Having inherited her mother’s superb looks, Warda was already stunning when she was in her early teens. Her long auburn hair, green soulful eyes, and high cheekbones exuded grace and beauty. However, it was her composure and kindness that made her presence compelling and dignified.

She and a friend were on their way to the market one afternoon when they had to use a secluded side street because the main road was closed. An Afghan policeman stopped her at a checkpost and asked with a grimace, “What is your name?”

“Warda.”

“Warda...” repeated the policeman as he looked sideways at a smiling female constable.

“This place is teeming with Mujahideen spies these days,” he said, still looking at the stout policewoman.

“Take them inside and search them,” he beckoned to her.

The woman pushed the girls into the concrete bunker and switched off the lights. She then adjusted the flame of a kerosene lamp that was hanging from the ceiling.

The room was now dimly lit, and Warda could only vaguely make out an old desk and some chairs in one corner and dirty bedding in another. The air was thick with the stench of old socks and vodka, and some rifles stacked along one of the walls.

“My father is a government official. He is a professor at the university!” Warda said firmly.

“Many of his former students work in the police and military. His name is Saifullah Suleimanzai.”

The policeman chuckled as he followed them into the room and sat down on one of the chairs.

He pulled a knife from its sheath at the side of his military belt and, staring at it, blurted, “Your father is a wretched teacher, and you are a spy. If you refuse to cooperate, I will hurt you, scar your beautiful face for life, and imprison you.”

Warda’s friend was shaking uncontrollably as tears ran down her cheeks. “We are no spies, sir; please let us go,” she begged.

Pointing towards Warda, he muttered, “Do a thorough body search while I tie this chubby one.”

With all her might, Warda punched the woman on the nose and screamed loudly, snatching the lamp from its thin metal chain. With a swing of her arm, she hit the policeman’s temple with the oil lamp.

Within seconds, flames engulfed his shirt. He ran out and jumped into a pond alongside the street where the checkpost stood.

Amidst the commotion, Warda’s friend made a successful escape, running to the busy market place in the distance.

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Screaming still, Warda began gathering stones from a nearby pile and hurled them at the figure in the pond, which was howling and cursing in excruciating pain. Warda didn’t even notice her surroundings as uniformed men restrained and handcuffed her; she just saw a man who ought to be in pain.

Swiftly, other individuals retrieved the injured man from the water and transported him to the closest hospital. Meanwhile, they covered Warda’s face with a hood and whisked her away to the local sector station of the feared secret police, KhAD.

She spent hours in isolation in a frigid chamber before she sensed a rush of activity at the station. The cowl still covered her head and face, and she was in pain from the burns on her forearm and right hand.

Strong hands suddenly guided her up multiple flights of stairs to a location where the sound of a door closing behind her brought instant stillness. Someone pulled the hood from her rather forcefully, and she found herself in a large, elegantly decorated room, facing a big, antique table.

A younger, attractive white man in uniform occupied the middle seat, with two older men seated around the table in civilian attire, who appeared to be Afghans.

“Are you not still too young to join the ranks of the dreadful Mujahideen espionage network?” One of the two Afghans asked in Dari. “Your folks are good people,” he said softly but authoritatively. “They will be shocked by your actions.”

“I am not a spy. I was on my way to the market when these animals stopped me, pushed me into an underground room, and attempted to hurt both me and my friend.” Despite her horrific experience, Warda felt strangely protected and secure in the otherwise intimidating environment.

The Russian officer motioned for her to take a seat on a sofa and instructed the guard, in Dari, to bring her a glass of water. Warda declined the water, even though she was quite thirsty. Gazing at Warda, the Russian sat lazily in his elegant chair, his left elbow perched on its sidearm and the back of his hand beneath his chin.

“The policeman was fortunate to escape with his life, but his injuries will keep him hospitalised for a while.” The Afghan official maintained the same tone. “Your school principal reached out to the minister of interior on your behalf, but KhAD disregards personal requests when it comes to terrorism, especially when its officials face attacks and serious injuries.”

Warda felt a pang of anxiety when she heard these comments and periodically sneaked a quick look at the Russian officer, anticipating the final word from him.

“Drink your water,” the Russian spoke to her in Dari, then raised his chin as if to encourage her. Warda gulped down the entire glass. He then reached into a drawer, pulled out a pack of biscuits, and motioned for Warda to come have it. As Warda ripped through the pack, the two Afghans looked on with amusement.

“You have grown to become even more mischievous,” the foreigner continued after Warda had eaten the last biscuit. The two Afghans looked downright perplexed now.

“If you promise that you never make faces at Soviet soldiers again, I will let you go. Some of them might experience intense fear and nightmares.” Turning his attention towards the Afghan officers, he unfolded his account in Russian: “I never forget faces. When I was newly transferred to Kabul and used to visit my men early in the morning at various checkposts, this chimpanzee would frown at me and imitate my movements.” Both the Afghan officers couldn’t help but laugh.

“You are free to go!” the Afghan said. “Keep in mind that comrade Dimitry’s tour in Afghanistan is coming to an end, and he will be returning to his country shortly. Avoid causing trouble, as it could deplete your good luck.”

With her voice quivering and tears welling up in her eyes, Warda replied, “Thank you! But I will kill anyone who tries to hurt my honour.”

As the guard walked her out of the room, the Afghan smiled and said, “And I expect nothing less.”

Her parents stood outside the building, waiting eagerly.