One Child Read Free

a voice and if he didn't do it, who would?
    He finished the pretzels, pulled the window shade down and settled in to sleep.
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Chapter
    5
    Day 3 - 7.29.10 - Morning News
    Kandahar, Afghanistan
    The hunger never left. Never.
    Kadir Hussein shuffled through the market, his mangled hand tucked under his tattered robe. His stomach contracted and he tasted acid in his back of his mouth. He swallowed it back and felt the burn in his throat. Three days without a proper meal was too long. Even for a belly used to going empty. Any food he had earned or begged had gone to the children. Aaqila and Danah had eaten and slept well, but Halima had refused to eat any rice or naan bread until her younger sisters were finished. Only scraps were left. Not enough to nourish a growing eleven year old girl.
    Today would be better. Kadir had a chance to work and the pay was good. A crew from the Iranian Red Crescent was working on a new well in a small square located in the oldest section of Kandahar. They needed men to move bricks and mortar through the labyrinth of narrow streets by hand. They were paying three American dollars a day. More than he could hope to earn sweeping stalls in the market. Enough to buy some onions, rice and bread for the evening meal. Maybe there would be some for him after his daughters had eaten.
    Maybe.
    Halima was watching her sisters and he was confident they would be fine for the day by themselves. The Taliban never entered the town anymore. At least, not in force. Kadir knew they were among them, walking about with the impunity that came with having Pashtun heritage and speaking the language. It was almost impossible to tell who was Taliban until they let it be known. And that was usually by violence or cruelty. He didn't care if they shared the same street or the same water fountain. He only cared if they hurt him or his children.
    When that happened, the hate surfaced.
    It burned deep inside him, a simmering fire that would never be extinguished. Time healed some wounds, but not all. And there was one wound in him that would never fade into the past. It was far too deep, and penetrated beyond muscle and bone. It resided in a tiny space in his mind. The spot reserved for things too horrible - too unthinkable - to ever happen. Except to him. And countless thousands of other Afghans.
    God how he hated the Taliban. But it hadn't started with them. It had started with the Russians.
    Kadir rounded a corner, his robe brushing against a mud wall that had seen countless invaders enter Afghanistan. And the same number leave. He was only fourteen when the Russian army descended on Kabul and the nightmare began. In his mind, nothing worse could happen. He could still taste the diesel fumes from the tanks as they rumbled down his street, and when he closed his eyes to sleep, the soldiers were everywhere, their Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders and cigarettes dangling from their lips.
    They took what they wanted. At first it was the nicest homes and newest cars. But there was only so much luxury in Kandahar and after three years they were at his father's door. The family house held little of value. His father was a merchant in the Kabul Darwaza, a market filled with trinkets and second hand goods, and they lived a simple life. The soldiers didn't care. They smashed open the cupboards and kicked the furniture into worthless piles of splintered wood. They grabbed the meager bits of food and shattered the solitary window. When his brother told them to stop, they beat him with their rifle butts until he was unconscious and bleeding on the floor. He watched, his fists clenched, wanting to rip a rifle from their hands and kill them. His father sensed his thoughts and silently shook his head. Resistance meant death.
    Three weeks after the first visit the soldiers returned. This time they