A Refugee In A Foreign Land: A Short Story

It was May 2019. I was leaving for Delhi. At the Kabul Airport, after getting the boarding pass, I went for security clearance. The security personnel said: “Make sure you are not carrying anything dangerous.” I shook my head and replied: “The most dangerous and deadliest thing that I am carrying is my own heart. What to do with that?”

I was frightened as I was leaving my home and homeland behind. I was alone and afraid, exposed to the imagined and unimagined catastrophes associated with the situation I found myself in. I had never been to any airport before; never experienced an airway expedition either. That was my first opportunity and for the first time I was learning the meanings of jargon like check-in, check-out, boarding pass, immigration, luggage belt, lounge; words so commonly used at airports. 

After arriving in Delhi, I had to stay in a guest house near Raisina Hills for a few days, before shifting to the International Hostel of Raisina University, from where I got a fellowship for a two years Master's degree in South Asian Studies. Inside the guest house, most of the rooms were cabin-sized. Mine was a similar one. Apart from a bed, there was enough space to accommodate all the belongings that go with the floating existence of an itinerant bachelor.

The night wasn't pleasant. Leaving home is always painful. A home is a place you always want to revisit. But then who you are, and where you come from define your existence. 

Being a Hazara and being an Afghan at the same time is a curse. You have very few options—either become a Sunni Muslim or leave Afghanistan or risk getting killed. The same is the case with Hazars living in the Quetta Valley of Pakistan.

Hazars are born with baggage of misfortunes. We have to endure poverty and ethnic atrocities. Education and access to decent healthcare facilities are beyond our reach. Sometimes, it feels like we don’t belong to our land, like we live like refugees in an uninvited territory, unwelcomed, repeatedly being told to take our misfortune elsewhere. This is the average Hazara life, living under the shadow of murky clouds filled with many folded mosaics of tragedies.

Somehow the sleepless night passed, spent tossing and turning, having the familiar tumultuous feeling. As I couldn't sleep all through the night, waking up in the morning wasn’t difficult. The guest house had a common washroom for all the rentals, albeit well managed, quite neat and clean. After getting refreshed, I thought of stepping out for having breakfast. Right opposite were shacks selling paav bhaji, chole kulche, bun omelette and bread omelette. There were other shacks selling other delicacies that were unknown to me. I knew the names of these four but in my native language (Hazargi), I had bread omelette. It was delicious; grilled in very less oil.

After breakfast, as per my usual morning routine, I felt like having my puff; Classic Mild, my favourite. Next to the shack, an old lady, wrinkle-faced, probably in her early sixties, was selling cigarettes and tobacco in a wooden tray. After the smoke, I went back to the guesthouse to fetch the required documents that I had to submit at the University as part of the admission procedure. 

When I reached the main entrance gate, the guard asked for my I-card. I told him I was there to submit documents for admission. They allowed me to go inside the campus. Generally, the guards do not stop anyone from entering, but my wishy-washy appearance made me look like an outsider. However, I could enter the campus smoothly. 

As the University is situated on the hills, evidently its surface area is rocky. There were massive chunks of rocks designed in different shapes. Greenery seemed to be an integral part of the campus—from small shrubs and plants to the gigantic Banyan tree, Bougainvillea (mostly pink and white), Gulmohar, Amaltas, all were blooming. It was spring, after all. I was liking the campus. 

I asked someone, a University student perhaps, where the ‘admin block’ was. “Just go straight. After 100 steps, you will reach a T-point, from there turn left, and again go straight and walk 200 steps. The admin block would be there on your left,” he said. 

That made it easy. I went inside the office and submitted my documents. There were many other students busy collecting or submitting their documents for admission.

Suddenly, my eyes fall on a lady clad in a red saree. She was wearing kohl which made her eyelashes look like calligraphy. She had googly eyes, straight hair, a broad face and high cheekbones; she looked very similar to a lady of my ethnic origin. Well, it was just a glance. As a matter of principle, I stare at a woman only until she notices. I then proceeded to explore the campus. 

As I started walking, a very sweet voice from behind said: “Excuse me”. I turned. It was the same lady, the one clad in the red saree. “Are you from the North East?” she asked me. I said: “No, I am from Afghanistan.”

A contemptuous smile crossed her face. She apologised and said I looked like I came from the North East. Deep down, I was happy to be misunderstood; geographically divided racially united. But to her apology, I replied: “It's all right.”

After the brief introductory exchange, I told her that I was going to explore the campus, and asked if she would like to join me if she had some spare time. She had already been around the campus many times as she had done her undergrads from another Delhi-based University. However, she agreed to accompany me nevertheless. 

It was a beautiful experience. She took me to the many labyrinth that were unfolding with mysteries. Finally, we went to the top cliff of the landscape; the most beautiful part. We sat on a huge rock with a flat top in the middle. Without speaking much, we enjoyed the pleasant breeze. Sometimes, we looked at each other and communicated through our eyes. 

The first half of the day was about to get over. The sun was now shining brightly; its uncomfortable radiation was disorienting us. We got off the cliff and began to rummage for something else. She asked me the meaning of my name—Muntazir. Someone who waits, I said. “Oh! Then what you are waiting for,” she asked, smiling. “There are many things unsettled in life. Hoping for better changes,” I replied. “Lovely!” she retorted.
 
To take the conversation forward, I asked her the meaning of her name—Kamla. She laughed out loud and said: “I am an oxymoron to the meaning of my name. It means the “goddess of wealth”, and I am nothing more than a pauper!”

We both then went to the cafeteria to satiate our midday hunger. After having lunch, we exchanged our contact numbers and then departed for our respective residential locations.

After about a week, I was allotted a seat in the international boys’ hostel. Getting a place in a hostel in a rented city is like finding another home, where one feels ‘at home’. You set yourself free from the daily doings, and are only concerned about studies and academia.

The socio-political situation within the campus was no less than the politics of a mini-state. It was a replica of a democratic republic. Political ideologies varied from the radical left, right-wing extremism to soapy-slippy liberals, but everyone had space and freedom to speak and engage in dialogues. Gender identities were highly appreciated and gender gaps were well managed. I was stunned to see that some hostels were co-ed. 

Kamla also lived in one of the hostels. Most of the hostels were named after rivers that flow in India. Over time, I began to develop intimacy with Kamla. To love and to be loved is the constant need of human life. It helps us in addressing the smouldering flame given out of oedipal guilt by giving chance to rediscover ourselves through the eyes of the other. In her eyes, I was never been a subject of foreign solidarity. None of our religiosity ever came in the way. Politically, she was a staunch left supporter, to which I was, and still am, a bit of a critic. 

Eight months went quickly and an amazing academic session ended. These months were also filled with a lot of love. The end of December was the end of our first-semester exam. Once the exam was over, we went around Delhi for an excursion. From Old Delhi to Lutyens zone, there is so much to explore in Delhi. India is the epitome of composite culture, and Delhi, given its vivid historical timelines, is the best example of this. 
Time flows like a perennial river. Three months of 2020 went quickly and then came Covid. The whole world came to a grinding halt. Each person was a threat to him/herself and many others. Initially, the pandemic was engulfed by an ‘infodemic’—the potential of misinformation is far greater than the reliable one; it spreads like an inferno. 

In my own homeland, Afghanistan, pandemic and politics, both were opening like a Pandora’s Box. Starting in February 2020, when the US-Taliban agreement endorsed the slow evacuation of the US military from Afghanistan, the clutches of the Taliban began to tighten their grip with every passing day. One after the other, we had to endure three waves of Covid and every successive wave was more horrendous than the previous one. Both Covid and the Taliban very gradually led to the persecution of innocents in Afghanistan.
 
Finally, it was in May 2021, when the evacuation of the US military led to the fall of the Afghan Army and a hostile takeover of Afghanistan took place by the Taliban. Internally, this incident broke me. I was devastated. Taliban is a group of religious fanatics. For them, Islam is just a tool to legitimatise their politics. Their attitude towards my community (Hazara) is quite gruesome. I was worried for my family. 

All sources of communication crashed and I was not able to speak to my family. The only source of information flowing out of Afghanistan was through the international media. Videos showed people scrambling for their lives. Those missing from the crowd were the women. It was clear how religious fanaticism controls women and their desires. All the colourful butterflies would soon be forced to veil under black. 

Meanwhile, another heart-wrenching event took place. While shooting the breeze with Kamla over geopolitical instabilities in Afghanistan, she was legitimating the Russian invasion of Afghanistan in very cleverly-worded sentences. I couldn't resist myself and out of a rage I said: “Since the colour of tyranny is red, you call it a revolution.” She didn't say anything. She silently stood up and left me alone. I thought I would make peace with her later. I tried to reconcile, but I was rebuffed. She was intransigent. People say love triumphs over politics, but, in my case, the reverse has happened.

Be it good or bad, time flows as usual, interrupted. This has happened since time immemorial. Sometimes some unhealed wounds take me back in time and I feel I will never be able to heal. But I am learning to live with that, too. 

Gradually, the pandemic ended. The world was, once again, free to flap its wings, but not Afghanistan. The Taliban government has started to get recognition from the world political fraternity—China and Pakistan were the first countries, and now Western and other South Asian countries also consider the Taliban as a legitimate government. For them the reason for accepting the Taliban is very simple—it is the strategic location of Afghanistan. The country is a pathway to Central Asia, and without taking the Taliban government in confidence, no political and economic movement is possible in Central Asia.

This is how world politics works. For the political elites, who is ruling matters, not who are to be ruled by who. 

All this while, I was constantly in touch with my mother. Sometimes I urge her to allow me to return home, but she is adamant that I shouldn't. I ask her if it is okay to die in some other country, like a refugee. As a religious woman, her answer is very simple. For a believer, all human beings are refugees. We are here for a very brief period of time and our eternal home are our respective graves. Sooner than later, we all will enter our eternal home and never return. Her views seem appealing, but how do I make her understand that there are a thousand volcanoes erupting in my heart? Will I be able to put them to rest? I don't know.

It's been almost a year. I have completed my course and I have taken up a job to meet my financial needs. I earn enough to take care of myself. No matter what, situations and circumstances are always unseasonal. We should keep going. Maybe home is a place where we manage to find the true meaning of life. However, one day I will return home, with or without any meaning. It's just a question of time.

(Muntazir is a Hazara from Afghanistan presently living and working in India. To protect his identity, his full name is not mentioned)
(Mohammad Adil, doing LL.B from the CLC, Delhi University.)