Afghanistan... By Zaheda Ghani April-June 1998 Lemar-Aftaab Paper is falling out of the sky. I am in the garden, it's a sunny day. It comes back to me, it is in slow motion. I'm three years old. My father is often amazed at the fact that I should remember this far back into my childhood. I tell him these are unforgettable memories. The paper continues to fall; communist propaganda literarily rains down on us. The helicopters are so noisy, so high up in the sky. I stand looking up, my arms are wide open, I want to catch all the pieces of falling paper: "paper, paper, everywhere" At least it's better then when they decide to shower us with bullets. Mother is at school. She is a teacher at the school across the street. You can see the school when you go outside the huge walls of my grandparent's property. The walls, made of thick hay and mud, I remember the walls. The height of them makes me feel protected, I always try to imagine these walls to be strong enough to stop the rockets. They never would. I go inside the house to play behind the big black couch in the main guestroom. That's where we hide when the sirens sound in the middle of the night. One night I hear my father pray for us to die together if we are hit. That night he holds mother and I close to him. I can feel him shivering as I secretly agree with him. I've never seen father frightened before. Now I play with my big red doll when it happens. I hear a loud noise, I know it is a bomb. I run out into the garden. Somehow I find my hand in my aunt's hand, I am being pulled behind her. Small feet trying to catch up. Everyone gathers outside, smoke rises from the direction of the school; I see it come over the wall. The noise numbs my ears, there is screaming and shouting on the other side, where mother is. We run out of the gates, into the street, though I am hesitant, as I don't want to see her pieces lying before me. She would have been coming home for lunch now. All I see is smoke. My heart has stopped, my knees shake, I know she's gone. Everyone is crying. My grandmother holds me, my head at her chest, I watch the smoke. I don't say a word. I want her to walk out of the smoke. That's all I want. I break free of my grandmother, I stand alone, but I do not cry. After that I don't remember what happens. What I do recall is my mother, running out of the smoke. She runs towards me. I'm in her arms. I can smell her, she smells of mother. She holds me tight. She cries as she whispers "we have to get away from here." My mouth is dry. Copyright © 1998 Aftaabzad Publications. All Rights Reserved. May not be duplicated or distributed in any form without permission.