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    A Long Way Home
    A Long Way Home
    A Long Way Home
    Ebook69 pages49 minutes

    A Long Way Home

    By Hallim Jahwid

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A Long Way Home: Uplifting Memoir, a Beacon of Hope, Reminds.
    Written from the plight, redemption and wisdom of Hallim Jahwid, ‘A Long Way Home’ is a bold and
    heartfelt message to the younger people of today, melding their new modern wisdom with a series of age-
    old, timeless life lessons. It’s a book for anyone, no matter what stage their life is at, and a read that will

    positively change their life forever.
    When Hallim Jahwid looks back at his life, he can quickly see how far he’s actually
    come. His entire existence has been one of his own making; one where pushing the boundaries has
    become the norm, and risk became boundless opportunity.
    In his new memoir, ‘A Long Way Home’, Jahwid takes stock of all he has learned and imparts a series of
    life-changing lessons on all who may dare listen.
    Synopsis:
    for the better,” explains the author. “I wasn’t afforded any opportunities and had to make them myself. It
    was hard, but I am so grateful for the risks I took.”
    Continuing, “My book has universal appeal and will help anyone, whoever they are and whatever stage
    their life is at. I encourage all to pick up a copy and read it with an open mind. Their outlook will never be
    the same again.”

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHallim Jahwid
    Release dateSep 4, 2019
    ISBN9780463255377
    A Long Way Home

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      Book preview

      A Long Way Home - Hallim Jahwid

      1

      A CHILDHOOD DISRUPTED

      It seems fitting that my first memory is of leaving, of starting a journey without knowing where I would end up. It was 1979 and the Soviet Union had invaded Afghanistan. I was five years old and living in Kabul with my family – too young to understand what ‘war’ meant, but old enough to sense the anxiety of my parents. The radio was always on in the house and the news spoke constantly about the Russians – where they were, the fighting and bombings. My father was sick in hospital, but one day returned home and said he wanted us to leave the city. I was more excited than scared because I didn’t understand the consequences of what was happening. My mother tried to explain to us that Kabul was no longer safe, that we would be leaving for a while until the situation improved, but I thought we were going on an adventure.

      It happened very suddenly; we left the next day. My father owned a farm near Jaghori, in the southern province of Ghazni, where he thought we might be safe from the war. Our family, friends and neighbours loaded our possessions onto the back of a truck and cried and hugged us when we left. My parents rode in the front but made space for me and my brother and sister in the back, surrounded by our possessions, covered with a heavy blanket so we wouldn’t get cold. The road was bumpy and we jangled up and down, staring at the sky overhead as the miles passed. After a few hours the sun set and I was spellbound by the dramatic colours. I had never seen anything like it before. It was so beautiful. At some point I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember is daylight and mountains everywhere – black shapes that seemed to take up half the sky.

      A crowd gathered around our truck when it stopped. They were my father’s relatives and helped us make the final journey to Mawladad. When we arrived everything seemed strange. There were massive rocks everywhere and the mountains towered over us like skyscrapers. I was used to the chaos and noise of the city, but there was only nature and silence. It was like travelling back to the eighth century. The land was filled with sheep, goats, cows and hens, and donkeys and horses were used for transport. It was a hard life and the people had very little money. Anything you needed had to be traded for. The villagers exchanged the wheat they harvested for eggs, milk and butter at the local market, and lit their homes with oil lamps instead of electricity. Our entire family slept in one room, and we spent many long nights in total darkness; my mother trying to preserve the little oil we had left.

      My father died two or three months later as winter approached. There were no medical facilities in Jaghori so his illness deteriorated rapidly. After he died, I didn’t understand that he was gone forever; that I no longer had a father. My older brother told me we didn’t have a dad anymore, but I was young and replied: Don’t worry, we have a big brother, we’ll make him our dad. Unfortunately, my older brother passed away just months after my father. He fell seriously ill, and though my mother tried to take him back to Kabul, it was impossible because of the war. I don’t remember much of them now, but I remember the snow that winter: how it fell a metre deep in places, how it turned the mountains a different colour, how you couldn’t see anything but white. The villagers used wooden paddles to clear it from their roofs, but it accumulated again and again, over the houses, the rocks, the crops – this reoccurring whiteout whose arrival they predicted by reading the stars.

      After my father’s death, everything was left on the shoulders of my mother, and she struggled to adapt to the village’s traditional culture. Women were controlled by men and never had rights of their own. One afternoon, when my mother was still grieving, the mosque Imam arrived at

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