Difficult Question (Short Story)

Written By: Hafizullah Turab

Translated By: Kalimullah Turab

I had barely covered myself with a blanket to sleep when Obaid climbed into my bed and, with his small tongue he asked:
“Tell me the story of the tiger—and then the magician.”

He demanded these stories as though it were my obligation to narrate them, as if it were his undeniable right. To bring him happiness, I wove tales of a tiger and a magician. In every story, Obaid was the hero—brave and unwavering. He defeated both the tiger and the magician, liberating the entire village from their reign of terror. As the stories drew to a close, a small smile would light up his face—a smile of triumph. It carried the innocence of victory, radiating a pure, childlike joy that warmed the heart.

For a long time, the stories of the tiger and the magician continued. Even on days when sorrow weighed heavily on me, my four-year-old son’s love compelled me to narrate them each night.

But one evening, everything changed. At the end of a story, Obaid asked me a question—one I could not answer convincingly. His question had no connection to tigers or magicians. It reflected a deeper fear hidden in his heart.

The next night, he repeated the same question at the end of the story. I reassured him, reminding him that he had defeated both the tiger and the magician. As I gazed at his face, a sacred, innocent fear flickered in his expression, stirring something deep within me. My heart ached profoundly as his words echoed in my mind, over and over again.

Obaid wasn’t blame for his question. A few days earlier, An unspeakable event had occurred to the engineer in our neighborhood, leaving the entire street in a state of shock.

Just before Eid, people were busy buying animals for the Eid when the arresting  news of our neighbor, an engineer spread. He had been working tirelessly in a far-off province, building roads to help people. But he was accused of a crime and detained.

His two nephews rushed to the province where he worked. They demanded $20,000 for his release. The nephews struggled to gather the money, borrowing it with great difficulty from friends and neighbors. Despite his age and a heart condition, the engineer had kept working to pay off the debts from his son’s wedding. He had promised his wife that this would be his final job.

That evening, as I returned home, I first inquired about his release. His wife had told my wife that:
“With God’s help, he’ll return soon. We’ve gathered the money. If they ask for more, we’ll even sell our house in the provice. May God release him soon. ”

But days passed. The whole street waited anxiously for his return. His nephews reported that they had delivered the money and he spoke to home over the phone briefly. His wfie said:

“They took 20000$ from us as well as from the brothers of another engineer.” He  would be back soon after two days.” I became happy hearing this news.

Animals were standing there in front of everyone’s house for the Eid, but engineer’s home’s front was still empty.

Eid arrived, yet he didn’t come, I asked from his nephews and they responded:
“They took the money. He’ll be home in two days, God willing. We only returned to comfort the children.”

But two days stretched into several.

One evening, as I stepped out of the car at a distance from the street, I noticed a crowd of vehicles gathered in front of the engineer’s house. My heart leapt, thinking they had come to celebrate his return. A surge of joy filled me, and I quickened my pace, eager to greet him—a man I deeply respected for his humanity.

But as I drew closer, Obaid rushed toward me with small, hurried steps. Unlike his usual cheerful self, he stood silently, his face etched with sorrow. In a trembling voice, he said:

“They… cut him.”

I froze, unable to comprehend the meaning of his unfinished words. My heart pounded as I reached the house, and I soon realized he had been right. The engineer’s eldest son was wailing for his father. The crowd stood in stunned silence, as though grief had descended upon every home on the street. A deep, chilling silence enveloped everyone, sealing their lips in sorrow.

The engineer, an innocent whose only crime was building roads for a distant provinces in Afghanistan, had been brutally murdered. Despite his heart condition, he was tortured daily. After taking the $20,000 from both engineers, they beheaded both men. Their crime? Simply being Pashtuns. Their bodies were thrown into a mass pit with other innocent people.

Months passed, but Obaid each night, at the end of the tiger and magician stories, he would ask me the same haunting question, his voice trembling with fear:

“Father, why do the Taliban cut people?”

No matter how much I reassured him or reminded him that he was the hero of his stories, I could not erase that question from his heart’s book that:

“Father, why do the Taliban cut people?”

Doe (Short Story)