Beyond Evacuation: From the Himalayas to the Statue of Liberty

By Najib Azad

Najib Azad's memoir offers a whole new and more personal understanding of the ancient and magnificent country of Afghanistan and its people. 

Leader of a progressive political party, and former spokesman for the President of Afghanistan, Azad knew he was a marked man the moment the Taliban entered Kabul in 2021. This is hi

• Language: English
• Publisher: EBL Books
• Release date: Aug 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781524328085

Najib Azad

Najib Azad is one of the many Afghan evacuees recently resettled in the United States. He lives with his wife and four young children.Azad is a well-known face to those following Afghanistan in the news: he was the spokesman for Mohammed Ashraf Ghani, the former Afghan president, and a senior political and legal advisor to NAMSA/NATO in Afghanistan. He has also been a political, legal and social analyst, commentator and expert for various news organizations including VOA, BBC, Al-Jazeera, DW, India Times, WION, DW, Radio Liberty, and others.He holds a BBA, MBS and LL. B-LAW degrees and is the author of Treason: The Engineered Collapse of the Republic of Afghanistan, a documentary of key logistical factors that accounted for the takeover by the Taliban in 2021. Azad has written hundreds of political, legal, cultural, and historical columns and articles and was a founding member of the humanitarian organization, Focus Welfare Organization, which provides food, clothes, and shelter to thousands of Afghans in need.To sign up for his mailing list and receive updates including notes on current events, and upcoming book releases, please go to www.najibazad.com

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Beyond Evacuation

From the Himalayas to the Statue of Liberty

A Journey of Pain and Hope

Najib Azad

Beyond Evacuation

From the Himalayas to the Statue of Liberty

First Edition: 2023

ISBN: 9781524318017

ISBN eBook: 9781524328085

© of the text:

Najib Azad

© Layout, design and production of this edition: 2023 EBL

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distrib­uted, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the Publisher.

In a heartfelt tribute to the resilient souls seeking solace across borders, this book is devoted to the courageous refugees scattered across the globe.

Table of contents

Author’s Note 9

Look at our tragedy! 13

The Echoes Of Fear 17

The Chickpea, AK47 And the Jeep 35

Farm Wheels and Bumpy Path 43

The Tragedy 49

The Unexpected Wedding and A Tearful Farewell 63

The Taliban And the shopping mall 71

Hide And Seek 79

The Journey of Pain 89

The Deathly Night 101

The Polar Night 109

Fight To Breathe 129

Under the Rainy Sky 163

The Attan 185

The Measles 199

The Flooding House 209

The White Tent 221

Across Seven Oceans 231

The Flowery Soul 243

The Relentless Battle for Survival Spanning Across Four Generations 263

Acknowledgments 285

References 287

About the author 289

Author’s Note

LESS THAN A YEAR AGO, I held the position of leader in a major progressive party in my country and served as the former spokesman for the President of Afghanistan. Just days before the fall of Kabul, my wife, a successful businesswoman and fashion brand owner, generously donated thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing to internally displaced people (IDPs). However, when the Taliban took control of the city, they began searching for me. Aware of my previous association with the President and my prominent media presence, I became a target for them. My life was in imminent danger, and the circumstances pointed toward my demise.

Six days after the fall of Kabul, I found myself standing in line at a military base in Qatar, hoping to acquire a used T-shirt for my two-year-old son. It was during this time that I started documenting my experiences on napkins and discarded cardboard until a friend at a refugee camp in Germany kindly provided me with a laptop. Now, settled with my family in the United States, my notes have transformed into this memoir: BEYOND EVACUATION: A Journey of Pain and Hope; From the Himalayas to the Statue of Liberty.

The intended audience for this book encompasses anyone who follows the news and wonders about the people of Afghanistan, as well as those who have experienced suffering and are curious about the refugee experience. Scholars and historians will also find value in this narrative as I delve into the arduous journey endured by four generations of my family, all of whom have spent their lives as refugees - starting with my grandfather, then my father, followed by myself, and now my children.

In this world, we are all travelers. We strive throughout our lives to improve our circumstances, seek education, find spiritual fulfillment, raise our children, and contribute to our countries, among other pursuits. However, for those of us who become refugees, our journey takes an unexpected turn, severing our connections and uprooting everything we know. Despite this, we carry on without complaint or frustration, for it is an inherent part of our existence. Yet, when forced to travel against our will, the pain becomes unbearable, akin to a piece of food lodged in the throat that cannot be swallowed or removed.

Afghanistan, with its rich and ancient civilization, holds a prominent place in history. The Silk Road once served as the global hub of civilization and commerce, where the Afghan people thrived in music, arts, culture, knowledge, and education. This land has given birth to renowned scholars such as Ibn-e-Sina (Avicenna), Abu Nasr Al-Farabi (Alpharabius), Al-Biruni, Maulana Rumi, Sayed Jamal Ud-din Afghani, Imam Abu Hanifa, Rahman Baba, Khushal Khan Khattak, Ghani Khan, and many others who have made significant contributions in various fields including religion, Sufism, literature, and science. Their works continue to be taught in the world’s top universities.

Afghanistan stands out as one of the few territories that had established laws even before the formation of states and the introduction of legal systems. The ancient code of conduct known as Pashtunwali still holds great significance and is practiced as a comprehensive set of laws with a history spanning thousands of years. The artistic and poetic traditions of this land predate the use of paper, with forms like Tapay being among the oldest types of folk poetry sung by Afghan women thousands of years ago.

Regrettably, this land of peace and artistry has been transformed into a war-torn zone by the world’s powers, driven by their own interests. From the Soviet invasion to the war against terrorism, Afghanistan has become a pawn in the games played by major powers, forcing four generations of Afghans to seek refuge in other countries and live as hostages. The Afghan people did not choose war, nor did they willingly embark on painful journeys or seek refuge. These circumstances were imposed upon them.

Look at our tragedy!

We were born amidst the echoes of the AK47,

Our childhood embraced by a cruel destiny, the doorstep of landmines.

In our youth, we chased Russian tanks with fervor,

But then, the civil war ignited, mocking our innocent faces,

Fear locked us away in self-imposed detention.

Apples, once vibrant, withered and rotted in the gardens,

The once sweet grapes released a foul smell of despair.

Desolation spread its wings, haunting the once lush fields,

Carts in the bazaars carried bodies, instead of abundant fruits.

The exterior walls of our homes grew decrepit and rusted,

Broken doors stolen by the reseller’s dust-covered hands.

Hunger cloaked itself in the guise of a relentless plague.

Our parents, weary and broken, ceased to think,

Choosing to follow time’s current, fleeing their homeland.

They clutched their daughters’ scarves and sons’ belts,

Embarking on a painful journey, seeking refuge.

Paths became smoother, as they licked the wounds of our bruised lives,

But the trials did not end there.

Arriving at new frontiers, branded as refugees,

City entrances harshly kicked us back, rejecting us.

Yet we persisted, scaling fences, and crossing treacherous seas,

To find solace in foreign lands, where alienation welcomed us, like a stepmother.

Decades went by, listening to her mockery and valediction,

As religious monsters tortured and devoured innocent souls back home.

Days were bereft, lacking in light and hope,

Nights were haunting, stretching as long as the devil’s gut.

Then one glorious morning, the news arrived on new sunrays,

Iron birds landed on our soil; promising peace was at hand.

It was time to return to our homeland,

To nurture goodwill in the shattered nests we once called home,

Hoping they were rebuilt upon Hyperion’s steadfast foundation,

Where doves sing harmoniously, and hunters’ arrows do not penetrate.

But the decades between peace and war blurred our existence,

We swung in the perpetual night of uncertainty.

The same iron birds conceded defeat and departed,

The captivating murmuration returned to the skies,

The vicious crunch of war clawed at my beloved soil once more,

And the lingering question remains, haunting our hearts,

Are we destined to be eternal travelers?

Refugees once again, standing where we once stood,

Peace did not come, hope did not prevail, as we had dreamed.

Yet, amidst the darkness, a flicker of light,

A flame that refuses to be extinguished,

In our hearts, a resilient spirit burns,

For we are warriors, born from the ashes,

With every hardship, our strength only increases.

We hold onto the memories of a peaceful homeland,

Dreaming of the day we can return, rebuild,

Where our children can laugh and play,

Where the echoes of war are distant whispers,

And the landmines become but relics of the past.

Though the journey is long and uncertain,

Our determination will never waver,

For we were born amidst the echoes of the AK47,

But hope, love, and resilience shall be our legacy,

Guiding us towards a brighter tomorrow.

I was entrusted with the task of reviewing Beyond Evacuation, and as I delved into its pages, tears welled up in my eyes, accompanying me through every sentence. This extraordinary memoir moved me so deeply that the only way I could express my admiration was through the creation of a heartfelt poem titled Behold Our Tragedy.

Sincerely,

Sarwat Najib

The Echoes Of Fear

Excessive fatigue and three days of insomnia had caused me to faint. I couldn’t quite grasp my true feelings, but I felt my head resting on a warm and loving lap. Two small, cold hands attempted to massage my forehead. A tear fell onto my eyelid, and as I opened my eyes, I beheld the most stunning face I had ever seen. The radiant white teeth and trembling red lips resembled the innocent blood of a deer on the snow-covered Pamir.

The terrifying moment once again took me to my innocent childhood. A deafening sound of rockets startled a nine-year-old boy from his sleep. I had been resting beneath the northern window of a room designed to face the rising sun. The screams had already awakened my parents, who rushed into the room, oblivious to the broken glass cutting their feet.

My parents made the decision to flee from Chehalsatoon to Qala-e-Wakeel (airport area), where the civil war had not yet reached its peak. In September 1992, just before sunrise, the two doctors and their six children left behind the home they had built. Chehalsatoon was mostly controlled by Hizb-e-Islami Khalis (Haqqani’s militants). It was a bitterly cold day, and eleven-year-old Jana, my eldest sister, held the hand of my five-year-old Pashtana (Gloria). Three-year-old Mellani was cradled by Agha Jan (dad), and nine-month-old Naqibullah (Pious) was in the arms of Moraka (mom). I carried two small bags of emergency food and some clothes and held seven year old Pari’s (Fairy) hand as we began our journey along the freezing, muddy street towards the unpaved eastern road by the western gate of the Chehalsatoon garden.

Haji Ghuasuddin, a man in his fifties with three wives, was the most prominent figure in the area. He owned nearly all the land in Chehalsatoon but had started selling off pieces, which gave Agha Jan (Dad) the opportunity to purchase a plot.

Chehalsatoon was a slice of paradise. As a child, I had no understanding of dirty politics. I didn’t even know that one had to pay for the things they needed at home because dad had a coupon (food and goods stamp), and I believed we received everything we needed and wanted for free.

My daily routine consisted of getting ready for school, attending classes, returning home, playing with friends, and completing my homework. Haji Malem lived between our house, the stream, and the playground. Since the clean water stream flowed through his house, I would always save a minute or two by sneaking through the short water tunnel instead of taking the longer route to the playground. There was an unused plot of land spanning around 20 hectares, which became the gathering spot for children my age. Many of my friends and I admired Zaki’s (Ghaus-ud-din’s youngest son from his third wife) clothing and tried to convince our parents to buy us something similar. Little did we know that he was the son of the wealthiest man not only in the area but in the entire capital. We, the children of ordinary citizens, had to be content with the monthly coupon we received.

At that age, I believed that life was solely what I experienced, as any child would. My world didn’t extend beyond the street by the playground.

That dreadful, cold, and dark morning couldn’t erase all the beautiful memories before destiny shattered the dreams of millions of children in the country.

Najib! Please help me! I heard the cry while playing toop danda (like baseball).

What happened to Manjeet? I asked.

Manjeet had badly injured his left leg when he tried to catch the ball and fell on the hard ground. The beautiful orange and sometimes purple turban that Manjeet wore was always a mystery to us. We had never seen his hair, and he would tell us that he never cut it out of respect for the perfection of God’s creation.

I used to call Manjeet the Ghondorai (snowball) because he looked cute with his hair tied and covered by his turban. Manjeet would come to our home on Thursday nights to watch movies with us and teach me basic Hindi. Manjeet, along with tens of thousands of other Afghan Sikhs and Hindus, had been Afghans for hundreds of years. Yet, they still spoke typical Hindi Punjabi at home. The Afghan Sikhs and Hindus were the richest and most civilized citizens. We didn’t know about Pashtun, Tajik, Hazara, Sikh, Hindu, and Uzbek until the Mujahideen took over. Later, I understood that Hameed was a Tajik, Qurban a Hazara, Manjeet a Sikh, Tayep was Uzbek, and I was a Pashtun. Despite our different tribes and religions, all we knew at that time was that we were neighbors, classmates, and best friends.

The game was not finished yet, so when Aarati, Manjeet’s elder sister, called him for lunch, Manjeet insisted that I join them. Aprana aunty had made delicious Aloo Matar (Potatoes and Peas) with tasty kheer as dessert. The beautiful dining room with the fragrance of Agarbatti (scented candle) made the meal even more enjoyable. Aprana aunty was very happy with the new sewing machine she had just bought.

Najib! Will you please ask your mom if she is available tomorrow, so I can bring the machine over, and we can sew the dresses she was telling me about? she asked me.

I had eaten enough and had to make it home because I knew that Jana would also be looking for me for our Friday family lunch. The old mud houses with muddy streets were the most peaceful places to live. The black cloud had taken control of the transparent atmosphere and made me run home, but I couldn’t reach home dry.

I was just about to enter the main entrance gate when a terrifying sound made me freeze. I thought the sky had fallen and taken everything I knew. I couldn’t figure out what had really happened, even though the country had been witnessing war for a long time. It was the first time I experienced such a frightening sound. I heard screaming from all over the street, and I couldn’t understand if something very bad had happened inside my home or nearby. I somehow made it inside the house, where most of the windows of our two-story house were shattered. Dad had just come out of the ground floor to make sure all his children were okay.

Dadddd! I ran towards him and hugged him tightly. With his merciful hands, he checked my body within seconds to make sure everything was okay. Then, he kissed me all over my head, face, and hands.

I had never thought that I and Manjeet would say farewell in this way. Mom never saw Aprana aunty and the machine she was supposed to bring, and I left my last meeting with Manjeet and Aarati on the ice and left it under the boiling sun. The rocket fired by the heirs of Islam had taken three innocent lives, so-called infidels. Passing by the playground, I acknowledged that I was leaving everything, including my home, friends, and of course, my childhood.

It took us about fifteen minutes to reach downtown Chehalsatoon, where the main headquarters of Hizb-e-Islami Khalis (Haqqani militants) were patrolling with heavy guns. The militants, with their long beards and hair and their shalwar (trousers) above their ankles, were wearing thick jackets and holding AK47s and rocket launchers. They were standing right in front of two Russian tanks and three jeeps. They stopped us, and one of them, with dark black kohled eyes that made him look even scarier, came forward. Dad, who was well-shaved with a thick black mustache and wearing a decent brown sweater made by Mom, was, of course, totally different from them.

The first word from the militant’s mouth was, Hey, infidel, how dare you leave the area without notifying us?

Dad looked into my hazel eyes and replied, Do I really need to ask you where I have to live?

Upon hearing this, the angry militant started sneezing, and a harsh voice, like a dog barking, silenced us. The next guy, with a commando jacket and a Pakol (a soft, flat, rolled-up, round-topped men’s cap) on his head, was sitting on the tank’s gun mantle, observing the scenario. He suddenly jumped down, and the sound of his feet hitting the ground broke the silence. Are you from Paktia? he asked.

Yes, I am, Dad answered.

Yes, your accent says it though, he said.

In a tense moment, a man with a matchstick clenched between his teeth slyly winked at the furious man before uttering, Release them! they are our Paktiawals.

The first man had already made up his mind to harm us, particularly Dad, but luck was on our side, and we were granted permission to depart. Dad’s gaze fixated on the chocolate-colored wooden door of a shop, his eyes lingering on the sign above it that read ‘Dr. Mohammed Karim Halim, MD. Child and Medical Specialist’. For the first time in my life, I witnessed tears welling up in his eyes. With utmost care, I grasped his hand and planted a gentle kiss on it, signifying the start of our immigration journey. We continued on our path without exchanging a single word, the sound of our footsteps echoing like a marathon horse galloping.

Breaking the silence, Dad spoke, My children! Forget everything you have witnessed in the past weeks. A lion retreats to gather strength before launching a powerful attack. This is merely a strategic retreat. I am confident that my children will return with boundless potential and minds filled with knowledge, ensuring that no other child experiences what mine are enduring today.

As we neared Agha Ali Sham’s territory, where the oppressive sun began to breathe again, the golden rays filtering through the pine trees provided us with a comforting warmth. Nine-month-old Pious, nestled on Mom’s shoulder, stirred his angelic body, relishing the gentle heat emanating from the peaks of the Chehalsatoon mountains. We pressed toward our destiny, fully aware of the fear that death instills. However, that fear did not allow fatigue or exhaustion to seep into our weary bodies during the journey. Soon, we arrived at Khushal Khan Lacey (high school), where familiar Russian tanks, jeeps, and Kamaz trucks greeted us. A man with Mongolian eyes, donning a long brown shirt over another shirt and a turban without a shamla, brandishing an AK47, bellowed at us, Oo - Afghan Khalqi! Kuja zanjeera ra ela dadee (Hey Khalqi Pashtun, where have you broken the chain from?")

Rising from his chair, he retrieved a small red and white packet with LM inscribed on it from his pocket, followed by a match from another pocket. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in Dad’s face. Pointing his finger at a small photo affixed to his jeep’s windshield, he inquired, Do you know who this man is? Dad promptly replied, Yes, he is Dostum.

You Pashtun, you piece of shit, address him as His Excellency the great General Abdul Rashid Dostum! the man retorted.

His Excellency the great General Abdul Rashid Dostum, Dad obediently responded. The man made no attempt to impede our progress like the Haqqani group had done, but his eyes fixated on the SEIKO-5 watch adorning Dad’s wrist. They silently pleaded for the shiny silver timepiece that Dad cherished dearly. It was the watch my uncle had brought for my grandfather from Kuwait, and grandpa had passed it down to his intelligent doctor son.

I witnessed the immense struggle Dad faced as he reluctantly handed over his cherished watch, a symbol of love from his father, to a man devoid of dignity and respect. The man took the watch, disrespectfully spitting on the glass and back before wiping it with his velvet shirt. He kissed the watch and briefly wore it, only to remove it seconds later, fearing his colleagues would demand a share. He stowed it away in his pocket. He then took the little food and dried fruit we had left, instructing us to leave without looking back.

With our spirits barely alive, we pressed forward. Around 9:00 am, we arrived at a place filled with my fondest memories. Every Friday, my maternal uncle, Shahwali (King), would bring me to this beautiful and historic garden. The main gate faced west, offering a breathtaking view of the majestic Balahesar mountain. Memories flooded back as I heard the echoes of my own laughter and saw myself running through the gate, attempting to play with the joyful sparrows, canaries, pigeons, and parrots that made the garden a haven of music. A marble pathway, flanked by apple, apricot, and cherry trees, stretched for about 1.5 milies, leading to the upper swimming pool where Uncle King would sit and watch me swim. I could still hear the cries for help from the seven-year-old boy, Uncle King, I am drowning, and his reassuring response, My little champ is the best swimmer.

After an hour of swimming, we would visit King Babar’s tomb, nestled in the right corner of the swimming pool. It had been nearly two years since my last visit to Babar Garden. After our swim, we sat by the right wall of Babar’s tomb, gazing towards the Balah-e-sar wall, when a terrifying and thunderous voice startled me, causing me to drop my slice of Afghan Burger. Uncle King embraced me tightly as we tried to leave the area. Suddenly, a woman in her forties grabbed hold of Uncle King and pleaded for help. She wept, explaining that her daughter had died. Though fear gripped me, and I buried my head in Uncle King’s shoulder, I caught a glimpse of a four-year-old girl with long, curly golden hair that had turned dark brown. Her right hand was missing, and I could see the tragic trail of innocent blood. Uncle King asked if I could walk and follow him, and I nodded. He scooped up the girl and began running, with her mother and I trailing behind. We reached the main gate in no time. While her mother tightly held her remaining hand with a maroon scarf, the girl’s body was stained with blood. She lay lifeless beside her mother on the back seat, and I sat in the front with Uncle King, who sped towards Ibn-e-Sina hospital, not far from Babar Garden. The baby girl was immediately taken to the OPD, and we returned home. At 7:00 pm, we saw on national television (RTA) that the rocket had been fired by Hezb-e-Islami (Gulbadin Hekmatyar), claiming ten lives, including that of a four-year-old girl, and injuring seventeen others.

It all felt like a haunting déjà vu. Dad’s words echoed in my mind, If there is a heaven on earth, it’s right here, right here in ‘Kabul’. "Don’t worry, son. Let Babar rest.