and then our exile

your name is mohammad rahim khan; you are seventy years old.

tears run down your face as you weep: three young grandchildren you held dear have in the dead of night been burnt beyond recognition.

villagers report three blasts at three in the morning. your grandchildren slept. and if i die before i wake.

the US defence department "denie[s] the US military carried out any attacks in the area".

it was a remotely-piloted Predator aircraft armed with Hellfire missiles which struck, a classified CIA mission.

the village is called damadola.

their father is thirty-five. his name is muhammad khan. he is a jeweller. torn green and red embroidered blankets flap in the cold wind.

everything is blackened in a hundred-meter radius, there is nothing left.

two other families were also targetted. a three year old girl is in 'critical' condition at a local hospital. she is three years old.

the father of one of the three families is currently returning from Hajj, the pilgrimage to makkah each able muslim undertakes. he spent a day under the sun at 'arafah, his arms raised in supplication. he bought gifts for his children, he remembered his home.

shah zaman heard the planes circling, he saw the flares dropped overhead. he called to his wife and ran from his house, searching desperate for shelter. he turned back in time to see his house explode before his eyes, his two sons and one daughter incinerated within the mud-brick rubble scattered across the terraced fields.

the CIA spokesman "declined to comment"; the White House "ha[d] no immediate comment".