The War Within

by Rosanne Hawke

  Ayesha’s face changed; the grin had gone and in its place was an ‘I want to see it’ look. ‘You must miss it. Why did you come back?’

  ‘Because I miss it here too. There’s a kind of excitement here, a close-to-earth, raw atmosphere. I’m not explaining it very well but it can get a bit clinical in Australia—in the city anyway—everything you want when you want it, how you want it. People can be so private, you could collapse in your front garden and the neighbour across the road mightn’t notice. Just a different way of life; different way of looking at everything, I guess.’

  ‘Is that why you took your nose pin out? It wasn’t understood there?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I went quiet for a while. Seeing Ayesha wearing her nose pin, like most Pakistani girls, made me miss mine, but there was no point getting it done again. I sighed, then remembered Ayesha’s face when Jasper was mentioned yesterday. ‘Is Jasper okay?’

  She didn’t answer straight away. ‘You’ll see for yourself. Not long after you left his father died.’

  ‘That’s awful. Why didn’t anyone tell me?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ But she wouldn’t say more about it.

  Soon afterwards we were in the heart of the bazaar. I had been waiting for that moment for so long. There was nothing like a true bazaar in Australia. Yet while we were walking down towards the food vendors—where I’d walked every year of my life that I could remember—something was different. There was a tension in the air that, incredibly, Ayesha didn’t notice. When I mentioned it she put it down to my being away so long and not remembering. Maybe I was able to see the change because of being away. She lived in it and it had sneaked up on her. The atmosphere was more like a village on the Afghan border than a quiet holiday resort in the mountains. Normally I loved that excitement, the promise of adventure, but unexpected like that, it unnerved me.

  I was quiet as Ayesha ordered kebabs. ‘With chilli and lemon,’ she added. We watched the vendor fan the coals with a woven straw fan as he put on the skewered meat. I noticed him glance behind him as he turned the kebabs and I was annoyed at myself that I couldn’t enjoy the moment. He was the same vendor who’d always sat in that spot in front of the fountain and he remembered me, so why couldn’t I relax?

  Ayesha glanced at me. ‘Don’t worry, Jaime. When we bring people down here who haven’t been to Pakistan before, they feel threatened and scared. You’ll get used to it again soon.’ She was trying to be helpful but it only made me worse. Why couldn’t I feel at home?

  Other vendors were calling out their wares. An old man in ragged clothes leading a donkey asked me if I’d like a ride. I shook my head, emotion threatening to rise over me like a wave, for he was the same man who’d taken me for rides when I was little. Women, swathed in long shawls or black burqas, babbled together about clothes and jewellery as they brushed past us and entered one of the many bangle shops on the street. Maybe I’d imagined the unease in the bazaar, after all.

  Suddenly, I clutched Ayesha. I saw a group of men, Afghans, dressed in shalwar qameezes and huge wrapped turbans, carrying assault rifles over their shoulders. They were striding through the bazaar towards us.

  ‘Ayesha! Look at them!’

  ‘So? You know Pakistan. Men like that walk around everywhere.’

  ‘But not here. Peshawar, maybe. They were never here.’

  Ayesha shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s changed.’

  ‘But Pakistan never changes.’ Why did I say that? Guess I didn’t want to admit things weren’t the same. That’s what had happened in Australia when I went back; everything had changed so much I couldn’t fit in. Surely it wouldn’t happen here too.

  ‘Maybe not,’ was Ayesha’s exasperating reply and I didn’t argue any more. Because of the Pakistani way of being polite, she wouldn’t have realised she had contradicted herself.

  The kebabs were ready. I took mine as I watched the men pass us. The kebab maker watched them too, then he leaned towards us.

  ‘Girls, be going back to school now.’ He said something else that I didn’t catch. Ayesha nodded.

  ‘What did he mean “go back to school now”?’

  ‘Maybe you’re right, Jaime. Let’s go.’

  ‘What is it? Ayesha?’ But she was already moving along the street through the bazaar.

  ‘This way will be quicker.’

  ‘Ayesha!’ I grabbed the end of her woollen shawl. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

  She stopped then, watching me as if to gauge what my reaction would be. Then she shrugged. ‘The man said he’d heard talk this morning in the bazaar. The militants are upset over a story in the paper. So it’s best to go back to school.’

  I understood and grinned. I just hated not knowing things.

  ‘What are you smiling like a monkey for? It is important that we go now.’

  We turned down a narrow alley—a short cut, she said—to the main road. I followed willingly, happy again. I’d been with Dad when bazaars had steamed up over an issue, usually at election time. He’d always delivered me home in time before anything serious had happened. One time when I was younger, when half the school was taken hostage, everything had turned out in the end. Even now I enjoyed the anticipation of excitement and the knowledge that I’d relish later: that I’d been there. Of course, I never wanted to see anything violent or dangerous.

  We were almost out of the alleyway. Shopkeepers were standing at their doorways as if waiting for the end of the world and all the women had vanished. Ayesha was walking fast like a speed walker in the Olympics. I was about to tell her to slow up when I heard a shout. It took me a moment to realise it was in English. It sounded like my name. Ayesha must have heard it too for she stopped. In one of the shop doorways a Westerner was beckoning us.

  ‘It’s Uncle Jon! C’mon, Ayesha.’ She seemed to be in two minds and I knew what she was thinking: that we should hurry to the school where it was safe.

  ‘Jaime, come here. You mustn’t—’ Uncle Jon’s words were lost in a sudden burst of gunfire behind us. We didn’t need any more encouragement to scuttle into the shop where he stood waiting.

  ‘Uncle Jon! How come you’re here? Aren’t you based in Peshawar?’ I was breathless and Ayesha was anxious; she didn’t know that we’d be safest with him. He was my father’s best friend and had always treated me like his own daughter.

  ‘Sure. But your parents wrote me and I was coming up to the school to welcome you to Pakistan. Not much of a welcome, I’m afraid.’ He motioned towards the doorway through which we could hear the shouting and automatic fire coming from the bazaar.

  ‘What’s going on? It was never like this here before.’

  ‘Mujahideen, militants. The conflict in Afghanistan has spilled over to here now and many groups have headquarters and training camps here in the mountains.’

  What had been going on all the time I’d been getting used to a different life ‘back home’? Sure, there was a lot of news coverage about Afghanistan because of the war on terrorism, but I thought Pakistan had calmed down. ‘What’s going to happen? Why aren’t these guys in Peshawar anyway?’

  ‘Peshawar’s a hotbox at the best of times. Besides they’re close to the Kashmir border here. And, if the UN can’t do something soon, it’s anybody’s guess how it will end up.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we get back to school?’ Ayesha ventured into the conversation.

  Uncle Jon smiled at her. ‘I think you’re safer here, at the moment. They’re only fighting among themselves, but being on the street could land you a stray bullet. Besides, the police will stop it soon and I’ll take you back myself.’

  I was thoughtful on the way back to school. Pakistan had always seemed exciting to me when I was younger, but something subtle had changed. Maybe it was because I was older; that I knew there was more behind things now like people hurting and issues at stake. Or maybe it was because of the year in Australi
a, where I’d learnt everyone should have a fair go and violence wasn’t the way to get what you wanted.

  At school, I answered all Uncle Jon’s questions about Mum and Dad, Andrew and Elly, and what it was like in Australia. Then he got that fidgety look on his face he used to wear at Christmas when he had a gift he knew we’d like. He watched me as he dug into his pocket, his blue eyes twinkling. His eyes reminded me now of the Australian beach in summertime and when they twinkled like that, it was a sure sign of something good.

  ‘I have a surprise for you, Jaime. To welcome you back.’ And he laid a box in my hand.

  I tried to appear surprised, but really, some people you can read like sign language. A rush of affection welled up inside me. I couldn’t remember when Uncle Jon hadn’t been a part of my life.

  ‘Why don’t you open it?’ He was like a boy then, excitement mixed with nervousness. His fair moustache twitched, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled just before I bent my head to lift the lid. I had to gasp as I wasn’t expecting what lay in the box. Nestled there was a gold bangle (and I mean real gold; I knew the difference) with intricate patterns etched on the outside, like walls of mosques, and ‘Jameela’ engraved on the inside in Urdu script.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say—an unusual turn of events, which he seemed to appreciate. ‘Lovely, isn’t it? A friend of mine from across the border made it.’

  ‘Afghanistan?’

  ‘Yep. We de-activated a mine near his house. He hadn’t known it was there and it was where his children often played.’ Uncle Jon pulled at his moustache and smiled at some memory. ‘He was embarrassingly grateful.’

  ‘Awesome. I love it.’ It made me feel more secure again. Uncle Jon had always been my childhood hero. Maybe everything didn’t have to change.

  n

  ‘Hi, sunshine.’

  ‘Dad! How come you rang? I talked to you yesterday.’

  ‘I was just thinking about you, sweetheart. Besides, it was a bit miserable getting cut off like that.’

  ‘I saw Uncle Jon today. There was a riot in the bazaar.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad, it was nothing. You know what it’s like here. ‘

  ‘Be careful, Jaime. I should’ve gone with you. It may not be as safe as we thought.’

  ‘I’ll be okay. Honest. Everything’s calmed down like it always does.’

  ‘I’ll keep in touch. Ring if you leave the area? Love you.’

  ‘Bye, Dad. Love you too.’

  3

  Jaime

  The next day I got roped into going to the sports tournament held in Islamabad. It was my friends who persuaded me in the end.

  ‘What’s the use of coming all this way to see us, if we all go on an excursion for a week?’ Carolyn lamented. Liana was going to help out too, and there were plenty of jobs for me, they said. I could even play hockey if I wanted. I was surprised they weren’t concerned about travelling so far when there were possible terrorists in the area. But for them, there was always some sort of conflict going on.

  It was Jasper who convinced me, though. When I finally saw him again, I knew something was wrong. He just didn’t seem to be the Jasper I remembered. As I watched him talk, I wished that when people wrote emails they’d write about everything and not assume another friend had filled in the details.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t know about your father, Jas. Ayesha told me yesterday.’

  ‘It’s okay, I should have written. I haven’t done anything much, except sport, schoolwork. Even that hasn’t been crash hot.’

  I nodded in sympathy. He looked a shell of the old Jasper, like a pumpkin with all the seeds scraped out. Not only that, he seemed tense, as if he were on the edge of a cliff and one small push would throw him into the valley, thousands of metres below. I guess a lot of us had been scarred in some way by death. Carolyn’s brother died a few years ago when we were taken hostage as kids during a terrorist attack. A few of our teachers had died too, but I’d never lost anyone close to me. I struggled to find the right words for Jasper. ‘It takes a long time to get through something like that. Don’t be too hard on yourself.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He answered as if he’d been told it before and it didn’t help either time. The bitterness and distance in his tone shocked me for we had been close, but as I tried to find that common ground we used to share, he kept moving away. I think it was then that I determined to go to the tournament. I wanted to be friends with him again and I only had a few weeks.

  It wasn’t long before the rest of the school was waving to us as the Coasters swung out of the hostel gates onto the main road. Carolyn was hanging out of the window, red pigtails flying as she shouted goodbye to her friends, until Liana pulled her in. I had to smile as she asked for the ‘Aussie lollies’ I’d promised them for the trip. Sitting quietly in a bus for two hours appeared to be impossible for Carolyn, even at sixteen.

  I heard Jasper talking with some of the guys in the back of the bus—or rather, they were talking with him. He didn’t contribute much except to say what strategies might work best on the basketball court. I sat back and enjoyed the view through the window. For most of the trip the snow mountains were in sight and when we drove through villages, I saw groups of men sitting chewing pan or picking their teeth. Some watched us with lazy interest as we passed. The younger ones craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the ‘foreign girls’. I grinned to myself; not much had changed after all.

  The bus’s horn blared then, warning a mangy dog off the road. I’d always liked the Coaster’s horn; as a child I found it comforting. Now it reminded me of Australian trains.

  When we arrived at the American school in Islamabad, it was much like walking into a high school in Australia, except for the armed guards standing at the gates. They reminded me of a war movie. The school was new—not like our buildings in the mountains that had been built during the Raj—and wherever we looked, we saw modern equipment and expensive furnishings.

  ‘A lot of embassy kids go to this school,’ Ayesha informed us. I hoped we weren’t gawking. ‘They can afford all these facilities.’

  ‘How the other half do live,’ was Carolyn’s comment. She looked as though she’d say more but we shushed her as a few boys dressed in imported jeans burst out of a side room, brushed past us and headed off down the corridor. We followed them into a massive auditorium.

  ‘Get a look at the polished floors in this place!’ Carolyn said. ‘Anyone would win a game with a place like this to practise in.’

  An organised system of allotting billets was in progress. We saw Jasper walk off with an African guy and soon after, I heard my name and Liana’s. A girl with brown hair similar to mine came forward to welcome us.

  ‘Hi! I’m Sonya,’ she said with an accent I couldn’t place.

  Liana introduced us and Sonya steered us to a car outside. What that car seemed like to Liana, I couldn’t tell, but I’d just come back from the West and even I was impressed. It was one of those shiny black Mercedes that you only see at society weddings in Australia. In Pakistan, they have a flag flying on the bonnet.

  ‘They’ve got to be embassy people,’ I whispered to Liana. She didn’t answer, trying not to seem impolite, I guess, but Sonya noticed my interest.

  ‘You like our car? Then you may like our house as well.’

  I smiled as I got in but I was embarrassed. Liana leaned over to me. ‘Sounds a bit condescending?’ It was my turn not to answer. Sonya seemed a little too knowing.

  ‘So you are on the hockey team?’ Sonya inquired from the front as the driver pulled out from the school parking area that was as big as a supermarket carpark at home. Liana nodded as I strained to hear. The distance between the front and back seat felt as wide as the hockey field we were discussing.

  ‘So am I,’ Sonya continued. ‘Maybe we shall become such good frien
ds, we shall allow each other to win.’ We all giggled politely but I could tell by the look on Liana’s face that she thought it as improbable as I did.

  ‘Here we are,’ Sonya announced after a short and fast ride through narrow tree-lined streets. I stared up at the two-storeyed Middle-Eastern-style house. What a country of contrasts Pakistan was. Yesterday in the bazaar there were people in rags selling bootlaces for a living and here was a house that would only be seen on the North Shore in Sydney. I tried not to stare too long at the white marble facade and the ornate archways that led off the upstairs balcony into many rooms beyond.

  Sonya swept us into the house and up a carpeted staircase to our room. A bearer appeared from out of the air (almost) to carry our bags up after us.

  ‘What a lovely room,’ Liana said in the polite tone reserved for royalty. She was right about the room, though. I sat on the bed and studied the floor. There were rugs scattered everywhere; all special, one-of-a-kind rugs, mostly Afghan. Dad used to haunt carpet shops when we lived in Pakistan. He’d bought some excellent ones but not any as unique as Sonya’s.

  I offered a compliment. ‘These are excellent rugs. Where did you get them?’

  ‘Oh, we have friends.’ Sonya answered so vaguely that it made me feel I’d been nosy. She crossed the room. ‘Here is your bathroom and my room is the next one. That door between our rooms leads down steps to the garden.’ We followed her gaze. ‘It is usually best to keep it locked.’

  I wondered why, but thought I wouldn’t ask any more questions. My resolve didn’t last long. ‘You have a great house. Does your father work in an embassy?’

  She hesitated, only slightly, but enough for me to wish I hadn’t opened my mouth. ‘Yes. You could say that. My father comes from Moscow.’

  ‘Your mother is here?’ Liana sounded tentative. I sympathised with her. It’s awful when a person makes you feel as if you’re walking on eggshells.