Chapter 4: Stranded

“Hope is like a path in the country—where there was

never a road. When many people walk a

path, a road comes into existence.”

– Lin Yutang, Chinese Author

I lay awake on the floor in that Mujahedeen safe house, looking at the ceiling, avoiding the stare of the yellow-eyed fighter cradling the AK-47. I thought back to those days in Kabul after my mother vanished, listening to the Kha Kha Jan Radio broadcasts from Pakistan inciting Afghan freedom fighters to oppose the Communists. Kha Kha Jan also broadcast reports from the outside world, including sports news. We rejoiced when Muhammad Ali won a big fight. And the USA ice hockey team defeated the mighty Soviets during the 1980 Olympics, even though the Americans were just college students. I’m sure the American athletes had no idea how much their victory inspired us. The Kha Kha Jan broadcasts were in Dari and Pashto, both of which I spoke well. The radio reports detailing Soviet atrocities against our people inflamed our emotions.

Even before the Soviets came to Kabul in force, I hated the Afghan Communists, who sought to control so much of our country’s life. When I was 12 years old, I ran away from home with Suhail, who was then 14, and another boy, Safie, 15, to go to Pakistan. Kha Kha Jan inspired us so much that we sought to join the anti-Communist forces across the border. We had no contacts there. We just figured, as boys will, that our passion would guide us; we’d ask people to point us to the Freedom Fighters. Simple as that. We boarded a bus and got all the way past Jalalabad to the border settlement of Torkham. Then the Afghan Communist border police caught us at a bus stop. We wore western clothes—school attire. Big mistake. My father reported us missing and the authorities came after us. The Communists brought us back to Kabul on another bus.

Angry parents awaited us at the Kabul bus station. Safie’s father grabbed Safie’s arm and led him away. My father glared at Suhail and me and pointed to his waiting car.

“Get in and don’t speak,” he snapped.

I hardly dared to breathe as my father drove home and marched us into the living room. He locked the room’s one door while a maid and my mother held Suhail down. My father picked up an electrical cord and slashed at Suhail’s backside. This was new. My mother had never previously helped my father to beat us. I was petrified. I wanted to help Suhail but could only stand there and listen to his screams as my father lashed away. I knew Suhail to be the favored son—the fortunate son. I figured they’d beat me even worse. When my father finally let up, Suhail lay wailing on the floor. The angry trio turned to me. I stepped back into a corner as the three of them approached. I pushed the maid out of the way and made a break to the door, but it was locked. Then I felt my father grip my upper left arm as he flung me to the floor, almost tearing my arm out of its socket. His first blow slashed my back, ripping my shirt open wide. He then whacked me so hard that the skin came off of my left upper arm, where I still have a scar. I curled into a ball and pleaded for mercy, covering my head with my arms. The blows continued. I begged my mother for help, but none came. My father lashed away—my back, my buttocks, and my legs. Then in a coup de grace he kicked me, threw the cord at me, and screamed, “Learn from this! Don’t ever disappear and embarrass us again!”

Our parents beat bloody and unforgettable lessons into us—not just into our bodies, but into our hearts, minds, and souls. We were too young to make big life decisions. We were not to challenge the status quo, either in the family or in greater Afghan society. Asserting our independence meant dire consequences, which my father was happy to deliver.

I told myself, even in the moment of my worst pain and fear, that my father was violent, but not evil. He was a product of a conservative, patriarchal Afghan society threatened by those who challenged authority or the status quo. Perhaps some of his anger stemmed from his worry about our safety. Still, that reasoning only went so far. My home no longer provided sanctuary, and my country no longer felt like home.

After beating us, my parents and the maid left the living room. On her way out, my mother spoke for the first time.

“Think about what happened,” she said. “Learn from this.” Her voice cracked in anguish as she spoke. I knew my father coerced her participation in our beatings.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, prompted by the physical pain, and also by the emotional hurt of being beaten by the two people who should love me most.

Suhail and I sobbed together, broken and demoralized. Eventually, we stopped crying and silence prevailed. Finally, my brother spoke. “I hate them,” he muttered. “I hate them so much. Someday I’ll make them know how it feels to be beaten like a dog.”

I stared at Suhail, and the cold harshness of his face suddenly made him look much older to me. I suddenly recognized our father. It was a moment of profound insight, for I saw Suhail being caught in the same violent trap that had ensnared our father—the Afghan cycle of retribution. When he took on my father’s angry look, I could picture him doing violence—to his own children. I swallowed hard. Suhail stared straight ahead, not at me, but I wondered if he would see our father when he looked at me. I couldn’t bear that. I vowed, then and there, never to be like my father.

I wanted to love my father, but it was hard. He was mean and cruel. Stubborn. Violent. Domineering. Materialistic. He drank and chased women. He hit my mother. He never showed affection for anyone, unless they had money or things he wanted—then he could be charming. I wondered how he had become who he was.

Jamil Barikzoy was the oldest son of ten children. His father was often absent because of a military career, so my father learned to be an assertive head of the household at a young age. He emulated his own father’s authoritarianism. Perhaps his harshness was his way of showing that he cared. However, as I saw Suhail becoming like our father, I understood the need to break this cycle of brutal Afghan paternal violence.

My stinging back stopped hurting so much when a ray of sunshine shone bravely through the room’s lone window. It was a spiritual moment, brought on by the intense pain from my beating, the emotional hurt I’d suffered, and the inspired revelation that I’d just experienced. I sensed the presence and lightness of some sort of higher power. I didn’t understand it, but that was OK. I felt it. It was real and it gave me new-found comfort and hope.

I was 13 years old when the Soviets arrived the next year—when President Amin was killed. Cries of Allah Akbar resounded around the city that very first night. Our resistance movement began with the next morning’s light.

Two years later I identified some Soviet convoy routes and occasionally I’d position myself high on a steep hill behind some rocks, take aim at Soviet vehicles passing far below, and fire my long-range sling shot. I had a handy escape route, known only to me, and after launching my missiles, I’d take off.

One day, my young friend Hobid joined Hares and me at my ambush site with their own slingshots. As the convoy approached, we readied our launchers, and positioned ourselves where we could fire.

We saw our targets approaching and prepared to launch a volley. I jabbed Hobid in the ribs and I pointed to the lead vehicle, claiming it. I fired down at a soldier exposed on top of the slowly moving tank. Bullseye! Emboldened by my marksmanship, Hobid and Hares fired at their targets. Moments later, Russian voices resounded from the convoy radios and the vehicles braked and halted, metal tracks screeching and seizing on the gravelly road. Dozens of infantrymen dismounted from armored personnel carriers as tank guns slowly turned and elevated in our direction. We took off, running all out toward a grove of trees on top of the hill, where my escape route began. We heard the snap sound of bullets—small arms fire—whizzing past our heads, while other bullets kicked up dust near our feet before we got into the trees and just kept running.

In that moment I felt marvelously alive. Years later I heard of an apt quote by Winston Churchill. "There is nothing so exhilarating as to be shot at without effect."

We scrambled through the trees and down the other side of a hill and kept running until we reached a residential street in a destitute neighborhood. Hobid and I left Hares far behind and eventually I heard him yell, “Fahim! Wait for me!” I ducked inside an abandoned house with an open doorway, followed closely by Hobid. We both fell to the floor, our chests heaving. Then we heard the sound of Hares’ footsteps. He joined us inside and bent over, with his hands on his knees, trying to breathe. He sat down against a wall, and for a while we just looked at each other, gasping for breath.

“That’s the last time I ever listen to you, Fahim!” Hobid finally said. He was still panting away, his eyes open wide, sweat dripping off his chin. Poor Hobid. He loved flying kites, and wasn’t that interested in shooting sling shots. I’d talked him into coming to my ambush site, where the Russians almost killed him. He looked so frightened that I couldn’t help but laugh.

“What if Father finds out?” Hares finally asked.

I stopped laughing.

“We don’t need to talk about that,” I said. “We’ll be fine.” Of course, I was bluffing. My father terrified me as much or more than the Soviet tanks did.

From that day on, we watched our occupiers closely. I was curious about them so I tried to ingratiate myself to soldiers on bases around Kabul. I’d trade stuff the soldiers wanted—like Afghan blankets or fresh food—for parts of weapons. Then I’d turn those parts over to store owners, who eventually put together intact weapons for the resistance. Later, I delivered propaganda leaflets to areas where the soldiers could find them. The leaflets, written in Pashto and Dari, stated, “We will get you! Allah is Great, not Lenin! Afghan Collaborator-Traitors Will Die!”

I feigned affection for our enemies and found that I enjoyed acting. I learned to speak Russian. It just came easily to me, as did learning other languages. I thought then that if I was forced to live in China for three weeks, I could probably return fluent in Mandarin!

The stare of the toothless fighter, the snoring of Mujahedeen in other corners of the safe house, and the excitement of the day combined to keep me awake, but eventually my eyes closed and I fell asleep in my corner. No sooner did the dreams begin than the coyote shook me awake. Abdul wanted to move on. He feared a spy among the Mujahedeen would turn us in. My father quietly stood up and helped Hares put on his coat. He whispered to me to give him the money he’d sewn inside my jacket. He gave some of the money to Abdul and some to the local Mujahedeen leader, who stood watching us from just inside the doorway.

Our coyote led us outside where three Mujahedeen fighters waited to escort us. They led us up an old road to the southeast. We passed through a gruesome area filled with destroyed vehicles and blown-up animals. The now-silent battlefield hid active mines. One Mujahedeen guide pointed them out, saying, “These are anti-tank mines. Fortunately, you are too small to set them off.” Not at all comforted, I let him go first and I stepped only in his footprints. We moved like ghosts past the moonlit carcasses and battlefield debris.

We walked briskly throughout the freezing night. The next morning we reached a small settlement, where a nervous villager provided us with a place to sleep. He smiled with relief when we moved on after a few hours.

I thought about my mother. Would this wretched journey somehow reunite us with the rest of our splintered family? My father moved ahead of me in our little column. Now I followed him instead of the Mujahedeen. As always, he remained cold, stoic, and emotionless. I yearned for a measure of reassurance, which he never provided. As I literally walked in his footsteps, I pondered who he was. While this journey was essentially a search for my mother, in a different way it was also a search for my father. He often scared and angered me, but he sometimes showed glimpses of the humanity that I wanted—that I needed—to see in my father. He’d shielded Hares with his own body at the Mujahedeen safe house. That imagery moved me, but it also made me jealous. Had he ever shielded me from any dangers? Had he ever done anything special for me besides beat me? I was still angry that he didn’t allow Hares and me to leave Afghanistan with my mother. He’d held us hostage instead. Maybe by risking his life and fortune to reunite us with our mother he was seeking to make amends for past transgressions. Or was he just trying to save his own life? My search for my father would continue—even as he walked just 20 feet ahead of me.

Thirst became an issue since we traveled light and didn’t carry much water. The coyote seemed to know the location of streams or water sources, though, and we were never thirsty for long.

At night we stopped again at a pre-determined safe-house to sleep and eat. It helped our cause that Afghans are famously hospitable to travelers. It was like the underground railway system that had helped southern slaves in the U.S. escape to Canada before the American Civil War.

On the third day of our trek, the three Mujahedeen left us, but our trustworthy coyote kept guiding us through the remote trails and passes of the Hindu Kush. Hares’ shoes wore out, but Abdul found some replacements in a tiny village and we kept going. Sometimes we rested off to the side of the trail if we could find cover. Sometimes we’d stop at a safe house and sleep in a dwelling owned by someone who seemed to know our coyote.

One villager gave us some old blankets in which we wrapped up small amounts of bread and dried meat. We never got too cold while moving, but if we stopped for long, the shivering began. I was so glad we had our blankets—our Afghan quilts.

We stayed dispersed and avoided potential mine fields. Abdul taught us how to react when we’d hear a plane or a helicopter overhead: step quickly off the trail, throw a blanket or shawl over ourselves, and be very still until the danger passed. Then we’d emerge from our camouflaged positions and continue on.

Hares and I wore down. My little brother kept coughing and we often had to wait for him. Even my father ran out of energy. Abdul, on the other hand, seemed impervious to the elements.

Finally, the trail took us to the base of a 10,000 foot mountain. There was no getting around it if we were to get to Pakistan. My father told the coyote that we needed help. “We can’t last much longer,” he said. “I don’t think Hares can make it, and I can’t carry him. I can hardly walk much further myself.”

“You have to keep going,” Abdul replied, in a soft, patient voice. “You have no choice. You need to move or die. It will be all right. I’ve done this before. There is help ahead.”

We soon arrived at a farm, where a man came out of a house and talked to the coyote and my father, who took out some money and gave it to the farmer.

The farmer took us to a barn, inside of which were four horses. The four of us mounted up and the farmer walked in front of us as we moved single file up a narrow trail, ascending ever higher into the frigid remoteness of the Hindu Kush. The horse farmer was an elder, with grey hair and a grey beard, but he moved with the vigor of a much younger man. I had the feeling he’d traveled this route many times before.

“Don’t try to guide the horses,” the horse-farmer said. “They know how to get to Pakistan.”

My horse was all brown, except for a little white near his nose. He looked at me before the farmer helped me mount him, and I swear this horse smiled at me, showing his square white teeth. It was comforting. Compared to trudging uphill, riding on horseback was effortless. The farmer and Abdul switched off riding the lead horse, the biggest of the four. My father was next, with me right behind. Hares rode the smallest horse, at the end of our little column.

The horses indeed knew the way as we continued climbing. Sometimes they’d move underneath a tree and just stop. Then we’d hear Soviet aircraft in the distance. The horses sensed danger before we did and they knew how to hide. There were more trees at the higher elevations, where the views were magnificent. As we looked back to the north, we could see for 100 miles in places. Brown valley floors gave way to green tree-covered mountainsides, which were often capped by white snow-fields. Some of the more distant mountains were light blue, rather than green. The skies were usually dark blue during the day, and sprinkled with bright stars at night.

Eventually, we traveled on steep switchback trails, wide enough for only one person or one horse to walk at a time. In some places, a misstep meant a plunge of hundreds of feet, almost straight down to certain death. I told myself that the horses knew what they were doing, that they didn’t want to fall either, and to trust them.

I adjusted to my horse’s rhythm and we became as one. We eventually came to a natural resting area that evening, where a small spring provided water, and trees concealed our bivouac. Hares’ horse carried food for all the horses and people. My new equine friend quickly devoured all the oats the farmer poured into a small basket, and then drank thirstily from the spring.

No longer exhausted, I was in a talkative mood and asked Abdul and the farmer about previous trips they’d made over this ground. Unfortunately, they only wanted to sleep. They’d alternated walking and riding and were beat. I devoured yet another cold meal, while longing for something warm. We couldn’t have a fire. On this cold, clear night even a small blaze could be seen from 20 miles away, inviting Soviet attention. Our trek gave me a new appreciation for many things, especially hot food.

Snowfields loomed above our bivouac. Everyone wrapped up in his own blanket and tried to sleep. I turned my blanket into a cocoon, but then I couldn’t breathe. When I’d stick my head out to breathe, I became too cold to sleep. I lay awake most of the night. My father and Abdul took turns staying up, and when the farmer started snoring, one of them poked him until he stopped. It was a quiet, starry night, and sound traveled well—a Soviet patrol might hear him. I fidgeted and froze all night, and was happy to see the dawn.

The next day, we ascended into the snow and soon arrived at Jogjee Mangel near the Pakistan border. From over 10,000 feet, we looked back down into a valley and saw dreaded Soviet aircraft taking off from a small airfield.

By this time I was tired, dizzy, and sick. Even though I’d been riding, I was short of breath at the high altitude. I shivered from the cold while my stomach growled in hunger. Clouds rolled in, accompanied by snow flurries, and a cold wind buffeted us. Still, the dream of escape kept us going. Our difficulties made me more determined than ever to see my mother’s face again.

Eventually, the coyote said to stop, rest, and wait for darkness. We found shelter from the wind in a space between several large rock formations. The farmer spoke briefly to Abdul, and then tied the horses together with a small rope that connected their bridles. He mounted the lead horse, waved, and shouted, “Good luck!” He slowly rode back to the northwest, beginning the long descent down toward his farm, the three other horses trailing behind him in a single file.

Despite the cold we slept for a while. Then Abdul shook the three of us awake. “It’s time to finish our journey,” he said softly, with a hint of a smile. Our lives were in his hands, as they had been for almost a week. I’d developed real admiration for our coyote, and trusted him with my life.

We started a six-hour hike down the mountain while it was still dark. Abdul led the way, and I followed closely. Hares limped along behind me, with my father taking up the rear. He usually walked closest to Abdul, but now he chose to go last to keep an eye on us. I liked that.

We bottomed out in a valley and then made a brief ascent as a new day dawned.

Suddenly, we saw figures in dark uniforms on the trail ahead of us. We froze, but Abdul went up ahead. He spoke with the figures in Pashto for a few moments. Then he waved us forward and told us we were now in Parachinar, Pakistan.

It was the happiest day of my young life.

I looked at my father and saw a smile bloom on his face for the first time in five years.

My first look at the vast Parachinar refugee camp showed a makeshift city of green, grey and brown tents stretching on forever, sheltering tens of thousands of Afghan refugees displaced by the bloody violence in my homeland.

Western powers, including the U.S., provided material aid for refugee camps like this one. Charlie Wilson had visited Parachinar in the 1980s and was so moved by its desperate condition that he swore to do whatever he could as a U. S. Congressman to help the Afghan people. Little did I know then that 23 years later Wilson and I would be comparing notes on the camp when I served as cultural advisor for Charlie Wilson’s War.

The mass of displaced humanity reminded me of Jews, of all things. My favorite school subject was history and I knew a bit about the Jewish Diaspora, the scattering of the Hebrew people throughout the world when hostile forces dominated their homeland. Also, the Soviets often showed World War II-era propaganda films in Kabul theaters which demonized anti-Communists—like Hitler and the Nazis. Some of these films showed Jews crowded into large concentration camps. The Parachinar refugee camp made me think of those World War II film images. It may seem curious that someone from an Islamic country would liken his people’s plight to that of the Jews, but as I looked at all the displaced Afghans and the countless tents, I just kept thinking of Jews.

My father didn’t want to take up residence in Parachinar. He wanted to search for relatives in Islamabad, the Pakistani capital, so our coyote led us to where we could board a bus for Peshawar, which was on the way to Islamabad. Abdul said that we might be able to bribe some Peshawar people to forge us valuable travel documents, so our father decided to investigate there before heading on to the capital. We hugged our coyote and thanked him. My father gave him some more money and Abdul smiled and wished us luck. He turned and headed back to the northwest, walking with the slow but purposeful stride we’d come to know so well. I understood that Abdul was a kind of mercenary. He made a lot of money getting people out of Afghanistan. Still, many other coyotes took payments from would-be refugees and turned them in later. Abdul was true to the bargain he’d struck with my father. As I watched him walking back towards Afghanistan, I wondered if he was an angel, sent to help us escape the terrors of my native land. I still wonder what became of him.

My father, Hares, and I got on the bus. This time, we sat together. Our eyes darted back and forth as we slowly rolled through the vast refugee camp. There were animals all around in the camp—goats, sheep, and cows, just wandering around. Sort of a giant barnyard. Kids kicked soccer balls. Tents and temporary shelters were set up haphazardly. No one wanted to stay permanently in a refugee camp, even though it provided some security. Leaving the squalid tent city required money, which most refugees didn’t have—Afghans being among the poorest people in the world. Many just stood and stared at our bus, probably yearning to be on it with us. We speeded up slightly as we pulled away from the camp. Eight hours later, we arrived in Peshawar.

In Peshawar, we could buy official documents necessary for transit to India. From there, we could position ourselves to travel to America. Intrigue abounded in this lawless and scary place. Kidnappings and disappearances occurred routinely. Gulbuddin Hekmatyar’s ruthless Mujahedeen fighters dominated Peshawar. They’d hang anyone from Afghanistan with ties to the Communist regime. My father was visibly nervous.

“Stay close to me,” he ordered. “If we get separated, we’ll never find each other again.”

We got off the bus and walked toward the business district—my father in the middle, with Hares and I each clutching one of his hands.

Peshawar was not pretty. The city had electricity, though many of the utility poles angled one way or the other. Boys flew kites. Birds squawked. Dogs barked. Trash piles emitted an acidic, humid stench that reminded me of Kabul’s poorest neighborhoods. Rows of crumbling, dilapidated two-story buildings stretched on for miles on both sides of busy, dusty streets. I wondered why people couldn’t build newer, nicer places and put paint on them. And why couldn’t someone pick up the garbage?

Downtown traffic snarled and horns honked constantly. White Range Rovers traveled alongside colorfully painted jingle trucks moving produce or other goods. Horses pulled wagons and young men pulled rickshaws. Indian and Pashto music blared from stalls along a street-side bazaar, amid the pervasive smell of roasting kabobs. Vendors and buyers argued over prices as they had since antiquity. We watched a man show off some gems, including what appeared to be rubies and emeralds, to a vendor who displayed weapons on a table. Eventually the vendor merchant accepted several jewels and handed the man an AK-47 Soviet assault rifle.

A few women moved around partially covered, like Arabs, as opposed to Afghan women who wore the traditional burquas covering everything but the eyes. Turbaned men—presumably Mujahedeen fighters—walked about bristling with weapons of all kinds.

The unsettling eyes of these bearded fighters haunted me as we moved through the city. They could probably tell we were transients. They scrutinized Hares in particular. I worried for my 12-year-old brother and stayed close to him.

Finally, an elder approached my father, gestured toward Hares and me, and, asked “Are those your sons?”

“Of course,” my father replied. “Why do you ask?”

“You need to take those pretty boys away from here quickly or they’ll soon end up in the soldiers’ camp.”

Hares and I anxiously looked to my father.

“We’re going to Islamabad as soon as we can,” he replied. “Thank you.”

An unfortunate aspect of the fighter culture there involved young boys being exploited sexually. The practice is known as Bacha Bazi, literally "playing with boys." The practice of selling adolescent boys to wealthy or powerful men for entertainment and sex sadly thrives in both Afghanistan and Pakistan. Abdul had told us earlier that Afghan culture precluded visits to military camps by women or prostitutes and so boys filled a sexual void of sorts for the fighters. I understood the implications of ending up in the soldiers’ camp. My father must have had second thoughts as well, because he decided to pursue the documents we needed in the Pakistani capital of Islamabad instead of Peshawar. The capital was a much more cosmopolitan place, with its atmosphere tempered by the presence of foreigners and embassies. Security was also better there. So we spent the night outside a Peshawar hotel near a mosque, where there was street light and people moving around. The next day we boarded a bus yet again, now bound for Islamabad.

This bus trip was not as scary as the one we’d made out of Kabul—the road was paved and presumably there were no Communist secret police looking for us. Still, we had to contend with five or six checkpoint stops, which always made me nervous. When the Pakistani police boarded the bus, the driver seemed to know what to do. He gave money to the police and they let us move on. I wondered if the payments were some combination of bribes, taxes, or tolls.

Upon arriving in Islamabad, we made our way to the large and impoverished residential district G93, where Afghan expatriates predominated. We stopped at an Afghan bakery, where a man named Omar and his brother Mamoud stood in line ahead of us to buy bread. After finishing his purchase, Omar turned and eyed us with interest.

“You’re new here, yes?” queried Omar in Pashto.

“Yes,” said my father. “But we’re going to America.”

Omar laughed. “You’ll be here for many years,” he said. “There are so many thousands in line ahead of you. How much money do you have?”

“Enough,” said my father.

Omar said we could move in with him and Mamoud for a while, for a small fee. And so we did. Even though we ended up five in a room, we felt much safer than we did in Peshawar. Omar and Mamoud lived on the second floor of a four-story apartment building. Our space actually had two rooms, but a rent collector had one room all to himself. We settled in, organized our meager possessions, and talked about what we would do next. Then we walked around to meet other residents and to get a feel for the neighborhood.

A few days later, Omar took us to the American Embassy, located in an upscale part of Islamabad—nicer than any neighborhood in Kabul. Concertina wire crowned the walls surrounding a modern, multi-level structure. Trees grew throughout the embassy grounds. An American flag flew above a guard station by the main gate, where a sliding door occasionally opened to allow a vehicle through.

Pakistani police stood outside and prevented us from accessing the gate without papers. I looked through the gates and saw armed Americans on the inside. Slim and trim, these men projected a comforting, confident presence.

It was my first look at United States Marines.

A policeman spoke to one of the Marines, who glanced at us and then nodded. That simple gesture filled my heart with hope.

Soon, an embassy worker and a translator appeared at the gate. We explained that my mother, two sisters, and a brother had traveled through Pakistan to India in 1980, and we believed they were somewhere in America. They told us to be patient and to give them time to try to track down my mother.

We went back to Omar’s place at G93. Neighborhood expatriates said the embassy people would take years processing our requests and told us to go to India, where we could better expedite international travel. To cross the Indian border required that we first return to Peshawar to procure necessary transit documents. A G93 neighbor told my father of a Peshawar man named Chubby the Forger who might help us with passports and visas. Supposedly Chubby could create almost any type of document—for a fee.

We got on a bus and went back to the scary city. After walking a couple of miles from the bus stop, we finally arrived at an old store. We approached a man standing outside and explained that Omar and Mamoud from G93 had told us to meet Chubby the Forger at this location. The man nodded and said “Follow me.” We entered a backroom.

“Greetings,” said Chubby, who was indeed a very fat man. “I know why you’re here. Do you have money?”

“We have some,” said my father. G93 people had coached my dad in advance on negotiating with the forger. He and Chubby dickered a bit and then agreed on a price for three passports.

“I can help you,” said Chubby. “But you have to wait a while. I have a big backlog.”

“What about the police?” my father asked.

“They’re my friends,” Chubby said with a smile. “I take good care of them.”

Chubby took our photos—and our money—and said he’d eventually work up something that could help us. We had no choice but to be patient.

“I’ll contact you through Omar when something is ready,” said Chubby. “And tell him not to send anyone else this way unless they can pay more than you.”

We took a bus back to Islamabad and G93. We returned to the American Embassy, where an official told us to file as refugees seeking asylum in the U.S. He helped us with paperwork and said to expect at least a three-year wait—and even then there were no guarantees.

Everywhere we went we heard, “Be patient. Be patient.”

We resumed our boring routines in Omar’s little one-room apartment and at G93. The days went by and we got to know the other Afghans in the area, all of whom, like us, wanted to go to America.

Meanwhile, American personnel continued searching for our family in the U.S.

Three weeks later, we returned to the embassy to check for new information. People like us couldn’t get into the embassy unless our names were on a list and we always had to stand outside and use an interpreter to communicate with embassy personnel. I saw how empowering it was for translators—to be able to communicate in two different worlds while connecting two different cultures. On this particular day, the interpreter asked the Marine at the gate for news. This Marine looked at some paperwork and responded differently from previous visits. Even though I couldn’t speak English, I could tell there was new information.

Suddenly, the gate opened and we moved for the first time into a small piece of America.

I’ll never forget the words the translator then spoke in Dari: “They have found your family!”

It was late November of 1983. A man at the Embassy gave us a number for a telephone in Charlottesville, Virginia, where we might reach my mother.

We went back to Omar’s apartment and gathered all the coins we could. Then we walked to a local pay phone and stood in line to make an unforgettable telephone call to America.

My dad dialed the number. Hares and I crowded close to him so we could hear any voices that might come over the receiver. We finally heard a tinny female voice say “Hello” in English.

“Salam alikam, Fahima,” said my father as he started to cry.

“Jamil?” the tinny voice asked incredulously. “Jamil?” Hares and I started to cry as well.

“Yes, Fahima, it’s me, Jamil—your husband,” my father said in Dari.

My mother reverted to Dari. “My God! I can’t believe it! Where are you?” she asked.

“Islamabad,” replied my father. “We’re working with the American Embassy to get to the U.S. and find you.”

“Who is ‘we’?” responded my mother.

“Me, Fahim and Hares, of course,” said Dad.

Then we heard shouting at the other end. “They told me you married someone else and have small children,” screamed my mother. “And Fahim and Hares are dead! Why are you calling me now?”

“Not so!” said my father. “Whoever told you that was trying to keep you from communicating with me. Fahim and Hares are right here with me! I’ll put Fahim on the line.”

My father handed me the phone. “Salam madar Jan,” I said. Hello, dear mother.

“You are not Fahim,” my mother responded.

My voice had deepened during the previous four years and my mother didn’t believe it was me. “Remember how I used to go with you to deliver babies,” I said. “I carried your medical bag. Almost every delivery was a boy, remember?”

“You are Fahim,” my mother said, her voice breaking.

“Why did you leave us?” I asked plaintively, my own voice cracking with emotion.

Now it was my mother’s turn to cry. She said she tried to send photos and letters, but the Communists must have intercepted them. She asked to speak to my brother and I put Hares on the phone. He started to speak and then the line went dead. We were out of coins. We went and got more coins and returned to stand at the back of the line. When we got back to the telephone we couldn’t get through to America, but that was OK. Our family had reconnected.

We soon learned from the Embassy that two men—Dr. Anthony Marino and Mr. Robert Finley—had sponsored my mother and our siblings in America, along with Finley’s Christian Aid Mission. What wonderful people these must be, I thought. What would prompt such generosity to aliens from a faraway land? One reason might have been that Dr. Marino turned out to be my uncle. Twenty years earlier, he’d become a Christian and immigrated to America, changing his name from Azmary to Anthony Marino. We hadn’t heard from him in all that time, and were delighted that he remembered us and wanted to help shepherd our journey.

The good news was tempered by the counsel we later received at the Embassy. Even though the presence of our family members in Virginia was confirmed, U.S. State Department people told us it could still take years to get to America. Many people were in line ahead of us.

So 1983 turned into 1984, which turned into 1985.

To pass the time, I took classes that would ease my transition to American society, including English. I found that speaking English was easier than writing it. I looked forward to speaking English in America, but wondered if or when that would ever happen.

I also learned Urdu, the predominant language in Pakistan. As always, languages came easily to me. I have a strongly associative memory that allows me to picture words, phrases, and subjects mentally, connect them and more easily remember them.

I played a lot of soccer in Pakistan and tried to blend into society there, along with so many of my fellow Afghan refugees. I watched Indian movies and dreamed about acting possibilities in America. Hares and I visited bazaars where girls sometimes smiled or flirted with us. We liked that, and eventually we got to know some refugee girls. Invariably they’d talk of finding security and opportunity in the U.S. Everyone dreamed of America.

We survived financially with the help of occasional checks from my uncle who lived in California. The approach of the postman to Omar’s apartment was always a suspenseful highlight to our boring routine. Though we seldom received any mail we did occasionally get a letter from our family in Virginia which excited us and kept us looking forward.

All was not rosy in Islamabad. It was there that I first felt the sting of ethnic hatred. One day, a disturbance in the city turned into a riot which took on anti-Afghan overtones. Pakistani police stopped busses to find Afghans to beat up. Hares and I rode a bus that day from G93 to a language school, Joma Bazher G94, in Islamabad. Policemen came onto the bus checking identifications. One of them wondered why we sat so close to the women and asked who we were. We apologized that we didn’t have our paperwork with us. Another policeman asked if we were Afghan and I replied that we were from Kabul but were going to America. The policemen then pulled us off the bus and hit us with police sticks. I warded off the blows, which bruised my fingers and hands. Hares and I screamed until they finally backed off and let us back on the bus. I pondered what we’d done wrong to get beat up. And I finally figured out that our only crime was being Afghan.

Time passed slowly and week after week went by. I despaired that we’d ever get out of Pakistan.

Then we heard from our embassy contacts that the President of the United States wanted the American Immigration and Naturalization Service to speed up the immigration process for Afghan refugees fleeing Communist oppression. That rekindled hope in my heart.

Soon afterwards a letter for my father came to Omar’s apartment. We learned we’d been officially accepted to come to America as refugees. Our sponsors were Mr. Robert Finley of the Christian Aid Mission and Fahima Fazli, my mother.

God bless Ronald Reagan, I thought. God bless Ronald Reagan!