I was washing the dishes. The clatter of the plates echoed in my head like the sound of gunfire. The war itself had ended, but the battle fought between my memories never would.

“Marveh!” my mother called out.

I jumped, as if someone had suddenly jolted me awake. “Yes, Mother Jan!” I replied.

“Marveh! Go see if the jam has reached its setting point!”

I rinsed my hands and approached the pot. The plum jam was boiling, and inside me, something began to boil too—a feeling that had shaken my soul years ago was waking up again. My mother instructed:

“Taste it, see if the sweetness is just right.”

Reluctantly, I scooped a spoonful of jam. I waited for it to cool. With trembling hands, I brought the spoon to my mouth. But it was neither sweet nor even sour. For me, it tasted of blood.

The Republic had fallen, and a military state gripped the entire country. Father had heard that people, operating under the name of the Taliban, were entering homes, assaulting young girls, and stealing money, gold, and belongings. He told my mother: “In Khanabad district, they separated a girl from her fiancé and forced her into marriage at gunpoint.”

My mother, her lips pressed tightly together, finally spoke after a long silence, her voice trembling: “To hell with the money and gold. May God grant us a death with dignity.”

Then, in a voice quieter than before, she added, “We can’t stay here anymore. This homeland is no longer a place to live.”

At her words, Father’s eyebrows furrowed, and his face flushed as he shouted, “I will not leave this soil, this land, even if I die!”

But it was as if he recognized his own harsh tone. Immediately, he spoke more softly: “Outside of this geography, there is no life for us.”

The sounds of heavy shooting could occasionally be heard from near and far. A few bullets had even struck the walls of our house, leaving it resembling a ruin. Father wanted to send us to another place that was still under government control at the time. He said, “You go. I will stay here and look after the house.”

I understood my father’s deep attachment to our home. He couldn’t abandon the house he had built with his own hands. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the lemon orchard behind the yard, the cherry trees, or the rose bushes—just as we couldn’t bear to leave him. My hands were shaking, and I was overcome with a severe knot in my stomach. The thought that this might be our last time seeing him would not leave my mind. I looked into my father’s eyes; in their weariness, an old fear had awakened. He was tired, and perhaps he couldn’t bear any more loss. But there was no alternative. We tried to persuade him to come with us, but he was absolutely unwilling to leave the house. With trembling steps, we headed toward the car door. Seeing the quiet, deserted street made me recall the vibrant, bustling days before the war. Now, all the shops were closed, and not even a fly stirred on the road. Only stray dogs could be seen here and there, as if the smell of blood had drawn them to the pavement. My mother hugged my sister and me, then told my brother, who was driving, “Be very careful. Don’t do anything reckless!”

When we approached our destination, we saw several vehicles belonging to the security forces fleeing. In my heart, I prayed that they would at least return safely to their wives and children. A little further on, several other vehicles were speeding along behind them. But halfway there, the sound of gunfire erupted from every direction. Fearing that a bullet might hit the car, my brother steered it toward the forest so we could escape the ambush. As we drove deeper into the woods, the firing continued. It was nearing evening, and the sky was slowly darkening. Bullets, like shooting stars, were being fired everywhere, striking the trunks of the trees. We felt death was only a step away. My brother’s face was pale, and he was shaking. He lowered his head, and we did the same. My sister was crying. My stomach cramps had intensified; that cursed knot would always seize me whenever I was afraid. I thought about how I wished I had hugged my father one last time; I thought about his sad eyes, and I thought about death. A slight rustling sound was heard in the jungle. I slightly lifted my head to see what was happening. It was then that three men in military uniforms approached the edge of the forest. One of the men, agitated and distraught, swept his hands back through his hair, revealing a scar on his forehead—the source of the blood staining his face. In that very moment, his eyes suddenly lit up, as if an idea had struck him. He went over to his friend, whose left leg was limping, and whispered something quietly into his ear. The third officer kept looking around, occasionally glancing behind him, wary of the enemy’s arrival. Perhaps he was looking for a better escape route in the darkness. He approached the other two men, and they spoke. They seemed to have reached an agreement; they helped the man with the limp climb up a tree. He climbed with his bloody trousers, leaving a trace of blood on the cherry tree trunk. The other two officers also took refuge in the densely branched trees to remain safe from the view of the Taliban. Not even ten minutes later, a group of Taliban members arrived with their weapons. There were about ten or twelve of them. One, who was shorter and chubbier than the rest, said: “هغوی کافران آخر چېرته تللي دي؟” (Where have those infidels finally gone?)

The man standing beside him adjusted his rifle on his shoulder and said, “کېدی شي همدلته چاپېره وي، ډېر لیرې نه‌شي تللی.” (They might be around here; they couldn’t have gone far.)

They searched the area with their flashlights. The short, stocky man shouted loudly, “لارشو” (Let’s go!)

They all moved toward the road. I was relieved that they hadn’t been able to find the three men. With the cramps and trembling that had consumed my entire body, I told my mother, “They left.”

She offered a lifeless smile and said, “Shukr (Thank God).”

But at that very moment, two of the Taliban turned back. Like hunters aiming at sparrows, they targeted the top of the tree and fired. First, the man with the limp fell from the tree, and then the other two plummeted like birds. The stout man shone his flashlight on their faces and, with palpable hatred in his voice, said, “کافران! تاسو له موږ نه‌شي تښتېدلی؛ که جهنم ته هم ولاړ شئ، زه به مو پیدا کړم او په خپلو لاسونو به مو بیا جهنم ته واستوم.” (Infidels! You cannot escape us; even if you go to Hell, I will find you and send you back to Hell with my own hands.)

He spat on the faces of the two men. In the darkness of the forest, their eyes were glassy, and they writhed in their own blood. I was frozen. My eyes were fixated on the bodies that had fallen from the tree. Suddenly, my mother’s voice echoed in my ear.

The redness of the victims’ blood had spattered onto the unripe cherries. When the flashlight beam hit the tree, it looked as if the cherries had ripened prematurely. Since that day, all cherries have tasted of blood to me.