“Alhamdulillah!” exclaimed a gleeful Abdul Latif. “Sikander, young man, you must be lucky for us. The Soviets are being careful. They either don’t know yet what they’re up against or they think there’s been an accident. They’ll want to investigate and not risk any more aircraft without knowing what happened. If we’re lucky, they won’t see it was an RPG and there aren’t any bullet holes or other signs of combat. The explosions that disintegrated the helicopter came mostly from their onboard munitions. If I were their commander I’d want to know what brought it down before committing a large troop force, and that’s going to give us more time. Besides, he’ll probably radio back to his superiors before making a move.”
As they headed west, the mountains to their left continued for another sixty kilometers. The peaks in this part of the Spin Ghar were significantly taller than their Pakistani Safed Koh counterparts. Reaching as high as four thousand meters, the protection they offered in the present circumstances was too tempting to resist. Abdul Latif led his mujahideen troop around to face the mountains, making the usual switchbacks to gain altitude. The more elevation they gained, the greater the advantage to spot any airborne Soviet threats. Threats from the ground would be even easier to notice but were much less likely. With the sun high over the plains, giving the travelers a well-lit position, they could make good progress into the mountains toward Takhto Kalay, while periodically looking back to monitor for approaching threats.
Takhto was a small village of mud houses dotted among steep terraced hills. Abdul Latif knew it well. It was not far from Laghar Juy, and although the latter lived off its own agriculture, some of Takhto’s more exotic produce was often brought down from the mountains by mule to be sold in the villages, including Laghar Juy, nestled in the gentler slopes below.
For many of the villages between the Spin Ghar and the Jalalabad-to-Torkhum road, Soviet attacks would result in long stretches of time when much of the agricultural land became little more than a moonscape. Likewise, village homes were easily demolished by the bombing. While rebuilding everything, villagers would often look to places like Takhto as a source of food.
Over the years, this frequent interaction created new relationships and one of these was between Abdul Latif and Azam Ahmed Khan, of Takhto. But it had been several months since he’d been there, so Abdul Latif had to ask the welcoming villagers to point them to Azam’s house. Azam’s son, Humayun, was home. He also knew Abdul Latif, though a little less well than did his father.
“Abaa isn’t far. He’s in the fields and should be back shortly,” Humayun told him. “Please. Come in and rest yourselves.”
The mules were duly unpacked and the supplies and weapons hastily shuffled into an adjacent outdoor compound surrounded by a mud-brick wall.
Now that they had the chance to rest their legs and eat, there was a tension in the air, reflecting the events of earlier that day. Everyone was somber and not especially inclined toward chatter. There was a minor break from the melancholy when Azam finally arrived and he and Abdul Latif gave each other a welcoming hug. After a few pleasantries, his wife, not wanting to lose the opportunity, prompted Azam to ask Abdul Latif if he wouldn’t mind taking some fruit and vegetables to one of her friends, Aamina, down in Laghar Juy.
Abdul Latif solemnly led the maghrib prayer. Afterwards, he, Abdul Rahman, and Abdul Majeed sat in a corner of the main room of the house and read from the Qur’an. Sikander remained seated, imagining how barely five days earlier he had been studying Shakespeare, watching TV, and engaging in thought-provoking debates about Afghanistan. Ejaz nursed his ankle, cleaning the wound once more, while Saleem could do little more than stroll outside the house pondering how close he and his brother had come to dying and how that would have affected their mother and sister.
For the feelings occupying the men that evening, a new day was needed to return to their normal selves. When the day broke, hoping to lift their spirits, Abdul Latif reminded everyone that they were now mere hours from home. Immediately after fajr they made ready for their final descent toward Laghar Juy. Depending on what they saw, they would either continue onto the plain and join Laghar Juy’s meandering stream into the village proper, or remain higher up in the mountains, cutting across each small brook and stream gulley until they could approach the village more squarely from the rear. After bidding salaams to Azam and his family, the men were on their way.
The descent from Takhto was uneventful. They discovered no signs of nearby Soviet presence and the going was once again eased by the protection of the early morning Spin Ghar shadows. Abdul Latif had no desire to repeat the encounter of the previous day. Watchful for helicopter patrols, he and his troop moved cautiously at a modest elevation, following the mountain contours until they arrived at the headwaters of the stream that would lead them directly into Laghar Juy. After an hour’s rest, they resumed their descent until finally, in the early afternoon, the village houses became discernable.
The travelers were soon spotted by the lookouts on the south side of the village. The villagers who had been posted there came out to greet them. Pleased with the safe return of their kinsfolk, the lead lookout gave a defiant takbeer: “Allahu Akbar!” upon seeing the several mules carrying weapons and much needed supplies. Abdul Latif gestured to one of them to take care of the mules and to move the supplies into the village store, where food and weapons were generally kept.
Reluctantly, Sikander gave up Neela’s bridle. He had grown fond of her, with her docile nature and hardiness. His impression of mules had been generally negative until this experience, and he had expected more difficulty eliciting Neela’s cooperation, but she had been a willing animal with remarkable intelligence and skill in negotiating the rocky terrain.
Abdul Latif and his troop entered the village casually bearing their weapons over their shoulders. As he strolled deeper into Laghar Juy with his companions, Sikander saw the remains of ruined mud-brick houses or partly destroyed walls amid other intact and occupied homes. Several individuals came to greet him as an “extra” mujahid and he acknowledged them warmly. Such acceptance was heartening, especially coming from people so hard-pressed by the times and so often beset by the need to rebuild their meager homes not once, but maybe two or three times, after successive bombing attacks.
Sikander was filled with thoughts of Hayatabad and his family. Aside from the overwhelming desire to contact them, he experienced the sting of guilt at how oblivious he’d been to the plight of the Afghans, how superficial and pretentious his own life now seemed, and how, despite the very real stress of his family’s economic situation on his parents, it all seemed so meaningless compared with the reality in front of him.
Another kind of guilt had visited Sikander from time to time during the journey, a guilt that he felt once more now. He realized how different it was to actually live this war than to have safely intellectual debates about it with class fellows. Ego and ignorance had each been healthily dented by his brief encounter thus far with this war’s harsh realities.
Razya was a stoic. She, her sister-in-law, and niece, were planning to dine together. As she crouched by her low mud-brick stove, preparing the charcoal that was to be used for that day’s cooking, she lit the fire.
War had dominated their lives for almost seven years, and prior to that, things had not been very peaceful under the Afghan communist regime following the Saur revolution. Razya’s response had been to grow a thick skin and pray each day for nothing to happen to her precious husband or sons. She had, however, resigned herself to receiving one day a fateful message, and in her own mind, without ever discussing it, had rehearsed her reaction to such a calamity. It was just her way of being prepared.
This was not to be that day. Abdul Latif and his men entered his house and called out Razya’s name. She beamed, a wave of relief coursing through her, as she murmured a thankful prayer for their safe return. Rising up, she locked eyes with his and exclaimed in full voice, “Khan! You’re back! Alhamdulillah!”
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br /> Without frenzied embrace, Razya acknowledged the men’s arrival, continuing to smile. The twelve, stifling days of her family’s absence were over and she could breathe again.
Abdul Latif looked upon his wife and sighed. He had borne the responsibility for his sons and nephews and was pleased to be relieved of the burden. He allowed himself a moment or two of rest and a glass of water, before rising to his feet with the realization that he had become so familiar with Sikander’s presence that he’d forgotten the need for an introduction. “Razya, we have a new mujahid. Meet young Sikander Khan.”
Sikander politely acknowledged the introduction, and then fleetingly looked at his friends and back toward Abdul Latif. Understanding the glance, Abdul Latif turned to his nephews.
“Saleem, Ejaz, let’s get both of you back home. It’s been long enough. Sikander, you can come too if you like.”
It was only proper for Abdul Latif to see to it that Saleem and Ejaz were reunited with their mother and sister. After all, no husband or father was returning to them. Still, that would do little to dampen their delight at seeing the safe return of the two young men. But their uncle had to be the one to escort them home or, at the very least, give them permission to go.
“Abdul Rahman, Abdul Majeed, help our people to offload the mules and give those things we picked up in Takhto to your mother here—Razya, they’re for Aamina. You boys see to your mother’s needs and I’ll be back shortly.” Satisfied that his instructions would be followed, he turned to Sikander, Saleem and Ejaz.
“So, let’s go break the good news to your mother!”
“Good news? What good news?” came the question from behind his back. For the briefest of moments, Sikander noticed an expression he had never seen on Abdul Latif’s face.
Razya listened intently as her husband explained everything that had culminated in the proposed engagement between Ejaz and Hinna. When Abdul Latif described how Yaqub and his wife had agreed, Razya let out a joyful shriek. But on its heels came a realization that prompted her to frown. “Khan! You were going to go to Noor’s house and let her know without telling me?”
It would, of course, be completely unacceptable to dishonor Abdul Latif with anything like a scolding in front of his own sons, particularly with a stranger like Sikander present. Achieving the same goal, however, Razya aimed a narrow-eyed stare at her husband, before continuing.
“Khan, I think such matters are really best discussed between women, and besides, whatever Noor thinks of this arrangement, she’s unlikely to reveal her true feelings to you. Don’t you agree?”
Abdul Latif nodded sheepishly.
“Why then, let me go with you and I’ll be the one to explain how—auspicious?—such a marriage might be?” she offered as she cocked an eyebrow, looking past her husband into the eyes of Ejaz.
Ejaz was obliged to study the smooth dirt floor when her eyes met his. He allowed himself just a simple nod and the hint of a smile to let his aunt know that she was indeed being wise.
“Well, then, Abdul Rahman, you and Abdul Majeed had better come with us too,” Abdul Latif declared, with relief and resignation. They were happy to oblige and after Razya hastily doused her fire, the seven of them proceeded to Noor’s house, no more than fifty meters away.
Coincidentally, Noor had just left her home with her daughter, Rabia, heading for Razya’s house to help prepare dinner and to gossip. Suddenly, Rabia darted out in front of Noor, who noticed now that she was hastening toward the seven approaching figures walking down the dirt street. Seeing both her sons, Noor recalled the scene on a day barely nine months earlier when such a group had returned from the Zhawar campaign without her Abdus Sami, initiating in a single moment a whole new course for her life, and numbering her among the burgeoning ranks of Afghanistan’s widows. The thought, combined with the joy of seeing her returning offspring, caused her to weep and smile at the same time. Though her boys had been away only twelve days, every such trip was perilous and every return a source of blessed relief.
The group came together and after the usual hugs of welcome and expressions of salaams, all of them turned and headed to Abdul Latif’s home, where preparations for dinner would resume, but now on a substantially larger scale. After the hubbub, with everyone regrouped at Razya’s house, Noor beckoned to Saleem to approach her. He obeyed and with his head lowered in respect, she said a blessing prayer in silence as she gently stroked his head. Ejaz was next, but as he limped toward her, Noor’s face fell.
“Ejaz? You’re hurt. What happened?”
Abdul Latif and the young men exchanged glances. No one had bothered to suggest a rehearsal of how the incident might be explained to the family.
“Ejaz, uh, lost his footing in the mountains,” Abdul Latif said dismissively. “Hm! You’d have thought he’d never been up there the way he was handling himself with his mind so preoccu…pied.” Having uttered most of the last word before realizing where it would land him, his eyes went to Razya.
“Noor,” said Razya, gathering her thoughts and smiling at her sister-in-law. “Let’s go into the back and chat, shall we? These men are tired after so many days coming across the mountains. Let them rest and we’ll make dinner. I’ve something to tell you anyway.”
Noor and Razya, followed by Rabia, proceeded to the rear of the home where the stove fire awaited resurrection. Around the stove were a handful of patthras. Razya, Noor and Rabia took one each and promptly sat down.
“Noor,” began Razya, “as you know, Ejaz is now, mashAllah, a fine young Pashtun and I think it’s certainly about time he was with a wife. Don’t you?”
“Why, yes I…in fact, I’d been thinking abou—” Before she could finish Razya continued, having received the all-important affirmative.
“Well, Noor, Allah moves his hand as he wills. Khan had to lead the men through a different route from the one they usually use. They came through a village in the area where Khan Jehangir lives?”
Noor nodded her acknowledgment.
Razya completed the description of their encounter and the subsequent engagement. “My Khan felt that this girl would be a perfect match for your Ejaz and was sure you’d understand his concern for Ejaz’s wellbeing and future, so he put the question to Yaqub.” Saying as much as she had, Razya paused for Noor to digest her announcement.
“I see,” said Noor, encompassing all that was either possible or necessary at that moment.
Razya’s eyes widened. “Well, imagine his delight when Yaqub said he thought such a relationship would help increase the kinship between the Afridis and the Shinwaris, you see?” Razya was sure she was making progress.
The glint of late afternoon sunlight reflected off the watery edge of Noor’s eyes. “Yes. Yes, I do see,” she offered, wearing a vacant look. An ordinary emotional moment would have seen Noor pick up slack in her dupattha and wipe her eyes with it. On this occasion, however, she was immobilized and did nothing to stop the glistening streaks now rolling down her face.
Ever since her husband’s passing, Noor had become withdrawn. She rarely said much and if she did, it was only after introspection. At this moment, she imagined her husband coming home with such news. She imagined him feeling proud of his son’s stepping up to the next phase of his adult life to marry and bring forth children to carry on the family and the clan. Finally, letting out a soft whimper, she leaned her head into Razya’s shoulder and wept. For all her stoicism Razya was not heartless. No explanation was needed.
Rabia, meanwhile, looked on in silence, absorbing the moment in sadness, joy, and fascination.
“Noor, Noor,” Razya soothed. “This is a time of joy for your Ejaz, not sadness.” Nothing more needed saying, and Razya hugged her, allowing Noor the time she needed to regain her composure.
“Razya,” said Noor, sniffling, “my children are your children. Today I’m thankful to the Almighty that he had me bear two sons and that they fight in his name. May Allah grant Brother Abdul Latif a long life and bless him for his kind
consideration for my Ejaz.” She paused to take a breath.
“Where would I have gone? What would have become of us if your family hadn’t been there for us? No. If Brother Abdul Latif has seen a girl he believes is fitting for my Ejaz, then w’Allahi, I’m content.” Noor rose to go into the main room of the house.
“Brother Abdul Latif,” she began, looking beyond him to stare into the eyes of Ejaz, “it seems you’ve…procured an addition to our family?” Ejaz looked away. “Ejaz, come here,” she beckoned in her most motherly tone, and as he responded, he instinctively bowed his head for her to bless him a second time, delighted and relieved that the news had now been broken to his mother.
As the group settled down to discuss their adventures Abdul Latif introduced Sikander to Noor and Rabia. Rabia was intrigued by the stranger. Never having been to Pakistan, she found his short description of himself to be fascinating. She was a year younger than Sikander, and though her education was rudimentary, it was better than that of most people in the village. Until his death, her father had routinely obtained Pashto reading material for her whenever he made a trip to Jalalabad.
In the late afternoon, the introductions dispensed with and with time to unwind, Sikander stepped outside. While wandering, he absorbed the atmosphere. Children played. The men sat drinking chai or smoking charss, and the women watched over the children while doing their housework. There was an air of contentment with life, despite its obvious hardships. The contrast with the faster-paced Hayatabad could hardly have been greater. There, everyone seemed bent on either accumulating possessions or devoting their energies toward protecting those already acquired. Here before him, however, in this tiny village of Laghar Juy, amid privations compounded by war, Sikander saw and felt simplicity and truth. He was wholly unprepared for its seductiveness. But seduced he was.
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