The Road Ahead

by Adrian Bonenberger

  Nasir lifted himself into the passenger side of his truck to find the board, a view high enough to glimpse beyond the Hesco walls to see the top of the qalat that had been the Russian headquarters in the old days. He’d heard that the Americans came to Gardez early in their war, building walls and fortifications around the old base. He watched as a line of dark green Afghan army pickups and Humvees lumbered into the driveway between the base’s outer gate and its inner gate, bobbling along the uneven gravel driveway, past the entry of the holding yard. He wondered whether the new Afghan soldiers held their mission in their heart like he had as a young man. He scanned the faces of this new generation of Afghan troops: they were young, but looked exhausted as old men. Nasir took a deep breath, reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat to touch the chrome watch, turning it around inside his pocket.

  God does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear, he recited to himself. But he remembered the dark days when he could barely bring himself to pray. He spoke prayers of peace to God, yet never spoke aloud his wish for retribution and revenge against the faceless men who had caused the wars and destruction. He watched so many drown as he and his family struggled for air in the stifling, overflowing refugee camps. Somehow they kept breathing. Farzana had stood by him during his years lost in a heavy black cloud of anger, despair, and hashish—an old pocket watch and five prayers a day the only markings of time he could account for. He couldn’t lose time like that again.

  Nasir returned to the carpet with a checkered wooden box in his hand. He sat down next to the teenager. The boy had dull eyes and breathed with his lips open, revealing a missing front tooth. He seemed to be one of the lost boys of these long years of war who have known no homes or parents or schools. They seemed empty, save for a bottomless capacity for mischief. The boy was about the age of Nasir’s youngest son, who, masha’Allah, was at home with his mother and studying for school. A world away from this lost boy, thin and dirty, his face scruffy with fuzz, not yet a man’s beard. Nasir thought of how Farzana would take pity. He smiled at the boy, thinking of her words. “All these lost children are our children,” she would say. Nasir felt a surge of energy. He would try to draw the boy out with the game.

  “Do you play shatranj, son?” Nasir asked the boy.

  The teenager shook his head and stared down at the dusty carpet.

  The old man waved his hand to dismiss the boy. “Let’s have a game,” he said, patting the carpet in front of him in a small cloud of dust.

  Nasir opened the wooden box and dumped the thirty-two miniature quartz pieces onto the carpet, folding it out into a flat, checkered chessboard. He gently placed each piece onto their squares, one side an army of tan, the other dark brown. The boy looked on with what looked like a glimmer of interest.

  “Watch how we move the pieces, and learn,” Nasir said to the boy. “When I was your age, I was a soldier and fought against this man,” Nasir explained, touching the old man on his shoulder. “Now that we’re old, this is the only fight between us.”

  The boy’s dull eyes met Nasir’s for a moment, then he looked down again, saying nothing. Nasir shrugged, and the old man gave a short laugh.

  “Light or dark?” Nasir asked the old man as he placed each piece on the squares.

  “You seem dark today, my friend. You take light, to be less dark,” the old man answered.

  Nasir turned the small chessboard around on the carpet, studying it. He reached into his waistcoat and pulled out the chrome watch. He opened the cover to reveal the face. “Two minutes per move, Akaa. You must be quick with your cunning, my friend.”

  Nasir turned to the boy. “Son, pay close attention. This is where we match our skill and wit. Sixteen pieces to move, sixteen pieces to take. No chance or luck—unlike each day when we put our life’s uncertainty into God’s hands,” Nasir said, pushing forward his first sarbaz, a foot soldier. “Here on the board there are only moves and consequences,” he said.

  The boy gazed lazily at the board and shifted his legs as he sat on the carpet. He picked at his dirty toes.

  “There are rules for each piece, and there are rules in life for each one of us. As truck drivers, we are like these small pieces.”

  The boy rubbed the fuzz on his chin and gave a slight nod. The old man reached into the pocket of his baggy trousers and pulled out a small, rectangular tin. The old man held it out to Nasir, who politely shook his head to decline. The old man shrugged his shoulders, opened the lid, and took up a thick pinch of green naswar powder, which he placed in the side of his lower lip. He laid down alongside the chessboard, settling in for the game. He advanced his first sarbaz, then looked up and asked, “Boy, how long have you been driving your truck?”

  “This is my first delivery to the Americans,” he said, eyeing the old man’s tobacco tin as he placed it back in his pocket.

  “You have much to learn,” Nasir said without looking up, and moved another sarbaz toward the center of the board. He missed the relaxed light-headedness he used to feel from the strong green tobacco. When he brought his family back to Afghanistan from the refugee camp in Pakistan, he promised Farzana he’d never again touch the tobacco—or hashish. He wanted to leave behind the clouded memories and habits of those dark days. Nasir watched as the old man leaned back onto the carpet and squinted his eyes as the naswar set in.

  “We drivers can only move when the company dispatches us,” Nasir said to the boy, moving his pawn a single space. “We must have our correct papers and identification to be brought in by the Americans. We must have our papers signed, we must keep them with us. Then we must wait while they load our trucks,” he said.

  The old man smiled a broad, toothless grin. “We must also hope that a bad crane does not flip our truck,” the old man added, spitting onto the dusty gravel. The old man moved his wazir, the king’s minister, the most powerful piece on the chessboard. “Check,” he said.

  Nasir rubbed his fingers along the grey and white hairs of his beard. He glanced down at the second hand of his pocket watch as it lay on the carpet. He had to make a choice. He moved his rukh to block the advance of the old man’s wazir. “Sometimes we are escorted by an American convoy, and they protect us,” he said.

  The old man quickly moved his horseman to take Nasir’s rukh. Nasir shrugged and wagged his head. The boy watched, index finger in his mouth, feeling the hole of his missing tooth.

  “Without the Americans and their guns, we aren’t protected,” Nasir said. “We must always keep close watch for those who would take us,” he said, nodding at the old man. The boy looked on, and Nasir thought he might finally be paying attention. This hollow boy was the opposite of his curious sons. “There are men who would kidnap us and hold us for money. There are men who would capture and burn our trucks. There are men who would cut our heads off because we move cargo for the Americans,” Nasir said, drawing his hand across his throat. The boy’s eyes met his.

  Nasir continued, “The Americans can be trouble too. One day they slap you on the back as a friend and say words in Dari, then the next they think you’re Taliban and point a rifle at you,” he said.

  The old man took another one of Nasir’s pawns. The old man mused, “We small pieces have our value. Insha’Allah, we will each have our chance to make it to the other side.”

  The boy sat up, supporting himself with both of his hands on the carpet. He seemed stirred by a thought. He looked Nasir in the eye and said flatly, “I don’t see why you try to get foot soldiers to the other side.”

  Nasir darkened with irritation, but breathed in and regained himself. “Foot soldiers are the key to winning, my son.” Nasir explained, “We have no power as individuals, but together we are strong. We drive the trucks. We move the goods. We fire the guns. We climb the mountains. We win the objectives. When a foot soldier reaches the far side, he becomes the wazir. This changes everything.”

  As he spoke, Nasir felt a deep ache inside his chest.

  The boy’s eyes remained intent on N
asir. “Did your army win?” he asked.

  Nasir felt a flash of anger and wanted to strike the boy. But he thought of his sons, and Farzana. Boys should be taught, not beaten, she would say. He breathed in another slow breath. “We had tanks, we had helicopter gunships and fighter jets—we had the heavy machines and artillery. We destroyed mujahideen bases. We killed many,” he said, looking down at the board, thinking of the old man and being careful to show respect. “We won many battles, but the fighters were strong and kept coming. In the end, we did not win.”

  The boy said nothing, got up from the carpet, and dragged himself lazily back to his truck, his sandals scuffing up dust and gravel as he walked. Nasir caught the smell of greasy food, undoubtedly from the Americans preparing the evening meal on their base. He felt the emptiness in his own stomach. If he came home tonight, Farzana and his youngest daughter would have his favorite dinner prepared. A dish of hot stewed goat in rich, greasy spiced sauce, which he would happily sop up with freshly baked naan, along with handfuls of fresh rice pilau. He craved both his wife’s cooking and her company. His favorite thing upon coming home would be to quietly eat his meal while Farzana would tell him all that has happened in his absence, all of her complaints, and all that she needed him to do now that he was home. This was his true value and worth, he thought. At home he became the wazir, and Farzana was like the shah.

  The men heard the deep roar of the engines of an incoming convoy and looked up from the chess game to watch as a line of heavy armored trucks lumbered slowly along the driveway past the holding yard. Atop each truck was a heavy, shielded turret with a machine gun, and an American soldier inside, wearing helmet and goggles. Nasir marveled that the American trucks seemed to grow larger and more sophisticated each year of the American presence. Thicker armor, bigger guns, more antennas and mysteriously shaped devices installed on the outside—to do what, he could only guess. A few of the trucks were outfitted with steel frames holding metal nets, like giant cages. These huge machines to lock inside what were surely fearful young men—women too, he’d learned. They won battles, yet they did not seem to defeat the fighters. The Americans were winning and losing at the same time, he thought.

  Two Afghan flatbeds carrying armored trucks were lined up in the military convoy. Nasir recognized one of the trucks as another friend from the road. His painted cab had words in Pashto script across the front: “Road Poet.” Short verses lined the wheel wells and running boards of the exquisitely painted, dust-covered truck and trailer. Nasir jogged out toward the entrance of the holding yard to exchange a wave with his friend, keeping his distance. One of the American machine gunners rotated his turret toward him. Nasir stood still in the dust just inside the holding yard, watching the convoy at a standstill.

  A haze of dust blew across the convoy, clouding the mountains in the distance until they were no longer visible. He felt through the haze of his memory of Gardez those years ago, to the black morning on the helicopter pad when he and the other commandos embarked on that last mission. The smell of diesel fumes filled his nostrils and he felt the hard, tightened knot in his chest, the churning in his gut. The helicopter dropped his platoon of commandos on the wrong mountaintop, a ridge away from the mujahideen base called Zhawar. His was one of only eight helicopters—of the thirty-two launched that morning—not torn apart in their first minutes on the ground by mujahideen machine guns. Farzana would tell him to breathe when he remembered. She said to breathe, then to look at his watch and count down thirty seconds to take his breath back, to slow his racing heart. This had become his habit. He reached his fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat where he kept his pocket watch, then remembered it was still on the carpet next to the chessboard. He had exceeded the two minutes for his turn.

  Nasir walked slowly back toward the carpet, breathing deeply, counting the seconds, and feeling his heart beat more slowly in rhythm. He glanced at his pocket watch beside the chessboard. The old man gummed his jaws and grinned at Nasir, easing his anxiousness. Nasir resumed his seat and saw he was in a bad position in the game. He had a choice: lose his wazir or allow the old man to take his remaining rukh and then control his side of the board. Nasir breathed and glanced at the watch, counting the seconds and weighing his options.

  The boy stirred. “We have no power because of the Americans.”

  Nasir moved his rukh in a block. The old man took his wazir, spit onto the gravel, then looked up to answer the boy: “That may be true, son. Remember also that the Americans are only one part of our many problems.”

  Nasir grunted in agreement with the old man as he studied the board. He wanted to regain control of the center. The most options, the most control, came from the center. Atop the mountains overlooking Gardez, there was no center. The mujahideen had artillery and machine guns ready for them, hidden and set high to protect their base, with deep, elaborate tunnels packed with fighters. He and other stragglers and survivors scattered and fled the steady stream of fire like mice into the rocks. All but twenty-four of his comrades were killed. He and the other survivors holed up in the rocks, pinned down by mujahideen gunners for three days.

  “I want to be a foot soldier,” said the boy. Nasir looked up at the boy, who met his eyes. “I want to fight for Islam,” the boy said.

  “Son, when you are older you will see that Islam does not always take sides,” Nasir said. The smell of death filled his nostrils. During those three days of hiding, he forced himself in the darkness of night to creep out, undetected, scavenging the uniforms and gear of his death-bloated comrades. The platoon’s radio operator was lodged in a rocky crag, collapsed and swollen. Nasir struggled for what felt like an eternity, eyes watery with stench and grief, silently moving his comrade, reaching his hands like a thief through his clothing and pack to find a battery, then the radio and receiver. The men thought this was a miracle, giving them strength to spend silent nights stealing away like ghosts. When they reached a safe distance, Nasir pulled out the radio and, with what little was left in the battery, made contact with a nearby unit. It took them eight days to reach the unit—but the radio is what gave them hope. This is why the Spetznaz commander gave Nasir the watch. He had perfect timing, the Russian officer said in his accented Dari. Nasir held himself stoically until then. After the commander gave him the watch, he vomited. Before their return to their base at Gardez, he deserted.

  The old man laid his hand softly on Nasir’s shoulder. “It is your turn, my friend,” he said gently. Nasir shook away his haze and smiled, embarrassed at his drift into dark memories. The boy turned to the old man and asked, “Where will we go if the Americans don’t let us in today?”

  “They will have us park outside,” the old man explained. “This place,” he said, sitting up and waving his arm at the holding yard’s gravel lot surrounded by barriers and concertina wire, “is just where the Americans want us if one of us explodes,” he explained, then spit onto the gravel.

  Nasir picked up his pocket watch, holding it in his hand and counting the seconds before setting it back on the carpet. He remembered what Farzana would tell him about keeping his patience. Nasir gave the boy a fatherly smile. “I hope that doesn’t happen. My wife expects me home soon.”

  The boy stared with cold eyes at Nasir. “Taliban would pay your family if you explode yourself,” he said.

  Nasir froze and felt a chill shoot through his body. Then his face flushed with anger. “Taliban would pay my family one time. I pay my family each truckload I deliver. I came back to my country ten years ago to make my family’s life better, not worse. The Taliban have nothing for my family that I do not already give them,” he said, growing angry.

  “The Americans are infidels,” the boy said.

  “The Taliban are no better,” Nasir said.

  “God is the greatest,” the boy said.

  “God is the greatest,” Nasir replied in a harsh tone.

  “I will be a foot soldier for Islam,” the boy said.

  “Who has filled you
r head with foolishness?” Nasir asked.

  “I will be a foot soldier in the jihad,” the boy said.

  Nasir’s face flushed hot. “You don’t understand what you’re saying,” Nasir shot back at the boy. He slammed his fist down on the small chessboard, scattering the marble pieces across the dusty carpet. The boy jumped up and trotted over toward his truck.

  “Peace, peace,” said the old man, tapping his hand on Nasir’s sleeve. “He will learn in his own time, as we did in ours.”

  Nasir held his breath for a moment and kept his anger from his old friend. He inhaled slowly, then exhaled. He looked at the old man. “Forgive me, Akaa. Boys talking like this make my heart heavy,” he said.

  “My heart also,” said the old man.

  A young bearded Afghan soldier walked out to the two men. They stood up, reaching out hands to shake in greeting. The soldier smiled and gave greetings, holding an AK-47 over his chest instead of placing a hand over his heart. He informed the group that security was tightened, and that the only trucks coming on base that afternoon would be food deliveries. All the other trucks would have to wait outside until morning.

  Nasir squatted down and began picking up the scattered pieces of the chess set, placing them carefully back into the wooden box. The old man looked over at the boy’s truck and waved for him to come back over, squatting down on his haunches. The boy crept back to the carpet, squatted down beside the old man, and rubbed his hands distractedly along the dusty, multicolored pile of the carpet. Nasir tried not to show his irritation. He set the remaining pieces back into the wooden box, snapped it shut, and walked back to his truck to place it on the seat. He could hear Farzana reciting the verses to him, God is with those who are righteous and do good. So the orphan—oppress not. When he returned, the old man and the boy were talking loudly, almost in argument.

  “I have food, I think,” the boy said.