Life carried on; the early- and mid-80s witnessed some revival of the education standards in the metropolis.
One night, as she sneaked out of bed to grab a drink of water from the fridge, she was abruptly stopped when she heard her mother sobbing softly in the living room. Her father was trying to comfort her.
She felt compelled to listen in on her parents.
Banou cried, “They were so young. Afshan’s angels have left her. Take me there, please! My sister will die of grief.”
“It is a huge tragedy,” replied Saifullah in a shaky voice. “I desperately want to go to Afshan and Haakim, myself,” referring to Banou’s sister and brother-in-law, “but Baba Jon has strictly instructed me, when I spoke to him on the telephone this afternoon, that we must not go there, as it is too dangerous.” Saifullah expressed Banou’s father’s concerns, stating that the area is teeming with landmines and the potential for the murderers to return.
A precocious Warda could apprehend that calamity had struck her aunt Afshan and that her handsome young sons had met an ominous fate.
A week later, Warda saw a group of older boys and girls gather under the living room balcony. With extreme caution, she stepped out onto the balcony. As her brother recounted the terrible fate that befell their cousins, she listened in horror.
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The bombardment in the village of Banou’s brother-in-law began during the night and continued the whole day. Smoke consumed all the lush vegetation in the area, severely damaging the houses. A safe passage evacuated the women and children, while the men stayed in a large mosque on the outskirts.
The following morning, Soviet armoured vehicles rolled into the settlement. The Afghan troops leapt from them and began the gruesome torture of some of the villagers, as the Soviets looked on.
They sought information about the whereabouts of specific Mujahideen leaders spotted in the area a few weeks ago.
This continued for some hours. The soldiers then rounded up eight boys, all under twelve, and drove them, in a truck, to an intersection about five kilometres away.
Gasoline was poured over them, and they were set on fire. Two of them were Banou’s nephews.
Cries of unprecedented distress ripped the stillness of the afternoon, and then clouds of smoke carried the story away, to adjacent settlements and villages, of murders most foul. They tied up the father of one of the boys and brought him to the site, forcing him to witness the harrowing scene.
Warda was whimpering quietly as she slouched on to the floor. Each child, then, had a comparable tale to share. She was horrified by the cruelty that humans were capable of and realised that such wicked and merciless brutalities were being committed consistently throughout her homeland.
The tremendous pain was gradually nourishing her soul, fostering a belief that women had an obligation to confront the tyrants and shield their loved ones from being taken away and slain.