This Shall Be a House of Peace

by Phil Halton

  The other men barrelled through the door, stopping at Tarak’s body. The Mullah turned to them, one arm still around Amin, and said, “He is a boy no longer. And we shall no longer call him simply Amin, but Asadullah Amin — the Lion of God.”

  Wasif went to take his brother’s hand, but it remained limp, so Wasif merely stood beside him, unsure of what else to do. Umar and Rashid each took turns embracing the boy, using his new name to praise him for killing the bandit king.

  Although he tried to look brave, Asadullah Amin wept uncontrollably, though secretly his heart was filled with pride.

  “No tears,” chided the Mullah. “Not in front of these boys. Now that you are a man, you must act like one.”

  Asadullah Amin wiped his eyes with his sleeve, setting his face into a mask, pushing his memory of this night away.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Mullah led the others as they loaded the bodies onto a trailer hitched to an old Russian tractor.

  Umar quickly searched each body one last time before it was lifted onto the trailer. Each of the men now had a kalash slung across his back, won in the fight the night before. Rashid righted a damaged motorcycle and was closely examining the engine. He did not need to examine the pickup truck or the other motorcycle, as they were charred black and damaged beyond repair. “I think this one might run again,” said Rashid.

  “Why can’t we bury them here?” asked Asadullah Amin as he helped lift one of the bandits onto the trailer.

  The Mullah answered him in a tone that invited no discussion. “They should be buried near their home.”

  Wasif waited for his brother at the foot of the last of the bodies and turned to speak. “And it sends a message to any of Tarak’s men who are left that we —”

  The Mullah interrupted the two boys with a glare. “That we do what is right.”

  They both met the Mullah’s statement with silence. With all of the bodies loaded, the men climbed aboard the trailer while Rashid started the tractor that they had borrowed from one of the villagers. It had no muffler, and it roared loudly enough to almost deafen the men.

  The sun hung high in the sky as they made slow progress down the road. It was not long before all of the men had pulled scarves over their mouths and noses, though nothing they tried blocked the smell rising from their gruesome cargo. The roads they travelled were deserted; as they passed the small villages, no one came out to greet them or even to see who they were. It was as if the whole countryside had gone into hiding. Long hours passed slowly in the heat, and it was well into the afternoon before they turned off the highway and onto a track that led to their destination: Tarak’s lair.

  Rashid stopped the tractor well short of the compound itself, though there was no movement anywhere around it. The Mullah waved the men off of the trailer and into a loose line spreading out on either side of himself. He unslung his rifle, as did the others, holding the weapons in front of themselves at a low angle. It was unclear to any of them whether there would be another fight from the remaining bandits. At the Mullah’s signal, they walked slowly up a long, low rise toward the gates of the compound.

  They reached the gate without seeing any sign of life. The Mullah tried the metal doorway, which, to their surprise, swung open at his touch. As it creaked on its hinges, the compound erupted with the noise of barking dogs. The Mullah stepped through the gateway and into the compound, followed by the others.

  “I’m sure that they are gone,” said Umar.

  The dogs’ barking reached a frenzied pitch as they strained toward the strangers at the entrance. The compound was strewn with discarded belongings; the surviving bandits must have abandoned it in a hurry. A few fresh tire tracks cut through the dust at the gate.

  Wasif looked around, frustrated. “If we find any more bandits, we should feed them to these dogs. That’s what they say the bandits do to their victims.”

  The Mullah turned around suddenly and lunged at Wasif. He stopped himself, his face inches from the boy’s and his eyes raging with intensity. “We haven’t come here to imitate these sinners. There is but one judge of all human hearts. We have come to return them to Him.”

  Wasif’s face turned crimson red and he said nothing. Asadullah Amin and Rashid walked away and looked into each of the buildings within the compound. Rashid called back to the others, “Whoever was left took everything of value when they fled.”

  “We have not come for spoils,” said the Mullah. “All we need are blankets for shrouds.”

  “Come with me, Wasif,” said Umar as he moved off toward the kennels. The barking intensified as he approached, the dogs leaping over each other to get out of their makeshift cages. Umar lifted his rifle and aimed at the huge, shaggy mastiff that was nearest to him. He shot it once in the head, and it was driven to the floor in a pool of gore. Both the sharp crack of the rifle and the squealing of the other dogs caused Wasif to startle and take an involuntary step backwards.

  “Help me finish the rest,” said Umar. Wasif hesitated, looking to the Mullah.

  “They’re unclean creatures,” said the Mullah, nodding his assent. Wasif fired a few shots into the kennel, hoping that Umar would not see that his eyes were closed.

  “Aim, boy, aim,” said Umar as he continued to dispatch the dogs one by one. Over the next few minutes the yelping of the dogs reached a crescendo, and then there was silence.

  The Mullah stepped out of the compound, looking around for a suitable piece of ground. A mound that might once have been a garbage heap rose up just outside the wall of the compound. It was visible from the road for a long distance in either direction, and the Mullah knew that it would do. Once they had finished searching the compound for shrouds, the Mullah had the others dig one long grave across the top of the mound. They dug sullenly in the heat, but by the end of the day the bandits were washed and shrouded and laid to rest as Muslims, as was their due. The Mullah’s prayers over their graves were no more or less genuine than those he’d given for the old man and the girl.

  His voice was firm and strong as he spoke. “It makes no difference whether these men were virtuous or not virtuous. Kind or unkind. Cowardly or brave. By burying them as we would our own family, we simply do what is right.”

  The others murmured their agreement. “What we do is for God, not for any of the dead men lying in these graves,” said Umar.

  The Mullah had the boys collect some long sticks pulled from structures inside the compound, to which they attached simple flags torn from coloured sheets. These he pushed into the soft earth along the head of the mass grave. Even though the poles were spindly and the flags were little more than rags, they marked the burial site for the local villagers to see. No signs were placed to distinguish the individuals from each other. Nor was Tarak buried in a position of prominence. Laid in the dust of the earth, all men are finally and truly equal.

  With no time to return to the madrassa before dark, the Mullah bade the men follow him a short distance away from the compound. There they built a fire and, wrapped in blankets, prepared to pass the night under the stars.

  “I will take the first watch,” said Rashid. When no one replied, he lifted his rifle and moved to find a place that was well outside the circle of light cast by the fire. Shrouded in darkness and unseen, his eyes ran along the contours of the ground all around them, watching for signs of trouble. As his gaze ran back over where the others were resting, he realized that the Mullah had selected a perfect spot for the night. The group was in a slight bowl on the crest of the rise that Rashid had not seen before. It not only provided cover for the sleepers around the low fire, but the crest itself gave good views of the surrounding area. It would be hard for anyone to surprise them in this position, even without a sentry.

  The position that the Mullah had selected was not random at all. He suddenly felt safe in the hands of this man, and comfortable enough to sleep deeply when his turn came. Rashid heard the others speaking softly, but he turned away from the fire, preferring the company of
his own thoughts.

  The others sat or lay wrapped in their patus in a small circle around the fire. Umar shook his head in disbelief. “How is it that nearly every man in the district knew that the bandits would attack before we did, and yet no one said a word to us?”

  “The power of the jirga,” said the Mullah, “is in building consensus. Where there is no consensus to be had, it dissolves. Then the matter is resolved through other means.”

  “So they never intended to bring Tarak to heel?” asked Umar.

  “They came to talk and to listen,” replied the Mullah. “After they heard what was said, they must not have believed that Tarak could be stopped easily. They likely knew that the lashkar would be needed to bring him to justice.” The Mullah broke a twig that he had been holding in his hands and threw it into the fire. “And none of them had the stomach for it.”

  “And what about your old friend, Jan Farooq?” continued Umar. “I have only ever heard him described as a brave mujahid. Is he also a coward?”

  “He is no coward, of that I am certain. We fought in the same tanzim against the Russians. That was many years ago. He is a shrewd man. He chose with his head, not with his heart.”

  Wasif, who had been listening intently, blurted out a question. “But, Ma’alim, a man like that cannot be trusted!”

  The Mullah paused, thinking for a moment, and Umar interjected. “Men like Jan Farooq can always be trusted — to do what is best for themselves.”

  The Mullah smiled and nodded. “Jan Farooq seeks power. That in itself is not evil, if the intentions in his heart are true.”

  “But what of his men? They seem too rough and heavily armed to be virtuous,” said Umar.

  “When a mother porcupine calls to its baby,” said the Mullah, “it speaks softly, saying, ‘Oh, my child of velvet.’”

  Umar laughed at this proverb.

  Wasif looked back and forth between the men, confused. The Mullah noticed, and said, “Jan Farooq does not look at men with the same eyes as you or I do, Wasif.”

  The men sat in silence for some time, watching the fire burn down to embers. In time, the Mullah turned from the others and lay down on the ground with his patu wrapped around his shoulders and head.

  “Forgive me,” said Umar, “but before we rest, tell us what we shall do next.”

  Wasif and Asadullah Amin leaned closer to hear the Mullah’s quiet words.

  “I intend to return to the madrassa,” said the Mullah.

  “But you said once we opposed Tarak we could never go back,” said Asadullah Amin.

  The Mullah lay still, considering his next words very carefully. “That is true. But the madrassa and its teachings are eternal.”

  “And what of Isa and now the bandit, held in the village?” asked Wasif.

  “The answer will become apparent in time,” said the Mullah.

  Umar interceded before Asadullah Amin could ask another question. “Mullah, we do not question the importance of the madrassa or its teachings. It is at the core of what we believe. But now that the bandits are defeated, what next? We have all accepted you as our leader — we wish only to know where we are being led.”

  The Mullah was silent again for a long time. “I wish to accomplish one thing. To bring peace to our village, under the laws of God. Nothing more.”

  The Mullah pulled his patu tight over his eyes, ending the conversation. Umar and the boys pondered his answer in silence. One by one they fell asleep, and the darkness of night deepened around them.

  The next morning, the men woke just before dawn. As had become their custom, they lined up in a row behind the Mullah and prayed as a group.

  Their first duty discharged, Rashid tried to start the tractor. As he held down the starter the engine turned over again and again, sounding weak and phlegmy. He jumped down from the metal seat and looked under the engine cover. Reaching into the dark recesses of the engine, he pulled on the stub of a broken cable that controlled the choke.

  “Hold this, brother,” he said to Umar. Umar clamped the wire between his fingers, and this time when Rashid tried the starter the engine caught. He jumped down again, looking at the engine as it vibrated in its mount, and clapped Umar on the shoulder. He would have said something, as well, but the noise of the tractor was deafening.

  Rashid shouted at the others instead, though it was doubtful that anyone could hear him. “Forward the Tank of Islam!” The men climbed aboard the empty trailer and the tractor began its journey with a lurch.

  Their return journey was as slow as the one that had taken them to Tarak’s compound. Again they saw not a soul as they rattled along the track back to the highway. This part of the countryside had few people living in it, most having been driven off by the rapaciousness of Tarak’s men. As they turned onto the highway again, however, they were surprised at what they saw in the distance.

  At a small bridge that brought the highway across a large, dry culvert was a jumble of burnt-out vehicles. Their blackened hulls had been ploughed off of the road years before and were now heaped together at odd angles. Taking cover in the shade of the ruined vehicles was a group of armed men. With the news of Tarak’s death, new nests of vipers had begun to emerge.

  The noise of the tractor attracted the attention of the bandits, who stood to face down the highway. Rashid looked to the Mullah for direction, but receiving none, continued to drive forward. The tractor chugged down the road, heading toward the checkpoint. The Mullah stood up on the trailer, holding his rifle out to one side so that it could be seen. The others did the same, gripping their rifles in their hands.

  The bandits remained facing down the highway toward them, spreading out into a loose line behind the cover of the car wrecks. Although the distance was still too far for accurate fire, a bandit listlessly fired a few rounds from his rifle toward the tractor. The shots whistled past harmlessly. The Mullah clapped Rashid on the shoulder and motioned with his finger across his throat for him to kill the engine. Rashid brought the machine to a halt and the Mullah stepped nimbly from the trailer, leading the others into the shelter of a ditch.

  Umar looked to the Mullah. “What will we do?”

  The Mullah peeked over the edge of the ditch and watched the bandits intently for a few minutes. When he was satisfied, he turned to the others and laid out a plan.

  Pointing to a low hill off to the left, he said, “Wasif and Asadullah Amin will come with me to the top of that crest overlooking the bridge. Rashid and Umar, you will stay here with our tank. When you see us atop the hill, you will drive forward again. We will fire down on them as you approach.”

  Umar seemed perplexed by the plan, but said nothing. The Mullah did not pause to let him form a question and instead began to stride toward the hill. Wasif and Asadullah Amin fell in behind him, rifles over their shoulders. The Mullah picked up a trail that kept them largely out of sight of the bridge, hidden by the folds of the ground. The bandits watched them leave the road but strained helplessly to see where they had gone. They fired a few more rounds ineffectually in the direction of the tractor.

  The Mullah led the two boys to a point behind the hill guarded by a jumble of rocks he had spied from the road. He lay down in a gap between two of the largest rocks and slithered into position, the boys close behind. Though the hill was not high, it looked down upon the bridge, a few hundred yards away.

  The Mullah muttered softly, “They should have put a man here themselves.”

  The bandits, four in number, had retreated from the wreckage of the cars and now huddled behind a low wall of stones and mud bricks that they had built beside the road. Most of them still watched the tractor, though one scanned the ground around the hill, looking for the Mullah.

  “Go back down on the far side of the hill and wave to Umar to start,” the Mullah said to Wasif.

  The boy slid backwards as he had seen both the Mullah and Rashid do before, and scrambled partway down the hill. Once in a position where he thought Umar could see him, he waved h
is arms in the air to get his attention.

  Rashid spotted him first. “That’s the signal.”

  Umar had to look hard before he spotted Wasif. Rashid mounted the tractor again and settled into the seat, while Umar stood on the step beside him, clutching the frame with one hand. Umar clenched his rifle in his fist and pumped it in the air over his head, shouting as loudly as he could: “Takbir!”

  Rashid gave the reply: “Allah-u akbar!”

  “Takbir!”

  “Allah-u akbar!”

  “Takbir!”

  “Allah-u akbar!”

  The two men shouted themselves hoarse. Rashid started the engine with a roar, and the tractor began to grind its way forward again. As soon as it did, the Mullah and the boys began firing down at the bandits from the hill. Bullets struck the rocks and bricks that made up their shelter and whizzed overhead, forcing the bandits to duck and press themselves against the rocks or the ground. Asadullah Amin fired as he remembered Rashid doing before, taking each shot as carefully as he could. Wasif’s firing was wild — it came in long bursts that kicked the barrel up high. He didn’t think of the bandits he saw in his sights as people, but as something less. Sinners. Apostates. Murderers.

  Asadullah Amin called to his brother: “Slowly, brother, slowly.”

  “I’ve fought bandits, when you were hiding in the madrassa!” he shouted, still firing wildly. His magazine ran dry, and he looked helplessly at the Mullah.

  “Shoot carefully, like an instrument of God’s will, not a wild animal,” said the Mullah, handing him a magazine. Wasif’s face reddened, and he gave his brother a poisonous look.

  Soon, the bandits worked up the courage to begin firing back. First one, then another, and then all four held their rifles up over the low wall and held down the trigger without aiming or exposing themselves to return fire. Neither the firing from the hill nor the movement of the tractor slackened, and the bandits’ resolve began to waver. When the tractor was about half a kilometre from the checkpoint, the bandits broke and ran.