This Shall Be a House of Peace

by Phil Halton

  The men of the village began to shout enouragment to each other, gaining courage from their numbers as well as from the words of Jan Farooq’s man. Their shouts added to the list of crimes that the Kochi were known for.

  “They steal from everyone they meet!”

  “They’re not really even Muslims!”

  “And don’t forget that they have used the evil eye to make our children sick!”

  Wasif began to push to the front of the crowd to speak to them and talk them out of attacking the Kochi, but before he could begin, the first ranks began to stride down toward the river. The bulk of the crowd swayed forward and soon followed.

  “Wait, wait!” cried Wasif, but no one paid any attention. Soon, only he and his brother still stood beside the highway. The crowd had surged down into the fields that led to the river.

  “We need to get the Mullah,” said Asadullah Amin.

  Wasif unslung his rifle. “I can deal with this on my own.”

  “How?” said Asadullah Amin. “By shooting everyone? No one will listen to you.”

  “I’ll make them listen,” said Wasif, before turning away from his brother and walking quickly after the crowd. Asadullah Amin hesitated for a moment, having always followed his brother, but then he turned around and started to run back up the hill to the madrassa.

  Across the river, the Kochi men could be seen standing in a loose line along the bank. Every one of them carried some sort of weapon: a few were armed with kalashes, while others held older rifles and shotguns. Their black tents and their flocks, which they had hurried back from the river, dotted the landscape behind the grim-faced nomads. The village men exchanged nervous looks as they faced the Kochi across the water. They remembered that Jan Farooq’s man had told them that defeating the Kochi would be easy. None of them dared contradict him now.

  Gol Kochi stood in the centre of the line of his people. He scanned the line of villagers for the Mullah, but did not see him. Instead, he shouted across the river at all the villagers, “Go back to your houses! You cannot take what belongs to no one!”

  The village men did not respond. They stood uneasily at the edge of the river, none of them wishing to be the first to advance against the better armed Kochi. Even Jan Farooq’s man, accustomed as he was to fighting, did not scramble down past the grassy edge of the riverbank.

  Wasif moved near him and spoke loudly so that all could hear his words. “There is nothing to be gained from fighting these people.” The villagers ignored him, but their enthusiasm for the fight was already dampened by the sight of the waiting Kochi. They fell silent and stood or crouched where they were, watching the far side of the river warily. Not one stepped forward or back.

  Wasif went from man to man, speaking to every one of them that he knew. No one would return his gaze, or answer his arguments, except one old man who carried a wooden hoe over his shoulder.

  “Go home, boy. This is no business of yours, and no place for a beardless scholar.”

  Wasif turned from the man and walked a few paces back toward the highway, hiding his frustration as best he could. He squatted facing away from the line of men, gathering control of his thoughts and emotions as he tried to compose a new argument.

  The lengthening stillness was broken by a sudden sharp crump from behind the tents, followed by the sound of painful bleating. Every man ducked instinctively at the sound. Sheep went running in all directions, scattering away from the explosion somewhere in the pasture behind the tents.

  None of the Kochi men left the staggered line along the riverbed, knowing they must remain between their tents and the villagers. Not knowing what the explosion signified, but assuming some subterfuge of the villagers, first one Kochi took a shot at the villagers facing them across the river, and then another. A slow but steady fire began from the Kochi men, ricochets sounding along the opposite bank.

  The village men scattered at the sound of the first shots. With little cover along the riverbed, they retreated back to the mud walls of their fields, hiding wherever they could. Wasif scampered away, as well, and lay behind a low wall, peering around the corner. He could no longer see any of the Kochi men, but he could hear the crackle of their shots continue at a slackened pace, few targets remaining for them to shoot at. He lay where he was, unsure of what to do next.

  The pace of the firing slackened and then stopped. Both groups of men remained in hiding on opposite sides of the river.

  “What foolishness is this?”

  The Mullah’s voice carried a great distance as he strode toward the river, trailed by Asadullah Amin, Umar, Rashid, and Isa. All of them carried their kalashes at the ready, except for the Mullah, whose hands were empty. Wasif reluctantly stood up to face him as he approached.

  “The men of the village planned to attack the Kochi —”

  The Mullah’s eyes drilled straight into Wasif. “And what did you plan?”

  “Only to stop them,” said Wasif.

  “And why am I only hearing of this after shots have been fired?”

  “Forgive me, Ma’alim,” said Wasif, his face contorted with emotion. “I didn’t want you to be disturbed for a minor matter.”

  The Mullah walked past Wasif dismissively. “Peace in this village is not a minor matter.” Wasif dropped his gaze in shame and fell in behind the others.

  The Mullah stood at full height at the edge of the river, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Gol Kochi! Must this continue?”

  Across the river, Gol Kochi stood up from behind a small knot of grass where he had been lying. He held a short rifle in one hand and waved with the other. “Mullah, it is not we who started this.”

  The Mullah turned around and began to shout at the village men, still hiding in the fields. “Stand up! Stand up and let them see you walking back toward the road. All of you!” The men stood up slowly, avoiding the Mullah’s glare as they slunk away. Jan Farooq’s man was nowhere to be seen, having slipped away as soon as the village men had begun to scatter. Soon it was only the Mullah and his men who remained standing on the village side of the riverbank. He waved them back to the village as well, and followed as they walked slowly up to the highway. A few Kochi could now be seen standing along the opposite bank, watching their retreat.

  When the Mullah reached the road, Jan Farooq was already there. The village men had gathered around his dusty SUV and were describing what had transpired. Jan Farooq stood by the hood and greeted each man in turn, starting with the eldest and the richest. The shaggy man who had instigated the confrontation sat in the back seat and said nothing. When Jan Farooq spotted the Mullah, he stepped toward him and gave him a quick embrace. The two men exchanged a long series of greetings and remained standing, looking intently at each other.

  “It seems that things have gotten out of hand here,” said Jan Farooq.

  “I arrived to find the same thing.”

  “We must hold a jirga then, and quickly,” said Jan Farooq. “Can you ask the Kochi for a truce?”

  The Mullah signalled his agreement. “It is our way,” he said.

  The Mullah waded slowly across the shallow river, followed by Asadullah Amin and Wasif. Both boys had rifles slung behind their backs. Gol Kochi and two other nomads were waiting for them outside his tent. The other Kochi were nowhere to be seen, though the Mullah knew that they were nearby and watching. Laid out on the ground in front of the tent were four bloody sheep carcasses, badly mangled and barely recognizable.

  Gol Kochi’s mood was hard to read. “Salaam, Mullah.” He gestured at the boys. “Are these your sons?”

  The Mullah winced. “They are the closest thing to sons that I have left. The eldest is called Wasif, and his brother is Asadullah Amin.”

  The two boys shifted their feet uncomfortably as the Kochi men eyed them closely.

  “Strong looking boys,” said Gol Kochi.

  “Mash’allah,” replied the Mullah.

  “Alas, I have no sons. But I have a nephew who brings me joy no
netheless.” He gestured at a smooth-faced boy squatting behind the men. He pointed next at the sheep. “These must have stepped on a mine on the edge of a water hole on the other side of our camp.”

  The Mullah briefly eyed the carcasses. “Unfortunately, there are many such things left from the Russian times.”

  The old Kochi’s eyes twinkled slightly. “Yes. Do you mean in the ground or in the homes of farmers?”

  The Mullah looked directly at Gol Kochi. “If someone has planted that mine intending to harm you, that man will be punished.”

  Gol Kochi held his gaze, unblinking. “If? Did you not see what happened here? They intend to drive us off this land.”

  “And so we need a truce,” said the Mullah, “so that a jirga can be held. To find the guilty, and to punish them.”

  “Is that what you have come here to ask for?”

  “This is our way. The only way, I believe, to end this conflict,” said the Mullah.

  “It should be a simple matter. We will take the blood price for the animals that have been killed.”

  The Mullah exhaled deeply. “It is not so simple. Your people are accused of casting the evil eye on a girl in the village. She has fallen ill.”

  Gol Kochi spat on the ground. “We are the ones who have been wronged. Not your people.”

  The Mullah raised his hands, empty palms turned toward the Kochi. “This is what will be discussed at the jirga. I can guarantee your safety, but nothing else.”

  Jan Farooq’s men had hastily assembled their tent again, though this time it was near the chai khana and within sight of the black tents of the Kochi. It was more crowded than before, and the mood was darker. A few men from the village and a small group from the nomad camp stood outside the tent, feigning disinterest in the meeting, but in fact watching and ready to raise the alarm should there be any sign of treachery. It was hard to tell how many Kochi men there were in the camp across the river, but it was doubtful that all of them had come to sit in the jirga; some must have remained behind to guard their camp and their livestock.

  Inside the tent the two sides sat in tight clusters along opposite walls, eyeing each other carefully.

  In the centre of the two groups along the wall farthest from the door sat Jan Farooq, Gol Kochi, and the Mullah. Faizal and Lala Chai passed through both crowds, pouring cups of tea for which Jan Farooq had paid. The Mullah sat in silence.

  When the majority of the men had assembled, Jan Farooq stood to speak. The Mullah began to stand, as well, but a gesture from Jan Farooq stopped him. “In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful,” began Jan Farooq. “We are here to resolve this dispute between our peoples. There are three matters at hand. The first is the use of the pasturage across the river. The second is the death of the one of our children at the hands of black magic.”

  This announcement brought a gasp from the crowd. The people hadn’t heard that the child had died. Jan Farooq raised his hands for silence. “The third is the loss of the Kochi animals.” As Jan Farooq sat down, the village men voiced their disagreement that this last was a matter to discuss.

  Gol Kochi stood, his eyes rimmed heavily with kohl and flashing angrily. “The only matter to be resolved is the loss of our animals. It is our way that a man’s wealth is not measured in money but in livestock. The death of these sheep, whose bloodline is ancient, is like the loss of our gold. Indeed, it is like the death of our children.” The Kochi men muttered their agreement, gazing darkly at the men of the village whom they blamed for the loss. Gol Kochi’s voice became louder. “The death of your child is not our fault, and cannot be proven as such. And the safe and continued use of this pasture is an ancient right, proven in writing, which this jirga cannot reverse.” At this statement, men began to shout in disagreement at each other across the tent.

  The Mullah stood up quickly. “Our lives must be governed by one thing alone,” he said, “and that is the law of God. The matters raised by Jan Farooq burn in men’s hearts. But the only matter to be settled here is the loss of the sheep.”

  Jan Farooq scowled at him. “Why are you so quick to turn your back on your own people in favour of these nomads?”

  “The firman carried by Gol Kochi is not open to question,” said the Mullah. “And there is no proof of fault that can be given regarding the death of the child.”

  The village men made a low hissing sound to signal their disapproval. Jan Farooq looked from man to man with incredulity, seemingly at a loss for words. “Mullah, you mistake this for your court. We are governed here today by our own ways. The old ways. We will discuss whatever matters burn in men’s hearts. And if we do not find justice through this jirga, then honour demands that blood must be spilled.”

  Gol Kochi spat. “It will be your blood, not ours.”

  The tent erupted again as men shouted over each other to be heard. Hours passed as the arguing continued, each man demanding the opportunity to restate the case in his own words, over and over. The Mullah sat quietly, his face dark, as the day passed uselessly in bickering and complaint.

  It was nighttime before the meeting finally ended, nothing having been accomplished. Men from each community quickly left the tent, heading back to their homes, tired after a long and unproductive day. The air outside the tent was cool, and the Mullah stood and watched as the Kochi men walked together in a group back to their tents. The soft glow of fires could be seen leaking out from under their blackened doorways.

  A group of farmers approached the Mullah as he stood watching the Kochi. Pahzman, at the head of the group, took the Mullah’s hand in his own. He tried to greet him in familiar tones, wishing the Mullah good health and success, but the Mullah was too weary and disheartened to reply. Pahzman tried to kiss the Mullah’s hand, as would a supplicant, but the Mullah pulled it back. Finally, Pahzman screwed up the courage to speak the words the others had asked him to speak. “Ma’alim,” he said, “we have come with a request.”

  The Mullah merely grunted, eyes fixed on him, waiting.

  “The guns that you have seized from us.” Pahzman hesitated. “We wish to be able to protect our families. We wish for the guns to be returned.”

  Another man broke in. “There are not enough of you to protect us. We must protect ourselves, as well.”

  “More guns are not the solution to this problem,” said the Mullah, regarding the farmers coldly. “Certainly not in the hands of those who cannot be trusted to keep the peace.”

  Pahzman ended the conversation quickly. “Thank you for everything you have done for us.” He led the men away before anything more could be said.

  Jan Farooq had been watching this exchange from a short distance away, and as the farmers left, he pulled the Mullah aside and took one of his hands in his own. “My friend, walk with me.” The two men walked a short distance along the highway away from the others and stopped. “I believe that I can see how this can be resolved,” said Jan Farooq.

  “That is a wondrous thing,” replied the Mullah. “This problem is a knot, tied tightly and with many strands.”

  Jan Farooq laughed. “There are only three things at the heart of every conflict. Land, women, or gold. This problem has all three at once.”

  “And so what is the solution?”

  “That both sides agree that there is no fault with the other in regard to the death of the child or the sheep. And that we respect the rights to pasture their animals written in the firman, if the Kochi agree to move onward in their journey immediately.”

  The Mullah hesitated, confused. “Why would either group agree to this? It is a defeat for everyone.”

  “Because we will also agree to two more things,” said Jan Farooq, his eyes twinkling. “The Kochi will return here when they move back from summer to winter pasture. We will hire their men to help with the harvest, and pay them in cash. They will also transport the crop to Pakistan, using the routes that only they know, and sell it on our behalf, returning again in the spring.”

  “They
do not have enough camels to carry that much wheat.”

  Jan Farooq smiled. “Not wheat, Mullah, upym. They are planting poppies in the upper fields. Did no one tell you?”

  The Mullah’s face set into a hard mask. “The use of narcotics is haram.”

  “It is well known,” said Jan Farooq, “that selling upym is permissible, as it is only used by kafirs. And there is nothing else that will grow in one season on the upper fields that is worth growing. We can replant the olives and the grapes, as well, but it will be years before they produce anything of value.”

  The Mullah dropped Jan Farooq’s hand. “The benefits of this plan are a season away,” he said. “What will keep both sides to the bargain?”

  Jan Farooq took the Mullah’s hand again and squeezed it. “Blood.”

  The Mullah shook his head. “Threats of violence will not solve this.”

  “The mingling, not the shedding, of blood,” laughed Jan Farooq. “Two marriages. An exchange of brides. This will make the ties between the village and the Kochi unbreakable.”

  The Mullah considered this solution for a moment, but it did not feel like justice. “It still remains to convince the people of this idea. Especially the Kochi. They have the strongest claim for compensation.”

  “Do not shepherds guide their sheep?” asked Jan Farooq. “They will accept this solution, if we insist.”

  The Mullah had little more to say. “Insh’allah. Will you pray with us, Haji?”

  Jan Farooq released the Mullah’s hand with finality. “Later, my friend, later. I will return in the morning.”

  The Mullah watched him walk away, greeting other men as he went.

  The men gathered again for the second day. Gol Kochi took the Mullah’s hand as he led his people into the tent. “Let today be a day of peace.”

  “Mash’allah,” said the Mullah. “God smiles on mercy and forgiveness, if men can find it in their hearts.”

  The old Kochi smiled. “Trust the shepherds, not the sheep, to find the way.”