by Phil Halton
“And so you are still a religious man?”
“That is for others to judge,” said the Mullah. “I strive in that direction.”
Nasir Khan put one arm around the Mullah, who stood stiffly. He spoke in lower tones, bringing the Mullah into his confidence. “To be frank, I am very impressed by what you have done. Our people need strong and pious men.” The Mullah regarded him in silence. Nasir Khan continued. “I sponsor a large madrassa near Quetta. It has need of a man such as yourself — I would like for you to become its leader. Your salary will be paid by me, and I will find positions for all of your friends, as well.”
The Mullah was surprised by the offer. “That is much too generous, Haji.”
“Surely not too generous to accept?” asked Nasir Khan.
“My skills would not be up to the task,” replied the Mullah. “I am struggling with the tiny madrassa that I have. I know my part in the scheme of God, and it is a small one.”
A flash of irritation passed over Nasir Khan’s face, unaccustomed as he was to being refused. “My offer remains open should God decide for your part in his plans to change,” he said.
The groom’s father interrupted the exchange, tugging on the Mullah’s elbow. “You must sit and eat with us as our guest.” Nasir Khan smiled again and gestured for the Mullah to join the celebration. Nasir Khan did not take his seat again, but began circulating among the guests, talking intimately with each and every man. Ghulam Zia followed him at a discreet distance, watching the guests with cold eyes.
Inside the chai khana, the mood was sombre as the men awaited the Mullah’s return. Umar stepped out to look down the road, but the sun had set and the landscape was blanketed in darkness. He stepped back inside. Pahzman sat despondently in the corner, swirling cold tea in his glass. Rashid lay on his back, eyes closed, deep in thought. Faizal and Lala Chai sat next to each other, a bowl containing tiny cubes of stringy meat between them, carefully sliding the pieces onto metal skewers. No one spoke.
The night wore on, and the candles that Faizal was using to light the chai khana had burned down to stubs. Suddenly, Amin burst through the blanket hanging in the doorway, rifle in hand. “Praise God,” he said, “he’s alive and has returned.”
All the men were on their feet as the Mullah stepped into the room, covered head to toe in dust. The room filled with a sudden energy. Lala Chai leapt up from where he sat and brought a washbowl and an ewer of water to the Mullah. Without speaking or looking at anyone, the Mullah took a seat and began to wash. As Lala Chai poured a stream of water, the Mullah began by washing his face three times. Everyone watched him anxiously, waiting to find out what had happened.
Umar signalled to them to be patient, but Pahzman broke the silence. “Will my daughter be safe?” he asked.
The Mullah continued with his washing. “Have you given the salat-e-isha yet?”
“We have,” said Umar.
“I have not,” said the Mullah. “First I will pray. Outside, where the example can be seen and heard by others.”
Pahzman was distraught. “But my daughter?”
“There is a rhythm to all things in life that must not be denied,” said the Mullah.
“Patience,” said Umar.
Having finished washing, the Mullah stood up and walked outside again. Umar herded the others outside. They lined up to follow his example. The Mullah went to stand in the middle of the road and rolled out a prayer carpet from a stack kept by the checkpoint. The others began to take up positions behind him, all facing westward. The Mullah nodded at each man who came to join him, checking to see that all were present.
“Where are Wasif and Isa?” he asked.
Amin answered, placing his carpet directly behind the Mullah’s. “Wasif is back at the madrassa already, watching the boys, Ma’alim.”
The men all looked at Umar to supply the remainder of the answer, who looked suddenly uncomfortable. “We must speak of Isa later,” he said to the Mullah.
The Mullah looked at Umar for a moment but did not pursue the matter any further. Satisfied that everyone was in position, the Mullah turned and closed his eyes briefly, considering his intentions toward this prayer and toward life. Certain that his motives were pure, he raised his hands and began.
“Allah-u akbar!” he intoned. The others repeated his words in unison and began to pray.
All the doubts of the preceding days faded away as the men prayed together in the middle of the road. The darkness that surrounded them retreated a little, and the cool night air smelled fresher than before.
When he finished his prayer, the Mullah remained kneeling, enjoying the clarity of thought that he often felt after going through the familiar ritual. Pahzman stood behind him for a few moments, waiting for the Mullah to stand, but when he did not, he forced himself to interrupt him. “Mullah, what news of my daughter’s marriage? Please tell me if we are safe to remain here.”
The Mullah remained calm and focused. He stood and took the man by the shoulders. “Come and sit inside where we can speak.”
The men assembled back inside the chai khana and took up seats facing each other in a small circle. Lala Chai poured short glasses of tea from the samovar, and handed them first to the Mullah and then to the others.
“Please,” repeated Pahzman, “I must know if we are safe to stay here.”
“You are safe here with us,” said the Mullah.
“But what of Tarak Sagwan?” asked Pahzman.
“He still intends to marry your daughter. He said that he let me live to carry his threats back here to the village,” replied the Mullah.
Pahzman began to rock back and forth, consumed with fear. The Mullah raised a single finger and leaned in to speak to him. “Be still. Rest easily in my hands, just as we all rest in God’s.”
Pahzman heaved a great sigh, very close to tears, but tried to produce a thankful smile. It twisted into more of a grimace as he choked out a reply. “Like any other small man in this world, what other choice do I have?”
Umar looked at the Mullah with concern. “And so it will come to a fight?”
“Insh’allah, no,” said the Mullah. “We will call a jirga. Tarak Sagwan is a Hotak, as am I. No Pashtun stands alone — he is not just one man, but a part of a family, a clan, and a tribe. We will call the elders of our tribe and his clan, along with those of this district, and we will agree together on what he can and cannot do.” The Mullah looked around at the others, who appeared doubtful. “Our elders have grey in their beards not just from age, but from war, pain, and turmoil. They will do what is right. We will send out word in the morning.”
Pahzman took the Mullah’s hand in his own. “Thank you, Haji.”
The Mullah gave him an irritated look. “No thanks are required for merely doing what is right.”
Inside the madrassa, the Mullah carefully swept the floor, which gathered small dunes of dust every day. The sound of boys playing outside was muted by the mud-brick walls and by the Mullah’s intense concentration. He moved the broom back and forth meditatively, with a long, slow rhythm, carefully covering every inch of the floor. His concentration was broken by Umar, who hesitated at the door of the room.
“I thought that I would find you here,” said Umar.
“Not as often as one used to,” replied the Mullah.
“Or as often as you would like?”
The Mullah stopped sweeping and ran his fingers through his beard. His next words were uncharacteristic. “I’m not sure.”
Umar was rocked onto the heels of his feet. “I have never heard you say that before.”
The Mullah put down the broom and gestured toward some pillows that he had stacked in one corner. Umar entered the room, carrying a small sack, and the two sat down facing each other.
“Tell me what has become of Isa,” asked the Mullah. “Neither of the boys would say.”
“He is an addict,” said Umar bluntly.
“How do you know?” asked the Mullah.
“He was caught using drugs, which he bought from a local farmer with money from the zakat,” said Umar indignantly.
The Mullah sucked air through his teeth at the mention of the zakat. “And what has become of him?”
“I’ve locked him in the kishmesh khana, knowing that you would want to deal with him,” said Umar. “The farmer who sold him the upym is there, as well.”
The Mullah thought for a moment. “Intoxicants are haram, as you know. We will not allow them here.”
Umar nodded eagerly in agreement.
“Upym,” continued the Mullah, “is used only by kafirs and not by Muslims, and so its trade will be permitted. The chars, however, is used by Afghans and must be destroyed.”
Umar nearly disagreed, but decided against it. “And what of our prisoners?” he asked.
“Release the farmer. Owning upym is not a crime; using it is. Isa can remain where he is for now.”
“Will there be a trial?” asked Umar.
“I think not,” said the Mullah. “Let God’s will take its course.”
Umar chose his words carefully. “If we allow the sale of upym between traders, we should at least collect ushr on it.”
The Mullah nodded. “As long as when we do so we ensure that it is being sold outside of our lands.” The Mullah saw Umar’s doubt. “There is no virtue in taking a man’s livelihood or savings,” he said.
Umar conceded the point. “Life has been hard for our people,” he said.
“When we were fighting the Russians,” said the Mullah, “we thought that times could get no more difficult than they were. I did not see my family for many months at a time. Then, when I was with the tanzim, I heard that they were dead, though I still do not know how. I don’t know where their graves are, or if they even have graves.”
“Are you saying that you regret fighting the Russians?” asked Umar.
“Not at all,” said the Mullah. “Even though life was hard, I knew. I knew that everything I did brought us closer to defeating them. And once they were defeated, that all would be well again. That we would have peace.”
Umar gave him a sad look of sudden understanding. “Not yet, it seems.”
“Not yet,” replied the Mullah. “Nowhere today is there peace. It is worse now than when the Russians were here, and people grow more desperate every day. This madrassa is full of boys without families whom I collected around me on my journey here. I thought that I was moving back to the village of my ancestors, but truly, this is nothing more than a village of ghosts.”
“So what is the answer, then?” asked Umar.
The Mullah’s eyes began to shine a little more brightly again. “When we fought the Russians we called it jihad. We struggled against the unbelievers who defiled our country and I was a different man. I hated the Russians as one hates the Devil himself.”
“You were not the only one to think that way,” said Umar.
“But since that time,” said the Mullah, “I have come to know one thing. That we were wrong. The real struggle was not against the Russians, it is within ourselves. It is against all inside each of us that is less than perfect. Everything within us that is made in less than the very image of God.”
“You have been teaching here since the end of the war,” said Umar. “What fault is there to be found in that?”
“I decided to live a religious life, free from disturbance,” agreed the Mullah. “But now I wonder if this is enough.”
“What we have all chosen to do here is surely pleasing to God,” said Umar.
The Mullah shook his head. “We are as His slaves,” he said. “We do not choose how we must serve; we merely act out the parts that we are given.”
CHAPTER 8
Wasif stood guard at the roadside checkpoint, his rifle leaning against the metal side of the ZIL. He waved cars through the checkpoint cheerfully, taking zakat with thanks when it was offered. A clutch of younger boys from the madrassa squatted in the shade of some rocks on the other side of the road. They were not speaking, but watched his every move with interest. Wasif had been ignoring them for over an hour before he finally turned to them and waved them away. “Get back up the hill! You should be studying!”
One of the boys leaned down behind another’s back so that his face couldn’t be seen and shouted back at Wasif. “Studying? Like you and your brother?”
Wasif puffed out his chest just a little. “I’ve finished my studies at the madrassa. I work here, with the other men.”
The boys all spoke at once, their words tumbling over each other in confusion.
“We do study, but all day by ourselves!”
“The Mullah has other matters to attend to!”
“We’d rather be doing something exciting, like you!”
“Tell us the story about how we all drove off the bandits.”
Wasif looked both ways, up and down the road, and saw no cars. “I suppose I have time for one story.”
The boys surged across the road and squatted around him in the shade of the ZIL. He began again to tell the story they had heard dozens of times. The boys listened intently, even though they had all seen it themselves.
The chai khana nearby was surrounded by all manner of dusty cars and trucks, many more since this stretch of the highway had become safe again. Tucked in between the parked cars were a few horses as well, pulling with their teeth at the plastic that covered the chai khana. Many days had passed since word went out about the jirga, and now men from across the district were gathering, travelling by whatever means they could. Many old friends and distant family members were reunited over the question of Tarak Sagwan.
Inside, Umar greeted all the new arrivals that he could, wishing them a simple welcome and introducing them to the Mullah. Most had only heard of the Mullah recently and were surprised that someone so suddenly famous would also be so reserved. His reticence only seemed to add to his piety.
A very old man, blind in one eye, was practically carried by a younger relative to meet him. His voice was soft and wispy, and the Mullah had to lean forward to hear what he said. “Even my deaf ears have heard of you, Mullah. I am pleased to meet you in person.”
The Mullah grunted in reply, but took the old man’s hands in his own nonetheless. He muttered a blessing and followed the gaze of the man’s one good eye. A tight knot of men were standing in the doorway, their eyes adjusting to the smoky dimness of the chai khana. At their centre was an old friend, Jan Farooq, flanked by a few other men the Mullah knew to be tribal elders. Jan Farooq was tall and carried himself in a way that accentuated his height. He tossed away a cigarette that he had been smoking, leaving both hands free to raise in a vague sort of prayer. Lesser men gave way as he approached the Mullah.
They were still a few paces apart when they each began to greet the other, the two men speaking simultaneously. “Peace be upon you. And upon you. I hope you are well. May your house be strong. May you never tire. May your family grow large. May your business prosper.”
The two men embraced warmly.
“Welcome, old comrade,” said the Mullah.
“It is good to see you again,” replied Jan Farooq.
“Indeed it is. If only it were under better circumstances.”
“No matter what the reason for a jirga,” said Jan Farooq as he gazed around the room at the men watching him, “it is a pleasure to see friends and trade news.”
The Mullah sucked air through his teeth. “I hope that there is good news to share.”
Jan Farooq smiled at the Mullah, white teeth showing, but his eyes were cold. “Give me some news about this army that you are building.”
The Mullah shook his head and smiled thinly. “I am merely a teacher now.”
Jan Farooq looked around as he spoke, directing his comments to others besides the Mullah. “A teacher, I hear, who controls this part of the highway with armed men and boys.”
“A teacher who keeps his students safe. Nothing more.”
Jan Farooq gripped the Mull
ah’s shoulders in a friendly way. “There is no shame in leading armed men. Only in concealing it,” he said. The Mullah set his lips tightly. Jan Farooq seemed ready to push the point further with another comment, but stopped. His face tightened back into a smile once again. “I know that few men have heeded your call for a jirga, but do you really intend for all of us to fit in this little chai khana?”
The Mullah shrugged. “It will do.”
“One of my nephews has brought a tent. Let us find a better place to sit. Near the river perhaps,” said Jan Farooq.
As the Mullah considered this, there was a crackle from inside one of Jan Farooq’s vest pockets. He opened the flap and pulled out an old Russian walkie-talkie, quickly clicking the rotary switch to off.
“What is that for?” asked the Mullah.
“A souvenir from our old friends, the Russians. I’ll tell you the story later on.”
Jan Farooq took the Mullah’s hand and held it as they walked together a few miles toward the spot on the river where the tent would be set up. As they went, Jan Farooq kept up a light conversation that avoided any serious matters. By the time that they had walked to the spot, Jan Farooq’s men had already laid out the canvas and were arguing over how the wooden poles would be arranged. With the wind blowing a plume of dust off of the canvas as they raised it, the tent was soon visible for miles around. The sight of it acted as a focal point for all the visiting men.
The Mullah watched as the workers finished the job by rolling up the canvas sides to invite what wind there was to cool the tent. A few dozen men gathered around it, waiting for the elders of the district to seat themselves first. The men laughed and gossiped, and seemed to be enjoying the meeting as a social occasion, despite the grim reason for which it had been called. Most were farmers, and even they were dressed in their best clothes. Some had walked for several days to attend this jirga, staying in hujras or in mosques along the way. Not all the men knew each other, but all knew each other’s families and could almost always trace back enough generations to know how they were related.
As Jan Farooq and the Mullah stood at the entrance to the tent, they were surrounded by the older men of the district. Jan Farooq said nothing, coolly smiling at the others, so the Mullah gestured toward the back of the tent. “After you, my friend. You are our guest in this village and should have the best seat.”