On 24th December 1979, the USSR deployed 50,000 troops to Afghanistan. The Red Army forces, shortly after, began killing civilians. Recently, a diary belonging to a sixteen-year-old Afghan girl was found in the ruins of a house. According to it, her father was a radical militant fighting against the Red Army soldiers. She stayed home with her mother and three siblings during the violence. Two entries relevant to the Soviet invasion have been translated from Pashto to English.
The first entry:
Dear diary, 26/12/79
It has been two days since father left to fight the Soviets. Mother is certain that he will return home but Amina whispers to him in the night before sleeping, almost as if he is dead.
I have never been afraid of death. Father fought all his life, so news of people losing their lives has been dinner-table conversation since I was born. I do not want him dead. When he left, he promised me an ice cream and a better world to live in, I chose to believe him. I hope he fulfills that promise. Even though I am used to death, I am not used to his, I never will be. I am afraid that a part of me, if not all of me, will crumble and become one with the sand. What sins must have I committed to deserve this life?
I observe Mother in anticipation of his arrival every day. She stares at the door every minute she can, hoping to hear his voice and feel his touch again. This family is only complete with him. Mother is becoming old. If he goes, Amina and I will have to be the breadwinners of the family. Aren’t we too young?
The war outside is raging. We hear rumours about it in the neighbourhood as well as on the radio. The Whites do not stop, and father’s army is too proud of the Afghan land to let it go without putting up a brave fight. What will this brave fight cost, I wonder? More lives, more blood, more sorrow, more war.
Fatima is just three. She is blissfully unaware of the ugliness this world possesses. I love my land but I hope she does not have to grow up here. I want a future for her. If the Soviets remain here, chances of her receiving education and studying diminish. I hope father wins out there for Fatima. I see a twinkle in her eye and that is how I know she has places she can reach.
The anxiety in the house grows more with each passing day. The dinner table is now silent, everyone is absorbed in their own thoughts and their impending sorrow. Fatima playfully babbles and we smile at her to let her know that everything is alright, all while desperately trying to convince ourselves of the same.
I am praying to Allah.
Yours,
Zainab.
The second, and last entry in her diary:
Dear diary,
9/1/80
Allah did not listen.
I have not written in a long time because my responsibilities have changed.
It happened. Father’s comrade came knocking on our door a few days after I wrote the last entry. Mother opened the door happily, thinking it was father, but we all knew what it was when we saw another man at the door, teary-eyed and head hung low. Before he even uttered a word, Mother fell to the floor and began sobbing uncontrollably. The worst had come.
Amina and I said and did nothing. We simply got Mother to her bed, received the news from the man, and shut the door. A door which father would never knock on again. We sat by Mother, heard her cries, and ourselves, remained numb and emotionless. Somewhere, we all knew, but Mother still hoped he would return. This does not mean I do not feel grief. I simply feel nothing. The psychologists call this phase ‘shock.’
Amina took care of Fatima after that, and I cooked us food because Mother’s heavy heart weighed her down so that every time she stood, she fell. I told you. Amina and I remain the only two people who can earn money now.
I remember how Father used to take Amina and me to the bazaar on Fridays. He would hold Fatima on his shoulders while we picked out fresh fruits and sweets, laughing as he teased us about our silly little squabbles over who got the biggest piece of cake.
Mother’s grief has become a heavy blanket that suffocates the air in our home. Amina tries to cheer her up with stories from the past, tales of Father’s bravery and the love they shared, but Mother only stares into the distance as if searching for something she can never reclaim. Fatima, unaware of the turmoil around her, asks for Father with her innocent little voice, and it breaks my heart anew every time.
One evening, as I was washing the dishes, Amina sat with Fatima on the floor, playing with a tattered doll. The doll had once belonged to me, but now it was a remnant of happier times. Amina turned to me and said, “We must be strong for Fatima. She needs us to be her family.” Her voice was steady, but I could see the worry in her eyes. I nodded, though I felt a heaviness in my chest. How could we be strong when everything felt so broken?
We began to plan, to find ways to keep ourselves afloat. Amina suggested that we could help out at a neighbor’s house, doing chores in exchange for food. I was hesitant at first, but desperation pushed me forward. We couldn’t let Mother’s despair consume us.
Fatima started to notice our struggles, too. She would look at us with wide eyes, sensing the tension that filled the house. One afternoon, she crawled up to me, her tiny hands clutching the remnants of her doll, and said, “Sister, where is Father?” I felt tears well up in my eyes, but I smiled softly. “He’s watching over us,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it myself.
As days passed, we found solace in small rituals. Amina and I would gather by the window every evening, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of orange and pink. In those quiet moments, we would talk about our dreams and hopes, trying to imagine a future that seemed impossible. Amina wanted to study again, to become a teacher and help other girls learn. I wanted to become a doctor, to heal the wounds that life inflicted upon us.
But with every dream we shared, a shadow loomed—our reality was harsh, and the war outside continued to rage. The struggles of the past few days had hardened my heart, yet in that hardness, I found a flicker of determination. We would endure, for Fatima, for each other, and for the memory of our beloved father.
Will I be alright?
Yours,
Zainab.
Zainab and her family members are missing and are presumed dead. Their house was destroyed when violence trampled their street just a few days after her last entry.
Note: I wrote this article for TAFS MUN 2024, where I participated as a reporter and won the 'Best Reporter' award. These entries as well as the characters are fictional and irrelevant to actual historical facts; they are based on the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979 during the Cold War.
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