A run-down seaside resort on the dogleg of Britain is haven to a relentless trickle of Afghans fleeing the trauma and tragedy of their homeland. Since September 11^th, authorities have tried to turn them back fearing an influx of Taliban freedom fighters disguised as asylum seekers. But still they come, widows and orphans mostly, each with their own nightmare behind them. They arrive by boat, disorientated and bewildered. They arrive dirty, dishevelled, traumatized and crushed. They cannot understand how they got to England, some of them even where England is. But they are relieved and they are free.

They are the real victims of war. Not just the war of 2001, but the 24 years of war that have battered and brutalised the Afghan people and caused them to live as fugitives in their own land. Firuza, one of these victims is only now able to breathe freely. “When you die once, it’s over. But I have died every minute of every day for nearly four years. How can a human being live like that? How can I leave that behind and move on?” The 40-year-old widow and her 13-year-old son are all that is left of their family of six. They have just started to live without looking behind them and wondering whether the next minute might be their last. For the first time in two months they are able to take stock of their lives. Firuza describes herself as an uneducated village woman, deeply disturbed by the past and facing the future with trepidation. Her son Hakim is bursting with energy, desperate to get his hands on a computer, but has never had a day’s education in his life. He talks ceaselessly in his sleep, his mind churning over the desperate events he has witnessed. Neither can speak the language of their new land. Firuza can hardly believe she survived a regime that slaughtered her husband in front of her, and dispatched three of her four children as runaways into the mountains behind her village. That they are now safely in England is a miracle, but a miracle tinged with intense grief over the fate of her other children.

Reliving the nightmare, Firuza describes the four years of war since the Taliban came to power as the worst. The battle has been fought from within and the enemy has been ruthless, killing, maiming, torturing and hounding anyone who stood in its way. In the name of God, the Merciful, they raped, pillaged and dismantled every strand of life. They annihilated minority groups in their wake, mowing them down with machine gun fire as each city was captured. Thousand of Shiites, she claims, were slaughtered in her city the day the Taliban marched in. Some were strung up on trees as an example. She sent her eldest son to guard his sister in the mountains fearing her rape and torture at their hands, knowing she would probably never see them again.

Trying to save her husband, her head was staved in by a zealot who smashed a rock into her face. “Everything in me wants the Taliban destroyed,” she whispered, still unused to the freedom of her new land. “For each one I see killed I rejoice,” she said. Pushtun neighbours rushed her to hospital, and risked their lives to shelter her remaining boys. When she returned they were forced to hide in the cellar for two years, only emerging briefly at night to eat. One of the boys could not stand the captivity any longer and ran away. She will probably never see him again, if indeed he is alive at all, she says.

With her extended family murdered or scattered and all food gone, neighbours helped to sell the house and found someone who for its proceeds of $7,500 would help them get away. She was handed over to a masked, silent driver one night. He took her money and bundled them with three other families, each into a coffin-sized compartment in a windowless container. For 22 terrifying days, not knowing whether he would get scared, slit their throats and escape with the money, they drove. They barely stopped to eat. The final three days were spent, without food and water and without a break even to relieve themselves. On the 23^rd day, the truck movement changed. It began to gently rock. Firuza threw up whatever was left in her stomach. She had never felt the ocean and had no idea how near she was to safety. She thought she was about to die.

But the nightmare was over. She was free. She was in “Inglistan.” Kindness, smiles and gentle faces surrounded her. They could eat and they could wash. The tears kept coming. Tears of joy, of relief, of gratitude to the country who had taken her in, of heartbreak. The accumulated grief of years welled up and cascaded out. They still well up every day.

She and her son will rebuild their lives slowly, but has nothing but fears for her country. “Pushtun hates Hazara hates Uzbek hates Tajik”. Suspicion, envy, hatred and long-standing clan feuds have embittered every segment of Afghan life. “We hate and mistrust each other,” she said sadly, terrified of the Northern Alliance seizing power. Masood’s successor would not improve things; she was convinced. “Their targets would simply be different,” she said, adding that their first attacks would be on Pushtuns. “There will be more bloodbaths,” she added. Neither did the prospect of life under the former king hold any promise. “He is old and weak. He could never hold together the warring tribes of my land,” she said hopelessly. She has been given a future, but as far as she could see, there was nothing good ahead for Afghanistan. The tragedy of her country would continue to unfold for years; she was convinced.