Birth
The sun is at its zenith. The air from the mountains of Wardak descends into the valley. Fork-hoe in hand, Hassan straightens up.
Cries of joy echo from his village — a shout, a cry, he is a grandfather!
Azim is awaiting his first child.
Hassan hastens, abandons the tool and strides quickly towards the family house.
His wife, Maliha, accompanied by Azim and Latif, comes out with a newborn in her arms.
— « It’s a son… Blessed be Allah! »
Hassan, mad with joy, takes the child against him. Tears rise to his eyes and roll down his cheeks.
Around the building, all the neighbours celebrate this day when the divine has smiled upon this family!
Azim glances at his father. It is for him to give the name. Hassan observes the newborn, then murmurs:
— « Sami… By Allah, you will be named Sami »
*****
A peaceful life
The days pass. Hassan[b] is in the fields with his sons, they scrape the earth around the plants.
Hassan watches for the arrival of the Mirab. Thanks to Latif, he will have more water this season.
Latif spends his evenings repairing irrigation canals; he cannot see a field lacking water without intervening.
Azim, obedient and serious, is managing the farm better and better. He will inherit it one day.
In the village, this family is respected.
They are not the richest… but they are the most active.
*****
Maliha brings water and a few dry biscuits. She prepares tea on the small brazier while the three men eat and talk about the fields, the seeds, the harvests to come.
Hassan, between two sentences, throws furtive glances at her. His eyes are full of pride… full of love for the one who followed him into the mountains when the Russians invaded the country.
At that time, they were only teenagers, with no defined future, thrown into turmoil.
The coups, the foreign army burning villages, destroying roads. Then came the call of the Mujahideen… and the flight, in cold and hunger.
*****
Azim hands a glass and a biscuit to his mother. Memories come back to him: his childhood in the caves, the cold, the hunger. Then the return to normal… The Russians had left, and his brother Latif was born.
His father had decided to leave the war. Despite the tensions, he had sworn never to take up arms again: from then on, he wanted to take care of his family, since the external enemy was no longer there.
Sometimes, former fighters passing through come to greet Hassan. They shake his hand with respect, as men who survived together.
Azim then thinks of Zahra, his wife, and Sami, his son. A smile comes to him: he remembers Latif kissing the neighbour’s daughter… and being caught by her mother. A scandal had erupted in the house, followed by the announcement of the marriage.
He still laughs about it. He had not done better — he too had received blows from his father-in-law for kissing Zahra. But he is happy for his brother. Latif was going to get married.
*****
The day Latif…
The old man of the village, widowed for years, advances slowly, guiding his mule heavily loaded.
At the crossroads, foreign soldiers have set up a checkpoint.
One of them signals him to stop.
But the old man, almost blind and deaf, does not understand the orders. He keeps moving. The soldier shoulders his weapon.
Latif sees him. He starts running, shouting:
— « Stop! Stop! »
He reaches the old man and grabs his hands to keep him from going further…
He turns towards the soldiers, hands raised, clearly visible. He shouts in Pashto, tries to calm the situation.
The soldier hesitates… lowers his weapon.
A burst erupts.
The machine gun on the 4×4 still smokes.
Latif, the old man and the mule collapse.
Blood flows slowly from the open wounds.
At first frozen, the soldiers take position, shout among themselves to understand what has just happened. The leader grabs his radio, orders withdrawal.
The two 4x4s start again, raise a cloud of dust, then disappear towards Kabul.
The Afghan sun remains there, facing Latif’s open eyes.
A gentle breeze tries to wake him — but Death has already done its work.
It is the day Latif is no more.
*****
A shattered life
Hassan hears the gunshots.
Women, children run towards him, shouting, crying.
He distinguishes words: Latif… dead…
He calls Azim.
They run towards the crossroads.
A huge mass lies on the ground — the mule, overturned with its load.
People are leaning down, an old man can be seen on the ground.
Hassan stops. His eyes widen.
Azim brakes in turn, looks at his father, sees his face collapse.
He turns his head.
His brother.
HIS brother.
Lying on the ground.
A crying woman caresses his face.
He is dead.
HIS brother is DEAD.
*****
Hassan and Azim carry Latif’s body back to the farm.
Maliha screams.
Zahra cries.
Sami, the baby, screams.
The village falls silent. It covers itself in mourning.
Latif is buried among the ancestors.
Life does not return.
Grief takes souls, as destiny takes its puppets.
Maliha no longer eats.
She no longer drinks.
She no longer sleeps.
She does not accept.
On the third day, despite prayers and hands trying to hold her back, she passes away.
Hassan cries.
Shouts.
Howls.
Azim looks for someone to blame.
He questions. He begs. He writes, with the Imam’s help, to the governor.
Nothing.
He is left alone with his sorrow.
He struggles to attend his mother’s burial. His anger grows.
*****
Two months pass. Azim receives information from a cousin living in Kabul.
The responsible unit, The Best Unit, mandated by the CIA, is officially sent back to the United States for gross misconduct. In reality, it is simply dissolved, then reformed under another name, without the slightest sanction. And it is already back.
One morning, armed men arrive in the village. CIA! They promise money in exchange for help against a local warlord.
Azim asks his father to avenge Latif. Hassan is tired.
A young American, holding a small translation booklet, approaches him and speaks to him in hesitant Pashto, with a very bad accent. He says he wants to be friends. An idea forms in Hassan’s mind: he invites the man for tea.
To Azim’s great surprise, his father claims his wife died in a mountain accident. His father lies. He tells everything: the number of rebel fighters, their caches, even offering military help.
Azim is stunned. Once the Americans leave, he challenges his father:
— « But what are you doing? They killed Latif, and you help them? »
— « Calm your anger and listen. »
Hassan explains his plan for vengeance. The warlord is a heartless thug: he kills, he rapes. Seeing him disappear poses no problem for Hassan. He suggests setting a trap, striking hard.
Azim listens and approves. He recognises in his father the cunning the elders spoke of: he must trust him.
For two long years, Hassan and Azim form, without the foreigners knowing, a small movement: Harakat al-Jihad al-Islami fi Khorasan.
The group first strikes the local support chain: informants, soldiers of the national army.
Its name begins to circulate. It is feared.
Hassan and Azim prove their good will and convince Keller to come closer to them. The young man does not understand he is walking into a trap.
Striking The Best Unit directly remains impossible.
So, by default, they choose Keller as a target.
*****
The day of the trap
The morning rises. The men are already ready.
Father and son speak away from the others.
— « My son, you are not coming. »
— « But why? »
— « If things go wrong, you must remain at the head of the group. Continue the fight. Even if I must die today. »
— « No, father… you can’t… What will I do without you? »
— « Azim. You have always known what was right. You are the heir of our family. Do not forget we are here for Latif… even if the guilty still run free. I am proud of you. »
Reluctantly, Azim takes the rest of the group and heads towards the mountains.
Hassan and his team descend towards Kabul.
Latif, your vengeance is underway!
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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