This Shall Be a House of Peace

by Phil Halton

  First one scrambled away from the highway, and then the others. They fled without firing another shot, sheltering in the fields and among the houses in the area.

  As the tractor rolled up to the culvert between the wrecked cars, Rashid shut down the engine. Umar stepped down, watching the fleeing bandits in amazement. “What are they doing?”

  Rashid laughed. “What cowards always do. They are saving themselves.”

  The two men waited for the Mullah and the boys to join them at the tractor, still watching to make sure that the bandits did not turn around and come back. As the Mullah approached, he called out: “Rashid, what do you think of that?”

  Rashid was surprised that his opinion was sought, but answered with a laugh. “These are not the dogs of war, but the hyenas and jackals. They fight only when they think they will win easily, and when there is something to gain.”

  Umar was still amazed. “But who are they?”

  “Did you think that Tarak was the only bandit in the district?” asked the Mullah. “With him gone, others have taken the opportunity to replace him.”

  “Some of these bandits may even have been his men,” said Rashid. He spat on the ground. “There must not have been anyone strong enough to hold them together.”

  “These men might yet come around if we show them what peace looks like,” said Wasif. “Righteous lives are like a candle in the darkness.”

  “More like moths to a flame,” said Asadullah Amin. “They will swarm around us until we kill them, or we will never be safe.”

  “Then why wait?” said Wasif. “If it is the right thing to do, then let us do it now. We can follow them and kill them wherever we find them.”

  The Mullah shook his head and scowled at the boy. “Unless we were at a disadvantage,” he said, “they would only run away. They are not going to stand and die as you might like.”

  With a wave of his hand, the Mullah signalled everyone to climb aboard the trailer. Rashid started the engine, and they began to roll forward. As they travelled along the highway, they saw that other checkpoints had been set up as well, men quickly taking up arms to fill the vacuum left by the shattering of Tarak’s gang. The noise of the tractor ensured that all of the bandits had ample warning of their approach, and no one tried to stop them. A few bandits jeered at them from a distance as they drove past, but that was all the opposition they faced.

  The sun was setting by the time they reached the madrassa. They had set out the day before feeling victorious.

  On their return, victory was no longer clear.

  Rashid stood alone at the checkpoint, rifle grasped in one hand. His eyes scanned the familiar horizon, turning in all directions, looking for any small anomaly. As he looked he listened carefully to the soft noises around him. He heard Umar’s deep breathing from inside the ZIL and the wind whistling along the rocky features above. The plastic sheets tied over the shop beside the chai khana rustled. Everything was as expected.

  Everything, except for his own thoughts. Rashid exhaled deeply, his mind turning over the events of the last few days.

  He had found his place here in the madrassa, of that he was sure. It was true that he did not study as the others did, but he shouldered other burdens instead. For the first time in many years he felt accepted without question. He was judged by his actions above all else. Where else could he hope to find peace?

  But the last few days also worried him. He was not at all surprised that the end of Tarak solved nothing, or that new bandits manned the checkpoints again. As long as people were free to rob and murder travellers, there would always be those who chose to be criminals. This was a fact of life. He did not understand how the others around the Mullah could be surprised.

  He guessed that it was because they had lived sheltered lives. As much as Umar was a good, learned man, people like him seemed detached from the reality of the world they lived in. If they expected to change society for the better, it was not enough for them to live a life steeped in Islam. All around them were chaos and mayhem. Every ounce of authority in this country, in the end, stemmed from the barrel of a gun.

  It would not be easy to bring justice — true justice — to this country. Rashid worried that his companions did not understand what it would really take to do what they intended. Were they that blind?

  Rashid shook his head, worried that his thoughts amounted to heresy. Did not God shape the universe according to His own will, unknowable to men? If that was the case, then the others were right. It was enough to do right, and to place one’s faith in God. All would be right again, insh’allah.

  His gut feeling, though, was that nothing would change unless they took action. Rashid thought about this. Perhaps he was wrong. He knew that in the past, in his darkest hours he had been buoyed up by the hands of God. He had been carried through the night when things seemed the most hopeless. The idea that anything he undertook by his own free will might influence the direction of the universe seemed laughable.

  Rashid looked out at the night again, scanning the horizon. Everything seemed to be in order. Every rock, every bush, was in its place. Best to be like those rocks, he thought. Best to be content and solid in one’s place.

  CHAPTER 11

  The chai khana was filled with patrons drinking tea and eating. Faizal and Lala Chai bustled between them all, keeping their glasses full and brushing up the crumbs left on the carpet as men departed. The chatter stopped as the blanket covering the door was pulled aside and two hard-looking young men stepped in the room, scanning the crowd. Behind them stepped Jan Farooq. When he smiled, the patrons again began to talk among themselves.

  “Chaiwallah! It is good to see you again,” he said.

  Faizal shooed a few local men out of the way to make room for the new guest and his guards. Faizal held his hand over his heart and greeted the senior man with a stream of well wishes, to which Jan Farooq replied by briefly and wordlessly touching his own chest.

  “Haji, you are most welcome here. Tea? Food?” asked Faizal.

  Jan Farooq nodded and took a seat cross-legged on the platform in the back of the room that Faizal had cleared for him. He took the cup of tea offered by Lala Chai and sipped at the liquid that was still too hot. The two hard young men sat on either side of him, still watching the crowd. Both waved away offers of tea.

  Jan Farooq spoke loudly enough for all in the room to hear him. “Cousins, listen, I have good news.”

  The crowd quieted down respectfully, and the patrons all turned to face him. Now the centre of attention, Jan Farooq began. “I have seen the abandoned homes and fields atop the hill that surround the madrassa. They do no good to anyone. I have for several weeks now tried to track down the families of the original owners, who are almost all dead or missing.”

  The crowd murmured at this news of their ancient neighbours. Jan Farooq held up a thick sheaf of documents. “I have purchased all of the farms around the madrassa and I have signed documents to prove it. I will repair all of the homes at my own expense and will soon rent the farms out in exchange for a portion of the harvest.”

  Murmurs of appreciation arose across the chai khana. Jan Farooq raised his hands for silence. “I know that many, if not all of you, know the story of the village on the hill. That a wealthy man from Kandahar, hundreds of years ago, bought the land and divided it between his sons, for each of whom he built a house. As they had sons, they did the same, the village growing from two houses to twenty over the years. Although this is the history, I think of the future. And of those who would be as my own kin, to whom I can provide these homes.”

  One of the farmers from the village along the river called across the room to him. “Haji, what about those of us who have farms already? How will we afford seeds this year? This village has been strangled by bandits and we have no money.”

  Jan Farooq made an expansive gesture. “I will provide seeds to anyone who asks, also in exchange for a portion of the harvest.”

  This declaration was met wi
th approval from all the farmers in the room. They stood up and waited in a loose line to shake Jan Farooq’s hand and thank him for his generosity. The two men guarding him remained seated, but with dead eyes they carefully watched each man as he approached. They both fingered the short-barrelled automatics that hung on slings underneath their tunics.

  While all eyes were on Jan Farooq, a dusty traveller entered through the blanketed doorway. Faizal moved to serve him. “Tea, friend? Food, perhaps?”

  This man’s face was dark. He spoke loudly for everyone to hear. “I come for justice.”

  The room went silent as everyone turned toward the man. Jan Farooq’s men stood up and placed themselves between their patron and the newcomer.

  Faizal held out his empty hands, confused. “Justice? This is a chai khana.”

  After another moment of silence, the tension broke. Quiet laughter rippled across the room and the men went back to their own business.

  “I want to speak to the Mullah,” demanded the traveller.

  Faizal, relieved to not be the object of this man’s concerns, pointed up toward the madrassa. “Then justice you will get,” he said.

  A ray of late-morning sunlight shot through the gap above the door of the kishmesh khana, illuminating the face of the tall bandit chained to the wall inside. He blinked, shielding his eyes with one hand, and shifted his position out of the sunlight. Across from him, still in darkness, was Isa, held upright by the chains that tied him to the wall opposite.

  Accustomed to being ignored, both men started when the heavy wooden door was slammed open. Umar and Rashid, both carrying rifles, ducked low through the doorway to enter the room and stood facing the bandit. Isa’s eyes were open, but his dull gaze was cast downward and away from them, the expression on his face blank. As the two men moved toward the bandit, Isa leaned back in his chains, straining to be as far from them as he could get. The bandit turned toward the wall, crying, “What are you going to do to me?”

  Umar stepped to one side and aimed his rifle at the man’s head.

  “No! Please!” cried the bandit.

  Rashid grabbed him roughly and unlocked the padlocks securing his hands and feet in the tight loops of chain. The skin underneath was red and weeping. The bandit continued pleading for his life, his words incomprehensible as he sobbed. Rashid silenced him with an open-handed blow to the back of the head.

  “Shut up or I’ll gag you.”

  Rashid tied the bandit’s hands together behind his back with a rough piece of rope and pulled the man to his feet. He shoved the bandit forward, pushing his head down as he guided him through the kishmesh khana’s door. Neither Rashid nor Umar acknowledged Isa as they shoved the tall bandit out into the open.

  The door banged shut behind them. Isa’s face fell, the tension gone, and he began to cry.

  Umar and Rashid half carried the bandit across the upper fields to the madrassa, dragging him over the threshold of the door of the compound and across the yard. Dozens of sandals covered the ground outside the door into the madrassa itself. When they shoved him inside, the bandit saw that the room was filled with students and men from the village. The Mullah sat farthest from the door, facing the others. The bandit stumbled through the crowd and fell to his knees in front of the Mullah.

  The bandit’s voice was panicked and loud, in contrast to the sombre mood of the others. “They made me come here,” he said, “to report on what you were doing before the attack. On where you were.” He turned to look at the room full of boys and men. “They made me,” he repeated.

  The Mullah held up a hand to silence him. His voice was hard. “That is of no consequence. Tell us, what is your name, and the name of your father?”

  “I am called Noor,” said the bandit. “My father was named Wafa.”

  “Noor, son of Wafa,” said the Mullah, “you are being tried for the murder of a man and the murder and rape of his daughter.”

  Noor was incredulous. “What? That can’t be.”

  The bandit’s reaction caused the angry traveller from the chai khana to launch himself up off the floor from where he sat in the front row. “That man was my uncle. His name was Ahwad, as was his father, my grandfather.”

  The Mullah waited for the man to finish, staring at him impatiently. The traveller sat down again, embarrassed.

  “And you are?” asked the Mullah.

  The man straightened his clothing and cleared his throat. “My name is Qasim, son of Aziz, son of Ahwad. The man that has been described, who was murdered, was my Uncle Ahwad, son of Ahwad.”

  “And who was the girl who was with him?” asked the Mullah.

  “She was his daughter, my cousin. He was taking her to be married to a man in Lashkar Gah. They had only travelled for a day down the valley before they disappeared. They were last seen here, in the village below.”

  “And what was her name?” asked the Mullah.

  Qasim looked flustered. He hesitated. “Zaina. Zaina, I think. What does it matter?” Qasim stood up again, pointing at the bandit. “He is a murderer!”

  The Mullah waved for the man to take his seat again. He then pointed at Noor while addressing Faizal. “Is this man before us the one you saw threatening Ahwad and his daughter?”

  “Yes,” said Faizal. “He was one of the bandits who ran the checkpoint outside my chai khana.”

  The shopkeeper whose tiny stall was propped up against one wall of the chai khana spoke next. “I saw him threatening the man, and heard him make lewd comments to the girl.”

  The Mullah nodded at this testimony and looked around the room to find other witnesses. “Are there others who have seen or heard these things?”

  A few of the other villagers called out in agreement, saying that they recognized the man as one of the bandits, as well. Noor shook his head and pleaded with the Mullah. “It’s not true. I did not do these things. I don’t know who you mean.”

  “The bodies of the man and his daughter were found dumped among some rocks, near a motorcycle track,” said the Mullah.

  “This bandit is the one who rode the motorcycle!” said Faizal.

  “I saw him use it often!” echoed the shopkeeper.

  The bandit turned to the men in the room and spoke in a strangled voice. “I have hurt no one!”

  The crowd roared its disagreement. “You robbed everyone you met!” said Faizal.

  “You and that evil boy stole from me every day!” said the shopkeeper.

  The Mullah stood, and the room became silent again. He turned and lifted the Quran from its stand behind him, cradling it in both hands. He carried it to the tall bandit and held it out in front of him.

  “An oath is a serious thing,” said the Mullah. “Swearing falsely will shear you from the faith as surely as a razor shears one’s hair. Understand me: you will never, ever gain forgiveness for a false oath. You will instead spend the afterlife covered in hellfire.”

  The bandit began to shake and cry.

  The Mullah’s voice was hard. “Will you swear an oath on the holy Quran that you did not harm this man or this girl?”

  “I still don’t know who you mean!” cried Noor.

  “That you did not harm any man or any girl?” asked the Mullah.

  Noor turned away from the Quran, his eyes filling with tears. The Mullah towered over him, holding the Quran directly in front of Noor’s face.

  “Will you swear the oath,” asked the Mullah, “knowing that to lie condemns you forever?”

  The bandit’s body shook, his eyes closed, but he said nothing further. The Mullah asked him a third time. “Will you swear the oath?”

  The bandit sobbed, but said nothing. The Mullah turned and sat down again, holding the Quran high above his head. “There are two witnesses against this man. He will not make an oath to defend himself. By reason of this, I have reached a decision.”

  The crowd leaned forward in anticipation.

  “This man, Noor, son of Wafa, is guilty of the murders of Ahwad, son of Ahwad, an
d his daughter.”

  “No!” cried Noor, “I didn’t do it! It was the man who was with me!”

  The crowd roared in anger at this lie.

  “I’ll swear an oath!” said Noor. “I am innocent. I will swear it!”

  “It is too late for that,” said the Mullah, his eyes hard and empty.

  A voice in the crowd called out. “And of her rape?”

  The Mullah lifted his head to scan the faces of the crowd. “Is there any man here who was witness to this crime?”

  The men and boys were silent.

  “Then he cannot be found guilty.” The Mullah looked at Noor, slumped over and weeping in front of him. “Murder is enough, in any case.”

  The Mullah addressed Noor again. “To make recompense, a blood price must be paid.”

  “I have no money,” said Noor, “not a penny. Tarak stole from us, as well, and took everything I ever had.”

  “What about family?” asked the Mullah.

  “I have no family.”

  Qasim the traveller leaped up from his seat and spoke angrily to the crowd. “I don’t want his money. I want justice!”

  The Mullah looked at him and spoke slowly. “As all well know, if the guilty cannot pay the blood price, or the victim will not accept it, then the blessed Prophet says, ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’”

  The bandit began to panic, and struggled to work loose the ropes that were binding his hands. He filled the sudden silence in the room with pleading. “I have cousins in Iran. They will pay!”

  Qasim again shouted at Noor: “I want your blood to wash the pain from my heart!”

  The Mullah gestured to Rashid and Umar. “Take him outside.” They yanked him to his feet and almost carried him out the door. The bandit struggled, but they held him fast. His feet dragged on the ground as they brought him to the area that the Mullah had set out for the next stage of his fate. They stopped on the edge of the graveyard, near the fresh graves of the old man and the girl. Qasim followed close behind him, leading the village men and the boys from the madrassa.