SIkander

by M. Salahuddin Khan

  When they were finished, Abdul Latif began, “Brother… Undrew?… Endrew? Can you prove your claims?” he asked with suspicion. “And if true, what is your mission with us?” Abdul Latif’s instincts were on full alert. The two men in front of him were suddenly strangers once more. He bristled with speculation.

  “Brother, call me Andy, and no, we can’t absolutely prove who we are,” replied Andy. “But we can assure you that we wouldn’t be willing to share even this much if we intended any harm. You know that since we’re British, we’re on your side. And if we had been Russians, we wouldn’t have used English in secret, would we? Sikander surprised us when we thought we were alone…and, I must say, surprised us with his knowledge of our language!”

  Abdul Latif pondered Andy’s words. “I’m inclined to believe you, Andy, but you couldn’t share the truth with your own host?”

  Simon responded with an apology, “We are ashamed we had to deceive you, but it was necessary in the event any of us were captured. In that case you wouldn’t have been any the wiser, and that would have protected you. We’re here to find good people to train on the new Stinger missiles, the very things you were so passionate about at dinner tonight. As you know, president Zia’s only just agreed to accept them, but there isn’t sufficient training support in Pakistan and it can’t be done with acceptable secrecy. So, we’re looking for people to take to Europe for training.”

  “But you’re English. Why didn’t the Americans come?” Abdul Latif queried, still unsettled.

  Complete openness was the only option, now. “The CIA doesn’t want its operatives captured in Afghanistan and they don’t wish to be directly associated with Stinger deliveries to the mujahideen,” Simon explained. “They’re not inclined to escalate the cold war into a hot one with the Soviets so, the British government has been asked to do it, which is why we’re here.”

  The mists began to clear. Abdul Latif was a warrior seasoned by many years of hard experience to think ahead and read situations before they became fatal. His survival was a testament to this ability. Yet here he was, surprised on this occasion, and it was an uncomfortable feeling. What if these men had been Russians?

  Nevertheless, Abdul Latif was sufficiently in command of himself to separate such insecurity from the facts being presented, and to evaluate them on their own merits in a way that didn’t let feelings make unwarranted inroads into judgment. At least that part of his survival instinct was still functioning. There was an uneasy silence as the men looked on, broken only by Razya coming through from the back room with tea.

  Having completed her last chore, Razya bid the visitors salaams and went to bed. Convinced now that the visitors were there to help, Abdul Latif took a sip of his chai and motioned for Andy to continue

  “Brother Abdul Latif,” said Andy, “we ask that you share part of this information with one of your nephews. We’ll need him to cooperate too.”

  “How?”

  “On our previous trips,” started Andy, who by now had made it apparent that he was the senior officer, “we’ve seen how these young men have handled themselves and we’re confident we can train them, but since Sikander can speak our language, we think he should join us. He’ll make an excellent interpreter with the other mujahideen.”

  Sikander all but levitated.

  “We’d like to take Sikander with us but—” began Andy.

  “But what?” Sikander interrupted, suddenly concerned.

  “But we’re only able to take three trainees.”

  Abdul Latif’s two sons and Sikander exchanged glances before turning to Andy. Abdul Latif was the one to ask.

  “So which three do you have in mind?”

  “Ejaz is getting married soon and we don’t want to interrupt anything there. Abdul Rahman, as the oldest you’re more ready for a leadership role when you return, so we think you should come, as should Saleem and Sikander. That’ll leave Ejaz to look after Noor and Rabia, with Abdul Majeed here to help you Brother Abdul Latif.”

  “I see,” replied Abdul Latif, but the questions piled up in his mind. “How should Rabia, Ejaz and the two mothers be told of this? How long will you be gone? How will you take everyone?”

  “All we can say is we’re going back to Pakistan for about a month,” explained Andrew. “You can say it’s another supply pickup but from beyond Peshawar this time,” he continued. “It’ll be the truth. Just not all of it.”

  “A month? That’ll be it?” Abdul Latif asked.

  “Yes,” replied Simon. “And as it’s Sunday today, we’ll need to leave the day after tomorrow, in the morning, if we’re to be at our pickup location in Pakistan by Thursday.” The immediacy of the mission caught everyone by surprise and Andy felt the need to elaborate.

  “The original goal was to spend a month longer here. We’d have revealed our mission to you much later, after completing our assessment. Now, instead of training next month, we’d like to move things up and take the most immediate program, due to start next weekend. We’ll radio news of the change to our ISI friends once we reach Peshawar.”

  Abdul Latif absorbed everything before pronouncing, “So be it.” He cleared his throat. “We’re, um, about to do isha now.” Abdul Latif could only feel awkward over the visitors’ earlier religious pretense. Andy and Simon went to bed leaving Abdul Latif, his two sons, and Sikander to pray.

  Sikander walked back to Noor’s place, aglow with satisfaction at the evening’s developments, and with his role in precipitating them. The following morning, Abdul Latif made clear to Razya that Sikander and Abdul Rahman would be leaving for a month and be joined by Saleem. Though a little surprised, she put it down to a more complex mission than usual. Razya had learned not to read too much into missions. It would simply stoke her fears and besides, it was easier just to let the men go and return as needed.

  Noor was altogether different, barraging Abdul Latif with her unending questions. Finally, Abdul Latif explained that Saleem’s mission was pivotal to the mujahideen cause—though specifics would only be revealed upon leaving Peshawar—and that she should bless them all for it. Reluctantly, she acquiesced.

  The rest of the day was spent preparing for the trip. Five mules were rigged for riding, which would enable them to move with the necessary speed to remain on schedule. As Rabia helped Sikander and her brother to pack, she envied them. Once again, they would see what lay beyond the village and the mountains. Simply imagining the adventure awakened her yearnings, which for now at least, would have to wait.

  “Aba’i says you’ll be gone for a month, Sikander,” she remarked.

  “That’s right, Rabia,” Saleem chimed in before Sikander could respond.

  “Well, I just hope you both stay safe,” she continued. “Aba’i never finds it easy when you’re away, Saleem.”

  “We’ll be fine. But we will miss you.” Sikander offered.

  “Us? Or me?” She asked. “I wish I was—”

  “Rabia, we’re almost done here. Go and see if Aba’i needs any help,” Saleem interrupted as he walked off to pick up more clothing.

  Pouting, Rabia retreated toward the house. As she approached the doorway, she cast a mischievous glance backward, and almost caught Sikander staring. But knowing her well enough by now, Sikander skillfully beat her to it, returning his attention to his own preparations before her glance could catch his eyes. He grinned as he continued packing.

  The group set out on their mules the following morning for Chenar. Although Sikander had been homesick for Peshawar, having now seen hardships and victories with his newfound people, the nostalgia he felt for them, too, was palpable as Laghar Juy disappeared from sight.

  With everyone riding instead of leading their mules, it didn’t take long to cross the rugged mountains to the point where they had left the Pajero several weeks earlier. Sikander reflected on what he had done and how different he had become in those short weeks. He had received an education in every respect as meaningful as his schooling in Peshawar. The thought
brought his family and school friends to mind as he longed to share his exotic experiences with them.

  The Pajero awaited them outside the familiar staging house. Without delay, the travelers dismounted and after transferring their light cargo to the vehicle, drove on to Jamrud.

  By early Wednesday evening, they were all safely at Arif Saiduddin’s house, where they were to spend the night. As before, they were met by Junaid and Arif, neither of who knew “Aamir’s” and “Yassir’s” true identities. But they had been fully briefed on the transportation arrangements for the following day.

  Arif, in his usually jovial fashion, saw Sikander and gave him a welcoming hug.

  “Welcome back young…Is…Sikander!” he exclaimed, stumbling with Sikander’s name. “Growing a beard? MashAllah! Why, you’ll be looking like a proper maulwi next time we meet!”

  Sikander patiently acknowledged the joke and looked across to Junaid. Junaid’s barely perceptible nod and body language seemed to convey that Sikander’s letter had indeed been delivered.

  The men went into Arif’s basement. “All right gentlemen,” began Arif. “Tomorrow morning you’ll be leaving by road for Sargodha. Junaid bhai will be taking you and explaining a little bit more en route, so you can all rest on the long drive. I have a home there on Fatima Jinnah Road, not far from the bus station. That’s where you’ll be staying the night, and from there you’ll get more instructions.”

  Sargodha. The Punjabi city was famous for many things, among them, its important Pakistan Air Force base. Sikander’s exhilaration mounted.

  With this simple briefing over, after isha, the group retired for the night.

  As soon as fajr was completed the following morning, Sikander approached Junaid. “Junaid bhai, did my note get to my family?”

  Junaid nodded. “I took it personally as far as the street where you live and paid a young boy fifty rupees to drop it into your mailbox. Watching from the street corner, once I saw he let go of the letter, I was on my way. Would you like me to take another?”

  Sikander smiled. “Yes, please.”

  Junaid asked Arif for some paper and pulled out his ballpoint from his qamees pocket. Sikander hurriedly prepared a short letter for Junaid to examine. Seeing no issues, Junaid folded it into his shirt pocket, tucking in his pen after it.

  “Thanks. Hope I can repay the favor one day.”

  “You’re already doing that, Sikander. We’re proud of what you’re doing in Afghanistan. Many parents in this country couldn’t say that about their own sons.”

  Sikander had always found the intelligent and well-organized Junaid to be a likeable fellow. His knowledge of Junaid was, of course, superficial. However, as he had lived among strangers for so many weeks and shared many hazardous and enjoyable experiences with them, Sikander had sharpened his already keen skills in observing people. For Junaid, he had felt a fraternal bond and the sense that this man would do anything to keep a promise—not a common quality in Sikander’s experience.

  Before they could depart, Junaid made one request of the visitors. “Brothers, the weapons stay here. They’ll be safe, but we can’t travel beyond this province very easily with them and there’s really no need.”

  Abdul Rahman, Saleem, and Sikander reluctantly set their AK-47s down against the wall behind them, and feeling highly under-dressed, took off their bandoliers. Sikander didn’t lose the opportunity to pick up Saleem’s knife and scratch an identifying squiggle on his weapon in readiness for his return.

  Soon the travelers were packed and back inside the Pajero. Junaid drove. Abdul Rahman was beside him in the front passenger seat, while Sikander and Saleem took the next row. “Yassir” and “Aamir” were in the rear, along with some basic provisions for the journey ahead.

  Proceeding out of Peshawar east toward Rawalpindi, the GT Road passed through a broad flat expanse, to the south of which were some mountains rising sharply from the intervening plain. Seated on the right, Sikander was well placed to view the mountains about ten kilometers away. The scene triggered not only memories of his journey into Afghanistan, but also thoughts of the essential mystery of mountains to which that journey had exposed him. They were the walls of nature, making it difficult to reach out and touch a neighbor or to see the strange ways that people, cultures, and life in general had evolved on the other side, beyond the wall.

  Sikander’s wandering gaze landed on Saleem. Though not a very talkative individual, Saleem was clearly fascinated by the beautiful backdrop, having only ever been as far as Peshawar. Seeing him made Sikander feel a sense of pride about his own country. The feeling surfaced in an expression that Saleem was quick to recognize.

  He doesn’t know who Aamir and Yassir really are. He hasn’t a clue about what’s being asked of him. He only knows he’s on another mission, Sikander reflected. Saleem’s courage was manifest. Sikander’s thoughts drifted to the future and what they would be encountering in the larger world beyond Pakistan. With the imposition of secrecy, he and Abdul Rahman would have to act as surprised as Saleem would no doubt be when the appropriate moment came. But that was some way off.

  The GT Road continued out of Peshawar and on to Attock, where it veered to a southerly track, running roughly parallel to the Kabul River. The city, formerly called Campbellpur by the British, was where the ravenous Indus River, coming out of the northeast of the country, drank the Kabul in an incessant gulp. Over the river, the road bridge turned them sharply to the east again as it passed the base of the imposing overlook of Attock Fort. Several large-caliber pockmarks in the fort’s massive wall recalled skirmishes long forgotten and the challenging nature of the fort’s former mission for the British.

  As they headed into Rawalpindi, they stopped at an eating-place, and in the fine autumn weather, with the beautiful plain and mountains in the distance, Sikander’s pride could no longer be contained. He quizzed Saleem on the latter’s thoughts about his native land.

  “Don’t you agree that this is a beautiful country, Saleem?” he asked. Saleem’s eyes betrayed the obvious wonderment of absorbing an inspiring scene for the very first time.

  “I do, though you must agree, Afghanistan is also beautiful, yes?”

  Abdul Rahman emitted a muted chuckle.

  “Yes. Yes it is, Saleem,” acknowledged Sikander patiently. “But what do you think are the differences?”

  “Well, I think the people look different, a little darker perhaps than anyone in our group. I think this food is different, perhaps more flavorful,” he noted, in a reluctantly deferential nod toward Pakistani cuisine. “I like the easy roads, which allow us to move much more quickly than in Afghanistan. Shall I continue?”

  “No!” laughed Sikander.

  After zuhr and a brief phone call by Junaid, they were on their way again. Once out of Rawalpindi, they followed the GT Road southeast. When they passed Wazirabad, after stopping for asr at a small roadside mosque, they left the GT Road for Pindi Bhattian on a much smaller road. From Pindi Bhattian, proceeding northwest, they made Sargodha by nightfall.

  Once the car was parked at Arif’s house, Junaid got out.

  “I’m going to stay the night with a cousin. I called him on our way here. I’ll be back in the morning to pick up the car but it will be after you’ll have gone, so fi-amanillah, good luck, and I’ll see you all in about a month.”

  Junaid hailed a taxi, hugged his friends, shook hands, and was gone.

  The following morning, the five travelers awoke, completed fajr and made ready for the day ahead. After an early breakfast, provided them by Fuad, Arif’s servant and house sitter, Simon paused from his tea, arose to confirm that all the doorways to the room were closed, and gave the nod to Andy to proceed.

  “Brothers, we must now brief you fully on this mission,” Andy began. “We’re British soldiers with the Special Air Service. We’ve been in Afghanistan to gather mujahideen such as you for training on the Stinger missile. The Stinger will make a huge difference to your ability to defend against ai
rborne attacks. We can’t tell you our real names but you can call me Andrew, or Andy, and this is Simon.”

  His mouth agape, Saleem swiveled to face Sikander, who feigned surprise as best he could. His eyes darted to Abdul Rahman’s, who was wearing his look rather better than Sikander. Saleem’s heart raced and the slightest hint of Sikander’s less concerned demeanor led him to ask, “Did you know this?”

  Sikander frowned, questioning the question and gave a tiny, but vigorous headshake at such a preposterous notion.

  Andy continued. “We had met the three of you and your brothers before, but when we heard of your fighting last month, we knew you’d make excellent trainees. You’re brave and intelligent. You’ll be able to teach your brothers and friends when you return equipped with the missiles, and when you do, the Russian helicopters won’t have an answer. Your enemies are our enemies too.”

  “Where will we be trained?” Sikander asked.

  “We’ve gathered together fifteen of you and six of us to go to the PAF base here in Sargodha. We’re keeping the groups small until we can scale up the program effectively. This is the second group to be trained. This morning, a PAF C130 Hercules will fly us to Doha in Qatar, and from there an RAF C130 will take us to Rome, where we’ll refuel and go on to Scotland—we can’t say where—for the training.”

  Any pretense of surprise on Sikander’s part at the earlier revelation gave way to something more genuine. With this glimpse of the scale of the assistance being given to the mujahideen, he felt the pride of being among a select few.

  “Brothers,” Sikander urged Saleem and Abdul Rahman, “we’ve been chosen alhamdulillah! Shouldn’t we be pleased to return with the weapons and skills we’re supposed to be acquiring? We’ll get a chance to make a difference and just think! We could become celebrated heroes of this jihad, like your father, Saleem.”