This Shall Be a House of Peace

by Phil Halton

  Amin persisted. “It is for the Ma’alim, to feed the boys in the madrassa. I have never asked for sweets, Haji.”

  “The other boy told me of your madrassa when he came to buy food. And he bought a sweet.”

  “That was my older brother, Haji.” Amin imagined with a mix of admiration and disappointment how Wasif would have haggled for a piece of candy to be included in the price of whatever he had bought for the Mullah.

  The shopkeeper stuck a finger under his turban and scratched at his forehead. “I have never seen this Ma’alim that you both speak of. Other than you and your brother, I’ve never seen anyone from your madrassa at all. Where do you say it is?”

  Amin pointed at the top of the hills overlooking the highway and gave him the same answer as before. “In that village, Haji.”

  The shopkeeper scowled as he gazed up the slope. “That’s no village — no one either goes to or comes from there. It has been deserted for years. Since the Russians.”

  “As you say, Haji. But in it is a madrassa, full of boys for whom I must buy cooking oil.”

  The shopkeeper snorted. “That is a place for djinn, not young boys. Why have I not seen more of you?”

  Amin repeated the words that he had heard the Mullah use before. “Our needs are small, and God provides.” The shopkeeper looked skeptical, but Amin continued. “I am sure that the Ma’alim would welcome visitors.”

  The shopkeeper laughed. “Travel up there to a deserted village, full of djinn and Russian land mines? Never.” He took a furtive glance over the boy’s shoulder. “We have problems enough of our own.” The shopkeeper forced a smile back onto his face. “And so a boy appears from nowhere to buy oil. Wonders never cease. How much money do you have?”

  Amin held up the bills given to him by the Mullah, spreading them apart slightly so that they could be counted. The shopkeeper frowned and covered the bills with a henna-stained hand, so that they could not be seen by others. He reached behind himself and lifted a very small plastic jug of oil. “This is what you can afford.”

  “So little? I thought it would be twice as much.”

  The shopkeeper picked up the jug again and placed it back inside his shop. “I can sell you twice as much for twice as much money. But the price is the price.” The shopkeeper flashed his eyes toward the checkpoint. “In the past weeks, we have begun to pay high taxes.”

  Amin glanced over his shoulder toward the bus, still waiting on the road by the chain. He could not see anyone, not even the boy in the vest, so he turned back to the shopkeeper. Handing over his thin paper bills, he held out his other hand for the half portion of oil. Amin tightened the cap until it was snug, wiping his hands on his shirttail. With his cricket bat over his shoulder, he turned to walk back the way he had come, dangling the oil jug.

  The shopkeeper reached out and yanked on his sleeve. “Not that way,” he said, and gestured around the back of the chai khana. “Give a wide berth to what goes on here, and hide that oil.”

  Amin tucked the jug under his arm and did as he was told. He walked behind the chai khana, stepping gingerly through a pile of garbage whose stench made his eyes water. Reaching the other side of the ramshackle building, he peeked around the corner. The bus still sat in the middle of the road. Seeing no one, he darted across the road.

  As he did so, two men carrying rifles stepped off of the bus. Amin had never seen men like these before. His heart quickened a little, but he kept his head down and lengthened his stride, taking only side glances at the men as he went. Bandits. One was tall, with a scar across his whole face that left his nose looking ragged, like a thick handful of torn paper. He clutched a small wad of bills that he pushed into his shirt pocket. The other was shorter and fat, with long greasy hair that hung limp around his face. Both glanced at Amin, but neither paid any attention to a boy who was not worth robbing. The fat bandit unhooked the chain so that it dropped down to the asphalt. He lazily waved the bus onward. The taller man stretched, holding his rifle high above his head in both his hands.

  Amin glanced over his shoulder again, back toward the bandits, just as the boy in the sequined vest stepped out of the ZIL. He noticed Amin and shouted at him. “You! What have you got there?”

  Amin did not want to stop, but he knew what was expected when strangers met. He turned to face them, but lost his nerve and looked down at the ground, avoiding eye contact with any of them. “Only cooking oil, to feed the students at the madrassa,” he said, hoping that even the most desperate bandit would not stoop to steal food from religious students.

  The tall bandit spoke to the boy in the vest in mock seriousness. “Young cousin, you should go with him to the madrassa. You could become a learned man!”

  Amin hesitated. Perhaps he had misjudged them. If he was serious, it would be a sin to turn the boy away. He spoke cautiously. “Our Ma’alim teaches the Quran and the Hadith to all who wish to learn.”

  The boy in the vest spat toward the taller bandit and marched over to the side of the road where the chain was tied. The tall bandit took a half step toward him, but the other laid a restraining hand against his chest. “Ignore it,” said the fat bandit.

  “Our young cousin needs a lesson. Our fathers would not have stood for this,” said the tall bandit through clenched teeth.

  “Our fathers are dead,” replied the fat bandit, “and so the world turns upside down. The lesson to be learned is to do what one needs to do to survive.”

  Amin watched as the boy in the vest pulled an automatic pistol from a holster hanging on the post that supported the chain. Amin froze with fear as the boy walked straight at him. The boy kept coming and mimed shooting at Amin with the pistol held high over his head. He pressed the barrel against Amin’s chest, pushing hard into his flesh. “I will teach you a lesson in respect,” he spat. Amin stood still, holding his breath.

  The boy shoved him, both hands gripping the pistol, but he was too small to push Amin off his feet. Finally, he shouted in frustration at the bandits, his voice shrill and angry. “I’ve had enough of this stupid boy. Beat him! Teach him a lesson! Beat him until your arms are tired and I am bored of it.”

  Amin stood his ground, unsure what would happen if he ran. His grip tightened on the cricket bat that hung at his side, but as the bandits came closer he did not dare use it on the boy. Instead, he looked at the men and pleaded, “I’ve done you no harm.”

  The taller bandit glared at a few men who were leaning out the door of the chai khana to see what was going on. They ducked back inside, the blanket door swaying in the dusty air.

  “As you wish, young cousin,” said the fat bandit.

  His partner then grabbed Amin roughly by the collar of his shirt, ripping it as he twisted it in his fist. With his free hand he took the bat and tossed it to the side of the road. His first blow knocked Amin sideways to the ground. He dropped onto Amin’s chest, grinding his knees hard into the boy’s ribs before rolling him over onto his belly. Amin strained to look up, helpless as the shorter bandit squatted down by his head. As he leaned down low, his greasy hair brushed against Amin’s face. “This is your first lesson.”

  Amin cried out in shock as the bandit hit him across his shoulders with a bundle of long antennas broken off of cars that they had robbed. As each blow fell, Amin screamed again, until it became one continuous sound. He turned his head to the chai khana, knowing in his heart that someone would help him. No good person would let this happen, he thought. As each blow struck his shoulders, his eyes darted back and forth all around him, but no one came. The universe shrank and time slowed down, until all Amin’s thoughts were encompassed in the pain in his side and his shoulders and his head.

  Towering above him, the boy in the vest looked on with cruel eyes and laughed.

  CHAPTER 2

  Up above the valley, the madrassa was filled with Wasif’s reedy voice. “And obey Allah and His Messenger. And fall into no disputes, lest ye lose heart and your power depart; and be patient and persevering …”r />
  As Wasif chanted the sacred verses, the Mullah swirled the tea in his cup. He did not take his eyes off of him, anticipating the poetic words of the Quran in his own head as the boy recited them.

  “For Allah is with those …”

  Wasif’s voice trailed off at the sound of others shouting in alarm in the courtyard, breaking the rhythm of the Quran in his mind. The Mullah leapt from his seat and moved toward the door, where he was checked by a rush of young boys storming into the room. In their midst was Amin, staggering and trying to swallow his tears. His head and shoulders were covered in blood, his kamiz torn into fine strips revealing his lacerated back. His hands were empty and his expression was full of pain, but even more it was full of shame that the others were seeing him in such a state.

  Amin collapsed onto his knees in front of the Mullah. “Forgive me, Ma’alim.”

  The young boys stood in a tight clutch around Amin, speaking over each other as they tried to make sense of what they were seeing. Wasif felt shame well up in his own face as he saw his brother’s pain laid bare for all to see. He tried to herd the other boys back through the door and away from his brother. His throat was thick. “Get out! All of you!”

  “Wasif,” said the Mullah, “be still. Everyone, be quiet.”

  Wasif went to his brother’s side, kneeling with him and taking one of his hands in his own. He kept his eyes low, not looking at his brother, worried that he would begin to cry, as well. The Mullah gestured for Amin to sit on a cushion and then took a seat. “Give him room,” the Mullah commanded. Amin struggled to the cushion, supported by his brother. The boys all backed away and stood in a cluster behind the Mullah, fidgeting and pulling at their shirts. The Mullah’s actions were slow and measured. He poured fresh tea from the pot into his cup, giving it a quick swish. He stood and moved to the doorway, flicking the liquid out of the cup onto the dust outside. Taking his seat again, he refilled the cup and handed it to Amin.

  “Drink this, and then tell me what happened.”

  Amin told him in between gasps. He left out no details, even of his own humiliation. Wasif turned redder and redder as the story unfolded, feeling every bit of pain and shame as if it were his own. When Amin finished, he could barely force his words out between sobs. “They only stopped … when a truck pulled up … at the checkpoint. They would have … killed me … I am sure.”

  The Mullah listened in silence until the story was finished. He appeared deep in thought as next he examined Amin’s back and head. His hands were rough, but he examined the boy’s wounds gently and thoroughly. He tore the remnants of the boy’s kamiz, leaving him bare from the waist up. “Wasif. Bring me the ewer and bowl.”

  Wasif let go of his brother’s hand and did as he was asked, setting the bowl down behind Amin and holding out the ewer. The Mullah took it and very carefully poured water on Amin’s back, using a balled-up piece of the boy’s shirt to help wipe the blood away so that he could see the wounds underneath. Amin’s back was swollen and covered in lacerations, and the boy shuddered every time the Mullah touched him.

  “These are not so deep,” said the Mullah. “These cuts will heal quickly, I am sure.” Wasif reached for his brother’s hand, but Amin had tucked both of his arms tightly around himself, eyes closed, as he tried to master his feelings again.

  The Mullah, satisfied that he had washed most of the blood off Amin’s back, tore the cleanest parts of the ripped shirt into long strips, which he wrapped around the boy’s chest and back, tying them off on one side. As he tightened the bandages, Amin began to sob again, making a sound like a wounded animal.

  “Enough, boy,” said the Mullah. “During the war, mujahideen suffered much worse than this in silence. A man would not cry because of a wound such as this.”

  Amin shoved a fist into his mouth, breathing through sobs and flared nostrils. Eventually his breathing became calmer and he opened his eyes, looking over toward his brother. Wasif patted his leg and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

  Satisfied with the bandages, the Mullah stood and held out his hands. Wasif understood the gesture, and poured the remaining water from the ewer over them so that the Mullah could wash the blood from between his fingers. His hands moved in a quick and familiar rhythm, but Wasif could see the tension in his hands. The Mullah clenched his jaw, and Wasif knew that he was angry. Angrier than he had ever seen anyone before.

  When the Mullah was finished, he shook his hands dry and addressed Wasif. “Find a shirt for Amin. Then ensure that the other boys finish their practice and their chores.” Before Wasif could ask him any questions, the Mullah turned and strode out of the madrassa.

  Wasif followed the Mullah outside to the compound door. The Mullah paused for a moment as he stepped over the high threshold. “Bar this behind me.” And without another word, he was gone.

  Wasif pushed the door open so that he could watch the Mullah, his hands clutching both sides of the door frame. The boys of the school pressed close behind him, straining to see what he was looking at, but also careful not to touch him. Wasif turned to look for his brother amongst the boys, spying him sitting on the outside step of the classroom wearing a mismatched kamiz. “Brother, I’m going with the Ma’alim,” said Wasif. “You must stay here with the others and rest.”

  Amin brushed the tears from his eyes with a dirty sleeve. “I wish to go where you go, just as it was before we came to the madrassa.”

  For once, Wasif didn’t chastise his brother for disagreeing with him. “Brother, you can’t walk back down to the highway. Rest and get strong.”

  Amin looked away, tears welling up in his eyes again. Wasif turned away from his brother and headed after the Mullah. As he stepped over the threshold, he repeated the Mullah’s instruction to one of the other boys: “Bar this door behind me.” The younger boys looked at him with wide eyes.

  As Wasif reached the edge of the village, he could see that the Mullah was already striding down the switchbacks below the terraced fields. In the large and desolate landscape, he seemed impossibly small, easily swallowed up by the height of the mountains or the expanse of the desert at their foot. Wasif quickened his pace and reached the point where the path became thinner and descended the mountain. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that the other boys from the madrassa had followed him, hanging back a little in vain hope that he would not see them.

  “Get back in the madrassa,” shouted Wasif, trying to summon authority to his voice. “You have chores to attend to.”

  None of the boys answered, but neither did they turn back toward the madrassa. They stood in a tight cluster on the pathway, simply watching. Wasif shouted again, pointing at them with his whole arm in the way that the Mullah did when he was angry. “Do as I say!”

  When the boys remained standing where they were, Wasif gave up and headed down the path to catch up with the Mullah. The pack of boys began to follow him again, this time much closer than before. Wasif tried to outpace them, half running down the hill, at times sliding down the slope between the switchbacks, creating balls of dust that rolled down the hill ahead of him. Wasif stopped at the last turn on the path before it flattened out, still a hundred yards from the highway itself. He turned around to see the boys stopped in a group just behind him, unsure whether to approach any closer. Then he turned again to face the highway. In the heat of midday, there were no cars at the checkpoint. The chain was pulled taut across the road again, and he guessed that the bandits and the boy in the vest that Amin had described were lounging in the shade inside the ZIL. Through the doorway of the shop he could see the shopkeeper rearranging his wares. Everything else around the chai khana was still except for the eddying dust clouds.

  Wasif watched as the Mullah slowly approached the checkpoint. He stopped often, standing still and raising his head to listen before moving closer again. Wasif moved a little closer, as well, sheltering in the meagre shade of some rocks along the side of the trail. The younger boys now crowded in with him, craning their necks over the
rocks to see what was happening.

  In time, the Mullah reached the highway itself, planting his feet firmly on the hot, grey asphalt, facing the ZIL. The shopkeeper was looking at him from his tiny stall, unsure who this stranger was. The Mullah stared back until the shopkeeper pulled the door of the stall shut, locking himself inside. Then the Mullah spoke loudly: “Show yourselves, thieves and blasphemers.”

  Wasif held his breath as the Mullah waited a long moment. There was no sound from inside the ZIL, no reaction at all that Wasif could see. Dust swirled around the Mullah’s feet, pausing only for a moment before it continued down the highway to Kandahar. All of the boys were on their feet now, jostling each other to see what the Mullah would do next. Wasif moved a little closer to the highway, finding a spot where he could crouch behind a pile of dry brush. The other boys followed, unwilling to be left behind.

  The Mullah drew himself taller and spoke much louder this time: “Show yourselves, thieves and blasphemers!” A head poked out from behind the blanket of the chai khana to look at him before disappearing again.

  This time there was the sound of movement from inside the ZIL. The tall bandit staggered out through the door in a cloud of blue smoke, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with red. The sound of the metal door striking the side of the ZIL caused the boys to startle, but the Mullah did not flinch. The bandit’s kalash hung loosely in one hand, barrel pointing down at the ground, as he stared at the Mullah. Next out the door came the boy in the vest, whose skinny legs were bare under his long shirt. The last to leave the ZIL was the shorter bandit, who was hitching up his loose pants as he stepped through the doorway. A kalash was slung across his shoulder with a dirty piece of rope. His hands pulled at the drawstring of his shalwar and his fingers fumbled as he tried to tie a knot in the string. When he had secured his pants in place and his hands were finally free, he swung the rifle off his shoulder into both hands, gripping it tightly and pointing it at the Mullah.