A Journey

The teacher was talking, and Abbas had no idea what he was saying. He knew he was lucky to be able to attend school. His siblings were still at home picking fruits, crops, and frying food for customers. He couldn’t attend the whole year of school, but he could attend half. He just started school, and everyone in the class was a stranger to him, including the boy which was from his village. During the rainy season, the village moved away as landslides were frequent. During the dry season, he could walk to school.

Suddenly, the teacher yelled at the top of his voice: “Soldiers! Soldiers!”

Abbas sat at the edge of his seat, tensed up, as he noticed the soldiers approaching the school. The war had started 3 years earlier, and Abbas had never understood much about it, but all he knew was that the army was from the south part of Afghanistan, and the rebels were from the north part of Afghanistan. The soldiers, by first glance, looked like rebel soldiers, but no one could be sure. To be frank, Abbas was more afraid of the army than the rebels; they killed anyone who they just had the smallest suspicion for.

POP-POP-POP-CRACK-CRACK!

ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK!

Gunfire!

“Everyone! Take cover!” The teacher shouted.

Most boys rushed to take cover under desks and chairs, while others just stood in shock, their mouth wide open, surprised. Abbas rushed to take cover under a desk, with a fellow boy from his village. The gunfire stopped, with shouts and screams ensuing. Slowly, everyone got up. The teacher breathed out in a grave voice: “Run! To the town piazza!”

The boys scrambled to their feet. The teacher began herding them out of the door. Abbas found the boy who was from his village and followed him to the town piazza. When he got to the town piazza, he looked around. The atmosphere was unbelievably tense, except for the occasional screams of a baby.

Some men gathered and talked for a few moments. One of them called out, “Villages--group yourselves by villages!” 

Abbas wandered around with the boy until he heard the call, “Klema-Mariik-Laun! The village of Klema-Mariik-Laun, over here!” Abbas pulled the boy towards the source of the voice. A few people stood in a group in the middle of the piazza. He desperately scanned the faces; he saw none familiar. The boy seemed to be the same, as he was standing in the corner of the group, looking disappointed.

Abbas decided to talk to the boy. Their eyes met. “I’m Abbas.”

“I’m Salva.”

It felt great to have a friend.

Salva was the same age as Abbas. They were almost the same height. Their strides were exactly the same length. They had even the same tribal scars. This meant that they were born in the same month, the same day. And from there on, they walked side by side.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Abbas asked.

Salva thought for a while. “South,” he said thoughtfully. “To the refugee camp in Pakistan”

“We can’t go to Pakistan! It’s another country! Maybe we will never see family again.”

“We are going to Pakistan,” Salva answered firmly. Then, he put his hand around Abbas’s shoulders, seeming to understand what he was thinking. Abbas felt a bit reassured.

Before they started on the journey, they mapped out the directions and took inventory of supplies. Supplies included a jar of honey, rice enough for everyone for a week, a portable but huge cooker, and finally some vegetables. Abbas and Salva were reluctant to follow the village without their family, but they understood that if they stayed, it would be equivalent to death. Abbas and Salva followed the group but lagged behind sometimes. Even when the duo lagged behind sometimes, they managed to keep up.

It was the second day when they accidentally stumbled on a rebel camp. The villagers had no idea what to do, and did what they could only do: continue walking. Abbas and Salva passed a few heavily armed rebel soldiers. They were not pointing guns at the villagers, but they seemed aware of every single movement the villagers made. Abbas and Salva ran to keep up with the rest of the villagers, which were walking at a faster pace, obviously wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. 

About an hour later, they set camp for the night. It was surprisingly cool compared to the daytime. Abbas and Salva shared a small bedsheet which they spread on the ground. They laid their weary bodies on the bedsheet and looked up at the sky. 

“The night sky is beautiful, isn’t it?” Abbas said to Salva as he stared up to cloudless night sky.

Somewhere in the trees, a nightingale was singing on the top of its voice, and also the hundreds of crickets; chirping like their lives depended on it. Abbas and Salva were absorbing everything, the nightingale’s song, the sounds of the crickets, and of course the beautiful night canvas.

“I wonder if we are going to make it to the refugee camp in Pakistan.” 

“We are going to make it, I know we can.”

Dawn arrived faster than anyone imagined, and at once they set off again. They arrived at the edge of the river Dhangan at noon. Everyone worked quickly, including Abbas and Salva. It was hard work running back and forth between the people who were cutting and weaving. Abbas staggered towards the “weave” section with yet another load of reeds. He tripped on a rock, and the pain was terrible. Abbas had enough of this journey. He lowered his head and the tears began to flow. It just couldn’t stop. 

Abbas took Salva to a place under the tree. “You said it. We are going to make it to the camp, and now I know we can too.” 

At last, everything was ready. Abbas and Salva go into a raft with another man. They were a stranger to boats and clutched the sides of the raft the whole time. The wind was in their favour, and as one man rowed, it was as if three men were rowing. They got to the other side in no time, and then Zakra shot an antelope with a pistol.

Abbas and Salva could hardly wait for it to be roasted. As the smoky, meaty smell replaced air, they had to keep swallowing the saliva which was forming ten times faster in their mouths. Once the meat was cooked, Abbas and Salva gobbled it down. Even though the antelope was a small one, there was more than enough for the group. 

They set off once again, both Abbas and Salva rose to their bruised and swollen feet to walk yet again. They were informed that they were a two days walk away from the Bukhara refugee camp in Pakistan. But between them and the refugee camp was the hardest part of their journey: the desert.

Abbas and Salva had never seen anything like the desert. Around their village, Klema-Mariik-Laun, enough grass, shrubs and vegetables grew to feed the cattle and the whole village. There were also trees too. But in the desert, no plants could survive except the cactus, which somehow endured the long days with little to no water. This was something Abbas and Salva definitely couldn’t do.

Zakra said it would take maybe more than two days to cross the desert. Their flimsy slippers stood no chance against the hard, hot, stony desert ground. The soles, made from worn tires, had already been reduced to shreds before an hour. 

Every minute trekking in the desert felt like an hour to Abbas and Salva, and judging by the looks on the men’s faces, they felt the same. The sun was relentless and unforgiving; there was neither clouds nor whiffs of breezes. Even breathing became an effort, it seemed to drain strength rather than replenish it.

Thorn and rocks gored their feet. Their lips became cracked and parched. Zakra warned them all to make the water last as long as possible. This was the most difficult thing they had ever done, taking only tiny sips of water when their body urged for large gulps of thirst-quenching water. Abbas and Salva didn’t talk the whole day, but they had a bond in which no words be a match for. 

After hours and hours of searing heat, night fell, and finally, Abbas and Salva had a decent meal.

They spread their bedsheet on the floor, now dirty and full of holes pierced by the rocks. Nevertheless, they were grateful for it. Looking at the mesmerizing but tiny, glowing pinpoints in the night sky was the only comfort of the desert. They had begun the really appreciate the stars. A bright streak rushed by at the dark blue canvas of night; Abbas and Salva both make a wish, knowing that it will come true. 

The next day, they readied themselves for the inescapable trek across the sands. Miles of eternal sands, searing heat and unrelenting desolation awaits. The group set off once again, and possibly for the last time in this desolate landscape. Knowing that they might get out of the desert, Abbas and Salva tried as hard as they could to keep up, but it was becoming clear that they were seriously lagging behind. Thankfully, the others decided that the group had to rest. Abbas and Salva took one more step and fell asleep even before they laid down, even before they spread their bedsheet out. 

Abbas felt a nudge at his shoulder. As he opened his eyes, he saw Salva gesturing at him to wake up. Zakra was holding a meeting. Everyone settled down on the sands and waited for Zakra to speak.

“The situation is desperate.” Zakra started with a grave tone. “If we don’t reach that refugee camp by tomorrow, we’re done for.”

Murmurs broke out like a virus in the group. The atmosphere was tense, but no one challenging Zakra’s leadership. Before dawn, Abbas and Salva were awakened by a flurry of shoulder shaking by Zakra.

“Hurry up!”

They started the trek just before dawn. “What do you think, Salva?”Abbas mused. “Do you think we are going to make it?”

“We can do it.”

No one in the group had eaten anything in two days. Their water in the jug was nearly gone. Only the hope of leaving the desert had kept them going.

“We can do it.”  

***