SIkander

by M. Salahuddin Khan

  “It certainly—” began Sikander, but abruptly stopped, transfixed by a new expression on Abdul Majeed’s face. The grin had given way to a pained frown as Abdul Majeed stared past Sikander’s shoulder.

  “Irfan? Irfaaan!” came the plea from Usman as he lifted Irfan’s limp torso. Blood was streaming out of Irfan’s right side and head. The young mujahid wasn’t moving. Sikander hurriedly limped across to check on the youth who had been his gunnery class fellow and only three days earlier had saved his life.

  The injury was serious. Irfan had taken a hit squarely in the right side from the back and had a grazing, but still severe wound on the side of his head.

  “Irfaaan!” Sikander emitted a harrowing moan, attempting to evoke a response from the young mujahid. Irfan’s eyes opened slowly and he began coughing up blood as he looked up at his brother and Sikander.

  “We’ll get you back down to the village.” Sikander spoke in a soft voice that transformed into a bark as he turned and shouted “Over here!” to the other gunners.

  “N…o…oh!” Irfan struggled to get out the single word. “I’m done…not going to—” He stole another gasp of air as he began to murmur the kalimah, “La…ilaha…illallahhhh…” in a low voice and then continued moving his lips without making a sound. A moment later, as the air vacated his lungs, his soul vacated his eyes.

  “Irfaaaan!” Usman’s plaintive cry came as he nestled his brother’s head against his breast and rocked to and fro.

  Sikander laid a hand gently on Usman’s shoulder, belying the anguished expression on his own face. Why!? How could the Almighty have seen fit to pick Irfan? Bitterness at having had the good fortune to reconnect with his friend only to see him die a few days later forced Sikander to turn his head away; away from the ghastly scene, his leaky eyes firmly closed. The war had exacted yet another heavy price from this hard-hit family and had whittled it down to a solitary survivor, left to mourn them all. Consumed by grief, Sikander began sobbing with Usman.

  “We can’t stay put,” urged Abdul Majeed as tactfully as he could. “Sikander, we need to move. I think I see another flight coming in from over Baba-e-Wali.”

  Abdul Majeed alternated between looking back at the battle in the valley and forward to the dead Irfan with the two young men mourning him. Finally he laid his hand on Sikander’s shoulder and without saying any more, squeezed it tightly. Sikander understood and arose, picking up his launcher and missile. With a heavy heart he asked Usman to do the same but the request proved futile. Sikander didn’t press the boy. A part of Usman didn’t care if he lived or died now. If it’s God’s plan to finish off the family then let it be this day, he thought.

  Explaining he’d be back, Sikander turned to get deeper into the valley, indicating to the remaining gunners to latch their second missile rounds. “And this time, be ready to fire!” he screamed in a rare moment of unbridled anger channeled through a laser glare at the mortified Zahir.

  Irfan’s words from Applecross poured into every fiber of Sikander’s being. It took all his energy to concentrate on the shapes silhouetted against the gray sky. Six helicopters were on their way in the general direction of where the Stinger teams had gathered near Irfan’s body.

  “Spread out!” he screamed. “Let’s get ‘em!”

  Abdul Majeed helped him latch the next round and Sikander inserted the BCU, initiated it, and aimed. He would take his time on this one. The moment he got a lock, his missile was unleashed. Two more followed suit, after which the gunners immediately ran, looking for cover among the bombed out ruins. The helicopters hovered three kilometers away and although their pilots saw where the gunners had run to, they were forced to maneuver to avoid the streaking missiles heading for them.

  The only thing lying between them and destruction was a possible missile malfunction. None of the missiles obliged. Another three fresh streaks of orange and white smoke leapt in quick succession toward the remaining three helicopters that were by now in full retreat. One of them took a hit and was obliterated. The other two escaped injury as the missiles aimed at them missed then exploded harmlessly, triggered by their self-destruct timers. Their inexperienced gunners hadn’t waited for the proper target lock tone.

  The gunner teams regrouped.

  “They won’t be back today.” Sikander smirked, wanting to be amused by his quip. Instead, he felt a sinking feeling as he returned to processing Irfan’s death. He remembered the ayah from the Holy Qur’an customarily uttered after a death and generally during hardship, “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raaji’un.”

  Taking Irfan’s body, the gunners returned to Chaharqulba. Abdul Majeed explained the day’s events to Ejaz and Abdul Latif. The latter had also sustained a minor wound. They were saddened by the loss of a young man so soon after coming to know him.

  “Usman, this is true shahadah.” Abdul Latif offered, his eyes creasing as a sympathetic smile came to his face. “Your brother has an assured place in heaven. His heart was true and he knew what he was fighting for. He wasn’t concerned with removing Soviets from this country. He was fighting to keep its Muslim character so that you and he could live in peace as Muslims and—” Abdul Latif shrugged and glanced at Sikander making it clear he should pick up the task.

  Sikander spoke. “Usman, your brother’s death is a sad loss. He mentioned this possibility to me when we were in training. I know you… you’ve had no family but each other.” Sikander paused. He had to take an unexpectedly difficult breath. “He told me that and asked that I…we,” Sikander glanced at Abdul Latif, “we should take you in as one of us. As a brother.”

  “Yes, Sikander. He and I had discussed this more than once regarding each other,” replied Usman. “I just…just didn’t believe it would ever come to this,” he continued, his eyes streaming. “Not after losing everyone!” Usman burst into tears once more. Abdul Latif laid his hand gently on Usman’s shoulder, as Mullah Naqib walked in.

  “Hmm! Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raaji’un!” he pronounced, slowly shaking his head and wearing a solemn look. “A shaheed!” Naqib turned to Usman. “We must humbly thank Allah for forgiving him all his sins as he now carries the mark of the shaheed. He has all the more reward for fighting and dying while fasting in this, the last week of Ramadhan! Truly Usman, I’m envious of your brother’s fate. Come, we must bury him right here in Chaharqulba, where he earned his shahadah.”

  Usman could not respond, and was unable to offer much by way of opinion or decision about Irfan’s burial. He felt only emptiness. His only surviving connection to the past was gone.

  The body was bathed, scented, wrapped in a white cloth brought in from the village, and finally buried as everyone looked on, offering their own prayers and throwing their handfuls of dirt over the grave.

  Over the next several days, Sikander made many efforts to get closer to Usman. The person who best understood his experience was Akhtarjhan, and Sikander asked the commander if he would try to help Usman through his grieving. Akhtarjhan offered to try but warned Sikander that the grieving would take its own course and time.

  The skirmishes came and went and the mujahideen took more casualties. At one point when they had become dispirited at being unable to make much headway against the DRA’s armored weapons, over the objections of his commanders, Mullah Naqib demonstrated the reality of his envy of Irfan’s shahadah. Taking a weapon and striding out alone into the fray, he proclaimed: “They’ve tried to conquer this place for years and this? This is their last throw!” The move rallied his commanders.

  After almost seven weeks, well into July, the DRA offensive seemed to peter out as they abandoned their revenge mission, returning to the status quo of occupying Qandahar while leaving the western Arghandab Valley to the mujahideen. However, their losses were severe; at least five hundred dead and over a thousand defections, destruction of a hundred vehicles, tanks, and light transports as well as over a dozen helicopters and aircraft. In short, the Arghandab counter-attack was a disaster for the enemy. />
  The mujahideen had perfected a clever approach of using terrain to dig in and defend against attacks, and when not being attacked, to make highly targeted, well-orchestrated ambushes. They had proven themselves effective in speeding up defections and desertions from which they derived much intelligence and morale. They had also become adept at attacking a withdrawing force, especially if there was any disarray in its rear.

  On July 20, 1987, less than three weeks after Arghandab, the Soviet Union announced its intent to withdraw from Afghanistan. General Gromov, commander of the 40th Army, drew up the plans.

  By the end of their Arghandab expedition, Sikander had sustained a minor injury to his right ankle. Ejaz had been hit in the left arm by wood shards from a tank shell exploding in a nearby tree, and Abdul Latif had taken a small piece of shrapnel in his left leg. But despite the battle wounds and death all around, he had gained another mujahid son.

  Chapter 9

  Rabia

  WITHDRAWAL BY THE ENEMY into Qandahar left little point in remaining in Arghandab. Abdul Latif and his men had been away from home during the important month of Ramadhan, and having missed the festival of ‘Eid-ul-Fitr, their absence would be all the more acutely felt by their families. It was time to go home. Abdul Latif made the customary request for permission to take his leave of Lala Malang, who equally customarily granted it. Freshly supplied with rations and mules, the group wound its way back toward the border at Chaman.

  In three days, they were again at the small village just north of the Khojak tunnel from which they had set out. A message was sent into Quetta for the ISI to collect them and before long, they were in Pakistan. Reaching Peshawar was both easier and more difficult than on the outbound journey. There were no bulky weapons this time—just their own AK-47s—making flying by C130 unnecessary. Traveling in two troop carriers by road up through the remote towns of Zhob, Dera Ismail Khan, and Kohat, in two days, they arrived at Peshawar’s airport. From there they were taken in small vans and pickups in groups of five or six, to Arif’s place and thence via the staging house back to their respective villages.

  Abdul Latif led the last group to Jamrud, and upon their arrival, Arif greeted them heartily.

  “Brother, reports of mujahideen action in Qandahar are causing a stir among the ISI. They’ve been interviewing the many deserters that were brought back here. Alhamdulillah, it sounds like it went well. I’m dying to hear the details.”

  Abdul Latif did the best he could to relate the experience and as he finished his dry summary, he shrugged wearily, wafting his hand in the general direction of his young band. “You’ll get more details from these brave young fellows.”

  Arif turned to them but before he could say anything, Sikander began, “Arif bhai, this is my friend, Usman. His elder brother, Irfan, became a shaheed in Arghandab just before ‘Eid-ul-Fitr.”

  “Oh! Uh, inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raaji’un. Assalaamu ‘alaykum, Usman,” responded Arif. A look of genuine sympathy came over him as he lost his characteristic smile. Usman returned the salaam quietly and politely but didn’t say more. “Well,” uttered Arif resignedly, “perhaps we can discuss your experiences later.”

  Returning his gaze to Sikander, whose formerly wispy beard was now more full-bodied, Arif became aware of the elevated standing projected by the young man. He was no longer the youth having to defend the pronunciation of his own name, a little less than a year earlier. He was battle hardened and ready for anyone and anything.

  Seeing the indelicacy of discussing the fighting, Arif offered Sikander the customary phone call, which Sikander graciously accepted. He hurried upstairs to the phone.

  “Hello?” The voice was a little deeper than Sikander remembered.

  “Jamil?”

  “Bhai-jan? Oh, bhai, at last! It’s so good to hear from you.”

  “Yes, it’s me. How are you? Where are Ammee and Abba?”

  “I’m well. Abba-jee is out and Ammee’s taken Sameena to the doctor. She won’t be—”

  “Sameena? Is she all right?”

  “Nothing serious. I’m sure they’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  “Well, give them my love and salaams. Wish everyone ‘Eid Mubarak. Listen; I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you for this ‘Eid. InshaAllah it won’t happen again, Jamil.”

  “When are you coming back, bhai-jan? When? It’s been almost a year—”

  “Jamil, the Russians are readying for a withdrawal. Can you believe it?”

  “It is hard to believe. I wish I could join you, but there’s no chance of that! Abba tells me I have to finish school. He’s—”

  “He’s right. Jamil. School’s important and that’s all there is to it. Trust me. Seriously yaar…for both of us, you have to study. Don’t disappoint Abba or Ammee like I know I did. Look, I have to go now. I’ll write if I can, or send notes, all right?”

  “Bhai-jan, it’s not the same without you. It’s been long enough. It’s time to come home.”

  “I will, Jamil. That’s a promise. Listen; I’ll call again as soon as I can. Allah Hafiz.”

  Hanging up the phone, Sikander sighed. He stared through Arif’s beautiful rug, pondering life in Hayatabad and how it was proceeding without him. He uttered a short prayer for the family’s wellbeing before returning downstairs to the war-room. After a restful night in Jamrud, everyone was ready and eager the following morning to be heading to Laghar Juy.

  The trip was uneventful. But as Hinna was now a part of the family, a stopover at her parents’ place was obligatory. Yaqub and Shahnaz fussed over Ejaz and provided the men with the customary gifts to be taken to their daughter’s new family.

  More than two months after they’d left, the men were descending the slopes into Laghar Juy under the sweltering heat of a July afternoon. Mercifully, a plentiful supply of snowmelt coursing through the numerous brooks and streams left them with no shortage of water. By late afternoon, the long-missed travelers were finally at Abdul Latif’s home. Alone at the time, Razya was delighted, relieved, and excited, before pointing out that everyone else was at Noor’s place, as she eagerly prepared to accompany the men there.

  Abdul Latif introduced Usman to Razya, who welcomed him warmly and doubly so upon learning he was the brother of a recent shaheed. Without hesitation she declared that he would bunk up with Sikander at Abdul Latif’s place.

  Everyone proceeded to Noor’s. An extra spring was in Sikander’s step.

  Abdul Rahman and Saleem hugged the returning men with relief and delight. Noor stroked Ejaz’s lowered head as she whispered a prayer of thanks for his safe return. Rabia practically enveloped her brother with her greeting, before turning to Sikander, giving him a welcoming look and salaam. His eyes connected with hers, reluctantly letting go of them as finally, she acknowledged her beloved uncle.

  The welcoming done with, Rabia unleashed her usual onslaught of inquiry and probing upon everyone, except, of course, Usman, to whom she projected her shy self; at least for now.

  “Brother Ejaz!” began Rabia, “I’ve known Sister Hinna for longer than you have. How odd is that?” she chided, her eyes lit by a glint of mischief.

  Ejaz smirked. “And I’ve known you for far too long, Rabia!” He laughed for the first time in many days. Ejaz was amused by his quip but more by his awareness of Sikander’s emerging interest in her, while she could only suspect it. However small, it was an advantage over his sister, which was too rare to be left unrelished.

  “Where’s Hinna?” he asked anxiously.

  “Can’t wait to see your sweetheart again?” Rabia goaded him. Ejaz paid the briefest attention to the taunt as he went in search of his wife. Hinna could not have expected her husband back at that particular time, so her absence wasn’t noteworthy.

  Out in the back, seated on her patthra and working the small stove on the floor, Hinna had been so engrossed with starting a flame that the mild commotion going on in the front of the thick-walled house hadn’t registered with her. With the flame s
tarted, she was getting up to select a cook pot when the image of her husband standing with the low orange sun lighting his face like a beacon caught her eye. Her big eyes widened as awareness of her husband’s presence sank in.

  “Ejaaaz!” she exclaimed, as she stepped away from the stove and lunged toward him for a hug. They embraced, holding each other tightly, words adequately absent from either of their minds.

  Buoyed by the excitement of reunion with his love, Ejaz determined he would take up the matter of Sikander’s interest in Rabia. If it seemed serious he would work toward achieving a match without allowing things to go awry through some faux pas in Pashtun etiquette on Sikander’s part. They were both young enough to be in no particular hurry, and Rabia’s wishes had in any case to be discovered. Who knew? Perhaps she had someone—or type of someone—completely different in mind for herself. For Ejaz, knowing what she wanted was important, however outside the norm that might be.

  Meanwhile Razya had her own eye on the situation. The ‘Eid-cum-homecoming celebration she had organized provided no conclusive indication, but her shrewd insight had thus far led her to detect a stirring in Sikander whenever he was in Rabia’s presence. He would become a little cockier, or fumble for words, both of which, in Razya’s calculus, were positive signs. But for now, she would simply remain watchful.

  It had been about a year since Mikhail Gorbachev made the first pronouncements of an intention to withdraw from Afghanistan. The war’s expense had debilitated his country’s economy, mujahideen weapons had become too sophisticated, and the border with Pakistan was simply too porous to block support for them from that direction. The Soviets wanted to be done with the quagmire, but more than that, they wanted the luxury of a graceful withdrawal, which in turn, would mean propping up whatever regime was to remain in their absence.