Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  Each biting cold morning Masud would begin by filling a large container with ice cold water from the outside tank to perform the most rudimentary rites of ablution. Trekking across the frost ridden fields to relieve himself behind the building in the area designated for such purposes horrified his sensibilities. The stench of feces and urine emanating from the hillside dugout seeped into his pores and the back of his throat until he believed he would die from suffocation. This was, he thought, beyond primitive. He was now convinced that he had stepped off the plane into a land that time and modern convenience had forgotten. Occasionally he would feel the cell phone they had given him and it became his talisman, his only connection to the past, his one item of luxury and decadence. He would feel it and his mind would be transported into memories of a warm bed, hot water, soap, showers and the ultimate luxury, a commode with toilet paper.

  This was, Masud observed, an environment of hapless contrast. What he found ironic, perhaps in another set of circumstances even humorous was watching his fellow recruits conversing by cell phone while squatting primitively in the dugout alongside him. His ritual wash completed, Masud, now frozen solid, followed the others responding to the azan, the call to prayer for all Muslims which sounded five times daily over loudspeakers throughout the camp. Inside the mosque, some believers sat alone and recited the Qur’an while others prayed together and waited for the arrival of the Imam to perform the Salaatul Fajr. Approximately one and a half hours before sunrise there is a whiteness appearing in eastern sky, it is called the subh khaadib. This whiteness or column is known as the ‘false dawn’. When this fades whiteness comes from the east, spreading towards the right and left but not in the form of a column, this is the subh saadiq, the true dawn and in this moment begins the time for fajr. As the dawn spreads across the sky there is time to intone the prayer twice, the fajr ends with the risen son as the day begins.

  Mason Desai communed like millions of believers across the world, making peace with his creator before joining with the others to eat.

  The area where the Mujahideen ate was an adobe building with open fire pits where food was prepared and served in large copper and cast iron pots. The morning breakfast consisted of bowls of highly spiced mashed lentils with flat bread to scoop it up. He thanked Allah for giving him never ending work so he did not have to obsess about good food, clean plates and cutlery, fresh clothes, and most of all a hot, soapy shower.

  On October 5th, just three weeks after the day that had changed his life, a man identifying himself as Amahl’s father, Mullah Fazel Muhammed Razaq, a traditional leader of prayer at the mosque in the village below the compound came, he said, to escort Masud to the quarters of an important man, giving no further explanation. He was taken blindfolded to a Pashtun village several hours away from the camp deep in the foothills of the mountains. When they removed his blindfold, he saw small neatly made buildings with terraces surrounded by corn and wheat fields, these in turn surrounded by walnut trees alongside a strangely peaceful stream. The structures reminded him of a place in Utah called Hovenweep, where he’d worked as a student on an archeological dig of ancient Indian dwellings. Like his encampment there, these too appeared to be adobe dwellings. Mason was greeted by a tall bearded man in the traditional rebel headgear known as a Pakol. The man had a long woolen shawl draped around his shoulders, protecting him from the vicious wind. His beard was long and flecked with grey. His face, although hidden in part by the length of the beard, showed a rough, dark complexion, visibly scarred and darkened by the sun. But it was the man’s eyes, now filling with tears that were unmistakably recognizable. The closer Mason ventured toward the figure, the more the man’s stare held his attention, until at last Ghulam Ansari stepped forward with arms outstretched and greeted his son.

  “There is no God but Allah. Praise be to God, the cherisher and substance of the world. Allah has seen fit to bring my only son to me. Blessings be upon the Prophet Mohammed and his kin.” He took Mason in both arms. “Come Masud and greet your sister Zahida, who is the mother of Amahl. Her husband brought you here.”

  “You knew I was here?” Mason asked his father.

  The older man nodded. “I have known since you left Maryland,” he said, pronouncing it as Mary Land. “We have many supporters in Bal-ti-more. They keep me informed. All names of Warriors of Gods are known to us.”

  “The Taliban has supporters in Baltimore?”

  “The supporters of Jihad are everywhere, my son. We own land in America and in Europe. We have businesses in every country and we receive donations through many organizations. Of course there are supporters in Baltimore, and in Washington D.C., Virginia, New York and all over the West. Wherever we congregate! Wherever the Zionists are, so are we my son, looking over their shoulders. We are fighting for removal of the invaders who exploit our resources. Come, refresh yourself after your journey. You will stay here for a few days. Tomorrow we must go further into the mountains so you can practice your skills on others who have been wounded.”

  His father signaled a woman in traditional dress, whose only visible feature was her face. She had black almond shaped eyes much like his own and was accompanied by a young girl not long past puberty. The dark eyed woman was introduced to him as Zahida, his younger half sister and the mother of Amahl. The girl next to his sister was much taller and appeared slender, despite the voluminous robes that she wore. Her eyes and most of her face were visible but she replaced the mesh grill covering her face when she left the room with Amahl. The young girl had been introduced as Haleema, the daughter of an important warlord and guest of the Taliban. Haleema was, it was quickly explained, his father’s third and most recent wife. She was, Mason would later learn, just fourteen years old and pregnant.

  They ate a simple meal of Afghan flat bread and a spicy walnut stew with small cubes of lamb served over basmati rice. It was heavily spiced but delicious. Masud wolfed down his food and his father patted his back, delighted that it met with such approval. Masud, at this point would have eaten anything. This was his first decent meal in a week.

  Mason did not speak of his mother, nor was he asked about her. Ghulam Ansari was interested only in the present. When Mason talked of his elderly grandparents now living in exile in Paris since the emergence of the Taliban, Ghulam only stared into the pit that served the house as its only source of warmth.

  “My parents consider me dead. I accept their estrangement from me without question, but I am glad, my son, that they have given you exposure to our Afghan culture. But it is this, what you see here, that is truly Afghanistan, and with Allah, peace be upon him, this land will be great again.”

  “Father,” Mason began, “I do not understand how you can be happy about such poverty and oppression. Look at the people. They are not happy. They cannot laugh or sing. Even sports and music are banned. One cannot even ride a bicycle. There is no personal freedom. Your women are held hostage to this terrible culture.”

  Ghulam surprisingly was not shocked at his son’s outburst. “You are much like your mother,” he said in rebuke, “These hard times will also pass, my son. The pendulum will swing first one way then the other and settle somewhere in the middle. As for me, I am content. My new wife is young and beautiful and Allah be merciful, she is not barren. My other wife has given me one daughter, but no sons, and she is now well past the years of childbearing. I have felt greatly saddened by this and hoped that one day you would come to me. My beautiful daughter is a good wife, like her mother. She has given me a great gift, her son Amahl. The boy holds a special place in my heart. He is what I hoped you would be, very intelligent. He will go to Madrasah, the traditional institute for higher education. Allah legitimized the authority of the Ulama in the Qur’an, ‘Of every troop of them, a party shall go forth, that they who are left behind may get instructions in Islam, that they may warn their people when they return so that they may beware of evil.’ It is essential that our young men hear the call and know Allah. I have spent many years in Europ
e watching these infidels drink and debauch. They have no conscience, no standards. Their women are whores and harlots, giving themselves away while the men gamble and forsake their families. It all begins at their colleges and universities, that is my experience,” Ghulam said in a quiet almost scholarly tone. “I have seen this. I am your father, believe me, I know this to be true. They are godless and they must find their way back to Allah. But now you must rest. Tomorrow, your greatest test begins. You will be taken to the border country to meet one of our most respected leaders, may Allah watch over him. It is his son who has sustained an injury. Allah be merciful and guide you to heal him.” Ghulam held his son closely and for the first time in many years, Mason wept openly.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE

  The next morning, shortly after dawn, they broke their fast following morning prayers and upon the arrival of their two mountain guides, Amahl and Mason began their journey. It took several hours on horseback to reach the caves high above the city of Jalalabad in the eastern portion of Afghanistan. The encampment was approached by a road through a narrow ravine extending to a mountain, guarded by several hundred men armed with machine guns, heavy weapons, and tanks. Amahl was greeted with affection by the older men; their horses were taken from them and the young doctor, of whom legends were now told by his father, was once again blindfolded. He was led very carefully through what seemed to be a dank, dark tunnel. The air was rancid. He was having trouble breathing; every few feet dirt could be felt falling in drifts on his head and shoulders. He imagined this was how miners felt when they were trapped. Mason Desai was in a state of absolute panic. At the end of the tunnel, he was stopped and turned around several times to confuse him further. Mason, by now nauseated, retched violently against the sediment on the side of the wall. He could smell a bitter acrid odor which seemed to have a pungent urinary quality. Bats! The place reeked of bat piss. His guides removed the blindfold, held him upright and gave him some much needed water. He was led to what looked like an outer prison cell followed by a long corridor. He marveled at this, because the entire structure was in a cave passage. There were scorpions at every turn and he could hear the sound of what he assumed to be rats scurrying around in the dim torchlight, clearly not as much afraid of him as he was of them. Mason could smell the sweat of his own fear! He had no idea how far into the mountains they went. This labyrinth of tunnels seemed to go on forever. Mason merely followed his guides, totally surrendering himself to them and hoping with all his heart that they knew how to get back.

  The respected leader’s refuge consisted of three rooms, equipped with several laptops, a satellite phone, several low beds with thin mattresses and a vast library full of rare Islamic books. The floors were completely covered with rugs and carpets of every color and design. There were maps on the walls and a round table stood in the center of the room with rolled up prayer rugs alongside, offering relatively comfortable albeit makeshift seating. A tall, thin man held out his hand in a gesture of welcome. His voice was high and he breathed with difficulty, almost as though he was asthmatic. His Arabic, Mason noted, was clear and concise. It had the diction and tone of a very well educated man. “I am Osama bin Muhammad bin Laden,” he said simply. “You are the doctor, I presume, the son of my loyal friend and son-in-law, Ghulam Ansari. Please be seated Masud Ansari. I have sent for refreshments after your journey.”

  Within minutes two women in brilliant blue and black burquas appeared carrying trays with fried eggs and cheese, bowls of rice and fresh okra with warm flat bread. They poured what looked like steaming mint tea into two small cups and excused themselves quickly, never turning their back on bin Laden.

  “My wife and her sister are here to take care of our family. They are readying my son. He has been wounded in a training exercise. His leg was slashed when he fell on jagged piece of rusted metal. My first wife fears that there is an infection around the wound. He has a fever that will not break. This son is her favorite and I am obligated to humor her. That is why you are here. When you have attended to him, I must speak privately with you, for you must take a message to your mother, who will see that it is taken to those in power.”

  “My mother!” Coughing and spluttering, Mason tried not to choke on the hot tea. Attempting to gather what little composure he had left, he found that all he could do was laugh. “I have come all this way, across several continents, risked my life working at the clinic and I am told by the most feared man in the world that he has message for my mother! I know you met her many years ago, but that you would remember her at all astounds me. She’s just a woman!” Forgetting whom he was addressing, he added sarcastically, “You could have just picked up your cell phone, gotten her number and saved me a trip. She’s in the book, you know.”

  “Your attempt at wit is disappointing, but I take no offense. Such an action, were it not so incredulous would have been too simple and easily traced, young Masud. Clearly you lack the manners and the ability both to listen and to follow instruction. You will convey what I have to tell you to her alone.” Bin Laden stared down at Masud, his black eyes searching for rebelliousness. Finding none, he continued to speak. “Now eat and praise Allah, you will make sure my son has two legs that he may walk in the path of the light of God.”

  After the simple meal Mason again followed Amahl, who had been waiting outside. He was led down another tunnel with a door opening onto a landing field where a Hagglund BV206 all-terrain vehicle was waiting for him. Inside were six men carrying AK-47s and once entering the vehicle Mason was completely surrounded by them. Terror forcing the bile to rise in his throat, Mason realized within a few minutes that thankfully these men were bodyguards not abductors. After the jostling and pushing he and Amahl were being treated like visiting royalty. Amahl looked at him and said in English, “You thought we were going to get killed, right? We’ve got the medical bag and the surgical skills; obviously nothing is going to happen to us. Now if Mohammed or Saad dies, I don’t know which one it is, then my Uncle Doctor, we will have a real problem.”

  “Amahl, I thought bin Laden had a personal physician.”

  “He does. Abu Mohammed the Egyptian. You know of him as Ayman al-Zawahri. The man of many faces. He is a surgeon. I have met his wife, she is a very beautiful lady. Such a woman, she is gentle and kind to everyone. They have many beautiful daughters and I hope, maybe, to marry one of them. They are a well known family. Very influential! It would, my grandfather says, be a very good match but first I must become, as he advises me, eligible. The Madrasah and an Arab university and then, and only then, will I be considered.”

  “Tell me about al-Zawahri, Amahl.”

  “He is known here as ‘The Teacher’. He has been to many countries spreading the word of Jihad. He lives usually between the borders of Ariana,” using the romantic term for his country, “close to the Pakistan side. He has a twin; she is a medical professor, and two brothers who are not Jihadists. I think they all live in Maadi. His grandfather was the highest Imam in authority in Sunni Islam. Others in his family have held high position in government, even some ambassadors. He is a great speaker. His words are like music. Some say that he is the brains behind Jihad, like your Mr. Cheney is the puppeteer for your president. Zawahri joined our Jihad before I was born, I think in 1979, but it was in 1981 when the world first took him seriously. He was imprisoned for his part in the assassination plot on President Sadat. He suffered in prison. They tortured him, but Allah was merciful and he would not name others. When they released him in 1984 he came here to fight for us. That is when he met our leader and my grandfather. This is how we began. I have his book, “The Bitter Harvest”. He signed it for me! He even traveled to America to raise money for Egyptian Islamic Jihad, and he has planned many attacks for our cause. Without him we would have nothing. He goes from place to place. Europe too. He was even in Liverpool, where the Beatles are from! Can you imagine that? John Lennon, I love his music. He has an Arab soul. I have all their tapes, you know. It is forbidden
, I know, but music is music. I love music. If we ever have peace, I will play the guitar like John and read more of ‘Harry Potter’. It is forbidden here, but my grandfather found one and read it to me. I like this book. It represents our situation well.”

  “It is about a school of magic Amahl. How can you value that? There is no magic.”

  “My Uncle, I look at the magic parts as being the true meaning of Islam. Islam, like magic, exists in your heart and actions. Even the characters are true to life and its wickedness. I think your President is like the Dark Lord Voldemort.”

  “But there are prominent women in ‘Harry Potter’ and they are equal to men.”

  “Yes, but there are prominent women in Islam too. Look at Mohammed’s family. I think you need to study the Holy Qur’an!”

  Mason stared in astonishment. He was somewhere in the mountains of Afghanistan, on his way to minister the needs of a world renown Jihadist and the son of the most wanted man of his time, and he was listening to a Beatle and ‘Harry Potter’ loving teenage terrorist.

  “Tell me Amahl,” Mason began, “Have you killed too?”

  “Of course, my Uncle. I am a Warrior of God. I must kill to preserve my life and that of my family. It is a question of honor. We cannot be disregarded any longer.”