prepared to come to the front of the class and present it to the rest of the group. But we were so busy talking and playing that we did not prepare ourselves or pay attention to the time. Our history teacher was late, and we were so involved in playing and fooling around that we continued on as if it were still break-time.

Eventually, our noise disturbed the math teacher in the room next to ours, who entered and angrily asked, “Which period is this?”

“History,” we answered, suddenly ashamed of our noise.

She left to tell the administration we had no teacher. Afraid now, we sat politely in our seats, our eyes focused on the classroom door.

As our history teacher entered the class, I said, “Wlar Sai,” which was the signal to rise. All my classmates stood. Our teacher did not tell us to be seated as she usually would. She looked angry.

No one dared speak a word.

“What was your homework?” she asked me.

Though I knew the assignment, I said nothing. I was pretty sure most of my classmates were not prepared.

“Come here,” she ordered.

I stood in front of the class. Teacher knows that I am ready, I said to myself, that’s why she told me to stand in front of the class.

Then the teacher told my classmate Nailab, who sat next to me: “Describe the lesson that I gave you as homework.”

Nailab started to repeat the lesson until the teacher, satisfied that she knew it, told her, “Enough, sit down.”  The teacher went on to Friba, another classmate, who assuredly did not have the homework memorized. “Come in front of the class and describe the new lesson I gave you as homework,” she said.

Hesitantly, Friba approached the front of the class. “I have decided to punish you to remind you not to forget my lesson,” the teacher said. “You have disrespected me by not remembering the assignment and not doing your work. Shame on all of you. Friba! You are not even prepared to give me yesterday’s lesson, but you can make noise in the classroom.”

Then she turned to me and said, “Freshta, give Friba a slap on the face.”

How could I slap my friend, Friba, in front of everyone? Usually when one of our classmates couldn’t explain the previous lesson, the teacher would beat the student with a stick or ruler on their hand palm. Why, this time, was she telling me to beat her?

I didn’t move.

“Freshta, what did I tell you?”

Still, I didn’t reply. I could not accept my teacher’s command.

She turned to another student. “Come, Khatera, slap Friba.”

“I’m sorry, teacher,” replied Khatera. “I don’t know how to slap her. I can’t slap Friba.”

“No problem. I will show you how to slap her,” answered the teacher with anger in her voice. The teacher then slapped Khatera and told her again to slap Friba.

Most of our classmates were about to smile, which made Khatera very nervous. She knew the lesson but had received the slap anyway—so, nervously, she slapped Friba. All of our classmates smiled but this time nervously. Our class period finished and the teacher left the classroom. Many of our classmates went and sat next to Friba and Khatera and told them not to be upset.

This is the system in the public schools.

The next day, I saw Idris standing in front of his house door with his sister, Shaista. His head was bald.

“Why did you shave your head?” I asked.

Looking down, Idris played with a tree branch. “We told him not to shave his head,” his sister said. “When all the boys see his hair, they will think it is a kind of new style and they will shave their heads too!” The three of us smiled.

By Freshta

photo: Musadeq Sadeq/Associated Press)

I cannot live without you—my soul.
Why is rape my punishment in this prison?
Do they not understand

Dignity is my soul?

Like water running
to the sea,
self-worth won’t return to me.
I grieve
despite others’ compassion.
Why?
No one can give me my dignity back.

Poor man, they say.
Yes, he was raped.
so sad, so bad.
Poor man, they say.
So sorry he lost his dignity.

I suffer shame,
begin to sink
in the isolated water of insult
because I have lost the breath of life—
Dignity, Dignity.

We are human, have high position
among the animals. We claim
intellect, say we know
what is good, what is bad
and inhumane. Tell me,
Dignity, are not my captors human too?
How is it they forget their own humanity—
within the human heap?

I cannot speak this to my family,
friends or captors, not even to you, Dignity,
for you are gone now.

I throw myself
into the river,
drown, without you.

By Freshta

It was 5 p.m., the usual time barq comes on. My cousin Shinkai and I were in her father’s kitchen. Shinkai was preparing dinner. The sound of young voices appeared inside as we heard my younger cousins rushing towards the dining room where the TV was. Glee, though, soon changed to arguments. I walked into the dining room to find 13-year-old Atal firmly holding the remote control while searching for the show with John Cena and the Undertaker, as 8-year-old Hiwad pleaded for Channel 4.

“Please, Atal jan, put on channel 4. My gymnastic teacher told us that Channel 4 will display our teacher’s exercises,” the younger boy said.

“Leave me alone,” was the older boy’s gruff response.

Completing this picture of sibling rivalry was 6-year-old Shamla, who circled her brothers holding her doll tightly to her chest. Shamla saw me and reached up to put her hands around my neck, giving me a kiss. “Look, Freshta,” she said in her little girl voice. “The electricity came. But they always shout over me and say ‘no, no, go leave us alone.’”

Pulling Shamla into my lap, I said, “Don’t mind them. Let me tell you the story of Bazak Chaini, China’s goat.”  Just as I began the story, the barq went off, and with it the TV. Shamla laughed as the TV went dark, and said to her brothers, “Thank God barq went because you didn’t allow me to see the cartoon.” Her brothers had to smile.

Now there was no point in arguing over channel choices; the children gathered around on pillows as I continued the story. Shiraz, who had been playing football, came in to check on the TV situation and sat down with us to hear the story. Then, just as suddenly as the TV had flickered and gone off, it twinkled and came back on. “Oho,” the younger boys cried as they rushed for the remote. Shiraz went to gather his school shirts so he could make use of the electric iron. Shinkai, who had been in the kitchen finishing up dinner, ran to charge her mobile phone. Seeing Shiraz ironing his school clothes, she said, “Let me know when you are done. I need to iron the clothes I wear to the university.” My aunt, who had put a pail of water on the stove to heat for washing clothes, hurried to the washing machine. Everyone did their best to make excellent use of the electricity.

Barq usually lasts until 10 p.m., but not on this particular night. Poor Shinkai had just finished ironing her scarves and still had her skirts left to do when once again, the electricity flickered and off it went. “Go put the broken iron over the gas and let it heat up. That will finish your skirts” her mother instructed. Shainkai hated ironing clothes over gas because the smell was bitter and often caused headaches. But her mother said: “Don’t wait for electricity. It is a waste of time.”

Hiwad and Atal were shooed out of the room to go do their homework. This left the remote control unattended, which delighted Shamla, who tugged on her mother’s skirt and insisted that when barq came back on, it was her turn to watch TV.

As Shinkai was finishing her ironing with gas, barq once again returned. “I don’t need you. I finished my ironing. Go back,” Shinkai said to the lights as they twinkled back on.

The return of barq caused Atal and Hiwad to return to the dining room. However, Shamal firmly stood her ground in front of the TV, yelling for her mother, who was changing the water in the washing machine because it had become cold from the loss of barq. As their mother hurried into the dining room, Atal and Hiwad thought better of trying to reclaim the remote and made excuses of looking for long lost pens and books so they could continue their homework.

Dinner that night was eaten with gas lights on the table in case barq should once more disappear, and with the remote safely in Shamla’s hands. “None of you has the right to have the remote from me. I will keep it until tomorrow,” Shamla announced at dinner. Her parents smiled indulgently.

By the time barq said goodnight once again at 10 p.m., Shamla was fast asleep, holding the remote. “Poor Shamla has to sleep with the remote in her hands because of her brothers,” I thought to myself. But then I thought, “No, Shamla is the lucky one because with the twinkle of barq, she has hope. Lots of other families wish for barq so they can iron and wash their clothes, and watch TV. They are still wishing.”

By Freshta

You are my blood
Without you, I am lost
You are my arm
Oh please! Do not flicker.

One day I found you with closed eyes
I double-clicked
I begged: “Please open your eyes”
But you couldn’t.

Later you twinkled and opened your eyes
But as I watched, you flickered
I pleaded, “Tell me in advance when you are going to flicker”
You said: “I flicker whenever I want!”

When you are with me
Brightness comes to my eyes
Joy comes to my heart
Smiles come to my face
I say “Thank God!”
And directly keep eye-contact with you.

When you go out
I sigh, “Oh, my God”
I become frozen
Blind
Deaf
You are my eyes
Just keep looking at me
Do not flicker
Do not flicker please.

By Freshta

Photo courtesy of the Qarar Family.

Editor’s note: Night raids have been a frequent practice among NATO and American forces in Afghanistan. The American administration is now calling for restrictions on this practice to prevent further unnecessary loss of life. The following article about one such night raid is based on interviews with Majeedullah Qarar and his family. An epilogue with the writer’s view on her role as a journalist follows.

“Where is the international community now?” a widow cries over her husband’s dead body. “Where are the human rights commissions to hear me? They are always speaking about human rights. Which human right allows you to kill two persons while arresting an accused person? You judge.”

The woman’s husband, Hamdullah, was killed early in the morning of Nov. 19, 2009, when three helicopters brought a group of American soldiers with guns and barking dogs to a family compound in the ancient city of Shelgar, located in the Ghaznai province in the south of Afghanistan. The soldiers attacked the compound, looking for an accused Al-Qaeda member. The bloodcurdling sounds woke all the villagers, but no one left their houses for fear of being shot.

The compound belonged to Majeedullah Qarar, spokesman and communication advisor for the Afghan Ministry of Agriculture, Irrigation and Livestock. Qarar was in Kabul at the time of the raid. In addition to killing Hamdullah, the soldiers killed another man, Azime, and ransacked the compound before arresting Habib-u-Rahman, Qarar’s cousin.

“My husband was not a terrorist,” said Hamdullah’s widow, who declined to be identified by name for security reasons. “Why did the American soldiers kill him? Was his sin that he was related to Habib-u-Rahman, the man they were looking for? Was Hamdullah’s mistake that he spent the night in their house? When the Taliban take such actions, we say it is because they are uneducated, but American soldiers are educated. So what is the difference between them?”

“I pray that one day such a situation will come to their families,” said Azime’s widow, who also asked not to be identified by name. “Then they will realize the pain that we all suffer.”

That night, the soldiers, clothed in special pants and T-shirts, bearded, and wearing masks, climbed the wall of Qarar’s yard trying to enter the home. Hamdullah was sleeping in the guesthouse, along with four other men and boys. When Hamdullah realized someone was trying to enter the compound, thinking they were thieves, he went to see who it was. The troops fired on him, wounding his right hand. Hamdullah then tried to make a telephone call to the people sleeping in the main compound located near the guesthouse. As he picked up his phone, American soldiers blew up the front gate of the house with explosives.

Hamdullah and the other men in the guesthouse rushed toward the windows of the room. One of the men was Azime, a 32-year-old baker from Karachi who had come to Gaznai for medical help from Qarar’s brother, a well-known doctor in Gaznai. When Azime tried to leave the room, the American soldiers opened fire and killed him. Then, they entered the guesthouse and shot Hamdullah, killing him too.

The three others who had been sleeping in the guesthouse, 15-year-old Sidiqullah Qarar, 9-year-old Fazal, and 8-year-old Rahmatullah, remained in the guesthouse. They screamed, cried, and tried to run towards the men who had been shot. Hamdullah was shaking and groveling on the ground, but the children were told not to move. They did as they were told and remained still, horrified and silenced.

Then, the American soldiers and their dogs entered the main compound next to guesthouse. They began searching the rooms. In the process, they destroyed clothes, dishes, cupboards, and boxes. A military dog bit the hand of Qarar’s aunt.

Finally, the American troops found 35-year-old Habib-ur-Rahman, a computer programmer and government employee who worked as software engineer in the Ministry of Communication. He had a master’s degree in IT, an MBA from Preston University, and he received his BBA in Egypt. The American soldiers said that Habib was an Al-Qaeda member.

They handcuffed him and the 15-year-old Sidiqullah and marched them barefoot to a helicopter. It was a 1.5-kilometer distance in cold weather. This occurred at approximately 4 AM.

Sidiqullah, an eleventh grade student, was held by American troops in Sharana for a day and a half before he was released. During this time, American troops showed him bloody pictures of the action and the men killed by American troops and asked: “Who are they to you?” During questioning, they played a recording of the sounds of breaking mirrors. When Sidiqullah saw the pictures, he was frightened and worried that the same thing might happen to rest of his family living in the main compound.

“The American troops stole everything: money, jewelry, mobiles, laptops,” Sidiqullah said. “I wish they didn’t steal my laptop. It was like my best friend. I could write on it and save my writing, and find the meanings of words in dictionary. But now that they took it, I don’t have access to any of that.”

Fazal-u-lrahman, who worked and studied at Qarar’s house, said, “They stole everything, including my mobile phone. I am sad because my brother had sent 250 credits for it. I was very happy about that because I would have used it over two months or more. But they took it from me.” Although 250 credits cost the equivalent of less than one dollar, Fazal-u-lrahman’s family is very poor. His family bought the mobile for him because his home is far from Qarar’s house.

“They have destroyed my life, my children’s future, my shelter, left me a widow, orphaned my children,” Hamdullah’s wife said.

Qarar, whose compound was targeted, said, “They could have arrested my cousin from his office. They could have issued a warrant. They could have summoned him. They didn’t need to conduct such a cruel operation.”

“Everyone in our village knows that we are educated and work for the government. Which law in the world permits killing a person without knowing who he is? I don’t know what stupid law would allow this,” he added.

When asked about Habib, Qarar said, “For one month (after his arrest), we didn’t have any news about my cousin. We didn’t know where he was or whether he was alive. Even if he is a criminal, his family has the right to know about him, but they have taken this right from his family. After struggling hard for two months, I succeeded in receiving information regarding him. The Red Cross told us that Habib is alive and he is in the Bagram. Then I succeeded in having video contact with him through the Red Cross.”

Qarar added, “It is everyone’s right to hire attorney for himself, but the Americans denied this right. We have heard terrible news about the American prisons in Afghanistan, but we don’t know specifically how they will treat Habib.”

Qarar said that reports about such military actions that reach the Afghan people “have created disgust regarding American troops. I have access to the media and can share our complaints. But there are many who suffer such incidents and whose stories remain buried in the dust.”

By Freshta

Author’s note: I learned about this terrible incident at my office in Kabul. Members of my supervisor’s family were the victims of this particular raid. In follow-up, I investigated the story through interviews with my supervisor and his family. My job in writing this article is not to insert my opinion in any way. I try to adhere to the facts of what happened and distribute that information.

Regardless, this incident does not change my personal opinion about the presence of American troops. In my opinion, peace was nonexistent in Afghanistan before the American troops arrived. They should not leave not leave Afghanistan yet, because, with so many different tribes and the threat of the Taliban, we are not yet unified. In addition, neighboring countries such as Iran and Pakistan are interfering in our governmental affairs.

“Who will save me?”
cries the school.

“Where are my students,
the teachers, our friends?”

“Why do the Taliban burn me?”
They are not literate.

Students fear.
Teachers receive threats,
get kidnapped, beheaded.

Friends, families fear.

Unread books are sad.
They too, burned
by guns that write with fire.

Knowledge, understanding
grieve.

Is there anyone
any organization
any country
any international society
who will help us overcome our loss,
this war,
our Afghanistan?

We wait, hope, want.
Please, help us
invite the return of knowledge.

By Freshta