Fahim had lost interest in most of life after his family split up. Those things belonged to the boy that was, not the boy he became the moment his mother left. Instead, he went to work for the Freedom Fighters.

It seemed innocent enough. When he was approached and offered money to pass out flyers, young Fahim thought nothing of the politics behind those flyers. He was just excited to have money to buy kites or go to the movies.

Eventually, he began venturing onto the Soviet bases, trading t-shirts with American logos, offering the Communist cigarettes, and sharing the things he observed on base with the Freedom Fighters. He laughs as he remembers how they learned to sell the Soviets opium or hashish before 6 pm. That way, the Freedom Fighters could attack later in the night and encounter little resistance from the Soviets rocking major buzzes.

Looking back, he realized those had been dangerous games he’d been playing – they’d all been playing. In hindsight, he understood his shoe repair boss was, in fact, working with the CIA, and those adventures had been part of important work.

He’s proud when he thinks back; proud that he played his own part in defeating the enemy who’d turned his country upside down.

With his mother and siblings having fled and his father under pressure to embrace Communism, extra vigilance was paid to his remaining sons. Fahim may have thought he was staying below the radar, but he’d caught the eye of the people in power. The principal of his school told Fahim’s father that his son had potential, but was demonstrating dangerous behaviors. It would be best, his father was told, to send both Fahim and his brother to Siberia, where they could be properly “educated.”

A humorless laugh escapes Fahim as he explains that “educated” really meant “brainwashed into perfect little Communists.”

Fourteen-year-old Fahim Fazli looked at the father who sometimes beat him, and sometimes protected him, and sobbed, “Dad, I want to go where mom is.”

For the next year Fahim, his brother, and his father rotated staying with his aunts. His dad had sold their home, and done his best to stall the Soviets as he prepared to flee with his sons. Finally, one night Fahim was jostled awake by his father. It was time to go.

With wads of cash carefully sewn into the linings of their jackets, the three met their “coyote,” the man who would guide them on their treacherous journey, and embarked on their path to freedom.

For the next 7 days and nights, the group traveled on foot through the mountains – some as high as 22,000 feet – until they reached the refugee camp in Pakistan.

A few days after they arrived, a smiling Marine told Fahim they’d found his mother and siblings. They were safe and well in the United States.