Prologue: Escape to Kabul, December 2014

THE PRESSURE ON me and my family became too intense. Although just 16, I was a teacher. I taught English, the language of the infidels. Worse, I taught boys and girls under the same roof. Kidnapping, torture and murder were a real possibility. It was clear to me that I had to escape my hometown if I were to survive, and if my family were to be left in peace. I would have to leave in secret, not even my family could know. The Taliban had their spies.

The alarm woke me at four. In the twilight, my little sister Latifa prepared my breakfast. My bleary-eyed brothers awoke to say goodbye. Nobody talked much. Their faces failed to conceal their anxiety. Each one expressed what was in their hearts with their eyes. As bravely as I could, I concealed the truth behind my smiles.

In front of our house a narrow, bumpy dirt road, now covered by snow, passes all the houses in our village of Sange-Masha, the capital of the Jaghori district in Ghazni province, in eastern Afghanistan. The road extends from the white mosque, past the woods leading to the lush valley of our neighbouring village, Mamdak, and on to the Sange-Masha Bazaar.

I followed the footprints of someone who had left earlier. Dawn broke and the sun rose over the peak of Qada, the highest mountain in the Sange-Masha region. The sun had not yet reached the bazaar. The mudbrick shops were closed, the roads empty. I walked to the bus depot in the chilly silence.

At the depot the drivers shouted to attract passengers: “Kabul, Kabul, and Kabul!” “Ghazni, Ghazni and Ghazni!” I boarded the bus to Kabul.

The sky was slowly clearing, and it was bitterly cold outside. Our driver Asif mercifully turned on the heater. Unfortunately, however, it broke down in the first kilometer.

The spectacular snowy mountain views were obscured by condensation on the windows. My fingers, cramped by cold, slowly unbent; my boots began to dry. Asif touched the Quran he kept on the dashboard and asked the passengers to pray that we would reach our final destination safely.

We drove for an hour and approached the Qarabagh Desert. Many called their loved ones to assure them that there was no need to worry. This area was known as ‘the slaughterhouse’. It was controlled by the Taliban.

Every passenger knew the risks. They were careful not to bring anything with them that would put their lives in danger. Everyone double-checked their pockets and hurried to hide any evidence of collaboration with the government, or western countries. Many of the students faced a dilemma: some documents were irreplaceable, but may also cost them their lives. The consequence of being found with certain types of documents was clear: brutal torture followed by death.

With its nervous cargo, the bus passed the last military bases and reached the middle of the desert. Suddenly two Talibs armed with Kalashnikovs appeared, standing on the road and signalling Asif to stop the bus. He pulled to the side. Asif encouraged everyone to remain calm while he tried to settle things. However, the people’s fears were mounting. I glanced around but everyone lowered their eyes, staring at their feet. No-one dared utter a word.

One of the Talibs stood guarding the other who cautiously approached us, his finger on the trigger. He looked ready to fire if somebody made the slightest move or uttered a single word. He ordered everyone off the bus.

Once outside, I stood near Asif. I was convinced that my time had arrived. One of the Talibs searched all the passengers. Then they fixed their stares on me and ordered me to step forward. They slapped me and yelled in my face. I didn't understand their language, Pashto, but Asif did, and he frantically translated for me.

“Where is the English teacher?'' the Talibs demanded, fingers on their triggers, their eyes boring into me. “Are you the English teacher?”

Each time I denied it, they slapped harder. I shook with fear, tears rolling down my face. My heart pounding, I became incapable of speech. My death seemed certain.

Then the woman who’d sat next to me cried, “Stop!” She was in tears as she explained, “He is not the person you are searching for. He is my son.’ I did not know this woman, but I said nothing. The Taliban looked at me. Incredibly, the woman’s tears and begging convinced them to let me return to the bus.

I was in shock as we resumed the journey to Kabul. I couldn't believe they had let me go. I was shattered, but infinitely grateful for the courage and kindness of a complete stranger. She had saved my life.

A life, however, that was forever changed, for I was never to return home. The Taliban runs the entire country now.