Something inside Sikander snapped him out of this terrifyingly lucid moment. Perhaps it was the rousing sounds from the approaching villagers or maybe an inbuilt mechanism to avoid the insanity with which he felt he was flirting. Either way it didn’t matter because by now the villagers had surrounded the house and were cheering the five young men on the rooftop. He had to join in as he and his fellow gunners gingerly descended the stairway to be greeted by everyone. The villagers had been saved from attack. They had been saved from attack. Sikander could only acknowledge this surreal, but cruelly simple transaction. The villagers and fields had to be saved. The helicopter crews had to die. He clung to the logic. Nothing else was available to save his soul from drowning.
Slowly, he began catching up with the scene, re-entering his own body. Just then, his eye caught Abdul Latif standing in the milling crowd. A rock at a turbulent seashore, he stood motionless, delivering Sikander an empathetic stare. The stare threw out a line to Sikander, as if to say, Yes, I know. Now you understand. Now you’re one of us. Not just a mujahid, but one of that tiny fraction of human beings who have ever lived that have also willfully slain another person. A community you can never leave.
As if to recognize the young man’s need, a warm smile joined the stare. Brandishing his AK-47, Abdul Latif repeatedly cried out, “Allahu Akbar!” his gaze never shifting from Sikander. It drew the youth toward him, as if he might find some reassurance that it was okay; that he was indeed still human, despite his terrible sense of irreversible transformation. He desperately wanted to belong. To something. To someone.
When Sikander finally approached Abdul Latif, the man grabbed him around the waist, and lifted him in an enormous bear hug. He did the same to the others and they to each other. The elation was not simply for the downing of three helicopters, though it certainly merited such celebration. It was for what the day’s events represented for the future of the war.
At last, Sikander felt himself experience some semblance of normality. When the hubbub died down and the villagers felt it was safe to return to their homes, Abdul Latif called out to Sikander.
“Sikander! Just remember—the second time’s the hardest!” Sikander needed no further clarification, understanding perfectly that Abdul Latif was referring to the hesitation his first experience of killing would confer upon his next.
The families, along with Tahir, converged on Abdul Latif’s home. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!” Tahir exclaimed. “Did you see how those missiles just…just turned? It was…it was like the helicopters were pulling them in…like they were fish on a line. Amazing!”
“Indeed it was,” remarked Abdul Latif. “And, mashAllah, did you see how my boys performed?” he countered. He was proud and impressed with their quick thinking but especially with Abdul Rahman’s tactics to maximize confusion among the pilots and make them easier to attack.
“Brother Tahir, go now and return to your village. Make sure that everyone hears of what happened and spread the word. We need to lift the spirits of our mujahideen brothers!”
“On this day I’m delighted to be the messenger,” cried Tahir. His eyes were red and welling up. Packing his horse, he hastened toward Anarbagh, determined to be the first to bring word of the rout of the helicopter force.
That evening, Razya invited Noor and her family to come to dinner to celebrate the victory. When the family members arrived, they were welcomed and asked to sit around the durree.
“This was a great day, Brother Abdul Latif,” Noor remarked. “Those weapons…they behaved as if they were alive, didn’t they? Abdus Sami would have been proud, seeing what his sons and nephews did. We were all amazed. Simply amazed!”
Sikander glanced at Rabia with a newfound confidence. As his eyes met hers, they communicated that no longer could she treat the practice sessions as “childish.” Along with this sentiment was a look of expectant redemption. Surely she could not continue holding his earlier misdemeanor over him after such a contribution to the village’s wellbeing? With a single glance, Rabia almost pouted, allowing a barely perceptible, grudging smile. Sikander’s earnestness in training had perhaps been valuable after all, and it was possibly time for her forgiveness to be unreservedly complete. Sikander returned the glance with the mere flicker of a knowing smile. She cast down her eyes, embarrassed at being so accurately interpreted, and in her usual but attractive way drew her dupattha forward, hiding a little more of her face with its overhang, than usual.
Abdul Latif advised the village elders to continue round-the-clock watches, though he knew the DRA forces and probably the Soviets would be re-evaluating their strategy. Helicopter gunships had, for so many years, acted with impunity and kept the mujahideen at bay. Their virtual invincibility had forced the mujahideen to dedicate more attention to protecting their loved ones, tending to their wounds, or repairing their fields, than to retaliation. But now that the Stinger was available, the helicopters’ advantage seemed finally to be neutralized and the tide of this conflict had turned decisively.
As the winter drew on, the skirmishes wound down as usual, but a newfound caution also informed Soviet and DRA decisions. In the relative lull, the mujahideen forces likewise regrouped, determining how best to leverage the new balance of power. Word had arrived that the Americans had supplied three hundred Stingers as well as several of the French antitank Milan-2 wire-guided missiles. Better still, hundreds more weapons were on their way. The results that Laghar Juy had experienced were being felt more widely around the country as increasing numbers of weapons-trained mujahideen were returning to the fight and spreading their knowledge to their fellow fighters.
As the weather improved, the skirmishes began once again, but facing the Stinger for air defense and the even simpler Milan-2 against their tanks, the Soviets’ initiatives in 1987 were more circumscribed than in any year previously. A fragile, implicitly understood peace was in place and it seemed like the ideal time to be getting Ejaz married to Hinna.
By the end of April, all preparations for the wedding were complete and the time had come for the small wedding party representing the groom and his family to travel to Yaqub’s village in Pakistan. The weather had been dry and clear for most of the month, making the mountain passes readily traversable. It would take barely a day and a half to get to the bride’s village.
Traveling with the groom were Noor, Saleem, Sikander, and Rabia together with Abdul Latif, Razya, and Abdul Majeed. Abdul Rahman remained behind in the village to take charge of air defense with the several other mujahideen who were now able to operate the Stinger.
Rabia was filled with anticipation about seeing her sister-in-law-to-be. From time to time, she would strike up conversation with Sikander, always, of course, under the watchful eye of either Noor or Razya. As they were leaving the large open plain before entering Yaqub’s village, Rabia became even more excited. Sikander decided to tease her about it.
“So why suddenly all the chatter, Rabia?”
Rabia displayed her trademark insulted look.
“Why not? We don’t all need to be silent brooders, like you’ve been lately,” she countered. Indeed, Sikander had become more withdrawn and pensive with the lingering effects of having killed the helicopter crew.
“Rabia, when your new sister-in-law’s back home with you, it’ll be fun to watch you drive her insane.”
“Sikannnder!” interjected Noor. “Rabia’s naturally excited by the wedding and looking forward to meeting Hinna,” she declared, before muttering, “as am I,” while casting a glance at Abdul Latif and Ejaz, each of whom carefully failed to notice. Rabia meanwhile, with the studied appearance of indignation, was more than happy to have her mother defend her.
“Rabia,” offered Sikander wearily, “Please. Continue.”
“Well,” she remarked, in an annoying tone of victory, “I was going to talk about this scenery of ours and Scotland and ask you which was more beautiful. Doesn’t matter now.”
“Rabia,” chided
Noor, “don’t continue with that tone, or you might as well be quiet and let us all get a moment of peace.”
Sikander quickly came to Rabia’s aid. “No, no, it’s all right. Actually, I don’t mind answering that.
“Rabia, it seems to me, each place, each thing…well, it has its own beauty and there isn’t really a single kind. Is there?”
“Hm…sounds like it could be true, Sikander, but what exactly do you mean?”
“Look, these mountains, they’re…magnificent. But what I found in Scotland was a less intense yet somehow more appealing beauty.”
“Less intense? More appealing?” Rabia looked puzzled.
“I don’t know, maybe it was just the tranquility of being among people at peace that was affecting the way I saw it.”
Realization of the inherent truth in his words followed their utterance. Being at war had taken something away from the beautiful places through which they were passing. With beauty in the eye of the beholder—another of Mr. Aftab’s favored aphorisms—these beholders, himself included, couldn’t truly see what was there while struggling to have the eyes that only a country at peace could offer them. His contemplative expression prompted a simple “Hmm,” from Rabia as she closed the subject and rode along for a few more minutes before resuming her chatter.
The entourage finally arrived at the village that Hinna had until now called home and were received with all due ceremony. Customarily, gifts of clothing and jewelry, were exchanged before the travelers were put up at the same home in which Abdul Latif and his boys had spent the night on their first visit to Yaqub’s in August.
The night before the ceremony, Hinna’s friends set to work decorating her hands and feet with beautiful henna dye patterns amid singing and attan dances, while Razya and Noor busied themselves making final adjustments to Hinna’s lehenga suit. The following day, with Hinna adorned in the bridal outfit embroidered with rich floral patterns in sequins and gold threads, the wedding was finally upon them. Studying Hinna, Rabia felt a stirring. Decked out in the bridal outfit, she was naturally a beautiful young lady. Hinna’s plainly doing it more justice than I did. Her thoughts drifted to a time in the future when such an experience might also be hers to relish.
The qazi asked the bride three times to confirm her acceptance of the groom and the amount and manner of payment of the mehr due to her, following which she signed the papers, as did her “advocate,” in this case Yaqub, along with Abdul Latif, as witness representing the groom. Marching the two men to a separate room where the groom awaited them, the qazi asked him, also three times, for his acceptance of the bride and of his obligation to pay the fifty thousand rupee mehr. All were relieved when the groom affirmed and made his mark upon the appropriate papers.
Declaring the nikah complete, the qazi offered an open supplication. With the formalities thus concluded, the rest of the day was left to more singing, attans, and food. Sikander was fascinated by the oddly incongruent merriment set against the war and destruction that was taking place in these times. These were people willing to defy their circumstances by daring to enjoy the occasion, and their defiance made him admire them all the more for it.
After staying in the village for two days, it was time to take the new bride to her permanent home and family in Laghar Juy. Tearful parting salaams took place. Hinna cried on Shahnaz’s shoulder, then Yaqub’s and junior mother Yasmeen’s. She finally hugged Aurangzeb, Nadeem, and Sohail, before being led by Ejaz to join the rest of the travelers waiting to set off for Laghar Juy. With the lull in fighting, the journey back was uneventful.
After reaching Laghar Juy, the groom’s extended family and local guests were invited to participate in the second half of the ceremony, the walimah. Although it was normally the responsibility of the groom’s family, with Noor a widow, the walimah arrangements were left to Abdul Latif and Razya to organize. Noor was happy to have another young woman about the house and at a rapidly maturing nineteen, Hinna was ideal. Sikander meanwhile looked forward to knowing Hinna better and to her shouldering some of the burden of meeting Rabia’s insatiable intellectual appetite.
Chapter 8
Arghandab
IN SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN the mujahideen maintained well-fortified positions up and down the Arghandab Valley, west of Qandahar. From time to time they sought opportunities to mount an offensive to capture the city. Early in 1987, they had made such a push, first by striking at Soviet and Afghan State Security Ministry positions as a diversion, then hitting three outposts defended by government-friendly militias. Although the city didn’t fall, all three suffered at the hands of the mujahideen.
Having almost succeeded, the attack worried the government immensely. Removal of the mujahideen from Arghandab became a priority. By early April, aware of preparations against them, the mujahideen up and down the valley appealed for reinforcements. Among those asked was the inimitable Jalaluddin Haqqani.
In May, the middle of the fasting month of Ramadhan, Jalaluddin visited Laghar Juy. The village was by then well supplied with Stingers and Milan-2s. Haqqani brought word to Abdul Latif that Younus Khalis was anxious to support the defense of Arghandab as a government counter-offensive appeared increasingly likely.
“We have word that the Jamiat-e-Islami and the National Islamic Front of Afghanistan, have their militias in the Qandahar area along with our own Brother Younus’s HIK. Lala Malang is our commander there and needs more fighters.”
“What do you have in mind, Brother Jalal?” Abdul Latif asked.
“I can think of few better than you to lead a group from this area.” Haqqani responded.
“I can go,” said Abdul Latif. “However, we’d be wise to leave our existing weapons here in the villages, along with a defensive contingent. That way, we can travel light and quickly across the mountains to Peshawar, obtain new weapons from the ISI, and truck down to Quetta to re-enter Afghanistan near Spin Boldak. From there, Qandahar can be approached from whatever direction makes sense.”
“Agreed. The ISI won’t have a problem furnishing fresh weapons; they’re arriving in large quantities now. They should also be able to get our people into Quetta, and have the weapons flown to the local PAF base. The details can be worked out, but please get as many men together as you can. How many do you think that’ll be?”
“Thirty.” Abdul Latif shrugged. “Perhaps more. Morale has improved since we got the new weapons.”
“How long do you need?”
“Three or four days, but give me five and whatever I can put together I will. What about mules?”
“We can arrange them. How many do you need?”
“An additional thirty. They can be distributed to the outlying villages. We’ll have no cargo, so our men can ride them through Takhto Kalay into Pakistan however they’re able. Once we’re at the staging point, we’ll organize groups to get across to Jamrud by vehicle.”
“Very well. It’s settled,” said Jalaluddin. “I’ll make my own appeals in the local villages and ask those people to contact you about getting to Peshawar. Meanwhile I’ll coordinate with the ISI. InshaAllah, this year could be decisive!”
With his business concluded, Jalaluddin bid salaam to Abdul Latif, hastily leaving Laghar Juy to do as he had promised. That same night after the iftar and completing isha, Abdul Latif asked his sons and Saleem to make the appeal for a handful of other mujahideen to go out to trusted people in the nearby villages, organize multiple bands to gather up at Takhto Kalay, and wait for Abdul Latif and his band, who would be the last to arrive.
Given the Stinger training that had by now been widely disseminated, each village sending volunteers to the campaign was to keep a contingent of two Stinger-trained teams if possible. If not, they were to post lookouts and create an evacuation plan in case of attack.
Ejaz had missed out on the Scotland trip and was anxious to participate in the Arghandab campaign. Abdul Latif had no disagreement, but with Ejaz being a newlywed, Hinna would have to be sold on the idea.
> Ejaz’s mission was to begin in the bedroom. “Hinna, we haven’t been married long, and we barely know each other,” he began. “But you know, from the moment I first saw you, in your father’s home, my heart pounded and ached. Strangely painful it was, each time you left the room. Sweet pain. It was hard to let the moment pass without reacting.” Ejaz chuckled nervously. “You cost me that night’s sleep, you know, and…and Allah be praised for my uncle! The following morning we were engaged. And…I know it hasn’t been long, I…I don’t have the words to tell you what you—”
Hinna gently placed her fingers over Ejaz’s mouth. “Ejaz. My love,” she interrupted as she lowered her hand, “When I was told of the proposal, something went through me too. It was as if…as if I was changing inside and I had the same feelings you mention.”
Ejaz nodded, continuing his woefully rambling attempt to break the news to her of his likely absence. “So Hinna, it’s uh, difficult to imagine being away from you for even a minute. But you know the challenges of these times. We’re constantly being forced to fight for what we believe in.
“Hinna, I need to go with my uncle to Qandahar. We’re winning this fight and our people outside Qandahar…they’re facing a critical—a really critical—threat. We have to go there. We have to help and who knows? Maybe even win this whole war. The Russians seem to be committed to pulling out. This will force them to be serio—”
“You mean…you’ll be leaving me? Here?” interjected Hinna, sounding more disappointed than angry. Ejaz nodded, avoiding her gaze.
Hinna continued to discover her husband. Though she could hardly say she knew him intimately, hers was the kind of love that lacked confusion. His very struggle to break the news to her was a measure of his feelings for her. His eyes found the courage to re-engage with hers and she looked at him with a fascinated curiosity. She wore a sympathetic frown, which quickly turned into a friendly pout, dissolving any remaining resistance.
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