Men of My Land

By P.S. Nevis

Previously published as " Bread & Yogurt", this book is the story of a girl growing up in Afghanistan during the 1980’s, and 1990’s, whose innocence and naivety lead her on a path to the extremes of brutality, terror, passion and love, while surrounded by the turbulence of war and the oppressive rule of the Taliban.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.S. Nevis
• Release date: Jan 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370746149

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MEN OF MY LAND

P. S. Nevis

Copyright 2017 P. S. Nevis

Smashwords Edition

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Prologue

Everything went quiet. I felt like I had been set free and I was flying. I was weightless and there was no pain. It was peaceful and calm. It was bright, and there was a nice breeze like it was a perfect summer day.

I was on top of a mountain, and there was nothing but peace. As I looked down into the canyon, I saw him falling to the bottom. I was looking at him without pity. The scene was happening in slow motion, but the joy of that moment was eternal for me. I was totally at peace. I left myself in the hands of the cooling breeze. There was a nice aroma that attracted me like a memory from childhood. I was trying to recognise the smell. It was cinnamon. It reminded me of my playful days in the basement, and I wished I could go back there and have one more chance to live my life and rebuild everything I destroyed.

I started to cry and I heard somebody else crying but I couldn’t see anyone around me. The atmosphere started getting darker and darker, and the sound of crying was getting stronger and stronger. I suddenly felt as though my head was underwater. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to take a breath and suddenly air came into my body.

Chapter One

Spring is late this year and I feel the winter deep in my bones. It is mid-April and snowing like it will never end. The snowflakes are like white blossoms in my hand, but they disappear in a second, leaving me with memories of my childhood during the winters in Herat. I remember trying to catch snowflakes in the courtyard of our home then running to place them on the branches of the bare pomegranate tree to look like blossoms before they melted away. I can still hear my mom’s voice calling me. Nazgol, come back inside right away! I do not want you to catch cold just before the Nowruz.

It was the middle of March 1985. I was nine years old and counting the days to the New Year that was only a few days away. Thinking about the New Year celebrations was heartwarming. In fact, that was the only thing which brought some life to us in those dark days. Afghanistan was in the middle of the war with the Soviets. The entire city was on alert and the heavy atmosphere of war was very obvious in people’s daily life.

That evening, while we were eating dinner, we could hear the usual gun fire and explosions. Suddenly, we heard a huge explosion very close by and the entire building shook like there had been an earthquake. My father shouted, Run to the basement! We ran downstairs as quickly as we could. Fortunately, the building stopped shaking. After a while, everything went silent. My father opened the basement door and carefully went out to the courtyard. He came back a few minutes later and told us it was safe to go upstairs, but to be careful because all the windows were broken and there were shards of glass were all over the house.

My father went to the street to see what had happened. We could hear the sirens of the ambulances in the distance. I was crying and my mom was in shock. We started cleaning up the house and removing the shards which were everywhere. I accidentally stepped on a sharp piece, cutting my foot. It bled quite badly and was very painful. My mom cleaned it and covered it with a dry cloth. Afterwards I limped around like an invalid for a few days.

My father covered the windows with plastic bags to block the frigid air. Despite having a heating system, the house was very cold and we suffered for a few days until the windows were fixed. We started the New Year in a cold house with broken windows.

After that incident, my father decided to build a bomb shelter deep in the basement.

Little did I know that one day this refuge would become my tomb.

A year later, I had already forgotten about what had happened the previous year. Despite the war situation, I was feeling cheerful. I went to bed every night dreaming about spring with its beautiful colours and the dress my father had promised to buy me for the New Year celebrations.

Even though I was a girl, my father loved me very much because I was his only child. As the only child, I was allowed to ask for a special gift for the New Year. I usually asked for an item of clothing or shoes or a book, but that year I specifically asked my father to buy me a long red dress.

I used to get my present early so I could wear it for the New Year’s Day gatherings when we visited our relatives and neighbours.

The night before New Year’s Day, I could not sleep at all. I was so excited to see what he had bought me, but I was disappointed when he gave me my present in the morning. He bought me a plain dark green dress with a long green scarf. When I complained, he got angry with me and said, You are growing up. You are not a child anymore to wear a red or pink or orange dress. You need to dress like a young lady! You cannot dress like a doll anymore. You should look reasonable in front of friends and neighbours.

On New Year’s Day, the city was calm for once and everybody was happy to celebrate in peace. That day, not only did I feel tired but also very sad. When we went to pay our visits to relatives and friends, everybody interpreted my sadness as being youthful shyness and gave compliments to my parents. They said, She is a real lady now, not only growing tall but also behaving very maturely! I could see the victory in my father’s eyes every time he looked at me. But the scarf was a problem, I was not used to wearing one and could not keep it on my head. It kept slipping down. Each time it slipped, I got an eye signal from my mom to pull it up. Even when it was on properly, my long black curly hair and little ringlets flowed out from underneath. I played with them and looked down at the colourful carpet, sadly dreaming about the red dress.

This was not the only thing that made me sad that year. I was going to a school that I loved because I could play with other girls and because I was my teacher’s favourite. She used to tell me, Nazgol, you are very bright. You can become a good doctor one day.

When I got the good results of my final exams that year, like every year, I ran all the way to my father’s spice shop to give him the good news and get a treat from him for doing so well. He looked at the paper and smiled. This is great Nazgol. It means you have learned enough and you don’t need to go to school next year. You can help me and your mom with the business in the spice storage.

I was shocked. It was like the walls were crashing in on me. I felt dizzy for a few moments and it took me a while before I complained. But, Father, I love to go to school. I don’t want to stop now. It is very important because I want to become a doctor. I can help you and Mom with the business while I go to school. I can help you all this summer and all the afternoons after school next year.

Nobody wants a woman doctor. Besides, the city is too dangerous, and I don’t feel it is safe to send you to school. You will be safer and more useful in the storage, and anyway, you are not a kid anymore. You should not be playing, singing and dancing with your friends. Your mom and I need help and we cannot afford to hire someone else. It is a shame that you are not a boy to help me in the shop. I really need someone here. The good thing is you don’t need to go to war, and at least you can be useful in the storage as you know how to count and write, and I won’t need to do that anymore.

I ran back home, crying all the way. I ran into the basement without answering my mom, crying myself to sleep. When I woke up, it was pitch black and I remembered what had happened. I was very angry and for the next few days, I cried most of the time. I remember asking my mom why she had not brought a sister or a brother home for me so they could help my father instead of me. She hesitated for a moment and said I had an older sister, but sadly, she died of meningitis when she was just one year old. I was born two years later. She said when I was three years old, the war started and my father was sent to battle. I could vaguely remember when my father was away. We were living with my grandparents at the time.

Unfortunately, a few years later, he was badly injured. My mom said he could not have any more children due to the injury.

I stopped crying. My tears were all gone as were my childhood days. The basement, which was the spice storage, became my new refuge. I do not remember much about the next few years since the days seemed to merge into one and were passing by so quickly. Each day was much the same. I was helping my mom with housekeeping or working in the storage, and even the thoughts and excitement of my New Year's presents had faded.

I can still smell the strong aroma of the spices after all these years. I used to sit down there all day, unpacking the spices from the big gunny sacks and packing them into small parcels while the radio was on in the background. Sometimes I could hear children laughing and playing in the street, but all I could see was the few rays of sun that found their way into the basement dancing with the fine specks of spices that floated in the air.

We always had the radio on to listen to music and also in case there was an announcement about a possible attack. We used to take refuge in the bomb shelter as soon as we heard an alert message on the radio and when we could hear the airplanes flying overhead in the Herat sky. We were really lucky. Other than that one incident, we managed to escape any further damage, but many civilians lost their houses and lives during those attacks.

I distinctly remember the exact time of the announcement that the war with Soviets had ended, as it coincided with an adolescent event for me.

It was a cold winter day in 1989 and I was thirteen year old. My mom woke me for morning prayer as usual. It took me a while to get up, but as I got out of bed, I could see some blood on my bed covers. I looked down at my clothes and there were blood stains on them. I was shocked. I took off my clothes and saw blood between my legs. I panicked and ran to the bathroom to see what had happened. I could not see anything wrong. I quickly washed myself, my clothes, and the bed covers, then hid them in the wardrobe before my mom finished her morning prayer. She came to my room and said, You lazy girl. You missed your prayer again.

I was confused and scared, but did not say anything. I started my morning prayer. After breakfast, I ran down to the basement and pretended to start work. I pulled down my trousers and looked again and there was more blood! I was shivering and didn’t know what to do. I found a piece of cloth and put it between my legs.

I tried not to walk. When I had to, I walked very slowly. I was also desperate to go to the toilet but was afraid of what I would see. It was lunch time and my mom called me upstairs. I slowly made my way up and sat down to have lunch but I couldn’t eat anything. I was choked with tears. My mom asked me, What is it, Nazgol? Why are you not eating your lunch? You haven’t said a word to me all day.

I said, Nothing. I’m fine. I just feel a bit sick. I think I am catching a cold.

I didn’t say anything more and slowly tried to swallow a piece of bread. After a few bites, I stood up to go back to the basement. As I turned around, my mom said, Nazgol! Your trousers are stained!

I was about to faint. I burst into tears and started explaining, I don’t know what happened to me, Mom. I woke up this morning and there was blood everywhere. I was too afraid to tell you. It hasn’t stopped since then. Oh, Mom, I think I’m going to die.

She started laughing loudly, and I could not understand her reaction. Then she said, "Don’t worry, child. You are not dying. Your period has started. It is something that happens to all women every month. It starts around your age. You really are a woman now, and this bleeding is going to happen every month for five or six days. You don’t