The Broken Circle: A Memoir of Escaping Afghanistan

by Enjeela Ahmadi-Miller

I found Mina waiting for me. Deep-purple and red bruises mottled her neck and face. She looked like she’d been in a desperate fight. She tried to play, but she was still in a lot of pain. She never said what happened, so I pestered her. She finally told me that she had been beaten. I asked why her parents would beat her. “Why are your parents so mean to you?” I asked. “They’re not my parents,” she said. “That man’s my husband. That woman is his other wife. They don’t like me to play with you so much since I have a lot of work to do taking care of the little kids.”

If Masood was right, and all of Afghanistan allowed such despicable traditions, I hoped the entire country would collapse into dust too.

I had always believed that my life was in the hands of God—and he would take care of me. But now I wasn’t so sure about that; my fate had the feeling of chance to it. I became more watchful about what was going on around me, about the men of this land and their ways. And possessed of a new determination, I would not lie down and let evil happen to me. I had to be as courageous as possible—and if I died, then so be it. If it was my time, I would die; if not, then I would live. But I would not let these men make a victim of me.

I had witnessed up close how rude and violent men were determined to force their version of love and safety on others using guns and blood. It didn’t matter what the men called it, political order or religious fervor, it was all from the same place—the hellish dark side of man that is motivated by hate.

An even deeper mystery I wrestled with was that I believed we existed in the hands of God. He evidently carries us with a light touch. He does not clench his fist around us and force any of us to hate or love—these are choices.

Pray Somewhere in this world— Something good will happen.

The next day Ram drove us along the banks of the Padma River, which meandered west, then north. We were headed toward the far northern tip of Bangladesh, where the border with India and Nepal dissolved into a series of enclaves, and the border became fuzzy in places, according to Ram. “The Padma River is called the Ganges once you cross the border in India.”

One short stride ahead, and I raised my ticket to the man’s outstretched hand. If I smiled, I don’t remember consciously doing so. But I must have smiled, because the dark-eyed man simply touched my train pass with his finger, grinned back, and waved at me. I saw his lips move, but I didn’t hear his words. I could hear nothing but a rushing sound. I swear I thought I heard the earth creaking on its axis. Zia shoved me from behind, and Ram took my hand and pulled me into India. “Do you know what he said to you?” he asked me in his cheery way as we strolled away from the border. I shook my head, too stunned to speak. “He said, ‘Welcome home.’”