Welcome Home 3

In a desolate valley in Parwan Province, Afghanistan, wind-swept yellow sand rushed through the barren canyon. Withered grass whirled in the gusts, brushing across rough, weathered stones, shattered walls riddled with bullets, and rusting steel beasts buried under years of sand—a single turret standing as their lonely monument. Atop it lay a half-burned Soviet corpse, its blackened arms stretched desperately toward the azure sky. The bones, bleached by time, had long dried into silent fragments of a forgotten war.

From the canyon's edge, a figure emerged in a white robe, an old Kalashnikov rifle slung across his chest. As he passed a long-abandoned T-72 tank, he stopped, climbed atop its rusty tracks, and carefully used his bayonet to lift fabric remnants tangled on the skeletal remains, hoping for any trace of identity. He found none. After a long, silent salute to the corpse, the man turned and made his way to the canyon's end, toward a meeting that marked the conclusion of a long journey.

His name was Islamuddin, once Nikolay Bestrov. In 1982, full of youthful zeal, the eighteen-year-old enlisted in the Soviet Army and was deployed to the Afghan front. But by 1983, weary of endless war, he and two comrades deserted. Their escape failed. Ambushed in a remote valley, his comrades were killed and Bestrov wounded, captured by Afghan guerrillas.

He tried to escape. When caught, he was beaten brutally, losing all his teeth. Afterward, he was taken to Panjshir Valley, stronghold of the Mujahideen, and presented to the legendary commander Massoud. The rebel leader, perhaps moved by mercy, spared Bestrov. But when he attempted to escape again, he was beaten nearly to death. Left with no choice, Bestrov surrendered to fate, learned the local language, and gradually adapted to Afghan customs. Later, he converted to Islam and was given a new name: Islamuddin.

In early 1984, Massoud received word from a source in Kabul: a joint Soviet-Afghan offensive was imminent. Soviet POWs were offered two paths—prisoner exchanges with the Red Army or escape through Pakistan. Fearing reprisal upon return, all chose Pakistan. All except Bestrov, who volunteered to stay and became Massoud's personal guard.

In the following years, Islamuddin and Massoud endured countless battles together. His discipline and loyalty earned Massoud's deep trust. "I only sleep peacefully when Bestrov is on duty," the commander once said.

Islamuddin also helped fellow Soviet POWs escape to Western Europe, unwilling to return to a motherland they believed had abandoned them. Most faded into obscurity, never setting foot in Russia again.

At the canyon's exit stood a middle-aged man in white robes, leading a camel. His gentle demeanor contrasted sharply with the solemn scene.

"Islamuddin, my friend, you came," he said, smiling warmly and opening his arms.

Islamuddin raised his rifle. "I'm sorry, Major Vasily. I'm no longer your friend. I stopped being a Soviet soldier nine years ago, when my country left its soldiers behind."

Had a trusted friend not vouched for Vasily, Islamuddin would have dismissed him as a threat.

"The motherland erred, but it's trying to change," Vasily said. "Gorbachev failed you, but have you seen what President Yanayev is doing? We're rescuing the lost. I heard you've helped many. That's why I came. We're not enemies anymore."

Islamuddin kicked at the sand and muttered, "What about those twelve men who died at Bader Ebo camp? Has anyone paid for that?"

"President Yanayev publicly apologized," Vasily said, offering a newspaper. "The mothers and the motherland still wait for their children."

Islamuddin gave a bitter laugh. "Go home? My mother thinks I'm dead. Still... I know five Soviet POWs. They were just released. They want to go to Europe. I'll bring them here in five days. You can take them."

"And you? Won't you come back?"

"No. Bestrov is dead. My roots are in this land."

He turned and walked back into the canyon, swallowed by shadows and dust.

Five days later, Vasily returned and saw five gaunt men in tattered clothes. The wind had etched deep lines into their faces. Their eyes, dulled by captivity, regained life at the sight of Vasily's uniform.

They had refused to convert or fight for the Mujahideen. Forced into hard labor, they watched comrades be executed for escape attempts. Broken, they became silent slaves, counting the days.

Vasily approached. One man warned, "Stay back. This sack holds our comrades' remains."

Then a tall man stepped forward. "Lieutenant Card, 9th Company. Reporting. We held Hill 3234. 103 went in. 98 died. Five captured. None evacuated."

The words, hoarse and proud, carried on the wind. Vasily embraced him.

"It's over now. I'll take you home."

Card fell to his knees, sobbing. His only lifeline in the camp had been the dream of returning.

Islamuddin turned away, lost in memories of Sasha, a girl in white who once played the harmonica amid summer fields. A life forever gone.

"Come with us?" Vasily asked one last time.

"No. Someone has to stay to free the others. With General Sumad's help, I can get more out."

He turned to the POWs. "Follow me to the Tajik border. We'll take a helicopter from there. It's safer than dodging missiles."

They crossed checkpoints using Islamuddin's fluent language and old ties. The route was shortened, and Vasily provided psychological support, helping them prepare for a life beyond the war.

Finally, they reached the mountains near the Gorno-Badakhshan air base. Islamuddin pointed. "Your base lies past there. This is as far as I go."

"Come back with us," Card pleaded.

"No. I have a duty here."

He turned and walked away, waving once without looking back.

"Take care," he whispered to the wind.

A Hind helicopter appeared, red star gleaming. The prisoners cheered. Card clutched the sack of bones. As they boarded, he saw ghosts of his comrades walking beside him, laughing, calling his name.

"Comrades, welcome home."

Later, Card shaved, bathed, and dressed in a fresh Soviet uniform. He stared at the stranger in the mirror—no longer the vibrant youth who had entered this war.

His four comrades waited. Vasily adjusted Card's uniform.

"Let's go. The homeland awaits. You're not criminals. You are heroes."

They nodded, boarded the Il-76, and watched Vasily wave goodbye as the door closed.

Card slept for the first time in years.

When he awoke, Moscow lay beneath them. As the hatch opened, sunlight flooded in. On the tarmac, a crowd waited. Among them, Card saw his mother. She wept.

He ran to her. "Mom!"

She held him. "I thought I'd never see you again. Thank Yanayev. He brought you back."

Card turned to a tall man beside her. "Are you a government official?"

The man smiled. "You could say that."

"We held our ground. We didn't fail."

"Let go of the past. Live now."

"Your name?"

"Yanayev. President of the Soviet Union. And like you, born a commoner. In our country, all souls are equal."

The crowd erupted in applause. Card joined in, this time with all his heart.

Yanayev, it seemed, was not just a leader, but a symbol of a nation finally ready to heal.