This Shall Be a House of Peace

by Phil Halton

  Wasif’s voice was filled with venom. “If the mujahideen had found you, you would be dead.”

  Rashid smiled thinly. “Not so. They did find me. They left the others, who were already dead, but they took me with them. I woke up the next day in a small room in a house, under careful guard. They had little medicine and no medical supplies, but even so they nursed me back to health.”

  “Why would they waste the effort on a Russian?” asked Wasif.

  “I don’t know,” said Rashid. “What I do know is that I didn’t want to go back to the army. So I couldn’t go home. I had nothing at all, and so I began to pray, alone, asking God for guidance or a sign. Anything.”

  Umar spat on the ground in front of him. “And what did your God tell you?”

  Rashid’s face fell at the implication. “Not my God, Umar. God. Allah. When the men holding me realized what I was doing, they showed me how to pray the same way that they did. Soon I prayed with them. Praying together suddenly made sense to me. Everyone was looking for guidance, not just me.”

  Wasif, still clenching the stone in his hand, shook it at Rashid. “Your kind is not welcome here,” he said. “And neither is yours, Isa.”

  The Mullah pulled both men closer to him, arms stretched around their shoulders. “What kind of person is that, Wasif?”

  Umar answered for the boy. “You’ve said it yourself, Ma’alim. Sinners. Apostates. Invaders.”

  “I see two men here,” said the Mullah. “One, born into a godless society, sent to fight far from his home.” The Mullah studied Rashid’s face in the lamplight. “Not only did he hear and accept the message of the Prophet, peace be upon him, he chose to remain here and join with those he had been sent to oppress. He saw a righteous cause and abandoned his own people.”

  Rashid mumbled in reply: “You are my people now.”

  The Mullah next looked at Isa, who slouched, weak as a newborn lamb. “The second man, sick and confused, forgot God and fell away from what he knew to be right. But he has fasted, he has prayed, and is now returned. What would God have us do with him?”

  Isa’s voice was quiet but firm as he spoke. “There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is His Prophet.”

  The group looked at him doubtfully, but the Mullah continued: “In the Quran it says that Satan sows hatred and enmity amongst us, with intoxicants and false religions, so that we may not recognize or know the true faith. And so tell me, what would you do to oppose Satan and to serve God?”

  Umar and the boys sat still, confused, as if in a trance. Umar’s thoughts were filled with all that he had seen, all that he had done, and all that he believed in. All of those things that had led him here. Suddenly, he stood and walked toward the Mullah. Leaning down, he embraced Rashid and Isa in turn. “You are both my brothers.”

  Wasif and Asadullah Amin awkwardly did the same, though with less conviction. The Mullah smiled gently at them as they did so.

  “Forgive my ignorance,” said Umar to the Mullah. “Where I saw weakness and sin, you have shown me strength and righteousness.”

  They took their seats in the lamplight, and Lala Chai passed the teapot among them again. As the men resumed their conversation, Wasif bid them good night and began to walk back to the madrassa. He carried his rifle in both hands, at the ready, should bandits try to attack again. The path up to the top of the hill was becoming worn smooth by the constant traffic to and fro. His eyes could pick it out from the surrounding ground even in the darkness.

  Wasif could still hear the others’ laughter in his mind. Mother of lions! What do they know? Wasif felt certain that none of these men truly knew him. His thoughts raced back to the many nights here his brother had needed him above all others. He thought of the day when the Russians came and his parents were killed, and how he led his brother by the hand to safety. Because Amin had cried for days, that meant that Wasif could not. He knew that he had to be the strong one, the one who would find food and water, and who would make all the decisions.

  He remembered that Amin kept asking, over and over, when their parents were coming to get them. That and a hundred other useless questions. And even though he had no answers, he did what he could. He made sure that his brother always ate more than half of whatever meagre food they had, and he put his arms around him to help him sleep at night.

  Wasif remembered that when the Mullah first found them they were both frightened. They had been searching through the fields for anything that had been dropped or forgotten. They mostly found shrivelled grapes to eat. They had avoided people for so long that they nearly ran away at the sight of the tall man approaching them. But the Mullah stood so still, and watched them so closely, that they were transfixed. He attracted the boys in the same way that a boy attracts birds. He showed them a few pieces of naan and then lay the bread down on the ground. As he backed away, Amin ran to grab the food. Wasif first tried to stop his brother, but soon he followed. The two boys devoured every piece on the spot.

  The Mullah squatted nearby, watching. As the boys finished their meal, he beckoned for them to follow him. Wasif and Amin did, but only at a distance, their hands clenched together. Wasif remembered how he had grown nervous as the Mullah led them between deserted houses, and how he was about to tell his brother that they should run, when a sound changed his mind. It was a familiar sound that they had not heard in a long, long time. Wasif thought about that sound: the voices of children, laughing and playing, coming from within the walls of a compound. The Mullah gestured for them to come in, and Wasif recalled his amazement when he saw that it was filled with young boys.

  That first night, Wasif whispered to a boy he didn’t know who was lying next to him on the floor, “Does he lock us in at night?”

  The boy looked back at him, his head still touching the floor. “He doesn’t have to,” the boy whispered. “We stay because we want to.”

  This had never occurred to Wasif as a possibility. Soon Amin was snoring gently beside him, and Wasif was pulling the blanket tightly around himself.

  Wasif remembered how that first night the Mullah had stood at the front of the room and told a story about an ancient king and his sons. He didn’t hear how the story ended that night, as he was soon fast asleep.

  The night air was clear and still as Wasif finished climbing the hill to the madrassa. He rapped lightly on the door, and it was opened by a young boy left as a sentry by the Mullah. Stepping through the gate, Wasif needed no light to find his way into the classroom where he usually slept.

  Lying on the floor, his kalash beside him, he felt the tension in his muscles begin to relax. Looking around at the spartan room and listening to the sound of the other boys sleeping, Wasif realized what he had accomplished.

  Against all odds, he had found a home for himself and his brother.

  CHAPTER 13

  There were cars and trucks parked along the highway by the chai khana, and a thin line of stalls set up on the road’s edge. News of the defeat of Tarak Sagwan, and the protection afforded by the Mullah and his men, had begun to spread throughout the province. New people were arriving in the village, seeking shelter from bandits and injustice.

  Rashid and Isa stood at the checkpoint, each with a kalash slung over his back. Most vehicles they waved along, but Rashid stopped an old truck that caught his interest. In the back of the truck was a jumble of bicycles and broken parts, wheels and rusty frames sticking out of the cargo bed at odd angles. Seated at the window across from the driver was a woman, covered head to toe in a chador, and between them sat three small children.

  Rashid approached the driver. “Are you staying or passing through?”

  “We’ve come to stay,” said the man. “To set up a shop.”

  Isa stood at the other window, though he looked past the woman without glancing at her. “Then you must hand over any guns that you have.”

  The man sputtered a reply. “Guns? Who said anything about guns?” Rashid watched him in silence. The man’s face grew red, and he cont
inued to sputter. “But what about my family? My honour?”

  “Your family and your honour will be safe here,” said Rashid. He gestured to a small stack of guns collected from new arrivals that sat against the low stone wall of the checkpoint.

  “You’ll be safe because we’re the only ones with guns,” said Isa.

  The man got out of the truck and reluctantly pulled an old rifle out from under the seat. He passed it to Rashid, who put it with the others.

  “You and your family are most welcome here,” said Rashid.

  The man drove through the checkpoint, past where Umar sat outside the chai khana with a group of farmers. Low seats had been built around the building to accommodate the overflow of customers. Pahzman, the farmer whose daughter they had saved from Tarak, sat beside Umar in a place of honour, respected because of his relationship with the Mullah.

  An old farmer with no teeth spoke, his words hard to understand. “We used to draw water from the river at each house, brought to us by a canal. And every field had channels that ran from it.”

  “And what happened to the canal?” asked Umar.

  “There were too few of us to keep it clear. It has filled in.” The man looked around at the younger farmers accusingly. “Now people use it only for garbage and filth.”

  “Can we agree, then, to work together to clear the canal, and dig channels to all of the fields?” asked Umar.

  “And to prevent others from filling the channels with their filth,” said the old farmer.

  “I can mark where the channels are to go,” said Pahzman. “But I cannot prevent others from dumping their garbage.”

  “We will add it to the list of things that are forbidden here,” said Umar. “We will ensure that no one violates this rule. And I will speak to the Mullah. This project is for the good of the whole community, and so we should be aided by the whole community.”

  The clutch of men broke up to go back to their farms. Pahzman and Umar finished their tea and crossed the road to climb the path to the madrassa.

  The houses on top of the hill were beginning to be rebuilt, and families had moved into almost all of them. The surrounding fields, long lying brown and fallow, were being worked again. Where the grapevines in the middle terrace of fields were still intact, the new farmers cleared the broken wooden frames and bound the vines to newly cut sticks. Where the vines were dead, the farmers cleared them out to plant new crops.

  “And so you will stay in the house that you chose?” asked Umar.

  Pahzman nodded. “Jan Farooq is kind and asks for no rent, only a portion of the harvest. And he will provide us seeds, as well.”

  “Kind indeed. Though he has yet to speak to the Mullah directly since the jirga.”

  “Insh’allah, he will. Soon,” said Pahzman.

  The two men ducked through the low door of the madrassa compound and left their shoes in the pile outside the door. Inside, the boys sat in rows, practising their writing on small wood-framed slates. The Mullah passed between the rows, making corrections and giving small praise. Umar and Pahzman waited for him to see them.

  When the Mullah saw the two men waiting, he moved between the rows of boys toward the door, leaving his students to their writing. Pahzman spoke first. “We’ve come to ask for your guidance,” he said.

  “In what matter?” asked the Mullah.

  “Irrigation ditches,” said Pahzman.

  The Mullah gave Umar a quizzical look. “You need no guidance from me on such matters.”

  “Mullah,” said Umar, “the ditches themselves are not the problem. We have need of manpower to dig them, so that the spring rains in the mountains are diverted from the river and into the fields.”

  “And so I thought that you might agree to use the zakat to pay for men to dig the ditches,” said Pahzman, his voice anxious.

  The Mullah shook his head and scowled deeply. “That is not the purpose of the zakat. We will not pay men to do work for their own benefit. The zakat is to feed and clothe those unable to fend for themselves. Destitute travellers, orphans, the sick and elderly.”

  “But how will we convince the men to dig an irrigation ditch?” asked Pahzman.

  The Mullah raised a finger. “The men and boys of this village will volunteer their time. Without farms there would be no village. And with no village there would be no shops. I will speak with them.”

  “Praise be,” said Umar.

  “Spread the word,” said the Mullah. “Men are to bring shovels tomorrow for jummah prayers. Afterwards, we will all dig.”

  Umar nodded and left the madrassa. The Mullah turned back to look over the students, all writing silently. He took his seat again at the head of the class, deep in thought. Lala Chai appeared in the doorway, kicking off his sandals, his hands full with a heavy teapot and a bundle of cloth. He approached the Mullah carefully, not looking at the boys in the class.

  “Faizal sent me with fresh tea and bread for you,” he said.

  “But we have these things here at the madrassa,” said the Mullah.

  “Faizal said that he had tasted your tea,” said Lala Chai, suddenly concerned that he had overstepped.

  The Mullah’s face was serious. He clapped his hands twice, and in an instant, the attention of all the boys was riveted upon him. “We will return to our practice after we take a break. Everyone outside.” The students noisily got up and began to file out of the classroom, picking their sandals from the pile at the door. Lala Chai turned to leave, as well, but the Mullah stopped him, gesturing at a spot beside him on the floor. “Sit with me first,” he said.

  He studied Lala Chai as the boy sat down uncomfortably, still clutching the teapot and bread.

  “Why don’t you study at the madrassa?” asked the Mullah.

  Lala Chai squirmed as he answered. “I am not worthy of it, Ma’alim.”

  “How so?” asked the Mullah. “How are you different than any of the rest of us?”

  “I’m completely different,” said Lala Chai. “I have no family, no education, and I can’t read. I have accomplished nothing in my life. I make tea — that is all.”

  “So why do you choose to stay with us?”

  Lala Chai struggled to find the words, looking down at the floor. “Because here, I am with good people. Great people. Even if I only make them tea. My life has been hard. It is hard. But here it has purpose.”

  The Mullah placed his hands on Lala Chai’s shoulders and straightened him up. He looked at his face, reading the truth in his eyes. “All of life is a struggle,” said the Mullah. “For everyone. And God rewards everyone based on their intentions.”

  Lala Chai began to cry.

  “Small things done well are pleasing to God,” said the Mullah, “but you are capable of great things, as well.”

  “If you will have me, I will try,” said Lala Chai.

  The Mullah stood. “It is settled, then. You will learn with us here in the madrassa, and if you wish, you may still help Faizal from time to time. You will be one of us in every way.”

  Isa and Rashid sat at the checkpoint by the dim light of a lantern, leaning against the inside of the stone wall, which gave some shelter from a breeze blowing along the floor of the valley. Isa’s thin shoulders were wrapped in two blankets against the bite of the night air. Rashid was holding a Quran, slowly reading a passage aloud.

  “Nothing will happen to us except what Allah has decreed for us: He is our protector. In Allah let the believers put their trust.” Rashid looked up, hesitant.

  “You’re really getting it,” said Isa.

  “Thanks to you, my friend,” said Rashid. He smiled. “It is hard to be an illiterate amongst scholars.”

  Isa nodded. “Yes, it is hard to be …” Isa stopped, looking down at his feet.

  Rashid placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Rest easy. Our futures are written for us. We must live our lives as they are meant to be, and worry about nothing more. Think of where I started, and where I am now. I am a universe away f
rom the start of my life. I was wounded and left for dead. But then I was healed. I became accepted. Got married even, and had children. And then I had it all taken away by the war, only to heal and be accepted all over again.”

  Isa seemed to be studying the flickering lantern light, and so Rashid said nothing more. The two men sat in silence beside the deserted highway.

  Like low-hanging stars, sharp points of lantern light from other checkpoints along the various roads in the district could be seen flickering in the far distance.

  The morning light cast a warm glow across the fields and houses around the madrassa. Fresh masonry stood out where old broken walls had been repaired, and everywhere there was evidence of new life. Wasif and Asadullah Amin walked through the upper village, one carrying a basket and the other a battered metal jug. Both had their rifles slung tightly over their backs.

  As they walked along the edge of the village, Wasif noticed movement in the cemetery. Curious, they walked closer and saw that a few women in heavy blue chadors were praying at the graves of the old man and the girl. Two flat stones had been set upright at the head and foot of the girl’s grave, a piece of string tied between them. These women, and others, had tied small ribbons to the string with their prayers written on them.

  Wasif gestured to the maharam, a boy about his age, who was with the women. “What are they doing?” he asked rudely.

  The maharam, though a head shorter, squared up to him before replying. “What business is it of yours what my women are doing?”

  “Tell us why they are praying here,” said Wasif.

  Asadullah Amin squinted up at the sun, too high in the sky for it to be time for prayers. “And why now?”

  The women didn’t speak, but stood up and moved away to the edge of the cemetery.