The Birth
The sun stands high at its zenith. The mountain air of Wardak drifts down into the valley.
Hoe in hand, Hassan straightens up.
From the village, cries of joy echo — a shout, then a newborn’s cry. He’s a grandfather!
Azim’s first child has arrived.
Hassan hurries back, drops the tool and strides towards the family home.
His wife, Maliha, comes out with Azim and Latif, a baby in her arms.
— “It’s a boy… Blessed be Allah!”
Overjoyed, Hassan takes the child and holds him close. Tears fill his eyes and run down his cheeks.
Around them, neighbours gather to salute the day the divine smiled upon this family.
Azim looks to his father — it’s his duty to choose the name.
Hassan gazes at the newborn and murmurs:
— “Sami… By Allah, your name shall be Sami.”
A Peaceful Life
Days go by. Hassan works the fields with his sons, tending the crops.
He watches for the arrival of the Mirab — thanks to Latif, he’ll have more water this season.
Latif spends his evenings repairing irrigation channels; he cannot bear to see a thirsty field.
Azim, obedient and serious, now manages the farm better each day.
One day, it will be his.
The family isn’t the richest, but it’s the most respected — and the most active.
Maliha brings water and dry cakes. She brews tea on the small brazier while the three men talk about seeds, harvests, and weather.
Between two sentences, Hassan glances at her — eyes full of pride, full of love for the woman who followed him into the mountains when the Russians invaded.
Back then, they were only teenagers — no future, only war.
Coups, invasions, villages burnt, roads destroyed.
Then came the call of the Mujahideen… and exile, through cold and hunger.
Azim passes tea to his mother. Memories flood back — childhood in caves, cold nights, empty stomachs. Then, peace.
The Russians gone, Latif was born.
Hassan had left the war behind. Despite the tension, he’d sworn never to take up arms again. His battle now was to protect his family.
From time to time, old comrades would visit — men who survived. They’d shake his hand with respect, in silence.
Azim thought of Zahra, his wife, and little Sami. He smiled, remembering Latif caught kissing the neighbour’s daughter. The scandal, then the wedding.
He still laughed at it — he too had felt his father-in-law’s stick for kissing Zahra. But he was happy.
Latif was getting married.
The Day Latif Died
An old villager, widowed for years, leads his mule slowly through the crossroad.
Foreign soldiers have set up a checkpoint.
One of them signals him to stop.
But the old man, almost blind and deaf, doesn’t understand. He keeps walking.
The soldier raises his weapon.
Latif sees him. He runs, shouting:
— “Stop! Stop!”
He reaches the old man, grabbing his hands to hold him back.
He turns to the soldiers, hands raised high, shouting in Pashto, pleading.
The gunner hesitates… lowers his weapon.
A burst of gunfire erupts.
Smoke rises from the machine gun mounted on the jeep.
Latif, the old man, and the mule fall.
Blood seeps slowly into the dust.
The soldiers freeze, shouting in confusion. Their commander radios in — orders retreat.
The vehicles pull away, raising a cloud of dust that drifts across the road.
The Afghan sun remains, shining over Latif’s open eyes.
A soft wind tries to wake him — but Death has already done its work.
That was the day Latif was no more.
A Broken Life
Hassan hears the shots.
Women and children run towards him, crying.
He catches words — Latif… dead…
He calls Azim. They run.
At the crossroad, a mule lies under its load.
People kneel beside two bodies.
Hassan freezes.
Azim looks at his father — sees his face fall apart.
He turns.
His brother.
His brother, lying still on the ground.
A woman strokes his face, sobbing.
He is gone.
His brother is dead.
They carry Latif’s body home.
Maliha screams. Zahra weeps.
The baby, Sami, cries.
The village falls silent, cloaked in mourning.
Latif is buried among his ancestors.
Life does not return.
Grief takes hold — as fate takes its puppets.
Maliha stops eating.
Stops drinking.
Stops sleeping.
Stops living.
On the third day, despite prayers and hands that try to hold her back, she slips away.
Hassan cries.
Azim searches for someone to blame. He writes to the governor — nothing.
He is left alone with his rage.
Two months later, news comes from a cousin in Kabul:
The unit responsible — The Best Unit — was “disbanded” after the incident.
In truth, it was reformed under another name.
No punishment.
Then the Americans return.
They offer money.
They ask for help against a local warlord.
Azim begs his father for vengeance.
Hassan, tired and broken, stays silent.
A young American, clutching a phrasebook, approaches him in hesitant Pashto.
He says he wants peace.
Hassan invites him for tea.
To Azim’s shock, his father lies — tells them his wife died in an accident, offers intelligence, speaks of rebel caches, promises cooperation.
Azim protests.
— “They killed Latif, and you help them?”
— “Calm yourself, and listen,” says Hassan.
He reveals his plan.
Together, father and son form a secret movement — Harakat al-Jihad al-Islami fi Khorasan.
Two years pass.
They strike back.
And when they cannot reach The Best Unit, they aim for its allies.
For Keller.
The Day of the Trap
Dawn rises. The men are ready.
Father and son speak apart.
— “My son, you’re not coming.”
— “Why?”
— “If it goes wrong, you’ll lead them. Keep fighting. Even if I die today.”
— “No, father… please…”
— “Azim, you’ve always known what’s right. You’re our heir. Remember — we fight for Latif.”
Azim obeys, heavy-hearted.
He leads the group towards the mountains.
Hassan and his men head down to Kabul.
Latif — your vengeance is coming.
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-world contexts.
It was conceived and written by Raulgarth, with the support of Sergeant-Chief Marcel1 for editing, documentation, and narrative development.
Translated with grit and caffeine by Sergeant-Chief Marcel.
Apologies for any translation errors that may have occurred.
You can find the original French version of this story at raulserv.fr.
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To be continued… Somewhere in the dark :
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