Free A Far Away Home by Howard Faber

to see the road approaching the bridge.
It was the Russian UAZ Jeeps, two of them, just as his father’s friend said. There
were four uniformed soldiers in each vehicle. The passengers were dozing. Their attention
was not on the hills around the road. They likely suspected no danger, no resistance
from this small town. Ali’s aim was as always, dead on. The stone splatted against
the bank near the Mujahedeen, his new brothers in resistance. They heard the engines
and tightened the rope tied to the last main support to the Sharidure side of the
bridge. They waited as long as they could, until the front vehicle was on the bridge.
The rope went tight as they pulled. The bridge held momentarily, then collapsed under
the weight of the two vehicles and the soldiers. The bridge, the two vehicles and
the soldiers plummeted down to the canal below, the soldiers tumbling out of the
UAZs and landing hard in the water. The Mujahedeen scrambled down to them, hoping
they wouldn’t have to fight, but ready if they did. They didn’t have to worry. All
of the Russian soldiers were unconscious. The Afghans pulled them out of the shallow
water. They wanted them to be alive to tell about how this little town wasn’t such
an easy target and how they had been left alive to tell about it. There were eight
new rifles, plenty of ammunition, and some grenades. All were welcomed by the Afghans,
since weapons were hard to come by.
    Ali had run down the hill to see what happened and to help the mujahedeen. In his
mind, he wasn’t, yet, one of them. They gave him one of the rifles and some bullets.
Because he had never handled a rifle it felt awkward in his hands. After tying up
the soldiers, the Afghans hurried away, before they might be seen by one of the soldiers
and before the darkness turned into daylight.

Chapter Seven
    Ali Leaves for Iran and Starts a Family
    As the mujahedeen hurried away from the bridge, Ali jogged along, still thinking
about what to do and where to go. The group stopped briefly at Askgar’s home on the
edge of Sharidure, where they agreed on meeting that evening at another home. Then,
one by one, they walked away into the darkness. Ali had made his decision about leaving,
so he gave his rifle to Askgar, then walked away but not to his home. He headed west,
out of town, first up to the airfield, where he would spend the remaining hours of
darkness, not sleeping, just thinking.
    Soon after dawn, he walked down to the road and stopped a truck heading west, away
from Sharidure, away from his early life. He knew now what to do. The truck was headed
west toward Iran. The journey was to be three days, made on the back of trucks loaded
with bags of wheat, other travelers, rolls of cloth, every kind of item appearing
in the shops of the small towns along the way. Greetings were polite, the tea was
hot at the teahouses where he waited for the next truck, and most of the talk was
about the Russians. When he approached the last teahouse, gas stop, and small hotel
at the Afghan-Iranian border, he saw the lights in the distance, small beacons of
hope in the darkness. He found out it was called Islam Qala. That’s where he spent
the night, falling asleep wondering how he would get into Iran. He didn’t have a
passport, but he had heard that Afghans were allowed into Iran without one. The Iranians
were particularly accepting of Afghans who were Shia. Most of the people from Sharidure
were Hazara, and Shia. That’s what Ali was. That’s why he went to Iran, rather than
the predominantly Sunni Pakistan.
    In the morning, the truck rumbled toward the building at the actual border. It wasn’t
much to look at. The two guards who emerged to stop and look at the truck asked the
driver where he was going. “I’m going to Muhshed.”
    â€œWhat do you have in the back?”
    â€œWheat, some rolls of cloth, tea, nothing unusual.”
    â€œAre there any passengers?”
    â€œYes, some men