On the day I was to return to my house, I decided to stop by Abbas’s house first to see if it was still standing. As we drove down his street, I saw armed men in every front yard. When we arrived in front of Abbas’s house, I was relieved to see it was still there. But unlike all the other houses on his street, it looked deserted. No armed men occupied its front yard. I called to an old man who was slowly making his way down the street. “Salaam! Does anyone live in that house?”
He looked at me for a moment as if surprised to hear a voice, then said, “Only ghosts.”
“Only ghosts?” I asked him.
“You must not be from here.”
“Nay, I am visiting.”
“The Hazaras locked prisoners in the septic tank of that house. A few days later, when the Hazaras had not returned, we managed to open it. We found only one person still alive, and he did not live very long. Now no one will go near that house—not even the drug dealers—because of the ghosts.”
I left for my house, taking another terrible memory with me.
When I entered my front yard, dozens of old men, young men, and children emerged from inside and from around the back of the house. All but the children carried weapons. One of the young men aimed his gun at me while he eyed me suspiciously.
I was an unwelcome stranger in my own home.
“I am Baryalai Popal,” I told him. “This is my house.”
Still pointing his gun at me, he laughed. “I have lived here for over five years, and you come here and tell me, ‘This is my house.’ Why should I believe you? You’ve been gone a very long time. Where have you been?”
“I had to leave when the Communists came. I returned as soon as I could.”
“While you were safe, we were living in hell. Your house is the price you pay for abandoning your country.”
“It was not just me. Many escaped to Pakistan or Iran. It’s not my fault you had to live in hell.”
“This place belongs to those who survived the horrors.”
I approached an elder. “This is my home,” I said, “the home of my father, Rahman Popal. Tell the people who live here to send someone to me who can speak for each group, each family.”
When they had all gathered, I said, “I know your life here has been very difficult. You have suffered terribly from the war, and I do not wish you to suffer any more on my account. But this is the house of my family. Many of you are fathers who have sons, so you will understand. You can leave now, and I will pay you. If you need time, I will give it to you. If you refuse to leave, you give me no choice but to go to the government.”
“How do we know you are the owner?” one of the young men asked.
“That’s not your problem,” I said. “You are not the owner. You will know I’m the owner when the government sends people to remove you. But I don’t want it to come to that. It’s only your problem if you don’t leave.”
“Your house is still here because of us,” another young man said. “It’s better for you that you wait and see what happens. You don’t know if the new government will survive. Things might return to the way they were, and you will need us here to protect your house. Better you let us stay.”
“Nay, I don’t wish to wait. I want my house back now.”
“Go back where you came from! There are powerful men behind us. Leave now, and don’t come back,” a young drug dealer shouted.
One of the elders accepted my offer of money, saying, “We are several families, twenty-two people.”
“God bless you,” I replied. “I will take your names and thumbprints so there will be a record of who has been paid.”
“Don’t do it!” someone shouted at the elder. “If we stick together, we can stay.”
“It’s not right to take his house,” someone shouted back. “If he’s the rightful owner, he should have it.”
Some of the elders said they needed a few months to find a place for their families to live. Several others said their families would leave immediately and refused to take any money.
Soon dozens of people carrying battered suitcases and bedsheets straining with belongings emerged from the house. The women, hidden beneath shawls, stayed close to the men. They tossed their possessions into cars and pickup trucks, crowded inside, and drove off.
Those who remained fingered their AK-47s, looking more determined than ever.