This Shall Be a House of Peace

by Phil Halton

  “They are praying to the pir for justice,” said the maharam.

  Wasif quickly rebuked him. “All justice comes from God,” he said. Pointing at the grave, he waved his hand contemptuously. “She is no pir, just a girl.”

  “So you say,” replied the maharam, “but she is the girl who caused the defeat of the bandit Tarak Sagwan.”

  Dropping the basket, Wasif unslung his rifle and held it out in front of him. “This is what defeated Tarak,” he said. “Nothing else.”

  Asadullah Amin tugged at Wasif’s sleeve. “Leave him and these women.”

  Wasif gave the boy one last contemptuous look before following his brother on their rounds.

  “No good can come from questioning him over those women,” said Asadullah Amin.

  “No good can come from false idols,” retorted Wasif.

  The two walked on in silence until they came to the outer gate of the first of the newly occupied houses. Wasif knocked on the battered wooden door. They stood and waited. A voice called from inside the compound, but the door remained bolted shut. “What do you want?”

  “Asalaam aleikum!” said Wasif.

  “Wa aleikum salaam,” came the reply. The voice said nothing further.

  “Haji,” began Wasif, “we are from the madrassa. We have come to collect food to feed the students.”

  “Cousin,” said Asadullah Amin, “even a few pieces of naan and a scoop of dahi would be most welcome.”

  There was a long pause, and then the boys heard the sound of the door being unbarred. A young man stood inside the doorway and passed the boys a short stack of fresh naan. He turned and picked up a battered metal bowl, and carefully poured some of the yellowish dahi into the boys’ metal jug. Wasif scowled at the paltry donation.

  Asadullah Amin nodded to the man. “Our thanks.”

  “Allah-u akbar,” replied the man as he shut the door.

  The boys continued on their rounds, visiting each of the houses in the village before returning to the madrassa. In the village square was the well from which the boys often drew water. Rashid was there, tinkering with one of the motorcycles taken from the bandits. Its back end was held up on an improvised stand, its rear hub spinning freely.

  “Salaam, Rashid,” said Asadullah Amin. “What is this?” he asked, gesturing at the contraption.

  Rashid put down his tools and waved them over. “Just watch.”

  He pulled a length of old rubber hose tied into a loop over the rear hub. The other end of the rubber hose was wrapped around a second hub on a metal box with more hose running out of both its ends. One short end lay on the ground beside the motorcycle, while the other disappeared into the well. Rashid reached under the motorcycle seat and pulled out the choke. Rising up high in the air, he pushed down on the kick-starter with one foot, dropping down again to the ground as the motor thudded to life. The hub spun madly as he revved the engine. The well gurgled, and after a few moments water began to flow out of the short end of the hose and onto the dusty ground. Rashid turned off the engine.

  “Mash’allah!” said Wasif.

  Rashid wiped his oily hands on the hem of his shirt. “We’ll have to dig the well deeper so that this machine doesn’t run it dry, but if we are careful there should be enough to dig irrigation channels from here to the fields just below the village.”

  Wasif ran his hands over the bike’s mechanism, imagining that he was in control of the machine.

  Rashid smiled. “And then this will be a growing village again.”

  The sun was just past its zenith in the sky, and the highway near the checkpoint was filled with men, kneeling in rows. The Mullah knelt in front of them, leading the community in prayer. No one was visible in any direction who was not praying with the group.

  The prayers finished as the men whispered the taslim over both of their shoulders, first right and then left: “May the peace and blessings of Allah be upon you.”

  The Mullah stood up and rolled his carpet tightly. He set it aside within the circular wall of the checkpoint, and picked up a shovel that he had left there. Behind him the other men were doing the same, many of them carrying simple wooden shovels.

  Pahzman looked to the Mullah for his permission to begin. The Mullah nodded, and Pahzman turned to the crowd. “Follow me,” he said.

  The men grumbled a little among themselves but soon were streaming down from the highway to the riverbed. The water was running higher with the start of the mountain snowmelt. Only a suggestion of a canal remained, running from the river through the village fields. Pahzman walked until he stood facing this indentation in the ground, pushing the wooden blade of his crude shovel into the dry earth and making a deep wound. The other men soon went to work around him.

  The Mullah worked alongside them in silence as they passed the hours digging out the canal and the channels, and shoring up the sides of each. The dusty earth turned easily at first, but became harder as they dug down. The men talked and joked quietly around him, but he took no part in their banter. His arms worked mechanically, the rhythm of his movements steady and even.

  Pahzman worked silently beside the Mullah until his arms were sore with the work. Putting down his shovel, he dug into his pocket for a small bundle wrapped in a tightly tied scarf. His parcel contained a few pieces of hard, white cheese, which he offered to the Mullah.

  “Mullah, there is something that I wish to discuss,” said Pahzman.

  The Mullah took a small piece of the cheese, which he rolled between his fingers to soften before placing it in his mouth.

  “My daughter is of a certain age,” began Pahzman. “You know that she is, Mullah. It is time for her to marry. Her jehez is small, but she cooks well.”

  The Mullah brusquely interrupted him. “I have no interest in marrying again, my friend.”

  Pahzman paled. “No, Mullah. I did not mean to suggest that you …”

  The Mullah stared at him, watching his discomfort in silence.

  “I thought perhaps the eldest of your boys …” said Pahzman. “Their ages are close, and it would be a good match.”

  The Mullah considered this for a moment. One day, he knew, the boys would marry. Indeed, they should marry. But now was not the time.

  “I have no money for the mahr, nor the walwar,” said the Mullah.

  “Is there not zakat that could be used?”

  The Mullah’s face tightened. “The zakat is not collected for our own benefit. It is for the less fortunate.”

  “It is still a good match,” said Pahzman. “The payments are something we could negotiate, I am sure. I have already paid a jehez to Tarak, and have little to offer now. It is no slur on my family if the walwar is small, when it comes from a man such as you and in times like these.”

  “It is written in the Hadith that a mahr must be paid for the marriage to be valid,” said the Mullah. “Let us wait until such time as we have an appropriate sum. Then we can discuss this again.”

  Pahzman placed a piece of cheese in his own mouth, rolling it around with his tongue. When the Mullah turned back to his work without saying anything more, Pahzman picked up his shovel, as well, and set to work again.

  The digging continued for several more hours, and the shape of the canal and channels became apparent again. A trickle of water from the river began to fill the canal as it slowly cut across the field. As the sun made its way across the sky and began to dip into the west, nearly all the men began to seek shade, sitting in small circles or short lines against the low walls dividing the fields. The Mullah sat with Umar, Isa, and Rashid, while the boys manned the checkpoint. The men were all in good spirits, and freely gave their opinions on recent events. The Mullah sat quietly, his thoughts his own.

  A ripple of chatter floated across the groups of men as Jan Farooq, followed by his two usual bodyguards, walked across the field through the seated workers. His two men kept a watchful eye on the villagers as they moved between the little groups, each clutching a short-barrelled rifle barely
concealed beneath his shalwar. Jan Farooq greeted every man that he passed, holding his hand over his heart and merely saying, “Salaam,” rather than embracing or shaking muddy hands. He walked directly to where the Mullah was seated and spoke loudly so that all could hear.

  “Salaam, my friends. Is there room at this shura for a guest?”

  All the men in the field stood up and pressed closer around the Mullah to hear what the two men would say to each other.

  The Mullah remained seated. “Asalaam aleikum, Haji. I hope you are well. I hope that your house is strong. May you not be tired. I hope that your family is well. May you be strong. I hope that your livestock are well. May your health be ever good.”

  Jan Farooq mumbled the same phrases in return, speaking over the Mullah’s words. When they were finished, and the Mullah did not offer him a seat or any refreshment, he scowled. “Is it considered polite to let a guest expire from thirst?”

  The Mullah replied quickly: “Is a man still a guest when he owns half the village?”

  The crowd laughed quietly. Jan Farooq looked around, speaking to all the men. “I have given farms and houses to those who had none. I have given seeds when fields would have stood barren. I think not in terms of what I own, but in terms of what I may give.”

  There was an appreciative rumble through the crowd. Many in the village were in his debt. And unlike the Mullah with the zakat, Jan Farooq gave freely and without question.

  The Mullah paused before he finally said, “Sit with us, my friend. We are resting for now, but would you give your time to help dig this canal?”

  Jan Farooq took a seat beside the Mullah, and took his hand in his own. “I am too busy to do this myself, but can send some men to dig if that is what is needed.”

  “The digging will be complete by the time your men arrive,” said the Mullah. “Though your gesture is appreciated.”

  Jan Farooq raised his voice when he spoke again. “I have wanted to speak to you. I want to donate land to build a proper mosque for this village, as well as a hujra to house our guests.”

  The men who had gathered around them to listen murmured their appreciation.

  The Mullah looked him in the eye. “May God see all of your deeds and reward you appropriately.”

  Jan Farooq stood up, still holding the Mullah’s hand. He led him a short distance away, to speak more privately. Jan Farooq’s voice was low, his eyes cloudy. “I wish for only what is good to rain upon this village. And for yourself. I ask that you forgive the matter of the jirga, Mullah.”

  “What is it, exactly, that I am to forgive?” asked the Mullah.

  Jan Farooq chose his words carefully. “My leaving the jirga before a solution was found may have set the example for others,” he said. “But you must understand that it was clear to everyone that we were not going to reach a compromise.”

  “But did you know that Tarak would attack us?” asked the Mullah.

  “I did not,” answered Jan Farooq, squeezing the Mullah’s hand. “But sometimes, this is the only manner to solve disputes with any degree of finality. Again, I ask your forgiveness.”

  The Mullah hesitated before replying. “It is in the nature of God to forgive.”

  Jan Farooq smiled.

  Pahzman walked home alone up the path toward the madrassa, carrying his shovel over one shoulder. He had finished his small meal of cheese, and he now wore the scarf in which it had been wrapped in tied over his head and neck to ward off the sun. He walked slowly, deep in thought.

  The Mullah had neither accepted nor refused the suggestion that his daughter marry one of the boys. Without money for walwar it might be considered embarrassing to marry, but few had money for the lavish gifts common in their fathers’ time. No one would question the worth of his daughter because of that, he was sure. The Mullah would not allow such vindictive thoughts.

  Pahzman was unwilling to return to the farm his family had left, beset with bandits and lawlessness. It would be best to put down roots here where it was safest. Having cousins, and even family by marriage, nearby would give them further stability. It made life safer, as well. Pahzman felt that his family was adrift, and he wanted to anchor them in society again. Marrying his daughter to one of the Mullah’s boys would be the best way to do that.

  He thought about the discussion that he had overheard between Jan Farooq and the Mullah. He had not heard all of it, no one had, but he had heard enough to feel the tension. He owed a debt to both men — a moral one to the Mullah, and half of his harvest to Jan Farooq. When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers, he thought. Would that it not come to that.

  CHAPTER 14

  The landscape around the village had been the same for centuries. No one living there ever expected it to change, and so when dawn broke that day, the news passed from house to house in minutes.

  Across the shallow river stood a black tent, its sides stretched low to the ground. Beside it lay two camels who jockeyed for position in what little shade it cast. At least a hundred sheep with dirty grey wool lay in a circle around the tent, some grazing on what grasses could be found, others wandering a short distance away to drink from the river.

  Faizal sent a young man running up the hill to the madrassa with the news. He burst into the classroom, chest heaving as he fought for breath, and stumbled over the pile of sandals at the door. When he saw the Mullah he nearly shouted the news at him, only barely restraining himself. The classroom was filled with boys sitting in rows as the Mullah led them through a recitation of the Quran. The young man squatted by the doorway, fidgeting with the tails of his shirt, waiting. As the recitation finished, he pushed through the boys to reach the Mullah.

  “Ma’alim, you must come. There are Kochi on the other side of the river!” he said.

  The Mullah bid the boys practise writing on their slates until he returned, and followed the young man down to the highway. By the time the Mullah had reached the bottom of the hill, all the men of the village were lined up along the river. They squatted on their haunches in small groups, talking quietly and watching the Kochi. The Mullah walked past them to stand on the edge of the newly dug irrigation ditch, stepping up onto a fresh pile of earth from where he could see the entire breadth of the wide pasture on the far side of the river. In addition to the one tent he had been told about, there was now a second tent pitched farther back from the river, with the sheep of both families grazing together between them. No person could be seen among the animals, although the Mullah was certain that the Kochi were watching them closely as well.

  The Mullah made an elaborate show of unwinding his patu from around his shoulders and folding it at his feet. His thin black shalwar kamiz hid no weapons. He pulled his loose pants high up about his waist and walked slowly down to the river, wading across the water in the direction of the closest tent. The water was cool, fed by the snow melting far away on the mountains.

  As he reached the other side, the few sheep near him scattered, creating a ripple effect as their flight encouraged others to flee, as well. Soon, the sheep were spread out in a wide crescent around where the Mullah stood. He chose not to approach either of the tents too closely. Instead, he crouched by the riverbank where he could easily be seen, and waited.

  Before long, a single shot rang out from somewhere behind the tents. The bullet whizzed harmlessly overhead; the Mullah did not react, but continued to wait. He heard the loud barking of dogs by the far tent, but again chose not to move.

  Eventually, his patience was rewarded.

  A young boy suddently appeared out of nowhere, dressed in rags, looking both wild and carefree. He was quite close to the Mullah — he had approached unseen until he chose to stand up and show himself. He clutched an old bolt-action rifle left behind by the British, its wooden stock polished to a high sheen and decorated with brass inlay.

  The Mullah remained squatting, but held his hand over his heart as a simple greeting. “Asalaam aleikum,” he said with great sincerity.

  The
boy repeated the gesture and replied: “Wa aleikum salaam.”

  “Who are you?” asked the Mullah.

  “We are the Free People,” said the boy.

  “Of which tribe?” asked the Mullah.

  The boy’s eyes twinkled. “We are the sons of Barak.”

  The Mullah kept pressing, beyond what would be considered polite. “And who is your leader?”

  “Our leaders are the sun and the moon and the stars. We follow them all, each in its time.”

  The Mullah’s voice was tight. “Are there any men here for me to speak to?”

  The boy laughed and gestured across the river. “There are more true men here than there are over there.”

  “Are there more of you coming?” asked the Mullah.

  The boy laughed again and gestured from horizon to horizon over his shoulder. “We will fill these fields from there to there.”

  The Mullah grunted, and with nothing more to say, he turned to wade back across the river. The boy fired a few shots in the air out of joy, and shouted: “Come back tomorrow, if you wish, and you will find more of us to speak with!”

  As the Mullah reached the other bank again, the village men gathered in a tight cluster from where they had been watching to hear what he had to say. Umar and Rashid, who had been at their post on the highway, stood at the front of the group, rifles in their hands.

  “Are they Kochi?” asked Umar.

  “Kochi. Powindah. Whatever word is used,” said the Mullah.

  Umar glanced over his shoulder at the black tents. “Should we be worried?”

  The Mullah shook his head. “They are Pashtun, like us. Barakzai. These must only be the first elements of their group. I suspect that I will speak with their leader tomorrow.”

  One of the village men spoke fearfully. “But what of our pasture? Their animals will drink all the water.”

  The Mullah looked at him with amusement. “What magical sheep are these that can drink a river dry?”

  The man persisted. “They cannot graze on our lands!”