by Howard Faber
The children in Mullah Nasrudeen’s village loved him and his stories, but they also loved to try to outwit him. One of them thought up a way to get the best of him. They would all conceal an egg in their shirts, then bet him they were better chickens than he was. They knew he would be too proud not to bet. He thought he was smarter, stronger, and better in every way. They also knew he went every morning to the teahouse, so they met him on the way. They asked him if he was better than they were in every way. Of course he said, “Yes.” They asked him if he would take a bet about this. He didn’t even hesitate and said he would take the bet.
The children said together, “We are better chickens than you.”
The mullah hesitated a moment, then said, ”How can you prove that?”
They were waiting for just that question. They all hunched down, flapping their arms like chickens, making clucking sounds. Then they squatted down, and each secretly slipped an egg onto the ground. When they stood up, they pointed to the eggs and said, “There, we can lay eggs, so we are better chickens.”
Mullah Nasrudeen thought for a moment, then began circling around, scratching the dirt, flapping his wings and crowing like a rooster. “Now, which is the better chicken, the hen or the rooster?” All of those little heads dropped down, and small hands reached in their pockets for a coin. They lost their bet.
At the end of the story, Shireen and Hassan always jumped up, hopping around, circling and crowing like roosters. They laughed along with Ali and Nafisa.
Chapter Nine
Good News and Bad News
When the people in Sharidure heard the news that the Russians were leaving Afghanistan, they hardly could believe it. The Mujahudeen had won, forcing the Russians to haul their soldiers and tanks back to Russia. Everyone thought it would be like old times again.
For a while it was, at least in Sharidure and the rest of the Bamiyan area, but not so for Kabul. The various leaders of the Mujahudeen decided that they should take turns at being the leader of Afghanistan. That didn’t work out, and fighting began for control of Kabul. The various groups fought each other, and Kabul suffered. Eventually, a new group, calling themselves the “Taliban” (religious students) got control and gradually started taking over other parts of Afghanistan. For a long time, the Hazara held out in their area, Bamiyan, but finally the passes that controlled entry into Bamiyan couldn’t be held, and the Taliban took Bamiyan. It wasn’t long before they arrived in Sharidure.
***
When the news about the Russians leaving Afghanistan came over radio and TV in Muhshed, Sayeed hesitated to tell Ali. He thought Ali would immediately go back to his far away home. But, he also realized that if it were himself, when he was still in his youth, he too would probably be leaving for his former home. He would dearly miss his daughter and grandchildren.
Ali also heard the great news, that the Russians left. He realized it would be safe now for him to return. He would make a home for his new family in Sharidure. He would be so proud to introduce his wife and children. He made plans for the return, asking others the best way. If they went by bus, it would limit how much they could take from their home. Going by truck would allow taking all of their things, but this would not be the best way for Nafisa and his children to get across the border and through the many unfamiliar stops along the way. He badly wanted to contact his family, but because the flights now would no longer be needed, he couldn’t drop a letter.
As it turned out, the Iranians decided to continue the support flights, to help the Shiites in the Hazarajat get back to normal. Ali continued flying with them, and so he had the chance to drop another note, really a letter. This time he signed it, “Ali, son of Hassan.” When he returned to Muhshed, he waited for a letter in return, because he included his address in Muhshed. He wasn’t sure how soon the mail service in Afghanistan would take to get up and running. After a month, he got a letter from Shireen. She told him all the news, they were well, and they would be so happy to see him and his family.
He finally decided to go by bus, at least for as much of the trip as they could. He would get his family to Sharidure, then return to Muhshed to move their belongings by truck.
Just before they were to leave Muhshed, the news came about the Taliban gradually taking over Afghanistan. A note from Shireen also warned Ali not to come, because it was becoming a dangerous place again. The Iranians continued their flights to help the people of the Hazarajat. Like the Russians before them, part of the Taliban strategy for taking over was to starve out the people who resisted. Sharidure and the other towns in the Hazarajat were soon under great pressure. No more letters came.
Chapter Ten
A Surprise Landing
The flight began like all the others, except that Reza couldn’t fly that day. He was home ill. His replacement was a young pilot, Homyoon, who made several flights with them as copilot. This was no problem, but the weather in the mountains is always a concern. There was a sudden change, and the pilot called Iran about whether to fly on or return to Iran. It was decided that since they were already more than halfway, they should continue their mission.
The weather continued to deteriorate. The winds and clouds increased and it began to rain. Visibility worsened as they went, so the pilot decided to fly lower, to see if the weather would improve at lower altitudes. It didn’t. He asked Ali if he could recommend a place to land. Ali began watching the ground to see if he could recognize any landmarks. He knew they had passed Chaghcharan, where there was an airfield with a good runway. He was looking for a road. He also was watching the pilot, who was sweating and holding his stomach. Ali asked if he was sick. The pilot looked at him and nodded. He also said he was very nervous about attempting a landing in Afghanistan. The Taliban wouldn’t be welcoming any intruders from Iran. There had been rumors about the Taliban taking over the area where they were flying.
The pilot asked Ali to take the controls for a bit. He needed to use one of the little bags they had on board for motion sickness. Ali took the controls and continued to look for a place to land. After a minute or so he looked back for the pilot. He saw him curled up, moaning, holding his stomach. Now, Ali started to sweat.
He thought back to the days of his flying with Dan, of loving the feel of the plane, of seeing the world from a new perspective. As he flew, he found he could control this plane, although somewhat larger, and having two engines rather than one, not so dissimilar from Dan’s little plane. He focused on the land below. He was following a river, still looking for a road, when he began to recognize landmarks, mountains, side valleys. They were near Sharidure.
As they swept past the town, he shouted for joy. He turned to tell the sick pilot they were at Sharidure, and there was a small airfield where they could land. He didn’t tell him that he had landed there before. Anyway, the pilot wasn’t responding. Ali’s mind raced, trying to remember what Dan told him about larger planes, and how much room they would need to land. He turned the plane in a long circle, gaining altitude for a flyover of the little airfield. The rain and wind continued to fight the plane. He tried out the flaps, trying to feel how to control a landing. He started watching the altitude. He knew the exact altitude of the airfield, and he knew about the cliff at the far end. He also knew the mountains and the valley approaching the field. He could do this. He just didn’t know ho
w long it would take to stop.
© Don Beiter
He did the flyover, high enough to be above the hill at the high end, low enough to see the runway. As he approached what he knew should be the end, he could see the runway, and he could see the hill at the high end.
He saw the little wind indicator just where he placed it. The wind was coming mostly down the runway, and it would help him land. It gave him some hope.
The plane roared over the small field. He banked to the left to fly over the town and come down the valley again to try the landing. The plane responded to his hands. It flew very much like the little red and white plane he learned in. If only Dan were beside him. He could hear Dan talking about the landing, how fast to fly, how high to be, when to drop down to the ground. So, he did. He flew the plane down to the end of the runway, concentrating on the ground and feeling for the runway. He had it just right. The end of the little field came up quickly, and Ali saw he needed more room.
He remembered Dan telling him about a time when he had faced this situation and how he ground-looped the plane, doing a hard left to spin and stop the plane before running into what was ahead. So again, he heard Dan talking and did just that. The plane pivoted on the end of the left wing and the left side wheel, and spun around 180 degrees to face back down the runway. It also shuddered to a stop and plopped back onto all of the landing gear.
Ali just sat at the controls, shaking, gripping the wheel. They were down, safely. The pilot had missed a great landing. Just where was the pilot? When the plane lurched violently around in the ground loop, the pilot had been thrown against the side of the cockpit, where he now lay unconscious. At least now he wasn’t moaning or holding his stomach.
Ali’s next thought was that he was home, home to see his parents and his sister. He started to exit the plane, when he had a second thought. Were the Taliban going to be outside, waiting for him? Surely someone saw or heard the plane. Maybe not, with the howling wind and the rain, maybe no one saw or heard anything. He heard moaning coming from the pilot, who was waking up. Ali went to him, asking him if he was all right.
“Yes, I think so. Where are we? Did we crash? Where are we?”
“We’re in Sharidure, my far away home. We didn’t crash. I landed the plane.”
“How did you land it? How did you know how?”
“I have flown before, a long time ago. I even took off and landed at this exact airfield. That’s how I knew where to land, and how to land.” Ali tried to sound confident, but not to brag. It turned out he didn’t have to. The pilot did it for him.
“I still don’t know how you did it, no runway markers, no air traffic control, nothing. It’s amazing. I’m glad I was unconscious, because I would have been scared stiff. Let’s get out to see this home of yours.”
They climbed down. The rain kept on. Ali was thankful now for the wind. It must have helped them land and shortened their landing enough to keep them on the runway. He looked over at the little wind indicator and laughed out loud, remembering putting it up. He wondered who replaced the original one and kept it working for all these years. Maybe some little boy like he had been, or maybe Shireen. It was only a stick and some cloth, nothing much, yet enough to help him land and save his life.
“Have you seen any sign of people?” The pilot was probably wondering too about the Taliban.
“No, but the storm is probably keeping them inside and kept them from hearing or seeing this plane. Let’s walk down to the village to find them.” Ali didn’t say anything about the Taliban. He was hoping they might not have ever come to Sharidure.
***
The first house they came to was that of Askgar, the leader of the local Mujahadeen, the leader of the group that Ali had helped drop the Russian UAZs into the canal. No answer came from the house and Ali was a bit surprised. He couldn’t imagine that nobody was there. They walked further into town, but still didn’t see anyone. The next house they came to was Ali’s home. He couldn’t wait to see his family. He knocked, and knocked again. There was no answer. He began to worry. He called his father. “Father, I’m home. It’s Ali, your son.” He thought he heard someone inside. “Shireen, it’s Ali, your brother. Are you there?”
The voice that answered was Shireen, his sister. “If you are Ali, where did our mother hide the candy?”
It was a question only Ali could answer. Even their mother didn’t know they knew. What was making her so afraid of answering the door? “Behind the curtain, in the window of the kitchen.”
The door opened slowly. Shireen peeked timidly out, knowing it must be Ali, but still afraid. “Ali, it is you!” Now she was the old, unafraid of anything Shireen. She stopped when she saw the other man, the Iranian pilot. Ali introduced them and reassured her it was all right. All the while they were standing in the rain. Shireen laughed and said they might want to come in out of the rain. Ali laughed, too, and stepped into his home.
“Is Dad at his shop? Where’s Mom? Sorry, how are you? I don’t know where to start.”
Shireen waited for him to finish, then asked him and the pilot to please sit down. “Would you like some tea? You must be tired. I’m sorry I kept you outside and didn’t answer the door.” She brought them some green tea and some warm bread. They sat on the floor cushions, placing their cups and plates in front of them.
“Ali, mother died last month, mostly of sadness and fear, I think. She left a letter for you. She told me what to write. It’s a wonderful letter, full of love. She said she knew you would come back. She wasn’t sick, just so sad. She suffered a lot when father died. He was killed by the Taliban when they came to Sharidure. They brought all of the men in and lined them up and shot them all. I can’t tell you how terrible it was. If you had been here, they would have killed you, too. They came back several times, though not lately. That’s why I was afraid to open the door.”
Ali began weeping. He was overcome by his parents being gone. The only sound was his sobbing.
Finally he stood. “Could I see the letter?” Shireen went to get it. It was folded once. Ali opened it and read it, silently. It sounded just like his mother, full of love and quietness. He could see her, sitting, telling Shireen what to write. It told of her joy in seeing his plane, waving its wings, knowing it was him, and how proud she was that he could be bringing food to them. There were hints of her sadness, of how afraid she was of the Taliban, but mostly, it was words of hope, saying she knew a better day was coming. He refolded the letter and tucked it into his felt vest, the one she had made before he left.
***
That afternoon, the rain stopped, the wind died down, and the sun came out. The pilot wanted to go see the plane and the damage, if any was done in the landing. Really he wanted to leave the brother and sister to themselves, to talk more without an outsider there to hear. Ali and Shireen appreciated it. Ali showed him the path up to the airfield.
Ali wanted to go into his old town. He went first to his father’s carpentry shop. Inside, it was just like he remembered, with various projects left to be finished. On a table was a toy truck, partially painted. His dad must have been making it for some child. He sat down at the table the truck was on. The paint jars were there, and so was a small brush. The truck was a model of the local trucks, a “loree,” the same kind he and hi
s father rode in the back of to Kabul, the same kind he rode on his way to Iran. He sat a while, then decided to complete the painting. Just before the daylight faded, he had finished. He set it aside to dry. It felt so good to be there, in his father’s shop, in his hometown. He began to think about his family, far away in Iran. They must be worried by now, wondering why he wasn’t back.
He walked up to the plane, hoping the radio might work to call Iran. The pilot was in the plane, checking out the systems. He said the radio worked, but that he was hesitant to try to call because some unfriendly ears might hear and get a fix on where they were. He showed Ali the broken propeller on the wing that had been the pivot for the ground loop landing. The end of the wing was also damaged. They wouldn’t be flying out of Sharidure, at least not today.
Ali and Homyoon talked about what to do next. They decided that a telephone call was the best way to let someone in Iran know what happened, so they walked back down to the town to try the local telephone office. It wasn’t open and looked deserted, so they went back to Ali’s home. Shireen told them the operator was killed with all of the other men, and since then, no one could make a phone call. Homyoon wanted to leave right away, maybe taking a truck back to Iran. Ali didn’t know what to do. Shireen thought he should go back with the pilot. “Ali, you have your own family to take care of. You should go back. I’ll be OK here.” Her words said that, but her eyes spoke of fear and uncertainty.