[A story that really happened in Afghanistan that I took note of and that I propose in a mediated way]
Hi, my name is Nabil, I am the son of Jalad Khan and I belong to the Alizaee tribe. I was born and lived in Shewan, in the land of the Afghans.
I'll tell you this story so that you can understand, so that you can touch at least the surface of this sea of sand that surrounds me and that has always filled my heart.
I do not know how old I am; when those of the regular army captured me said that I could have been nine or ten, I sincerely think I have more. I think I'm already a man.
They came to get me at night. I slept on my carpet, with a new blanket that my grandfather, Aga Mohammad, had received from the Westerners at the latest aid distribution. A blanket that warmed up a little, maybe because it was not wool, but ... better than anything, surely !.
They entered suddenly, without screaming as they usually do. They took me and dragged me out, loaded in the car and brought up to their base. I was carefully searched and led to a gray concrete room. These houses of the Westerners are really strange. They use so much of that iron and cement that we could make a new village! They did not treat me badly at first, they gave me a blanket, a piece of bread and some soup with potatoes and meat. I decided to eat. At the bottom is the dawn and start to get hungry. At home we were twelve and all this food we have never seen.
In the room they brought me, white lights penetrate my eyes. After eating, I fell asleep so deeply that I did not realize the time elapsed.
They woke me with a kick on my back. I turn around and find myself in front of four men. Two are Azara, not tall, with stubby hands and crushed faces, Of the two, only one is armed. The other, as they speak to him, because of the profound tone of respect with which he accepts his strong words, must be the leader. As for the other two, I remember the tone of the voice. They are the ones who dragged me out of the house.
The deep sleep in which I had fallen makes it hard for me to understand exactly what they say. They have strange, strong accents. They are all from the north.
A strong slap, between the jaw and the ear, makes me wince. I do not remember who gave it to me, I only remember the voice of the boss asking me, in a serene tone, that I decided to be a Taliban. What an absurd question! we see that he is an Azara, he does not understand or perhaps can not understand. I have not decided to be a Taliban, just as I have not decided to be Afghan or to be born in Shiwan. God wanted it, he wrote all this for me and I do his will.
It is not the first time that I am kidnapped, it had already happened, after the great battle against the Americans, when bombs rained from dawn to dusk on our heads and in the end there were hundreds of dead. How many laments in front of the destroyed houses, how much blood, dust and flies everywhere!
Four days after the battle, a mullah entered our house at night. My father got up and welcomed him with respect; he could not have done otherwise, they had known each other for years, they might have been the same age. The mullah was from the Ashagzai tribe and has long been said to have taken refuge in the mountains, those same mountains that Mujaiddin used as a fortress against the Russians. He asked to eat, he did it without respect. He had red eyes and nervously walked into the room. I crawled slowly from my carpet to see and hear better, when a hand grabbed me and I felt relieved. Those penetrating red eyes dug into my heart, an intense smell mixed with fear, sharpened by the fact that my father instead of defending me, tearing me from the giant's hands began to complain, cry, to plead for us to lose because not we had nothing.
The mullah began to laugh out loudly spitting in his face the grains of rice he was still chewing. He squeezed my face between his thumb and forefinger and then turning to my father, he said: "You have a nice son, I want it for me!" Dad complained, he continued to cry. The mullah kicked him to the ground and dragged me away.
I rubbed my stiff cheek while Azara with the rifle asked me listlessly where Mullah Sahid was hidden. I did not answer and another strong sybone rolled me to the ground. It was the second of a long series. I spat a tooth and then I lost my senses.
At my second awakening in that gray room, with intense white lights, I was faced with a Western dress accompanied by an Afghan dressed like him. He had to be one of the allied coalition, an unfaithful dog accompanied by a traitor, so he called them Mullah Sahid. I first heard the West speak a language with round sounds, while the other translated, addressed to one of the regular army that I understood to be, but which, from my position, I could not see.
"It's just a child!" The Westerner said insistently. "What can I do with it?" If my commander knows, he's skinned me alive. "
The Afghan soldier replied: "He is a Taliban, trust me, he can tell us many things."
At the rate of slaps and meat soup, I do not remember how many days I was locked in there. I know for sure that four teeth were missing from the appeal. The Azara, the chief of the regular army soldiers here in Shiwan, visited me several times, but I never answered his questions. He seemed somewhat annoyed, but I resisted. More abrupt awakenings and kicks in the back.
Then, one day, a familiar voice at the back of the room. I squint my eyes to see better. And he! Yes, it's my father! I am happy and at the same time scared. Will they have caught him? Did you come to get me? But how could it? That night Mullah Sahid told him that I was his own thing now and I would have to keep him company day and night.
Behind him was Elder Jahmagol, a man whose voice reaches the minds and hearts of all, in Shewan.
They approached me. There were three: my father, Jahmagol Khan, and the Azara chief of the soldiers. Then, behind all the other Azara, the one with the rifle.
Jahamgol Khan stared at me intently and whispered to the chief of the military: "Yes, he is Mullah Sahid's lover, Shewan's most beautiful baby and he wanted it for himself, they want everything for themselves, the food, the water, the blankets , all."
After a moment, with the penetrating gaze that distinguishes him, he stared at the Azara and hissed, "I know that you would do the same, that's why I do not feel esteem for them or for you."
They moved away. The Azara brought a carpet of tea and dried fruit. A heated, but apparently calm, discussion began. The fingers joined with the thumbs when counting numbers: dead, explosions and destroyed houses. Ample gestures described shelters and remedies, to prevent everyone paying for a war that had to be fought anyway. My father began to cry again.
Eventually they found an agreement. I would have been released, on payment of a ransom and with the promise that if I had been found together with the insurgents, they would have killed me and my father would have been taken prisoner and tried as a Taliban.
Elder Jahmagol nodded. It seemed like a right deal.
I walked out of that room slowly, almost to the toe. It was a night out of the north, pulling a tense wind that made the shoots getting closer and closer.
Mullah Sahid prepared to escape. I lay on his carpet. Shortly thereafter I felt the blanket on my naked body stand up. I had time to observe the flash in the eyes of the azara with the rifle. Goodbye!
