Reha Mohammad was born in Afghanistan and grew up in Ghor, where he finished his schooling. He graduated as Bachelor of Arts in Dari/Farsi Literature and Humanities at Herat University. In Kabul, he taught Farsi literature in private schools and contributed essays to Hasht e Subh and other national print media. He came to Australia in late 2019. He holds a Bachelor of Arts from the University of Sydney completing a semester on exchange at New York University. He commences an Honours candidature in Philosophy next year. Reha’s academic interests sit at the intersection of political philosophy, citizenship, ethics, international literature, and cross-cultural studies. He continues to write occasionally for national and international outlets, mostly on migration, identity, and social issues. Reha has been active in student mentorship and partnership programs on campus. He volunteers off campus at community cultural events and with human rights organisations. These experiences shape his writing and academic direction, and he remains committed to work that bridges communities, ideas, and lived realities.
The Girl on the Bridge
The bridge stretched like a pale scar over the Hari River, the only narrow line joining the two halves of Firozkoh city, the capital of Ghor. Below it, the water moved sluggishly between dry banks dusted with rubbish, while above it the August sun hammered everything into the same dull colour of ash and clay.
Every morning, while the first call to prayer was still fading in the air, a small girl came and took her place in the middle of the bridge. She always sat in the same spot, near enough to the road that people couldn’t help noticing her, but just far enough from the rail so the mud from Flancoaches minibuses, Toyota Townaces, taxis, Kamaz trucks, lorries, motorbikes, and the usual stream of Rangers and government vehicles were all passing through wouldn’t reach her. She would sit cross-legged, sometimes barefoot, sometimes with her feet tucked beneath the edge of her chadar, which was once purple but had long since lost its brightness.
She had a small aluminum bowl in front of her. At her side lay a bundle wrapped in plastic: a torn blanket, an old scarf, and a few things that could not be called belongings but were hers all the same. Inside the bundle was her pillow -an oversized pocket stuffed with pieces of cloth and paper- and a red coloured comb and a mirror the size of her palm, round and grey around the edges, cracked like dry land. She often took the mirror out, looked at her face, fixed the scarf over her head, rubbed away the dust from her cheeks, and smiled faintly, as if reminding herself that her face was still her own, fresh and beautiful.
No one knew where she went when night came. Some guessed she slept under the bridge with the other roofless people, others thought she hid near the police checkpoint. But the city did not care to know. Firozkoh, although a small city, had dozens like her melted into the corners of streets at dusk and reappeared in daylight as if conjured by habit alone.
Even the shadows looked worn out. From the northern side of the bridge, you could see the main provincial buildings: the governor’s compound, with the black-red-green national flag raised above it, the police headquarters, and, a little to the side, the Human Rights office with its faded blue sign. The mosque’s blue dome and tall minarets also stood out among it all. The month was Asad, the hottest month. And on the other side of the bridge, the replica of the Jām Minaret rose above everything, its head in the sky seeming to watch the whole city.
And of course, quite a few huge billboards along the two sides of the bridge, ending from Karzai, Abdulla, and National Urdu, very huge, fancy, and shiny, overcrowded with slogans from election campaigns. With vegetable sellers, fruit carts, and small mobile street stalls scattered in every direction.
That day, around noon, a cargo rickshaw -which couldn’t be seen very often in the city- stopped not far from the girl. The driver was a tall man in his forties, his shirt damp with sweat and the colour of road dust. His name was Dost Ali. He had been driving this same machine for years, ever since his release from prison. Others knew him as a quiet man who spoke little, always respectful to policemen, never took too many passengers, and even sometimes refused fare from poor people.
He was loading staff on his rickshaw from his customer on the bridge to carry them to the destination when something caught his eye. Behind the girl, on the metal fence where people sometimes taped up lost posters and martyr pictures, a photograph fluttered in the wind; a soldier’s face, smiling faintly, his name written beneath in red: Shahid Reza Dehqan.
The driver froze. He stared at the name, then at the girl. The same wide eyes, the same cheekbones. A memory pressed against his chest. He turned off the engine, climbed out, and walked slowly toward her.
“Little one,” he said, stopping near her bowl, “where are your parents?”
She looked up with wide, cautious eyes. “I have no one,” she said softly.
He lowered himself to one knee, pretending to adjust his shoe. “What is your father’s name?”
“Reza,” she said, almost whispering. “Reza Dehqan.”
The driver’s heart clenched. It is him. He remembered that name from his own village. A young farmer, a peasant working for his landlord, who had fallen in love with the Mir’s daughter and had run away with her to escape her family’s anger. The Mir had cursed them both before the mullah, swearing that no peace would ever touch them. The story was circulating in the village.
The driver stood slowly. “And your mother?”
“Laila,” the girl said.
He nodded, fighting the weight that had settled on his shoulders. It had been many years since he heard those names, but the story had never left his mind. His own brother had died during a long-lasting feud in their village- shot one night in the Hussainia while sleeping, a victim of old family hatred. Dost Ali, the murdered brother, had been blamed, arrested, and imprisoned for years until finally released under zamanat, a kind of local insurance. Since then, the government had hired him to work days at the hospital cleaning floors, and on Thursdays and Fridays, he drove the rickshaw to feed his family, a wife and three kids.
He looked at the girl again, her bowl, her small hands. “You’re Reza’s daughter, aren’t you?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Nasrin,” she murmured.
“Nasrin,” he said softly, testing the name, and when she looked surprised, he smiled bitterly. “Yes, you were just born in that year when I left my village.”
Nasrin blinked. “You knew my father?”
“Yes. He was a good man, a man of heart.” He sighed. “I wronged many in my youth, but your father was never one of them. I knew it from his personality. I’ve done towba now.” He looked around. “But what are you doing here alone, my daughter? This place isn’t safe. There are eyes everywhere; some human, some not. You’re growing up. Things will be different now. You know what I am saying.”
She looked away toward the river, perhaps pretending not to understand.
“This bridge is the city’s front gate,” he continued. “The police are there, the Provincial Office is just there, you can see the fancy building -indicating with his hand-, and across the road is the Human Rights Office. Yet even with all this, a person like you can vanish here, and no one would notice. Allah forgive us.” He shook his head. “Yet, unfortunately, I can’t do anything right now. I must find a way, though,” he speaks worriedly. “Next Friday, I’ll come again. I must find you a safe place, maybe with my daughter. Her name’s Gulsha; she’s your age. You’ll be happy to meet her.”
He stood up. “Now eat something, and don’t stay here too late.”
She nodded, lowering her eyes.
He returned to his rickshaw, but as he started the engine, the sound of her small voice reached him. “Uncle,” she called.
“Yes, Bachim?”
“My father- do people still remember him? Do others know him?”
Dost Ali turned his head and looked at her, then at the fluttering photograph on the fence. “Your father died proudly, my child,” he said. “He fought those who darken the name of this land. But the government…” He exhaled. “The government counts every killed hero as a number, nothing more. Don’t expect them to remember.”
“What about your brothers? I forgot their name. What were their name?!” Then he touched his forehead, struggling to recall the names. “They should be big boys now, ha?”
“Sultan and Jafar?” Nasrin said this with a little more confidence and excitement, but when Dost Ali continued asking about where they were, the confidence instantly vanished from her face.
She shook her head. “No. When father was killed, they both went away. Sultan first.”
He leaned closer. “Tell me.”
Nasrin spoke with the even tone of someone repeating something many times to herself. “My mom told me, and I barely remember that when that big explosion happened on the TV -in Kabul, many people were killed- Father cried. Mother said she had never seen him cry before. He cursed the Taliban. He said if men keep quiet, devils will own the country. That night he told Mother he would go to the army. She begged him not to. But he went.”
She rubbed her thumb along the mirror’s crack. “He served two years. One night they were attacked in Char Sada. Seven soldiers died. People said their commander had a deal with the Taliban. They sold them, Uncle.”
Her voice thinned. Dost Ali put his hand gently on her shoulder. “Don’t cry, Bachim. Your father died with honour. A soldier’s blood should build the country.” He looked away. “But this country drinks the blood and stays thirsty. Politicians … the first betrayers.”
Nasrin nodded as if she already understood what betrayal was. “After Father died, Sultan said he must go to Iran to work. He promised to send money.”
“Did he go?”
“Yes. He called once. He told Mother that the smugglers had taken them to the Pakistan border to some madrasa. The mullahs wanted to train them as suicide bombers. He escaped in the first days.”
Dost Ali’s eyebrows rose. “Escaped? By himself?”
She nodded. “He said God helped him. He crossed the desert at night and, after several weeks, reached Iran. After that, he called his mother from time to time.”
“Okay, do you have any number from him?”
“I had at the village, not with me”
“We need to find the contact Bachim. We will fix things slowly, Bachim, don’t worry. God is merciful!”
“I remember your fathers and mothers’ original place was called Karizak, which is kilometers away from Khakdan, very far…”
“It is very far from here, too.”
“Okay, and your mother?”
“She was heavy with another baby that winter. The roads were closed by snow. When the time came, no one could take her to the clinic. She bled … a lot.” Nasrin’s voice faltered. “She died before the baby was born.”
“Your mother died from giving birth, is not the first one in that village, Bachim.”
He continued: “The hell land. The brutal destiny. Oh god! May Allah be kind to you,” The driver exhaled. The wind pressed hot against his back. “And Jafar, your younger brother?”
She opened the bundle beside her and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “He left this for me.”
Dost Ali unfolded it carefully. The handwriting was uneven but clear.
Salam, my little cute sister Nasrin Jan.
For saying goodbye, before I leave Khakdan, yesterday, early morning, I went to our parents’ graves. I cried a lot, but I also told them everything. I promised Mother I would take care of you, so I must go to Iran to work, earn money, and send it to you.
Don’t cry. When I reach Sultan, we will send money for your school. Don’t fight with the villagers; you are alone. Obey Amiruddin’s family while you stay with them. I’ll come back, or I’ll take you to Iran. Iran is better. We’ll have our own house there.
Khuda hafiz. Take care, my Nazanin sister.
By the last lines, the letters were slanted, rushed. Dost Ali’s eyes blurred; he pressed the paper to his knee and said nothing.
“So you don’t know where he is now?” he asked finally.
“No. Some people in the village said … the Taliban took him. Maybe to madrasa too.”
The driver folded the letter and handed it back. “Keep it safe, Bachim. Words are all that remain when people go missing.”
He stood, brushed the dust from his knees. “I have to work now. My customer will be angry with me. But next week, I’ll come again. I’ll take you to my little daughter, Gulsha. She’ll be happy to meet you.” He repeated the same phrasing.
Nasrin smiled faintly and tucked the letter into her bundle.
Just before the rickshaw’s engine drowned his voice, he said, “Bachim, may God save this country. No one cares about the truth anymore. Politicians don’t care about the country, and people don’t care about much at all. There’s no hope left for my generation. If anything changes one day, it’ll be because of children like you.”
She lifted her hand slightly- something between a wave and a prayer.
He drove away, the bridge shrinking behind him, its dust lifting into the hard white heat of Asad.
*
Friday came back dry and bright. A thin layer of dust hung in the air, the kind that settles everywhere when there hasn’t been any wind for a few days. After Juma prayer at the mosque near the old bazaar, Dost Ali stepped out with the other men, adjusting their turbans and felt that brief, quiet ease that sometimes follows prayer; a feeling that usually disappears as soon as the street noise starts up again. He was about to head toward the bridge and start up his rickshaw when a strange feeling caught him, something he couldn’t name, but strong enough to make him stop for a moment.
The sound reached him first; an uneven hum, a gathering of voices that did not rise in prayer or trade. The closer he walked, the more the road thickened with people. Near the middle of the bridge, a crowd had formed, blocking half the lane. Two or three Ranger pickups were parked along the sides of the bridge. From here, two policemen could be seen standing by the railings, and behind them, the police commander’s Land Cruiser stood tilted to one side, with one wheel up on the curb. He had been thinking of the girl all week- her thin wrists, her small voice, the way she looked toward the river when she spoke. He had promised her another visit, maybe to bring new shoes or a scarf. She had thought she might visit and play with his daughter this week. He had not expected to find her surrounded by strangers and silence in such a situation.
At first, he thought someone had fainted in the heat. Then he saw the sheet on the ground, its edge lifted by the wind. A policeman bent and pressed it down with his boot. Near the hem lay a red comb tangled with hair, and beside it the small aluminum bowl he remembered.
Dost Ali stopped. A man beside him whispered, “A girl- killed last night. They say she was one of the beggars.”
“Who did it?”
The man shrugged. “Who knows? She was found near the trash bin at dawn.”
“Actually, the city council cleaners had found her body in the bin. Can’t you see those orange coloured guys there, standing scared and speechless?” the other man pointed out.
A young man with a camera took three photographs, each with the same sound: click, click, click. The sound felt obscene in the heat.
Dost Ali could not move closer. The sheet was white, the dust was yellow, and between them the river glinted faintly as if pretending nothing had changed. Someone lifted the edge of the cloth to check; someone else shouted not to. The word tajasos -forbidden curiosity- passed through the crowd and quieted it.
“Don’t look at the girl. It is a big sin,” someone said from the crowd.
The sweeper, an old man with a grey beard, wiped his face with his sleeve. “She had just recently come here,” he said to no one in particular. “Such a nice and polite girl.” He looked at the ground as if expecting her greeting again.
A few minutes later, the ambulance from the clinic came. Two men lifted the body and carried it to the back. The knot they tied in the sheet looked deliberate, final. The door closed. The noise of the crowd softened. People began to drift away, some to lunch, some to the bazaar, some simply to forget.
The police asked those who stood too close to move away, then spoke quietly among themselves. One of them pointed toward Dost Ali.
“You said you knew her?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Her father was Reza Dehqan. He was a soldier.”
They wrote his name and told him to come with them. The rest of the crowd already looked elsewhere; the bridge had returned to its noise.
Inside the Provincial Office of Security, the air smelled of sweat and old paper. A fan turned above them, pushing warm air in circles. A clerk gestured toward a metal chair.
“Sit, driver. Tell us how you knew the girl.”
“I met her last Friday,” Dost Ali said. “She was sitting on the bridge. Behind her, there was a picture of her father, Reza Dehqan. I recognized it. We were from the same village, Khakdan. Her parents fled from their own region. I was still in the village when they moved to our village.”
The commander looked up from his notes. “Explain that.”
“Reza was a peasant, worked the Mir’s land. The Mir’s daughter, Laila, fell in love with him. Her family had refused his proposal and swore they would kill them both. That’s why they had escaped their village, and after days they had reached our village.
The clerk nodded for him to continue.
“Reza joined the army later. The girl told me the Taliban attacked his camp in Char Sada. They say the commander sold them to the enemy.” The clerk looked bizarre but said nothing. “He and seven men were killed that night. His wife died the next winter during childbirth. One son, Sultan, went to Iran. Another, Jafar, left after her death and was never heard from. People say he might have been taken by the Taliban for training.”
The commander leaned back. “So no family left here to claim the body?”
“No, sir. Only that girl.”
“Do you wish to pursue the case?”
Dost Ali hesitated. “Sir, I have no time, no money, no relatives in the government. I am only a driver. But if you can find who did it, please do, for God’s sake, and for this innocent blood. Otherwise, I do not want trouble.”
The commander nodded toward the clerk. “Write that down. Exactly.”
When the form was complete, the commander signed it without reading. “You can go now. We may call you again.”
“Yes, sir,” Dost Ali said. He rose, bent his head politely, and stepped into the corridor.
Outside, the sun was still burning. He walked back toward the bridge. The city had already washed away the blood. Water ran down the curb into the river, carrying dust and small scraps of paper. He stopped by the railing, looked at the fence where Reza’s photograph still fluttered, and touched it lightly.
“You waited for your daughter,” he murmured. “And now she’s with you.”
He turned to leave, but before starting the rickshaw, he laid a piece of bread on the stone where her bowl had been. Then he drove away slowly through the crowded street, past the billboards, past the mosque, past the same buildings that had seen everything too late.
Above him, the sky of Asad blazed, and the river below kept moving- quiet, indifferent, carrying the city’s dust out of sight.
Notes
Asad- a summer month in the Afghan calendar.
Reza Dehqan- Afghan male name; Dehqan means farmer.
Hussainia- a Shia religious gathering place/local mosque
Zamanat- a local form of bail or guarantee.
Towba- repentance; asking god for forgiveness.
Karizak- the name of a village (fictional)
Khakdan- the name of another village/area (fictional)
Tajasos- spying, eavesdropping, or improper curiosity.