by Phil Halton
The Mullah ignored the boys, content to let them squat silently in whatever shade they could find. He took a shovel from Wasif and began to dig the first grave. The soil was loose and dry, and would have been easy to dig if not for all of the stones that he had to lift out of the hole. These he placed off to the side in a little mound separate from the pile of dirt. As Wasif watched in silence, Umar worked beside the Mullah. Umar was clumsy with the shovel; twice he laid it down to examine blisters rising on his hands. But he worked hard, and Wasif saw that the handle of the shovel soon became streaked with his blood.
When they had finished digging the graves, Umar turned to the Mullah. “Will you lead us in the salat al janazah?”
The Mullah grunted. “As is our obligation.”
Wasif herded the boys into rows, all facing toward the Mullah. Umar fell in line with the boys, as well, standing at the head of the front row. Wasif straightened up to his full height when he realized that he was nearly as tall as Umar.
The Mullah raised his hands alongside his head, and spoke. His voice took on a deep and rich quality that it did not have in normal conversation. His words flowed now in rhythmic, almost musical tones. “Allah-u akbar!”
The boys repeated the takbir.
The Mullah placed his arms across his chest and continued. “In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful! O Allah, let Your Peace come upon Muhammad and the family and followers of Muhammad, as you have brought peace to Ibrahim and his family and followers. Truly, You are Praiseworthy and Glorious.”
The older boys recited the prayer, as did Umar. The others listened in silence, unable to follow along from memory. The Mullah’s next words were his own, spoken from the heart.
“O God, if this man and this girl were doers of good, then increase their good deeds. If they were wrongdoers, then overlook their bad deeds. O God, forgive them and give to them, and to all of us, the steadiness to see and know and do the right thing.”
The wind picked up and began to blow a fine layer of dust over everyone and everything in the immense valley that stretched across the province between the mountains in the north and the desert to the south.
The Mullah’s voice rose again. “O Allah, we seek refuge with you from sin.” The Mullah turned his head right and left, twice repeating the taslim: “May the peace and blessings of Allah be upon you.”
Umar and the boys turned their heads and repeated the taslim, as well. The prayer finished, they stood blinking in the dusty wind.
The Mullah and Umar lifted the bodies one at a time and placed each one into its grave. The Mullah carefully turned each body onto its right side so that it faced toward Mecca. The soil was too dry to be formed into balls, as was the custom, and so the Mullah placed stones under the head, the chin, and the shoulders of the old man and the girl, supporting their gaze toward the west.
The Mullah gestured to the boys, who lined up to face him again. Clutching a handful of dry earth, he recited a passage of the Quran from memory, slowly releasing a stream of dust from his fist, pouring three handfuls into each of the two graves. “We created you from it, and return you into it, and from it we will raise you a second time.”
One by one, first Umar and then each of the boys stepped forward and added dirt to the graves, repeating the words that the Mullah had said. When they were done, the Mullah and Umar again took up their shovels and filled in the graves completely. All the boys gathered around to pat down the earth with their hands and form a smooth, rounded mound over each grave. Nothing was placed to mark the graves other than a stone on each end.
As the boys finished shaping the mounds, the Mullah spoke to Umar. “Thank you for your assistance. If I had anything material to offer you in thanks, I would, but I do not.”
Umar smiled. “Mullah, it is clear that you have much to offer. But now that these two people have been buried, do you think that the outside world has finished with you? That I will simply walk back down to the highway, and the world will go back to passing you by?”
The Mullah spoke without irony. “That is my sincere wish. Go with my thanks.”
The Mullah turned away and began to direct the boys back to the madrassa. “Wasif, the boys will wash and prepare for prayers.”
Wasif jumped up from where he had been crouching. “Yes, Ma’alim.” He looked around at the boys and pointed across the fields at the madrassa. With as much of his newfound authority as he could muster, he gave them a command: “Get moving.” He himself hung back, however, listening to the Mullah and Umar speak.
The Mullah went to pick up the shovels, but Umar lifted one before he could reach it. “Since yesterday when you chased the bandits away from the chai khana, no one there has talked of anything else.”
Wasif saw the Mullah’s face harden. “Little has it done for their piety.”
Umar shook his head. “They are afraid, Mullah, which I know to you is inexcusable. They are not content to place their lives in the hands of God, as you do so easily. But they also have something new. They have hope. They have had the smallest whiff of peace, of not being robbed or beaten or abused at the whim of degenerates. And they want to hold onto it.”
The Mullah was dismissive. “Then I suggest that they do.”
“They are decent people. They will ask for your help,” said Umar.
The Mullah’s eyes burned brightly. “And when I sought their help?”
Umar shook his head. “To their shame, you did what was right even without their help. They will look to you as a leader now that they have seen you for what you are. Simple people fear the unknown, and they were almost as frightened of you as of the bandits.”
“I have no desire to be their leader.”
Umar was shocked. “But who else, if not you? Bandits still prowl, and the people of the village will suffer if no one helps them. They want justice after what has been done to them, but they do not even know where to start.”
“Justice is from God, not from men. It is our place to live pious lives, nothing more. Justice will come in time.”
Umar held out his hands plaintively. “Despite what happened this morning, the villagers are planning to ask you for help. I have listened to them talk while they waited for Faizal to make tea. None of them believed that the bandits would ever leave, and they saw how easily you chased them off. When they ask you to meet them at the chai khana, come and hear what they have to say. If you don’t want to help them, at least tell them yourself.”
The Mullah looked down at the ground for a moment, thinking. Umar had learned, in his short time with him, that it was best to wait for him to speak. Wasif, too, waited uncertainly for his teacher’s reaction.
After a long moment, the Mullah spoke. He would meet with the villagers if they asked.
CHAPTER 4
The inside of the chai khana was filled with low wooden platforms covered in old, almost impossibly dirty carpets. The furniture was arranged around a huge, central samovar full of brownish tea, served in short glasses. A hibachi near the back smoked heavily, and the air was thick with the smell of lamb fat. Faizal stood enveloped in a cloud of greasy smoke, fanning the grill madly with a scorched piece of cardboard, the kebabs nearly ready to be served on a stack of naan bread peeking out of a pink plastic bag nearby.
A scruffy young boy slipped past the blanket that hung over the doorway. He stood still for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the room’s low light, before Faizal noticed him. “For the last time, get out! No more charity!” Faizal stepped out from behind the hibachi to shoo the boy away, but in doing so left him an opening. The boy dodged past the old chaiwallah’s outstretched arm, raced over the edge of one of the platforms, and scooped a skewer of meat up off the grill in each hand. He ran straight out the back door of the chai khana before anyone could react. The room erupted in laughter as Faizal twisted around, trying hopelessly to catch the boy.
The local men and the few travellers who filled the chai khana were in good spirits. They sat in loose ro
ws facing the wall farthest from the main door, along which sat the most respected men of the district. A few of the oldest spingiri sat close to the bokhari instead, soaking up the wood stove’s meagre heat, though no one else thought it cold. At the centre of the group of elders was the Mullah, with Umar sitting in the front row close by.
The chaotic discussion had already lasted for hours, and had ranged over many subjects: plans for crops, predictions for the weather, thoughts on bartering produce locally or trying to take it to the city to sell. When they had exhausted these topics, their talk turned to the problem of the bandits. The Mullah had not yet spoken; he was still listening to the others.
Unnoticed by the men, who were deep in discussion, Wasif and Amin crawled under the blanket door and sat on the floor just inside the doorway. The boys stared with wide eyes at the crowd of men, bewildered by speakers talking over each other while the listeners called out comments as they saw fit. Amin tugged on his brother’s sleeve. “Is this truly how men conduct themselves in a jirga?”
A thin man with a cloudy eye was speaking loudly as some of the others muttered in agreement. “Tarak Sagwan has been a plague on this village for weeks. No traveller on the road is safe while his men are about. And there is not a man in the village who has not had something stolen from him by these men.”
The Mullah looked from man to man in the crowd as each spoke his thoughts on the bandits, adding to the growing litany of complaints.
“The women have to keep our children silent for fear that his men will kidnap them.”
“I had an old car, from Iran, that we used to drive to market. As soon as Tarak’s men heard about it, they found me and beat me until I turned it over to them.”
“We all assumed that when the Russians were gone we would have peace again, but we’ve had nothing but robbery, murder, and chaos.”
“We don’t just need peace, we need justice. For all of the crimes that we have suffered.”
“For the murders of innocents committed in our very midst.”
When the last man had spoken, there was silence. The men looked at the Mullah expectantly. Faizal spoke up, entreating him to speak. “Mullah, we know all these things to be true. The village needs a man like you. Will you help us?”
The Mullah pondered this for a moment, swishing the tea in his glass as he composed his thoughts. Before he was done, another man spoke up. “It is only a matter of time until Tarak Sagwan retaliates. Not just against you, Mullah, but against all of us. It is only right that you help us.”
A ripple of fear passed through the room. When the Mullah finally spoke, his voice was harsh. “Until yesterday, you did not know I existed. Now I am essential?” He looked around the room, trying to meet each man’s eye. “I am also needed in the madrassa, and I only have time to do the bidding of God.”
“Perhaps leading the people of the village is the bidding of God,” offered Umar.
The voices of the village men erupted again as each tried to talk over the other’s arguments. Umar strained to hear each argument, but the Mullah sat in silence, scowling at the chaos.
Umar finally stood, waving his hands to quiet the crowd. One by one, the men fell silent. Umar looked to the Mullah, hoping that he would speak again. The Mullah clicked his prayer beads through the fingers of his right hand, staring silently at the door. Umar tried a different approach. “Let there be order, where every man listens and weighs the words of the others on their merit. Perhaps we can hear now from someone who has not yet spoken?” His eyes scanned the crowd.
The men stared in surprise as Wasif stood up to speak. “My brother and I will protect the village.”
Amin stood up beside his brother. “We’re already old enough to leave school.”
The men in the chai khana laughed. The two boys were too young to speak in the jirga, much less to protect the village. A flash of anger crossed the Mullah’s face. He clenched the prayer beads in his fist. “I left you to watch over the madrassa, and this is what you do? You abandon your duties and demand a higher one? Stop this foolishness at once, and go back to where I left you.”
“But, Ma’alim, we just want —”
The Mullah leapt to his feet. “You will leave this place at once or I will carry you back to the madrassa! And let there be no more disobedience!”
Tears filled Amin’s eyes as he reached out to take his brother’s hand. Wasif hesitated for a moment, his mouth hanging open as words formed on his lips, but he did not speak again. He led his brother out of the room, the blanket swinging back into place after they had left.
The Mullah took his seat again. The room sat in stunned silence. Faizal stood and muttered something about the need for more tea. Men sorted through the raisins with their fingers, but no one raised a hand to his mouth to eat. The discussion had come to an end, it appeared. Only then did one of the younger men in the room break the tension. “Mullah, we are mostly farmers, and have little knowledge of anything but tending our fields. If we formed a lashkar, we would only lose to these bandits. We do not have enough guns, and we do not know how to fight.”
The men in the room mulled this over, their pride arguing in their minds against what they knew to be true. The young man continued, “But what if we found volunteers to protect the village? Men who know fighting, or who can learn. Together we could feed and house such men, I am sure.”
Quiet sounds of agreement could be heard amongst the men, but none dared speak to the Mullah directly. Umar turned to look at the Mullah expectantly, hoping that he would reply.
The Mullah’s eyes drilled into the young man until he turned away in discomfort. “And where will we find these men? What kind of man would defend a village that refuses to defend itself?”
The room went quiet again. Umar swished tea in his glass, his wrist turning round and round, before he spoke. He, too, did not look at the Mullah, and his words came carefully as he picked each one with care. “As all here know, I am not from this village. My father was Uzbek, as am I, though my mother was Hotaki, like many here. This business with the bandits, by rights, is not my own. But I can see a righteous cause as clearly as anyone else. I will volunteer to protect this place, insh’allah.”
The Mullah looked at Umar incredulously and snorted. “Is foolishness contagious? You take the idea of a boy and make it your own?”
Umar looked up, his voice firmer now. “I merely take an idea that is right, and make it my own. And I ask that you lead us in the defence of the village, but if you do not, then I will take on that task, as well.”
The Mullah said nothing as he stared at Umar. The village men watched in silence until Faizal broke the tension, passing from man to man, filling their glasses from a battered teapot. As he went, he asked, “Who else? There must be others.”
Umar singled him out. “What about you, Faizal?”
“I’m an old man,” said Faizal. “My place is here. But I will feed all of the volunteers at my own expense, as best I can.”
Umar stood and surveyed the crowd. Most of the men avoided his gaze. “So, who else?”
A quiet man in the back of the crowd stood up. He had not yet spoken, and seemed like a stranger to all. His clothes were threadbare, though reasonably clean. He held his turban in one hand as his other brushed over the stubble on his closely shaven head. The man pushed the turban back onto his head and gazed downward. “I am called Rashid. I will help, if you will have me.” He sat down again without waiting for an answer.
A light began to shine behind Umar’s eyes. “That makes five of us now, Mullah — though only if you permit the boys to help us, and you become our leader.” Umar ignored the Mullah’s angry glare and continued. “Say that you will. I am sure that others will volunteer if you do, as well.”
The Mullah stood up, his face showing irritation. “Do you understand what this means? When something like this is started? Once you begin, you can never go back to how it was. You must stay the course until it is finished, for good or for ill.”
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He gazed around the room to look every man in the eye. Most met his gaze, although only shyly. The young man spoke up again. “Insh’allah, we will never go back.”
The Mullah took the measure of the men in the room. He could see them measuring him in return. For a long moment, the only sound was the compulsive clicking of prayer beads between his fingers. Finally, he let out a deep sigh. The Mullah raised his hands alongside his head, palms facing forward as if in prayer. He closed his eyes and spoke an oath that he meant to fulfill if it cost him his life. “Then, in the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful, I pledge to lead these men, to protect this place, and to live in the light of Islam.”
Umar stood, smiling, and grasped him by the hand. “Bismillah!”
The Mullah looked around at the others in the jirga. “There can be no justice in a community until it is safe, and for that we will need more men than we have.”
The men looked at each other, but not one of them volunteered. Umar turned to the Mullah and took his hand as he spoke. “Insh’allah, we will find them, if it is truly justice that these people want.”
“Insh’allah,” replied the Mullah.
“How old were you when you joined the jihad against the Russians?” asked Umar.
The Mullah thought for a moment. “My uncles took me with them for the first time when I had barely three hairs on my chin.”
Umar jumped on this. “Then why not allow us to do the same with these two boys here?” He tensed as he waited for the Mullah to reply. “This new jihad is no less important than the one we fought. It is perhaps even greater.”
The Mullah did not speak at first, looking intently at Umar as if to divine his purpose. Searching his heart, he nodded. “Perhaps you are right. I will speak to them, but there will have to be limits.”
Umar smiled in agreement, watching as the jirga began to break up. Men stood and stretched after many hours in the cramped chai khana. Some left, stopping first to shake hands with the Mullah, while others remained in small knots of conversation. Faizal spoke to Umar and gestured toward the rear of the chai khana. “I may have someone else for you. A volunteer, of sorts.” He leaned over to explain, whispering into Umar’s ear.