I fled Afghanistan at the age of 16 after the Taliban tortured my father to death
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By Shakib Nasery, Employment Officer at Coventry Refugee and Migrant Centre
Tuesday 30 Nov 2021 1:52 pm
I was 14 when I witnessed my first execution by the Taliban. A woman accused of adultery was shot in the back of the head at Kabul football stadium in front of me.
I felt sick and for months after suffered from ill health, unable to sleep and constantly having hot and cold sweats. Twenty years later, this image still haunts me.
Sadly, this was not the last horror I would witness. Public executions under Taliban rule were commonplace and one year later my father was also dead; the result of months of torture at the hands of the same people.
These are things no-one should ever have to experience or see.
Today my life is different. I am a British citizen, father to a beautiful son with a family of my own and proud to call Coventry my home. But it's been a long journey to get here.
As a child, I like to think I had a normal upbringing, although my British friends often raise an eyebrow when I say that.
We were not a rich family, but my dad worked incredibly hard to ensure we had food on the table and a roof over our heads. I loved playing in the street with my older brother and cousins – whether it was enjoying a game of marbles, flying kites or messing around with leftover gunpowder and bullet casings. While the Taliban were not in power then, there was still conflict with rockets and bombs going off daily nearby.
I have learnt English and graduated from university (Picture: Shakib Nasery)
Looking back, I realise I never experienced peace, but it is the environment I was born into and while my parents worried, as kids, it felt normal and we were happy.
We began to lose hope in 1996 when I was 12 and the Taliban came to power. Girls were no longer allowed to go to school and as young boys, we knew we were at risk of being forced to join their army.
In 1999, my life changed forever.
My dad was a proud painter and decorator, with his own business that was well-respected and loved in our neighbourhood. Every day after school finished at midday, I would rush to his shop with my brother, eager to help out.
Without warning one day, the door opened and a group of Taliban arrived with a warrant for his arrest. Hundreds of neighbours saw what was about to happen and began flocking to the shop, telling the Taliban that my father was a good man and had done nothing wrong.
He had never had any political affiliations or been in trouble with the police. He was just an ordinary man, working hard to provide for his family and to this day, we still don't know why he was arrested.
After he was taken, I ran home to tell my mother – who was panicking – and for a few weeks, we didn't know where he was or what had happened to him.
I will always remember the acts of kindness from people along the way (Picture: Shakib Nasery)
Eventually we found where he was based, being kept in a jail cell and I would join my mother to visit him every day. I noticed he was barefoot, that his feet and legs were swollen and covered in cuts and scars.
My dad told us that every night, the Taliban would come and two men would pin him to a table, while another would lash his feet and legs with a cable for 30 minutes. He'd then be returned to his cell for a few hours, before being woken to experience the same beating again.
This continued for several months until they released him with no explanation. We were so happy to have him home, but the torture had taken a severe toll on his health. He was unable to eat anything without being sick. Food would get stuck in his throat and he told us this was because of the screaming and shouting when being tortured. We took him to a hospital to get treatment and on the third night, he passed away.
My mother knew then that her two boys needed to leave Afghanistan – at risk of being recruited to the Taliban or killed by them because of a crime we did not commit.
At the age of 16, in the summer of 2000, I left my mother, home and friends for the final time with my brother and our fates in the hand of a smuggler who promised to get us to safety. I could write a book about this journey – from being beaten up by police in Turkey, to sharing a hole the size of a pin in the roof of a lorry with 70 other people so I could breathe. We had no food and water most of the time, and if a few bottles of water became available, the adults would take these and brandish knives so that we kept away.
Despite what we endured, I will always remember the acts of kindness from people along the way, or as I call them, angels. It was winter in early February 2001 and freezing cold when the smugglers brought us to Paris. I was barefoot, with no coat or jumper, let alone with anywhere to stay. It had been almost eight months since we'd left home.
It was close to midnight and one of our group spoke with a receptionist at a hotel who knew our language. He offered to let us share a room until 5am, where we could shower and sleep, but only if we had left by the time his manager arrived. That shower and floor I slept on felt like absolute heaven.
Myself and my brother successfully managed to apply for my mum to reunite with us in the UK (Picture: Shakib Nasery)
The next morning, members of a local church provided us with coats, jumpers and shoes.
From there, we were put in the back of a lorry and taken to England, although I didn't know that at the time. When the doors first opened, there were police with flashlights and I was terrified about what would happen after my previous experiences with police elsewhere.
This changed in a split second, when one of the policemen warmly smiled at me, and asked if I was from Afghanistan. I didn't know the language, but knew enough to nod and we were soon taken to accommodation that was warm, as well as given clothes, food and water.
Since that day in 2001, I have learnt English and graduated from university, going on to set up a successful restaurant in Coventry.
In 2011, myself and my brother successfully managed to apply for my mum to reunite with us in the UK. Just getting the letter that my mother would be able to join us was an incredible feeling.
There wasn't a day that passed from the summer of 2000, where we didn't think or worry about her, living on her own in Afghanistan. To begin with, the Home Office said she couldn't join us, but we appealed and were successful.
That first time I saw her again was the happiest day of my life; a moment of pure joy that nothing else will ever come close to.
From left: Shakib's brother, cousin, mother and Shakib (Picture: Shakib Nasery)
Since then, I've also got married and have a beautiful son.
I am still incredibly close to my brother. We have a special bond that will never be broken after what we experienced.
Two years ago, I decided to sell the business so that I could begin to work at Coventry Refugee and Migrant Centre, a place that supported me when I first arrived in the city, so that I can help others seeking safety rebuild their lives. It is a wonderful place full of extraordinary people.
It might seem strange to give up a successful business to do this, but after what I've experienced, it helps you understand what is important in life. I don't want a life of luxury or lots of money. As long as I can feed my family and give us shelter, that is enough.
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And as my dad always told us as kids, there's always someone less fortunate than you out there, so if you can help, you should. I'm happy doing what I do and grateful to call Coventry home.
That is why I'd like the government to think about the human beings it will impact with its Nationality and Borders Bill, which proposes to criminalise and deport people seeking safety, who arrive irregularly like I did in the UK.
If it was in place when I arrived as a 16-year-old, I would not be here today.
Immigration Nation
Immigration Nation is a series that aims to destigmatise the word 'immigrant' and explore the powerful first-person stories of people who've arrived in the UK – and called it home. If you have a story you'd like to share, email james.besanvalle@metro.co.uk
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