A Boy in the Shadow of War: A Story of Tribe, Taliban, and America

In traditional, tribal societies, the birth of a son is not simply a private blessing but a symbol of power and a means for economic survival. The more sons a family has, the greater its standing within the tribe. This equates to possessing a private army during disputes over land, honor, pride, or any other tribal obsession. Perhaps it is from this belief that the discrimination against women and their relegation to second-class status in society originate. In the community where I was born and raised, the boy carries such importance that daughters are often regarded as commodities—sold or exchanged to secure brides or to finance the needs of the sons. When it comes to marriage, especially within the traditional Pashtun tribes of my birthplace, no regard is given to the groom’s age, social standing, or whether he already has wives and children. Nor does the daughter’s age—whether seven or fifteen—matter. If a suitor is willing to pay more, the father offers his daughter’s hand, binding her into an endless cycle of suffering and violence. The girl has no right to protest, neither to her father, brothers, nor husband. When I was born in 1992, my father was around fifty years old, and with my arrival, his dream of having a son came true. On that day, his pride and joy were palpable. 1992 was also the year when Dr. Najibullah’s Soviet-backed government collapsed, plunging Afghanistan into bloody civil war among victorious but intoxicated mujahideen factions. Afghans take great pride in being called mujahideen and devout. Thus, when someone writes their biography, the first fact they emphasize is being born into a devout, mujahid-supporting family. They even brand their cities and regions with religious color—“mujahid-supporting Herat,” “mujahid-supporting Panjshir,” “mujahid-supporting Badakhshan.” And even if someone dies from illness, traffic accidents, drowning, or COVID-19, they prefer to be called martyrs. But from my perspective, Afghans have never truly been mujahideen. I do not intend to write a history here—only to share my personal, and certainly contestable, reflections on the history I have witnessed as a citizen. Afghanistan’s contemporary history records three wars against Great Britain, one against the Soviet forces, and in recent years after 2001, wars against American and NATO troops. In every conflict, Afghans fought on both sides. The Afghan commanders leading the war against the British were often those receiving stipends from the royal court. When the court felt closer to the Russians than the British, they declared jihad, adding religious color to power struggles to mobilize more fighters eager for paradise. Even during the war against the Soviet Union, mujahideen leaders were either American mercenaries or proxies supported by Saudi Arabia, Iran, and Pakistan. Mercenary fought mercenary, and both called each other foreign spies. From 2001 to 2021, while the U.S. occupied Afghanistan, the Taliban waged war against Afghan forces, labeling them kafir and foreign agents, even as the Taliban themselves were mercenaries, and the U.S.-backed government was also a mercenary regime. Thus, Afghanistan’s wars have always been mercenary and spy conflicts, not battles for freedom or national self-determination. Even now, as I write, all Afghan exiled leaders—including Ahmad Massoud, self-styled leader of the resistance—meet daily with Western and Eastern intelligence offices, offering hollow promises to secure support against the Taliban. Curiously, all these factions promise to establish an Islamic system. I once asked one of them: can Islam, democracy, elections, human rights, and women’s rights truly coexist under one umbrella? Do elections exist in Islam? Are men and women equal? Can a woman demand divorce or custody? Does Islam permit freedom of expression and thought? Can you critique Islam without punishment? Can you refrain from flogging adulterers, cutting thieves’ hands, or executing murderers? How, then, do you envision an Islamic system? If these anti-Taliban groups truly seek an Islamic system, is not the Taliban regime Islamic? Why don’t they live under their ideal system? Isn’t this hypocrisy? In any case, Afghans are contradictory beings. I have never seen their words align with their deeds or one belief supersede another. This inconsistency renders them deeply complex and often incomprehensible. For now, I write my personal view: I support a secular system in Afghanistan, led by reason rather than by the ignorant dogma of jurists like Abu Hanifa and other clerics, all of whom are highly questionable. Returning to my story— I remember 1999, 2000, and 2001, when I was seven to nine years old. Since my father was pursued by the Taliban, as the eldest son, I bore the responsibility of securing food for the family. Our home lay east of Azizabad’s back market in Shindand district. There was no school to attend; frankly, I did not even understand the concept of school—it was something my young mind could not grasp. Every morning, I walked three kilometers to my shop selling car parts and petrol. There were two other similar shops nearby, but my income was usually higher—perhaps because I was young and trusted by customers, or maybe they thought they could cheat me. Shopkeepers selling car parts often employed a deceitful trick: selling second-grade parts as premium quality. Eager customers accepted the inferior goods, believing them to be first class, allowing sellers to profit two or three times from one sale. I repeatedly advised customers who had been cheated, incurring the wrath of the shopkeepers who dismissed me as a naïve child, yet I knew what I was talking about. Age was always a challenge. Even when I became the legal advisor to Kabul’s Air Brigade, during a large meeting convened by General Fahim Ramin, newly appointed commander of the Air Force, to reform airstrike planning and overcome bureaucracy, I faced skepticism. Generals Fahim Ramin, Farid Ahmadi (then head of JSOC, later Special Forces Corps commander), Sami Sadat (author of “The Last Commander”), and many senior officials attended. While I was eating in the mess hall, General Ramin summoned me to his office. The meeting was chaotic; everyone spoke vaguely, uncertain of their goals. In the legal section, my superior, Lt. Colonel Abdul Basir Haqqpal, was called to address legal challenges related to the national airstrike policy. But he was overwhelmed, lacking both knowledge and preparation—a reflection of the widespread incompetence within the Afghan army, where few studied or read even their own protocols. I raised my hand and addressed the legal issues connected to airstrikes. Previously, I had served on the Afghan Airstrike Targeting Board, learning international humanitarian law and war-related legislation from U.S. legal officer Lt. Colonel Steven G. Loertscher, who oversaw the board. After outlining the legal matters, I explained the planning challenges. A seven-layer bureaucracy delayed each airstrike plan by at least three days. In guerrilla warfare, enemies never remained in one place that long, so Afghan A-29 aircraft often struck empty targets and returned empty-handed. Ground units frequently complained—sometimes publicly—that air support was late. This flawed cycle persisted for years without correction, until General Ramin assumed command—a capable, innovative patriot. During the meeting, General Farid Ahmadi told me, “I have never seen such merit in a young officer. Can you formalize these points into a policy for the Minister of Defense’s signature?” I did, and in 2019, I authored the new national airstrike policy. Afterward, General Fahim Ramin sought my legal advice across all domains and preferred my execution of his directives. This success, however, bred jealousy among my superiors. In collusion with the Defense Ministry’s legal chief, General Zmarai Rasikh, they demoted me from legal advisor of the Kabul Air Brigade to a lower-ranking legal officer in the Ministry of Defense. The Air Force commander protested, emphasizing my key role in solving airstrike planning issues, but the minister feigned ignorance. Ultimately, the minister reinstated me as senior legal advisor to the Air Force with the rank of colonel. This background helps explain why my youth was an issue. My superiors raised this concern with American advisers. The U.S. general responsible for legal affairs in the RS command invited me and the Afghan Defense Ministry’s legal chief to a meeting. He acknowledged my talent but deemed my appointment premature, saying I was too young. I asked, “At what age would you consider me fit?” He answered, “When you are fifty.” I replied, “At fifty, I will run for presidency.” He laughed, saying, “Good luck, and do your duties well.” Even as a child, when I exposed shopkeepers’ deceit, they attacked me by labeling me too young. Yet I knew what I was saying. In my shop, I occasionally served Arab customers in Land Cruisers, heavily guarded by Taliban. They paid five to ten times the market price for petrol. Later, I understood they were Al-Qaeda members—the same who struck the Twin Towers in 2001, unleashing the greatest catastrophe of our century. They were my customers when I was eight, though I recognized them later as enemies. During those dark Taliban days, conditions varied by region: easier for Pashtuns, harsher for Tajiks and Uzbeks, catastrophic for Hazaras. I often saw Hazara travelers, returning from Iran, forcibly removed from vehicles by Taliban near my market. Elders said they would never return home, and indeed, they disappeared from that small market forever. In Ghor and Panjshir provinces, active resistance against the Taliban existed. The Taliban demanded soldiers from Pashtun tribes; those refusing paid money instead. This was known as “tashkeel” (quota), and everyone had to contribute. There were no schools where we lived. I never heard anyone dream of schooling for their children. Perhaps non-Pashtun areas were different, but Pashtun villagers living in tribal communities did not hope for education or freedom for their sons or daughters. People in our region accepted the Taliban, perhaps because they represented their ethnic group or because the regime’s governance aligned with tribal and traditional values. But non-Pashtuns suffered severe repression. No one on earth can be content living under a suppressive regime. In that small market along the major Herat-Kabul highway, bodies of thieves killed fighting the Taliban hung in public—an image that terrified me as a child. I imagined myself as the son of one hanging on the gallows and wondered about the bitterness those children must have felt. My father was repeatedly arrested and tortured by the Taliban for running a secret school at home for girls, he avoided public appearances, especially in the market. At the night night time, he began instructing me at home—teaching me math, reading, and writing in our local language. I quickly learned to read and write and recorded all shop transactions in a notebook, reporting to my father each night. I never stole a single AFN. I was ruthlessly honest, never exceeding my allotted budget for child snacks. I was content with a two-AFG biscuit. I carried this childhood honesty into my youth, even when working in Afghanistan’s deeply corrupt military in senior positions. I remained a steadfast critic of corruption. The powerful and corrupt assumed I was naive and lacked understanding of political and economic upheavals, believing I would succumb to corruption. But I believed that in a country where millions of orphans, widows, and families sleep hungry, enriching oneself through corruption is a betrayal. Interestingly, those corrupt officials attended mosque’s front rows for prayers, criticized me for praying less, and threatened me with hell. Returning to childhood—one night our homes shook and windowpanes shattered—I was unaware of the catastrophe Al-Qaeda had wrought in America on September 11, and that the Taliban now faced American airstrikes above Afghanistan. The next morning, I saw Taliban convoys arriving from Herat, heading to Kandahar. Soon, forces loyal to Ismail Khan, an Iran-backed jihadist commander, replaced the Taliban in Herat—whom locals called the opposition. America opened a new chapter in Afghanistan’s history. Some Afghans welcomed it; others remained neutral; many Pashtuns opposed it, mourning the fallen Taliban regime. My family rejoiced in the passage from darkness toward light. I believe poor, weak countries resemble oppressed individuals in tribal systems—vulnerable to any intrusion without knocking. Hence, I prefer foreign patrons to be Americans or Europeans, rather than backward, reactionary neighbors. Privately, I say: if we cannot stand on our own, we should at least be mercenaries of those from whom we can learn democracy, science, human rights, and universal values. Had we not fought the British, we might be more civilized today; their presence enriched our culture as it did others. Had we not fought the Russians, women would not be second-class citizens. Had the post-2001 American presence not sparked war, we would now have an educated, professional, equal, law-abiding, citizen-centered society, and ancient tribal customs that held us back would have faded. But Afghans fought—for what? For freedom? We had freedom under American presence; now, under the Taliban, my wife and thousands of others cannot even choose their lipstick color. We cannot protest these restrictions. What freedom is this? Is freedom being forbidden to grow a beard, to protest foreign terrorist groups under Taliban protection, to criticize the regime, to defend ethnic, religious, or cultural minorities, or girls’ and women’s right to education and work? I do not want such freedom. Surely, millions of Afghans do not celebrate this. Returning to my childhood— The Americans’ first act was to reopen schools for girls and women in Afghanistan. My father opened the first school in our area and became its teacher. Since I had already learned reading, writing, and math at home, I entered third grade directly. Still, a large percentage of girls did not attend schools in our area until, perhaps by UN or American aid worker initiative, biscuits, oil, lentils, and other rations were distributed in schools. Traditional, anti-women families sent daughters to school only to avoid losing these benefits. A Western mind might ask: if this conservative society sent girls to school for biscuits and oil, why not simply educate them for the greater benefit they could bring the family and society later? But here lies a crucial difference: Afghans never like to wait for tomorrow. They want all gains today—not tomorrow. This spontaneous, short-sighted mentality pervades Afghan politics and governance, where decisions and stances are improvised, not based on long-term strategy. I studied two years in that market town while running my shop. Then my younger brother Nasim drowned, and life became too heavy in that house. We decided to move to Herat. Herat is called Afghanistan’s cultural city. But in Herat and surrounding districts, most Pashtuns cannot speak Pashto fluently; they speak Persian. The city’s demographic composition remained largely unchanged, with Tajiks as the majority. Hazara and Pashtuns suffered discrimination, backed by Ismail Khan, then governor of Herat. At that time, Amanullah Khan Nurzi, a former Taliban local commander, declared war on Ismail Khan with NATO forces present. He captured Shindand airfield and marched toward Herat. But American and Hamid Karzai’s intervention ended the conflict. Ismail Khan’s power, backed by Iran and self-styled king of western Afghanistan, waned until even his personal guards deserted him by 2021’s government collapse. He fled to exile in Iran. Later, many Pashtuns displaced from Herat districts flooded the city, reversing its demographic fabric. Hamid Karzai allowed the Ishaqzai tribe—mostly Taliban members—to seize lands east of Herat city, while the Hazara governor, Syed Hussain Anwari, distributed lands west of the city. After arriving in Herat, I focused solely on school. Our economic condition was fragile, dependent on my father’s meager teacher salary, insufficient for a normal life. My father began selling inherited lands to keep us afloat. He always wanted me to learn a trade—become a mechanic—but I desired education. So, in grade nine at Fateh Herat High School, I and some classmates decided to join the army. At that time, the Kabul military school offered a three-year program from grades ten to twelve, combining academic and military training. If my story touched you, I invite you to stand with me on my journey to safety and dignity: https://www.givesendgo.com/help-afghan-ally-reach-safety”