by Deva, Mukul
Madrassas mushroomed all along the Durand Line; it was not long before they outstripped the number of refugee camps. And all of them had a singular objective: to further the cause that had been espoused almost two hundred years ago by Muhammad Ibn Abd al Wahhab.
The refugee camps that came up in Pakistan soon transformed into open breeding grounds for the mujahideen. Pakistan encouraged the Islamists to open offices in the camps and also set up their own refugee camps, making it mandatory for all refugees to become members of the party that ran the camp.
It did not take long for the camps to develop into full-fledged operational bases from which attacks on Afghanistan could be organized. In fact, Osama bin Laden, the man who would one day be held accountable for the 9/11 attacks on America, set up the first mujahideen training camp as early as 1986.
To add to the mayhem, a multitude of mujahideen recruits, mostly criminals and convicts, were sent in from Egypt, Jordan and Saudi Arabia. Then there were the Uzbeks, Tajiks and Kyrgyz, who were members of the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan or Islamist members of the opposition during the Tajik civil war. Fighting shoulder to shoulder with them were regular and commando units of the Pakistan Army, ensuring that the Islamization and radicalization spread with equal fervour among the Pakistani armed forces.
It was in this violent, tumultuous cesspool that Jalal, Hassan and thousands of other ill-fated orphans grew up.
Jalaluddin Haq was thrilled beyond words on the day Mullah Hamidi finally told the young men that they were now fully-trained mujahideen, ready to take up arms for Allah. Jalal did not show it, of course, as he seldom expressed his emotions, but deep down he felt something stir. He was unable to put his finger on it but he knew there was something festering inside him, yearning for release. The cold metal of the gun in his hand felt comforting and reassuring. It gave him a sense of power, of being complete, of knowing that he would never again be exploited and violated. That he would never again have to stand by and watch his loved ones die. That he could and would make a difference.
The hankering within grew when he fired at a human target for the first time. The sight of the Russian soldier falling to the ground, screaming with pain as a large bloody hole erupted where his stomach had been, gave him a rush of energy he had never before experienced. It made him feel alive. Like an addict craving his next fix, Jalaluddin began to seek it again. And again.
The group of youngsters crossed the Af-Pak border with Hamidi. The mullah, being no warrior himself, handed them over to the man who met them at a designated rendezvous. This tall, bearded man who took charge of the young warriors was dressed in black, in the attire that would soon be known as the Taliban dress code.
Jalaluddin did not know it then, but this was the second person who would have a huge impact on the path his life would take. If Hamidi was the initiator, it was this man, Omar, who provided Jalaluddin with the focus and direction he needed.
When they first met, Omar was one of the senior commanders of Hisb-e-Islami (Khalis). The group had been started in 1979 when Younis Khan, one of the tribal leaders from Pakhtia province, opted out of the original Hisb-e-Islami to blaze his own trail.
Omar took Hamidi’s brood of fledglings under his command. Fresh out of the training camp, the men were raring to go. They did not have to wait long.
Cautious after seeing what happened to those who were not, the Russian patrol comprising several BTR-70 armoured personnel carriers (Bronetransportyor in Russian, literally ‘armoured transporter’) and a troop of T-62 tanks was sweeping past when the young mujahideen attacked.
They were full of zest, but they lost control and panicked when the 115 mm tank guns began to boom and the 14.5 mm machine guns on the BTRs hummed into action. Without realizing that the Russians were firing blindly, hoping to keep the attackers at bay by laying down sheets of suppressive fire all around, most of the mujahideen broke ranks and fled from the ambush site.
Jalaluddin, however, held firm. Pumped up by the sight of the Russian he had recently gunned down, Jalaluddin was by Omar’s side when his rocket launcher took out the Russian BTR closest to them. He stayed with Omar when the tanks returned fire and one of the tank shells exploded right in front of them.
A deadly shower of shrapnel sprayed forth, blanketing the area around. One of the burning pieces of metal embedded itself in Omar’s face, cleaving out his right eye. A jet of blood spurted out, but Omar lost neither control nor consciousness.
Even as he retched at the ghastly sight of the eyeball hanging from its socket, Jalaluddin grabbed Omar and began to drag him backwards, away from the ambush site which had suddenly turned into a death trap. He knew they had very little time, he could hear the Russian infantry preparing to counterattack the ambush.
They had barely fallen back a few yards when two Russian soldiers exploded over the embankment they had gone behind. Reacting in a flash, Jalaluddin unleashed a long burst from his rifle, emptying the magazine. The Russian soldier leading the charge was picked up by the burst and blown away. The second soldier had closed in by then. Unable to shoot back since his compatriot was in the line of fire, the terrified Russian lashed out wildly with his rifle. The gleaming, razor-sharp bayonet fixed on its muzzle arced through the air and sliced open Jalaluddin’s right cheek. Shock ploughed through his mind, pulverizing his body into inaction. That was when Jalaluddin knew he was going to die.
Jalaluddin heard a gunshot next to him. Still knocked out by the pain and unaware who had fired, he waited for the Russian bullet to punch holes into him. But after a moment, when nothing happened, he turned to see a smoking pistol in Omar’s hand and the second soldier lying dead.
Another salvo of tank shells exploded around them, blasting into oblivion the embankment they had been positioned behind moments ago. The two wounded men began to crawl away. They could hear the Russian soldiers on the other side. Sporadic bursts of fire fractured the rapidly deepening darkness.
Jalaluddin and Omar did not exchange a word till they were back in the safe confines of the caves high up in the mountains from where they operated. Omar was whisked away to the inner cave as others took charge of Jalaluddin.
It did not take long for the hastily strung bandage to stop the blood flowing from Jalaluddin’s cheek. The wound would take much longer to heal. The scar of course would never go. Every day of his life he would see it, feel it and remember that Allah had saved him so he could deliver the jihad its rightful victory.
‘What is your name?’ Omar asked the mujahideen who had stood by his side when all the others had fled.
‘Jalaluddin Haq.’
‘You are a brave young man.’
For the first time in years, there was some trace of emotion on Jalal’s face. It was pride. He was happy not just to have been acknowledged but because his commander had called him a man, not a boy.
‘I owe my life to you, Jalaluddin Haq. Inshallah, one day I shall repay the favour you did me today. I shall wait for that day,’ Omar promised.
That night, Jalaluddin slept as he had not slept in years, not since that evening when he had seen his parents fall to Russian rifles. He saw a glimmer of his life ahead, still remote, but the seeds had been sown. He put his past behind him that night and began to look to the future.
In the months that followed, Jalaluddin fought alongside Omar on several occasions. And each time, his respect for the man increased. Omar may have lost an eye, but it neither eroded his ardour nor impaired his aim.
If Allah had permitted it, Jalaluddin would have fought under the man’s banner for ever, so content was he doing so. Unfortunately, that was not to be.
The Soviets soon realized their grand offensive was going nowhere and they began to seek an honourable way out of Afghanistan. That was when they realized that it is far easier to begin a war than to end it.
None of the countries that had staked a claim in this senseless conflict wanted it to end, not unless the end was in itsbest interest; the fate of Afghanistan and its
people was the last thing that influenced their decisions.
Realizing that the crippling war was causing untold damage to their traditional enemy, the Americans flatly refused to work with the Russians in setting up a tenable government in Afghanistan. On the contrary, they did all they could to ensure that Russia remained embroiled in the mess as long as possible.
The Pakistanis were clear that the war could only cease if they were allowed to retain control of Afghanistan. They needed a pliable government in Afghanistan, one that would ratify the Durand Line. Furthermore, the end of the war would put a stop to the billions of unaudited dollars flowing into their coffers.
Saudi Arabia, forever striving to restore Islam to its pristine glory, did not want to see the end of the innumerable madrassas that were churning out the singularly focused, fundamentalist mujahideen.
Adding to the confused mess, in 1984 Osama bin Laden arrived. He brought not only his personal funds but also Abdullah Al Azzam and Umar Abd al Rahman, spiritual leaders of the radical Egyptian Islamist group Al Jihad, who set up a network of recruiting and fund-raising offices all over the Arab world, Europe and America. This network, known as Maktab-al-Khidmat (service office) or Al-Khifah, morphed into Al-Qaeda in 1988.
By the time the last Russian soldier stepped off Afghan soil on 15 February 1989, 1.25 million Afghans (approximately 9 per cent of the 17 million national population) and 15,000 Soviet soldiers (75,000, if one takes the more accurate unofficial estimate) had lost their lives. Another million people, Afghan and Russian alike, had been wounded. And a few million Afghans had been displaced and condemned to life in refugee camps.
So devastating was the drain on Soviet economic and military might that it eventually brought the superpower to its knees, leaving the world at the fickle mercy and uncertain wisdom of America.
The Soviet withdrawal and subsequent American loss of interest in the region left behind a ruptured Afghanistan. But this largely illiterate nation with a devastated infrastructure now had in its hands a stockpile of arms and ammunition big enough to fight several wars for several decades.
The Taliban, a new group that was fast gaining prominence in southern Afghanistan, grew out of the void left by the violent anarchy that seized Afghanistan after the Russian withdrawal. Mainly a product of this uprooted war-torn society, adherents of the Taliban latched on to the messianic Islam preached by fundamentalist mullahs who had honed their skills in the refugee camps and madrassas that had flourished along the Durand Line.
The Taliban were trained by Pakistan to take on the less amenable mujahideen commanders and funded by Saudi Arabia to spread the tenets of the rigidly intolerant Wahhabism. And they were welcomed by the locals who, weary from decades of war, sought peace and stability. It was not long before they had overrun most of Afghanistan.
The era of the Taliban was now set to begin. And the flame was ignited by one tiny spark.
The eleven-member family was travelling from Kandahar to Herat to attend a wedding. Two of the men, the oldest woman and the youngest child, an infant, were riding inside the truck. Three women, two older children and two men were in the open rear.
The women caught the eye of the commander of the so-called ‘security checkpost’ on the outskirts of town. High on opium, he climbed somewhat unsteadily into the truck and pawed one of the women.
This drew an immediate response from the men, which in turn infuriated the strongman. The men and the two older children were beaten senseless before the three women were carried off to the nearby huts. Their screams pierced the sky as one by one the mujahideen manning the security post took turns in raping them before throwing them back in the truck. After that, they set fire to the truck. The exploding fuel tank quickly put an end to the terrified screams of the burning family.
In the melee none of them noticed the oldest woman slip away with the infant in her arms.
Cowering behind a hut some distance away, the woman watched in silence as her sons, daughters-in-law and grandchildren were engulfed by the flames. Finally, she wandered off in a daze, clutching her grandchild in her arms. Sometime later she found herself at the schoolhouse in Dand, where a few days earlier, a group of madrassee Taliban had set up camp.
A few minutes later, she found herself in the presence of the commander of the Taliban detachment, a tall, heavily bearded, one-eyed man dressed in a black Pathani kameez and ankle-high salwar. The stony expression on his face did not change as he listened to her story.
An hour later, a group of jeeps with heavily armed Taliban swept up to the checkpost and surrounded it.
The four men relaxing against the wooden barrier had no time to react to the weapons pointed at them.
A crash of gunfire brought the others rushing out of the huts on either side of the barrier. All of them were in various stages of undress but had their weapons ready. It was not long before the weapons had joined the bodies of their four comrades on the dusty road.
‘Who is your commander?’ Omar growled as he jumped out of the jeep, his boots clicking on the hard ground.
‘He is.’ Totally unnerved, the nearest man pointed at the burly figure who tottered out of the hut, trying to pull up his pants.
‘Who the fuck are you people?’ The Kandahari strongman was no coward. ‘Don’t you know this is my area?’
Omar flicked his fingers and two of his men converged on the blustering strongman and frog-marched him to Omar. By now there was fear in his eyes.
‘Are you the commander?’ Omar leaned forward till his face was almost touching the captive.
‘Yes.’ The man cringed involuntarily.
‘Do these men obey you? They do what you tell them?’
‘Of course.’ The Kandahari attempted an arrogant laugh. It came out a whimper. ‘They’d better.’
Omar gestured at the charred remains of the truck. ‘So, they did that under your orders?’
The strongman did not reply this time. Omar stepped back, raising his voice as he spoke again, this time addressing the hapless mujahideen hovering around nervously, ‘Such things will not be tolerated. Not now. Not ever. Do you understand?’ His solitary eye gleamed as it swept over them. ‘I want everyone to understand that.’ Gesturing at the men holding the strongman, Omar commanded, ‘Take off his clothes and hold him down.’
Before the strongman could even struggle, a rifle butt had clubbed him down, driving him to the ground. Rough hands seized him and in moments his clothes had been torn off.
‘He who steals shall have his hand cut off. He who kills shall forfeit his life.’ Omar stepped forward, drawing a long knife from the scabbard at his waist. His voice was now a high, eerie chant. ‘He who rapes…’ Omar bent down and seized the naked man’s penis and sliced it off with the knife.
For a moment there was silence as blood spurted out of the man’s body. Then his mind registered the pain and he let out a high-pitched scream. Omar allowed the scream to reach crescendo before he dropped his knife and stuffed the dismembered penis into the man’s open mouth. The scream died into a gurgle.
Raising himself to his full height, Omar said, his solitary eye blazing, ‘All this will not be tolerated any more. Not as long as we are alive.’ Then, abruptly, he stooped, scooped up his knife from the ground and walked away. ‘Kill them.’ The last two words were delivered in a flat command as he returned to his jeep.
Gunfire thundered out, felling the mujahideen who had raped and murdered the family.
By the time Omar reached his jeep, they were all dead. Omar asked the old woman who had accompanied them, ‘Are you satisfied now?’
There was a stunned expression in her eyes. She seemed unable to tear her gaze away from the Kandahari strongman who lay dead a few feet away, his bloody penis poking grotesquely out of his mouth. Finally, she nodded.
‘So be it.’
Twenty minutes later, when the jeeps pulled away from the now abandoned checkpost, each of the men involved with the rapes and murders had been beheaded and the
ir bodies strung from the wooden barrier across the road.
In the days that followed, before nature and wild animals rendered the bodies into a mangled mass, every man, woman and child who crossed that checkpost in Kandahar would take note of them. The sight would strike terror in every heart. And the story of Taliban justice would be embellished each time it was told.
The Kandahar incident set the trend for others to approach Mullah Mohammed Omar. It was not long before he was firmly positioned as an idealistic, pious fighter for justice.
The rise of the Taliban continued unchecked until all of Afghanistan was under its control.
Jalal would always remember that day in April 1996. People had flocked to Kandahar from all corners of the nation. A current of passion and high drama pulsated through the city that morning. Jalaluddin Haq was standing on the podium along with those favoured by Omar.
When Mullah Mohammed Omar finally emerged from the wings and came onto the stage, bursts of salutary gunfire accompanied the welcoming roar of the people. Suddenly, there was a hushed silence. Jalaluddin broke his gaze away from the crowd to see what they were staring at. All at once his mouth fell open too.
Omar was dressed the way he always did, but today there was a camel fur cloak around his shoulders.
Is this really the same one?
Jalaluddin had heard rumours that Omar had taken the cloak from the Mosque of the Cloak of Prophet Mohammed in Kandahar. While some said the Amir of Bukhara had given the cloak to Ahmad Shah Durrani in 1768, others believed it was the Prophet’s cloak which Durrani had brought back from Bukhara.
‘Could it really be the same one?’ A whisper ran through the crowd.
‘But why would a man like Omar deceive anyone?’ Jalaluddin reminded himself. ‘It must be true.’
