“Assalaamu ‘alaykum!” called out Abdul Rahman. The customary replies came, along with customary hugs and handshakes. The young men sprang into action to unload the Pajero.
“I’m Khurram Afridi,” said the older Pashtun, who was clearly in charge.
“Abdul Latif,” came the briefest of self-introductions as Abdul Latif gestured to Khurram to lead them into the house, half turning to his companions he directed a nod for them to follow.
“Your mules aren’t here yet,” Khurram announced, “but they’ll be along later this evening. Don’t worry, they’re not from far away and they’ll be fresh for tomorrow.”
The house was nothing special. It seemed to be only a staging point for expeditions such as theirs and not otherwise inhabited. From a crudely installed holder in a stiff cable coming out of the ceiling hung a single light bulb, its weight inadequate to straighten the cable. Accumulated dust on two ceiling fans betrayed their prolonged idleness and the inadvisability of any attempt to use them now.
Sunset approached and with so many mountains surrounding them, darkness came quickly. Their hosts had been down into the Torkhum Road area before the travelers had arrived and brought back hot lamb kebabs wrapped in Peshawari naans. It was a welcome meal for them all, and after dinner and the sunset prayer, seated on the floor, the group took to chatting about their different experiences in the wake of the Soviet invasion.
Khurram and his helpers were from the Afridi tribe, predominant in the Khyber area. Abdul Latif and his followers were Shinwari. Sikander was a Yousufzai, but with his upbringing in Peshawar was less sensitive to the nuances of Pashtun tribal rivalries and alliances. One thing he did know was that the Afridis seemed to have a lock on the opium traffic passing out of Afghanistan through Pakistan to many parts of the world. He had no trouble imagining this house as a drug distribution point and was comforted by the thought that for these people, procuring mules, one of the preferred forms of transport for their opium, would present little difficulty.
When drugs were not preoccupying the Afridis, chances were they were thinking of guns. The Afridis were known for their mastery of firearm manufacture. It was a cottage industry among them and nowhere more so, than with the Adam Khel or “Clan of Adam,” named for a long-deceased ancestor. Anything from scrap metal, old cars, tools, and a host of other things from which the metal could be recovered was fair game for being turned into an unlicensed copy of a Lee Enfield or a Browning pistol. AK-47 Kalashnikov automatic rifles, which were rare prior to the Soviets arriving, had made their way into Pakistan over the past few years. Whether abandoned or given in payment for a soldier’s freedom, such weapons readily fell into Afridi hands and the Afridis would promptly set to work copying them. The best of their workshops could now turn out a highly functional rendition of an original, which once captured, would be relegated to the demeaning role of template for the mass production of replicas.
Following the isha prayer, the travelers sprawled out on the floor with blankets or coats to cover them. After all the walking earlier in the day, they had little difficulty embracing slumber.
Just as on their first meeting, Abdul Latif’s grinning face greeted Sikander’s stirring into consciousness. It was time to get up for fajr, have breakfast, and be on their way. Peshawari naan with sabaz chai quickly done with, the group stepped outside to be greeted by Khurram, his companions, and five mules. Three of them were grays, one a roan with a bluish gray color, and one a gray-black mix. Such colors were ideal for camouflage among the natural rock colorings of the Safed Koh.
As much as Abdul Latif was comfortable in this terrain, Sikander had never been off the roads in the mountain country west of his home. He had been up toward Landi Kotal before, when his father had combined the need to deliver some switches with a long day’s family outing. But this time, traveling would be on foot, leading these mules. Sikander was pleased to have bought his rain jacket and boots the previous day. He felt prepared and was gamely looking forward to traveling into Afghanistan. But he had to admit, though only to himself, to a certain anxiety about the perils ahead.
With the introduction to the mules completed, Khurram and his people entered the shed, where the materials to be packed were arrayed on the floor. Abdul Latif and his men followed them in. Against one wall, the rocket-propelled grenades were stacked with their launchers. A dozen AK-47s, or perhaps good copies of them, were laid out next to them, together with a box of two-dozen ammunition magazines, each containing thirty rounds. The supplies they had brought from Jamrud were grouped into four piles on the floor. Next to one of the piles were some folded blankets over which had been placed several ropes. Other boxes were stacked three or four high against the remaining walls of the shed.
“We have to separate these into ten roughly equal piles and bind them up with these ropes,” Khurram instructed, sweeping his outstretched hand toward the weapons and supplies. “The supplies can be put on two of the mules and the remaining three will have to take the weapons. We’re also going to give you six of the AK-47s and the box of ammunition. All these bundles will be wrapped up in blankets and secured to the mules.”
“Keep the rifles and a few ammunition magazines out so we can carry them while we’re walking,” Abdul Latif ordered, before re-entering the house to take another look at the map he’d brought from Arif’s. Abdul Latif mulled over the idea of not following the prescribed route, at least not at the beginning. The clear weather seemed as if it might hold and it would mean saving a day if they took a more westerly route that was only feasible in good weather. Besides, he had no relish for spending the night in a cave.
Oblivious to the nuances of tactical navigation, Sikander simply absorbed the scene. A rare sight for him, the sky was deep blue and cloudless, lacking all trace of the haziness that perpetually hung over the streets of Peshawar and Hayatabad.
With AK-47s in hand, Abdul Latif and his sons and nephews finally felt as if they were fully clothed. The Pashtuns’ relationship with their weapons was unique. Being without a firearm was like wearing a suit but no socks to a New York business meeting. It wouldn’t be nakedness, but the attire could hardly be described as complete. Not knowing how to use one, Sikander remained without a weapon. As if to compensate, having already strapped on his new Russian boots, he tied the sleeves of his nylon rain jacket around his waist, signaling his own intrepidity as a mujahid.
The packing was completed in short order. The travelers bid salaams to Khurram and his people and with Abdul Latif out in front carrying only his weapon, he and his troop, each leading one of the five mules, set off for the mountains. For the rest of the day, governed by the land’s contours, they would have to follow a meandering path but one that would lead them in a generally westward direction. With their backs to the Torkhum Road, they climbed over a small ridge behind the house and then along a trail with many switchbacks that would bring them down into a ravine to the northwest. “This will keep us lower and allow easier passage,” explained Abdul Latif.
Sikander’s mule was the roan, hauling the ammunition and two boxes of RPGs, about sixty kilograms in all. A remarkable animal, both curious and intelligent, she was well trained. He liked her distinctive pattern of colors, and named her Neela, the Urdu for “blue,” having already been inspired to name the gray-black mule Kala, or “black.”
Ninety minutes into their journey, with the sun overhead, they reached the bottom of the ravine, where there was a fast flowing stream. They stopped to rest and to sample the water, a cool and refreshing antidote for the heat of the early afternoon. The mules welcomed the brief respite, though there was plenty more stamina in them.
Abdul Latif pointed to his right. “We need to keep this cliff on our right and as we go round it we’ll begin climbing again to that ridge line in front of us,” he told Sikander. “Once we’re on top of the ridge, you’ll be able to see on the other side a descent into a valley which will open onto a small plain.”
Sikander nodded, trying to appe
ar informed. The confident expressions on his young companions’ faces gave him more comfort. Abdul Latif went on to explain that they wouldn’t be sleeping in a cave outside Chenar but would stop for the night in the plain he’d mentioned, where there were several tiny villages whose names were not known to him but where he was sure they’d find shelter.
For a while the trail out of the valley widened and Ejaz called to Sikander to drop back alongside him. Moving side-by-side, the men kept mules on the outside and themselves next to each other between the mules. It was a basic rule offering a degree of protection. If someone were to attack, the animals would provide a modicum of cover, buying them precious seconds to address the threat.
While they hiked, Sikander engaged Ejaz in conversation. He learned of the Afghan resistance, experienced through Ejaz’s eyes and ears. Ejaz told him of the sad tragedy of the loss of their father and how he was now the nominal head of the family though, of course, he always deferred to his more experienced uncle who had, after all, lost a brother. Ejaz was still pained by the loss but was proud to describe the events leading to his father’s death. The survivors of Zhawar that had also been part of the same Hezb-e-Islami Khalis mujahideen had related them to him.
Ejaz always spoke thoughtfully and there was something of a lyrical slant to his Pashto delivery. He described the abundant fields of his home village fed by the stream flowing out of the nearby mountains. He explained how many of the same fields had been bombed and were now barely arable. He also described the stunning beauty of the Spin Ghar and how the mountains formed a wall that often sheltered the Laghar Juy region from the more aggressive winds out of the south, making it, when not ravaged by war, a pleasant place to live.
Sikander asked him how the family had coped with the passing of his father. He told of how his mother always beamed with pride when talking about her late husband, but in truth her grief lingered more intensely than she let on. Alone, she often succumbed to bouts of silent weeping, typically into the night after isha. Although she plainly hadn’t intended for her children to feel her pain, she was not very successful at hiding it.
Ejaz also spoke of his sister, Rabia, who at sixteen was four years his junior, and how she always looked up to him especially after the passing of their father. She was intelligent and well read, though only in Pashto. Some of the men in Laghar Juy had frowned on the notion of girls doing anything but producing children and keeping house, but neither Abdus Sami nor Abdul Latif shared this view. Rather than a modern concern for gender equality, from their perspective, literate girls and women were a social necessity and actually something their Islamic ideals demanded of them. Periodically, it caused tensions in the community, but rarely spawned any crisis.
The trail narrowed, forcing Sikander to fall back behind Ejaz. He could see that they were headed toward a saddle feature on top of the ridge ahead of them. To the left of it was the rest of the ridge, stretching southeast for over a kilometer. To the right was an incline consisting mostly of crumbled scree and then a rock face that rose almost two hundred and fifty meters. The winding trail led to the lowest point of the saddle, the best place to pass over the ridge.
As they approached it, they continued gaining elevation. Looking back toward their point of departure, from where Sikander stood, he could make out in the distance the hazy air over Peshawar and the meandering gray ribbon of the Torkhum Road coming out of Jamrud. The previous night’s staging house was not visible, being hidden by the jutting mountain wall around which they had been climbing. To his left, however, the view was breathtaking. Somewhere in the haze was his hometown, awaking in Sikander, memories of his mother’s impassioned pleas the previous day. He earnestly hoped that Javed would get over any remorse he might be feeling, and focus instead on solving the business crisis. Thoughts spilled into emotion. Sikander struggled to contain the wetness in his eyes, frequently wiping them with his free hand. He was thankful for the noise of feet and hooves up ahead, rendering his emotional lapse mercifully inaudible.
The travelers coalesced at the top of the saddle. As promised, the location provided an excellent though worrisome perspective of the downward slopes into the plain in front of them. Sikander had little idea of how that descent would even be possible, but his trust in his companions was complete. Under melmasthia, he was in their care.
Abdul Latif allowed them only a brief rest before they were on their feet beginning the descent into the plain. The ridge, now behind them, permitted one final glance back toward Peshawar before eventually blocking off any further view of the city. When the moment came, Sikander was consumed by feelings of severance and anticipation. As much as he wondered when he might again lay eyes on his home and family, his eagerness to learn what lay ahead remained. They stopped twice to rest before completing the descent by four in the afternoon. The going became a lot easier once they were on the plain. A narrow river ran through it, which they followed for about a kilometer until they came upon a small village.
The villagers were Aka Khel Afridis—feud-rivals of the much larger Adam Khel—and were not readily hospitable to people emerging from Adam Khel territory. But Abdul Latif knew one of their senior regional chieftains, Khan Jehangir Sultan, reasonably well and if he could invoke his protection he was sure that these people would not hold his emerging from rival territory against him. Besides, being a Shinwari he had no particular feud with the Aka Khel. To everyone’s relief, Jehangir was well known in the village and once the connection was established, the villagers shifted from their hesitant posture to a more welcoming one, though they still showed a disturbing interest in the cargo of weapons.
Only by reminding the villagers of their shared hatred of the Soviets, invoking Jehangir’s name, making a thousand-rupee “gift” from Sikander’s still intact stash, and speaking with a forceful voice conveying the confidence of someone unafraid of his situation did Abdul Latif manage to achieve security for the group.
By the time he was done, they were so welcome that one of the members of the village jirga took the step of offering them an empty home in which to stay the night. He also invited them to dine with him and his family, which effectively sealed their protection. Abdul Latif had handled the situation as well as any career diplomat and had only to give up a thousand rupees of Sikander’s money in return.
I suppose they owe me now. At least I have something over them, Sikander mused with pride.
The group was taken to the home offered, unpacked, and after combining—as permitted for travellers—the midday zuhr with the mid-afternoon asr, they took a well-earned rest.
After maghrib, Sikander decided to step out for a stroll. The land cooled down quickly after sunset up here, and though it would be getting much colder later, at this time it was pleasant. As the evening drew on and the sky darkened, he was struck by the dazzling brilliance of the night’s stars. He was at least seven hundred meters higher up than in Peshawar and there was not a hint of dust in the air. It was as if Sikander was discovering the true nature of fresh air for the first time, having breathed in the exhaust fumes of Peshawar’s incessant traffic for a good part of his life. But it was the clarity of the night sky and for him, the unprecedented number of stars it permitted his seeing that made the greatest impact.
Just before eight o’clock, the travelers proceeded to the home of the village elder, a man of fifty-five years called Yaqub, who introduced the men to his three sons, one of whom, Aurangzeb, was about the same age as Abdul Majeed and Sikander. The two much younger ones, Nadeem and Sohail, bore resemblances to each other but not at all to Aurangzeb. As Sikander thought about this, he became aware of the soft chatter of the women of the household. They were preparing the meal. From where he was seated he could see into the back-room-cum-kitchen and although he tried not to draw attention to himself by staring too frequently or obviously in their direction, his seventeen male years hindered his efforts. Through a succession of glances, Sikander identified a young girl of about eighteen, an older woman of perhaps
thirty-two, and another older woman closer to Yaqub’s age. The back room was dimly lit with oil lanterns and further details were hard to make out.
“Hinna, bring in the food!” said Yaqub. “Our guests are hungry and tired.”
It was the young girl who carried out a large plate with lamb kebabs and another with steaming hot rice. She was not veiled in a head-to-toe burkha but had a shawl over her brown hair and a long red and blue tunic dress that was colorfully decorated. Sikander could see her natural beauty and clear complexion, but impossible to ignore, her eyes were her most striking feature.
A dance of stolen glances ensued. While Sikander discreetly examined her, the girl’s own blue-green eyes darted around the room, dwelling briefly on Ejaz and then Abdul Rahman, each of whom quickly looked away, embarrassed that she had caught them almost staring at her. As she set the plates down on the floor where everyone was seated cross-legged on a large blue and orange wool Bokhara rug, her eyes met Sikander’s and then Saleem’s, returning finally to Ejaz. She smiled nervously, and though it was hard for Sikander to draw away his gaze, his sensibilities kept him from ogling.
Yaqub observed the young men, unable to repress a smile. As Hinna was leaving the room, he felt compelled to reveal that she had woven the rug on which they were sitting. Abdul Latif complemented Yaqub on having such a fine and skilled daughter, causing the retreating Hinna to blush visibly. It would have been quite improper for any of the young men to offer the same comment, but the chances of that were negligible. None of them had paid attention to Yaqub’s words.
On Hinna’s heels came the woman in her early thirties, with a large dish of lentils and a plate piled high with goat-buttered naan bread. She was likewise dressed in a tunic with a little less decoration, and wore a shawl drawn over her head but one with a large overhang almost hiding her face.
SIkander Page 6
