by Phil Halton
The farmer ducked through an interior door to some other part of the house, returning quickly without the plate.
“What is that?” asked Amin.
“Upym,” replied Rashid. “This explains much about our friend Isa. We need to get him up to the madrassa where he can rest.” Rashid lifted his friend up by the shoulders, Isa’s head lolling to one side, and tried to pull him to his feet. “Lend a hand, Amin,” he said, struggling with Isa’s dead weight.
Amin grabbed Isa by the arm, trying to support him enough for Rashid to raise him higher, but Isa’s limp body resisted them. “Enough,” said Rashid, “place him back down again.”
Amin’s face was serious. “Is he dead?” he asked.
“No,” said Rashid, “just in a deep stupor.” He turned to the farmer, who squatted in the shade by the interior door. “How much has he smoked?”
The farmer looked at the plate that sat on the ground beside him. “Nearly two tulees since yesterday.”
Rashid looked surprised. “No wonder he is like a stone.”
“Should we leave him here for now?” asked Amin.
“He would be best among friends,” said Rashid. He turned to the farmer. “Help us carry him up to the madrassa.”
The farmer looked doubtful, and turned his head to one side to spit onto the ground. “He hasn’t even paid me for the tulees. He said he would collect the money today.”
“Collect the money?” asked Rashid.
“From the cars, he said,” explained the farmer.
Amin’s eyes widened. “He buys upym with the zakat?”
“Don’t judge what you have never known,” explained Rashid. “He would only do such things when he is ill, I am sure.”
“In any case, it is only fair that I be paid,” said the farmer.
“There are no thieves here,” said Rashid. “You will be paid. Help me bring him to the madrassa, and I will see that the money you are owed is given to you.”
The farmer acquiesced, taking Isa’s arm from Amin and, together with Rashid, lifted him to his feet. The narrow doorway confounded them for a moment, until they lifted Isa off the ground entirely and carried him through it as one would a bundle of firewood. Once they were through, they went back to supporting him under each arm, half carrying and half dragging him back to the highway, with Amin trailing behind them.
When they reached the checkpoint, Wasif was still on his feet in the sun, watching for cars approaching. Seeing Isa, he rushed over.
“Is he injured?” asked Wasif.
“Not as you might think,” said Rashid. “Amin, stay here with your brother, and our cousin and I will bring him the rest of the way.”
Wasif looked at Amin for an explanation, but his brother merely shook his head. Certain that his instruction would be followed, Rashid continued to the path up the mountainside. The farmer, looking up, protested. “He would be better off resting in the chai khana.”
“If you want to be paid, you’ll take him to the top with me, and be thankful that he’s not some fat merchant,” said Rashid.
Moving slowly, in just over an hour they had reached the outskirts of the upper village. As they approached the first house along the trail, they were met by Umar, walking back down.
“Is he ill?” asked Umar, puzzled to see Isa hanging in their grip.
“In a way,” said Rashid. “I think we’ve discovered why he behaves as he does.”
“Some sort of fever that makes one lazy?” asked Umar.
Rashid smiled, grim faced. “Of a sort. Upym.”
Umar’s face fell. “Here? Under our noses? Where does he get it?”
The farmer broke into the conversation. “He has taken it from me, without yet paying me for what he has smoked.” He looked over at Rashid. “I’ve been promised money when we reach the madrassa.”
Umar struck the farmer across the side of the head with his open hand, knocking the farmer to the ground. Rashid, off balance, dropped Isa on top of him. When Isa landed, he let out a long groan and rolled off to one side.
“Poisoner, you will be paid what you deserve!” shouted Umar.
Rashid stood over the man, both hands raised defensively. “He did not start Isa’s habit, he has merely given him what he demanded.”
His fists clenched, Umar looked ready to strike Rashid next. “This man sells poison, no matter whether his customers ask for it by name. What he is doing is haram!” He looked at the farmer with disgust, kicking him in the ribs as Rashid tried to keep him back.
“It is not as simple as that,” said Rashid.
“Please, Haji,” said the farmer, “this upym is all I have of value. Last year, when the crops failed, my family would have starved. I took it as payment for twenty jeribs of land that I sold. I couldn’t take cash — our rupees have become worthless.”
Umar jabbed a finger at him. “It is against Islam.”
“I have only sold what I need to buy seeds this year. My family will starve otherwise. I am not an evil man.”
Umar spat on the ground, looking at Rashid. “His family deserves to starve.”
Rashid spoke quietly, still holding his hands up to ward off Umar if necessary. “Brother, no one’s family deserves to starve.”
“Do they deserve to live by poisoning others?”
The farmer held his hands together in supplication. “What would you have me do?”
“Upym is haram,” said Umar, “but providing for your family is a duty.”
“Will we feed them from the zakat, then?” asked Rashid.
“If we fed every family that grows this poison from the zakat, there would be money for nothing else,” countered Umar.
“Didn’t I tell you — this is not a simple problem,” said Rashid.
“We will lock them both up until the Mullah returns,” said Umar.
“But where?”
“Follow me,” said Umar grimly.
The kishmesh khana sat fortress-like on the edge of the upper village, surrounded by low mud walls dividing the fields. Its own thick walls were pierced, checkerboard-like, with holes to let air circulate around the grapes drying into raisins. Most of the holes were clogged with debris, as the building had sat unused for many years. A rough wooden door was set in one end of the squat building, with a massive ancient padlock sealing it shut. The early morning sun had begun to warm the outside of the thick mud structure, but the inside remained cool.
After a long and sleepless night, Isa lay slumped in a puddle of his own filth against the mud-brick wall of the kishmesh khana. Both his hands and feet were wrapped with chains that were secured through the holes in the walls, and they had been left too short to allow him to lie down flat. He looked across the room at the bearded farmer, who was also chained to the wall, although they had left his bonds just long enough that he could lie down. The man was still asleep, noted Isa with more than a little jealousy.
He heard the sound of movement outside. The door swung open on rusty hinges. He shielded his eyes from the sun that shone in through the doorway, recoiling back from the dark figure that stepped inside.
“Brother, are you awake?” asked Rashid in a gentle voice.
“Loosen my chains, please,” pleaded Isa. “Just for a little while.”
Rashid shook his head. “It is Umar who has the key.” He took a piece of bread from his pocket and wrapped it around the stub of the tulee that he had hidden in his pocket at the farmer’s house the day before. “Eat half of this now, and half tonight. You will have to suffer eventually, but this will push that a bit farther out into the future.”
He offered it to Isa, who snatched it from his hand like an animal. “I need more than this,” said Isa.
Rashid shook his head. “There will be no more. And eat the bread, as well; you will need your strength.”
Isa pulled on his chains angrily. “I can’t even look at food. I just want out!”
The farmer was awake now, staring at Rashid. “My family will not forget this harm you
have done,” he said.
“Fuck your whole family,” said Isa.
“They’ll fuck you,” said the farmer.
“Enough,” said Rashid, passing the farmer a piece of bread, as well. “This will all be fixed when the Mullah returns. I’ll come back tonight for your bucket,” he added, “and with fresh water.”
Isa pulled on his chains, over and over, until his wrists and ankles were bloody. He screamed and yelled until his throat was raw.
The farmer eventually closed his eyes and turned away.
The temperature in the prison began to drop as the sun set. Isa was silent now, and had little to do but think. The filthy building was far different from what he had once been used to.
Life as a mujahid, he thought — what a joke. When he thought about his old life, he realized that although they called themselves holy warriors of Islam they had lived as if they were already in Paradise. Whatever good life was to be had in Peshawar, and later Jalalabad, they lived it. Women, boys, drugs, alcohol — they had it all.
It was not how he had intended to live his life. He had wanted to fight the Russians and free his homeland. But by the time he was old enough, the Russians were gone. He still joined the men who called themselves mujahideen, but the only people they ever fought were others like themselves. And rather than fight, they mostly lived as best they could off of whatever they were given from the zakat, or wherever else they could find money.
And while the others had passed him an upym pipe one night without even telling him what it contained, he needed no one to trick him into trying poder soon afterwards. He had never even had a needle from the doctor — the idea frightened him. But he saw the men who used this stronger drug, and he had never seen such joy on their faces as when that needle slid into their arms. Who wouldn’t have tried it? Wasn’t it true that whenever a smart man found a source of joy, he grabbed it and held on tight? People talked about the good days, years ago, but even with the Russians gone one had to wonder how those good days could ever return.
Isa sipped the last of the water from his plastic bowl, drawing it slowly and painfully across his chapped lips. He swallowed the last piece of the tulee and then shuddered, knowing that the real pain was yet to come. He’d seen others try to kick their habits, bodies wracked until they inevitably went back to using the drug just to stop the suffering. He looked around his prison and asked himself again: How is it that my life has brought me here, chained to a wall by my friends? He could shout for them, but he knew that they would not come.
As he sat in the building that was once used to shrivel grapes into raisins for sale in the market, a thought flashed across his mind: What is the human equivalent of a raisin?
CHAPTER 7
They had been riding for just over an hour, mostly at slow speeds on pitted tracks away from the highway. The motorcycle slowed down even more as they turned toward a small farming village. They passed the rusting hulk of a destroyed Russian vehicle that had swerved off the road and come to a halt against a low wall that surrounded a field. It was blackened from the fire that had destroyed it, a ragged hole ripped through one side, with a smaller hole through the other. The Mullah merely glanced at the wreck as they passed it, focusing instead on the village that they now approached. It looked poor, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There were a few crops growing in the fields, and sheep grazed in the bare patches between them.
Men’s voices could be heard from one of the walled compounds, and women’s voices came from another. The Mullah and the young man had just pulled up into the alley between the walls of the houses when a man stepped out through an ancient wooden door to greet them. He was beardless, but with a drooping moustache that concealed part of a scar that ran from his jaw over his nose and forehead. The Mullah thought that he knew him, but he didn’t think the man he remembered had such a scar, and so he hesitated. Looking away from the man, he saw that all around were armed men, lounging in concealment between the houses.
“Asalaam aleikum,” said the scarred man.
“Wa aleikum salaam,” replied the Mullah. “May your family be strong. May your livestock be well.” The men both recited a long greeting, looking at each other closely and speaking over each other, until they had nothing more to add. The Mullah then stated the purpose of his visit. “I am here to meet with Haji Nasir Khan. I was told he is attending a wedding.”
“My uncle has summoned him,” spoke the young man on the motorcycle.
A moment passed while the Mullah, still sitting on the back of the motorcycle, and the scarred man watched each other. At last the scarred man nodded. “Today is a day of peace.”
The Mullah relaxed and showed his open hands, his prayer beads hanging from his right thumb. “Then I am here on the right day,” he said.
“Come, you are welcome,” said the scarred man. The armed men who had been watching the new arrival closely went back to resting in the shade of the compound walls.
As the Mullah dismounted from the motorcycle, he suddenly realized who the scarred man was. “Ghulam Zia, old friend! Is it you?”
Ghulam Zia embraced the Mullah stiffly. “It has been many years,” he said. “Since the Russian days.”
“But I don’t recall the Russians doing this to you,” said the Mullah as he gestured at the scar across Ghulam Zia’s face.
Ghulam Zia scowled, with only one side of his face moving. “No,” he said, “that came after.” He said nothing more, turning from the Mullah to look out over the fields.
After a moment, the Mullah asked, “How does it come to pass that you are here?”
“I am Nasir Khan’s man now,” said Ghulam Zia. “As are many others from our jihadi days. Anyone who is to get close to Nasir Khan must come through me.”
The Mullah looked around at the armed men who filled the alleys of the village. “What does Nasir Khan need so many men for?”
“For protection, of course,” said Ghulam Zia. “We live in an age where everyone must be able to protect what is his. Almost every day we must defend ourselves against the corrupt militias of men like Ustaz Abdul Haleem or Haji Ahmad.”
The Mullah frowned, “But these men are mujahideen.”
“Were mujahideen,” corrected Ghulam Zia. “Now they are nothing more than bandits. One controls the western approaches to the city and the airport, though it is little more than a heap of ruins and wreckage. The other has blocked the highway to Chaman, and takes half the cargo in taxes from any truck that uses the road.”
“How can good men come to this?” asked the Mullah.
Ghulam Zia gave a short, barking laugh. “In the end, men are just men, neither good nor bad.”
The Mullah shook his head. “I cannot believe that is true,” he said.
The nephew, who had parked the motorcycle off to the side of the alley between the houses, led the Mullah into the small compound that was used as the village’s hujra. He noted that it was in good repair, having been recently plastered and painted. Even the fact that such a house existed, not to mention that it was well maintained, spoke volumes about the village’s honour.
Long lines of carpets had been laid out in the garden, and sitting on them were all the men of the wedding party. Seemingly never-ending tea flowed into glasses as large communal plates of qabuli pilau were served. Sitting at the head of the carpets was a well-dressed young man with a pockmarked face whom the Mullah took to be the groom. Beside him sat a small, older man whose shalwar kamiz was a delicate creamy colour and whose back was ramrod straight. No introduction was needed for the Mullah to know that this was Nasir Khan. In the darkest days under the Russians, when many mujahideen were being killed, Nasir Khan led a band of men who not only avoided capture, but attacked the offices of KHAD itself in Kandahar City. No mujahid in the province was more famous than Nasir Khan. His grey beard was neatly trimmed, and his clothes were expensive. His turban was made of silk, a deep green, and the tails of it hung low on his shoulder, as befitted an elder. Ghulam Zia took
up a standing position behind him, where he could survey the men around his master.
Nasir Khan spoke, and the crowd fell silent. “And so that our tribe continues to grow, and be strong, I give you this gift,” he said. Nasir Khan handed the groom a thick envelope, pressing it firmly into the young man’s hands.
“Thank you, Haji,” said the groom. “Your generosity is only overshadowed by your wisdom and strength.”
The men in the garden all clapped appreciatively. The groom’s father, seeing that the Mullah was a new guest, leaned in to speak to him. “My son is marrying my brother’s daughter. It keeps the dowry in the family.”
The Mullah nodded his approval. “It is good for a young man to get married.”
Nasir Khan spied the Mullah and sprung to his feet, walking quickly between the rows of guests to greet him. He took the Mullah by the hands, a melodious greeting flowing from his lips and spilling over the Mullah’s own brief words. When they finished, Nasir Khan smiled and squeezed the Mullah’s hands.
“I’m very pleased that you have come,” he said.
“And I am surprised that you know me at all, Haji,” said the Mullah.
Nasir Khan laughed, and looked around to include others in the conversation. “I remember you from the jihadi days,” he said. “And now I am hearing even more stories. A mullah who chases and threatens bandits? And who controls a checkpoint? Such a mullah is destined to be famous indeed. What are we to make of you, exactly?” Nasir Khan’s eyes twinkled as he spoke, though the Mullah could see that his words were carefully chosen.
The Mullah paused to compose his reply. When he spoke, his words were slow and equally deliberate, and he looked Nasir Khan in the eye in a way that other men did not. “Our country has become a complicated place,” said the Mullah. “It is far simpler in my madrassa, which is where I wish to remain.”