When the Americans left in 2021 and the Taliban took control again, I was 27 years old.
I had spent half my life at war.
I was tired of fighting, but I still believed in the cause.
When they assigned me to work as a prison guard, I accepted.
It seemed easier than combat.
I thought I would be serving Islam in a different way.
The prison was in Herat City, in a compound that had once been used by the previous government.
It was a harsh place, concrete buildings with small, barred windows.
The cells were hot in summer and freezing in winter.
There was barely enough water.
The food was rice and thin soup, sometimes bread.
The prisoners slept on concrete floors with thin blankets.
I reported for duty in October 2021.
The commander who trained me was a man named Habib.
He had a thick black beard and a scar across his left cheek.
He walked me through the facility on my first day, explaining the rules.
Prisoners were allowed out of their cells twice a day to use the bathroom and wash.
They received two meals.
No talking between cells.
No complaints.
Anyone who caused the trouble would be disciplined.
He stopped in front of one section of cells.
His face hardened.
These are the apostates and Christian dogs, he said.
Watch them carefully.
They are snakes.
They pretend to be peaceful, but they are spreading poison.
I looked through the bars.
I counted about 10 people in those cells.
Men and women kept separately.
Some were young, some were old.
They sat quietly.
One old woman was whispering something.
I realized later she was praying.
Your job is simple.
Hhabib told me, "Watch them.
Make sure they do not try to convert other prisoners.
If they speak about their false religion, report it immediately.
If they cause any trouble, discipline them.
" Do you understand? I understood.
I need you to know what I believed about Christians at that time.
I had never met one before.
Not really.
Everything I knew came from what I had been taught.
I believed they worshiped a man named Jesus who claimed to be God.
I believed this was a sherk, the worst sin in Islam.
I believed Christians were tools of the West trying to destroy Muslim countries.
Thus, I believed they were arrogant, that they thought they were better than everyone else.
So when I took my position as their guard, I looked at them with contempt.
My shift was usually from sunset to sunrise.
Night watch.
I would walk the corridors, check the cells, make sure everything was secure.
In the quiet hours, there was not much to do except sit and watch.
That is when I started noticing things.
The first thing I noticed was how calm they were.
Other prisoners would curse at us.
They would bang on their cell bars.
They would cry or shout or beg.
But the Christians were quiet, not silent, but calm.
It confused me.
One night, about 2 weeks after I started, I was doing my rounds.
It was late, maybe 2 or 3 in the morning.
Most prisoners were asleep.
As I walking past the Christian section, I heard singing.
very soft.
I almost a whisper.
I stopped and listened.
It was one of the men.
His name was Rashid.
I learned that later.
He was maybe 40 years old, thin, with a gray beard.
He had been arrested for converting from Islam to Christianity and for leading a house church.
The Taliban considered this a serious crime.
He was singing in Dar, our language.
I could not make out all the words, but I heard enough.
He was singing about God's love, about peace, about hope.
I stood there listening.
I did not understand why, but something about it bothered me.
Not the way you might think.
It did not make me angry.
It made me, I do not know the word.
Unsettled, I banged on the bars with my stick.
Be quiet, I said.
It is time for sleeping, not singing.
He stopped.
He looked at me through the bars.
Even in the dim light, I could see his face.
He was not afraid.
He nodded and lay back down on his mat.
I walked away, but I kept thinking about it.
Why was he singing? What did he have to be happy about? He was in prison.
He might be executed.
His family had abandoned him.
What kind of man sings in a place like this? As the weeks passed, I noticed more things.
There was an elderly woman named Mariam in the women's section.
She was maybe 65 or 70 years old, frail.
She had been arrested for possessing Bibles and distributing them in her neighborhood.
Every day I would see her sharing her food with the younger woman in the cell with her.
The portions were already small, but Miam would break her bread in half and give the larger piece away.
One time I saw this and I called out to her, "Why do you give away your food, old woman? You need your strength.
" She smiled at me.
Actually smiled.
The younger one needs it more than me.
She said, "God provides what I need.
" I walked away shaking my head.
"Foolish woman," I thought.
There was a young man, maybe 25 years old.
His name was David, foreign name.
He had been severely beaten during his interrogation.
His face was swollen, his lips split, bruises covering his arms.
When they brought him back to his cell after questioning, he could barely walk.
The next morning, I saw him kneeling on the floor of his cell, praying.
His hands were folded, his head bowed, his split lip was bleeding again, but he did not seem to notice.
He was completely focused on his prayer.
I watched him for several minutes.
I expected him to be praying for rescue, for revenge, maybe for his interrogators to be punished, but his face was peaceful.
Later, I learned that he was praying for his guards, for the men who had beaten him.
This made no sense to me.
I was raised to believe that strength means never showing weakness.
That if someone strikes you, you strike back harder, that your enemies deserve no mercy.
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