“I believe we should go with you to Qunduz and remember Allah. He will be the one to protect us and get us there, if we truly believe in his power. Our wits are to be used until we have exhausted them. If we get through, then it will be by his will. If not, then as long as we made our best effort, we must be at peace in the knowledge that all outcomes belong to Allah and the fates of all of us belong to him.”
No one could disagree. Sikander looked at Saleem, whose eyes were closed as he took in his wife’s words. He was consumed by guilt at having been a party, in whatever small way, to the tragedy now befalling all of humanity. What his wife had said, without openly insulting her husband, simply reminded them all that the Taliban calamity was itself a divinely ordained trial.
With everyone settled on the Qunduz route Sikander felt that a plan to get there could now be described.
“All right, we can’t get there in time on foot. I agree with that. There are eight of us and if little Latifa can ride with one of the women, we’d need seven mules for riding. Allowing for another three for whatever light baggage we want to put on them, we could also rotate them with those we’d be riding on. That makes a total of ten. We have two so where can we get another eight?”
“A village not far from here…maybe fifteen kilometers, called Sharkanay, in the direction of Anarbagh, has a mule trader. Anyone in the village will direct you to him. A lot of people have been leaving the villages so there may be mules available.” Saleem said.
“Fine,” acknowledged Sikander. “Two of us should go with the mules we have. Abdul Majeed, can you come with me?”
“Let’s go now so we can be back this evening,” said Abdul Majeed as he arose. After the briefest of preparations, the two of them rode off. They made good time into Sharkanay, stopping en route for zuhr, then sought out the man with the mules. He had six. Although Sikander had been wise enough to bring both Pakistani rupees and U.S. dollars, he chose to offer ten thousand rupees, imagining a likely resentment toward the American currency at this time. The mule trader gladly accepted and explained that they might find more mules in Kamkay Kalay, which would not be a significant detour on their way back to Laghar Juy.
Trailing their newly acquired mules, Sikander and Abdul Majeed turned back for Laghar Juy, stopping in Kamkay to buy the last two. The seller wanted five thousand rupees for them, which, despite an argument from Abdul Majeed, Sikander was happy to pay. With the mules in tow, after a brief stop for asr, they were back by sunset.
Luckily, given the scarcity of intact high-value targets for the Northern Alliance, the bombing in this area had recently dwindled. All air defense targets had been demolished and there was little point in continued attacks unless it was in tactical support of the Northern Alliance’s ground forces. Even so, many air defense facilities had been so designated from information dating back to the Soviet era, but being typically located in populated areas the buildings in which they had been installed had either been repurposed for civilian activities, or fallen into disuse. Due largely to the use of satellite imagery or aerial photography without adequate ground-based human intelligence, there seemed little distinction in bombing priority between non-functioning facilities in otherwise occupied buildings and functioning ones. The resulting collateral damage took many more civilians lives than acknowledged in any news briefings. Whatever the circumstances governing choices of targets, Sikander and Abdul Majeed were spared the need to dodge any bombs.
At twilight on November 5, the family was ready to start out. After fajr, Sikander asked everyone to reconvene in Razya’s home for breakfast and to discuss the route and other details. When breakfast was over, while everyone was still seated on the floor, Sikander reached into his qamees’s deep side pocket to pull out the tightly folded map given to him by Junaid. He spread it out in the middle of the durree.
“We should all understand how we’re to get to Qunduz, but particularly Abdul Majeed and Saleem, in case anything should happen to either of you or me,” explained Sikander.
“We’ll go back the way we came the day before yesterday from Tora Bora.” He glanced toward Saleem and Abdul Majeed. “Once we get to Tangi Khola, we’ll head northwest toward Wazir and take the trail north from there to Zor Bazaar. We should eventually arrive at the bottom of the valley at Baghwanay. There, we turn west. Once we reach Ghare Kala we again go north to cut through a gap in the mountains. If we follow that trail for about nine kilometers, it will take us to the main Jalalabad-to-Kabul road.”
Sikander paused for questions and comments. Abdul Majeed and Saleem were the critical ones and they seemed to be clear. It was territory they were familiar with.
“Where next?” Abdul Majeed asked.
“We should have an easier time of it along that road but we need to stay well to the north of it because vehicles on it will be targets. Heading west we leave the road at Sorubi, near the lake of the Naglu Dam. We take the lake’s eastern shoreline and pick up the Nejrab River going north once again. That country is relatively easy going until we get just south of Nejrab village. That’s where we climb into the mountains and descend into the Panjshir Valley. We follow the Panjshir River, until we’re due north of Bagram, near Mahmud Raqi, right here,” explained Sikander, pointing to the map. “From there we cross over to Charikar and pick up the northbound highway out of Kabul. That’ll take us through more mountain passes to Pul-i-Khumri. As before, we’ll stay at the riverbank level away from the road. From Pul-i-Khumri, where the road forks, we follow the eastern branch toward Baghlan, and from there to Qunduz.”
“You seem to have this well covered, Sikander!” remarked Razya.
“This was the plan I entered the country with.” Sikander replied.
“What about timing?” Abdul Majeed asked.
“Good question, brother. I think we can get to Baghwanay by the end of today?” Sikander looked for and received nods from around the room.
“Right. From there to the lake at Sorubi should take us to the end of tomorrow, November sixth. On the seventh, we need to get about two-thirds of the way along the Nejrab, so that by the end of the eighth we can be in the mountain pass on our way to Charikar. The ninth should see us in Charikar, and by the tenth, we should be as far as the Salang Tunnel en-route to Pul-i-Khumri. For the eleventh, we should be at about where the road takes a sharp turn to the west, right here,” Sikander pointed, “and on the twelfth, I’d like us to be at Pul-i-Khumri. Allowing a couple of days from there, we should make Qunduz by the fourteenth.
“The airfield is to the south of the city on the east side of the main highway, so we won’t need to go as far as the city itself. If we’re lucky, Junaid will be there to confirm our legitimacy, but in any case, he gave me documents to use if need be.”
It remained to be seen if Sikander’s impressive grasp of Afghanistan’s geography extended to understanding the real terrain and whether or not he had described realistic goals. He planned on between twenty-five and thirty kilometers each day, which seemed a feasible distance if the animals could be rotated appropriately and were kept well watered and fed. Indeed, the plan’s maximum use of river valleys and the green zones surrounding them would afford some level of protection as well as fodder for the mules.
With these matters understood and gone over several times with Abdul Majeed and Saleem, the group set off from Laghar Juy. For Abdul Majeed and Razya’s benefit, and with Razya’s insistence that there would be no wailing or moaning, the family stopped once again to offer the Fatiha over Abdul Latif’s grave. Saleem and Abdul Majeed were too weary to oppose the women’s presence there.
With the grave solemnly visited, their departure from Laghar Juy began in earnest. Sikander asked Abdul Majeed to take the lead with Razya and Noor behind him. Fatima came next, then Saleem and Amina. He planned to float from the front to the back and signal as needed to indicate if it was safe to keep moving. Razya and Noor wept softly inside their burkhas as they occasionally stole a glance back upon the village, ironically a haven
in war and a place of family strife in such peace as Afghanistan had seen since the Soviet departure. A palpable sense of sundering tore at them. Everything that had defined who they had been until now—their memories, hopes, dreams, even their fears—all of it was being abandoned.
Khan. My love. Stand watch over it! Stand watch as you did so well in life. We’re leaving, but you know that Laghar Juy will forever be yours. Yours until Qiyaamah! Razya prayed as her tearful ride took her out of sight of the village for the last time.
Apart from the rumbling thunder of the bombs in the distance, the going was quiet. They easily reached Baghwanay in eight-and-a-half hours, taking frequent rests by the side of numerous streams. It didn’t take long to find an abandoned home in which to spend the night. Better still, they were able to scavenge a little food and even a box of matches.
Early the next morning the group entered the narrow pass that would lead them north to the Jalalabad-to-Kabul road. As they neared the road in the afternoon, the bomb craters and debris were so numerous that they had to weave around them. Wreckage was strewn along the road into the distance in both directions. An occasional jet could be heard screaming overhead, prompting them instinctively to take whatever cover they could.
In an odd way, however, being openly visible and not in vehicles made them less likely targets. The bright blue shuttlecock burkhas worn by the women vividly telegraphed to pilots that theirs was a non-combatant family group, and no threat to anyone.
By evening on the second day they left the main highway to go north into Sorubi, where they rested. On the third day, they headed up the Nejrab river valley, remaining close to the water’s edge and venturing toward the road only if an impassable obstacle made it worth the risk. Progress was again good as the bombing had either subsided or was too far away to be heard. Either way, the hideous sounds had become inaudible, and with the noise not dominating anyone’s consciousness, they found the opportunity to chat. On one such occasion, with Saleem out in front, Sikander decided to ride between Noor and Razya. Noor spoke first.
“Sikander, I haven’t thanked you for thinking of us. JazaakAllah.”
“Adey,” he responded. “How could it be otherwise? Rabia and I, we miss you and the family.”
“Yes, I suppose that must be true. But don’t you blame us for not accepting your offer to come and stay in Pakistan?” she probed.
“Not at all, Adey! Who could possibly have known that things would come to this? The very people who helped us rid the country of Russians, then abandoned us, now…” Sikander had to pause as a Super Hornet screamed up the valley, “…attack us,” he said, craning his neck skyward to follow it flying off to the north.
“How are Ayub and Qayyum?” asked Noor, defiantly preferring to ignore the jet. She was tired of having her reactions dominated by events and was determined to behave the way she wanted.
“Adey, if you could see them now!” Sikander explained, feeling the void of being without them. “Ayub is going to a great school and doing very well. He’s definitely Rabia’s offspring, if you understand my meaning.”
Noor and Sikander chuckled. “Qayyum has Atiya, his Afghan nanny, to look after him and he’s just started to look at picture books.”
Noor could see the love for his family that flowed from Sikander. It made her reflect that her own love for Saleem could not be diminished despite her strong disapproval of his ways as a member of the Taliban.
By the end of November 7, the group was near the northernmost end of the Nejrab Valley, just south of the village that shared its name with the river.
Latifa was a remarkably easy child to bring along and didn’t do much complaining aside from being scared by low flying aircraft, as they often came up the valley. The night was cold and even though they took shelter in a natural bluff against the wind coming down the valley, they needed a fire and their blankets.
The sun came over the crest of the far side of the river valley the following morning. Once it cleared the ridgeline it warmed the air enough to motivate everyone to ready themselves for the day’s trek. The group hadn’t been going for very long when they came upon the expected trail rising up away from the Nejrab and into the hills to their west. It was to lead them into the Panjshir Valley and thence to Charikar. It began with a narrow ravine, about four kilometers long and at the far end, past a saddle in the hills, was the Panjshir River, which coursed westward ahead of them. The climb was fairly steep to begin with but became quite passable after about half a kilometer, and although a few switchbacks had to be taken, they were soon up on the high ground and gazing back for the last time upon the beautiful green valley of the Nejrab. Meandering serenely, its waters stood in stark contrast to the turbulent time and space through which they flowed.
Sikander was out in the lead by about half a kilometer. Abdul Majeed talked with Fatima while Razya held Latifa on her lap. As the terrain became rougher, there was considerably more jostling than previously. Latifa giggled every time she and Razya bounced together on the back of the mule. Unable to do otherwise, Razya laughed along with her and the amusement didn’t take long to infect the rest of the group.
“Do you see how happy she is at these saddest of times, Abdul Majeed?” asked Fatima.
“Of course I do,” replied her husband, picking up on the wistfulness of Fatima’s comment.
“Do you think if she knew what life will be like for her she would want to continue?” asked Fatima.
“How do you mean?” Abdul Majeed asked sharply.
“Well, let me see. She’ll get to the age of eight and then you will bring her out of all meaningful contact with anyone and she will be kept at home without any schooling. Am I right?”
“Yes…and…no,” replied Abdul Majeed. “Islam prohibits women from traveling unaccompa—”
“No,” interrupted Fatima. “The principle is that women mustn’t travel unaccompanied for journeys lasting more than a certain time—and by tradition, it’s the distance covered in three days and three nights. An idiot can see that this would hardly be the case for going to and from school, so there was never a need to restrict girls in this way, was there?”
“But the ‘ulema say that the rulings are for any amount of time,” Abdul Majeed offered meekly.
“Not all or even most ‘ulema have come to that destructive conclusion, Abdul Majeed,” Fatima persisted. “And that misunderstanding will cost our people dearly when this generation of girls grows up. They’ll be women with no idea how to convey any wisdom or knowledge to their children.” Fatima struck her final jab. “And that’s our ideal outcome for Latifa is it?”
“But Mullah Omar said—”
“Please,” retorted Fatima impatiently. “He himself denies being a mullah. He’s even acknowledged that he didn’t finish his own schooling at the madrassah. It’s why you call yourselves the Taliban, after all.”
Abdul Majeed fell silent. He would sooner have faced a Russian helicopter.
By nightfall, the travelers reached a point about ten kilometers north of the sprawling Bagram air base. They had left the Panjshir Valley and were thankful for having avoided Northern Alliance troops.
As November 9 emerged out of the night and dawn spread its familiar crack in the blackness, the group arose and performed the fajr prayer before resuming the trek. Sikander was out in the lead when in the distance to the southwest, he saw a pillar of dense smoke painted against the gradually brightening sky. The windless dawn air let it stand vertical and undisturbed—a thick, black exclamation mark, eloquently punctuating the collective scream of a war-ravaged landscape. Its dot was a bombed out oil truck, still burning from the previous evening.
Sikander made a spirited effort to resist the urge to process the bomb’s tragedy in human terms. He tried imagining a driverless gasoline truck winding its way to Bagram and being taken out. He failed. Surreally, Sikander began dissecting the moment of the explosion and how the wave of pressure must have buckled the metal of the truck. He imagined the fi
nal moment of consciousness of the driver and the one before that. And the one after. He imagined how the driver’s vaporization would have allowed him neither awareness nor preparation for his imminent oblivion. One moment he existed. The next, he didn’t. By that grotesque measure, the driver might even have been considered “lucky.”
Before the image could settle too deeply into Sikander’s mind, they were on the move again. Abdul Majeed took point duty. Sikander took up position between the two matriarchs, and Saleem kept Amina and Fatima company. The thunderclap explosions resumed, providing fresh impetus for the group to keep moving so that the sound might weaken and hopefully disappear altogether. But as long as they were traveling west toward the main highway, Kabul would continue to dog them with its rumblings from a roughly constant forty kilometers away.
To keep his companions distracted from the sounds of the bombing, Sikander talked to them about life back home in Peshawar. He liked to describe his parents and especially how much he’d learned from his father after returning from Afghanistan. Noor seemed particularly interested in Sikander’s descriptions of his business. Naturally concerned for her daughter’s financial security, she eventually succumbed to her curiosity.
“How much money do you make in a month, Sikander?”
In upper-middle-class Pakistani society, patterned in many respects on Western cultural norms, this was not a common question and would certainly have seemed rude. Yet for more down-to-earth people it was not intended to be jarring or insulting and was considered in some ways about as polite as asking after one’s health.
“Adey, I suppose I could never say I make enough,” replied Sikander, chuckling and hoping to deflect the earnestness of the question with his plainly unskilled humor.
Noor persisted, puzzled by Sikander’s evasiveness. When he relented and revealed his income, she became pleased and silent. Sikander couldn’t observe the former but the silence drew him to respond.
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