The van stopped at a single-story mud brick building somewhere near the Afghan border. Before we were taken inside, a guard searched us. He did not find my passport hidden inside my muddy, worn-leather shoe, but he did find Abbas’s papers—including his military documents. After a frantic, hushed discussion with another guard, he returned them to Abbas. I prayed that would be the end of it and we would soon be on our way.
We spent the night in a small, cold prison cell. In the morning a flap at the bottom of our cell door opened, and a plate of food and a little jug of water appeared. Starving and thirsty, we devoured both. Suddenly a pain hit my gut as if something were squeezing me from the inside. I looked at Abbas. He was a blurred vision. I passed out.
When I regained consciousness, I was staring into the face of the post’s commander. He was clean-shaven except for a carefully trimmed mustache and he wore the gray dress shirt and gray pants of a commander from Peshawar. The commander was small in stature but swollen with authority.
“Who do you work for?” the commander demanded as the two guards held me up by my arms.
“I don’t work for anyone,” I replied. “I’m a refugee.” A sharp slap burned my face.
“I want the truth,” he shouted. “It will be better for you if you tell me who you are working for.”
“I told you. No one. I had to leave because of the war.”
The commander raised his arm higher this time and whipped the back of his hand across my mouth. “The truth!” he shouted.
“That is the truth,” I mumbled through bloodied lips. “I cannot tell you anything else unless you want me to lie.”
“We know you are spies—admit it.”
I felt a sudden blow to the head from one of the guards’ pistols and slumped in my chair, groggy from the drug and the pain. But the guards hoisted me back up as the commander regarded me with hard, cold eyes. He stared at me for a moment, considering what to do next, his body tense. Then he suddenly relaxed. “That’s enough for today. Give him some time. I’m sure he’ll be more honest tomorrow. Take him away.”
That night I lay awake in fear of what the morning would bring. But the next day no one came, not even to bring us food. All Abbas and I could do was sit and watch the light of the sun trace its way across the walls until it disappeared again. I became resigned to my fate. Baba had been right: I would never see him again. Or Babu or Afsana or my children. I looked at Abbas. He had come with me for the sake of my father, and now he was going to die in prison with me.
A few days later we were driven to a small military base in Landi Kotal. Two armed guards motioned us through massive doors. We emerged into a large garden area, the only fragrance the stench of outdoor toilets. The new prison was much larger, a solid-brick, two-story building with four cells on each floor. Each cell was designed to hold two prisoners, but most held eight men crowded together. The first night we were fortunate—we were placed in an empty cell.
Early the next morning Abbas confronted the guards. “I know important people in Peshawar who would be upset at what has happened to us. Let me send word to them that we are here. It will be better for all of us.” The guards ignored him.
The guards prodded us with their rifles and led us to another cell, barely lit by sunlight filtering through a small, dusty skylight. There were five other prisoners, all young male Afghans. One, his face dirty and worn despite his youth, stared at me with empty eyes. I looked away. The others sat unmoving, patoos covering their faces.
Each day we were given one plate of rice and dal. Our only exercise was a daily trip to the outdoor toilet escorted by a guard. Abbas and I were still wearing the same filthy clothes we had been wearing since we left Abdien. The guards, either taking pity on us or, more likely, no longer able to bear our smell, let us wash ourselves and our clothing. The only measure of our weeks there were our beards, which grew longer by the day.
Although we were seven men trapped in a small cell, hour after hour, day after day, no one spoke. We all thought it would be easier to survive if we kept our mouths shut, our thoughts to ourselves. Who knew if there was a spy among us or guards listening. When someone did speak, it was only a weak voice desperate for food or water.
Whenever a guard appeared, Abbas demanded to know why nothing had been done to release us. The reply was always the same: “Everything is under control.”
One day Abbas demanded to know how long they intended to keep us. “Until we get our orders from Peshawar,” the guard replied.
But the orders from Peshawar never came.
After several more days had passed, I said to Abbas, “You’ve talked to them and talked to them, and nothing’s happened. What kind of people are they? They are never going to release us. It’s time we do something. When the guard comes with food tomorrow morning, I will do something they will regret.”
Abbas gave me a stern look. “Nay, Bar, let me handle this. I have more experience in these matters.”
The next morning Abbas confronted the guard. “I demand to speak to the commanding officer,” he said with the authority of the officer he once was.
“Shut up, sit down, and eat,” the guard said.
Abbas did not do any of these things. “I’ve served in the Afghan military,” he said. “I insist on speaking to someone in charge.”
“And I insist you shut up,” the guard said.
“I won’t be quiet until I see the commander!” Abbas shouted.
“Sit down!” the guard commanded, getting in Abbas’s face and bumping him with his chest. Abbas shoved the guard backward. The guard caught his balance and came back at Abbas, shoving him harder, but Abbas stayed on his feet. The guard grabbed Abbas’s shirt and tried to force him to the floor, but Abbas held him in a bear hug. The guard tried to shake him off, but the harder he fought, the firmer Abbas gripped him. They began wrestling, knocking into prisoners and sending food flying. Abbas started squeezing the air out of the guard’s chest. “Help!” the guard managed to scream. Several guards rushed in. They wrestled Abbas to the floor and pinned him down while another kicked him as he lay curled up on the floor, his arms covering his head.
“Take him away,” said the guard who was attacked.
Then he looked at me. “And take him too.”
We were shoved into a very small cell by ourselves. When the light faded from the tiny barred window, we were left in utter darkness. We lay on the cold stone floor. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be,” Abbas replied. “You were right. We needed to show these jackals who they are dealing with.”
On the fourth day the guard Abbas attacked entered like a dark cloud, then quickly moved aside. In strode the commanding officer. “Why have you come to Pakistan?” he demanded.
“The Russians have made life in Afghanistan hell,” Abbas told him. “We almost died getting here when our guide stepped on a landmine.”
“That’s not my problem,” the commanding officer said. “We are flooded with refugees with sad stories. My job is to protect Pakistan.”
“There are millions of Afghan refugees in Peshawar,” Abbas said. “Why do you keep us here?”
“I don’t have time for this,” the commanding officer said, and he turned to leave.
“Wait!” Abbas called. “We have many friends in Peshawar. We know many powerful people here. Call them—it will make things easier for all of us.”
The commanding officer’s boots echoed down the stone floor of the corridor.