The Long Road From Kandahar, page 2
The noisy market and the sound of people haggling and shouting caught at Raza in a dizzying wave of sound. He eyed the food and fruit stalls with longing but knew better than to ask for anything to eat. His stomach was never full, but he had learned to get used to the sound of it rumbling.
Uncle Hanif was sitting on a step by his hot nut stall drinking green tea. ‘Assalamu alaikum.’ He beamed, showing even more gaps in his teeth. He handed Raza a cone of nuts. ‘Welcome, boy. I do not see you often.’
A man in a pale turban and riding boots paused to look at the sheep. Zamir and Hanif began to extol the virtues of the tenderness and taste of sheep that are grazed high on the mountains. The three men settled down to bargain over the price with tiny cups of Jasmine tea. Raza wandered away and sniffed the tantalizing smells coming from the food stalls. Cardamom tea and incense filtered into air that was laced with the smell of fresh bread. Sandalwood and tobacco infused the clothes stalls.
The smell of hot food being thrown, turned, and slapped on griddles was unbearable. The crowds thronging the narrow sidewalk jostled Raza forward like a small ship in a rough sea.
The voices of the stallholders, calling out in many dialects – Pashto, Farsi, Urdu, Punjabi, Dari – made Raza disorientated as well as hungry.
He turned and let himself be carried back on a wave of people to Baba and Uncle Hanif. They were still haggling over the sheep. Raza sat on the kerb by the monsoon drain and ate his nuts slowly to make them last.
The Pathan wanted lamb for his daughter’s wedding and he and Baba were arguing about how many people the two sheep would feed. Not many, Raza thought.
The last time Raza had come down from the mountains he had been with Ajeet and Fakir. They had not come into the town but headed straight for the Kohat Valley, for Darra Adamkhel, about forty kilometres away. Raza felt excited even thinking about Darra. The valley was a mass of gun shops and factories manufacturing and selling arms. Every gun known to man could be made or copied in Darra. It was a thrilling place. Once Raza had held a gun as small as a pen that could fire a .22 bullet.
Craftsmen, as young as Raza and as old as Zamir worked in the factories, often designing their own guns. They were adept at replicating English Lee Enfields, .303 rifles, revolvers, and Sten guns.
Ajeet and Fakir stroked and handled the guns lovingly and placed them in Raza’s hands so that he could feel the weight and heft between his palms. Inside the factories and workshops, he watched copies of Russian Kalashnikov automatic rifles and guns being made for the Pakistani army. Every weapon of any description changed hands here, for a price.
The atmosphere was heady with tension and intent. To a Pashtun, the choice of a gun was a serious matter, a way of life. Crouched with his brothers on the floor of a gun shop, beside fierce men bartering for a beautifully crafted gun laid lovingly across their knees, made Raza feel part of their world.
Restless with the relentless roll of each day and constantly hungry, Raza knew he only had to wait a few more years before he could join Ajeet and Fakir and carry his own gun across his shoulders. Raza also knew that his Baba wanted him to have an education.
The first school he had attended had been blown up. The second school, even further away, had closed after a month. The teacher, threatened by the local Taliban, had been too frightened to return.
Zamir had been taught to read in a Madrassa. He was patiently teaching Raza to read with the aid of old local newspapers. He also taught him Urdu, his mother’s language, and the little English he knew.
Raza was quick to learn, but fidgety. Zamir did not have books to keep him interested and Raza quickly grew bored, longing to escape to the mountains and into his imagination; to run with his sheep and goats and play Mujahideen.
Zamir was respected in the village Jirga for his wisdom in settling disputes. Women especially came to him for advice. He had treated his wives well and never beaten them. Some of the other elders, however, remembering how zealous Zamir had once been in seeing off the Russians, believed he had grown soft with age.
To protect Raza, Zamir was careful of what he said out loud and what he taught his son. He never admitted his reverence for books and learning, especially not to his eldest sons.
Raza finished his bag of nuts. Baba and the turbaned Pathan were now gesticulating loudly, both pretending to be insulted by offer and counteroffer. Uncle Hanif joined in defending family honour. Raza sighed, scratching the bites on his legs. This could go on for ages and he would die of hunger.
Raza noticed how his Baba’s eyes kept darting through the crowds. Was Baba afraid that his brothers might suddenly appear to interfere in the selling of his sheep or stop their journey to Rawalpindi?
His brothers grumbled endlessly about how the old man had lost his fire, was growing senile. It was true Baba no longer wanted to hear about killing infidels. Nor was he interested in admiring the devices and weapons his brothers carried. Baba’s face would close at their boasts. He would walk away from them to be alone or go to the mosque to pray.
Once, his father had turned on Ajeet angrily. ‘Don’t you ever wish for an end to all this bloodshed and death? Don’t you crave a better life for your sons and daughters? A place where they can be educated and enjoy all that Allah has blessed us with?’ Zamir had waved his arms at the snow-capped mountains and the orchards that lay in blossom in the valley below.
Raza remembered the contemptuous look Ajeet had given Baba. He had accused him of growing old and treacherous. If the Taliban did not fight for the people, who would? Did the old man want them all just to sit back and let the Pakistani army force them out of their homes? Drive them out of the Tribal Areas and down into the cities?
Raza hated it when either of his brothers showed disrespect for Baba. He would have liked to defend his father, but he was not brave enough to risk his brothers’ anger.
The deal with the sheep was abruptly sealed. Hands were clasped. Zamir looked pleased. Uncle Hanif produced tiny cups of black tea and the brothers crouched on their haunches sealing their bargain and indulging in local gossip.
Raza was about to wander off in the hope of some generous stallholder when he was alerted by his uncle’s lowered voice whispering his name. Raza turned and caught both men watching him. He felt a sudden shiver of dread. There was indeed something strange about this visit to relations in Rawalpindi.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cornwall, 2009
The night before Ben and Hanna arrived in Cornwall the evening was glorious. Silvery and mild and the surf clean. Finn took his board out and surfed for a couple of hours with local boys he saw each summer.
The shabby and much loved beach house was ready for everyone. It lay at the end of a long sandy track, the last chalet on the curve of a long surfing beach.
Finn had helped Delphi sweep the sandy floorboards, tidied his small bedroom with the two built-in bunk beds and chucked out a load of his old books so there was enough room to accommodate Izzy’s toys.
Delphi stuffed the fridge with food and Ian set up a new barbecue as the old one had rusted away. He was so keen to try out his new toy that they decided to get the sleeping bags out of the car and stay the night. They picnicked on sausages, burgers and rolls and Delphi, watching Finn’s face glowing from the sea, saw him begin to relax. All that was needed now was a united Ben and Hanna, good weather, lovely friends, and two weeks of fun for the four of them.
Delphi was glad the Applebys had been able to change their holiday plans to still join Ben and Hanna. They always brought fun and laughter. Fergus and Ben had been at Sandhurst together, joined the same regiment and served together in Iraq. Mary and Hanna had become unlikely but good friends.
Looking out into the dark where the water swelled and rippled, Delphi thought she should be used to Ben heading for war zones by now, but she wasn’t. In fact, it got worse with age, and grandchildren.
She made some hot chocolate and took it in to Finn. He was sitting up in his sleeping bag on the bottom bunk bed turning the pages of the journal she had given him.
‘When did you get this journal, Delphi?’ he asked. ‘Why did you never write in it?’
Delphi placed his mug on the old stool beside him and sat awkwardly on the edge of the bunk. ‘I bought it on a long weekend in Rome, a hundred years ago. Ian booked the trip as a surprise. You can see the pages are slightly yellow, even though I’ve had it wrapped in tissue paper in a box …’
Finn looked at her. It must have been special if Delphi had kept it so carefully all these years. Why had she suddenly decided to take it out and give it to him?
‘But you always write in your diaries. Every year. You must have bought it so you could write in it,’ he persisted.
‘I did,’ Delphi said. ‘But somehow, I could not commit any of my feelings to paper at the time. I would often get the journal out to look at the photos, to remind myself of that time and the places I travelled though. Then, when I had no need to be reminded, I tucked it away for the right person to fill its pages. And that’s you!’ Delphi laughed but Finn caught the edge of regret in her voice.
He examined his grandmother’s face. ‘Perhaps you were afraid to write things down in case they really happened?’
Delphi thought, I bought a beautiful journal I was unable to deface with my treacherous feelings at the time. Yet, this treasured little book has stood, all these years, for hope and the power of love.
‘You know, darling,’ she said brightly, ‘writing your fears down doesn’t make them come true, it just makes you face them. Putting them on paper somehow makes them seem smaller and more manageable. Those empty pages need filling with little episodes of your life, all your happy, funny, and anxious thoughts. We don’t want the journal to crumble away sad and unused …’
Finn smiled and nodded. ‘Okay. I’m going to start tomorrow …’
‘Good. Go to sleep now. You’ll need your energy for that little sister of yours.’
Finn groaned. ‘Izzy will have had thirteen hours in a car, Delphi!’
‘Don’t!’ Delphi laughed as she went out of the door. Finn’s little sister may not have been planned, but what a wonderful difference she and boarding school had made to the solemn little boy Finn had become with Ben away so often. Hanna had been initially distraught at finding herself pregnant again, in a way inexplicable to Delphi.
Izzy, Delphi thought, has brought much-needed laughter and noise into that little family.
CHAPTER FIVE
Peshawar, 2007
Before they left Peshawar, Zamir, Raza and Hanif went to the mosque for prayers. As Raza knelt on his prayer mat between his father and uncle a shaft of sunlight slanted out of a high window across the floor reaching the fingers of his left hand.
He was struck by the luminous quality of the thin ray of light that caught the dust moats and made the edges of his fingers translucent. He was used to the beauty of sunrise and sunset over the mountains but kneeling, secure, between his father and uncle, this light seemed unreal and very bright, like a dream he should remember.
The wonder of it was followed by a sharp premonition of loss. Raza pressed his head into the prayer mat so that he could connect with the earth under him. He was conscious of the body heat of the two men each side of him. He bowed and prayed to the familiar rhythm of prayer until the moment passed.
*
Raza and Zamir sat on their bundles as they waited for the bus to Rawalpindi. The bus eventually swayed into sight, packed with people inside, on the roof, and hanging off the side windows. Raza stared as he always did, in awe and admiration. This particular bus was exceptionally ornamental. There was a bright red background on the sides with inlaid blue and green peacocks. There were gold moons and inlay over the cab. Swirling flowers covered the wheel hubs and silver beads swung from the front bumpers. There were little coloured glass shards on the back of the wing mirrors and carved bird’s wings over the windscreen.
As a small boy Raza had never been content with just looking at the decorations on the buses, he needed to touch and examine the vibrant colours and delicate artwork. Zamir had explained that the Mughal queens used peacock feathers to adorn their bodies. Peacocks represented pride, which was why so many featured on the buses and trucks.
Two old women behind Zamir and Raza began to push and shove as the bus began to disgorge its incoming passengers. Raza said, ‘You go inside, Baba. I will sit on the roof with the luggage.’
Zamir shook his head. He knew that Raza could not bear a long journey inside with so many people. ‘I will travel on the roof with you. I am not too old to climb the side of a bus yet.’
Raza clambered nimbly onto the roof of the bus and bent down for their bundles. Zamir followed more slowly holding onto the bag with water and food for their journey. They sat on their bedrolls against the ornate rail at the front of the cab. Raza wound a length of cloth round his head to hide himself from the sun. Zamir was shielded by turban and scarf that he held across his face against the dust that would rise from the parched earth of the valley.
After what seemed hours, groaning and puffing dark smoke, the bus turned awkwardly with the sheer weight of people aboard and swung like an elephant down the steep road towards the Kohat Valley.
As they passed through the flat plains housing the gun factories Zamir watched his son sit up and take interest. He was aware Ajeet and Fakir brought Raza here behind his back. It had been one more reason to feel uneasy; one more reason to make the decision he had.
Ajeet and Fakir had shown an increasing interest in the boy this past year. Zamir knew they would have no compulsion in grabbing Raza from him. Once he had been a fierce fighter with the Mujahideen. Now, he was an old man without power, and they had no need to treat him with respect.
Zamir could not tell Raza his plans for him. Despite his promises to Sarah, it was too dangerous. And how do you tell your son you are going to send him away? When he thought about Raza’s bewilderment and his blind trust in him, Zamir’s mouth dried and his heart beat painfully with the looming loss to come.
For a second, he wondered if he was giving himself room to change his mind at the last moment. Zamir shook his head violently against his own weakness and Raza turned. ‘What is it Baba?’
‘Nothing. Sleep. I will see you do not fall.’
Raza smiled and closed his eyes. How could he fall swamped by luggage and bodies? He yawned. Last night he had slept on a charpoy under the trees of a Peshawar street and it had been noisy. By the time the bus had left the valley and began to climb uphill Raza was slumped against his father fast asleep.
The rocking of the bus was soporific. Zamir dozed and daydreamed of his past. With his hands idle, memories filled his mind. At Raza’s age his father had sent him to a Madrassa before he joined the Mujahideen to fight the Russians.
It was in the Madrassa that Zamir had his first glimpse of a world outside his own village and beyond his own country. His encounter with Mullah Rafi was the beginning of an inner life; a life where he allowed himself to privately reason, to form opinions and views he had to keep to himself.
Mullah Rafi had been educated in Lahore and then gone on to England to study. He was regarded suspiciously by the other mullahs. He had books, both in English and Urdu with pictures and stories. The boys were supposed to spend endless hours learning passages from the Koran by rote, but unlike the other mullahs in the Madrassa, Mullah Rafi was neither a religious fanatic, nor militant.
Outside, under the trees, in the cool of the courtyard, he quietly told his ragbag circle of boys, that in the west the law allowed every child, girl or boy, to go to school and receive an education. It was their right. No one was executed for opening a school or teaching in it. No one was put to death for belonging to a different tribe, for having a differing belief or religion.
Mullah Rafi told the listening boys that it was not true that all goras were evil. Pakistan was a sovereign country, her borders must be protected from invasion from east or west, but many foreigners came to Pakistan to do good. They helped build schools and health centres for the poor and Pakistan desperately needed these things.
He explained that in England, Islam thrived, mostly peacefully, among many other religions. Islam is a gentle religion, Mullah Rafi told the boys, and this has been forgotten. Allah did not want them to breed hate in their hearts for all gorahs, but to be educated and compassionate in order to understand a world outside Pakistan. Education is for both boys and girls, he told them firmly. Every single village in Pakistan should have a school.
The old mullah’s words had wafted uneasily over the boys like an incomprehensible and dangerous foreign language. Zamir had listened and stored the essence and power of the alarmingly traitorous words until they were burnt into the fabric of his memory like an indelible tattoo.
As the mullah talked within the outer walls of the Madrassa the children could hear the endless chant of prayers and the terrifying rant of the head mullah with the older boys inside.
An instinctive frisson of fear shimmered through the listening boys. The only school left within one hundred miles had been blown up two weeks ago and celebrated by the mullahs here.
The leaves on the branches of dusty trees had rustled like a collective sigh as Mullah Rafi bent closer. ‘Ignorance,’ he whispered, is the enemy. This is how people in power want to keep you young boys, in ignorance. The answer to conflict is not in holding a gun and killing but by learning the nature and heart of your enemy. This is how you win wars and find resolution. Remember this …’
Zamir had remembered, but not necessarily for the right reasons. Mullah Rafi had been beheaded two days later for being a spy, a western puppet, a traitor to Islam. His severed head had been placed on a spiked gatepost, for all the boys to see the consequences of deviating from the word of Allah; of becoming contaminated by western influence and opposing Jihad.
All the boys received a beating for listening to the old mullah’s words. For Zamir, nothing could expunge the shock at first hearing anyone openly express a veiled admiration for infidels.
