by Phil Halton
It is a dwelling place of honour, it is a place of pride.
It is our love, it is our soul.
“Young men have always laid down their heads for its freedom.
Many brave men have sacrificed their lives for its sake.
All the plains and all the mountains are coloured with their blood.
The sacred land of the Afghans.
“It is our love, it is our soul.”
Wasif blinked self-consciously as he finished his poem. The boys, who had listened in silence, began to clap and clamour even louder for Wasif to teach them how to fire a kalash. “You can’t tell us about brave men and sacrifices and refuse to show us how to shoot,” said the tallest boy.
“You have to give us a chance now,” said Lala Chai.
Finally, Wasif relented. “Enough. Watch and I will show you how to shoot.” He looked around at the boys, trying to harden his face into a mask. “And how to kill.”
He picked up a few empty cans that had been thrown to the side of the road by the checkpoint and carefully counted fifty paces away from the road and up the path that led to the madrassa. When he reached a point that he decided was far enough away, he placed the cans in a stack on top of a large rock. Walking back, he saw Isa get into position to shoot, with a tight knot of boys crowding together to squat down behind him.
Isa readied the rifle and leaned in. Aiming carefully, he squeezed off a few quick shots. One of the cans disappeared as the sound of the shots echoed across the valley.
“Mash’allah!” said the tallest boy. People in the shops lining the roadside came out to look at the source of the shooting, but no one tried to interfere.
Wasif stepped up next, deliberately placing his feet just less than shoulder-width apart and sliding his left hand back and forth on the forestock of the rifle until he found the perfect position. Rashid’s instructions on how to shoot ran through his mind as he checked off each thing that he had been told. He braced his elbows tight to his body, and once he was ready to fire, he held his breath. The boys behind him watched silently.
His first shot sent a can spinning away into the distance. He fired twice more and the remaining two cans went flying. The young boys cheered. Wasif smiled at them and turned around to give Isa a playful slap on the back. Isa ignored him and walked up the path to set up the cans again. Wasif turned to the boys. “Who’s first?” he asked.
At the sound of gunfire outside the chai khana, the Mullah stood and moved to the door. Pushing aside the blanket that kept out the dust, he looked up and down the highway to find the source of the shooting. Seeing the large group of boys clustered around the checkpoint, with one of them aiming a kalash unsteadily into the distance, he strode down the road toward them, his prayer beads swinging wildly from one fist. Umar followed close behind him.
“Is this what religious study has become?” asked the Mullah loudly as he approached.
The boys froze in place, saying nothing. When the boy holding the rifle saw the Mullah looking at him, he lowered its butt to the ground, holding it uneasily around the barrel with one hand. Isa turned back from his mission to set up the cans again. Wasif, supporting a rifle for a young boy who could not hold it himself, looked up at the Mullah and stammered a reply. “We did not seek them out. They came here themselves.”
Umar hurried to walk beside the Mullah. “Perhaps it is good that Wasif and Isa are teaching them what they know. Let there be no doubt that how to carry the sword of Islam is a suitable subject of study.”
The Mullah looked at Umar, a reply forming in his mind, but then he merely grunted and said nothing further. He walked past the checkpoint and began to ascend the pathway to the madrassa. As he passed Isa, he turned and spoke to the boys, all still frozen in place. “I am returning to the madrassa. When I arrive, I expect that all of you who are students will be seated and fully engaged in your studies.” The boys hesitated for a moment, but then raced pell-mell past him up the hill, led by Lala Chai, anxious not to disappoint.
The Mullah paused to let the boys stream past him and then began to walk up the hill, his strides long but slow. Umar kept pace beside him, with Wasif trailing close behind.
“I am losing focus on the madrassa. On what is important,” said the Mullah.
“The madrassa does not exist in isolation,” said Umar. “We need you to be involved in the community, as well. We need you to protect the madrassa from the world outside.”
The Mullah shook his head. “My place is at the head of the class. Teaching the boys to live good lives will build a new world.” He continued up the trail, now worn into a deep zigzag rut that wound around the rocks and scrub that dotted the hillside. As his conviction grew again, his pace quickened, until Umar was out of breath trying to keep up.
“And what of the villagers’ request that we open a road to Kandahar so they can get to market?” panted Umar.
“All things in their time,” said the Mullah. With a gesture of his hand, he indicated that the rest of the climb would be in silence.
Mullah Shafiq sat on his patu in the shade of the madrassa wall facing the cemetery across the fields. The ragged flags affixed to long sticks that marked some of the graves hung limply in the hot air. The farmer whose home was cursed by a djinn squatted in front of him, with his wife seated behind him. Sweat had soaked through the fabric of her chador wherever it touched her body.
Mullah Shafiq held up a vial of brownish mud between two fingers, turning it in the sunlight. “I have prepared the ink to be used in your ta’wiz, my friend. It took me quite some time and effort to find the ingredients.”
“Are you certain that this charm will work?” asked the farmer anxiously.
“I have done this many times,” said Mullah Shafiq confidently. “Although, based on the charm that you brought me, your djinn is one of the most powerful I have ever seen. You are lucky that you brought this problem to me in time.”
A hand reached out from under the chador and tugged at the corner of the farmer’s kamiz. He leaned back to listen to his wife, who whispered harshly at him. When she was finished, he turned back to Mullah Shafiq. “Are you certain that this will not only banish this djinn, but prevent it from returning?” he asked.
Mullah Shafiq pulled his glasses out of his pocket and cleaned the dusty lenses with the corner of his chapan while thinking. He perched them on his nose before replying. “My friend, if you doubt my powers, then you need not employ my services. I can use the magic in this ink to help others.” He took the vial and slipped it into a pocket deep inside his chapan, and sat looking expectantly at his customer.
The woman’s hand reached out suddenly again to touch her husband, but the man ignored her. “No, Haji Mullah, no. We do not doubt you. We beg you to help us.”
Mullah Shafiq nodded, and pulled a sheaf of paper slips from within the pages of his Quran. He set them down on his patu, placing a rock on top to hold them in place. “I am ready to begin writing out the ta’wiz for you. But first, you must show me your commitment.” Mullah Shafiq held out a small silver plate, black with tarnish.
The man pulled a folded wad of bills out of the breast pocket of his kamiz and placed it on the plate. Mullah Shafiq measured the thickness of the wad with his eyes, and once satisfied, said a few words of blessing over the payment. He set the plate aside, and picked up a heavy brass fountain pen from the holy trinkets arranged around him on the patu.
As he began to fill the pen with muddy ink from the vial, the Mullah appeared at the edge of the village. The Mullah stopped, his eyes fixing immediately on Shafiq. “Wasif, see to the boys in the madrassa.” When Wasif hesitated, the Mullah’s voice became harsher. “Now,” he said. Wasif skirted Mullah Shafiq and his customers, keeping his eyes fixed on the doorway of the madrassa as he went past them.
The farmer jumped to his feet. His voice was strained, and the words tumbled out so fast that they were hard to understand. “Haji Mullah, we did not know what else to do. No one but Mullah Shafiq has
said he could help us. This djinn is a plague upon our household.”
“Silence!” said the Mullah as he strode toward the magician. The farmer continued to mumble his explanation, but the Mullah ignored the man and addressed Mullah Shafiq instead. “Take your heresy and your blasphemy and begone, sinner!”
Mullah Shafiq remained seated, looking up at the Mullah through his thick glasses. He gave the Mullah a look of pure disdain. “I’ll not take orders from a pederast so holy as to live with a harem of orphan boys.”
The door to the madrassa crashed open, shaking on its hinges. From inside, Wasif came running, wielding his brother’s cricket bat over his head like a sword. He shouted as he ran: “Allah-u akbar!” He swung the bat with all his might, aiming at Mullah Shafiq’s head. The old man raised his arms over his face and ducked, and the bat struck the mud wall of the compound over his head and shattered. Wasif was left with the stump of the bat in one hand, his arms aching from the impact.
Mullah Shafiq sprawled on his patu, surprised by the sudden attack. He lunged for the money sitting on the tarnished plate, but Wasif swung the handle of the bat, forcing him to duck again. Mullah Shafiq was on his feet before Wasif lunged at him a third time.
He backed away from Wasif, who was flanked by the Mullah and Umar, stumbling before turning and running. Wasif threw what was left of the bat at Mullah Shafiq’s retreating back, missing him narrowly. They watched as the old charlatan disappeared out of sight at the far edge of the village fields.
Wasif scooped up the money from the ground and held it up to the Mullah with a smile. “He must have left this as his zakat.”
Umar smiled. “You will be a ghazi yet, my young friend.” He embraced Wasif tightly, kissing him on each cheek. When he had finished, Wasif looked to the Mullah, who was ignoring him. The farmer and his wife were still crouched down by the magician’s patu.
“And what shall I do with you?” demanded the Mullah.
The farmer held up his hands in supplication, while his wife squatted against the wall nearby, her features unseen under her chador. The farmer averted his eyes, and this time he spoke softly and slowly. “Haji Mullah, thank you for saving us from that evil man.”
The Mullah glared at him. “I had already warned you about his tricks. And yet here I find you dealing with him.”
Sweat appeared on the farmer’s brow, dripping into his eyes and making him blink over and over. “I did not doubt you,” he said. “I swear it. But we did not know what to do.”
“It is simple,” said the Mullah. “You must do what is right. According to the Quran and the Hadith.”
The village man stumbled over his words again. “Of course, Mullah, of course. But —”
“What, man?” said Umar. “Spit it out.”
“About the djinn …” said the farmer. “What are we to do? I have money to pay you if only you could banish this creature from our home.”
Before Umar could reply, the Mullah grabbed the man by the ear and dragged him along the ground to the centre of the open space. Then he propelled him forward with a violent shove, the farmer’s knees skidding across the ground. The woman screamed as her husband tumbled but she did not move. The Mullah spoke in a roar. “Do you understand nothing that I have said to you?”
The farmer rolled over onto his back, raising his hands to defend himself. “Mercy, Mullah, mercy! I want only to be protected from evil.”
“Get out of my sight!” shouted the Mullah. “I do not perform magic tricks! And you defile the Holy Quran and all it contains by believing that I do!”
The farmer quickly got to his feet, and, without looking back, ran the short distance to his home. His wife scuttled along the wall, keeping out of reach of the Mullah and the others, until she, too, turned and ran. The Mullah heard the sound of their door slamming closed and a heavy bar being placed against it to barricade it shut.
The Mullah looked around at the others, wild-eyed and angry, before striding into the madrassa alone.
Wasif let out a long breath, unaware that he had even been holding it. Umar put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze before following the Mullah into the madrassa. Wasif stayed outside for a moment before gingerly stepping through the doorway behind them.
Mullah Shafiq stumbled through the scrub. He had lost one sandal, and his bare foot was covered in blood. He leaned heavily on a stick that he had found, using it as a crutch. He briefly considered stopping to rest, but with no blanket to sleep in or food to eat there was little point, so he kept moving.
The day’s light began to fade as he worked his way down a spill of rocks and debris toward some easier ground. By this time, his bloody foot was caked in dust and throbbed dully. As he stepped over a large bramble, he slipped, his ankle rolling out from underneath him as a loose rock shifted under his foot. Swaying quickly to stay upright, he lost his balance, tumbling down to the ground and rolling through the debris and dust before coming to a stop at the bottom of the hill. As he fell, his turban caught on the branches of a low bush and was pulled from his head, leaving his hair a long and unkempt mess in the dust.
He lay on his back, stunned, his unfocused stare searching the hill above him. The sky was already grey and turning quickly to night before he stood up again, shaking the dust and gravel out of the corners of his chapan. He looked up the treacherous slope to where his turban still hung from a branch, mostly unravelled and looking like the dirty rag that it was. He thought better of trying to climb back up to retrieve it, and so, putting his one sandal back on his foot, he began to walk again.
In the far distance he thought that he could see a dim smear of light. That would be Kandahar. Where the gullible congregate, there will be opportunities, he thought. And somewhere between that light and here, he knew, was the grand house of Nasir Khan, patron of learned men.
That pretentious mullah might have made a beggar of me, he thought. But he should know that as you sow, so shall you reap.
CHAPTER 19
The sun beat down on the highway cutting through the valley, causing the faded grey asphalt to shine dully. The Mullah and the others were crowded under the meagre shade of the ZIL beside the checkpoint, squatting and facing the dushka. Rashid stood beside it, holding the feed cover open with one hand and pointing at the mechanism inside. “This feed block revolves,” he said, “pulling the belt through as it fires. The bullet on the bottom of the block is the one that fires.”
Umar craned his neck to see it more closely.
“This little strip of metal is what pulls the belt off as it rotates,” continued Rashid. “This is where it is most likely to jam. This needs to be kept clean and lightly oiled.” He wiped the belt stripper with a cloth, and showed them the oil and dust that was crusted onto it. “This is one of the most reliable machine guns there is — if you keep this part of the mechanism very clean. Now let me show you the rest.”
Rashid’s hands moved over the gun with confidence. He pulled the trigger and slowly let the bolt come forward, restraining it with his other hand. He then moved around to the front of the gun and pulled the gas piston tube as far forward as it would come, and then unscrewed it until it came off in his hand. He lay this down to the left of the gun, on top of the ring of rocks. Rashid continued to fieldstrip the gun, naming each part and laying it in order beside the others.
“Who can put the gun back together again?” asked Rashid, looking up. Standing behind the group was a young stranger who had been listening quietly. When Rashid stared at him, the stranger nodded slightly and then spoke.
“Asalaam aleikum,” the stranger said respectfully, his hand over his heart.
The Mullah recognized the stranger as Nasir Khan’s nephew before the others did, and placed his own hand over his heart as he spoke. “Wa aleikum salaam.”
The nephew quickly launched into a litany of greetings. “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.”
When he had finished, the Mullah waited impassively.
“Haji Mullah, again I bring a message to you. My uncle continues to hear of the success of this village, and wishes to speak with you again. I can take you to his home.”
“Of course I will come to speak with Nasir Khan,” said the Mullah.
The nephew gestured to a pickup truck parked a short distance down the roadway, intermingled with other vehicles in the market. The Mullah saw that standing beside it, watching them, was Nasir Khan’s man Ghulam Zia. “We can leave immediately, if you are ready,” said the nephew.
The Mullah nodded and headed toward the truck, Umar, Rashid, and Isa following him. He paused to embrace Ghulam Zia as he approached. “Brother Ghulam, I trust that you are well?”
“Well enough,” said Ghulam Zia.
“And I trust that it is no trouble for two of my men to accompany me?” asked the Mullah.
Ghulam Zia eyed Isa and Rashid, who each dangled a kalash loosely in his hand. “As you wish,” he said with a shrug.
Rashid and Isa climbed into the bed of the pickup truck and took seats leaning against the rear of the cab, as Umar remained standing nearby. Ghulam Zia sat behind the wheel, and Nasir Khan’s nephew took the middle seat. As the Mullah walked around to the passenger side, Umar tugged at his sleeve and spoke quickly into his ear. “I am saddened to say it, but I don’t believe that Nasir Khan is to be trusted.”
The Mullah turned and put his hands on Umar’s shoulders. “He is a great man, involved in a great many things. Talking is our way — and at worst, one learns to be good by watching those who are not.”
The nephew leaned over and opened the passenger-side door for the Mullah, who shook his head and closed the door firmly. “I will be more comfortable in the back.”
The Mullah climbed into the back of the truck and took a seat between the others. Isa banged on the side of the truck with the flat of his hand, and the truck started rolling forward slowly through the market. Umar watched until it disappeared up the road, his face knotted with concern.