I remembered what my parents had advised me to do before I left for Pakistan.

"Listen son," said my father while sitting on his bed with books scattered all around him, "wherever you go, we want you to finish your school. We want you to become somebody. When you return, we want you to serve your country and family."

I thought to myself, "Well, if I am to go to school and one day go back and serve my country, first I need to get that final signature on my refugee identification card that I have been working on for the past month and half."

Within a few minutes, I was out the door heading for the refugee identification card office.

When I got off the bus, I saw an Afghan man sitting on the sidewalk trying desperately to keep a flock of fly away from a couple of fruit baskets that he had prepared for sale. As I asked him for directions to the refugee office, I realized it was about a twenty-minute walk away on a dusty road along a creek.

It was past 2 PM and the weather was unbearably hot. My shirt was almost entirely wet with sweat while I was walking fast to get to the office. I wanted to wash my head and face using the water of the little creek running along side the road as if it were racing me. I noticed that a herd of oxen were having a great time playing right in the middle of the creek. So, I changed my mind and kept walking on.

As I was getting closer to the office, I saw a long line of at least one hundred Afghan refugee men waiting for their turn to get into the office building. I thought I would never be able to get into the office if I stood at the end of the line. After a brief inquiry from the soldier who was guarding the entrance, I discovered that this line was for those who wished to receive food stamps. There was also a relatively smaller number of people waiting to enter the ID card office. They were hiding from the burning rays of the sun under the shadow of a wall across the street. So I walked over, and joined the crowd. I must mention that "slow" is an understatement for describing the way the lines were moving forward.

After a few minutes I noticed an old man, maybe in his late 60s, who seemed worried and restless. He was about six feet tall, and fit. He had quite a bit of pitch-black surma around his eyes. Like the winter snow, a long white beard covered his kind looking face that somehow added dignity and charisma to his outlook.

Every few minutes he would get up, cross the street, and talk to a young man who was waiting at almost the end of the line. Then the young man would point towards us and it appeared to me that he would ask him to return to where he was waiting for their turn to reach.

I sat leaning against the wall, looking at young men across the street and asking myself all kinds of questions, "Where in Afghanistan are these people from?" I had not seen many like them in Kabul.

They all seemed tired and worried, head to toe covered with dust under the hot sun of Peshawar that poured arrowheads of fire at them. They wore patched and old clothes. Most of them were staring at the ground as if they had lost some thing very precious and were searching to find it.

They all must have families awaiting them in a tent on the outskirts of Peshawar to bring food, and medicine for them. Wouldn't they want to finish school like I do? Wouldn't their parents want them to be educated? What about the old man? Maybe he has a sick child or grandchild at home waiting for him to bring some medicine and food. Maybe he is hungry himself. Maybe he has lost a loved one in the war? Maybe…? Maybe…?

I kept asking myself these questions even though I felt as if I already knew what the answers were. The people across the street sitting in the shadow with me didn't do much better either. With pale faces and glazed eyes, they were silently waiting for their turn to approach. Meanwhile, the old man kept crossing the street yet to be sent back to the shaded area. He reminded me of my kaakaa (uncle.) And his behavior reminded me of a restless bird in a cage that my uncle used to keep in Afghanistan.

Finally, after a couple of hours it was my turn to enter the ID card office. Five clerks were sitting all around it. From the smell of the atmosphere, I realized that chewing tobacco and cigarettes were among two of the most heavily consumed commodities in that office. The topic of discussion must have been hot, because none of the clerks really noticed my presence for a few extremely long minutes. I slowly approached one of the desks and handed the clerk my ID card to be stamped. He examined it closely from behind the thick lenses of his glasses atop the middle of his nose bridge.

To tell the truth, I was a little nervous: "What if he doesn't stamp it? How am I going to live in this country?" I said to myself.

"10 rupees!" He announced. I didn't know exactly what he meant by that.

"Pardon me?" I inquired.

"10 rupees!" He repeated.

Thinking that he was only joking with me, I smiled! But he didn't reciprocate.

There were a few moments of silence between us, during which I kept asking myself, "Am I dreaming, or did I hear him wrong?" And I can almost bet on it that he was searching for a simple phrase to make me understand that he wanted money!

Eventually, with a straight face and a stern tone of voice he said, "It will cost you 10 rupees to get the stamp on your card. Do you want it or not? If you don't, then don't waste my time. I have a lot to do today."

I quickly glanced at other clerks sitting around the room, who were desperately trying to ignore hearing our conversation. At this moment, I had to make a decision. So I reached to my pocket, and took 10 rupees out and slowly placed it on his desk. Even though the ceiling fan was revolving like a helicopter blade, all of a sudden double the amount of sweat started pouring off my forehead than while I was walking in the sun a few hours ago. He stamped the card and slid it towards me.

Although I didn't want to, without looking at the man, I murmured, "Thank you!" and walked out of the office feeling the heavy weight of guilt and embarrassment on my shoulders.

As soon as I stepped out of the building, I heard two people arguing. I looked up and there he was - the old white-bearded man. He was arguing with the young soldier responsible for guarding the entrance to the building and keeping the waiting line in order. I went closer to find out exactly what he was unhappy about.

The old man's complaint was that the line was too long and that he had to take some food home for his daughter and grandchildren.

"My grandchild is sick at the camp, and I have to take him medicine and be with him. He can't wait any longer. For God sake, please let us go ahead of these people." He begged.

The young soldier who seemed to be loosing his patience was refusing to budge. Suddenly I saw the young boy running towards the old man to calm him down. But it was too late. The young guard had lost his patience. He pushed the old Afghan man away, and slapped him very hard. I doubt if there was anyone in that line who didn't hear it. In fact, I am convinced that everyone heard it, and even the waiting men across the street.

I was standing very close to the old man right behind him. Immediately, he turned his face from the crowd. But his eyes met with mine. In a split second, tears overflowed his eyes, ran down his kind looking face mixed with surma like a creek, and disappeared under his snow-white beard.

I wanted to tell him that, "It is okay kaakaa. One day this misery in our lives will end and we all will go back home. Just be patient and pray to God to help us get our freedom from the communists."

But I couldn't - I couldn't say even one word. My throat was filled with sorrow. The old man's face was wet. He was looking up at the sky, as if he was speaking to God. I turned around, and as soon as I took the first step towards the dusty road, I found my eyes overflowed with tears too. I tried not to cry, but couldn't help it.

The sun was about to set and the sky was getting ready for a long and dark night to approach. Soon to disappear, there were a variety of colors in the sky - red, blue, violet gold, and gray. I noticed the heard of oxen still roaming in the creek. Suddenly, I stopped, took my new ID card out of my pocket, and stared at it for a few seconds.

I looked at my face in the picture that was fixed on the corner of the card. It was almost entirely stamped. I tore my card in half and then I tore it again and again. I scattered the pieces in the water, which slowly disappeared from my sight dancing on the creek's running water. Then, I sat there and cried some more.

While I was crying, I thought I heard my father's voice, "Don't be a coward. Is this how tough you are?"

I agreed with him. I had to be strong if I was to survive. I stopped crying and washed the tears off my eyes. Yes, I washed the tears off my eyes, but I can never wash the memory of the old man's teary eyes from my mind. |