The weather was gloomy. Everything was in shades of gray and dark black. I heard childish screams, the voice familiar. On the other side I heard the shriek of woman who cried out for help. I looked down at myself and all around me was a monstrous dark flood. It was above my ankles, and I was stuck in place. I couldn’t move and the shrieks and screams continued, terrifying me. My heartbeat fast with anxiety. I wanted to ask for help, but my throat was strangled by invisible hands. My tears flowed, touching my eyelashes and dripping down my cheeks. I wished to die, but no one was listening to my humble desire. I gazed upon the two people who were screaming and found they were Tahira, my wife, and Hasibullah, my elder son. I was shocked. I wanted to move towards them and save them, but the flood swallowed my legs, pulling me into its dark depths. The screams and monstrous roars of the flood pushed me out of my nightmare.
I woke up sweating, my throat dry and in need of a drink of water. My wife looked at me with her beautiful eyes and smiled. “Everything will be fine,” she said. “We will get our tickets to Tajikistan and Fly Dubai will take us there before any cruel things happen to you.”
It was August 2021, the provinces were collapsing one by one. The army was surrendering and giving their guns to the Taliban. I was thinking that all the memories of my childhood and teenage years were repeating themselves happening just as they did in the 1990s. I had written a book about my experiences called The Dream Seller and was interviewed on Tolo News about it. Already, rumors of the collapsing government circulated around the country. Anything was possible. That was the real nightmare.
I kissed my wife softly on her forehead, thanking her for her calm words. I was very worried about our journey to Tajikistan. My heart was beating fast with fear. I went to my uncle’s home. He was very religious and a wonderful friend of mine. I asked him with a lump in my throat and fear in my heart to perform Istikhara, a prayer for seeking guidance from Allah. With a kind smile, he stood up and brought out the Quran that was covered in flowery, colorful cotton. When he opened it he kissed it rapidly and began mumbling a prayer, his eyes closed. When he opened his eyes, he turned to a page and read it, then said, “Your journey will be a good event in your life.” I felt more relaxed and focused on my plan.
Early the next day, I opened my eyes and checked my phone at once. I saw that the PDFs of our tickets for our flight on August 26, 2021. I had chosen this date to fly because it was cheaper. I was very happy but cheered in silence because everyone was still asleep. I went to my mother’s room. As always, she smiled when she saw me and wished me a happy day. I kissed her and told her that I had our visas. Even though she didn’t want her youngest son and his family to leave her, she hugged me and said, “I hope you find a prosperous life.”
She had a lump in her throat as I held her hand and helped her go to the washroom. With each step, I felt her pain and love for me and my little family, especially for my sweet hero son, Hasib jan.
When the rest of the family got up, they were all very happy that we got our visas. Tahira sold all her jewelry so that we would have money in Tajikistan. We bought things at the market that we would need to start a new life in a new country where we had never been before. I had a beautiful image of Tajikistan and its people in my mind. I wanted to go there and expected kind behavior and honest attitudes from the people. We had watched TV programs from Tajikistan and enjoyed watching the people dance and seeing how happy they all seemed.
We were invited to my aunt’s home for a good-bye event on August 14. The dinner was enormous and the tablecloth was full of delicious Afghani food and fruit. I wasn’t feeling well. I was imagining that some black and dark days might swallow my hope and wishes. My heart was beating fast. I felt that I might end up lost in an unknown situation.
I was feeling depressed and knew that something was wrong with me because when speaking to my family I kept forgetting my words. I couldn’t tell my wife or any of my family members, but I believed I was being dragged into a hellish well. I needed to climb out of that well, but it was impossible. I was trying to prove myself to be a strong father and faithful, reliable husband for my little family. The dinner ended with joy and love and everyone wished us comfort and peace for our life in another country.
As we reached home, my mother, was advising me with her kind speech, then we all went to our beds to sleep. My wife and Hasib slept. I looked at them and wished I could sleep too without the trauma of the night swallowing me in a dark and monstrous nightmare, awakening always with my heart beating fast and my head aching. Finally, a wave of sleep pushed my eyes closed.
In the morning, I was awakened when my phone rang. It was my eldest brother. He said that police officers had taken off their uniforms and put aside their guns and escaped from the police stations. It was the beginning of a new turn in the history of my country. A game replayed as it was in the past.
Author: Murtaza Ahmadi
