coming home

Coming home 12 November 2009, 7:40 am. The sky was clear, the mighty sun replaced the morning dew with its radiant illuminating rays. Daud woke to the routine call to prayer, he rubbed his blurry eyes and looked around him, exhaled and rubbed his eyes again as if trying to wake up to the smell of his mother’s cooking instead he is still haunted by his Kalashnikov in front of him. He jumped out of his hammock and strapped on his weapon on his shoulders and walked to location he was instructed last night. He climbed hills and disfigured rocks with his torn, worn out sandal effortlessly even the weight of his enormous weapon did not burden him. Daud came across a small tea stall where a group of old bearded ‘holy’ men sat counting beads on a line of string with their fingers and sipping tea. One man looked at Daud, grinned and proudly said “Asalam wa’aliekum”. Asalam wa’aliekum? Peace be upon you? What peace did they speak of? These men were clearly brainwashed and blind toward humanity. Daud bit his tongue and nodded reluctantly. He finally climbed the last hill for the rendezvous and saw his fellow young ‘mujahedeens’ loading their guns and filling a number of pickup trucks with ammunition and explosives. It looked like their going for yet another killing rampage. Just another day; kill or be killed. Daud Karzai’s parents and home was snatched from him at the young age of 11 when the Taliban stormed the northern region of Banu near the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. The Taliban took control and scavenged Dauds village, they captured all those who opposed them and burned down the houses leaving nothing but ashes and memory behind. They, one-by-one, executed the men who did not share their fanatic mission of spreading strict sharia law. Daud’s mother was left a widow that day. His father had collapsed lifelessly on the hard ground soaked in his own