Enduring Freedom, page 4
“We have to trust Allah,” Baba Jan had said when he announced the move. “As he says in the Holy Quran, chapter 3, verse 159, ‘Certainly, Allah loves those who put their trust in Him.’ So, don’t worry. I’ve taken care of everything.”
For two days the family packed their belongings and prepared to leave. Only Uncle Kabir would remain behind, to finish some business and to guard some larger pieces of furniture that would not fit on the bus for this trip. Everyone else boarded the packed bus just after morning prayers. Soon its engine rumbled to life and they slowly rolled forward. Uncle Kabir waved goodbye out in the street. The bus bumped over cracked pavement as it rounded a corner and Uncle Kabir disappeared from view.
“You all can sleep. Don’t worry. It’s a long journey,” Baba Jan told everyone.
Baheer joined his grandfather near the driver. “May I sit with you? I want to see the way.”
It was Baheer’s first time aboard such a bus. The interior was red with curtains hanging over the windows. Baba Jan squeezed him close to his side.
It was a tiring journey of three days and two nights. Except for a few paved patches in downtown Kandahar, the uneven roads sent the bus lurching over bumps or slogging through mud. Several times Baheer asked Allah to help them get through. Even the concrete road out of Kandahar was so full of deep cracks that the driver chose parallel dirt roads despite the danger of land mines.
On the third day of the journey, they drove through the open desert. No trees. No houses. Only rocks and sand to the horizon. Baheer was grateful for the presence of his family and even the bus driver. Out there, the loneliness hung heavy and complete.
Finally, Baheer spotted a building. “Baba, what is that hut on the left?”
Baba squinted as he gazed into the distance.
“Oh, that is a mosque for the travelers,” Baba Jan said. The family looked out the windows.
“Oh, good,” said Aunt Zarlashta. “I need something to remind me of other people.”
“Burqas and turbans!” Baba Jan shouted.
Baheer looked back. The women scrambled into their burqas. Maryam struggled with hers. She hadn’t had one for very long, and wasn’t as practiced putting it on as the other women. Baheer rushed to her side and held the blankety dress upright, helping her get the little cloth mesh window over her eyes. Then he hurried to make sure his turban looked right. Everyone was finally ready as the bus began to slow down.
Ten turban-clad teenage Taliban soldiers, pale and skinny, not even grown enough to have beards, waved at the bus. Their eyes were red, lined with black makeup. Each carried a deadly Kalashnikov rifle. Outside that mosque, the Taliban had built a small hay-topped hut.
Baheer’s heart raced, but he tried to reflect the same courage he saw in his grandfather.
The old bus’s brakes screeched as it slowed to a halt. Two of the taliban boarded the bus. The first one wore a huge black turban tilted to the side, covering his left ear. The other wore a proper white turban. They looked everyone over, confident and cruel, as if they owned the bus and everyone on it. The women wore their burqas and turned away. The kids stayed near their mothers.
Baheer had always lowered his eyes whenever the Taliban came around, but this time he glanced at them, and despite Baba Jan’s warnings, he couldn’t help but wonder when an American bomb might end them.
White Turban greeted Baba Jan, most likely because of Grandfather’s gray hair and perfect white turban.
Black Turban pointed his rifle at Baheer’s father and Uncle Feraidoon. “Off the bus!”
Baheer started to reach out to hold back his father, certain it was terrible if they got off the bus. But his father and Uncle Feraidoon immediately obeyed, not wanting any trouble with all the women around. Baba Jan followed his sons, and before Rahim could stop him, Baheer went along with him.
The two taliban ordered Baheer, Baba Jan, Baheer’s father, and Uncle Feraidoon to stand next to the hut. Black Turban shouted at Uncle Feraidoon, whose beard was shorter: “Remove your turban!”
As Uncle removed his turban, a third talib with kohl-painted eyes shouted. “Shave his head!”
Baba Jan caught the talib’s hand and stood in front of his son.
Baheer admired his grandfather’s courage, but wished in that moment that Baba Jan could be, like Baheer, less brave. It was one thing to challenge the one talib who lived next door and was obviously in the wrong, but Uncle Feraidoon had broken the Taliban’s stupid rule. There were ten taliban. All those guns. Even one of them could kill us all.
“What has my son done?” Baba Jan asked.
“Your son’s beard and hair doesn’t match.” A tall man wearing white clothes with a light brown sweater vest came out of the hut. “Haji Saheb, we respect your gray hair, but you have not taught your sons Islamic manners.”
“My sons pray five times each day, fast during Ramadan, and read the Holy Quran. They don’t cheat, lie, or do any forbidden acts. All my children know Islam,” Baba Jan responded.
The talib burst with laughter. “You didn’t teach them to keep a proper beard.”
Baheer exchanged a worried look with his father. The laughter was almost worse than the guns. Baba Jan was a haji. He had made the Hajj, the holy pilgrimage to Mecca. He was a wise man, respected by all. He could quote more passages from the Holy Quran from memory than anyone. These Taliban fools probably couldn’t even read. Now this talib dared to mock his grandfather?
Baheer shook with fury, but remembering the rifles, he took deep breaths to calm down.
The leader pointed at the barber talib.
Baba Jan called upon the leader, “It is by no means against Islamic manners.”
Despite Grandfather’s plea, Black Turban pulled Uncle Feraidoon down to his knees.
“Sit down!” the leader shouted.
“Never go against the rules of the Amirul Momenin!” Black Turban pressed his rusty straight razor hard, leaving one bleeding bald stripe on Uncle Feraidoon’s scalp.
Any pride Baheer had felt for the way his grandfather had stood up to these criminals was quickly overshadowed by his fear for his uncle and cold terror over the way the other taliban aimed their rifles at the rest of them.
After the shaving, the leader shouted, “Get on the bus! Follow our rules.”
The rules. The Taliban rules. Every part of his life was governed by these horrible rules. Afghanistan had always been an Islamic country, but up until the last few years, they hadn’t been forced to live under the boot of thugs like this.
Baba Jan stood firm, motioning his sons to board and shooting a dry look at the closest talib before he boarded the bus. The driver pretended nothing had happened and drove away.
There was a long silence on the bus. Grandmother brought a clean wet cloth to wash Uncle Feraidoon’s bloody scalp. She sighed. “May Allah punish them.”
“It’s fine, Mother,” Uncle Feraidoon said. “It doesn’t hurt much. Once I get to Farah, I will shave it all. No big deal.”
“Baba,” Baheer said. “What was that ‘Amirul Momenin’ the talib mentioned?”
“That phrase means, ‘the leader of the believers.’ A real leader of Muslims never tortures people. He preaches with compassion and love. He rules with peace and tranquility, not with cruelty. This is not real Islam.
“Allah says, in chapter 3, verse 159, to our Prophet—peace be upon Him—about being a good leader, ‘It is out of God’s mercy that you have been lenient with them. Had you been rough, hard-hearted, they would surely have scattered away from you. So pardon them, and pray for their forgiveness, and take counsel from them in matters of importance,’” Baba Jan said. “From this verse we learn that a good Muslim leader should be lenient, kind-hearted, and forgiving. Not like these monsters.”
“I know, Baba Jan,” Baheer said, happy he had been taught this way, hoping Baba Jan would quote more of the old words.
Baba Jan kissed Baheer’s forehead. “This is my son.”
In addition to the many truths of Islam, Baba Jan also often talked about the former glory of Afghanistan and the Islamic world. We led the world in mathematics, art, everything. Our poetry was second to none! he might say. He’d often discuss the need to return to that kind of a society. To Baheer, it all sounded great. Living in a country with no fighting, where everybody was free to improve life for himself and for his family, where each person’s rightness with Allah was between the person and Allah, not judged by meaningless signs such as the length of a beard.
Baheer watched his grandfather, the product of a different and better generation, who always championed education as the best hope for a better society. While at school in Pakistan, Baheer had believed him. Study hard, boys. You are the future of Afghanistan. Someday it will be up to you to rebuild our country. But it wasn’t up to him or Rahim or anyone good. Baheer looked at Uncle Feraidoon’s brutally shaved stripe, the red and brown blood stains on the wet cloth he used to try to clean himself. It was up to the Taliban. Even if the Americans came to destroy the Taliban, even if anything was left standing after the Americans attacked, the schools were still run by teachers who beat their students with hoses or electrical cords for simply asking honest questions. It was hard to find hope in all of this, but Baheer closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and mentally recommitted himself to trusting Allah the way Baba Jan always said they should.
The day was hot despite the approaching winter as the bus turned left and continued into another desert. Baheer first thought the driver was taking a shortcut, but the bus kept going toward nowhere. Finally, in the distance, another clay-made hut came into view. A huge white flag waved above it.
Maryam, who had kept her burqa on her head but had flipped it up in front to make it easy to breathe, stepped closer to Baheer. “That white flag means Taliban, right?”
Baheer nodded. Maryam had hardly left the compound over the last several years, so it made some sense she’d have to ask such an obvious question. “Yes,” said Baheer. “But don’t worry. We’ll be OK.”
“Reegee checkpoint. Kind of the main entrance for the city,” Baba Jan explained.
The bus crawled by the building. Next to it, the barrel from an old junked tank pointed at the road. Hulks of old Russian tanks, troop carriers, and shreds of their helicopters, whatever people hadn’t been able to move or salvage for scrap metal, were almost as common all over Afghanistan as Russian minefields.
The bus crossed the concrete bridge over the wide river, swerving to dodge a hole. A short time later it bumped up onto blacktop.
“Wow!” Baheer said. After the long, rough ride, it felt like the bus was gliding across still water.
Baba Jan laughed. “Yeah, this is the only kilometer of asphalted road in the entire province. Farah’s mayor collected money from the shopkeepers on both sides of the road.”
Baba Jan directed the driver toward their newly purchased house in the downtown area.
Every residence in Afghanistan was surrounded by high walls, making each street something like a canyon. After a few more turns down crude uneven dirt roads, Baba Jan counted the doors in the walls on one street before he told the driver to stop.
“We’re here,” said Baba. “The compound needs renovation because I asked our farmer to stay and guard the place from intruders. He kept his animals all over.”
“Intruders?” Baheer asked.
“These are bad times. If the land mafia sees an empty compound, they will bribe the Taliban and forge documents showing it is theirs. Last year, my friend returned from Iran to find he’d lost his downtown shop this way. The real documents aren’t registered in the books at all. The fake ones are.”
“Oh. Thank Allah that you asked someone to stay,” Grandmother said.
Baheer looked at the many cracks in the front wall of the compound with more than a little doubt. If people in Farah were working with the Taliban to simply take away other people’s homes, how much better than Kabul could this place be?
Baba Jan got off the bus and knocked on the compound door. An old man with a dark brown turban and a brown waistcoat came out of the house and kissed Baba Jan’s hand. Baheer was relieved to see the two men speaking pleasantly. The farmer was the first kind person they’d encountered on the long trip. After a moment, he bowed with his hand over his heart, and then left.
The women entered the compound first, followed by everyone else. Uncle Feraidoon led the driver to the guesthouse. The rest of the family gathered in the front courtyard. But instead of exploring the several buildings within the compound walls, they all stared in shock.
Two buildings shaped like the guesthouse were lined up along the back wall. In front of that, a small light brown calf nursed from a spotted cow. Nearly every meter of ground within the compound was filled with loose soil and manure covered with bits of hay.
In addition to the guesthouse and the rooms in the rear of the compound, the property featured a large house with three rooms which, though not ideal, was the cleanest part of their new home. The women and little children went in that building.
Baba must have noticed Grandmother’s doubtful expression. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix it.”
In keeping with the customs of good Afghans, the neighbors on the other side of the wall brought chicken, rice, and naan for lunch, so that the family, tired from traveling, wouldn’t have to cook. After lunch, the work began, and it continued for over a week. Baheer and Rahim quickly realized they were no longer living in a fancy city like Kabul. Life was going to be very different in Farah. First they had to dig paths through the manure just to get from one building to another. Then they unloaded the bus, temporarily storing their belongings in the guesthouse. After that, they shoveled out three truckloads of manure before hauling in gravel, needed because the ground inside the compound was below street level. Baba Jan had a modern-style toilet installed, and many walls had to be resealed and plastered. The whole family worked on dozens of tasks every day, from just after the morning prayer until late at night. It was exhausting, but Baheer also liked seeing the compound slowly begin to shape up into a fine, livable home.
In early October, Baba Jan went back to Kabul to help Uncle Kabir move the rest of their belongings. The work continued through the next week, all of it by hand, as the family put finishing touches on their new home.
After Baba Jan returned with Uncle Kabir from Kabul, the family was invited to a banquet outside Farah, at the compound of Baba Jan’s elder brother, Mohammad Saeed Khan.
Everyone spent extra time cleaning up, making themselves as presentable as they could. Baheer wore his freshest, whitest perahan tunban, and both Rahim and Maryam laughed at the way he tried to avoid touching anything for fear of getting dirty.
“Make fun of me if you want,” Baheer said. “But we’ve never met this part of our family. I won’t be the one to make them think we’re slobs. Tonight is important.”
“They’re family, Baheer,” Maryam said. “This isn’t some Taliban inspection.”
Her joke flattened the mood a little, but nothing could take the energy out of a night like this one. Last year, Uncle Feraidoon had sneaked an American movie dubbed over in Pashto. The film was about a rich American family who lived in a big house. To celebrate a holiday they called Christmas, the family decided to take a trip to Paris, France. But they left one of the young boys home all alone. This would have never happened in Afghanistan. Afghan parents loved their children too much to abandon them and leave the country. To Afghans, family was everything.
One of Baba Jan’s nephews arrived with a tractor pulling a trailer, to give them a ride. When they arrived, the women and kids entered the compound and were led to one of the houses. Baheer started to follow them, but Baba Jan stopped him and Rahim. “A new beginning in a part of the country that’s new for you. Time to start growing up.”
Baheer exchanged a smile with his brother as they followed the rest of the men into the guesthouse. No matter how close an extended family was, men and women sat separately. Later, the women might come and say “salaam,” but their gathering would consist only of women and small children.
Baba Jan’s elder brother waited for them in the guesthouse doorway. Baba Jan kissed his elder brother’s hand and so did everyone from their family.
Baheer was surprised the dinner was ready so early. Life was different in Farah. People here ate right after the evening prayer. The dastarkhwān was spread and naan was served with shorwa, a type of stew made of lamb meat.
“It’s good to have you all here!” Baba Jan’s brother was as loud and bold as Baba Jan. His smile was big and sincere.
“Tashakor!” Baba Jan replied. “How good to be reunited with my brother, to see our families all come together.”
The conversation continued, warm and friendly, and Baheer quickly realized that although it was, as Baba Jan had said, time to grow up, that did not mean he was particularly welcome in this conversation. The grandchildren of Baba Jan’s brother smiled at Baheer and Rahim, apparently understanding.
The meal and conversation went on for a very long time. Tea was served and then served again. Finally, there was a sound in the distance like thunder.
Baba Jan’s brother paused his story for just a moment, but then shrugged and continued. “Anyway, that’s how we’ve managed to have any kind of success in farming. Next season we hope to—” A loud boom shook the air. Dust and bits of mud-brick fell from the ceiling. Baba Jan and his brother exchanged a serious look. “The roof!” Baba Jan’s brother scrambled to his feet and led the men out of the room, up a set of stairs to the flat roof of the high main house.
“Look!” Baheer pointed. In the distance pickup trucks loaded with taliban fishtailed in the dirt, creating great clouds of dust in their wake.
