Naveed

by John Heffernan

  ‘Anoosheh!’

  Naveed hurls himself at his sister, grabbing her outstretched hand and dragging her off the road as the Humvee snarls past. A second later and the black beast would have driven straight over Anoosheh.

  Naveed lies on his back at the side of the road, eyes shut, taking deep breaths. His sister lies on top of him. He still has her hand clenched firmly in his.

  ‘Ayee, little Noosh!’ he mutters weakly.

  He opens his eyes and stares straight into hers. They are full of gratitude.

  ‘God is kind to bless me with a brother like you.’ She hugs him hard.

  A crowd has formed. People peer down at them, concerned. Naveed lifts his sister off and stands, helping her up. Then he retrieves Anoosheh’s crutches and hands them to her.

  ‘A thousand curses,’ she shouts after the Humvee, even though it has long since vanished down the road. Everyone knows that the big black vehicle belongs to one or other of the warlords or drug barons in the area, and they all nod in agreement.

  ‘May your eyes fall out and your teeth go black!’ Anoosheh continues. ‘May your skin be covered in scabs!’ She shakes her fist in the air. ‘Coward!’ she yells, almost toppling sideways in the process.

  The crowd cheers and Naveed smiles. He does wonder where Anoosheh learned such a curse, but loves the fierce pride that burns in her, making her seem tall.

  ‘Come along, sister,’ he says. ‘I’ve had enough excitement for one morning.’

  Anoosheh’s friend Pari is waiting as they pass through the gate into the school.

  ‘I thought you’d never come,’ she says. ‘What kept you?’

  ‘Brothers,’ Anoosheh says, clicking her tongue. ‘I swear he slept in.’

  ‘Noosh!’ Naveed gapes at his sister.

  Pari laughs. She knows what Anoosheh is like. They’ve been friends for a long time, even though Pari is about two years older, nearly thirteen.

  ‘And then I couldn’t get him out of the house,’ Anoosheh goes on, grinning wickedly.

  ‘Stop it, sister.’ Naveed becomes flustered. ‘Tell her the truth.’

  ‘But the truth is so boring. It always ruins a good story.’

  Pari laughs, tossing her head back. Naveed notices her slender neck and tries to look away. But then she smiles at him, and now there is nowhere else Naveed can look. Her teeth are so white, and perfect like her lips. Her deep green eyes are the shape of almonds.

  ‘Actually the truth isn’t boring at all this time,’ Anoosheh continues. ‘I was nearly killed.’

  Pari stares wide-eyed at her young friend. ‘Nearly killed?’ she asks. ‘How? Where?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Anoosheh replies. ‘But it’s the truth. I’d be dead but for Naveed.’ Her voice softens slightly. ‘He saved my life.’ She gives him a thump. ‘There. Satisfied, big brother?’

  Suddenly Naveed feels very self-conscious. He gazes at the two girls until his sister gives him another thump.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there like a love-struck monkey. You’ll be late for work if you don’t hurry.’ Anoosheh then tugs at Pari. ‘And we’ll be late for lessons. Come. See you this afternoon, brother.’

  Naveed watches the girls go, then turns to leave.

  ‘She is quite a character, your sister.’

  The school principal is standing in his path.

  ‘Mr Farzin, sir. Salaam alaikum.’

  ‘And peace be upon you, Naveed. You are not staying? We would love to have you here.’

  Naveed flinches. He hasn’t attended school for four years now, ever since his father was killed. The memory is still raw, and easily triggered.

  He was calling to his father from the other side of the market when it happened.

  Padar!

  He can still hear his own scream as if it is locked in his head. He can still see his father blown to pieces. Again the horror, as with Anoosheh. Again the pain. Again the guilt, for he’d been troublesome that day, running off and hiding among the stalls, not coming when called, yelling from the other side of the market, teasing his father.

  Padar!

  More darkness seeping into his mind, slowly eating away at him.

  ‘I would love to come back, sir,’ Naveed replies, pushing the darkness aside. ‘But I must work. We need to eat.’

  ‘I understand, my boy. It is a great pity, though. You were my best student.’ Mr Farzin rests his hand on Naveed’s shoulder. ‘Just remember: our door is always open to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Farzin. I will not forget. Perhaps one day, Allah willing.’

  ‘I hope so. We need someone to keep Anoosheh under control.’ They both laugh. The principal then pats Naveed reassuringly on the back. ‘Off you go.’

  Naveed walks away. At the gate he pauses. The traffic is much busier now. He takes a deep breath. He has to make his way to the bustling community that has grown up around Bagram Airfield several kilometres away. As if reminding him of this, a jet plane that has just taken off from the base screams overhead. He blocks his ears, knowing that two or three more will be close behind.

  Chapter 4

  A Strike Eagle fighter jet howls down the runway and hurtles into the sky, quickly followed by another. And another. In next to no time the sleek war birds are mere dots on the horizon. Deadly dots. Seconds later a C-17 Globemaster III lands with a giant’s roar. No sooner has it touched down, its huge bulk lumbering along the airstrip, than two HH-60 choppers armed with twin cannons and carrying a medivac team thud-thud away on a rescue mission, and a wise old CH-47 Chinook adds its voice to the great concert of war.

  Jake Ryan stands outside his B-hut, transfixed by the sound and fury. Even after more than six months at Bagram Airfield, the young Australian explosives expert is still amazed by the awesome display of power.

  An American soldier from the same B-hut, Private Horten, punches at the sky as he passes. ‘Impressive, huh?’ he shouts. ‘That’s the US of A, bud, telling all them Talibs to back off or we’ll bake ’em good!’

  It is impressive, Jake has to agree: a mega-show of military might. But are the Taliban backing off? He wonders. It actually looks to him as if the boot could be on the other foot.

  Over at one of the tarmacs a long line of turtleback Humvees are being loaded onto a huge transport carrier. This time last year those squat armour-plated hogs would have been heading off to battle. A regiment of soldiers marches by, acknowledging a superior officer with their characteristic ‘Hoo Har’ as they head for a troop carrier that will fly them home. It’s happening all the time now; more and more troops and equipment are being shipped out. The end game is on.

  ‘Ready to go, Stingray?’ Jake leans down and pats the black and tan kelpie at his side. The dog seems to smile. ‘Come on, mate. Time for our run.’

  Jake swings his M16 over his shoulder and sets off along Disney Drive, the main thoroughfare through the base from north to south.

  He pushes himself hard, only stopping when he reaches the main perimeter road near the edge of the base. Glancing up, his gaze settles on the Hindu Kush. The mountains glare down on the base like ancient warriors, their snow-covered peaks glowing in the morning sun with timeless, silent dignity.

  A light breeze blows across the Shomali Plain. It will later stiffen, bringing dust. But for now it merely rattles the small metal tags printed with skull and crossbones that hang from the fence. Jake knows their sound well. He shifts his gaze from the mountains to the fence and through it to the fields beyond.

  In the distance he can see the scrappy villages. Closer, a herd of goats graze on the early spring grasses. Closer still, a woman passes by, her blue burqa piled high with twigs, while a rabble of boys play soccer with a plastic bottle. Scattered across this scene like scabs are the wrecks of Russians tanks, MiGs and APCs, rusting reminders of another war fought on Afghan soil. And peppered among it all are the hidden killers left behind by that war – landmines. Jake’s immediate instinct is to call out, but something else catches hi
s eye.

  A lone figure stands in the field about midway between the fence and the boys playing soccer – a man, his clothes the colour of the earth, his skin a shade darker. Tall, he stands erect like a guard on duty, with sharp angular features that might have been carved from the Hindu Kush. An old mujaheddin, Jake decides.

  The man turns his head, a rapid movement that catches Jake out. Embarrassed, he smiles weakly and nods. But the old warrior stares right through him. Then, with a slight toss of his head, he turns away, picks up his hoe and continues digging.

  Jake watches for a moment longer, then walks off. He doesn’t feel like running anymore.

  The breeze lifts, the skull-and-crossbone tags dance, and the air base rages louder than ever.

  But the old warrior keeps chipping away.

  Chapter 5

  After leaving the school Naveed makes his way across the street. Cars and trucks blow their horns and men shout, but no one slows down. He has to zigzag through the traffic, knowing when to stand statue-still and when to sprint like a hare. Twice he is almost run over, but eventually makes it to the other side and continues up the street until he reaches the big road from Charikar.

  That road is busier still as it heads into Bagram. Cars crammed with passengers jostle utilities, jingle trucks, motorbikes and military vehicles in a screeching, squawking battle to stay on the road. Donkeys with huge loads on their backs, or pulling carts filled to the limit, trot silently along at the edge of the road, heads bowed in ancient submission. And scattered among it all are the people.

  Naveed weaves his way through a crowd of vendors pulling carts and pushing trolleys, past boys lugging bundles as big as themselves. He skirts around women in burqas tugging children and clutching babies. He passes merchants dressed in their best loonges and perahan toombon – turbans with trousers and matching long shirts – and farmers with sheep hung around their necks.

  ‘Navi!’ He hears his name above the hubbub and looks about. ‘Over here.’

  The voice comes from a jingle truck some way back in the traffic. Naveed turns to see the brightly coloured vehicle, painted all over with gaudy images, covered in baubles and bells and jangling chains. A young man hangs out the window waving with his free arm.

  ‘Hurry up, I’ll give you a lift.’

  Naveed’s face brightens and he pushes through the people to the edge of the road. The truck slows down as it draws level with him, but only enough for him to run alongside and scramble up onto the running board.

  ‘Fariad,’ he shouts, grinning broadly. ‘Hello, my friend.’

  The young man grasps Naveed’s arm in greeting. ‘Long time no see. How are you?’

  ‘Good. And you?’

  ‘Well, I’m a truck driver now, aren’t I?’ Fariad puffs out his chest. ‘That means hard work, long hours, bad coffee and getting plenty angry.’ As if to prove his point, Fariad slams his hand on the horn and shouts out the window at a motorbike that has swerved in front of him. ‘Antar, mashang, korreh khar! – baboon, retard, son of a donkey!’ But in the next breath he adds: ‘It’s great. Always something happening, never boring. And the money’s good.’ He rubs his thumb and fingers together, but then in the same move shoves his middle finger in the air at a passing car. ‘Gom sho – get lost!’

  Naveed cannot help laughing. He’s not seen Fariad for over six months, and he can feel his spirits lifting in response to all the energy and zest for life bubbling from him. The young man is not a man at all, really – seventeen years old at the most – but tall and very mature for his age. Naveed can already detect the shadowy beginnings of a beard.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he says. ‘Are you here for long?’

  Fariad shakes his head. ‘Just passing through. A load for Bagram Airfield then straight on to Kabul for a Kandahar job – all for the American devils. I’ll be sad when they go; they’re good for business.’ He hangs out the window again. ‘Uhmnq – idiot!’ Then he grins at Naveed. ‘But I’ll be back.’

  ‘Good. Then you should join us for a meal.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘We have a house now,’ Naveed adds. ‘Well, just a room really.’

  ‘Wonderful. How is your mother?’

  ‘Better. But Padar is in her thoughts every day. It’s the same for me. The emptiness is—’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Fariad interrupts.

  Naveed bites his lip. ‘Of course you do. Bebakhshid. Forgive me.’

  Fariad waves his hand dismissively, but Naveed still feels terrible.

  He and Fariad had been friends as children. They used to play in the same street. Those were happy days, before tragedy struck. Fariad’s family – mother, father and two sisters – were killed by a suicide bomber. On a bus. A day trip to Charikar for a kite-flying competition; Fariad was a champion sky lord with a brand new kite. When the bus stopped for fuel on the outskirts of Bagram, Fariad’s father sent him to buy sweets for the family from a vendor. As the boy got off the bus, the bomber got on. They passed. They probably touched. Their eyes might even have met.

  The blast killed everyone on the bus. It killed the vendor as well. Fariad survived because he was shielded by the tall trolley of sweets. He spent many months in the American hospital at Bagram Airfield, his body covered in wounds and burns. The long scar Naveed now notices down the side of his face is but one of them. The beard will help to hide that when it grows.

  ‘And what about little Noosh?’ Fariad asks. ‘Still a terrorist?’

  ‘Worse than ever. She wages jihad on me every day, I swear.’

  Fariad laughs and then glances wistfully at Naveed. ‘You’re right. It is a pity I can’t stay. I’d love to. Maybe one day.’

  Naveed knows that Fariad keeps his sadness buried deep inside, so deep that most people wouldn’t even have a clue it was there. But in that glance he catches a tiny glimpse of his friend’s real pain. He tries to change the subject.

  ‘What an exciting life you lead now,’ he blurts. ‘I envy you.’

  ‘Well, don’t. I like my job, yes. It’s exciting and fun, and the hard work stops me thinking too much. But let me tell you this: I would toss it all away in a flash if I could get back even some of what once was mine. There are sparkles and bright lights in my life, yes, but yours is filled with real treasure.’

  There is nothing Naveed can say to this. He simply rests his hand on Fariad’s arm and they travel down the road in silence for a while, each lost in thought. All too soon they near the centre of Bagram.

  ‘I have to go,’ Naveed says, his words steeped in regret.

  He prepares to jump off as they near the market area, but doesn’t want to. Meeting Fariad has made him feel so good. It has chased away the grey clouds that seemed to be gathering at the edge of his life. If only the bright moments could be captured and kept in a bottle, he wishes, to be sipped at in darker times. If only . . .

  ‘Don’t fret, Navi,’ Fariad says, as though reading his friend’s thoughts. ‘We’ll meet again. I’m sure of it.’ He presses his fist against the boy’s chin and then gives him a playful shove.

  Naveed leaps off and runs alongside the truck for a bit before slowing to a stop. The gaudy vehicle jingle-jangles away in a cloud of diesel smoke, Fariad’s smiling face framed in the side mirror. Naveed waves. Fariad pokes his arm out the window and waves back. But in the next instant he’s shaking his fist and cursing someone.

  ‘Your face looks like a monkey’s bum!’ he yells, and rattles on down the road to Bagram Airfield.

  Naveed can see the vast military complex now, little more than a kilometre away, its control tower poking up like a concrete fist. An enormous troop-carrier aircraft is just coming in to land, its roar drowning out the traffic noise.

  Naveed watches the big metal bird for a moment, then turns and plunges into the crowd.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Mr Waleed.’

  ‘Mohem nist, Naveed, no problem. Time is of little importance in
the grand scheme.’

  Mr Waleed is a small, plump man with a face made for smiles and a disposition to match. His shop in the central area of Bagram sells a bit of everything – a sort of general store, only more. It is said that if Mr Waleed can’t get something for you, nobody can.

  The store is the first place Naveed visits each morning on his search for work. The friendly shopkeeper always has at least a few chores for him and always pays: mostly in cash, sometimes in kind.

  ‘Any jobs today, Mr Waleed?’ he asks.

  ‘Certainly, my boy; quite a few, in fact. Shelves to stack, aisles to sweep. The front pavement could do with a good scrub, and the windows are overdue for a clean. But I’ll get you to do the deliveries first.’

  Naveed knows the routine well; he’s worked for Mr Waleed for about a year and a half. He goes straight to a trolley full of parcels waiting near the front of the store. There are more than usual today.

  ‘Here, eat these on the way,’ says Mr Waleed, handing Naveed a couple of large mantu. ‘You’ll need the energy with that load.’

  Naveed gladly accepts the warm meat dumplings and begins eating as he pushes the trolley out the door. But even though he is hungry – he only had a piece of stale nan bread for breakfast – he doesn’t gobble down the mantu. He eats the first one slowly, savouring each bite of the spicy ground beef and the tasty seer moss, the white garlic sauce drizzled on top. And he only eats a little of the second dumpling, keeping the rest for later. Then he heads off on his deliveries, pleased that the empty feeling has been chased from his stomach.

  He moves quickly on his rounds, pushing the trolley at a jog. Most of the deliveries are within a kilometre of the town centre. As he drops off each parcel he waits briefly for a tip, a small coin usually. There’s no obligation to give him anything, and quite a few don’t. He will sometimes wait longer if he feels he deserves payment, such as when he’s delivered a particularly heavy parcel. But even then he can leave empty-handed.