TANZEEM

by Deva, Mukul

  ‘Simply by standing in the holy cloak’s presence, the mute have walked out speaking, the blind seeing,’ the Taliban leader standing next to Jalal said. ‘In the past hundred years, the holy cloak has left the shrine only twice; once in 1929, when King Amanullah took it out to save Afghanistan, and again in 1935, to stop the cholera epidemic.’

  Jalaluddin fought the urge to run forward and touch the hem of the holy cloak.

  ‘The Prophet’s cloak can be removed only by a true leader of the faithful,’ someone else added in a hushed voice. ‘Mullah Omar has the right touch, that is why Allah unlocked the chest for him to wear the very cloak worn by Prophet Mohammed and be proclaimed commander of the faithful.’

  ‘Ameer-ul-Momineem! Ameer-ul-Momineem!’ The chant rose till it reached the faraway hills and ricocheted back. The crowd stopped only when Omar raised his hands and sought silence. His speech was short.

  ‘The Taliban will ensure that the pious and the devout suffer no more indignity and violence. The Sharia will reign supreme. Justice will be prompt. People will sleep peacefully in their homes from now on.’

  The crowd roared its approval.

  The euphoria would last for all of two weeks.

  Things began to change within days. And the change was anything but subtle. One morning, the people of Afghanistan woke up to find posters plastered on the walls of all major cities and towns.

  ‘Our beloved Muslim brothers, shaving off one’s beard is a great sin,’ the posters said.

  To begin with, the posters evoked much mirth among the Afghans. But the amusement was as short-lived as the recent euphoria.

  Whatever doubts anyone may have had about the severity with which the Taliban leadership viewed disobedience were soon put to rest when beard patrols rampaged through towns and the offenders were caned. The caning mutated into more severe forms of punishment over time. It was not long before the Taliban was using the head found without a beard like a football.

  The next set of posters was not taken lightly by anyone. These were lists of people considered troublemakers, collaborators or those who did not respect Islam as per the Taliban’s version of the Sharia. The wording was unequivocal: they were to be hunted down and killed by the Taliban regime.

  Things became worse when several girls’ schools were bombed and jihadis rampaged into boys’ schools, demanding the right to lecture the students, to select and recruit those they deemed fit for the jihad. Music stores were burnt, barber shops were forced to shut down, girls’ schools ceased to exist entirely, and morality patrols began to scour the streets. Women were stoned to death for stepping out of their homes without a male family member accompanying them, women on their way to work vanished without a trace. The slightest un-Islamic act drew immediate punishment.

  Slowly but surely, the exodus, which had slowed to a trickle when the Russians left, gathered force. Yet again, hundreds began to flee. Doctors, teachers, scientists, students, whoever could escape from the country did. Whatever little hope Afghanistan may have had of finding some semblance of peace and normalcy, evaporated swiftly as the Taliban crescent grew from strength to strength.

  In May 1996, having been expelled from Sudan due to American and Egyptian pressure, Osama bin Laden returned to Afghanistan. This time, he came bearing untold wealth and massive jihadi networking influence, both of which had become synonymous with Al-Qaeda. His arrival gave the Taliban the required impetus. Four months later, Kabul fell into their hands. Now, barring scattered pockets of resistance, they had taken control of all of Afghanistan.

  The stage was set for the war against the Crusader-Zionist-Hindu nexus to be taken to the next level.

  The camps and madrassas that had shown signs of inactivity after the Soviets left slowly began to buzz with life. But now the target was the elusive gora shaitan sitting in safety, surrounded by oceans; the bastard Jew who had rendered so many Muslim brothers homeless; the Hindu kafir reigning over Kashmir – they would all pay.

  And at the forefront of the attacks stood the figure of Mullah Mohammed Omar.

  The next time it was not kismat that brought Jalaluddin face to face with Omar; the mullah sent for him.

  ‘How are you, Jalaluddin Haq?’ Omar asked, embracing him warmly.

  ‘I am well, Ameer.’

  ‘The time has finally come for me to repay you for saving my life. Not that my life is worth anything beyond what it achieves for Allah.’ Omar held him at arm’s length. ‘Tell me what I can do for you now.’

  ‘Tell me how I may serve the cause as diligently and unwaveringly as you.’ Jalaluddin’s speech may have sounded rehearsed and politically correct but, looking into his eyes, Omar knew the man standing before him meant every word he said.

  ‘Why did I know you would say that, Jalaluddin Haq?’ Omar’s face broke into a smile.

  ‘Because what other meaning could life possibly have? I am merely a mirfaqa, a tool. Tell me what I need to do and I will do it… or die trying.’

  Omar surveyed him for a moment before he spoke again and when he did his low monologue continued for a long time.

  ‘How can I take on your mantle, Ameer?’ Jalaluddin protested when Omar finished. ‘It belongs to you and you alone.’

  ‘I know what I am doing, Jalaluddin. Great events are in the offing. The tide will turn many times before things begin to move in the direction we want them to. Not long from now, I too will fade into the shadows.’

  ‘You, Ameer?’ Jalaluddin was incredulous.

  ‘Yes, I must,’ Omar replied softly. ‘For so it has been written.’

  ‘But who will lead us then?’

  ‘I cannot tell you any more than that right now, but I have seen it in my dreams. It will happen.’ Omar gazed at Jalaluddin, his solitary eye glinting with purpose. ‘You will just have to trust me.’

  ‘I do trust you.’

  ‘Then do as I command.’ Omar laid a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Do you think you can do that, Jalaluddin Haq?’

  ‘No, Ameer, I know I can do that. And I am honoured that you would entrust me with this task. I will die before I allow your trust to be broken.’

  ‘You have always proven worthy of trust, Jalaluddin. So are we agreed?’

  ‘Yes, we are. You have my word.’ The two men clasped hands.

  ‘Very well then. Return to Waziristan and no matter what you see or hear, keep a low profile,’ Omar ordered. ‘The produce from Helmand will continue to reach you regularly. You know how to get it out. Hassan leaves for Russia to set up the conduits. Between the two of you, pump it into America, Europe… wherever you can. Let the white powder eat away the innards of those kafir bastards. Convert the profits into arms and ammunition and store them safely, for the right time.’

  Jalaluddin nodded.

  ‘And keep him by your side.’ Omar gestured at Hamidi, who was standing near them. ‘He is a good advisor to have beside you.’

  ‘That he is,’ Jalaluddin agreed.

  ‘And remember, no matter what happens or what the others do, keep your head down,’ Omar emphasized. ‘Not far into the future a day will come when those who are too visible will become dispensable and will have to pay the price for it.’

  ‘Yes, Ameer.’

  ‘Good. Wait for my summons. That is the day you will surface and take charge.’

  They embraced and parted.

  Jalaluddin had walked a few steps when Omar’s voice stopped him.

  ‘And always bear in mind that though they support us today, the Pakistani intelligence and army must not be trusted. Confide in them and use them only as long as it suits our purpose. They are fickle bastards, more interested in lining their pockets than in anything else. You never know when they will turn against you.’

  ‘I will keep that in mind, Ameer.’

  Then he left, with Mullah Hamidi in tow. After that day, the relationship between the teacher and student altered and became a more equal one.

  A week later, Jalaluddin Haq was back in Wazirista
n, not far from the village where he was born. After another week, he began the task the Ameer-ul-Momineem had given him. He took all possible precautions to ensure that neither his name nor his face featured anywhere in the list of people driving the jihad forward. He made sure the precious opium delivered to him from Helmand was moved out. He used the carefully constructed chain set up by Mullah Omar and Sheikh Osama to move the money back. A lot of it was expended in the historic small arms bazaar of Dara Adam Khel near Peshawar. The arms and equipment acquired in turn moved to countless, strategically located, well-concealed caches all over the frontier region, on both sides, well away from prying eyes. Guarded by trusted minions, most of them clansmen and blood relatives, they lay in wait for the day they would be used.

  And Jalaluddin patiently waited for the summons that he had been told would reach him one day.

  Jalaluddin watched in silence as the brouhaha in Afghanistan died down and the Pakistanis turned the mujahideen machine against the Indians in Kashmir. He sat silently when the Al-Qaeda strike teams brought the twin towers in New York crashing down. Within hours the world had changed permanently.

  Within weeks, the Americans were back in Afghanistan. But this time they were back as invaders. Their arrival was met with the same anger and resentment as the Russians’ had been years ago. But this time the weapons fielded by both sides were capable of much worse.

  Yet again the sound of guns shattered the silence. And once more, blood began to bathe the mountains and valleys of Afghanistan.

  The American forces hounded the Taliban out of huge tracts of Afghanistan. Omar fled to the safety of Quetta and Sheikh Osama to the mountains of Chitral.

  Jalaluddin did not react even when Abdul Rashid Dostum, one of the brutal warlords who rose against Omar’s rule, locked up 2000 Taliban fighters in shipping containers and left them to die. He wanted to use the weapons he had so carefully hoarded and the scores of fighters he had nurtured and trained, and deliver Dostum to the most hideous death possible. But he trusted his mentor and sat still.

  True to Mullah Omar’s prophecy, the Pakistanis turned traitors and trained their guns on the Taliban in the Swat Valley. And they threatened to do the same in Waziristan.

  And through all this, Jalaluddin held his peace and continued to do as Omar had bid, using the drug money to silence the generals, to stockpile arms, ammunition, supplies and train his men.

  The weeks turned into months and the months into years, but Jalaluddin did not lose heart. And his patience paid off, for one day the summons finally arrived.

  The messenger was a short, slightly-built man who strode out of the night, exuding an electric energy.

  ‘I have a message for Jalaluddin Haq,’ he told the sentries who accosted him at the perimeter defence.

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘Just tell him I come from Quetta. He will understand.’

  The messenger was subjected to a thorough body search. Except for a piece of cloth that had been carefully folded and wrapped in plastic, he carried nothing. A few minutes later, he was brought before Jalaluddin.

  ‘The Ameer told me to give you this.’ He held out the cloth.

  Puzzled, Jalaluddin unwrapped the packet. It contained an old camel fur cloak. As his fingers caressed the cape, his hands began to tremble. His mind went back to when Omar took on the mantle of Ameer-ul-Momineem in Kandahar. ‘Could this really be…’

  ‘It is not the one,’ the messenger replied. ‘The real one is safe in Kandahar. I was asked to tell you that you would understand the symbolism.’

  ‘What else did he say?’ Jalaluddin asked when he finally found his voice.

  ‘That you are now responsible for ensuring that the symbol is honoured. He said you would understand.’ He paused. ‘He also said I was to stay with you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He said you would need me to take care of things… things that others will baulk at.’ He smiled. ‘My name is Karamat. I was trained by the Sheikh himself and used to take care of jobs for him, special jobs.’

  Jalaluddin examined the man before him. Apart from the vibrant energy he radiated, there was nothing about his appearance that backed what he said. But Jalaluddin knew Mullah Omar would have sent him for a reason.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said finally.

  Karamat spoke in a low, even tone. He did not take long, he did not need to. Whatever he said, coupled with the unshakeable faith Jalaluddin had in the man who had sent him, was enough.

  ‘You shall stay, Karamat. We need men like you.’

  That was the beginning of a relationship that would end only with the death of one of them.

  His hands were not steady as Jalaluddin carefully, reverently, donned the cape; real or not, the cloak was a powerful symbol. It felt heavy with the weight of the tremendous responsibility that had been passed on to him. But Jalaluddin Haq was ready. He had been ready since the day Omar had told him to be prepared to take on this role.

  When he finally took the cloak off, there was a gleam in his eyes. ‘If Allah wills it, maybe one day it will be my destiny to wear the real one.’

  For now, Jalaluddin understood what Omar had ordered him to do. He knew the moment he had been waiting for all these years had finally come.

  Jalaluddin did not waste any time. He moved swiftly and ruthlessly, with the confidence that comes from years of planning and preparation. He reached out to shady generals, corrupt politicians, mullahs in Islamabad and warlords on both sides of the Durand Line. He struck alliances that only money could buy. Those who did not concede were paid surprise visits by suicide bombers who blew them into oblivion. Those who tried to betray them were greeted by the assassin. Others found American missiles seeking them out.

  Yet again, the terror began to escalate.

  Once again, the madrassa-generated jihadi death factories began to spread, not just along the Durand Line, but deep in the heartlands of Pakistan, churning out a wave of religious fundamentalism.

  The Ameer’s past unfolded in his mind as his eyes stared at the darkness outside. Finally, fatigue pulled him into the folds of restless sleep. For the first time in many years, the morrow he faced would be without the comfort of Mullah Hamidi, his friend and his guide. He felt somewhat incomplete.

  Of course, this did not weaken his resolve to take the jihad to every doorstep in every kafir country in the world. No matter what life threw at him, the Ameer knew the fight would go on.

  Till the Caliphate once again reigned supreme.

  But if you do not listen to me and do not keep my commandments… I will scatter you amongst the nations and keep the sword drawn against you.

  Leviticus

  The ferret-like intelligence on his face matched Jahangir Karamat’s infectious energy. But it did not diminish the hard edge beneath his quick, easy smile. Iqbal instinctively knew this was not a man to be taken lightly.

  ‘So you are the one who saved the Ameer?’ Karamat asked.

  Iqbal simply nodded.

  ‘Allah will surely bless you then,’ he said. ‘Do you know what they call us?’

  Iqbal shook his head.

  ‘We are the Special Tasks unit. You know what we do?’

  ‘Special tasks?’

  That seemed to amuse Karamat.

  ‘Smart! Very smart! Not a smartass, I hope. Those don’t last long here.’ Another smile flashed across Karamat’s face. ‘But I like people with a sense of humour. Allah knows there are too few of them. Tell me,’ he changed tack, ‘are you familiar with weapons?’

  ‘I can manage.’ Iqbal’s cool demeanour communicated that he could do a lot more.

  ‘Bombs?’

  ‘Not really.’ Iqbal shrugged. ‘I never got a chance to work with bombs.’

  ‘What about communication equipment?’

  ‘Only what they taught us in Muzaffarabad.’

  ‘That is basic stuff but good enough for now. In any case, we do not use the radio much. Or even satellite phones, for tha
t matter.’ Karamat saw Iqbal’s quizzical expression and elaborated. ‘The Americans monitor everything that goes out there,’ he gestured with a sweep of his hand. ‘One transmission is enough to have them send in the missiles.’ He looked at Iqbal. ‘Physically, you seem to be in good shape. Any injuries or problems I should know about?’

  ‘Nothing current or relevant,’ Iqbal replied, unwilling to explain the two bullet wounds he carried on his body.

  ‘Perfect. Go with Altaf and get a weapon from the armoury. Pick what you are most comfortable with and try it out on the range. Just make sure you don’t shoot any of the villagers. As it is, we are having a tough time keeping them on our side.’

  ‘I will be careful,’ Iqbal assured him before he turned to follow Altaf, the young man who had been standing behind Karamat.

  They had taken barely two steps when Karamat called out, ‘Be ready to move out tomorrow night.’

  ‘Where are we headed, janab?’

  ‘You will know when we reach.’ Karamat gave an enigmatic smile. ‘But rest assured that it will be an eventful trip… lots of kafir to kill.’ He chuckled. ‘Eat well, sleep well and, of course, pray hard. Remember, we Special Tasks men are like Roman gladiators.’ His words were at stark variance with the rural dialect he spoke. It was impossible to tell that he was not a native of the area.

  ‘Already dead, huh,’ said Iqbal.

  ‘Ah! Well read too.’ Karamat nodded approvingly. ‘Now let us see how good you are when the bullets begin to fly.’

  Including Karamat, a total of fifty-three men left from Zangari the following night. All of them wore identical sneakers, web gear, Pathani kameez and Al-Qaeda-height salwars – regular trousers but ankle high, the way Wahhabi and Salafi jihadis wore them, since they followed the hadith that clothes which touch the ground are a sign of pride and vanity. That, in fact, was the way almost all the men Iqbal had encountered around the Ameer were dressed. He had quickly acquired shorter ones for himself; it was always better to blend in with the crowd. Here, particularly, it was a prerequisite for survival.