A Democratic Protest: Three Die

I own land in a remote part of the country, and make my living by farming it. I produce wheat and sometimes opium poppy. I've lived on the land all my life; it's been in the family for generations, just like our neighbors on both sides: they have lived on their land for generations.

Foreign soldiers come. They have lots of guns. They camp out on our land, our neighbors', too; we're too afraid to say anything. We don't want to go to the rebels, because we've thought the new talk about 'democracy' and 'freedom' sounds good. When the rebels controlled, they didn't talk about things like that. They terrified us.

These foreign soldiers say they are protecting us from the rebels. But in a few days, they bring in more soldiers, and then big machines that tear up our precious soil to make big buildings they bring in pieces; they begin to put these together.

But they never asked if they could buy our land! We would have told them we don't want to sell; it is our mother. We have lived on it for generations; she has fed us all that time. They didn't even offer money.

We talk to our neighbors, and they talk to theirs, and pretty soon, someone says: "Let's protest; you can do that in democracies. These foreigners say they are bringing democracy, so we can do this."

We march to what used to be our land, and there are a lot of people, maybe several hundred, marching with us. We surround the people putting up the buildings and torturing our earth. Our neighbor, who speaks some of their language, says to them, "We protest! You are taking our land! We did not give it to you! We want it back!"

We close in on the builders and soldiers. I can't see much of the soldiers' faces because of their helmets. They look very large, and then one of them points his big weapon at us.

But they are for democracy! We are peacefully demonstrating, the way we should in a democracy! I tell our people this, and everyone agrees. So, we don't back away.

Suddenly, bullets and fire explode from one and then another of the soldiers' weapons. My friend falls down. Then the neighbor who speaks some of their language! We turn to run and my son, ahead of me, a fine, strong boy of twelve, he falls, too! I pick him up, but he's dead!

These foreigners are as bad as the rebels! Maybe worse. Maybe the rebels are right: keep the foreigners out. The rebels say they have learned their lesson; they will not govern as they did before.

I am not sure about this, but maybe I'll help them, anyway: to avenge my son.



A re-creation of a recent event in Afghanistan: three people died, one a 12-year old boy.