One February night in 1980, I went to seek help from Kandahari. I had met Kandahari as a boy. When my father took me to see the king, I would leave them and go explore the Palace and visit Kandahari, who calculated the calendar of religious holidays. Because the religious celebrations fell on different days each year, it was an important and challenging task. Kandahari explained to me how he made his calculations, and though I did not understand a thing, I knew he was very wise. On one such visit, Kandahari told me the king had come to see him as three men were leaving. Kandahari predicted that one of the men would die soon. “Is he ill?” the king asked. “Nay, Your Excellency, he is fine at the moment, but his death has been revealed to me.”
The man died a few days later. That is another reason why I believe in the mystical.
Although Kandahari did not live far from our house, it was a dangerous walk for me. But I had to risk it because a friend had asked me to seek Kandahari’s advice for his brother, who was having such violent epileptic fits that the friend was afraid his brother would die.
The night air was freezing, and my hand stung as I knocked on Kandahari’s door.
“What are you doing here at this time of night?” he asked, surprised to see me. I told him about my friend’s brother. Kandahari thought for a moment. “This is what you must do. Stand him up for two nights. Do not let him sit or lie down. That should cure him.”
“Tashakor, we will do as you say.”
As I turned to leave, I felt Kandahari’s touch on my shoulder and turned to look at him. “One more thing,” he said. “You will leave Afghanistan in October.”
His words confused and troubled me. What he said was impossible. I wasn’t going anywhere. I had too many responsibilities. I would never leave Baba or Babu, Afsana, Walid, or Mariam. They were all I had.
Our family spent our days together reading and talking, afraid to be alone. Baba remained upstairs in his bedroom. Radio Kabul broadcast nothing but propaganda now, so we listened to the Voice of America and the BBC each day to find out what was happening in the outside world. We never stopped worrying that someone might turn me in.
The war for us was sleeplessness, fear, worry, hopelessness, sadness, and endless boredom.