Chapter 5: Between the Lairs of Two Dragons - My Name Is Samim

Ghazni province, Afghanistan, winter 2019

The biggest tragedies in our land begin with the buzz of a drone propeller.

When Zayn and I heard that dreadful sound, we froze. My knees weakened, and when I looked at Zayn, his eyes were closed and his fists were clenched. He was shaking and whispering something. I think it was a prayer.

From the ground, it’s impossible to see where the bomb will fall. All you know is that it’s coming, and people will die.

And then it happened.

An explosion made the ground under our feet shudder, and the whole place filled with smoke. Once the dust settled, Zayn and I saw that the bomb had hit the area close to our homes. We ran back as fast as we could, tripping and falling in panic. Our entire street was burning, and there were no houses left. Just ruins, flames and smoke.

The place was so quiet: no screams, no cries. Zayn and I just stood there, silent, watching the fire turn the remains of our homes to ashes, and we couldn’t do anything about it.

For a moment, I thought maybe it was all just a bad dream, a nightmare. I thought, Maybe I’ll wake up now, and it will all be fine again. But then I looked at Zayn. He kneeled on the dusty ground, wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth, back and forth, staring at the wreck of his home. And then I knew we weren’t dreaming this nightmare. We were living it.

When the people from the other streets arrived, my mother’s brother, Uncle Roshan, was among them. He hugged us tight and rushed off to help others extinguish the fire and look for survivors. That’s when the cries and the screams began. My uncle told us to stay away as he looked through the ruins of our homes, and we did.

Long, painful hours passed. Our chests ached from all the smoke we’d inhaled. When my uncle returned, he told us our families were gone.

We didn’t fully understand it then. They had all been there just a couple of hours before, when we’d returned from school and dropped off our bags. My mum had refilled my water bottle and hugged me. My sister was singing in another room. I remember her little voice in the background while my mum held me, and I remember thinking that I had no time for hugs because Zayn was waiting for me, so I pulled away from her. And then they were all gone… just like that.

Even after days and weeks had passed, I still felt as if they’d return.

My family will be back.

How could they just disappear?

Uncle Roshan took us to his house, and we stayed with him for a while. Zayn and I didn’t talk much during that time. And what was there to say, anyway? What do you say when you lose everyone you’ve ever loved?

My uncle was a mechanic. After we moved in with him, Zayn and I helped him in his garage. We washed the cars after they’d been repaired and cleaned the place at the end of the day. I didn’t like those jobs. I would’ve much rather gone to school, but my uncle said that returning to school was too dangerous for us because there might be more bombings.

One night, Zayn and I woke up coughing. When we opened our eyes, they stung from the smoke that filled the room.

Uncle Roshan’s voice jolted us out of our shock: “Out! Get out!”

We bolted to the front door, but an orange blaze wrapped it from all sides. My uncle grabbed some documents and money from the chest in his room and ran to us.

“Window!” he yelled, and we hurried to his bedroom.

Uncle Roshan jumped on the bed and kicked open an old window above it. The flames rushed inside the room, spreading onto the curtains and walls and swallowing everything in their way. My uncle covered me and Zayn with a blanket and ordered us to jump out of the blazing window.

When we shook off the burning blanket outside the house, Uncle Roshan was beside us. His clothes were on fire, but he put them out by rolling on the sand. His sleeves had burned, and the skin on his arms looked raw and blistered.

We rose on our bare feet and stood silent for a few minutes, watching the fire. The neighbours rushed out to help us, but by then the house was already destroyed and there was nothing anyone could do. We were homeless again.

My uncle led us to our Shia mosque, where Hazara men went to pray. A white-bearded elder called Ahmed Sharif let us in.

“You can shelter here, but only for tonight,” he said. “The mosque isn’t safe any more, so I don’t let men gather here.”

My uncle dipped his head. We walked in and sat on the carpeted floor in the prayer room. My uncle’s burned skin looked like a skinless tomato, but he didn’t complain about it.

Ahmed Sharif put some bandages over the burns and made us sweet tea. Then my uncle spoke with the elder privately. When he returned, he hunched over his tea, his eyes fixed on the curling steam. Zayn and I trembled beside him. Uncle Roshan was tall and strong, but he looked just as sad, scared and lost as we did.

“What are we going to do, Uncle?” I asked.

Uncle’s back rose and fell with a sigh. “Run.”

“Run? Where?”

“Anywhere. As far from here as we can.”

“But why? Why can’t we stay with our friends and relatives? And what about your garage?”

“We can’t stay with anyone. It would put their families in danger. And my garage…” His voice trailed off. “It will likely be ashes by tomorrow.”

I couldn’t understand. How would we endanger anyone? Why would anyone burn Uncle’s garage? A thousand questions swirled in my head. But something in Uncle’s eyes, the way he sighed and struggled to speak, made me hold back. Still, one question burned inside me.

“Who set your house on fire, Uncle?”

Uncle Roshan lifted his head. “The Taliban. They think we are helping the Americans.”

Zayn and I swapped glances, fear prickling my skin.

“What? Why would they think that? We are just kids, and you are a mechanic! Why would they think that, Uncle?”

Uncle held my gaze, tears pooling in his eyes. He then shook his head and stared back at his glass.

A sharp pain pulsed behind my ears. I clutched my head, wishing all this would stop. Please, stop!

When the elder came back, we finally had good news.

“There is a stone-cutting factory in Iran, near the border,” he said. “They hire Afghans. I know the owner. I’ve arranged everything, you can leave tonight.”

My uncle’s eyes sparked with hope as he leapt to his feet and shook the elder’s hand with his blistered palms. His face twitched with pain, but then a smile smoothed his worry lines. It was the first time he’d smiled since the bombing – and the last time I ever saw him smile.

Ahmed Sharif brought us clothes and shoes that people had left in the mosque for those in need. My shoes were too small for my giant feet, but I didn’t complain. If my uncle could take the pain of burnt flesh, I could bear tight shoes.

Sleep came in bits to us that night as we lay on the red carpet of the prayer room.

The sky was still black when my uncle whispered, “It’s time,” and Zayn and I jumped to our feet.

As we left the mosque, the moon glowed brightly above us. The ten-year-old me wondered why it didn’t light up the earth like the sun.

We walked through an icy valley, shivering, tripping on stones in the dark. It was winter, and our charity clothes were far too thin.

Hours later, when the sun melted into the sky, we reached a wide road and boarded our first bus. As the bus rattled over the uneven ground, in and out of potholes, I watched my uncle’s big amber eyes water, staring through the window.

Seeing him cry made my chest heavy. I rubbed my blurry eyes and whispered goodbyes to my snake-shaped village, green velvety fields and the mountains in snowy hats. I prayed that one day, the two dragons would leave my homeland alone, and we’d return.

* * *

A knock on the door brings me back to the room. The door half opens, and Miss Brown’s head appears.

“It’s lunchtime,” she says.

“Of course,” Miss Nadia replies, and looks at Mr Higgins.

Mr Higgins keeps writing for another few seconds and then finally says, “Thank you, Samim. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

“You’ve done great.” Miss Nadia smiles at me.

I like her smile. It’s not forced or faked; it’s honest and kind. My mother smiled like that.

After lunch, I return to my room. Miss Brown knocks on my door and walks in with some clothes and a school bag in her hands.

“It’s not new, but has plenty of life left in it,” she says about the bag.

I like that phrase. It makes the backpack sound alive and very much like me. A little worn, but with plenty of life left inside.