A Far Away Home

by Howard Faber

  Shireen was next to speak. “For now, I think we should stop the classes, at least until next spring. Winter is coming so we can’t have classes then anyway. Let’s see what happens next spring.”

  Ali was very quiet. He noticed his family was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. “I think we can’t just let them bully us. Some of my friends have been talking about doing something to let them know we aren’t afraid of them.”

  Hassan spoke slowly. “Ali, they will be watching you. Be very careful. But, I wish I were younger. I, too, would be doing something to let them know this is our town.”

  ***

  That night, Ali and two of his friends made a plan. It would depend on Ali’s skill with the slingshot.

  The next day the principal was talking to two of his teachers in his office. These were his favorites, so they were sipping some tea while telling each other how well they were doing. They were also talking about how the principal stopped the secret school and how much afraid Ali and Shireen must be. That’s when the window exploded, and the teapot crashed into pieces, spilling hot tea onto the principal’s lap. He jumped up, yelling for help and that he was burned. Outside the three friends ran for the river, putting as much distance between them and the school as possible. Ali’s slingshot had not missed.

  The news spread quickly around Sharidure. Secretly the townspeople were proud that someone dared to defy the principal, that he had been embarrassed, and had his suit soaked in hot tea. They also wondered who could pull off such a stunt. No one seemed to know. Of course, the principal tried to find out. He thought it had to have been a gun and that someone tried to kill him. He called Kabul to report that, and asked for guards to protect him. He also packed up his things and left on the next bus.

  Meanwhile, the three teenagers sat by the river, trying to think of what to do next. They were sure the principal would try to find out who fired a stone through his window. They were pretty sure no one saw them. When it was dark, they walked back to their homes, carefully avoiding the main street and the school. Shireen asked Ali where he had been all afternoon and if he heard the news. “I was fishing with some friends. What’s the news?”

  “Someone tried to shoot the principal. He wasn’t hit, but he did get a lapful of hot tea. I wish I could have seen it. Everyone is talking about it. He called Kabul and asked for soldiers to protect him, then left for Bamiyan. Everyone is wondering who did the shooting. They are also proud someone dared to do it.” Shireen had no idea her brother was the daring someone.

  “Wow, now that’s some news. I wish I had seen it, too. Maybe it was one of the resistance. I heard there are some people who are beginning to fight back against the Russians. Soldiers probably will be coming to our little town. That will be scary and awful.” Ali tried to sound convincing, especially about wishing he had seen it. He was very glad that everyone thought it had been a bullet and not a stone, because he was well known for his accuracy with a slingshot.

  Hassan came home later that evening and also asked Ali where he had been that afternoon. He really didn’t think Ali had been involved in the shot at the school, mainly because he knew Ali didn’t have a gun. When Ali said he had been fishing, Hassan was relieved and moved on to his other news. “One of my friends in Bamiyan called to tell me that he had seen two Russian jeeps with eight soldiers getting ready to head west toward Sharidure. He thought they would leave later in the evening.” Hassan said he knew someone in the resistance, the Mujahedeen. He thought these men needed to know about the Russian soldiers coming to Sharidure. He looked at Ali, and father and son read each other’s thoughts. They didn’t want even their family to know anything about what they were thinking. It was dangerous for anyone to know anything about the Mujahedeen. “Ali, I need your help in finishing a project at the shop.”

  “Of course, father.”

  ***

  This was his son, his son whom he loved, his son whom he had carried all those times when he couldn’t walk. Ali was also part of a long line of men who had resisted even the great Ghengis Khan when he came to invade their land. Hassan also knew Ali was under the suspicion of the stupid principal, the lackey of the Russians. He knew Ali would be watched every day. He had been trying to think of how to protect his son from these newest invaders, these nonbelievers from the north. He believed God had been watching over Ali and had been part of the reason why Ali could now walk like any other man.

  Hassan did not reveal any of these thoughts to Ali. When they got to the carpenter shop, Ali knew he wasn’t there to help his father finish a project, but he didn’t know just what his task would be. “My son, it is no longer safe for you to be with us in our home. You must leave to begin your life somewhere else. I have some ideas, but first you must let the Mujahedeen know about the Russian soldiers coming to Sharidure. My friend’s name is Askgar. I trust him completely. Be very careful. Do not talk about this to anyone but him. He will help you know what to do next. He lives in the last house on the path to the airfield. Tell him I sent you and about the Russian soldiers. May God go with you.”

  The two hugged, father and son. There were no tears. They looked in each other’s eyes. Hassan hoped it would not be the last time he hugged his son. Ali’s heart was pounding. He wasn’t sure about this leap into being a man, but he trusted his father and agreed something must be done to resist the Russians. He wanted to tell his father it had been his stone that shattered the peace and teapot in the principal’s office. He also didn’t want his father to know because he didn’t want his father to be in any way involved or blamed.

  Hassan handed Ali a small package that contained some money and a friend’s name and address in Muhshed, Iran. Hassan hoped that Ali could eventually get to Muhshed and be safe from the Russians. The money was about half of Hassan and Mariam’s savings. He and his wife talked about it last night, after the invasion of their home by the principal. They cried about it, knowing it might be the last time they would see their son.

  ***

  When Ali knocked on the door of the last home before the airfield, a voice asked who it was. “I am Ali, son of Hassan. He sent me with a message for Askgar.”

  The door opened slowly, and Ali bowed as Askgar invited him in. “Welcome to my home. May you not be tired.” Askgar and Ali exchanged the polite greetings that were part of their culture. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you. You are very kind.”

  “The tea is fresh and hot. Would you like some?”

  “Thank you very much. You are kind.” They sat down on the leeoffs in the family room. Ali noticed there was no one else in the room.

  After sipping some of the green tea, Ali started to tell Askgar about the Russian soldiers. Askgar interrupted him. “I heard about how the principal so rudely entered and searched your home. I know your father is worried about you and your sister. We talked about it today.”

  Ali was a little surprised Askgar knew about the principal, but then he realized that his father and Askgar were friends. “My father asked me to tell you that there are Russian soldiers coming from Bamiyan, perhaps tonight.”

  “Are you sure?” Askgar was looking directly into Ali’s eyes.

  “Yes, one of my father’s friends called him from Bamiyan to tell him.”

  “Then we must act imme
diately. Ali, I think you know I am a member of the resistance. Your father and I talked about how you are in danger, suspected of teaching our children something other than the Russian line. He asked me to help you get to Iran. I can do that, but we must also keep the Russian soldiers from freely entering our town. I will return tomorrow to help you get to Jungal. Stay at my home tonight.”

  “I would like to help.” Ali was surprised at himself for saying it. So was Askgar.

  He turned to look at Ali. “It might be dangerous. They will not hesitate to kill us.”

  “I know, but someone has to show them they can’t just force us to do what they want. We have to protect our families and homes.”

  Askgar was surprised but pleased to hear these words from such a young man. “All right, we can use all the help we can get. Change into these dark clothes. We don’t want them to see white cloth. Dark clothes blend into the night shadows.”

  The resistance turned out to be five other men, all of whom Ali knew from seeing them in Sharidure. They greeted him warmly. They seemed to know him, too. They also seemed to know about his helping children in the secret school in his home, and about how the principal barged into his home. They talked about how someone shot at the principal at school and wondered who had been so brave as to do that. Ali wanted to tell them, to brag about it, but again he decided to keep it to himself, so they couldn’t be forced to tell about it.

  For about ten minutes, the resistance group talked about how best to ambush the Russian soldiers. Plans were forwarded, then rejected for various reasons. Ali thought he might know a way, but he hesitated because he was young and just joined the group. He didn’t think they would listen to him. Finally he cleared his throat and began to suggest a plan. “What about the bridge? They will surely come by the road from Bamiyan. It’s the best place to ambush them.”

  There was silence, until Askgar asked him for more about this idea. Ali continued. “We could weaken the bridge at one end. No one would see us working under the bridge. I don’t think anyone is watching it anyway. We could weaken it so the weight of two Russian UAZ Jeeps would send it and them crashing into the jui (a canal for irrigation or water for a mill) below. The jui is pretty deep there. It carries all of the water coming from the river into town.”

  “It’s a good plan. It’s also one we can actually do, and it gives us a good chance of staying safe and of getting their weapons. They will be carrying small arms, probably grenades, and likely machine guns, all with lots of ammunition. Let’s get on with the details.” Askgar was enthusiastic about the plan.

  They trotted outside Sharidure to the bridge and slid under it to figure out how to weaken it. One of them wondered how to not drop a truck or bus if it came over before the jeeps. Another suggested that they could dig out all of the support except for the final timber. That way they could wait to pull it out when the jeeps arrived. Someone would sit up high to signal the others to remove the last support. “But we can’t risk calling or firing a rifle because someone might hear it. I wish we had a radio.”

  Ali volunteered a solution for the signal. “I could be the one to signal. I have my slingshot and could fire a stone down to you. It would make no noise. I can hit the bank just beside the bridge.”

  The men looked at this kid, this son of Hassan, with new respect. It was a good way. Ali climbed the hill overlooking the bridge and canal, while the others went to work removing all of the supports but one. They attached a rope to it, to yank it out when the Russians approached.

  Thankfully, no traffic came during the night so they were able to remove the supports (except for one), and no one disturbed them. They attached the rope and crept around the corner, waiting for the signal from Ali to remove the last support. Ali waited on the hill, fighting sleep, nervous, and sweating. He never tried anything like this before. He wasn’t afraid, but kept trying in his mind to think what would happen next. He thought he couldn’t stay in Sharidure. He knew the way to Jungal, the next town west, and thought he could hitch a ride on a truck. He wanted to stay, at his home, his only ever home. He also wanted to obey his parents. He had been taught that, all through his young life. He trusted his parents, and knew it must be awful for them to send away their son. He thought about his sister, who also was suspected of teaching at a secret school. She would be watched, but he hoped that even this new invading group would not long watch and suspect a woman. She would be spared and be able to stay in her home. He even dared to hope that by his leaving, suspicion would fall heavier on him and so lessen the attention on his sister. All of this was whirling in his mind, as he waited in the dark.

  The sound of engines startled him to the now, to the job at hand. He had earlier selected several stones, big enough to split the air and smooth enough to stay true to his aim. He raised up a little, enough to see the road approaching the bridge. It was the Russian UAZ Jeeps, two of them, just as his father’s friend said. There were four uniformed soldiers in each vehicle. The passengers were dozing. Their attention was not on the hills around the road. They likely suspected no danger, no resistance from this small town. Ali’s aim was as always, dead on. The stone splatted against the bank near the Mujahedeen, his new brothers in resistance. They heard the engines and tightened the rope tied to the last main support to the Sharidure side of the bridge. They waited as long as they could, until the front vehicle was on the bridge. The rope went tight as they pulled. The bridge held momentarily, then collapsed under the weight of the two vehicles and the soldiers. The bridge, the two vehicles and the soldiers plummeted down to the canal below, the soldiers tumbling out of the UAZs and landing hard in the water. The Mujahedeen scrambled down to them, hoping they wouldn’t have to fight, but ready if they did. They didn’t have to worry. All of the Russian soldiers were unconscious. The Afghans pulled them out of the shallow water. They wanted them to be alive to tell about how this little town wasn’t such an easy target and how they had been left alive to tell about it. There were eight new rifles, plenty of ammunition, and some grenades. All were welcomed by the Afghans, since weapons were hard to come by.

  Ali had run down the hill to see what happened and to help the mujahedeen. In his mind, he wasn’t, yet, one of them. They gave him one of the rifles and some bullets. Because he had never handled a rifle it felt awkward in his hands. After tying up the soldiers, the Afghans hurried away, before they might be seen by one of the soldiers and before the darkness turned into daylight.

  Chapter Seven

  Ali Leaves for Iran and Starts a Family

  As the mujahedeen hurried away from the bridge, Ali jogged along, still thinking about what to do and where to go. The group stopped briefly at Askgar’s home on the edge of Sharidure, where they agreed on meeting that evening at another home. Then, one by one, they walked away into the darkness. Ali had made his decision about leaving, so he gave his rifle to Askgar, then walked away but not to his home. He headed west, out of town, first up to the airfield, where he would spend the remaining hours of darkness, not sleeping, just thinking.

  Soon after dawn, he walked down to the road and stopped a truck heading west, away from Sharidure, away from his early life. He knew now what to do. The truck was headed west toward Iran. The journey was to be three days, made on the back of trucks loaded with bags of wheat, other travelers, rolls of cloth, every kind of item appearing in the shops of the small towns a
long the way. Greetings were polite, the tea was hot at the teahouses where he waited for the next truck, and most of the talk was about the Russians. When he approached the last teahouse, gas stop, and small hotel at the Afghan-Iranian border, he saw the lights in the distance, small beacons of hope in the darkness. He found out it was called Islam Qala. That’s where he spent the night, falling asleep wondering how he would get into Iran. He didn’t have a passport, but he had heard that Afghans were allowed into Iran without one. The Iranians were particularly accepting of Afghans who were Shia. Most of the people from Sharidure were Hazara, and Shia. That’s what Ali was. That’s why he went to Iran, rather than the predominantly Sunni Pakistan.

  In the morning, the truck rumbled toward the building at the actual border. It wasn’t much to look at. The two guards who emerged to stop and look at the truck asked the driver where he was going. “I’m going to Muhshed.”

  “What do you have in the back?”

  “Wheat, some rolls of cloth, tea, nothing unusual.”

  “Are there any passengers?”

  “Yes, some men going to the mosque in Muhshed.” That was a good answer. The mosque was famous, sacred to the Shia. It was very usual for Afghans to be traveling to the mosque. Ali heard all of this and was relieved to hear the truck shift into gear and start forward. He was safely in Iran. When the truck got to Tyabad, the Iranian border town, he got down to stretch and take a look at Iran. He soon realized it was very much like Afghanistan, though with some more sophisticated items than in Sharidure. One thing was the paving and sidewalks. Another was the electricity. The language sounded the same, although with some words he hadn’t heard. The people of Tyabad recognized he was from Afghanistan by the sound of his voice and his vocabulary. To Ali, Iranian Farsi sounded somewhat sing-songy, sort of Farsi with an accent and endings sounding more lilting than his own. He could be readily understood and could understand them in turn. There were questions about the Russians. Iran was not part of the Russian plan, at least not yet. They seemed interested in any small thing he had to say about the Russians and seemed to understand how much he wanted the Russians to leave. He didn’t tell anyone of his encounters at the school or the bridge.