whatever the risk. I would take a convoluted route that changed depending on what political group currently held the upper hand. Gathering intelligence from people on the street was essential to successfully navigating the route, as was the taxi driverâs constant search for the scarce supplies of petrol.
Packs of gunmen would roam the streets, and the danger of snipers was constant, their choice of target indiscriminate. A crack from a rifle accompanied by the dull thump of the bullet would often send some poor soul toppling to the ground, another desperate search for food, water or medicine brought to a premature end. Machine gunners set up in the damaged homes around key intersections, their positions carefully chosen to both conceal themselves and give the maximum field of fireâall the better to catch your enemy in the open. Often all that could be glimpsed of them was the tops of their heads in the gloom of their cover among the rubble, but everyone knew they were peering over their steel gunsights for any sign of movement. Vehicles often drew the deadliest attention, but overall they were still the fastest and safest way to travel. On more than one occasion, my taxi was targeted by artillery rockets.
Some roads were targeted by the artillery commanders. When their spotters signalled an approaching car, all they needed to do was open fire and chances were the car, truck or possibly tank would be blown off the road. I remember gasping once as rockets came rushing down a street towards me. But over our heads, the boughs of trees stuck upwards like fingers waiting to catch the projectiles. The rockets hit the branches and exploded, filling the street with shrapnel and shards of splintered wood as we sped along the road and out of range. If it were not for the trees, the rockets would have ripped the flimsy car apart, and both me and the driver with it.
Few taxi drivers would risk going out among the fighting for the meagre payment of a fare. Those brave enough to do so were motivated by the threat of starvation. Not driving meant that they and their families would not eat, spelling a death even more certain than the bullets that hummed through the air. So it was often impossible to find a taxi to take me to class, and on those days I would have to walk, darting from cover to cover, trying to avoid the areas where I knew the gunmen were and praying I didnât stumble across the path of others I didnât know about.
I would have to walk back again after class, sneaking along alone in the dark. Sometimes it took me as long as two hours to get home. It was very dangerous for anybody to be on the streets at night, but especially a young girl by herself. Aside from bullets and rockets, I ran the additional risk of being raped. When night fell, the shooting became more unpredictable. Nervous in the dark, the gunmen would curl their fingers a little tighter around their triggers and nothing more than a loud footstep or the tumble of rubble could attract a burst of bullets.
Often, my mother would nervously keep watch for me at the bottom of our apartment building dressed in her burka, peering out into the night and scanning the shadows. The occasional clatter of gunfire echoing across the sky would send her heart jumping into her mouth. Her imagination must have tormented her as she waited for her daughter to reappear from her journey through the war zone. Her relief at my return was obvious, but she never showed it by hugging me. Instead she would be quick to scold me, putting her hand into my back as she pushed me firmly up the stairs and through the safety of the front door, all the while tutting and clucking at me: âEven if these English classes make you president of this country, I donât care. I donât want you to be president. I want you to be alive.â My brothers and sisters also didnât like me taking such great risk to go to the class, but they would never tell me this directly.
Packs of gunmen would roam the streets, and the danger of snipers was constant, their choice of target indiscriminate. A crack from a rifle accompanied by the dull thump of the bullet would often send some poor soul toppling to the ground, another desperate search for food, water or medicine brought to a premature end. Machine gunners set up in the damaged homes around key intersections, their positions carefully chosen to both conceal themselves and give the maximum field of fireâall the better to catch your enemy in the open. Often all that could be glimpsed of them was the tops of their heads in the gloom of their cover among the rubble, but everyone knew they were peering over their steel gunsights for any sign of movement. Vehicles often drew the deadliest attention, but overall they were still the fastest and safest way to travel. On more than one occasion, my taxi was targeted by artillery rockets.
Some roads were targeted by the artillery commanders. When their spotters signalled an approaching car, all they needed to do was open fire and chances were the car, truck or possibly tank would be blown off the road. I remember gasping once as rockets came rushing down a street towards me. But over our heads, the boughs of trees stuck upwards like fingers waiting to catch the projectiles. The rockets hit the branches and exploded, filling the street with shrapnel and shards of splintered wood as we sped along the road and out of range. If it were not for the trees, the rockets would have ripped the flimsy car apart, and both me and the driver with it.
Few taxi drivers would risk going out among the fighting for the meagre payment of a fare. Those brave enough to do so were motivated by the threat of starvation. Not driving meant that they and their families would not eat, spelling a death even more certain than the bullets that hummed through the air. So it was often impossible to find a taxi to take me to class, and on those days I would have to walk, darting from cover to cover, trying to avoid the areas where I knew the gunmen were and praying I didnât stumble across the path of others I didnât know about.
I would have to walk back again after class, sneaking along alone in the dark. Sometimes it took me as long as two hours to get home. It was very dangerous for anybody to be on the streets at night, but especially a young girl by herself. Aside from bullets and rockets, I ran the additional risk of being raped. When night fell, the shooting became more unpredictable. Nervous in the dark, the gunmen would curl their fingers a little tighter around their triggers and nothing more than a loud footstep or the tumble of rubble could attract a burst of bullets.
Often, my mother would nervously keep watch for me at the bottom of our apartment building dressed in her burka, peering out into the night and scanning the shadows. The occasional clatter of gunfire echoing across the sky would send her heart jumping into her mouth. Her imagination must have tormented her as she waited for her daughter to reappear from her journey through the war zone. Her relief at my return was obvious, but she never showed it by hugging me. Instead she would be quick to scold me, putting her hand into my back as she pushed me firmly up the stairs and through the safety of the front door, all the while tutting and clucking at me: âEven if these English classes make you president of this country, I donât care. I donât want you to be president. I want you to be alive.â My brothers and sisters also didnât like me taking such great risk to go to the class, but they would never tell me this directly.
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