Akram's War

by Nadim Safdar

  Aunty nodded, holding her hands together in her lap. Her shoulders rolled forward and she stared at her hands, picking at the edge of a fingernail.

  Azra spoke again. ‘The boys at the madrasa, upon reaching maturity and with their hearts overflowing with the desire to perform Allah’s work, they would cross the mountains. Not one ever returned. With unseen tears, as we watched them leave, we whispered their funeral prayer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Aunty to me, ‘and thank you for doing Faisal’s ghusl.’ She reached out and took both of my hands in hers. Her hands were warm, the skin yellow. ‘You and Mustafa have been friends since you were infants and to him you are like a brother. Your assisting him with the ghusl is an honour to our family.’

  I hadn’t told Azra about the ghusl. She gripped her chin in one hand and cocked her head, staring at me. Even through her burqa I could sense that she now regarded me with at least a little respect.

  Still, she continued on her theme. ‘Our job was to fill their hearts with the Holy Book. It would take about seven years to learn it by rote, occasionally a little quicker, though often, for those who resisted their fate, it would take a year or two longer for the imam to beat it into them. We took them in as infants, mostly abandoned on our doorstep, and sent them out as men. As warriors fit and strong and ready for the short walk across the pass and the long war thereafter.’

  I ignored her. ‘About Faisal’s ghusl – it was indeed my honour to be asked, Aunty.’ I picked up a mug and put it to my lips. I blew on the hot surface and added, ‘Your son Mustafa, he is fearless.’

  ‘Mustafa was a dentist, you know.’

  I nodded.

  ‘But he followed Faisal abroad. It was Faisal who had the calling, Faisal who first studied the Holy Koran. But Faisal was easily led and hot-headed, and his brother Mustafa felt he had to follow, to look after him.’

  ‘A dentist. A good job,’ said Azra to me, as though in rebuke.

  ‘As a young man, Mustafa was always hunched over a table, his head in a book. He was a good dentist but they took away his licence on account of his poor eyes.’ Aunty paused for breath. ‘Mind you, he still pulled teeth. Mustafa would joke that to make up for his eyesight he would feel his way around his patient’s mouth. It was in London he first practised dentistry, and in the evenings he would devote himself to the Holy Koran. In London he met brothers who taught him to read the Holy Book as a direct instruction to a way of life. Well, when the authorities found out he was operating without a licence they stopped him from practising dentistry, and do you know what they said to him?’ For a brief moment Aunty forgot herself and laughed. ‘They said to my educated son, why don’t you retrain as a butcher? So what does Mustafa do? Ever resourceful, he gathers up his tools and follows his brother Faisal to jihad. “My tools,” my son once said. “In the service of jihad my forceps are of greater value than the gun.”’

  She nodded slowly. ‘He always thinks of others. The Taliban were more in need of a dentist than they knew. They took him to far-off places deep inside the mountains and led him blindfolded to work on their leaders.’

  The azan sounded out of the alarm clock on the mantel: ‘Allahu Akbar. . .’

  ‘He didn’t just pull teeth. He was the nearest they had to a surgeon. Mustafa carried out their justice.’

  This part Mustafa had failed to tell me. I wanted to hear more.

  ‘We should go.’ Azra got up to leave. I gestured to her to sit down, but she remained standing.

  ‘Mustafa said it was more humane to do it with anaesthetic, cleanly and surgically, than with a scythe. The hands of a thief – the arms of a traitor – primitive justice.’ Aunty was clearly irritated by Azra, still standing, her thin black frame looming large in the small room. ‘Stay,’ she continued. ‘Pray with me. It would honour my family if my dear son Akram led the prayer.’

  I could sense Azra seething inside her burqa. It felt like a small victory. ‘Very well, Aunty,’ I said. ‘As you wish.’ I picked up three prayer mats folded on a side table and spread out the first one on the floor.

  ‘You can’t touch the mat with that,’ said Azra, her voice a low shriek.

  I looked down to see the blackened rubber stump at the end of my walking stick pressing into the prayer mat.

  ‘Your cane,’ she said, ‘it is dirty.’

  ‘You will follow me,’ I said, emboldened by Aunty’s presence.

  ‘You have soiled the sacred surface.’

  I appealed to Aunty with a smile.

  ‘Ladies behind men – come on, girl,’ said Aunty brusquely.

  The women fell into position behind me. I couldn’t bend or prostrate, so Aunty brought up a chair. Comfortably seated, I led the proceedings, listening for the gentle sound of Azra’s gold bangles clicking against each other as they rose and fell on her arm. I conducted the prayer as slowly as I could. I was no longer aware of my painful thumb, and my voice was clear, without a hint of fever. I sang, not recited, the Arabic words, stressing each syllable precisely as I had heard them in Afghanistan. It felt good, like being an imam, and I felt a cheap satisfaction to know that Azra had to follow, as though finally, however reluctantly, she had to bend to my will.

  17

  ‘It was the one thing I looked forward to, my monthly visit to the contact centre. I’d wait in a room with plastic chairs, bright pictures on the walls and toys on a mat on the floor. They’d bring in Britney, and for two short hours, under the watchful eye of the social worker, we would play. There were conditions: I wasn’t allowed to encourage her to call me Mum, although she still did. I wasn’t to be too affectionate or over-kissy. Taking photographs was not allowed. Imagine you’re her big sister, the social worker had advised.

  ‘They promised that over time they’d look to increase our contact, and one day, out of the blue, a kind secretary from the social worker’s office calls me up and invites me in for a meeting. I hope that they’re calling me in to increase our hours, and I put on my Sunday best. It takes ages to find the office and it doesn’t help that I don’t even know who I’m meeting. Eventually I’m shown into a shabby room with flaky, painted brick walls and tall metal windows onto the street. It reminds me of an old classroom.

  ‘“We’re here to discuss what’s best for Britney.”

  ‘I’m sitting opposite the chaperone lady, just the two of us, and I nod earnestly.

  ‘“What do you think that is, Miss Booth?”

  ‘“To hang out more with her mum?”

  ‘“That’s disappointing. I was hoping. . .” She shook her head. “Never mind. I wanted to tell you about a family, miles from here. They live in the country with land and animals and are particularly fond of their horses. They have two older children, teenagers, a boy and a girl. My colleagues from their borough sent me their file and I’ve had a very good look through it.”

  ‘“What part of the country?”

  ‘She shook her head again.

  ‘“What’s it got to do with me?” I felt suddenly sick and wanted to leave.

  ‘“Miss Booth, you’re still young. You can start again. Maybe, in time, have other children.”

  ‘There was a square window cut into the door of her office and a colleague of hers was waving through it. “Wait here.” She stood up, her chair scraping loudly. “I’ve got a treat for you.”

  ‘The door opened and in walked Britney, nervous at first. She saw me and beamed. In her hands was a card she had crafted.

  ‘“I’ll leave you two for a few minutes. Think on it, Miss Booth. It’s best for the child.”

  ‘I settled Britney on my lap on the floor. We looked at her card, two stick figures in crayon under a yellow sun. I stared at her small pudgy hands and wobbly red cheeks. She looked back at me with huge round eyes. I couldn’t cry, not with Britney in the room, and maybe I did, for a moment, lose my mind, just like the barrister in court had said I did.

  ‘Leaving Britney on the floor, I got to my feet and locked the door to the corridor.
The chaperone came back after a short while, her face through the window surprised to find the door locked. She knocked lightly at first, trying not to frighten Britney, then a bit harder, her eyes wide and fixed. She called her colleagues, who crowded into the corridor outside, different faces silently taking turns to pull worried expressions through the window. Britney and I played on the mat with wooden farmyard animals, ignoring them all.

  ‘Finally, the police were at the door. At first a woman officer tried to talk to me, but I ignored her and we continued to play, our backs to them. Then a male police officer, saying he would have to bust open the door. It was only then that I picked up a paperknife that lay among the papers on the chaperone’s desk, went up to the window and put it to my neck.

  ‘I guess they figured that as long as I stood by the door, Britney, at the far end of the room, was safe. That’s why, why I think anyway, the door bust open in my face. I was knocked out cold. Later the nurse in the hospital told me I was choking on a loose tooth in my throat. They must have bundled Britney out of the room.’

  There is a glazed expression on Grace’s face, but no tears. I stand up, reach across the table and rest her shoulder against mine, cheek to cheek. I tell her that, just like her illness, everything is cyclical, nothing ever really ends. I tell her that when I close my eyes to pray, I see a rainbow of colours streaking across a sky and carved within the blue of it are the words prescribed for the close of each recital. I tell her that I too dread the end, that I feel lost, empty, as though suddenly abandoned by Allah.

  Grace slumps back in her chair and nods. ‘Don’t mind me.’

  I kiss her on the forehead.

  She seems to compose herself quickly. ‘It’s all make-believe, you know.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘A condition of mind.’

  Confused, I wait for her to continue.

  ‘We allow ourselves to believe in stuff we shouldn’t. Sometimes it’s automatic, like when Britney was born and I held her and I said to her, “Me and you, girl, we’re in this together, forever.” It’s the same for you with your Allah.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say. ‘Adrian had a phrase for it.’

  She leans in and listens intently.

  ‘No pain. If something was too awful to think about, he’d tense his jaw and tell himself, no pain.’

  *

  It was the first prayer I had ever led, and sadly, it was soon over. Behind me, Azra and Aunty were getting to their feet. I was still dreamy, winding down, when I heard a loud slow clap and then Azra’s voice, ‘Now you must feel like a real man.’

  Burning with fury, I respectfully took leave of Aunty and quickly left the house, stepping into the fresh warm air of the day. I heard the door close behind me, and a second later Azra’s full weight charged into my side. My stick collapsed from underneath me and I nearly fell. Extending her painted toes from beneath her burqa, Azra kicked the stick away, out of my reach. I balanced on one leg.

  ‘Be a man and walk,’ she said.

  The stick lay on the pavement about ten feet away. I stared at her, sweat dripping from my brow, unable to comprehend what she had done.

  ‘And after that take a hand to your wife for her insolence,’ she went on. ‘But before you beat her, recall that she is not yet your wife. You have not yet made her your wife. A marriage must be consummated, and if your wife won’t bend to it then you must make her. Allah made man and woman and to each their respective strengths.’

  I longed to see her face, masked by the black drop of the burqa. ‘Azra, pick up the stick.’ Bearing all my weight, my right leg had begun to hurt. ‘I demand you pass me my stick.’

  ‘Crawl for it.’

  For balance, I lowered my bad leg. The slightest touch of my foot to the ground was immediately followed by a searing pain from the knee up to my spine. My leg jerked reflexively, the movement threatening to topple me over. The sole of my good foot began to burn on the hard tarmac. I looked around; a curtain in a nearby house twitched but other than that there was no one in sight.

  I clenched my teeth. ‘I will not crawl.’

  ‘Crawl for redemption.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We sent them out only to be murdered by the infidel. By you.’

  ‘I bet you were in love with a Taliban.’

  Azra laughed drily. ‘Love. What would you know about that?’ She threw a glance back at the house we had just left. ‘You might fool that old woman, but I know your fate is to burn like the infidels.’ She took in a wide view of the street. ‘The British infidels are born to their lot, but you? You went against your own.’

  My face was clammy with perspiration. As the burqa prevented me from seeing the expression on Azra’s face, I decided I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing the anger on mine. With great effort, I relaxed my jaw and put on a nonchalant expression, focusing my thoughts on stiffening the muscles in my supporting leg.

  ‘What did they offer you to turn against your own?’

  I remembered to wriggle my toes the way we would when standing for long periods on parade. Immediately, I felt a slight relief.

  ‘You murdered the brothers you were born to.’

  I closed my eyes, listening to the gentle breeze, the sound of cars in a distant street, the familiar bong of a hammer. I thought of an old soldier’s trick and tuned my nose to the smell of my surroundings. Too often soldiers forgot that the enemy lay under their noses: the aroma of baking flour as chapattis cooked in nearby houses, a faint whiff of spiced oil, tobacco and a wisp of hashish. I smiled inwardly, remembering that out in the field this, mixed often with paraffin fumes, would alert us to a Taliban camp.

  No longer able to hold me, my leg buckled and I collapsed painfully to the pavement. Azra shook her head and proceeded slowly down the street, her hips swaying inside the burqa.

  I crawled to my stick, then dragged myself up and limped fast and recklessly in the opposite direction, threatening to stumble at any moment. In no time at all I was descending a steep set of steps that led down, as though a new subsurface level had opened up, onto a path alongside the canal. It was quiet down there, almost brighter, as if, unencumbered by buildings, the sun penetrated deeper. Swans and ducks, dappled in sunlight, meandered casually along on the water, occasionally flopping up onto the ground as a brightly painted barge motored lazily in the direction of Netherton Tunnel. The vessel’s engine was a low rumble, background noise, like the sound of wildlife.

  I rested on a wooden bench near the abandoned mill. It now had a steel door and a glass window, partly open and protected by a screen of chicken wire. From within I could hear a rhythmic beat, clack, clack, clack, and a voice not unlike a training sergeant’s, issuing admonishments and instructions. I got up and went closer. Through the open door I saw a brother in a Lonsdale vest working a punching bag. Another couple of brothers, their black beards spilling out of protective headgear, sparred viciously.

  I turned away from the door and carried on, and where the path ended I scrambled up, at times painfully on my hands and knees. On top of Turner’s Hill the grass was dense and battered constantly by the wind, growing in tall wild clumps. It was darker at the summit, even on a clear day. An electricity pylon marked the highest point and I sat down on a small grassy ridge nearby. It was exposed, and every few seconds the wind changed direction, gusting around me. Before me birds swooped obliquely in and out of view as though carried on the currents. On all sides I was surrounded by hills, hills that were invisible from the town below. There was Clent, Malvern, and further out, the Welsh black mountains. Between the hills were strung factories, tall industrial chimneys, and neat rows of terraces, the older ones with grey slate roofs squeezed tightly together. A knot of spidery orange metal I identified as the playground in Lye Park. The castle sat on a hill at one end of the panorama and at the other, as though diametrically opposed, stood three tower blocks. In the far distance, where Rowley Works once sprawled for miles, was a flash of neon, signallin
g the entrance to Merry Hill shopping centre. I squinted my eyes against the obvious, the century and a half of labour and industrialization, and obligingly they disappeared into a blurry grey. The scene now before me wasn’t natural – nature had been blunted – but suddenly it seemed ancient and unchanging.

  Turning, I was surprised to see Bobby, and I felt bitter at the sight of him, as though Turner’s Hill was a place only I visited. That day he too carried a limp. Down below on the water, Mustafa would be waiting for me as arranged, and probably he had sent up Bobby to keep a sly watch. The fakir Bobby held a long staff in his hand, and he wore long flowing robes in green.

  ‘What you doing up here?’ He had to shout to be heard over the wind. In the absence of a turban his long hair blew across his face and obscured the third eye Adrian and I had branded him with, each grey tendril picked up by the currents, soft and feathery.

  ‘I’ve come to see the edge of the rain.’ I looked out across to a distant range, counting the peaks to myself.

  Bobby turned to command the scene in a full sweep, then sat down next to me. ‘But the sun’s out.’

  ‘I can wait.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ he leant in closely and raised his eyebrows, ‘only pervs come up here.’

  ‘You would know.’ I stared straight ahead at the view.

  Pushing aside his hair to reveal the scar on his forehead, he said, ‘Thank you, brother, for this. It was Allah’s will and it woke me up to what I had become. I did not seek medical attention; I suffered it, I consumed the pain, hoping for more.’

  His scar reminded me of Adrian, and I felt overwhelmed with my love for my dead buddy. ‘If I was superstitious,’ I said, ‘I would think you were there in the pomegranate orchard the day Adrian Hartley died, you were the eye marked on the trees.’

  ‘You saw for yourself, at the mosque, I am gifted with something. The mark on the trees, it was a warning.’ The wind almost swallowed up his next words. ‘I, brother, I have learnt much through suffering.’

  I looked down at the drab landscape and said bitterly, ‘I have learnt nothing through suffering.’