The Boy with Two Hearts

by Hamed Amiri

  This was all for our benefit of course – Dad wanting to show us it would all be okay. They didn’t want to worry Hussein. But we weren’t going to say no to our favourite dinner. While Mum prepared the meal, Dad kept his mind busy by watering the plants. He seemed on edge, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t hide the smile on his face.

  We were a bit in awe of Mum that day. We’d never seen anyone stand up to the Taliban, let alone a woman. Mum’s bravery was normal in our house, but this was the first time it had crossed into the outside world. We were proud. We couldn’t stop talking about it, each going over our favourite part of the speech. For Hussein, it was seeing the faces of the women in the audience as they listened to Mum. For Hessam (mummy’s boy), it was when Mum kissed him and made him feel like a VIP.

  I said it was the moment at the end of the speech where, just for a second, I caught Mum’s eye. I could see how happy she was, and I knew that she’d done something she really believed in. Mum wanted the little spark she’d created that day to grow into a big fire, and I wished she’d been able to do that.

  There were no aunts, uncles or cousins for dinner tonight, just the five of us. This was a good thing: there would be more food for us. Mum had made our favourite lamb dish, ghormeh plough, and she batted my hand away as I tried to sneak some off the serving dish. It was gloomy outside, but inside our little sitting room was colourful and bright as slowly but surely the sofra was set and plate after plate of colourful food filled the floor. Meals like this were my favourite.

  We sat down one by one, with Mum and Dad on each side to complete the circle. The circle was more than just a shape, Mum explained, which was why we all had to wait our turn to sit. ‘Family is the most important thing,’ she said. ‘We don’t know what lies ahead, but what we do know is that family, love and sticking together – no matter how tough or scary life is – that’s the key.’

  We were used to these life lessons of Mum’s. But secretly we loved it. I started to understand why Mum had given her speech, despite all the danger. Food was forgotten for a minute, as we looked at each other silently. It was a strange moment that has stayed with me since that day – it was as if we were inside a bubble, oblivious to everything outside of our circle.

  Just like any bubble, sooner or later it had to burst. As we ate together, we had no idea how life-changing the events of that day would be.

  We weren’t expecting anyone, but when the knock at the door came we still thought it must be one of our uncles. Dad walked cautiously towards the door. We all hoped for a friendly face as he asked loudly, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me. Open the door, quick,’ came a whisper. Relieved to hear the friendly voice of our uncle, or amu, Dad rushed to unlock the doors to embrace him. But we could tell something was up – his voice was panicked, and before Dad could even hug him or say hello he pushed the door shut behind him.

  ‘Close the door, lock it!’ he said. We’d never seen Uncle like this before. Dad looked worried.

  ‘What is it? Is the family okay? Sister is unwell … how is her health?’

  Uncle looked past Dad at us sitting at the sofra. We rushed up to hug him, but his smile was fake. Even without Dad’s worried face in the background, we knew something was wrong. Uncle’s hug was tighter and lasted longer than usual. Reluctantly we went into our bedroom to let the adults talk.

  Hessam was being annoying, and Hussein tried to distract him while I tried to listen in to the adults’ conversation.

  Uncle called Mum over, and we heard Dad say, ‘Please, tell me what has happened. Is everyone okay?’

  ‘They heard the speech,’ he whispered. ‘They’re looking for you.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dad. ‘What else? Please, just tell us.’

  Uncle spoke so quietly I could hardly make out what he said, but I heard, ‘The mullah has given an order.’

  This was it. All our fears in one sentence. We called the mullah the ‘executioner’, and we were terrified of him. He had turned our local football pitch into a place of execution, and it was now referred to as ‘the pit’. People would gather there to hear death sentences passed on people who spoke up against the Taliban. Later they’d be executed. Someone must have told them about Mum, and now they wanted her dead.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Amiri market

  Although I’d always lived under Taliban rule, I never thought it would affect us like this. It had just been everyday life. We’d always known that Hussein’s health meant we would one day have to seek help from doctors outside of Afghanistan, but we hadn’t prepared for the fact that Afghanistan would no longer be a safe place for us. Despite all the troubles with the Taliban, Afghanistan was our home, a familiar place. I’d never known anything else. I realise now that home isn’t where you live, it’s the people you live with. And you can take them with you anywhere.

  Now we were in danger, and the only thing to do was escape. I was a naturally nosy child, always listening at doorways, wanting to know what the adults were talking about. But this time my nosiness had led to me hearing something I didn’t want to hear. I wanted to tell my brothers, but I knew the stress it would put on Hussein’s heart, so I kept it to myself for now. I supposed they’d know soon enough.

  Playing dumb, I moved away from the door and went back to Hessam and Hussein. Hessam didn’t notice anything different, but I could tell Hussein could see that I knew something. He probably knew I was hiding it from him because of his illness too.

  While we waited in the bedroom, the adults were debating in loud whispers in the other room. What were they talking about? How we could hide from the Taliban? Or how to find a way to get out? That would need money, which I knew we didn’t have. It would also mean knowing the right people – the ones who went under false names, the ones who promised a safe haven. I already knew so many stories of people who had died trying to leave. Would it even be safe? Whatever my parents were discussing, I knew it would involve a journey, and I was terrified of it.

  Finally, we could tell by the hugging and kissing that Uncle was leaving, and shortly afterwards we heard the front door being locked. It was time to face the music. Hussein wanted to go straight through to the other room, but I didn’t want to, and tried to distract myself with toys. Eventually, Mum and Dad came through to us.

  Dad was struggling for words, so Mum started.

  ‘Firstly, I want you all to know that we’ll be okay,’ she said. ‘As long as we’re together.’ We didn’t say anything. ‘Because of my speech, the mullah has made a decision. We’re not safe here any more. We’re going to need to leave quickly, and we’re going to have to sell our things to raise enough money. There are people who can help us, but we have to pay them before they’ll do anything. Even if we sell everything we might not have enough. Then we’re going to have to go on a long journey, to a place we don’t even know yet. We didn’t want this, but we’ve got no choice. And we will be okay.’

  When Mum had finished, Dad asked if we had any questions. For some reason, at that point we didn’t have much to ask, although afterwards I thought of a hundred things I wanted to know. Uncle was going to try to buy us some time, but our only chance of survival lay in the hands of traffickers. They only spoke one language: money, so the first thing to do was to raise as much as we could.

  In a community like ours, fear of the Taliban brought people together, but we were soon to learn the strength of the love and respect for our family in our neighbourhood. The next day friends and family gathered in secret, and within a few hours of the word spreading our house had become a market. Everything we had – from dishes and cooking utensils to toys and books – was for sale. There was no time to price things up, we just needed enough money to pay for our escape. Mum laid everything out like a bazaar: clothes, rugs, curtains and bedspreads were draped across furniture, while bowls and crockery were stacked in corners. Our neighbours poured into the house, picking up items and offering money. It was unlike any market we’d ever seen. N
o one haggled, and people even paid over the odds for items they didn’t want or need. We couldn’t believe the support from our community.

  The Amiri market was fun, and Hessam and I enjoyed showing people our belongings and counting the money. Mum was quiet though, and I realised that this must be hard for her. She was selling everything she owned, the memories and the laughter from our house, in a scuffle of people she knew well. Hessam insisted on selling his favourite toy, saying he’d grown out of it anyway, but this seemed to upset Mum more.

  Within a few hours the Amiri market was closed, leaving us with four bare walls and the clothes we stood up in.

  ‘I’m sorry, boys,’ Mum kept saying. But we didn’t think of it like that. Why should she be sorry? Yes, she was the one who had given the speech, but we all believed in what she was doing. We were a family, and families stick together, remember?

  So our house was empty but our hearts were full. Our friends and neighbours had helped us when we really needed it, and we felt like a team standing up to the Taliban. I hoped that Mum’s speech was just the beginning, that somehow what she’d started would carry on after we’d left. I also hoped that we’d be able to come home one day.

  Raising the money to pay the traffickers was only half the problem. Our real enemy was time. Dad’s next mission was to find the right people who could help with our escape, and so began a frantic search for someone who could put us in touch with a contact. We never asked where we were heading – it didn’t seem to matter. Our destination wasn’t important, as long as it wasn’t Herat.

  While Dad was busy trying to connect with the underground trafficking world, Mum helped us to pack. After the market we didn’t have much – just two sets of clothes each. But we didn’t really miss our toys and books. We knew that life was about surviving now.

  As we packed we teased and jostled with each other as brothers do, but Mum was deep in thought. ‘Are you okay, Mum?’ Hussein asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m just thinking about all the women we’re leaving behind. The women I’ve been fighting for.’

  She looked disappointed, but I knew it wasn’t just that. As she stared at the empty rooms I knew that she was heartbroken to leave the house where she’d married, where she’d brought us up and created all our memories. I realised that we were leaving our friends and family too. Would we ever see our cousins again?

  As it started to get dark, the only fruits of Dad’s enquiries were that we would hear back soon. But would ‘soon’ be soon enough? We knew that the Taliban were out there searching for Mum. Were they scouring the streets for her? Could they find her right here, in our house? No one ate much that evening, and the sofra was a different place to the night before.

  CHAPTER 4

  Escape on the roof

  That night, after the market, we rolled our clothes under our heads as pillows and talked each other to sleep. Our spare jumpers became duvets for the night and the house felt empty and cold. I slept okay, but I woke to the sound of loud hammering on the door.

  I sat up in bed and saw that Hussein was already up, and panicking. I tried to keep him calm: now would not be a good time for him to have an episode. I talked to him calmly as he stood shivering in the bedroom, and I could tell that he was trying to calm himself down.

  ‘Go, take the boys,’ I heard Dad whisper to Mum, his eyes on the door. This was no time to argue. Mum came running in and grabbed us, and we ran up to the roof. It was freezing up there, but we sat, waiting, behind the clay chimney. I could feel Hussein’s hand in mine, sweaty, shaking. ‘Please God, look after his heart, look after his heart, look after his heart,’ I kept repeating in my head.

  We heard some noises downstairs, and Dad’s voice questioning the visitors. Then we heard something terrible. A bang. We looked at each other in horror. Mum put her hand over her mouth, but we knew we had to stay silent. I couldn’t bear it. I could feel the panic rising up in my chest. Then there was chaos in the garden downstairs, and we couldn’t hear Dad at all among all the shouting and heavy footsteps. For a minute I was terrified that they were coming up to the roof and would find us there. Would they kill us? Had they killed Dad?

  We could hear the Taliban coming into the house and making their way through all the rooms. There was nothing to take, nothing left at all. But what if they were looking for us? Mum seemed in a trance, and we tugged on her to snap her out of it. Then we heard a quiet hissing noise from across the neighbour’s roof.

  ‘Psst, psst.’ What was it? Suddenly we realised that a ladder was being placed across the two rooftops.

  ‘Over here,’ came a voice. It was Uncle! I grabbed the ladder and pulled it across the gap between the houses. We had to be quick – the Taliban weren’t going to stop looking for Mum. She wasn’t moving, so I grabbed her by the wrist and Hussein and I dragged her across the roof onto the ladder. One by one we scrambled across to the neighbour’s roof and hugged Uncle. Even in the chaos I remember he smelt like Dad, and I tried not to think about what might have happened.

  Mum was silent for the rest of the day. She seemed to have lost all emotion. Uncle put on a brave face and organised everything, taking us to a neighbour’s house until we were sure the Taliban had gone. Then he left, I didn’t know where to. Was it to find Dad? Or to carry on where he left off, trying to find someone who could get us out of Afghanistan? But how could we leave without Dad? That was impossible.

  That evening was gloomy, and for the first time Mum seemed really angry. Dad had stood by her through everything – it wasn’t fair that we didn’t know what had happened to him. At dinner with our neighbours the circle felt empty, incomplete.

  I was worried about Hussein, too. Mum had always been there to look after his health, but now she seemed distant, preoccupied. Did that mean I was in charge? I kept replaying what had happened on the roof in my mind. Mum said she’d heard a shot, but I wasn’t so sure.

  Just before bedtime that night, Uncle came back. We were desperate for news of Dad, but were afraid of what he might say. He’d been crying and was out of breath. Surely that was a bad sign?

  ‘It’s your Dad – he’s alive,’ he said. We ran towards him and squeezed him.

  ‘How?’ we demanded. Uncle rubbed his face and began to explain how the Taliban had taken Dad and were holding him captive. As far as he knew he was okay, but we had to get him out as soon as we could. He’d also managed to find some traffickers who could help us get out of the country.

  Mum came in and rushed to us. She was crying. ‘What can we do?’ she said. ‘How can we find him?’

  ‘We know where he is,’ said Uncle. ‘It’s just a case of getting to him. But I’ve got a plan. I’m going to go with the cousins tonight and try to get him out.’

  ‘They’ll have your throats,’ said Mum, nervously.

  ‘We’ll be okay,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, we have no choice. The Taliban aren’t patient, and the traffickers are ready to take you as soon as the whole family is ready.’

  ‘Take us? Now?’ Mum hesitated. We were leaving. As soon as we got Dad back we’d be leaving Afghanistan forever.

  It wasn’t until afterwards that I discovered what happened that night when they rescued Dad. Uncle had used his connections through the pharmacy to find out where Dad was and paid off the security guard to persuade him to look the other way. Dad was in a pretty bad state when they found him, and it was a struggle to get him home in one piece. They’d more or less had to carry him through the streets, the cousins walking ahead to make sure it was clear.

  That was the last time Dad saw his cousins.

  We waited impatiently at our neighbour’s house, looking for any sign of Uncle and the rescue party. The trafficker was already outside, his foot on the pedal, the engine running. He said it was important to make the most of the cover of darkness, to get as many miles behind us as possible before daybreak.

  I remember how annoying the engine noise was, and how the car lights shone down the street as we peered fr
om the window into the darkness. I kept watching that space, waiting for any sign of Dad and the cousins. Finally, in the distance I could see a group of men walking up the lit-up street. It was them! Behind the cousins I could see Dad, walking slowly and with a limp. Uncle’s arm was around his shoulder, holding him up. He looked battered, bruised, but he was alive.

  So those were our last moments in Afghanistan. It wasn’t a great goodbye – in the dimly lit street with the fumes of a car engine – but it was the last time we would see our house, our uncles and aunts, our cousins, our neighbours. Then everything changed.

  CHAPTER 5

  Moscow

  We were told to get into the boot of the car, and the driver showed us a small hidden compartment underneath a fake top, so that if someone were to open the boot it would look like it was empty. There wasn’t much room, but we all bundled into it and tried to get comfortable. I could hear Dad’s rasping breathing, and we knew he must have broken ribs.

  In any other circumstances we would have been excited about our first trip away from Herat. But this wasn’t what we’d imagined. We couldn’t see anything, and even the driver was obscured by a screen so that border guards wouldn’t be able to see into the back.

  All we could do was hope that this journey would lead to a better life. I couldn’t even dream of what that would be like, but I wanted it to be somewhere where we could finally let our guard down and not worry about life and death. Somewhere we would be safe and could grow up to have a normal life. Somewhere Hussein could get better. Somewhere with no AK47s.