He woke up by the eerie buzzing sound. The silence of night was suddenly broken by the deep humming sound. Ghastly, metallic sound was coming from far off star studded endless black sky.
It was a hot, dusty night of June in Wana, a small town in South Waziristan, Afghanistan. He was sleeping on the floor of a rundown mosque. Few old crumpled newspapers were his bed sheet. His back was stiff. His legs ached, recoiling against the pressure of being kept folded as he tried to fit his small body under the old dirty sheet. When other boys of his age were securely tucked in next to their parents, he was all alone in this rundown mosque, his fearful eyes trying to look at the black sky and trying to locate the source of this buzzing sound.
Mosque was surrounded by small houses made up of bricks and mud. The narrow road between the houses was filled with trash. Stray cats and dogs suffering from eczema sleeping restlessly on piles of garbage. Webs of electric wires were hanging from cracked cement poles, a torn kite waves quietly between these dust-covered wires.
He was eleven years old and the only hope and support for his crippled father and seven year-old sister. War had engulfed his mother; he never knew what has happened to her. One early morning, he and his sister were awakened by his worried mother and told to accompany the fleeing neighbors out of the village. The last memory he has of his mother was her crying and telling him to take care of his sister. He and his sister never saw their mother again. His father was found half-dead with gun wounds in his both legs.
Since that fateful day, everything has changed in his village. There was no more school and play, food or mother, but work and work and more hard work. Since his father lost his legs, he was not able to do anything; he just lied down on the bed, and stared at the roof of his shattered mud house. His only companions were pigeons who flew in and out of their nest and sat on the ceiling beam. Often, he found his father crying, silently. This tall man, who taught him walking, can never again walk himself.
His sister Alia, once like a squirrel, constantly moving, running, chirping, always laughing and bothering him to play with her, now just sits quietly on window looking at those barren brown mountains. Alia, who used to be always hungry and fight him for food, now, just sits quietly, often, leaving the food untouched. He worries that she leaves the food for him, fearing if she eats, he will not have enough to eat. He loves her very much. He wants to get her back to her usual self, constantly talking and laughing, but now she hardly speaks. She does not even go out any more to play. He wanted to buy slippers for her, a pink slipper. Summer in Waziristan can heat the earth to an unbearable temperature, and her small soft white legs cannot take the heat of barren fields.
He was still lying down wide awake, listening to the eerie sound. He can feel the plastic yellow bag under his head, the plastic bag with two small pink slippers. The thought of pink slippers brings back the
memory of his sister. He was sure she will be very happy to see him. He was certain she will be sitting on the window and looking at the mud road leading to their house, waiting for him to come back. They were never separated for long; he was out of village for almost a week. He planned to get up early and start walking back to his village.
The intense buzzing sound kept on increasing. He was scared. He was sweating profusely. He did not know what to do or where to go. He looked around and found even the street dogs were scared and they were barking in meek voices towards the sky. This is a real omen sign, he thought. Dogs are crying.
He just wanted all this to finish as a dreadful dream. He just wanted sun to come up quickly so he can start his journey towards his village. He wanted to go back to his sister and father. He wanted to reach to the village, the village he hated. He hated the life there, he hated the people in village and he hated the big bearded, self-righteous Taliban of his village. He hated them with passion. He can see the duality in them and he hated to see the animals in their eyes. He hated them for stopping Alia from going to school. He could not understand why everyone is fighting for religion and no one following any religion. Taliban talk about the Quran day and night, but look like no one understands it and no one follows it. What is the use of religion which cannot bring compassion in its follower’s heart?
He had a tough life. He wanted to finish this meaningless life, but his love for his sister and father made him get up every morning at 4 AM and go to field and work until noon. When the heat becomes unbearable in afternoon and animals refuse to move, he breaks for few hours and then again starts working as soon as sun’s intensity slows down. For the whole day work, he gets enough money to buy few pieces of bread. Every day they eat the bread with tomato and chilies, which is all his salary can afford. Some days he is not even paid and those nights, they manage with few pieces of sun-dried bread, which his sister wisely collected every day from their leftovers. Some kids are forced to grow up in a hurry.
He got break from the hellish life when Americans came to his village. He does not know why but Americans trusted him. American Army men, with large shoulders, thick neck and big hand, men supposed to be trained for killing had softer hearts than religious Taliban’s. His and Americans believe in a better future, connected them with a mutual admiration for each other. He became their translator. Being the brightest student in class paid off. Reading the year’s old dusty magazines collected from the school library has its own reward. He did not know much English, but knew enough that with his earnestness and the Americans’ patience combined he was able to communicate their intentions to villagers. They paid him well; he was paid double the money for just walking with them side by side and talking to villagers and translating their Pashto to Americans.
drone
This new life was much better than working in field. The Americans treated him well. They gave him food to eat, the real food, the meat and bread. Often he was able to save his food and bring home American food for her sister and father. His father and sister would not touch the American food, saying they do not eat pig; it is haram to eat American food. He always wondered, if pig is so bad, why do all Americans look so strong? He found this job of just walking with soldiers to be very simple; he
was in complete oblivion about the danger involved in these rounds and found it to be much better work for his small body. Nevertheless, he has to face the brunt of others kids, who called him “American spy” and threw stones at him while he walked alone back to his home. Often his sister came running to his rescue and threw stones back at those jealous kids.
One American Army officer, Scott Bradstone, really liked him. Scott was big, tall person with broad shoulders. His size and his military uniform with the gun on his shoulder and a revolver on his belt were very intimidating. His authoritative walk was full of confidence and declared his fearlessness to anyone around him. Under all this military façade, he has a soft heart for an Army person. Once Scott caught him trying his sunglasses, next day he gave him a new sunglass to put on when they go out for round. Scott was always respectful towards everyone in village. He thinks, Scott is leader because he has the ability to unarm any one in first few minutes. His personality was exact opposite of his dress and the weapons he carries. Scott was very protective towards him. He told him: “You remind me of my own son back in Oklahoma”. He showed him his son’s picture, and he saw there from all those miles away the face of a young and strong boy. He noted how much he resembled his father with the same deep blue eyes. He always felt a fatherly protective instinctive from him. Scott gave him the option to come with them to other villages and they promised him to pay handsomely. He liked Americans, in spite of what he heard about them. They gave medicine to his father and paid him in advance so he could leave his sister and father with extra food.
Yesterday, while walking on those dusty roads under scorching sun he was feeling very depressed. Scott noticed his sadness. He asked him why he looks so sad. He told him about his father and his sister. He told him how worried he is for his sister; there is no one to take care of my family in the village. Every evening his entry back home is the biggest event in their life. Whole day, they wait for the moment when he comes back from work. They do not talk much, but he knows how Alia waits for the moment of his return from work. He was the only ray of hope in her dark, dry and silent day. He remembered how quickly she brings the water for him, and tries to wipe sweat from his forehead. How his father looks at him with his hollow eyes and how the ‘thank you’ from his eyes flows silently on this pillow.
Scott’s listened quietly and his misty blue eyes where fixed on his small innocent face. He lifted him with one hand and hugged him and questioned him- why he did not tell him all this before? Scott pulled out $100 from his wallet and handed him with a smile and a suggestion, go and buy a gift for your sister and father. He took the money and noticed his hand were shaking as he never touched $100 in his life, this is more than he would have made in six months. Scott told him to go back to village and be with his father and sister; he accompanied him to market, and helps him buy those small pink slippers for his sister.
He can almost see his sister, wearing those slippers and dancing on floor, running across the room to fetch cold water for him. He has seen her, seeing and touching those colorful slippers on shops and then leaving them as they never had enough money to buy it. He has seen the dream in her eyes to be able to own those slippers one day. He was very excited, he wanted to reach to his village as soon as
possible. He reached Wana in night by 10PM. All the shops were closed, and he still needed to walk at least ten miles before he can reach his village.
He did not eat anything whole day. He was hungry. He did not know anyone in the city and he was scared to walk alone to his village through those mountains in night. He did not know where to go and what to do. He heard all his life, who has no one, God is the one for him. And he thought to go in Allah’s shelter. All knowing, Omnipresence, almighty will help him tonight. With a prayer in his lips and fear in his heart he knocks the mosque termite infested door. He went to the mosque thinking he might find a place to sleep or if really lucky, some food. There was no one in the house of God; it was empty, devoid of any hope, any help. He trembled, and felt sickness of fear in his empty stomach. But quickly his faith in Allah came to his rescue, this is house of Allah. He should not fear anything, Allah will protect him. He loves Allah and all powerful Allah loves him in return, the words of this mother were echoing in his ear.
From the corner of mosque, he picked up the brown sheet and folded himself on floor, feeling the protector of all Allah’s embrace over him.
——
Thousands of mile away, in the Nevada, US Air Force base, two pilots surrounded by many monitors, key boards and various controllers in front of them sat quietly, intensely looking at the screen. Every screen showed maps of different details of Waziristan. Mike Bradstone, the commander pilot, tells the other pilot, “Let’s zoom a little… lower the bird … lock the mosque. Suddenly, a red square starts flashing on the map.
“Let us go a little more down; I want to make sure we have the clear shot. Let me double check the coordinates,” and he compares numbers flashing in red on his screen with the print-out he just now received. After comparing the numbers, Pilot whispers into his microphone, “Target is locked.”
Mike has the same sinking feeling whenever he has to execute this kind of operation, whenever he drops a bomb from a drone. He knows very well he will be killing humans. He knows the humans have a mother who bore them for nine month. But they are the bad people, he thinks, blocking away any thought from his mind. He transforms himself into a human robot without thought, without emotion. He does not give himself permission to think anything; he keeps his razor-sharp focus on one thing, his duty. His duty is to protect his country. He does not want to think of what is right and what is wrong. He was given a job, which needs now to be executed. That’s it. No less, no more. There are much bigger people, much more powerful people, thinking about what is right and what is wrong. He does not want to think. He is a robot. He wants to get out of his robotic phase, and get out of this suffocating control room. He started sweating under his shirt. He can feel sweat coming on his forehead in this air-conditioned room; he was annoyed with himself, for sweating, for his body not following his command.
——
He looks up at the dark sky. There is nothing in the sky which he can see. He sees just infinite black space. He can hear the eerie sound. It has increased. It feels as if some plane is falling from the sky, but there is nothing up there; he cannot see anything. He gets up and sits straight; he feels his hands are shaking. He wraps the sheet around him and clutches the plastic bag in his hand. He looks around. In the dark he cannot see clearly but he notices there are other people standing in nearby house roof. They all are looking up in the sky, but nothing can be seen in this black void. He does not know what is it, but the extreme eerie metallic sound is continuously increasing in intensity. He sits on floor shivering, and covers his ears with his small hands to dim the piercing sound.
——
Mike is done with his operation. He just wanted to get out of this room and light a cigarette. He wanted to get back to being a human. He wanted to be out of his robot façade. It feels like he is choking. As he was about to close his laptop and get up, he sees a small message flashes in the corner of his screen. His brother, Scott Bradstone, from Afghanistan, is sending him a message. – What’s up Bro?
He keeps looking at the screen, without moving. He was not in mood to talk to anyone. His legs were feeling heavy, he had the guilt of a slaughter man, he want to go out and spit the venom out of him. He wanted to inhale the poisonous tobacco as a punishment to himself.
Another message flashes – I want to tell you about this nice boy I met here in Afghanistan. He reminds me of my little Tony.
——
Thousands of mile away, people were hesitatingly gathering around the mosque rubble. There was nothing left of the mosque. It was just a big pile of concrete and mud. Fearful people stood around the smoking pile of hot concrete in shock and silence. Half-melted pink slipper was still smoldering. Smoke from the rubble was attempting to tell the story of the pink slippers, but there was no one to decipher these smoke signals.
——-
18 June 2004: The first known US drone strike killed 5-8 people including Nek Muhammad Wazir and two children, in a strike near Wana, South Waziristan.
From 2004-2012 – There were 285 known attacks and approximately 2,690 people were killed in these attacks.
Source Wikipedia – US Drone Strike Statistics according to the New America Foundation
