For Those Who Never Made it Home
This is my father in 1985, his first year in California, and the year I was born. I know… handsome fella right?
This photo has taken a whole different meaning for me recently, as he smiles under a Californian sun with a chess board sitting in front of him.
When my father was taken to Pul-e-Charkhi prison by the Soviet backed regime in 1980, amongst the inmates he shared a cell with was a certain Said Mustafa. Via their shared love for music, they became instant friends. They spent months in their cramped cell talking about their respective families, singing tunes, and sharing their anxieties over their uncertain faith as they witnessed other inmates transferred to block four, the “block of no return” as my father called it.
Anxiety, fear, disbelief during those long months surrounded them, trapping them in an even tighter grip as their lives were left to the whims of the people in charge. To distract themselves during these long days and nights, these two gentlemen played sadrang (chess)… In fact, my father learned how to play sadrang from Saïd Mustafa, who was, according to my father, very skilled! I believe him, as I recall, in my youth, the number of times he checkmated me with a gloating smile always dancing on his lips…
A resourceful chap, Saïd Mustafa apparently made the chess pieces out of the left-over bread from their meager meals, using a bit of water to mold the bread and letting it dry on a type of wood stove heater in their cell. For months, they played and played, while the war outside their cell waged on, and as their families were desperately trying to determine (via any news they could get their hands on) if their loved ones were transferred to block four.
Six months later, while my father was released and sent home to my mother and siblings, Saïd Mustafa never got that chance. A month before my father’s release, Saïd Mustafa was sent to block four, with no fair trial in sight, only a mass grave to welcome him.
While my father was able to go on to California, to rebuild a new life, and teach his daughter sadrang, Saïd Mustafa never left Pul-e-Charkhi, never left Kabul, and his newborn son never got to play sadrang with his father.
My father told me this story recently. I thought it was worth sharing. I guess it reminds me why democracy & human rights should never be taken for granted.
A thought to all those people who never made it home, and to the potential moments stolen from their families.
