By Saturday morning, with only an inkling of the problem facing the Khans—certainly no idea of its scale—Rubina resolved that it would be unacceptable for the Khan family to have to move without so much as a finger lifted by their friends. She donned her dupattha and a light jilbab and strolled over to Sofie’s home. The Khans’ maidservant, Sairah, let her in, and after the customary salaams, Rubina and Sofie sat in the living room engaging in mundane conversation.
As they chatted, Sofie managed to hide her inner feelings well and Rubina almost felt that perhaps the whole story was one of Rashida’s not uncommon embellishments of something innocuous. It would be awkward for Rubina to reveal her awareness of a problem that might have been blown out of proportion. After a second cup of green tea, she launched into her mission.
“Sofie?” she began cheerily. “I uh, was thinking we might go into Peshawar and shop at the Meena Bazaar. Maybe after that go to Andarshah? I’ve heard some new jewelry’s arrived for this weekend. We could check it out; maybe get something nice for our girls’ jahezes, and you know it’s always fun to bargain those poor jewelers down to the bone!” she chuckled.
Sofie didn’t flinch. Neither an eyebrow twitch, nor the wavering of a corner of her mouth would be allowed to expose her inner tumult.
She beamed. “Rubina, there’s never a bad time to shop. Give me a minute to take care of my hair and put something on.” The part of her that loved to haggle—especially for jewelry—was in any case engaged, so the bluff was no real challenge. Her more deeply troubled self had formed a strategy. In front of Rubina, she would feign dissatisfaction, offer an insightful critique, or haggle for unacceptable terms with shopkeepers. The act would have to be convincing.
Sofie hurried to the refuge of her room. Sitting in front of her mirror, she fought to compose herself. She was a slim woman, regal in appearance, and held her head just a little higher than might seem natural, a reaction to a sense of inferiority from marrying a nouveau-not-so-riche husband.
Brushing her hair, she briefly lost herself in the anticipation of enjoying a little shopping company with Rubina. The moment passed. The brush paused. New tears began welling up as thoughts of how she would be deceiving her friend overwhelmed her. Years of social interaction had given her the ability to put on her guard when needed. Ashamed of having to invoke the skill once more, she forced herself to mop her cheeks and repair the makeup.
Her mask finally ready, Sofie returned to Rubina, put on her jilbab, and ushered her friend to their Corolla. Jehangir, the Khans’ driver, took them to the bustling Meena Bazaar on the east side of Peshawar.
As they browsed the newly arrived and attractive fabrics, Rubina remained watchful of Sofie’s willingness to spend, but at no time did Sofie oblige her friend with such a revelation. Some fabrics were too bright, some too dull, and yes, others too expensive, but nothing was said out of the ordinary. Sofie also managed to put in about the right number of smiles and frowns as well as pretending to yearn the occasional item, haggling intensely for it, only to reject it when the seller refused her impossible demands.
After a lunch break and short drive, they were among the jewelry stores at Andarshah. Continuing her act, at times Sofie offered words of encouragement to Rubina to go ahead and buy some bangle or necklace but refrained from doing so herself. The trip would at least seem worthwhile for Rubina and if pressed, Sofie would blame her reluctance to buy on mood, headache, or having failed to see any “must-buy” items.
After returning to Sofie’s home, aware that her ploy had failed, Rubina decided to take a different path. With the last of her shopping bags removed from the car, she joined her friend in the living room. Sairah carried in a tray of tea and set it down on the finely carved wood and glass coffee table. As they sipped, Rubina looked down, shook her head slightly, and chuckled.
“What?” asked Sofie, frowning with a curious smile.
“Oh. It’s uh… It’s nothing” dismissed Rubina.
“Rubina? What’s up?” pressed Sofie, sensing possible mischief but maintaining an air of joviality.
“Well,” began Rubina, “it’s funny really. You know, I heard something from Rashida yesterday and I couldn’t… Well, I just couldn’t imagine it being true.”
“Really? What?” Sofie asked, drawn away from her present worries.
“Probably nothing, but it was about…you and Javed bhai, and the family,” Rubina continued.
“About…the family?” Sofie pretended. Her smile froze as her face drained.
“Yes,” said Rubina. “Ridiculous really. I mean, well, you know how children can be? Rashida said she overheard Sikander talking to Hamid about you all… moving? Huh! And something about selling the house? I mean, why would you just suddenly up and leave?” Suppressing feigned mirth she leaned forward, nervously seeking affirmation.
Sofie eyed Rubina with a steely gaze. She was at a crossroads. Press on? Hope she could fend off this inquiry? Or break down and tell all to her dear friend? For a moment at least, she held on, drawing energy from the volcano brewing inside her from the matter having leapt out of the family confines in the way that it obviously had.
Sofie burst into tears.
Expecting to learn bad news when she first came that morning, Rubina had been gradually convinced otherwise throughout the day. Now she, too, experienced the shock that something serious, perhaps more serious than she first suspected, was going on.
“Sofie? Oh no, Sofie, my poor dear. What? What is it? I’m sure we can do something,” she soothed, as she sprang to her feet to come across and sit next to her friend. The facts emerged in a patchwork of fragments.
“We have to sell the house!” Sofie bawled. “Have to move,” and “It’s Javed…swindled by…by—”
Repeatedly, she paused, too overwhelmed to continue. Each time, Rubina gave her a moment to recover, asked a question or two, and they moved on. With the story understood, Rubina was truly sorry for her friend. Her initial sense of possibly assisting surrendered to helplessness. It was not the kind of problem a neighborhood could solve. “Sofie, look if there’s anything we can do, please, don’t be shy about asking,” she offered appropriately vaguely.
“Oh, that’s…that’s nice of you Rubina, but really, I can’t imagine how anyone can help.” Sofie sniffled as she thanked her friend for listening to her rambling.
She needed to be left alone. Rubina understood. She gathered her things and quietly saw herself out. Walking home she marveled at how convincing Sofie’s mask had been earlier that day.
Sikander was in his room completing his homework while the scene with Rubina played out. Toward him there would be no vulnerable disposition. Incensed at the affair spilling out, in their home no less, and from being told by her best friend, Sofie lost no time in calling Sikander down to release the full measure of her anger.
Sikander had been steeped in his own worries all day, but was utterly shocked that his words had leaked out. He protested that he’d been discreet with Hamid and that he hadn’t known that Rashida was listening. Unmoved by his words and stunned by his poor judgment, Sofie was implacable.
In the face of his instincts to suspend his own education on behalf of the family, Sofie’s attack was too much for Sikander’s young sensibilities. He lashed out.
“What if it’s because you’re too proud and pretentious? What if… What if we’re being punished for that? Did you think of that?” Sikander challenged.
Sofie grimaced. “How dare you speak to me that way!” she retorted, feeling the sting of a possible grain of truth in her son’s response.
“But it is something the family deserves. It has to be!” Sikander declaimed. Simmering resentment over his father’s lack of judgment in dealing with the Kabeers had far from dissipated.
Sikander’s counter-attack was ill timed. On the heels of another ineffective round of calling on potential helpers, Javed had just stepped into the house when he heard Sikander’s most damning accusations. The yelling came to an
abrupt halt as Sofie and Sikander swung their attention to him.
Of all things in Pakistani society, the monarchic status of parents was among the least violable. One did not shout at parents or be short-tempered or angry with them in any way. The Qur’an had a specific injunction against such behavior, and even the Ten Commandments’ “Honor thy father and thy mother,” held deep meaning for Muslims.
Enraged by Sikander’s declaration that the family deserved its misfortune, but even more so by his son’s tone toward Sofie, Javed unleashed his wrath.
“Sikander,” he uttered with a menacing softness, “that…was no way to speak to your mother. Don’t you ever speak to her like that again.” The tone changed when he exploded with, “You do, and you’re no son of mine! Do you hear me?” He stalked forward, his nose centimeters from Sikander’s, as he scowled. Javed was over the edge. With two of the most trying days of his life, and now this exchange between his hurt and tearful wife and his son, he’d had enough.
It was a raw moment. Sikander could utter no words though he did glare back at his father. Javed understood he was probably berating his son this way for the last time.
Sikander’s frustration mounted. He’d been willing, after all, to sacrifice his ambitions for his father’s mistake. Why was he now to be the focus of his parents’ anger? Unable to hold back, he exploded fiercely.
“It’s true! We’ve been too proud! And now, with a moment of stupidity—” Javed’s large hand landed at about the same spot as on the previous occasion but this time with all the vigor his fury could muster. He said nothing. His slap had all the eloquence that was needed.
With what remained of his rational self, Sikander knew he wanted to be alone, away from them all. As if reading his son’s mind, Javed shoved him hard on the shoulder as he screamed, “Out of my sight! Go… Go!”
A worried Sofie looked on as Sikander stormed up to his room, gasping with anger. She wanted to chase after him—the situation was beyond any expectation of her earlier rage—but Javed’s seething presence filled the room with paralysis.
The evening wore on as Sikander fumed in solitude, his door locked from the inside. Something had to be done. Something had to change. As his mind began to settle on the obvious choice of leaving home, he focused on organizing his departure as he indulged himself with thoughts of being “one less person to bear” for his mother and father.
Packing just a few belongings he paused with his passport in hand. It made him look toward the moonlit scene beyond his bedroom window and think of the world out there. He had little idea what he would do next, but his determination to leave was unshakeable. At least for now. It would have to be without making a scene or facing any protestations that he should stay—however unlikely that might be, he reflected, his own sensibilities still not exhausted. It was a rationalization he was comfortable with. He was less comfortable with an inner voice telling him he might be running away from a problem.
Even though it was August, the nights could sometimes get cold. Sikander put on a warm shalwar and qamees, over which he wore a sleeveless jacket. He also decided to take a light overcoat. Well hidden on his bookshelf behind a cherished volume of Iqbal was all the money he had, a little more than eight thousand rupees rolled up and bound in a rubber band. With the money squeezed into his jacket pocket and his belongings in hand, he stepped gingerly out of his bedroom window, over the railing of his veranda, and onto the top of the outer wall. From there it was a drop of less than three meters to the sandy street below, before Sikander crept silently away.
The simple act of leaving challenged Sikander’s resolve, but he willed himself to press on, drawing comfort from keeping the option to return home that night before being missed. He hadn’t revealed his intentions and the family was, for now, unaware of his departure. He would go to the Zarghooni Masjid, spend the night sleeping on its plush, carpeted floor, and just think things over. Mosques often had people spending a night or two under a coat or blanket. Besides, in the morning there’d be a food offering, so if he was going to leave home, at least it wouldn’t be on an empty stomach.
After a short walk out of J-Block into Lalazar Avenue and up to the corner of Phase 2 Road, Sikander strolled into the grounds of the Zarghooni. He walked through the entrance courtyard of the now virtually deserted mosque into the main hall. Wishing to avoid attention, he quietly sat on the floor. With isha already over, Sikander could safely assume he would avoid awkward encounters with people he knew.
After a while, he took out one of the many copies of the Qur’an on the low bookshelves clustered around the base of each of the mosque’s beautifully decorated pillars, and began reciting its verses quietly while following the Urdu translation printed below them. It was as good a time as any, he thought, to be consulting its pages.
Soon, his attention drifted to a far corner of the prayer hall, where he noticed a group of men sitting and chatting with each other. Each wore a turban with a tail of spare cloth hanging over the shoulder. Sikander was too far away to listen to the conversation, which was in any case subdued. Considering the mosque’s location, Sikander imagined they were either from one of the sprawling refugee camps around the west side of Peshawar or else they were Tablighi Jamaat.
Whoever they are, they’ll probably be gone in an hour or two, Sikander thought, as he lay down to make himself comfortable near one of the pillars. Curled up under his overcoat, he went to sleep for the four hours or so that remained before the dawn azaan.
Chapter 2
Mujahideen
GENTLY AT FIRST BUT THEN more forcefully, Sikander felt himself being nudged. His slowly opening eyes were greeted by a large face with an equally large beard, dyed with the unmistakable rusty orange of henna. As Sikander stirred into consciousness, and the kindly but weather-beaten features came into focus, a broad grin quickly embellished them.
“Wake up! Time for fajr,” urged the man, genially, in his coarse Pashto and in the good Muslim tradition of not letting a fellow Muslim sleep through a call to the dawn prayer. Fair in complexion, with gray-green eyes, the man wore a white and blue striped turban with its tail of cloth over his right shoulder. A gray sleeveless jacket over a beige qamees and shalwar completed his attire.
Having assured himself that Sikander was awake and that his good deed had been done, the man moved to rejoin his companions. Sikander, still yawning from his stupor, trudged over to the washroom to perform his wudhu ablution and ready himself for prayer. Returning from wudhu, and now wide-awake, it dawned on him that he had been awoken by one of the strangers he’d seen the previous night. The few words the man had spoken betrayed that like Sikander, he was a Pashtun and more than likely from one of the nearby refugee camps.
Worshippers began lining up in neat rows in readiness for prayer. Sikander noted the strangers standing in the third row from the front and instinctively moved toward them, but quickly took the nearest available position as the imam launched into prayer. Speaking to the strangers now was out of the question until fajr was over. While the imam led the silent congregation, Sikander’s mind wandered. Concern for the possibility that one of the worshippers might recognize him, flashed briefly into his mind. It soon evaporated with the recollection that his friends and family generally performed fajr at home.
When the imam concluded, everyone arose from their customary “tashahud,” posture on the floor and started back for their homes. Sikander weaved through the dispersing worshippers to approach the strangers. Although each of the four young men and the older one—evidently their leader—were imposing figures, there was a living warmth on their faces that drew him to seek admission.
Sikander’s family conversed with each other mostly in English or Urdu—or the educated upper- and middle-class blend of the two. But Sofie had also instilled in her children from an early age, both pride and fluency in Pashto. Speaking Pashto was a virtual requirement for someone to be acknowledged a Pashtun and would now doubtless ease his acceptance by this group.
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br /> Sikander reached out and tapped the older man’s arm, offering his salaams. Attention focused on him as the customary response of “wa ‘alaykum assalaam” came in chorus from the five-man troop. Without a follow-up the encounter would end there. Sikander quickly added, “I’m Sikander. Sikander Khan,” as he held out his hand and smiled.
Favorably impressed by this Pakistani youth’s accent-free Pashto greeting, the older figure again revealed his fine set of miswaaked teeth, as he uttered, “Ah! And my name is Abdul Latif Khan. These are my sons Abdul Rahman and Abdul Majeed, and these are my brother’s sons Ejaz and Saleem.”
After customary handshakes and polite hugging, and with the ice thoroughly broken, Sikander felt it was safe to ask them their purpose.
“I come here about four to six times a year to resupply our effort against the accursed Russians back home,” replied Abdul Latif.
“So you…fight?” probed Sikander, realizing that this might be too direct a question but too late to prevent himself from asking it.
“Hm! W’Allahi, of course we fight,” responded Abdul Latif with an indignant frown. “Are we not Pashtuns and must we not rid the country of those accursed Russians? What about you? What do you do?”
“Until yesterday I was living here in Hayatabad, but it’s, uh…it’s no longer for me.” offered Sikander with a shrug.
Pressed to do so, Sikander related the previous day’s episode and how it was time to go out on his own. Abdul Latif stood deep in thought, uneasy with Sikander’s issue, especially after seeing disturbingly empathetic nodding from his own young companions. It would be a good example to his sons and nephews if he could knock some sense into the youth and send him home. But there was something about Sikander’s determination that intrigued Abdul Latif. Pressing the young man to contact his family might drive him away, with no saying where he might end up. It was time to explore another possibility.
“Care for some green tea, Sikander? It’ll help us all to think more clearly at this hour.”
SIkander Page 3
