Urban Desert (standard:drama, 2753 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jul 03 2002	Views/Reads: 4074/2361	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Helen travels to Kabul to procure her sister's release and encounters the cruel Taliban regime.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

loud explosions confirmed our fears. There was a lot of confusion as 
the bombs were getting closer, and our captors fled, probably to the 
safety of an underground shelter. 

We abandoned the building and saw the carnage all around, as the bombs
found their targets. The noise was deafening and we covered our ears, 
fearing for our lives. A bright orange flash hit a building directly 
opposite us, and I witnessed a young boy crawling out of the debris, 
minus his left arm. 

Some of the civilians were actually celebrating by dancing in the
streets, whilst others around them lay screaming, some of them maimed 
and dying. The thick oppressive dust made visibility difficult, and my 
burqa did nothing to enhance my breathing. We ran blindly, our hands 
still covering our ears in an attempt to eliminate the horror that we 
had encountered. I cried when I saw a baby, weeping for her dead 
mother, who was stretched out alongside her. 

I tripped and watched as my colleagues vanished into the dust, my
screams for help unheard. The earth shuddered when another loud 
explosion in front of me erupted. I heard the screams and then fought 
for breath, as a severed leg landed by my side. I scrambled to my feet 
and saw my companions, or what was left of them, scattered on the 
desolate waste in a large pool of blood. 

What happened next was beyond reason, as I wandered aimlessly through
the cloud of smoke, sobbing uncontrollably. I felt a hand grip my arm 
and lead me to the safety of an overhanging rock, where several women 
and children were huddled together, weeping for their lost ones. I felt 
ashamed, noticing the small accusing eyes of these people burning into 
me. We must have been standing there for over an hour before the 
onslaught ceased. 

"You must come with me," said the woman who had rescued me. I followed
her quickly, viewing the extent of the damage. This urban desert was no 
more, as scores of houses and buildings were flattened. The stench of 
burning cars and worse still, burning flesh hung in the still air. 
Numerous people were going to the aid of the injured, but for some it 
was too late. 

I was ushered into a house, or what was remaining of it. One of the
outer walls no longer existed, and the sparse furniture was in pieces. 
I looked at the woman who had rescued me and expected her eyes to be 
filled with hate, but she showed no signs of loathing. 

“Thank you, I am...” 

“I know who you are,” she interrupted. “You were foolish to come here.” 

I was curious and confused. “Why did you save me?” 

“Because, today was the first step to our liberty from the evil regime
we have lived under for over five years.” 

I was more confused than ever. “You mean, you're glad of what happened
today?” 

The woman smiled. “Did you not hear the people cheering? Yes, many have
died, but our salvation will come.” 

I offered my hand. “I'm Helen.” 

“Shafiqa,” she replied. “You must leave Kabul. It is not safe for you
here.” 

“Not until I see my sister,” I insisted 

“Don't you see? You will never see your sister again. The Taliban will
not permit it. Forget your sister and flee Afghanistan.” 

“I cannot.” 

“Then you will die.” 

I accompanied Shafiqa to the hospital later that afternoon, as she was a
qualified doctor who had studied in London, hence her outstanding usage 
of the English language. I must admit to being a trifle worried, but 
Shafiqa persuaded me to go along, once she discovered that I was a 
journalist. Besides, the Taliban had more pressing matters than to 
waste time searching for an English woman who was probably dead anyway. 


What I encountered at the so-called hospital, I was not prepared for. A
thick film of dust had crept into every crevice of every building in 
Kabul, and the hospital was no exception. The air was heavy and the 
patients were wheezing erratically, fighting for every breath. There 
was no oxygen and the worst of the patients were moved close to the 
windows. Wires hung from the walls, and glass covered the floor. The 
stench of the hospital ought to have been of antiseptic and other 
chemicals, but it was not. There was a stale, musty smell associated 
with death, and I witnessed several needles wrapped in dirty pieces of 
rag. 

Shafiqa worked endlessly, moving from patient to patient and tending to
their various needs as best she could. The scene was one of chaos, as 
doctors in off white coats scampered in their haste to comfort the 
hopeless victims of the bombing. I realised that what I took for 
granted in the western world, these people could only dream of. 

I was obliged to accept the muddy-brown, tasteless stew and bread that
was made from grass and barley flour. Shafiqa had introduced me to her 
elderly parents as a colleague, and they never suspected that I was a 
foreigner beneath my burqa. Her parents were sad and silent, which 
suited me, as my knowledge of Afghan was nil. 

I discovered that she had lost her husband in the conflict with the
Russians, which led me to believe that he must have been some years 
older than her. We had to remain indoors at night, as there is a curfew 
against women; another uncivilised law introduced by the Taliban. 

“Shafiqa, have you ever tried to leave Kabul?” I quizzed. 

“To leave is impossible. My parents are too old and there would be
severe repercussions against them if I left... Since the Taliban came 
to power, life here has been hell. The women have no status in this 
society. Make-up is banned, along with brightly coloured clothes. 
There're no televisions or cassette recorders, no white shoes or socks, 
and even the children are affected. They're not allowed dolls, kites or 
stuffed animals. In fact, it would be easier if I told you what was not 
banned.” 

“Shafiqa, where will my sister be held?” I asked. 

“Do you not listen? Forget her.” 

“Will you please answer my question?” 

“If she is still alive, she will probably be in the main prison in
Kabul. Entry is not possible.” 

The next morning, we were woken by the sounds of distant explosions. We
looked to the north of the city and saw the huge plumes of smoke rising 
to the blackened sky. Some of Shafiqa's relatives had joined us in our 
short journey to the hospital. A tall man who was wearing a white coat 
uttered something to Shafiqa. 

“Faqir says, that many died through the night. The bodies must be
moved.” 

The two black robed men approached unseen. They each yelled at Shafiqa
and Faqir, pointing their weapons at them. I pulled down my veil, 
ensuring my face was concealed, as I watched the argument progress. One 
of the Taliban turned to us and demanded that we escort them. 

My heart was beating furiously when I walked amongst Shafiqa's
relatives, confused as to what was happening. A dark, damp building was 
our destination, and we were made to stand before an elderly man, who 
was wearing a black turban and sporting a long, grey beard. 

A long debate followed, which ended in the relatives wailing loudly.
They were obviously disturbed by the events. The old man pointed at 
Shafiqa and Faqir, shouting until he was red in the face. He eventually 
left the room and left us alone. 

I approached Shafiqa, and for the first time saw her face when she
lifted her veil. She was much younger than I thought, probably in her 
mid twenties, I guessed. Her tearful eyes told me that all was not 
well. 

“What's going on Shafiqa?” I asked. 

“They saw Faqir talking to me. It is forbidden unless, we're blood
relatives.” 

“He's your colleague. You must tell them that you were discussing the
hospital.” 

“It is no use, Helen. It matters not if we work together; we have broken
Taliban law.” 

“What's going to happen, Shafiqa?” 

“We're to be taken to the sports stadium, where we'll be punished
accordingly.” 

I could not believe what I was hearing. “Punished? How?” 

“For me, one hundred lashes... For Faqir, death.” 

“No! This cannot be. You haven't even stood trial.” 

“This is Taliban law, Helen. There does not have to be a trial...
Faqir's wife must shoot him, or she will also face the death penalty... 
If I was married, I too would be facing death.” 

I pondered. “There must be something I can do?” 

“Helen, you're not in London now. Whatever happens, you must tell the
western world of the atrocities that take place here.” 

I gazed into the eyes of the stricken woman and felt shame and remorse.
Shame, because somehow the politicians of this world allowed such an 
evil regime to govern this once great country. My eyes turned to Faqir. 
His head was bowed as his wife was brought to him for a final reunion. 

Shafiqa whispered to me. “Helen, they think you're a relative, and so
you must witness the punishment. Be brave and tell the world what you 
see today... My wounds willl heal, and I accept my punishment willingly 
with my head held high, knowing that one day the Taliban will be ousted 
from government.” 

I hugged her, before two guards entered the room and escorted us at
gunpoint to the stadium. Street hawkers outside were selling nuts, 
biscuits and tea to the queue of the bloodthirsty crowd. I was taken 
aback by the immensity of the spectators. There must have been 30,000 
people inside the stadium, awaiting the gory entertainment. 

We took our places as Faqir and Shafiqa were led away. Two men were
ushered to the centre of the arena and made to stand as an elder read 
out the charges. I shuddered when a surgeon amputated their right hands 
with a scalpel type instrument, and held his trophies aloft for all to 
see. The loud cheers from the enthusiastic crowd drowned out the 
screams of the thieves. 

A girl, who could not have been more than eighteen, was dragged to the
centre of the arena and I felt my eyes well up with tears and my throat 
was dry with fear. The elder screamed at her, before reading out her 
crime, which later, I found out was to have worn nail varnish. I closed 
my eyes and grimaced when her thumb was detached from her hand. This 
barbaric action was followed by the manic cheers. 

I fought back the nausea, partly caused by the grass bread that I had
eaten earlier, but mainly because of the horror that I had the 
misfortune to witness. A man was hanged from a crane, and his body was 
driven around the stadium to the delight of masses, his crime unknown 
to me. 

I mumbled to myself. “Please god,” as I saw Shafiqa being escorted into
the arena. I realised the futility of my plea in this land of Islam, 
and suddenly felt so alone. I closed my eyes when the lashes were 
administered forcefully, and felt every stroke. To her credit, Shafiqa 
did not scream, which seemed to annoy the crowd. I stood shaking, 
rooted to the spot, as her relations comforted her and helped her from 
the arena. 

The next scene, I will never forget for as long as I live. Faqir was on
his knees, screaming at his distraught wife to shoot him in the head. 
The Kalashnikov seemed to be so out of place in the hands of the 
diminutive woman. Faqir never relented, pleading for his wife to shoot 
him, knowing the consequences if she never. It was if I was in a dream, 
as I found myself unable to block out the horror, when the loud crack 
startled me. The smoke, followed by the blood escaping from his head, 
confirmed that his wife would live a widow's life. 

I left the stadium and shuffled back in a daze to what was left of
Shafiqa's house. I stayed with her for two weeks, until she had fully 
recovered, and she finally talked me into giving up my quest for Mel. 
If the governments of the EEC could not achieve the release of my 
sister, then what chance had I? 

The bombing never ceased, and finally Shafiqa and her relatives, along
with thousands of other refugees headed for the Pakistani border. I 
have never before experienced anything like the horror and starvation 
that these people endured, but we finally reached the border, leaving 
behind a desert of corpses. The hostile coldness of the severe winter 
had taken its toll. 

I arrived back in London and wrote of the plight of this abused and
sorry race of people. To this day, I do not know what happened to Mel 
and her colleagues, but live in hope that one-day; I will be reunited 
with her. 

Shafiqa has since returned to her homeland, where she has her wish, as a
civilised government is hopefully about to rule over Afghanistan, after 
the Taliban fled to the mountains. 

I will never forget her, and the everyday poverty and horror that those
people had to face. I will never ever again take things for granted, 
and think myself lucky every morning that I rise and look out onto the 
River Thames. The events that befell me have changed my life forever. 


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