Parents Hold Their Breath as Troops Head Homeward

About 20 of them stood silent in the third-floor television room of the Shark (East) Hotel on Sunday, waiting for the news from Afghanistan, just across the border.

“Until we see what they say about the Salang Pass, we won’t move,” said Tamara Vasilyevna, referring to the main route her son and thousands of other Soviet soldiers will be taking home in the next few days.

The minute the newscaster introduced the daily report from the war zone, every one in the room strained forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the son they were waiting for.

Tamara Vasilyevna walked to the side of the set and leaned in, as if she were trying to somehow see behind the officer on the screen to the troops hidden in back of him. And when the report from Afghanistan was over, the relatives all walked away, their interest in the news evaporated.

“They always show them too small,” grumbled one mother about the pictures of the troops.

The television report had said: “The hour of the return is drawing near,” and with it, more spouses and parents like these were pouring into this nondescript border town Sunday.

Nearly nine months ago, the Soviet Union promised to withdraw the last of its troops from Afghanistan by Feb. 15, ending nine years of what the Kremlin calls “fraternal assistance” and the West sees as virtual occupation.

More than 50,000 were pulled out by last August. A relatively steady flow of mostly support and auxiliary units has been under way ever since, and the last of the combat troops are now on their way back into Soviet territory.

As war is a great social leveler for the troops, waiting worriedly for their loved ones to come home from the battleground is a social leveler for their parents.

Officials, Ordinary Workers

There were peasants and professionals waiting here Sunday; officials and ordinary workers.

They came from all over the Soviet Union--the Far East, Siberia, Moldavia, the Ukraine and Central Asia.

They had been here for as long as two weeks, not sure exactly when their sons and spouses would cross back into safety.

“I have no date,” said Nina Novikova, whose 20-year-old son, Yevgeny, has been in Afghanistan for 22 months. “I only know that by Feb. 15 they are bound to be here.”

This is a war in which parents like Shafiga Azimova, from Baku in Soviet Azerbaijan, didn’t know for a year that her son was even there.

“I found out when I saw him on television,” Azimova added of her twice-decorated son, Fikret.

Scattered Throughout Town

The parents and other relatives of the returning soldiers are scattered in small hotels and private residences all over this combination military outpost and farming community.

Some find a room for as little as the equivalent of about $4 a night at a shabby hotel like the Dustlik (Friendship) on the edge of town, near the military airport. One group of parents sat around the lobby there Sunday night wearing their heavy coats against the chill and watching an old movie on TV.

“They’ll tell you officially your son has arrived, but you may not actually see him unless you persist and make sure he is there,” one mother, whose son had already arrived, advised a father who had just gotten to town.

“They (the army commanders) are overworked and you can sympathize but, after all, your business is more important,” she told him.

Other parents, like Novikova, an economist from Krasnoyarsk in Siberia, got here a week ago and were lucky enough to find a much nicer room at the Surkhan.

Local People Rent Rooms

“Those who can’t get a hotel rent rooms from the local people for anywhere from 25 to 50 rubles ($40 to $80) a month,” said Capt. Yuri Streltsov, a local army administrator.

But wherever they stay, they form a very special fraternity. “We are almost relatives living here in the hotel,” said Vasilyevna at the Shark. “We have common pain.”

The woman saw her son, who is a professional soldier, while he was on leave just a month ago. But still, she said, “my heart is aching. People are saying it’s a very hard situation there (in Afghanistan); I am a mother, what else can I say?”

Others, like Azimova, have not seen their sons in as much as two years.

They all trek together daily now to the Friendship Bridge over the Amu Darya River, which separates the Soviet Union from Afghanistan.

A bus provided by the local military commissioner “takes us there by a designated time,” said Novikova. “After a certain time they say that if your son’s unit hasn’t crossed yet, it won’t cross that day.” Even when relatives are pretty sure their loved ones won’t be coming, they often join other parents and spouses at the bridge.

‘Parental Brotherhood’

“It’s sort of a parental brotherhood,” she added. “Besides, it’s also nice for the boys whose parents couldn’t come. We wave to them and give them gifts and it makes them feel like someone cares.”

Finding one face in formations of hundreds is a problem. “All I can do is peer at every passing row and column,” said Novikova.

Even in normal times, there may be a couple dozen relatives at the bridge. But with the final withdrawal only days away, the crowds are swelling.

Capt. Streltsov said there were about 300 relatives in Termez by Sunday.

An excited 5-year-old boy whose brother is apparently among those soon to return was overheard asking his father as they walked near the center of town: “Will Andrei be able to keep his assault rifle?”

Over at the Shark Hotel, meanwhile, others watched as a TV reporter interviewed some of their peers waiting at the Friendship Bridge.

“Of course we are suffering!” one woman told the TV reporter. “We are waiting for our sons. And we’ll stay here until they arrive!”

Smiling broadly beneath her white fur hat, a mother in the TV room applauded loudly.

HEADED HOME Relatives from all over the Soviet Union are gathered in Terme, where Salang Highway crosses Afghan border, hoping to glimpse returning soldiers.