“Adey, did I describe too small a sum?”
“Ha!” Noor erupted in a laugh, something Sikander hadn’t witnessed in a long time. “I’m sure it’s enough! Quite sure!”
He went on to describe his brother and sister and the house where they lived, and with Noor’s constant probing, the origin of Rabia’s curiosity was plain to see.
As they approached Charikar, the highway out of Kabul was almost upon them. In the distance ahead and from their elevated vantage point, it could easily be seen running from left to right. Behind it, to the west, lay another range of mountains, abruptly putting a stop to the gently sloping plain on which they had been traveling. To their right, their northbound direction for the following day appeared equally imposing, as there, too, the land rose sharply, creating a seemingly impassable north wall. By afternoon, they reached the highway. Evidence of recent military activity was visible as more burned-out vehicles dotted the length of the road. Their number bore compelling testimony to the killing that had occurred barely a month into this war.
“Behind those mountains is Qunduz,” Sikander announced, pointing to the north. “Soon we’ll have completed half the journey, alhamdulillah, but now it’s time to stop for this evening and maybe pick up some lamb kebabs from a local seller.”
The road seemed important enough for more than one enterprising street peddler to try his luck with the elevated pedestrian traffic, but well away from the road itself. The group lost no opportunity to stock up whenever they came across a kebab, fruit, or vegetable stall.
The following morning, they turned north, tracking parallel to the highway out of Kabul. Remaining at least half a kilometer to the east or west of the road, they rarely saw any vehicles on the once busy national artery. The bombs over Kabul were relentless, but thankfully, their noise finally abated as Kabul receded steadily behind them. Their luck held up and they made it, tired but unscathed, as far as the Salang Tunnel by day’s end.
The trip beyond that point, despite the challenging terrain, remained relatively uneventful until on November 12 they approached Pul-i-Khumri, a modest-sized town along the main road to Qunduz, and the capital of Baghlan Province.
There was a problem, however. This was Tadjik country and they could no longer assume they would be safe. The Tadjiks were the enemies of the predominantly Pashtun Taliban, and while the territory was still nominally under Taliban control, hostility simmered beneath the surface. Although Pashto was spoken, the common language was Dari, which none of the travelers spoke. The men discussed options for slipping through the town. A group of three men, four women, two of whom were older, and a baby, could hardly appear less hostile. The challenge would be to recognize and avoid forces of the Northern Alliance and not to get captured or killed simply for being Pashtuns.
“Put away the black turbans, brothers,” said Sikander. “I can wear my pakol, but I only have mine. We should get more for the two of you. I think we could all use some chadors as well. It’s getting cold up here even in the day time.”
Sikander paused for a moment before confronting what would no doubt be a delicate issue. “Brothers, the women should remove their burkhas and cover their heads with dupatthas. But they can keep them hanging well over their faces.”
Abdul Majeed and Saleem silently exchanged glances, before turning to face Sikander. Saleem’s grudging nod of agreement was barely perceptible and Abdul Majeed sat motionless. Sikander didn’t try to confirm the sale, choosing instead to act presumptively. Standing on principle on matters of dress and headgear would be pointless. Their lives might depend on it, and even the Taliban were comfortable with the widely held position in Islam that behavioral prohibitions were suspended to the extent necessary for survival. The reality of any such threat was for the conscience to decide on each occasion.
But even as they were preparing to find Tadjik control of Pul-i-Khumri, a parallel concern was that the town might still be under the Taliban. Having adopted the garb of the Tadjiks, the last thing they needed was a Taliban religious policeman challenging the women for dressing improperly.
“Let me handle it if that happens, Sikander,” offered Abdul Majeed. “I’ll tell him our situation and he should be sympathetic.”
“I don’t think we’ll have that kind of problem, Brother,” Saleem added. “The Taliban are too busy focusing on Mazar-e-Sharif right now, and the Tadjiks are pretty easy-going on their women. Remember Ayesha Bibi? She was a mujahideen commander from around here. She led about a hundred men fighting the Russians, as far as I recall.”
Abdul Majeed shrugged.
Sikander explained his plan. “Let me go ahead while you all remain here. I’ll buy what we need, see who’s running things in Pul-i-Khumri, and maybe we’ll be able to make sense of how to get past this town.” Everyone agreed.
While Sikander rode into Pul-i-Khumri to look for pakols and chadors, the rest of them took a much-needed break sitting by the river. Late that afternoon, to their relief, Sikander could be seen approaching. Along with the reins to his mule, he was clutching three plastic bags and upon reaching them, after lobbing, Frisbee-style, a pakol to each of his male companions, he distributed chadors to everyone.
“Judging by the way the women were dressed and walking about, it looks as if the Taliban have pulled out,” Sikander remarked. He turned to Abdul Majeed and Saleem. “It also means that we risk our bushy beards attracting attention. I suggest when we wear these chadors we should cover our chins too.
The women discreetly removed their burkhas and drew their dupatthas over their heads, before wrapping in their chadors.
Sikander had never seen the faces of either Fatima or Amina, and in an awkward but instinctive fashion, he smiled at the women before casting his gaze elsewhere. He had known Fatima since their first encounter a few years earlier and had come to know Amina on this trip. Now it felt as if he was meeting them for the very first time. Abdul Majeed wasn’t looking, but Saleem was. He was clear about the reason for the change of attire but was unhappy with it. He didn’t press the issue, however, choosing instead to learn more from Sikander about the situation in Pul-i-Khumri.
“How is it in the city?”
“The people seem relaxed. I didn’t get any trouble buying the pakols and chadors. How it will be when we get farther north, I don’t know.”
Sikander finally picked up the third bag. “This place also has pretty good fruit and vegetables,” he said, grinning.
They performed the asr prayer and resumed their onward progress. It soon became dusk and after another pause for maghrib, they decided that reaching the north side of the town was probably wise, so they continued to move in the darkness. At least it would provide some cover against suspicious eyes. After emerging from the canyons on the north side of Pul-i-Khumri, they settled down for the night among a secluded cluster of trees in an open field between the Qunduz River and the main road from Kabul.
A refreshing and remarkably quiet night out in the open was followed by the first light of dawn striking the faces of the mountains ahead and to the west. They became bright-red beacons while the valley floor was still in darkness. These mountains formed the walls of the last of the Qunduz River’s canyons through which the group would have to pass. After the dawn prayer, and a breakfast of the dried fruit Sikander had brought them, they began the next day of their long journey.
With the going relatively easy, the travelers soon passed through Baghlan before reaching Char Shamba Tipa, a tiny tribal village just south of the entrance to the last of the canyons. On approaching the settlement, they came across a sight they hadn’t seen thus far.
Streaming from west to east across the landscape in the distance ahead of Sikander and his fellow travelers were several hundred men. They seemed to be approaching the same canyon toward which Sikander’s group was headed.
“Escaping Taliban, I bet,” Sikander observed. “They don’t look like they’re gearing up for a fight. I can see some of them limping.”
“Yes,” said Abdul
Majeed. “Strange though, how they don’t seem afraid of being attacked.”
“Well, it’s possible our ISI and their Taliban contacts are among them but whoever they are, we should approach them with caution,” replied Sikander.
Amina chimed in. “I suggest we dress in a manner more appropriate to these people,” as she hurriedly donned her burkha. The other women followed suit.
Abdul Majeed and Saleem put on their turbans, wrapping the cloth around the pakols. Sikander remained the way he was.
As they neared the steady stream of foot soldiers it became clear that the men were Taliban. Abdul Majeed decided to engage some of them in conversation. It would establish his own Taliban credentials and allow him to learn of their situation. Seeking out a weary looking group of three, he dismounted to greet them.
“Assalaamu ‘alaykum, brothers. Where are you coming from?”
“Wa ‘alaykum assalaam. Mazar-e-Sharif,” replied one of them.
“What happened? Why are so many going to Qunduz?”
“We lost Mazar-e-Sharif to Dostum and Atta Mohammed Noor’s people. They rushed the Imam Bukhri Bridge, taking the military base and the airport. After that, a larger force attacked us including some Americans. Retreat was our only option. As far as we know, we still have Qunduz, so that’s where we’re headed to regroup,” he said. “If we have to die there then so be it. Until then, we’ll fight those Tadjik haraamzadas that sold their souls to the Americans!”
Abdul Majeed rode back to the group and let them know what he’d learned.
“We should mingle with them,” Sikander suggested, “at least until we make the airfield. It’s about fifteen kilometers from the far side of this canyon.”
Moving along a little faster than walking pace, by the time they were out of the canyon they were close to the front of the throng. The escaping Taliban weren’t in a mood for conversation. Some were anxious about being trapped in the canyon and ambushed there. Others worried about Qunduz
being the place where they would end their lives. Yet others no doubt imagined their salvation lay at the end of this walk if they were, for example, among the ISI or their sponsored Taliban. In any case, they had no inclination to chitchat with the group from Laghar Juy. As night fell, some of the men decided to keep walking while others opted to bed down. The canyon walls progressively spread apart, widening the floor into a flatter valley as the Qunduz River made a large S-bend before resuming its northerly track toward Qunduz. As the previously gusty wind eased a little, Sikander’s group found a natural low mound that offered some protection on the downwind side, where the group rested for the night. They were within fifteen kilometers of the airfield.
Morning broke once again. After fajr, everyone collected their things to load on the mules. As they were busy with this task, a voice called out Sikander’s name. He looked around but with people and faces everywhere he was unable to place the sound.
“Sikander!” called the voice again. This time, Sikander’s searching eyes plucked the caller from the throng. It was Junaid and with him was a young man, obviously his son.
“Junaid! You old tiger! Assalaamu ‘alaykum!” exclaimed Sikander as the two moved closer to hug and greet each other. Abdul Majeed and Saleem hurried toward them. Junaid introduced Iqbal. When the introductions were over, Junaid looked around increasingly puzzled. “Abdul Latif?” he asked.
Sikander exchanged glances with Abdul Majeed, before turning to Junaid. “He uh, Junaid, he passed away about a month ago,” Sikander uttered.
Junaid’s eyes widened in shock then darted to Abdul Majeed. “Ohhh… Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raaji’un. Abdul Majeed, I am so sorry to hear that! He was a kindhearted man whose concern was for his people!” Still shaken by the news, Junaid asked: “Your mother; where is she?”
“JazaakAllah for your condolences, Brother Junaid. She’s over there…” Abdul Majeed pointed to the four women and Latifa. “Let me take you to her.”
With introductions completed, Junaid again expressed his sorrow at Abdul Latif’s death, but also his pride at having known a man of his stature, a genuine hero of the Afghan people. Razya thanked him. She was pleased to learn of Junaid’s longstanding association with her late husband, and expressed her wish to discover more about her husband’s adventures with
him in Pakistan if circumstances permitted. Excusing himself, Junaid rejoined the men, who briefly shared their experiences of the journey from Laghar Juy. By late morning, they were on the move again, with Junaid and Iqbal atop the two spare mules, which were no longer needed as reserves.
Finally, in the afternoon they were at the airfield. It was on a plateau some thirty meters above the Qunduz-to-Kabul road, with its runway arranged southeast to northwest. Access was at its western end by a service road that climbed through a small ravine to reach the plateau. There were a few hundred people there, mostly tired men but also women and children. At the back of the tiny cluster of airport buildings were several mules tethered to whatever was convenient and to each other. After entering the plateau, Sikander and his companions dismounted and Junaid motioned to a spot out on the apron of the airfield where the family group could gather while he and Sikander would take the mules to where the others were. Abdul Majeed, Iqbal, and Saleem escorted the women and Latifa to the spot and lay out their blankets and chadors on which to sit and later, sleep.
They had safely made the long and difficult journey to Qunduz with a day to spare before the first of the Pakistani aircraft was due to arrive. Now, it was time to wait.
Chapter 15
Sheberghan
FROM THEIR POSITIONS ON the high ground to the south of Qunduz, members of the American Special Forces and the Northern Alliance fighters looked on at the steady flow of people filing north out of the canyon, into the airport. Pashtuns, Uzbeks, Arabs, Pakistanis, and a smattering of white Caucasians made up the throng. Clearly this was more than just Pakistani ISI and military advisors, as had been promised to Washington when Musharraf had secured their safe passage. The onlooking soldiers were infuriated. As far as they were concerned, these evacuees wouldn’t hesitate to slit the soldiers’ throats given half a chance, yet here they were, calmly slipping away. Orders were orders, however, and these had come from the very top in Washington. But as soon as the last evacuee was loaded and the last flight had taken off, the soldiers had no confusion about what they would do with anyone left behind.
The waiting was hard to bear. Sikander and his companions understood, of course, that arriving too soon was better than too late, but poor Latifa was far from happy. The women made spirited attempts to soothe her but with the boredom and the last of the food gone, she would not be consoled.
Meanwhile, Junaid diligently sought out the other ISI officers among the milling evacuees, gathering them together to help organize things. Sikander was pleased to see that Junaid had found Iftekhar who brought him over to reintroduce to Sikander and his fellow travelers. Compared to the prim and proper soldier Sikander recalled from their first meeting in Jamrud, Iftekhar looked the worse for wear. After Shahi Kot, he had been in Kabul looking for evacuees and had seen intense bombardment of the city over the past couple of weeks. Even so, he was appropriately cordial.
The evacuees were to be organized into groups corresponding to airplane capacity. Each group was to consist of approximately a hundred and twenty-five individuals, which resulted in six groups as of that afternoon with more expected as more evacuees arrived. The C130 could take on about ninety-five fully equipped paratroopers, but without a soldier’s full accoutrements, the aircraft could handle over a hundred and twenty swarthy, well-fed soldiers. Nobody at the airfield was swarthy or well fed.
Two C130s of Pakistan Air Force’s Number Six Squadron were set to take off from Gilgit and Chitral, land at Qunduz, and fly to Peshawar to unload into a processing facility. From Peshawar, the aircraft would return to Qunduz, shuttling back and forth until the target evacuees were extracted or the safe passage window closed.
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The Americans had authorized a hard stop for the safe corridor a minute before midnight on November 17. This would take place about a day after the start of the siege of the city, leaving one more day for the airlift to be completed. Anyone left behind after that, at the airport or in the city was, within the upcoming week, about to have the same luck as a Thanksgiving turkey.
After determining which of the ISI officers would act as the leader for each group, Junaid headed back to Sikander and his companions. It was nearing sunset.
Sikander was chatting with Saleem and Abdul Majeed, but turned around as he heard Junaid call his name. Junaid’s enlarging silhouette was painted over the orange sky, the bright halo of the low sun behind him. Sikander put his hand to his forehead to shade his eyes.
“What’s going on?” he asked as Junaid hurriedly approached.
“We’re organizing everyone into planeloads and asking them to stay together. When the airplanes come in tomorrow, there’ll be no time to lose and each group will be boarded in sequence. The flights ought to be about an hour and a quarter or so apart.”
“What group are we in?”
“The sixth, I’m afraid. The first planes take off around ten in the morning, so we’ll have to wait more than six hours for our flight, right about asr time.”
“Actually, that news isn’t all bad, Junaid. If I leave right after fajr, at say seven in the morning, I’ll be able to get to Qunduz, sell our mules, pick up some food, and be back in time for our flight.”
“Sikander, are you sure there’ll be time?” Abdul Majeed asked anxiously.
“I think so. With all these mules in tow, I can get there in, what, about an hour and a half, maybe?” Sikander replied. “If I can get them sold off and buy some food in say, two more hours, that would bring me up to ten thirty. Even if it takes longer I should still be back by early afternoon.”
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