When Water Escapes from the Mountains

By Enayat Sultani

When Water Escapes from the Mountains recounts the life of Enayat Sultani, born in Kart-é-Char, a village within Kabul, Afghanistan. In this autobiography, Sultani recalls the many small details of his boyhood home, his encounters with the Taliban’s brutality, and the events that redirected him from following the local mullah to seeking escape.

Pulled in one direction by a desire to remain with the woman he counted as his life’s love, he sought his freedom by fleeing Afghanistan. He writes, “I was exhausted and covered in mud mixed with blood. I couldn’t go home like that. I was in a bad state. Instead of running home for my life, I ran toward the mountains, a place no one could see me except the rocks and the spring water. There was a big wave of water coming down from the mountains, and I followed the water until I reached the spring. I lay in the spring and washed my face with my clothes. The water cooled the bruises, and I rested my body in the cave, looking at the blue sky and drying myself.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483450742

Book preview

SULTANI

Copyright © 2016 Enayat Sultani.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means---whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic---without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5075-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5074-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016906432

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 5/4/2016

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

With the deepest gratitude, I thank every person who has come into my life and inspired, touched, and illuminated me through his or her presence.

The number of drops of water, of stars in the sky

And of currents of winds in the air are not known

Nor are the movements of ants on rocks

Resting places of grubs in the dark night.

He knows the places where leaves fall,

Secret movements of the pupils of the eyes.

---Imam Ali

If I have to die today, if this writing kills me today, so be it; I am dying where I want to be.

You only know my name ...

Not my story ...

Chapter 1

In 1986, almost five thousand miles away from here, I was born in Kart-é-Char, Kabul, Afghanistan. I can only remember so far back. We were living in our five-bedroom detached house on a half-acre of land, where my mum grew all the vegetables and fruits we could find in Afghanistan. Everything was homegrown, organic, and fresh---the red, green, and yellow apples; the soft, sweet, and juicy pears; the grapes that almost dragged the vines to the ground, though the vines kept themselves strong and fresh as if they bowed to humanity; the cherries; the melons; and much more. But my dad loved his flowers. Dad had a collection of many flowers, and he called them by random names---the smiley face, the princess; he even called one kind the monkey-face flower. We were an average family, but our neighborhood was rich and classy. Our house was surrounded by long, high walls made of concrete and bricks covered with vines, and they were almost impossible for anyone to climb without a ladder. They were tall enough to give us privacy, and no one could see us from outside.

Our favorite room was the front room. Three of its sides were glass, and that came in handy in the winter, especially when the sun was shining, making it warm and comfy. We also called it gul-khana, a place where my dad kept his flowers alive during the winter.

It was my dad's favorite room too. He wanted to have the full view of the house and the garden too. He also wanted to keep an eye out for any intruders. He would sit cross-legged on his namad, which was made of bull's skin. Most people used them to protect their bodies from humidity.

Dad was a very protective person. He always kept his hunting rifle hidden underneath his mattress. Holding his cup of green tea with his right hand, with a sugar cube held tight in between his teeth, he would praise his flowers and the garden.

"Bachem (my son), my dad used to tell me, these flowers that we have, you cannot find them in Paris, London, or Switzerland."

I had no idea what Dad meant by that; I only knew it meant something good.

I had never been out of the country. At that time, Afghanistan was influenced by Communists, and it was hard to get out of the country. The only flowers I knew were the ones in our garden.

One day, I asked my dad, Why do we never visit other countries?

Dad replied, My son, it is hard to get a visa to visit other countries, especially for countries with Communist laws. That is why the Russians are good in sports; it is the only way for them to get out of the country.

I was a child, and I did not even know who I was or what an identity was. I had no choice but to continue with my life, wait, and see where the journey was taking me.

Just before sunrise, with the sound of the birds welcoming the new dawn, the new day, the new beginning, with the smell of the flowers, with the fresh breeze of the morning, I was up as if I had just been born.

I was the smallest in the family at that time, and my job was to take the fresh dough to the bakery. As soon as I opened my eyes, I could hear my mum shouting from the other side of the garden where she was milking the goat. "Bachem, get up! I have already mixed some cold and hot water in the aftawa-e-messi, she said, referring to the bronze pitcher. Wash your face and take the dough to the bakery."

The balcony was my favorite spot. It was the highest point in the house. I guess I had a phobia---a phobia against water splashing back on me while I was washing my face---or maybe I was taught by the elders that once dirty water splashes back on you, you cannot pray.

As I left the house with the basket of dough, I could see all the other kids doing the same thing. And here started the race. Yes, it was a race---a race to see who could take the dough quickest with baskets on our heads, but the talent was carrying the baskets without the help of our hands. We could only balance them with our heads and the speed that we were going, but the most important thing was seeing who would be first in line at the bakery. I wasn't so much into the race.

I always wanted to wait for my friend and my neighbor, Farahd.

We were the same age and the same height. We loved to play toshla-bazi, the marble game. We always wanted to be last in line so we could play more outside the bakery.

Once the bread was cooked, Farahd and I would exchange one loaf of bread out of the ten with each other. It was a sign of the friendship and respect that we had for each other, and we also wanted to taste each other's bread. If it tasted good, Mum would have asked Farahd's mum for the secret ingredients, but I knew Mum would never do that---Mum was the best cook in the world.

By the time I was home, Mum had already milked the goat, and the milk was boiling in a pot on the stove, where an oakwood fire burned. Some people say it gives a good smoky smell to the milk.

It was the appreciation, effort, hard work, and, of course, the love Mum gave it that created the beautiful flavor. As soon as Mum noticed me coming home, she stood up on her feet.

Bachem, Mum said, can you go and see if the chickens have laid any eggs yet? If they have, be careful, and don't break them; just bring them with care.

We never kept any food from the previous day; it had to be finished by the end of the day, or we fed the chickens with the leftovers.

Once everyone was present around the tablecloth sitting char-zano (cross-legged), the fresh bread from the clay oven, the fresh milk, and the fresh eggs that had been laid a few minutes before were ready to be served. Within a few minutes, the tablecloth was left with empty, dirty dishes.

It was time for me to get ready for school, which was almost five miles away from my house. I walked every day to my school from day one. It could take more than an hour to get to my school.

I heard Farahd shouting from the other side of the wall, Oh, Bacha,(Oh, Boy) are you ready? It's time to go to school.

Yes, I am ready, I replied.

It would take the exact same amount of time for both of us to get out of the house from the point we talked to each other.

Farahd and I were classmates, and I always asked him, Are we having a marble match today?

But we both knew we couldn't skip the marble game. It was the best part of our day, and I knew he would never say no---or he would only do so sarcastically.

At school, we had a limited number of chairs and tables. Only the powerful kids could sit on a chair or get to read and write on a table. On the other hand, if we wanted to impress a girl, we would get her a chair to sit on.

Almost every day, we were involved in fights over chairs and tables with other classes. Sometimes we were attacked by midday, and the chairs, along with the tables, were gone. Most of the time, we ended up sitting cross-legged until the end of the class.

One day, Farahd and I were walking together on our way to school. Suddenly, my eyes caught sight of this man who was playing with dirty water. It was the water that was coming from the women's hamam (sauna), a place where most women went for cleansing, or if they could not afford to heat up the bath at home or to scrub each other's bodies, especially their backs. I always remembered when my teacher said, If we see someone doing something wrong, we should tell them not to do it or explain to them why they should not do it. It was my moment to put the advice into practice.

I stopped and said, What are you doing?

He ignored me and kept touching the dirty water with two of his left hand's fingers. This time I had to be nicer so he could interact with me.

"Kaka (uncle), I said. Why