asked.
"Yes."
"Can I see your identity card, please?" the man asked in fluent Pashto. His black hair was cut short and the Iranian Red Crescent insignia was embroidered on his shirt.
Kadir fumbled with his identification, keeping his right hand under his robe. He finally found it and passed it over. The man surveyed it closely, then handed it back.
"You are forty-five years old?" he asked. Kadir nodded and the man said. "Maybe that is too old for this work."
"There is nothing bad with me. I can work. Very hard."
"What's wrong with your hand?" he asked.
"Nothing," Kadir said. He showed the man his good hand.
"The other one. The one inside your shirt." He pointed. "Show me."
Kadir pulled his right hand from his shirt so it was visible.
The Red Crescent worker stared for a moment, then said, "How did this happen?"
The memories of the incident flooded his brain. The tall, heavily-bearded Talib accusing him of stealing an orange from a vendor's stall. He, muttering that he had done nothing wrong. That he was not a thief. The Talib had simply smiled and told him that he could take his punishment now or in the soccer stadium on Friday. Kadir knew that option. Every Friday afternoon thieves and adulterers were ushered onto the field in front of a somber crowd. The thieves were the lucky ones. They had one hand sliced off with a saber. The adulterers - almost always women - were not so fortunate. Screaming their innocence, they were put to death by volleys of stones thrown by young Taliban fighters. That most of them had been raped was an irrelevant detail.
Kadir told the Talib he would take the punishment on the spot. He put his hand on the rough stone road and closed his eyes. He felt the rifle butt hitting his hand, his fingers, his wrist. Crushing the bones into dust. He wanted to scream in pain but knew that one sound and he would die. He thought of his father and tried to remember his face. It had been fifteen years since the Russians had taken him from the house and dragged him through the dark streets to prison. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't conjure up an image. Only blackness.
Any tears he cried that day were not from the savage mutilation of his hand. They were tears of sorrow for the unjustified murder of his father.
Kadir looked down at his hand. "An accident," he said to the Iranian. "It was caught in a piece of machinery."
"Can you carry bricks?" the man asked.
"Yes," Kadir replied confidently. "For hours, without a break. I am very strong and work hard."
Kadir forced a brave face as the Iranian studied him. Three US dollars hung in the balance. A week of food for his children. Seconds ticked by. A fly landed on his face but he didn't flinch.
"Of course you can carry bricks," the man said with a gentle smile. He turned to a Pashtun standing to one side. "Kadir will be working with us today. Show him what to do."
"Thank you," Kadir said. He felt the tears coming and willed them to stop.
They didn't.
Click here to go beyond the story, experience and learn more about characters, events and places in One Child and join the discussion online.
Chapter
9
Day 5 - 7.31.10 - Morning News
Kandahar, Afghanistan
Venturing into the streets of Kandahar was an adventure, even for the men who wore the traditional long pirhan tonban and carried a gun concealed beneath the flowing robes. For an eleven-year-old girl, with her little sisters in tow, it was insanity.
Halima peered out the tiny window that overlooked the city from their deteriorating room on the top floor of the abandoned apartment building. An endless mass of squat mud houses, few higher than two stories, stretched out toward the desert mountains that framed the distant horizon. A handful of kites fluttered above the labyrinth of twisting alleys, adding color to the bland, brown palette. Today she had to leave the security of their house and visit the market to buy fruit and vegetables. Her father had entrusted her with two US dollars,
"Yes."
"Can I see your identity card, please?" the man asked in fluent Pashto. His black hair was cut short and the Iranian Red Crescent insignia was embroidered on his shirt.
Kadir fumbled with his identification, keeping his right hand under his robe. He finally found it and passed it over. The man surveyed it closely, then handed it back.
"You are forty-five years old?" he asked. Kadir nodded and the man said. "Maybe that is too old for this work."
"There is nothing bad with me. I can work. Very hard."
"What's wrong with your hand?" he asked.
"Nothing," Kadir said. He showed the man his good hand.
"The other one. The one inside your shirt." He pointed. "Show me."
Kadir pulled his right hand from his shirt so it was visible.
The Red Crescent worker stared for a moment, then said, "How did this happen?"
The memories of the incident flooded his brain. The tall, heavily-bearded Talib accusing him of stealing an orange from a vendor's stall. He, muttering that he had done nothing wrong. That he was not a thief. The Talib had simply smiled and told him that he could take his punishment now or in the soccer stadium on Friday. Kadir knew that option. Every Friday afternoon thieves and adulterers were ushered onto the field in front of a somber crowd. The thieves were the lucky ones. They had one hand sliced off with a saber. The adulterers - almost always women - were not so fortunate. Screaming their innocence, they were put to death by volleys of stones thrown by young Taliban fighters. That most of them had been raped was an irrelevant detail.
Kadir told the Talib he would take the punishment on the spot. He put his hand on the rough stone road and closed his eyes. He felt the rifle butt hitting his hand, his fingers, his wrist. Crushing the bones into dust. He wanted to scream in pain but knew that one sound and he would die. He thought of his father and tried to remember his face. It had been fifteen years since the Russians had taken him from the house and dragged him through the dark streets to prison. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't conjure up an image. Only blackness.
Any tears he cried that day were not from the savage mutilation of his hand. They were tears of sorrow for the unjustified murder of his father.
Kadir looked down at his hand. "An accident," he said to the Iranian. "It was caught in a piece of machinery."
"Can you carry bricks?" the man asked.
"Yes," Kadir replied confidently. "For hours, without a break. I am very strong and work hard."
Kadir forced a brave face as the Iranian studied him. Three US dollars hung in the balance. A week of food for his children. Seconds ticked by. A fly landed on his face but he didn't flinch.
"Of course you can carry bricks," the man said with a gentle smile. He turned to a Pashtun standing to one side. "Kadir will be working with us today. Show him what to do."
"Thank you," Kadir said. He felt the tears coming and willed them to stop.
They didn't.
Click here to go beyond the story, experience and learn more about characters, events and places in One Child and join the discussion online.
Chapter
9
Day 5 - 7.31.10 - Morning News
Kandahar, Afghanistan
Venturing into the streets of Kandahar was an adventure, even for the men who wore the traditional long pirhan tonban and carried a gun concealed beneath the flowing robes. For an eleven-year-old girl, with her little sisters in tow, it was insanity.
Halima peered out the tiny window that overlooked the city from their deteriorating room on the top floor of the abandoned apartment building. An endless mass of squat mud houses, few higher than two stories, stretched out toward the desert mountains that framed the distant horizon. A handful of kites fluttered above the labyrinth of twisting alleys, adding color to the bland, brown palette. Today she had to leave the security of their house and visit the market to buy fruit and vegetables. Her father had entrusted her with two US dollars,
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