Lemar-Aftaab - Oct-Dec. 1997 - Articles -Road Back to Afghanistan - Farid Shah Karimi - Travel to Afghanistan

Road Back to Afghanistan

By Farid Shah Karimi

[Farid Shah Karimi]

While growing up in America I had vivid memories of Afghanistan.

I was in the first grade when my family and I fled Afghanistan due to the invasion of the Russian Army. Like many Afghans we left our home with nothing more than the clothes on our backs.

I remember spending a day in a little village between the Afghan-Pakistani border. That night my family and I were smuggled into Pakistan, with the help of a man named Abdullah.

The following two years my family and I lived in Karachi, Pakistan. This was probably one of the weirdest transitions of my life.

For one, we lived in a two bedroom shack with no water. My older brother and I had to wake up early in the morning and wait in a long line with buckets in our hands. After several hours of the usual waiting ritual, our turn would arrive. Like beasts, we would run to the slow dripping faucet and fill our buckets. We would then make the quarter-mile trip back home. Once at home we would empty our buckets, and we would dash back to the line. I wasn't used to this; in fact, I hated it.

I was raised with a silver spoon in my mouth. Then 'boom', out of nowhere, I was deprived of everything: my home, friends, and all my family.

I recall one day when my father cam e home from his usual trip, but that day was different. He ran inside the house full of joy; He shouted, "we got accepted, and we are going to America!"

It was 1982. I was on a plane to America. I did not know much about America, but from what I had heard it definitely was going to be better than the life I had in Pakistan.

When the name "America" was mentioned, I thought nothing more except that all the people there would have blond hair and blue eyes. Boy was I surprised later.

Our plane landed in New York International where we were met by INS agents. The INS agents then drove us in cars to a place that I would call home for the next three years.

Out of all the places, I was in South Philadelphia where it snowed like crazy, and to top things off, there wasn't a blue-eyed, blond hair person in sight. A couple days later my father took my brother and me to a local school to get registered.

I could not believe my eyes. In the whole school we were the only light-skinned people, and we weren't even white. It was strange because I had assumed that America would be full of light people, and here I was surrounded my individuals who were darker than me.

I had never seen a black person in my life. The funny thing was that students would approach me and they would say something, and I would reply by "yes" or "no" because these were the only two words I knew. Several months later I was beginning to understand what people around me were saying, and I could communicate as well.

From South Philadelphia we moved to Los Angels, where we lived for another two years. Finally, we moved to the San Francisco Bay Area, were we have been residing for the past nine years.

The Bay Area was probably the only place that I really felt close to home. With its high Afghan population, I met many different Afghans from all walks of life. For the first time I could actually talk with individuals who had experienced some of the same tragedies as myself. Everyone had similar stories of their childhood and their country. Everyone still had family members that were in Afghanistan.

For the first several years my family and I had lost all contact with our relatives. We knew that they were in Afghanistan, but in those days people were moving around spontaneously, and it was impossible to keep track of their whereabouts.

Through time we were lucky enough to find my grandmother and uncles. We started writing each other letters and sent a picture or two. In the summer of 1995 we received a cassette from my grandmother. In the tape she spoke a little and then cried without finishing her sentence. Between her sobs, she said something that would haunt me for nights. She said that she was getting older and that before she passes away, her wish was to see my mother one last time.

Every night before going to bed, I remembered what my grandmother had said. What if my grandmother really passes away before my mother gets a chance to see her. I could never live with myself, and my mother would think of me as a coward for not fulfilling my grandmother's wish.

I talked to my older brother about how I felt, and he reassured me that he was going to help me with anything that I needed. The following day I went and bought two plane tickets. Although my brother kept his promise, I knew that I would need more money for the trip.

I had no choice but to sell my car. Damn, I loved my car, but now that I think about it, that was probably one of the wisest decisions I have ever made.

Our flight was set for March 21st. In the meantime my mother was shopping like crazy, but who could blame her? She was going to see my family after nearly 15 years, and believe me, that people back in Afghanistan are in love with different articles from America.

The big day had finally arrived. I spent most of that day with my family, and close friends.

The night of my flight the majority of my friends went to the airport with me. I asked them what they waned back from Afghanistan. My friend Sultan said that he wanted the soil of Afghanistan, which I did bring back with me. One of them was being sarcastic and told me to bring back a wife. Unfortunately he is still single. After a long wait we finally boarded our flight to Karachi, Pakistan at 5 A.M.

After nearly 27 hours, our plane landed in Karachi International Airport. I had some heavy jet-lag. We got all of our luggage and proceeded toward the exit.

Outside the airport there was a big crowd of people. Everyone was there to pick up their loved ones. Out of all the people, I recognized my grandmother and my two uncles. Suddenly all these people were hugging and kissing me. I didn't know I had so many relatives.

Through the corner of my eye, I got a glimpses of my mother and grandmother hugging each other while tears of joy ran down their cheeks.

I stayed for about a month in Karachi and decided to go visit my other relatives in Quetta. After spending two days visiting my relatives in Quetta, I told my uncle Nadir that I wanted to go to Afghanistan. His first response was "no way"; he told me that I was totally out of my mind.

I told him that I did not come this far for nothing and that I was determined to go with or without his help. He told me that if I really waned to go I had to cut my hair.

I said no way; it took me over three years to grow my hair. He said fine because as soon as we enter the Afghan border not only are the Taliban going to cut my hair they were going to shave it as well. I told him hat I would take my chances.

I will never forget that beautiful day on April 24th. After nearly 16 years, I was finally going back to Afghanistan.

The morning before we left for Afghanistan, I had to do something with my hair. What I did was quite interesting. I took all of my hair and put it in a pony tail. I then covered my whole head with an Arabian style turban.

I remember approaching the Afghan border and for some reason my heart started to beat a little faster as the adrenaline rushed through my blood. One of the Taliban soldiers came to the driver's side of the car and asked the driver if we were carrying anything that they should know about, and the driver replied,'No.'

The soldier gave me a strange look, and I gave him a warm smile in return. We were on our way.

We passed several more checkpoints that were guarded by the Taliban forces. Finally, after driving five minutes or so, the traffic direction changed and our driver told me that we were now in Afghanistan.

I suddenly visualized the map of Afghanistan in my head-- the map that I had seen so many places in so many books and here I was actually driving through it.

My short-term happiness was suddenly taken away from me. I felt very sad and depressed. On the side of the road I saw big black empty truck containers that had windows and doors. Through the entire trip, every mile or so there was a cemetery either on my right or my left.

Once we arrived at Kandahar, I saw what the horrible war had done. The majority of the houses and buildings were destroyed. One could not find a wall without a bullet hole in it.

There were tank tracks everywhere, yet you could see merchants selling products from their shattered little stores. I saw this little girl crawling on the ground because she had no legs, and I said to myself, "My God, what wrong did this poor little girl do?"

Then I realized that her only wrong was being born an Afghan.

I met many young children who had deformed faces, while other children did not have any fingers or their whole hands were missing. I later found out that during the war the Russian soldiers placed bombs that were disguised in the form of toys and when kids picked the "toys" up, they exploded in their faces leaving them handicap for life. The reason the Russians did this was they did not want the young Afghan youth to grow up healthy for the Russians knew that surely the children would retaliate against them.

A boy named Ismail who one day went to the store for bread and when he returned all ten members of his family were killed by a rocket that had landed in his home.

I met a 12-year-old boy who had never tasted meat in his life because meat was something that his family could not afford. I also met with individuals who lived on bread and water for months in underground barracks.

My own cousin described to me in detail of how he scarped the remains of his mother from the ground in order to bury her. He said that they were all having lunch when my aunt got up to get water, then out of nowhere a rocket had hit their home taking the life of his mother and severely injuring several members of his family.

I personally will never forget the family of Mirza. He was a friend of my uncle's whom we ran into one day in the street. He invited my uncle and me for dinner.

That night we knocked on Mirza's door around 7 P.M.; he greeted us at the door and we entered his home. I could not believe my eyes at were five different graves were in his back yard!

At first, I though that I was hallucinating. When we sat down, my uncle asked him how his kids and children were; that is when he broke down in tears and said that they were all killed.

He also explained that at the time of their death the war was so heavy that he could not even get his family to the cemetery. He also said that he waited a couple days and prayed that the bombardment would end so he could bury his wife and children. It didn't happen.

He added that he could not let their corpses decay, so he buried them in his own home.

Horrifying stories after stories literally shattered my heart to pieces. The more people I met, the more sadness they brought. Then suddenly I realized how fortunate and luck I was and how I had taken it for granted. I left Afghanistan praying to God that He bring peace to this land and its people.

After leaving Afghanistan, I went back to Quetta, and then I flew back to Karachi. I stayed in Karachi for another two weeks. By this time I started to get home sick. I missed my little nephew and niece as well as my own family.

On May 30th, I was on a plane back to America. At the airport I was greeted by the most important people in my life: my own family, and of course, my wonderful friends.

A week after my mom and I arrived, I received a phone call from my cousin. She told me that my grandmother had just passed away.

May God have mercy on her soul as well as on the millions of martyrs that my country has so bravely given.

This edited story was originally published in Northern California Afghan Monthly January 1997 issue (Vol 1. No. 1) and March 1997 (Vol 1. No. 2) issue. Permission for republication was granted by Northern California Afghan Monthly publisher Yama Atta.