The Road Ahead

by Adrian Bonenberger

  “Boy, is it food or not?” the old man asked.

  “I think it is food,” the boy said. “I can’t read my paper.”

  The old man turned his head and spit the green wad of naswar out onto the gravel.

  Nasir reached his hand out to the boy. “Let me see your paper,” he said. The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a grubby paper, haphazardly folded into quarters. Nasir opened the paper and squinted.

  “You are carrying potato chips and sweets,” Nasir told the boy. “Are you ready to go in?”

  The boy gave a lethargic wag to his head.

  Nasir caught the attention of the Afghan soldier. “Can the boy make his delivery to the base?” he asked.

  “Yes, come,” said the soldier, waving his arm toward the holding yard entrance and the drive that led into the base’s main gate.

  Nasir looked the boy in the face, but the boy didn’t meet his eyes. Nasir said, “Be calm. They will look through your clothes, all of your things, your entire truck, to make sure you do not have a bomb. Do you have anything that might confuse the Americans? You want to avoid this,” Nasir said. He remembered the times the Americans found things on his truck that confused them—the portable radio, a small propane stove—things the Americans not only took from him, but that made them treat him like an enemy.

  The boy kept his gaze down and shook his head. “No.”

  “Show them everything in your pockets, your cell phone, your money, so they don’t accuse you. Remember to be calm. They have rules for us that you must learn.”

  Without acknowledging Nasir any further, the boy got back in his truck and started the engine. Nasir now felt bad for him, making a delivery for the first time. His company should have explained more to him, or chosen a smarter boy.

  Nasir turned to the old man. “We will continue our game outside, I hope,” he said. The old man smiled and nodded, then began lifting up an end of the carpet to fold it. Nasir pulled up the other side of the carpet, shaking the dusty carpet into squares, then quarters, and placed it in the old man’s truck. The dust made an immense cloud over them.

  Afghan soldiers waved Nasir and the other trucks out of the yard and through the narrow barriers funneling toward the outer gate of the base. Nasir followed just behind the old man’s truck, and they eased out into the dusty, crowded throng of trucks parked outside the base’s outer barriers. Young boys straggled, and local men from the nearby village hocked kebabs, sweets, and naan to the waiting drivers. Nasir looked out at the mountains in the distance. He watched in his side mirrors as a handful of young, dirty-faced boys circled his truck, looking for something of value to steal from it. Like wild dogs, he thought. He touched the pocket of his waistcoat, but he knew in that moment what he would find.

  Nasir’s pocket watch was gone. His heart dropped. Then, like a flash flood, rage surged through his entire body, making his head and face hot, his limbs taut and charged. He threw open the door of his truck, jumped out onto the hard caked dusty ground, and ran after the filthy boys. He bellowed and swatted, chasing them to the back of his truck and down into the dust pit of a dried creek bed, his face hot with fury. He caught one small, thin wisp of a boy by the scruff of his collar and swatted him hard against his forehead. The child went limp, and Nasir threw him into the dust. Nasir’s arms shook, his legs twitched. His heart raced in a torrent, and he lost his breath. Nasir touched his empty waistcoat pocket, removed his skullcap to wipe the sweat from his head, and breathed as deeply as he could, slowing down his thoughts to count the seconds to calm himself. God does not burden a soul beyond what he can bear. He repeated the scripture in a low voice, but his breath and heart and mind raced with panic.

  Nasir bent down over the child and turned him over, holding his fingers against the child’s neck to feel his pulse. He could see the boy taking shallow breaths. He thought of his own children, and the rage he’d unleashed upon his family over the years. Nasir let out a shout of combined grief and relief, then convulsed, sobbing. Tears streamed from his eyes. In a moment, the boy stirred again, jumped up, and ran off toward a village in the distance. Nasir squatted in the swirl of dust, sobbing.

  The old man approached. “It is time for prayers, my son,” he said, pressing his warm hand on Nasir’s shoulder. He gave a silent nod and wiped his tears. Nasir stood slowly, patted the dust off his clothing, and walked back to his truck to get his pitcher of water and rolled-up prayer rug. He would wait in turn for his next move.

  HADJI KHAN

  by David James

  The stars shone bright and multitudinous in the northern sky on a cool summer night above Kaysar Khel, a dark noiseless village on the eastern edge of the Zirwa valley, where rugged peaks rose endlessly and inhospitably into Pakistan. Two men walked surely but silently through the dusty streets, hoping to avoid the attention of dogs and children who would spread news of their arrival. The first, a tall man of not more than twenty with wisps of sparse beard, carried a rifle over his shoulder and wore a light brown pakol hat over his short black hair. The second man, older, taller, and unarmed, had a long thick black beard and an abundant white turban that folded around his neck and over his right shoulder. His thinness did nothing to diminish his imposing physical bearing and proud demeanor. The younger man spied a house with a red gate and glanced back with a slight nod. The older man knocked lightly on the corrugated iron gate, which opened with a considerable creak revealing an old man with a white beard and gray checkered turban who smiled and greeted the visitors holding his hand to his heart: “A-salaam-alekum, my son. Please come in.”

  “Wali-kum-salaam, uncle. Let us enter quickly without notice.”

  The old man, whose name was Gul Mohammed, led the men into his central room, where they shook hands and greeted the old man’s six sons, then sat down upon wide flat cushions. The older guest looked around the room at each man deliberately before speaking: “Uncle, cousins, thank you for taking such care and risk to receive us in secret. You all know by now what has happened and the consequences for all of us. This is Mateen, my most trusted bodyguard, and you should treat him as family. I owe him a debt on my life.” Mateen stared at the floor in front of him, but inside he was beaming with pride to be shown such respect by Hadji Khan in front of his kin. Mateen had no living relations: his older brother was killed in a missile strike the previous spring, his parents had died while he was a young boy, and his sister had died in childbirth. Hadji Khan had been a second father to him as well as his mentor for the last three years. Hadji Khan continued: “Tomorrow, we will call a meeting of the tribal elders so they can hear what I have to say and decide whether to join our cause. It is important that my name not be used so that news of my presence is not heard by the wrong ears.”

  At this point, Hadji Khan stopped short as the door opened and two young girls entered the room carrying trays. The first girl was older, perhaps sixteen, and wore a blue dress covered with silver and red circles and crescents. Her head was covered with a light hijab made up of fabric from the dress and her tray contained bowls of goat and potato soup and flat bread. The second girl, barely a teenager, wore an orange and red striped dress fringed with sequined patterns and no head covering. She carried a tray with a large teapot, glasses, and some sugared pastry, and she caught a momentary glimpse of the visitors as she set her tray on the floor mat. None of the men spoke or moved until the girls had exited the room again.

  The old man spoke: “Let us feast together and tell stories, and later we might discuss more serious matters.”

  After the two girls had closed the door behind them, they lingered and listened to the men in the other room through a crack in the door. The older girl, whose name was Farishta, said to her sister: “Niazmina, though we are not allowed to be involved in affairs outside the house, we should try to understand what the men are doing.”

  This is something her mother had once told her before she died of a sudden bacterial infection four years ago, leaving Farishta to manage the household
. As they listened, they heard their brothers passing on local news about theirs and other villages, followed by Hadji Khan’s report about Pakistan and the state of the current fighting season. Afterward, he recounted stories concerning ambushes, Americans, rockets, bombs, and other warlike things. Neither girl had ever heard anything of the type; Farishta thought about how men waste time on such silly things, while Niazmina thought about how brave her uncle must be and how handsome that young boy with him was. When one of the men got up they scurried silently to their room and went to bed, though they remained awake most of the night, stimulated by what they had overheard.

  The next day four of the cousins were tasked with making the rounds and spreading the word of an important jirga to be held in three days’ time. Meanwhile, Hadji Khan and Mateen rested and did not leave the compound. Hadji Khan walked circles around the courtyard sorting through his many thoughts. He reviewed his plans as he had many times already. He thought about this war, wondering if it was possible for him or anyone to live without war; it was all he had known for as long as he remembered and gave his life a genuine sense of purpose. His thoughts drifted to Mateen and his upcoming marriage to Farishta. He knew Mateen wanted to prove his bravery in battle, but was it perhaps better for this young couple and future family to grow old in peace? His thoughts turned reluctantly to his own family. His first wife, Hala, was strong and beautiful, and had given him two sons and a daughter; she became jealous when he took a second wife, Gulalai, but they soon became close companions. He tried as well to recall the face of his youngest daughter, Laila, his only child with Gulalai. Hadji Khan abruptly stopped and looked up at the sky, knowing that he must continue his mission without them, and that he would again see them one day.

  Mateen often sat with his own contemplations under the shade of a fig tree as he watched Hadji Khan’s inscrutable pacing. The young man was thinking about the girl who had brought them food last night and how he wished he had stolen a glance at her face; he had learned that they were to be married in autumn after the Eid festival and was immediately overcome with an anxious anticipation. He tried to imagine if his marriage would change anything regarding his responsibilities to Hadji Khan and the war.

  Inside the house, a rift had developed between the two sisters. Niazmina was jealous of her sister’s engagement and angry that her sister did not appreciate such a lucky union, while Farishta was incensed that her father was selling her like an animal. She had run the household for three years and had once been promised the chance to go to school. She was getting older and would soon be shackled to a housebound life she did not want with a stranger she did not know.

  Like this, three days passed and the day of the jirga arrived at last.

  A procession of old and middle-aged men from all over the Zirwa valley filled the space in front of the Kaysar Khel mosque. No women were present. Some men were fat, but many were lean and rugged from decades of hard work and hard seasons; some wore orange henna in their beards and hair, which stained their hands and fingernails. Some wore pakol hats, some sindhi caps, some turbans. One man in a black turban, Mullah Abdullah, sat front and center; he served as the religious leader of the Shin Khel clan of the Ahmadzai tribe, themselves part of the larger Wazir tribe. Though such things were not spoken of, it was known to all that he alone would truly decide the course of action to be taken at the meeting.

  After a large crowd had assembled and most had taken their seats either cross-legged on mats or crouched in a squat, Hadji Khan appeared in the back and slowly made his way to the front, walking neither slow nor fast, looking neither right nor left, until he stopped and faced the assembly in front of Mullah Abdullah. Mateen took his place behind his leader, while Gul Mohammed and his sons sat on the far side of the crowd as mere spectators. Hadji Khan looked out over the crowd and began to speak: “Mullah Abdullah, village elders, Waziri brothers, I am Hadji Khan of the Nasradin clan. I moved here as a boy to live with my uncle, Gul Mohammed, after my parents died in the war. I fought with our clan against the Russians, where I was wounded three times. We protected our land and our women and defeated the infidels. When the Americans came we could not fight for long on our own and I took twenty-five men and joined Jalaluddin Haqqani. For ten years I led attacks on the new infidels and their supplies. I am the lone survivor from among those twenty-six men, but in these years, however, our numbers have multiplied. I rose to become Haqqani’s most successful commander, and we counted over fifty thousand experienced fighters. The Americans did not recognize friend from foe and did not trust their own Pashtun allies. On one mission, I used a false identity to enter an American base and speak directly with their CIA officers, giving them false intelligence and promises. I used my knowledge to carry out an operation which allowed two martyrs to enter the base and kill seven Americans and ten of their Afghan soldiers.

  “I called this jirga today because the time is overdue for restarting operations to push the infidels out of our tribal land. Many of you have supported the Americans and taken their money for building contracts, supplies, and information, but you can gain penance for these actions. Inshallah, many of your sons will join us and share in the glory and honor of jihad.”

  Hadji Khan finished his speech and looked over the silent crowd, waiting to see who would be the first to speak. The lull was brief as a large old man stood to address Hadji Khan and other elders. He was sitting in the first row wearing a gray turban and a white shalwar under a brown vest, and he held his hand over his heart as he began: “Honorable Hadji Khan, peace be upon you. We all know of your famed deeds and it is known that you are a great mujahid who has brought esteem to his people. I and many of our brothers are uncertain, however, why you have returned here after living so long in Pakistan and having so much success with Haqqani. Are you here merely on a temporary mission or will you be staying long-term and bringing your family to join you?”

  Hadji Khan maintained a stoic gaze and responded with no hesitation: “This is my home, where I will remain until the day Allah takes me. My wives and four children and five other relatives were murdered six months ago when one of the American buzzing flies they call drones fired a missile into my house in Wana trying to kill me. I no longer work for the Haqqani network as I believe it was Jalaluddin Haqqani’s son, Sirajuddin, who used the Pakistan Intelligence Service as intermediaries to pass my location to the Americans for the assassination attempt. I had become very close to old Haqqani over the years and he was like a father to me. I was his most successful and most trusted commander, and I had the loyalty of many of the soldiers. Sirajuddin, his only surviving son and successor, most likely saw me as a threat to his future power base and conspired to have me killed. My and my family’s murder by the Americans would also make me into a martyr he could use to further his cause. Afterward, I went into hiding and was eventually able to cross the mountains to reach my uncle’s house. It is here where the Americans are, and it is here where I will stay until we have forced them out of our land.”

  Undercurrents of debate spread throughout the crowd after Hadji Khan finished his speech. Hadji Khan, mimicked by Mateen behind him, stared out over the crowd waiting with potent resolve. At last, another man from the second row stood. The eldest of all the participants, his long white beard and weather-beaten countenance gave him the dignified appearance of a centenarian even if his true age was lost to time: “Hadji Khan, we are pleased and honored by your presence and sorry for the sad circumstances which brought about your return to your people. You have made a strong case for action, which almost makes me wish I was a younger man. Nevertheless, in my years I have seen many things, including many wars and many leaders. The wisdom that my age has given me tells me that in the end everything is the part of the same cycle, merely repeated in different variations as Allah wills them. I have lost countless relatives to wars with foreigners or other tribes, and seen enough suffering to know that this world is only a grotesque shadow of what is to come in the next. The words of the Prophet, p
eace be upon him, preach peace as well as war, and the real struggle is maintaining peace rather than prolonging the vicious cycle of violence and retribution. I have shared tea with many Americans who have come through my village. There are men among them who actually want to do good, though, like in our own tribe, some of them are misguided. Many of you have seen the new clinic they built which has helped many women and children, and the two new boys’ schools in our valley have also been a blessing and helped our children learn the words of the Prophet for themselves. Regrettably, we all know the story of the girls’ school burnt down in Kaysar Khel last year the day before it was to open. This is a disgrace to us as much as to the Americans, and I fear many of you here think more about the past than the future. The Americans do not want to stay here forever, and attacking them will only cause more destruction to our land and our people. If we leave them in peace, they will give us money to help us build the things we need, and then they will go.”

  After the elder had finished and sat down again, Hadji Khan held his hand over his heart and nodded respectfully, but made no immediate reply. The murmuring and whispers from before now grew into a louder and spirited discussion among friends and neighbors. Gul Mohammed found his thoughts wandering in the last speech to his two daughters, but most of all the elder, Farishta. She had always been curious about the world and asked her brothers about their lessons whenever they returned from the madrasa. Gul Mohammed remembered how he had promised her that he would allow her to go to school and how happy she had been; after it was burnt down, she seethed inconsolably for days. He would have been willing to work with the Americans to build another girls’ school if that was what was necessary to make his daughter happy again, but then he thought about Hadji Khan and how he would never allow that to happen. He had made an honorable match for Farishta with Mateen, who would become a powerful man by Hadji Khan’s side. She was only a woman after all, yet these thoughts still troubled Gul Mohammed as his attention drifted back to the meeting. The crowd had become obstreperous and some men were ready to clobber each other over diverging viewpoints. Finally, after whispers with the men beside him, Mullah Abdullah prepared to speak. The crowd, anxious to hear their tribal leader’s guidance, instantly became hushed when he stood: “Hadji Khan, no one doubts your skill as a commander nor your bravery and cunning. Some here profit from the Americans but most of us would have them leave immediately, as their continued presence is an insult to our land and our women and hence to us all. We have all endured senseless meetings and tea with the Americans when they appear in our villages; they are young and their faces are always different, but they always display the same attitude reflecting their strength. You would have us send our young men to make war against the infidels, but our young men are inexperienced in these things and we cannot contend against the Americans. We will take their money and oppose them in more subtle ways until they flee, and thus will our land and our families be protected.”