American Taliban: A Novel

by Pearl Abraham

  dddddddjjjjjjjjjdsaaaaaaaasssssssddddddddddddffffffffffffff

  rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrffgggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

  hhhhhhhhhhhhh—No he moaned and lifted his head, saw again the word dead, and stood and kicked his chair over, and the table, and, before he could destroy the screen, Muhammed jumped the counter and pushed him to the wall, to stop him. John crumpled.

  The machine had to be rebooted, and a one-time warning was delivered: physical abuse of the equipment would not, could not, be tolerated.

  Muhammed put his hand on his shoulder. You okay, man? He handed him water. John sipped, hesitated, rubbed his eyes, took another sip, took a deep breath, and waited for the machine to reboot.

  We can’t afford vandalism, Muhammed warned. Not even from you.

  John sat staring, hearing nothing, shaking his head. It had never happened, he had not read it, not seen it, not true, it was not.

  When the screen came up again, he reopened Barbara’s e-mail.

  From: BarbDC672@adelphia.net

  To: John_P47892@hotmail.com

  Date: July 16, 2001

  RE: Urgent

  Honey,

  Bad news. Jilly is missing, presumed dead. For several days now. Her parents are in Hawaii, trying to learn what they can, hoping to find her body. She was with Katie and Sylvie, they were surfing, a storm was building, and the waves were high. Apparently she went too far. And disappeared. We’re all grieving.

  The funeral or memorial will be in Hawaii, on the beach, where she was last seen, which makes attendance difficult.

  Dad and I are anxious about you. Write to tell us you’re well and safe and being sensible.

  Much much love from Dad and me, Mom

  A p.s. e-mail followed because Barbara always had afterthoughts, but he was afraid to hear more. He opened it anyway.

  From: BarbDC672@adelphia.net

  To: John_P47892@hotmail.com

  Date: July 17, 2001

  RE: ps

  Jilly’s body turned up. Her family is relieved, that is, if one can be relieved in such a case. Your father wonders whether you really needed this information at this time, and I wonder whether I should have allowed myself to serve as the bearer of bad news.

  Darling, I’m so sorry. I wish I could have prevented it. I wish there were something more I could do. I wish I could hug and hold you. If you need to talk, or even if you don’t need to talk, please just call me collect. Or use your calling card. Best times these days: Mornings, before my 10 a.m. Evenings, after six. Tonight, I’m scheduled to go to dinner at 7:30, so call before 7:15 or after 10. Looking forward to hearing your voice,

  Love, Mom

  He pushed away from the shaky table and stood and found he couldn’t stand, couldn’t walk. His legs were buckling. Muhammed stepped up, put his hand under his arm, and led him back to his seat.

  What happened? he asked. Bad news?

  John nodded. He stared at his inbox and waited, wishing for an e-mail from Katie or Sylvie. Or Jilly. Telling him it wasn’t true, it had never happened. He tried willing them to write one. He searched his inbox and found Jilly’s last one, from back in February, from when they were packing for Hawaii, after which, once they’d gotten to Hawaii, they’d sent only an aloha postcard with only a wishyouwerehere, and sureyoudon’twannajoinus and always their bubble-letter sign-off:

  He thrummed his fingertips, tapped his foot, wobbled his knee. The boy on the computer beside him frowned, asked him to stop, so he stopped. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stay still. So he stood. So he paced. Why Jilly? That’s what’s always asked. So he asked. Why Jilly? Why Donnie Soloman, who died at Waimea Bay? Why Mark Foo, lost at Mavericks? Why Tod Chessner? Mark Sainsbury? Jay Moriarty? Why Phil Shao? Why Jeff Phillips? Why Keenan Milton? Why Tristan Picot? Why Neil Edgeworth? Why Jeff Anderson? Why Craig Kelly? Why Vince Jorgenson? Why Jamil Khan? Why Jilly?

  HE LOST HIS CONCENTRATION. The July heat was getting to him. In classes, stuffy and smelly with too many bodies, he grew irritable. And he wasn’t sleeping well. Not asleep, he found himself in Jilly’s head, thinking Jilly’s last thoughts, experiencing the line and flow of her last wave, a warbly one, considering how to take it, at what speed, whether to ride or rip it, drop into the tunnel or stay on top. He wondered what she’d thought in her final moments, knowing she wouldn’t make it. Was the experience worth the risk? Would she take that wave again? Finally asleep, he found himself pinned to the ocean floor, and he awoke drowning in his sheets. After which he lay awake under the fan, watching the fan, afraid to sleep. Awake, he listened to Zaadiq’s even breathing and Ishmael’s free snoring. They slept well because they weren’t afraid to die. They’d confronted death and they’d lived. Therefore they were free. Which was what he needed. But it was dark and the world slept, so he counted sheep, counted backward, counted the hours and minutes to daylight.

  He considered going home, but to what? He’d been doing well in his classes, making strides in Arabic. He could now write and speak in whole sentences that were grammatically correct if not super sophisticated, and he didn’t want to regress. At the Sharia in Brooklyn, it was midsemester, so he’d be without classes. Besides, he’d given up the apartment in Brooklyn, and D.C. in July wasn’t fun. The Outer Banks without the girls would be too sad.

  Outside at dawn, the air was thick and still, not a leaf stirred, and figures shrouded in white moved silently toward the library, toward the mosque, to the tea shop for breakfast. In the silence, his wheels rolled soothingly on the smooth concrete. He rumbled toward Islamia’s main entrance, hoped to meet Yusef, but Yusef wasn’t an early riser; he rarely made it in time for first prayer. So John stopped for tea, met colleagues from his Pashto class who hailed him as the Ahm-ree-kee, and he waved but couldn’t bear to stop. Tea in hand, he made his way to the open courtyard of the mosque. Prayer ought to help him, calm him. Prayer ought to tell him what to do. He kneeled on a mat, he rocked back on his heels, he whispered, and tears wet his face.

  He meditated and reasoned. Jilly died, he told himself, in a moment of becoming, the highest moment. So she would never grow old, never get stuck at mere being. He heard her voice. I couldn’t make a wrong move. My body sort of knew what to do on its own. The wave was a live thing, and somehow my body knew what to do.

  He cut class and went to find Yusef, but Yusef was in a hurry. His class was just starting, he was running late. Anything wrong? he asked, but John held back. He couldn’t talk about Jilly in a hurry. Besides, what did Jilly have to do with his desire for Yusef?

  He tried a day’s fast to take his mind off Jilly, and off Yusef, to make him think of something else, even if it was only food, but after breaking his fast, he still went looking for Yusef. But Yusef was becoming impatient. You have become insecure and needy, he said. Tell me. What’s bothering you?

  So John told Yusef about Jilly. I can’t sleep, I can’t study, I can’t concentrate. And the heat doesn’t help. At the library I read a paragraph three times and I have no idea what I’ve read.

  I’m so sorry, Yusef said. You should have told me right away. Does Khaled know?

  They had tea with Khaled.

  Maybe you need a change, Khaled advised. A sort of time-out.

  You should get out of the city for a while, Yusef agreed.

  I can arrange a stay at my aunt’s, Khaled offered.

  What he needed, John thought, was physical activity to tire him out, so he could sleep. But it was the end of July, it was one hundred eight degrees, too hot for classes, too hot for the library, too hot to stay indoors, too hot to be outdoors, at least in Peshawar.

  From: John_P47892@hotmail.com

  To: BarbDC672@adelphia.net

  Date: July 26, 2001

  RE:

  mom,

  it’s about 110 degrees at 9 a.m. and i can’t take it anymore. i want to take time off from classes and move into the hills with a friend, where it’s cooler. i’ll need money. love, john

  ps y
ou prob won’t hear from me for a while since there’s no internet or phone access in the hills. please don’t worry. i’ll be fine.

  BARBARA UNDERSTOOD. One hundred ten degrees was indeed extreme, especially without air-conditioning.

  I wish he’d just come home, she said to Bill. Even if only for August.

  I’d like that, too, but would John? Bill asked. He seems determined to follow his own plan, his own curriculum. He deferred Brown a second time. I was surprised they let him.

  But if he’s taking a break, Barbara said, why not take it here? He could stay with us at Southern Shores. He could surf.

  Yes, of course. If you can convince him.

  But John had his own ideas. Moving back, he wrote, would mean falling into easy English. Here I learn even when I’m not in the classroom. I just need a short break.

  Barring home, Barbara said, the hills with a friend might be best, and Bill wired money.

  JOHN ARRANGED for a leave with college administration and rented a locker for his books, CDs, and duffel bag of clothes. He was taking only a small backpack. His wheels, useless in the hills, would remain in Yusef’s care, Yusef rather than Khaled, because Yusef respected wheels.

  After which he was ready. Yusef picked him up on his bike. Y’allah, he said, inviting John to steer.

  So John climbed on the bike again, so he felt Yusef at his back, so he wanted Yusef, thus by the time they rumbled into the camp’s dusty courtyard, he craved a last fuck, and though he said nothing, he knew Yusef knew.

  Yusef mounted his bike, kicked back the kickstand, and paused in front of his cousin. Promise to take good care of my friend, he said.

  Jalal nodded, and Yusef was satisfied.

  WITH YUSEF GONE, the kids crowded around John, practicing their English on him, and Jalal, who was watching, had an idea.

  How about giving English lessons while you’re here?

  The kids whooped. Then sat on their haunches to listen as Jalal composed John’s daily schedule in the sand. He sketched with a stick. Your day will begin early, with physical conditioning. We’ll train together.

  After a quick bath at the stream, Jalal continued, we’ll be in time for prayer and breakfast. Qur’anic study and meditation follow. At high noon, the midday meal is served, and we all retire for rest. In the afternoon, after a brief recitation session, classes in weapons and target practice. Early evenings, Jalal continued, I conduct a session in rhetoric, in which the children practice debating each other. These sessions will provide you with an opportunity to practice your Pashto.

  We have a group of older students, all about your age, training higher up the mountain for the next weeks, Jalal explained. When you’ve become acclimated here, you’ll want to join them there.

  Picking up John’s duffel bag, Jalal led the way to his own room. In the dorm, he explained, the kids would keep you awake with questions.

  It was time for the noon meal. They stopped to wash their hands at the basin near the entrance and took their places at the back of the room. Inside, the kids passed large baskets of pita bread, then bowls of hummus. Even the youngest boys showed the elegance and motor skills of maturity. They scooped up the hummus with their pita, careful to keep their fingers out of the bowl. For dessert, small cups of mahlabiyya. Some of the groms, John noticed, took two.

  In Jalal’s room for siesta, two mats served as beds, folded towels as pillows, and Jalal lay on his back, one hand under his head. In the other, a book. He had stacks of books against the walls in what appeared to be a mix of English and Arabic titles.

  You’re welcome to them, he offered. Some are mine, others were left behind by former campers. Here, this one’s an excellent history of the mujahideen movement. I also have Sufi books. And poetry of Arab Andalusia, which is my specialty. I like to read one poem before bed, sometimes only a line. So that beauty accompanies me into sleep. Listen to this one:

  The tongue of dawn threatened to denounce us.

  Whose is it?

  Ibn Zaydun of Córdoba.

  The tongue of dawn, John repeated.

  How do you feel? Jalal asked.

  The air is better here, John said.

  Some of the younger boys get asthma in the summer, Jalal said. That’s why their parents send them here.

  Jalal’s breathing grew even, and John closed his eyes, matched his own breaths to Jalal’s, and slept. Finally.

  He awoke to the sound of his name, and found Jalal at his side with a cup of tea.

  Too long a siesta makes you more tired, he said. Best to keep it short.

  They washed their faces in the basin of water at the door and slipped into their tunics. Jalal finger-combed his wavy hair.

  We’re due for Qur’anic recitation, he said, and parted the curtain that served as a door.

  It wasn’t exactly a classroom: there were no desks, no blackboard, no teacher. A large rug covered the concrete floor, and campers were seated in rows, two to a text. They sat with one knee tucked neatly under one buttock; the other knee supported the open book. Although John started in the same position, he couldn’t keep it for long. He watched, listened, mouthed the verses, admired the kids their stillness, their ability to stay put. They were young, only eight or so, but without prompting, each took a turn reciting a verse aloud, and the group repeated after him. They moved fluently from boy to boy, row by row. When it was his turn, John tried for accuracy in the classical Arabic. He had been practicing the beat, complete with pauses and precise glottal work. He read sura 18:33, Kita aljannatayni atat okulaha walam tathlim minhu shayan wafajjarna khilalehuma naharan.

  Well done, Jalal complimented him, and recited the next verse, complete with correct clicks and checks.

  After the session, two boys offered to escort John to target practice. They slipped their small hands into his, and he walked with them, enjoying the contact, their quick friendship. Their names, they told him when he asked, were Ibrahim and Dawid.

  He hadn’t seen any adults besides Jalal and the cook. Who conducts classes? he asked.

  When the older boys are in the hills for Ta’sisia, Ibrahim explained in Pashto, Uncle Jalal teaches.

  What do we call you? Dawid asked.

  Most people call me John, John offered. But my Arabic name is Attar.

  Attar, Ibrahim said.

  Attar, Dawid confirmed.

  John nodded. Attar, then.

  The session took place on the bare campgrounds beside the platform built for target practice. The carpet from indoors had been brought outdoors, and the kids sat in a ring. They made room for John and his escorts, and once again John had to tuck his legs.

  His name got around. Attar, several kids said, by way of acknowledging him. Ahm-ree-kee? one boy asked.

  John nodded. Yes, he said. When I’m not here, I live in Washington, D.C., the capital of the United States.

  Washington, D.C., they repeated. Capital of the United States.

  They’ll learn quickly, John thought, but he would have to figure out how to organize the material, both alphabet and vocabulary.

  Jalal arrived, and the kids transferred their attention to him. He started by asking for some moments of silence and breathing. The kids closed their eyes and breathed noisily, inhaling deeply, forcing the exhale.

  Smooth, silent breathing, Jalal announced, will make your shooting more accurate. If you breathe smoothly, your arms will relax, the rifle won’t move, and the target won’t disappear. And we have a new pupil with us today. Let’s see if we can both impress him and help him become a sharpshooter.

  They were required to lie on their stomachs. Jalal lowered the target, and three kids got into position. The others were reminded to remain behind the platform at all times.

  Breathe, Jalal reminded them. Sight down the barrel, keeping your eye on the target. He corrected hand and head positions, straightened fidgety legs.

  Elbows tucked in at your sides, Jalal said.

  Two bullets hit the paper target. The third went awry. Then
the next three kids moved into position. When it was John’s turn, he looked at Jalal.

  Yes, Jalal confirmed. On your stomach. It will aid your steadiness.

  John reminded himself to breathe, to sight, to keep his eye on the target, which should have been easy, but it wasn’t. The target moved. He closed one eye, which helped. He exhaled, he pulled the trigger, and the bullet hit an outer corner of the paper target.

  The boys cheered, though they were better at it.

  Better than your first time, Jalal said. Next time, when you squeeze the trigger, try doing it in one slow continuous motion.

  John went to the back of the line, impatient now for his next turn. Slow and continuous, he told himself. One motion. He was eager to achieve a bull’s eye. He was eager, he discovered, for the boys’ admiration and applause.

  Spicy smoke drifted from the dusty courtyard, and John found that he was hungry. He stopped at the stream with the others to wash his dusty hands and face before dinner. After prayers, with the sun lower in the sky, they dined outside.

  Again baskets of pita made the rounds, followed this time by a tray of skewered cubes of beef with onions. With their pita, the kids picked off a cube at a time, catching the juices with the bread. John soon got the hang of it, and enjoyed the outdoor, no-utensils camp style.

  FOR HIS FIRST ENGLISH-LANGUAGE SESSION, John decided on basic introductions. He started with himself: My name is Attar. My oom’s name is Barbara. My ahb’s name is William. I have no ahk or ohkt. I am from Washington, D.C., in the United States of America, and I am visiting Pakistan. My favorite food is pizza.