By Azada
I was waiting for a bus at the station when I saw Taliban gunmen running toward me. I got scared and quickly pulled together my chador. I thought they were coming to humiliate and whip me because it had been pulled back, but they passed me by. I turned and saw that they surrounded a woman who had a neat and stylish appearance. I moved closer to them. The Taliban led her into an alley and started searching her handbag and pockets, a scene that was attracting the attention of passers-by.
After people kept looking at the interaction between the woman and the Taliban soldiers, the gunmen drove spectators away with harsh and foul words. It looked like the Taliban had caught the city’s biggest criminal.
Being curious, I moved closer to them. A Talib pointed his gun at me and said, “Go away! Why did you stop?” Still, I could hear the woman begging, “By God, I don’t have anymore, I only have this much.”
To understand what happened, I waited until the argument between the woman and the Taliban ended. After about 10 minutes, the woman left the Taliban and quickly boarded a bus. I followed her. Then a Taliban gunman came aboard after us and addressed the passengers: “This woman is a heroin junkie; be careful she does not steal your belongings.” He scolded the woman, saying, “Next time you come to buy drugs, I will riddle you with bullets.”
The bus occupants started to whisper in each other’s ears while also looking contemptuously at the woman who was still standing near the door. “Oh God, save us from the junkies who have polluted society,” said a middle-aged woman in a loud voice.
The woman was standing blankly and clutching her handbag tightly in her arms; her face was pale and her hands were shivering with fear. I couldn’t bear it. “Are you okay?” I asked.
She turned to me and shook her head. Her dry lips trembled. I asked,“Do you want water?” She nodded. I took a bottle of water from my bag and gave it to her. A few moments later, two passengers got off and we both got a place to sit.
By then, the chatter of the passengers had also decreased. I was very curious as to how such a neat woman was a drug user and a heroin junkie, according to the Talib.
“Do you use drugs yourself?” I asked. The woman just nodded. I thought she didn’t want to talk more, and we sat in silence. But it was evident that the woman’s pride was damaged. She was taking such short breaths that I felt she was both crying and screaming on the inside.
I thought about this incident for a week. It bothered me so much that I could not sleep some nights. Then, I slowly forgot as the weeks turned to months.
Two months later, I left the house intending to buy a birthday cake for a friend. When I reached the main road, I saw that Taliban gunmen had blocked the road. As far as the eye could see, there were gunmen standing in every corner with their hands on the triggers of their weapons.
I walked until I saw the Taliban rounding up drug addicts and beating them as they were shoved into a vehicle. It was a horrifying scene.
I heard the screams of a boy who had his hands tied with a scarf. Taliban soldiers grabbed his legs and dragged him along the ground, his head and face covered in blood. I ran up to him, wanting to say that he is a human being and it is not the way to treat a human being.
A Talib, apparently angry that a woman was interfering, yelled at me, “Move, what are you doing here among men? This boy is a junkie — he smokes heroin.”
Just as I was going to respond, I saw the same woman whom I had seen on the bus. She now obviously disheveled as she threw herself over the boy, begging the Taliban that they stop hitting her son and let him go. A Talib beat the boy in front of his mother as if he was responsible for all the misery of this country.
The woman screamed, “Hey people, please help! They are killing my son!”
But no one came to her help, not even me. I was standing nearby but did not have the courage to make myself a shield from the butt of the gun that was slammed down on the boy’s head and face. At the woman’s screams, another gunman kicked her and then signalled to the Talib who was beating the boy that it had gone on long enough. By then, the teenager had passed out.
I ran to help the woman pull her son away from the violent scene. As passers-by looked at us with disdain, I again saw a scene that destroyed me from within. I couldn’t do anything. I wish I could scream and let out all my frustrations. I wish I could shout my anger at this cruelty.
I wish I could shout for all the oppressed and young people of my country who have been dragged into misery by the policies of all rulers, but instead, I felt suffocated.
I accompanied her and her son back to their home. Along the way, she told me of her life.
Her name was Wida. She was teaching in a private school until the Taliban came to power two years ago. She lost her job. Wida talked about the hardships and troubles from begging door-to- door and going to bed hungry.
Wida said that since the Taliban came, she and her only son turned to drugs because of unemployment, depression, and an unknown future. Wida begs to find drug money for herself and her son. They spend their days in a world of suffering and pain in a rented house.
Such is the condition of the women and youth of my country that a teacher who worked to enlighten the children of this land, is now suffering a miserable life in absolute darkness.
The names of the journalist and the subjects of this narrative have been changed to protect their identities.
