The Mountains Remember

In the shadow of the towering Hindu Kush mountains, in a village called Daraz, lived a boy named Wahid. He was only 14 when his life changed. His father, a quiet farmer and former mujahid, used to say, "The mountains protect those who protect them." Wahid believed this deeply.

Before the war came to his doorstep, Wahid’s days were filled with tending goats, fetching water, and learning poetry from the village elder, Baba Jan. He could recite verses of Rumi and recite prayers from memory. But peace is a fragile thing in a land that has known invasion after invasion.

When NATO forces came to his province in search of insurgents, everything shifted. Drones hovered in the sky like vultures. Checkpoints sprouted like weeds. And then one day, the Americans raided a nearby village. They were looking for weapons, but a mistake happened. An airstrike killed three of Wahid’s cousins, including a little girl who was only five. Her name was Laila.

Wahid watched her small body wrapped in white cloth, the women of the village wailing like the wind through broken trees. That night, he sat with his father beside the fire.

"Baba," Wahid said, "Why do they kill us and say they come for peace?"

His father didn’t answer right away. He poked the fire and said, "Every empire says they bring peace. But peace with chains is not peace at all."

From that day, something inside Wahid hardened. He began meeting secretly with other young men in the hills, some only a few years older than him. They called themselves "Sarbaz-e-Azad" — the Soldiers of Freedom. They weren’t part of the Taliban or Al-Qaeda. They didn’t fight for money or ideology. They fought because they believed Afghanistan should decide its own fate.

Wahid trained at night. He learned to use an old Kalashnikov, how to hide in the rocks, how to listen for the hum of drones. Sometimes, he cried alone — not out of fear, but because he missed how the world used to be. He missed the sound of his mother's singing. He missed laughing without guilt.

One morning, a NATO convoy rumbled through the valley. Wahid and his group had planned for weeks. They weren’t going to attack civilians — only the armed soldiers. Their goal was to send a message: “We are not conquered.”

They set a roadside device, concealed under earth and stones. When the lead Humvee passed, the explosion shook the earth. Smoke filled the valley. Gunfire followed, but Wahid was already gone, disappearing into the mountains like a shadow. No villagers were harmed, but two foreign soldiers were wounded. Wahid heard this later on the radio.

That night, U.S. helicopters circled the village. Troops came again, searching homes. Wahid’s father was beaten for refusing to talk. Wahid watched from a ridge above, helpless, his fists clenched in silence.

Weeks passed. Wahid’s name began to spread in whispers. Some villagers called him a hero. Others feared the reprisals he brought. But Wahid didn’t seek glory. He felt the weight of every life, Afghan or foreign, lost in the endless war. He often asked himself if revenge was justice — or if they were just two sides of the same coin.

One day, he returned to the village during a ceasefire. His mother hugged him like he was still ten. Baba Jan took his hand and said, “Wahid, the land needs fighters, yes. But it also needs builders, poets, teachers. Will you also be that?”

Wahid looked at the village — half-ruined, half-alive. He nodded.

He continued to fight, but differently now. He carried a weapon, yes. But he also carried books, medicine, and words. He helped rebuild a well, taught younger boys to read. He became more than a fighter. He became a symbol.

Years later, when the last NATO troops withdrew, Wahid stood on the same ridge where he had once watched helicopters tear through the sky. The mountains were quiet. He closed his eyes and whispered,

"You see, Baba… We are still here."

And the wind, as always, moved through the mountains — silent, steady, and free.