Escape from Afghanistan: 'There was nowhere to hide'
Five weeks have passed since the Taliban raised their flag over Afghanistan. One Afghan journalist's moving account of escaping his homeland to begin a new life
Article content
What is it like to find yourself, within the space of two weeks, an “enemy” in the only homeland you’ve ever known? What is it like to flee your country, not knowing when, or if, you’ll see your loved ones again?
I am a 30-year-old Afghan journalist. My job is to ask questions. These are not questions I ever dreamed I’d have to confront.
On Aug. 14, Taliban militants on motorbikes raised their flag over my city, Mazar-e- Sharif, and I knew, in that moment, that my life had changed forever. I had participated in human rights demonstrations. I had organized workshops for women’s employment training, funded by Western NGOs. As a journalist and activist, I had criticized, in public, Taliban brutality and its so-called ideological “purity.”
Before they came to power, I’d received Taliban warnings about my work and activities. In the aftermath of the take-over, I felt the net begin to close. There was nowhere to hide, not even in the confusion of the power outages that now darkened my city.
I didn’t want to hide. That was the greatest problem in the growing toll of daily hardships. I wanted to speak. I wanted to report what I saw. I wanted to protect my family — my parents, younger brother and sister. Above all, I wanted to hold onto my basic humanity in a time of fear and struggle. On those extinguished nights, I looked up at the plenitude of stars rarely seen in my city, and these things I knew.
Within a matter of days, the Taliban had appointed random representatives to oversee every major government institution and department. We heard our new leaders telling the world they would govern fairly. Yet inside Afghanistan, from province to province, there were already reports of reprisals by local Taliban commanders: looting, lashings, beatings, torture, door-to-door searches, and executions of the defeated security forces. I was told they were even hunting down retired army men. If not disciplined, the Taliban are dogged. They are also smarter than they were in 1996, when they last seized power. They understand they must “curate” their media profile.
Near the end of August, I was in a cellphone repair shop when a Taliban soldier arrived with a large photo of a man’s face. Did the owner know where the man lived? Did he know where he worked? I watched the owner play along, stroking his new beard and pondering, before saying no, he did not. The soldier left. The man in the photo was of course just one of many on the hit-list. Was I on that list? Journalists and academics who had supported the former government and the allied nations’ initiatives were on a list, or soon would be. It would have been naïve to think otherwise.
A few days later, I was in my office building when a colleague and I heard a commotion and shouting below us. We ran to the balcony and saw four of the Taliban patrol dragging out two young men, former government workers who had been trying, without jobs or pay, to help local Afghans complete emergency visa applications for Canada, the United States and Germany. I was working on one of my own. “Arrest these f——ing infidels!” they called to the awaiting patrol. I returned to my office, locked the door from the inside, and remained still and silent for an hour.
Five weeks have now passed, and my mother and sister, like all women in my city, have not left the house. Our new leaders say they must first train the Taliban patrols in the correct ways “to speak” to women; how to conduct themselves. Until such a development, any woman is at risk of mistreatment, punishment, assault or abduction.
I think of my sister. She is shy. She enjoys music and singing, making TikToks, and pretty things. She is 20 and wants to study pharmacy at university. Even if she is permitted — in new male-female segregated classes — will she ever be allowed to work? My parents grow older. How will she connect with the world? Where is her future when our new leaders have rejected the progress of the 21st century for the barbarism of the 12th?
An American media contact promised to try to get me on a flight out of Afghanistan from Kabul. My family said I must go. My escape was our only hope. More importantly, as long as I stayed, my record as a journalist — my very presence in our home — made my family vulnerable. The scenes at Kabul airport — the ISIS attacks, the explosions, the people clinging to planes, the man falling through the sky — were nightmarish scenes I will never forget. I am no braver than the next person, but if you don’t move forward in life, you fall backward.
I kissed my mother’s hands and face, then took my leave as my sister ran after me
If I could get out, I reasoned, I could at least work and send money to my parents. The banks in my city still have not opened or offer only limited sums. Many people are out of work. There are days when my family go hungry. The soul of my country itself is hungry — and afraid, especially in the north, my region, so long a stronghold of resistance to the Taliban. Nothing eats the soul like fear, and many fear civil war is inevitable.
On the day I made my getaway, footage was circulating of a TV news studio being stormed by its local Taliban. The host of a political debate program was surrounded on live television by armed soldiers. Menace glowered in their eyes as the host read their message aloud for the viewers. Afghan people were instructed, with machine-guns on display, to “not be afraid.”
Early on the morning of my escape, my sister woke to help me in my rush. I’d had the call. It was just before six. I had to leave by 6:15. She charged my phone as I packed. I’d been told my laptop would be allowed by the Americans, but I had to leave it, and with it, the work of my life. If it were seized by patrols, it would incriminate me. There was no time to eat a last meal together. I packed a change of clothing and two dry loaves of bread.
My mother was crying, although pretending not to. Tears pricked at my eyes. I said: “Mom, if you love me and if you want me to stay safe, please leave everything to Allah. Just pray for me and be happy your son is going to be helped by the American government.” I promised her I would to work to save our family. My father, his face weathered and sunburnt, was too choked up to speak. “Be very careful,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. Then his tears streamed.
My brother and I embraced. Only the night before we had been watching a YouTube video on the sofa together, both lost in a bravura guitar performance. Recently, I’ve been trying to teach myself to play. We briefly forgot our problems as the guitarist played. His passion and lust for life gave us courage.
At the door, my sister kissed my cheek and smiled encouragement, her eyes soft and bright. We are close, but her thoughts were only for me; she wanted me to leave, to have a chance at life. Already she was imagining the far-away world where I would soon be — inshallah.
I kissed my mother’s hands and face, then took my leave as my sister ran after me, throwing a bowl of water in my wake — the old custom meant to protect me in my travels, and to bring me back home one day.
The events that followed have the intensity of a dream for me. And I am still waking up.
Our plane was the first commercial flight, after the ISIS bombing in Kabul, to lift off out of Kabul and fly to Mazar. Now, it would soon be on its way back south. Would I be on it? At the checkpoint, the taxi I shared with three other hopefuls was stopped: “Where are you going?”
“To the airport,” I said.
“Why?” asked the Taliban soldier.
“We are going to Kabul,” I replied.
Without a word, he started punching the car door. In Pashto, he said: “Za, kor ta Za, de angrez Zuya! Go, go home, infidel’s son!” Our taxi reversed and I texted my American contact. He said we must hide until I received another call and the code phrase. We waited 20 long minutes. Then: “Hello, do you have a car for sale?”
“Yes,” I said on cue, “it is a fair price.”
From the taxi, we were transferred to a shuttle bus. Again, we were stopped by the Taliban at a checkpoint. Our bus was not allowed through. I made another call. An airline jeep arrived — and at last we were on our way.
In the airport, I overheard a heavily armed Taliban soldier talking to a shop owner. The soldier was eating ice cream and telling the man that Mazar will be a nice place to raise his children. It is his home now, not mine.
The Taliban security force released a dog to sniff our bags. Would evidence be falsified? But no. We boarded the plane, many hours later. Kam Air crew greeted us with smiles. It was the first flight of my life. I still could not believe I was leaving.
It was late when we finally took off. Below us, the runways were strung with beads of light, but when I peered to see the last of my city, it was dark and lost in the night. I looked to my fellow passengers, all tribes together, Pashtuns, Hazaras and Persians.
We landed in Qatar at 2:30 a.m. where we were given food, blankets and essentials, then transported to a vast tent. We were now, officially, refugees, and the tent was shelter for 400 people. There was only warm water to drink, rations of cold food, and broken toilets. We were there for a day and were then embarking again, this time on a crowded army plane bound for Bahrain. Men and women sat strangely close, shoulders touching. It was disconcerting and it was euphoric. Smiles of relief broke out, row upon row, as people snapped selfies.
We arrived to a new camp with better conditions. Days passed. A few. I lost count. We found ourselves in the airport once more. A jumbo jet awaited. I asked an American official where we were being taken. He said he didn’t know, and a feeling of panic, of free-fall, briefly overcame me.
Some days, I am an 'alien' in a place I fear I might never belong
The flight was almost 15 hours long, but our welcome at the other end was warm: food, halal drinks and endless smiles. Our U.S. Army bus finally pulled into our new home, a place called Fort Pickett, Virginia. A young deer looked up as I stepped off the bus – a new sight for me.
Five weeks have passed since the Taliban raised their flag over Mazar — that is all — and my life has turned inside-out. Some days I am happy. Some days, I am an “alien” in a place I fear I might never belong. But I’m still young enough, I tell myself — new life is possible. It must be.
We are two to a room, and each room is comfortable, with a TV, fridge and cupboards. In the camp, some of the Afghan girls quickly released their hair, American-style, and adopted the choice of American clothing provided. I admit, it was disorienting — the speed of change. Our camp is surrounded by lush, green woodland. It is beautiful, but I miss the perpetual song of the car horns of Mazar.
Many of my fellow refugees are in shock. We don’t know when we will be released, or what awaits us after the three months of official government support runs out. We are free to leave the camp, but if we do, we must pay for our own lawyers and residency applications. Impossible.
I speak English but many do not. They cannot imagine how they will get jobs; how they will cope. Over meals, I teach them basic English words. We go to classes, where translators explain paperwork requirements and American customs: Easter, Thanksgiving turkeys, Santa Claus, Auld Lang Syne.
Tribal tensions surface among us; I am sometimes drawn into it myself, against my better judgment. Rumours and fear are swapped in the cafeteria: some men fear our guards are putting bromine in the food, to subdue us. My fellow refugees say their bodies do not function normally, even when they see beautiful women. Some were shouted at by our guards when they left garbage on the ground; they did not understand and were afraid. It takes time to learn how to measure words — and people — in a new country. Everyone is tense with the certainty of what is lost and the uncertainty of what lies ahead.
There are good days too. The weather is golden, the camp is green, and there are Afghan children of all ages among us. We often gather outside to watch the American soldiers play games with them. It’s touching to see. A few days ago, I also saw an Afghan girl, alone in a field, kicking a soccer ball with skill. It was fascinating to watch her — anonymous under her black hijab — to see her talent. Today, I spoke to a man from the Hazara tribe — so different from my own, the Persians. I enjoyed our conversation, one that would hardly have been possible in Afghanistan. He is a decent man and good company.
I hope for more good days. I hope I will find work and help my family. I would like to marry and have children in my new country. I hope to improve my English and have a voice. I even dream of becoming a congressman in the future; of speaking on behalf of others in need. I also dream I might get back to learning guitar.
Sometimes, I see again, in my mind’s eye, my sister smiling and throwing the bowl of water after me as I left. I can only hope its protection is powerful; that the water will remember me; that no ocean will divide us forever; that the charm will carry me back to my homeland — one day, somehow.
Sayed Ahmad Sadat is a journalist who wrote on the first days of the Taliban takeover of Afghanistan for the National Post on Aug. 20.
Alison MacLeod is a Montreal-born, U.K.-based novelist and journalist. Her latest novel, Tenderness, was released this month. Her last novel, Unexploded, was long-listed for the Man-Booker Prize for Fiction.
Our website is the place for the latest breaking news, exclusive scoops, longreads and provocative commentary. Please bookmark nationalpost.com and sign up for our daily newsletter, Posted, here.
Postmedia is committed to maintaining a lively but civil forum for discussion. Please keep comments relevant and respectful. Comments may take up to an hour to appear on the site. You will receive an email if there is a reply to your comment, an update to a thread you follow or if a user you follow comments. Visit our Community Guidelines for more information.