The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller

by Gonçalo Coelho

  So the men did fall back, but their thirst for war did not abate. On April 17, 1987, a hundred and twenty men were assembled to carry out a new attack, this time with the planning and backing of Bin Laden, on another Soviet forward outpost in the vicinity of Khost. There was a promise of artillery support by the Afghan commanders, and at least it seemed that all had been planned safely and diligently. When they went into combat, however, there were countless elementary mistakes. When it came time to attack, ammunition still had not arrived, held up on a road somewhere. At other points, there were no electric wires to make the ammunition usable. Worse, some of the muhajeddin, tired of waiting for hours on end at the point of attack, had gone back to the encampment to sleep. For those who remained, the food arrived last, and with it, hunger and the accompanying irritability and mental torpor.

  In the midst of all this, Bin Laden was ill. Sheik Omar tried hard to cover a host of tasks and offer words of encouragement, but he lacked practice in this kind of military action. Yousef and Nasser sprang with alacrity to attend to everything necessary in the reigning confusion, despite hunger pinching at them and fatigue exhausting them. With all this, the result of the operation could be nothing other than a resounding fiasco. Even so, it was a fiasco that ended up assuming surprising proportions. Nasser and Yousef made their appearance leading the attack, pushed forward by the others who, in an act of fleeting improvised democracy, decided that they should lead the way, which made them the primary target for the incoming enemy fire, and a shield protecting the others. So it was that destiny thrust Nasser in the way of the only deadly bullets fired in the skirmish. Yousef, advancing at his side two steps away, heard the pitiless and infernally regular rattle of a machine gun and, shielded, saw the body of his friend and comrade in arms viciously rent by angry bullets, stained with blood and falling down unprotected, now lifeless. As though he considered himself protected by some divine power, Yousef fearlessly approached Nasser’s body and managed to drag it to a spot shielded from enemy fire. Then the order to retreat sounded and everyone instantly obeyed. Yousef was the only one to remain behind, on his knees, staring at Nasser’s inert form. Sheik Omar, at the rear, watching from a distance, did not see them and also fell back along with everyone else. It all happened very quickly, preventing the attacking forces from seeing that one single Afghan soldier loyal to the communist regime, well hidden, was able to cause the retreat of this entire rabble of disorganized and exhausted muhajeddin, using one single machine gun to accomplish this, and having already caused one death.

  Yousef, as noted, was the only one remaining behind, motionless, shattered by the implacable reality of Nasser’s lifeless body that lay before his eyes, whose abrupt passage from life into death had stricken him with an overpowering anguish that was both sudden and unexpected. As he contemplated death in Nasser’s body, a blazing feeling began to take hold of him. It started out as a profound sadness such as he had never known before. He gave himself over to it completely, letting it suffuse his entire being without attempting to hold it back in any way, so that this sadness evolved, seething, until it became a fire of revolt burning so fiercely that it blazed within him. He had never felt anything like it. A kaleidoscope of memories of Nasser alive was painfully evoked. The flame within now sought to become wrath, to become vengeance, it sought to become the incandescent consequence of the death he had just witnessed. His very soul was darkened with an immense crimson haze of overpowering force, and from that point on, his ensuing actions were mechanical.

  The rest of the group was now far away. Yousef removed the folded photo of Nasser’s sister from his pocket. On the back was written, With love, and a signature, a name. He put the photo in his pocket. Then he snatched up a handful of rocks from the ground and threw them a few meters from where he stood. The moment they landed, the dreadful machine gun erupted, firing a burst towards the spot where the rocks touched the ground. Bare foot, Yousef moved towards the sound then took cover again. He pulled out a dagger he kept with him and stuck it in his teeth. He repeated the ruse with the stones, once again confusing the machine gunner, and by doing this managed to make a flanking move and get a few steps closer to him. He heard another burst of fire then, and at this point he clearly saw his target. It was just one young man, dark-skinned, strong, dressed in a uniform. There was no one else. Once more Yousef repeated the trick with the stones, now quite sure of himself. The machine gun worked well against a large number of men, but proved weak and ineffective against a single human target that was invisible and determined. The stones flung rose and fell in silence until, striking the ground, they all sounded at once. A new burst of fire erupted. Yousef advanced. Everything proceeded at a regular, harmonious pace. First the stones, then the machine gun, and then Yousef advancing on the man, as though Yousef’s soul were guided by a divine metronome. Until at last he crept around the machine gunner, grabbed him from behind and mercilessly cut his throat with a single stroke. It was the first time he had killed a man. It was, therefore, a new sensation. He had avenged himself and won the skirmish alone after all of his comrades in arms had retreated. But was this a victory in war or an act of vengeance? Somewhat disoriented, Yousef wondered which of these two actions he had just brought off so successfully. He let fall the lifeless body of this man who was after all merely an Afghan soldier loyal to the armed forces of the communist government, and looked up at the sky with his arms at his sides, firmly gripping the dagger in his right hand. The rage within him abated, but the way it had enabled him to move smoothly and protect himself had brought about a serious metamorphosis within him, for clearly some very important change had occurred.

  Before rejoining his comrades, who had already given him up for dead, he had to attend to something urgent: he had to give a proper Muslim funeral to Nasser. He walked to a small lake carrying the body on his shoulders. He washed the blood from his hands and saw the water turn red, the blue mingling with the red, the two primary colors yielding a dark, diaphanous purple in which the lines of his face were reflected. The sun was already going down. He undressed Nasser and washed his friend’s nude body as best he could, availing himself of the light that was beginning to fade. He then wound the clothes he’d taken off him around the body as though in a single cloth, so as to cover him with a wrapping that could be presented to the elements. Using his hands he dug a hole large enough to bury the body. His main adversary became the hunger gnawing at his stomach, yet regardless, like an automaton he performed one movement after another, driving his fingers into the dirt. He ignored as much as possible the pains assailing his stomach. When the hole was a good size, he placed the body inside it, which would one day become an integral part of nature, or as people liked to say, something that the earth must eat one day, which is even more true for Muslim funeral observances since the body is not placed under the earth in any coffin but merely bound up in a cloth. To finish the ceremony, worthy of any respectable Muslim, all that remained was to fill in the trench so as to leave a bulge of earth indicative of the presence of a grave, such as one finds in Muslim cemeteries, and then to say a few words. Yousef then uttered a few sacred words he knew by heart, and concluded with what arose in his spirit at that moment: “I know that you will have a deserved place in paradise because your life has not been in vain.” He registered the fact that he had said exactly these words and no others at a time when all of his actions were as instinctive as this. He had a clear sense of experiencing heightened sensitivity. Everything he looked upon, said or did multiplied a million times the intensity of what he was feeling. He realized that what most tormented his spirit was the longing for certainty that his life had not been in vain. He stood up and set out on the path to his destiny. And then, for just a fleeting moment, Yousef saw a red butterfly hovering before his eyes, then the splendid insect vanished mysteriously into the gloom as suddenly as it had appeared.

  9

  The surprise was general when Yousef returned to the encampment at such a late hour, hours af
ter all the others had gotten back, as though he had miraculously emerged from the black fabric enclosing the singular and fragile structures of the headquarters. The moment the order to retreat had sounded the entire group had abandoned Yousef to his fate, without any particular regret. Actually, truth be told, what they had all done was to flee in a mob, at a pace made quicker by their panic and the surrounding confusion, realizing later upon reaching the encampment that two men were missing, one of whom it was known from eye witnesses had been shot down – Nasser – and the other one – Yousef – about whom there was no exact information, though it was immediately assumed that he was also dead.

  This conclusion had left Sheik Omar deeply grieved, so much so that he was unable to sleep at all during the night. And so he was up and about, wide awake, subdued, pacing in circles under the milky glow of the moon and breathing in the fresh mountain air when Yousef emerged into the encampment, having been discovered at once by a pair of muhajeddin on guard duty who instantly raced off to tell the Sheik. The news lit up his face, as though he passed from night to day in the tenth of a second. He went to find Yousef and greeted him with a tight embrace, overwhelmed with emotion. Yousef was about to tell him right there, all at once, everything that had just happened, all that he had experienced that was clamoring within him to be told immediately, like a surging torrent of water about to burst through the dike holding it back, but the Sheik asked him to restrain himself and to follow him into a cave where they could meet alone.

  They entered into a cave holding flaming torches whose bewitching shadows merged with the shadows of the two men cast on the walls of their lair. Resting on the bare rock floor were weapons, walkie-talkies and some piles of rations. The atmosphere in the cave was heavy and grim. After a few steps the Sheik turned on the electric light, whose energy was supplied by a generator, rendering the claustrophobic setting somewhat less frightening. On the floor at the back, close to the light, mats, carpets and cushions were arranged. The Sheik pointed in this direction and his low voice resounded:

  “Sit down, my boy.”

  The two men took their seats on the cushions and, in the glare of the electric light, they were able to get a better look at one another. The Sheik was wearing his customary checkered headcloth held by a black band, beneath which there erupted black tufts of hair that flowed into his long beard, framing and accentuating the gaunt, severe aspect of his countenance whose features were creased with wrinkles in the light. Yousef, for his part, wore a uniform of long pants and shirt so besmirched that their original color was impossible to discern. What was most striking, however, was his face, darkened with heavy dirt stains that, together with his unkempt hair, gave him the appearance of a figure mysteriously reborn from the depths of the earth. Also his hands, and particularly his nails, were caked with dirt.

  “Whatever happened to you? Why did it take you so long to get here?” the Sheik inquired. The gleam in his eyes betrayed his strong emotion.

  Now, however, Yousef did not know where to begin. So much had happened to him in such a short space of time! Sheik Omar knit his brow. Yousef then reached into his trouser pocket and removed a torn piece of fabric: a piece of the uniform of the soldier whose throat he had cut a few hours before. The Sheik looked at it and understood the message. His eyes flashed as he registered the first casualty inflicted on the enemy by their entire outfit. Then the skirmish had not been the total fiasco that it had seemed at first. Sheik Omar also imagined how this news would delight Bin Laden.

  “Congratulations, lad! How did you manage it?”

  “Well, it all started when Nasser fell dead beside me, bloodied and torn up by bullets as we were advancing through the enemy machine gun fire. At this point everyone started to retreat very fast in a panic, and I was the only one who stayed behind as if hypnotized, stunned, staring at Nasser’s lifeless body on the ground.” He paused briefly and swallowed, contemplating the image in his mind. “Anyway, when I came out of this trance, I had only one thought: to get justice, to avenge Nasser’s death. So, taking better stock of the situation, I realized that the enemy facing me consisted of just one Afghan soldier firing a machine gun, and I felt I had a chance to take him out. What’s more, when we have truth and justice on our side, we have nothing to fear, not even death itself. For that matter, martyrdom itself is a victory!”

  As he spoke these words, Yousef became confused. He now realized that the strongest feeling driving him to take action had been a thirst for vengeance. If his friend hadn’t been hit by that rain of bullets right there beside him so viciously and implacably he probably would not have stayed behind, and would not have had the thirst that made him able to kill as he had done a few minutes later. Nonetheless, Sheik Omar was radiant.

  “This is a great step forward in your training as a warrior and above all, in our victory against the infidel enemy.” The Sheik passed a hand through his long beard and then said, “I want you to take me there.”

  “Now?”

  “Now you must rest for a few hours. But we will go before the sun rises. Bin Laden will be very pleased when he hears the news. Your performance was excellent, and you can be proud of yourself.”

  Yousef would sleep happily with these words, but the confusion building in him was enormous, preventing him from feeling truly proud, and in fact even preventing him from fully understanding what he was feeling. This state of mind troubled him, prompting him to make an unexpected request:

  “If I could ask you for something after all you’ve done for me, I’d like to ask you not to tell anyone what I did,” Yousef requested of Sheik Omar, who appeared surprised.

  “And what reasons do you have to wish for this?”

  “Well... I’m still not sure, deep down in my soul, that I did it only for jihad. I don’t know if I’m really proud of what I did. Perhaps I did it mainly for other reasons. Purely selfish reasons.”

  “You did what had to be done, and with great competence.”

  “When Nasser fell at my side hit by the enemy’s pitiless fire and I saw him like that, suddenly inert, lifeless, a very strong, harrowing feeling went through my soul until it nearly burned me all up inside… and the truth is that it was there that I found a courage and a coldness that I didn’t know I had in me. I was willing to get blown away if need be, but the enemy had to die. And that’s what drove me forward. I threw some stones to a spot nearby to get the enemy to fire in that direction and that’s how I made my way forward, I reached him and cut his throat with this very dagger I have at my waist. Driven the whole time by hatred and vengeance, not by justice.”

  “You did very well. Forget this business about selfish reasons. You’re tired, that’s all. Satisfy your hunger, your thirst, get some sleep, and tomorrow everything will be clearer in your mind, you’ll see. The enemy killed one of ours, and would have killed everyone if he could. That’s war and you did your duty as a soldier. Don’t mix things up. Today you were a true warrior. It’s natural for you to feel some confusion because it’s the first time you’ve killed a man. It is the first man you’ve killed, is it not?”

  “Yes, and I did it for selfish reasons.”

  “You’re mistaken. What you call selfish reasons and the jihad we are fighting are one and the same thing. Putting an end to corrupt, infidel oppressors. That’s what you did. Defending the great Islamic nation. That’s what you did. Defending our brothers. That’s what you did.” Sheik Omar was now emphasizing his words jabbing his finger in the air without, however, raising his voice. “When you reflect a little over the next few days, you will see that this is how it is, and you will become stronger. It’s natural for you to be confused now. I am obliged to give Bin Laden a detailed report of your actions, but if you prefer, the matter can be kept secret from the rest of the group. I’ll let you have a little time to reflect on the matter.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “So be it, then. I shall go with you at daybreak. Now you may go. You have splendidly fulfilled your duty as a muj
aheddin!”

  10

  With the sun beginning to rise above the horizon, Yousef and Sheik Omar Rasoul Sharif started down the mountain and set out walking towards the site of the attack in the vicinity of Khost the day before. It was a mild and pleasant morning. The days of harsh winter were definitely behind them. The master followed the disciple, who skillfully guided him along the mountain path. Sheik Omar was feeling increasingly attached to his disciple. He saw something special in the boy now coming into manhood, and on the other hand, what man would not want a disciple he could mold in his own image, teaching him everything he knows, guiding him and molding him to construct an improved version of himself? The sweet illusion of immortality through a disciple, and the certainty of always having someone trustworthy at one’s disposal for whatever may be necessary. It is not servility that is usually sought in these cases, nor was it servility that made Yousef such an excellent disciple. It was his fiber, his strong personality, his integrity and the purity of his principles. All of this, of course, in keeping with Sheik Omar’s key principles. Even if Yousef exhibited unexpected ideas here and there, his way of thinking was always pure, clear and direct. He let his emotions flow freely inside him. He endeavored to understand them and frame them in terms of the ideology endorsed by men such as Sheik Azzam, Bin Laden and Sheik Omar himself, and above all, moving always towards the necessary victory over the Russian superpower in those days of the Cold War.

  At last they arrived, and it was apparent that no troops of the Afghan government had arrived, because everything was just as Yousef had left it the day before. Sheik Omar then took a careful look at the body of the Afghan soldier lying dead on the ground. Seen like this now, defenseless, he was just a man, a Muslim, a Pashtun, someone who in that place, at that particular point of Cartesian coordinates of space and time had been forced to choose a side: rebel or loyal to the reigning government; a faithful comrade to some, mortal enemy to others. The truth is that on that day, death took a soldier from each side, Nasser from the rebels, and this man who now lay here dead in this forward outpost, loyal to the government – two Muslims, two men who under normal circumstances might have happily played cards together like two good friends. Perhaps they could play cards now in the gardens of eternity where war makes no sense. The appearance of this cadaver with its slashed throat was dreadful.