The Hidden Grief in the Heart of Darkness

The most well known and acclaimed novel ( which is actually a memoir) by an Afgan girl named Latifa Tawana

This morning, when I stepped out of the house, the sky was dusky and grey. I lit a cigarette and began walking along the deserted alley; the city was cloaked in silence and stillness. A deep longing filled my heart, and with each step, my sorrow grew heavier. I was weighed down by loneliness, helplessness… and a future so uncertain that it tightened its grip on me with every passing day.

Head bowed, lost in my sorrows, I was suddenly pulled back from my inner world by the creaking sound of an old, weathered door opening. I looked up to see an elderly man stepping out of a dilapidated house, walking quickly. I hastened my pace to catch up with him. I greeted him, and he lifted his head briefly to return my greeting, then lowered it again and kept walking.

Curious, I asked, “Father, where are you going this early in the morning?”

He slightly straightened his bent back and answered, “In search of a living.”

But with his trembling hands and hunched frame, how could he possibly work? I asked again, “Don’t you have an elder son?”

The word “son” seemed to stop him in his tracks. He stood silently for a moment, then sighed deeply and said, “I had one… but…”

It was as if a lump in his throat had stolen his voice. I regretted my question, realizing I had reopened an old wound. Perhaps there was a pain buried deep in his heart that I had unknowingly stirred.

Still, he continued, “I had a son like a flower. He was a doctor, living his life. One day, he had to go on a short trip. He said he’d be back in a day or two… but he never returned. They brought back his lifeless body and said, ‘This is your son.’ They had slit his throat in the Maidan valley.”

Shocked, I asked, “Why?”

He sighed from the depths of his soul and looked me in the eyes, “Why are you surprised? This is Afghanistan—a dungeon for those who dream of a better life. Here, talent is killed.”

I couldn’t say a word, my tongue tied. But he went on:

“That’s why I have to work myself now. I am the sole breadwinner. I have two daughters and a wife who constantly complains of pain in her limbs, but I can’t afford treatment. The little money I earn in the city square only covers the rent and some bread. Life has become unbearable in recent years. My daughters had to abandon their studies. My son, our only hope, was murdered. There’s nothing left to lose—except this last breath.”

He paused briefly, eyes fixed on the distant horizon, then added with a heart full of sorrow, “You know, after my son died, life lost all meaning. Everything seems empty now…”

With that, he got into a car and, within seconds, disappeared from view.

Hearing his story, I realized just how heavy the burden of grief can be. And yet, his only concern was finding a piece of dry bread. Oh… how meaningless life can sometimes be.

It was midnight when I killed my landlord right in front of his wife and daughter. They trembled in fear, their voices choked and silent, unable to make a sound. Their bodies shook violently. The daughter, lips quivering, clung tightly to her mother. As I plunged the knife into her father’s heart, she only trembled more and pressed herself even closer to her mother. I let the lifeless body collapse onto the floor and, holding the blood-dripping knife, stepped toward them.

They backed into the corner, and I could tell their hearts were pounding so loud it seemed they would burst through their chests. The mother cried silently.

As I approached, I tilted my head, showed them the knife, and said: — I killed him!

Then I burst into laughter and shouted louder: — You saw it! I killed that filthy man. Yes, he was a despicable human being. He had to die!

I sat in front of them as another wave of those cursed coughs struck me. I pulled a worn handkerchief from my pocket and wiped the blood from my mouth. In the faint light shining through the window, I saw the daughter’s face had turned pale as chalk. As I looked at her, the memory of my own daughter flooded my mind. Her voice echoed in my ears, begging:

— Please, don’t hurt me. My father will pay you…

But he kept beating her mercilessly. That day, my daughter came to me crying, her innocent face bruised:

— Father, once you get better and can work again, pay him the money. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.

I had been too sick to work for months. Only my wife went out during the day to clean houses and earn a meager amount, just enough to feed us and buy my medicine. We hadn’t paid the rent for two months. I was too weak to even get out of bed, coughing constantly. And yet, he came without mercy—insulting, humiliating my wife and daughter. I was powerless, just lying there in pain.

When I finally got a little better, I still couldn’t find a job. One day, he came again demanding rent. He beat me brutally, and from that day, a dark thought began to grow in my mind. That night, I pretended I had the rent money and convinced him to let me inside.

The sound of his daughter crying pulled me back from my thoughts, back to the dark room where I had just taken a life.

She was weeping. Her mother tried to comfort her. I looked at them both and softly said:

— Now everything is okay. That damned man is gone. He can’t hurt my family anymore. Now we’re even.

Then, like lightning, I plunged the knife into my own heart and pressed it with all my strength. A searing pain surged through me, from my head to my toes, but I laughed—laughed loudly.

Yes, I had finally responded to that man’s cruelty. And now, I had freed myself from this miserable life. Yes, life sometimes bares its ugly teeth and suffocates you. Life… is nothing but emptiness and meaninglessness.

The End...