“Qala-i-Jangi,” Persian for “fortress of war,” was sadly living up to its name, far beyond anything ever dreamed of by its long-dead creators. Guards were at the perimeter two kilometers away, which was where the truck carrying Sikander came to a rest.
“Foreigners from Qunduz,” declared the truck driver with about the same matter-of-fact tone as if he’d been describing a haul of rice.
“You can’t bring them here now,” came the response from the Northern Alliance guard.
“What then?” asked the driver testily. He was tired and in no mood to mess around. With all that he could see going on, it wasn’t hard to accept a new destination, but he still needed to know where to go.
“Wait there,” replied the guard, before disappearing to talk on the radio. After a few minutes he came back.
“Sheberghan,” shouted the guard. “Take them to Sheberghan. American Special Forces are there and they’ll know what to do with your cargo.”
Uttering Dari profanities, the driver rolled up the window, reversed out of the fort area, and drove on. He cursed the guard, cursed Dostum, then Bush and Bin Laden for his need to remain awake to take his haul another eighty kilometers from Qala-i-Jangi. Inside the container, in the pitch-blackness dotted by thirteen ultra-faint whispers of moonlight, Sikander heard moans and groans but the container was quieter than it had been earlier. He was parched and struggled to remain conscious. He also feared that his internal wound might have reopened as he could feel wetness on the front of his qamees. Slowly, the whispers of light from the now almost full moon coming through the bullet holes turned orange-pink before becoming white. It was daybreak. The sun was up when the truck finally came to a rest at Sheberghan prison. The door seal was broken and the doors swung open.
To the Northern Alliance fighters and the American Special Forces soldiers it was as if they had moved a rock to reveal disgusting insects scurrying in response to the sudden exposure to air and light. The creatures inside began to stir. Some had been lying, some sitting, some on top of others, and some unconscious with their heads against the metal walls of the container. Out of the truck came the stench of death, vomit, urine, and other indescribably foul smells. Sikander could see blood smeared over the front of his qamees. Mercifully, it wasn’t from his wounds. Several bodies were randomly scattered among the living, with no pose unique to either condition. Only the glazed and ghastly open stare of the eyes of the dead gave them away. After taking a moment to get over the shocking sight, the guards began dragging the prisoners out of the container.
“That’s all?” asked one of the American paramilitaries, quickly covering his nose and mouth with his one free hand.
“Yes,” replied the Uzbek officer accompanying him. “These are from Qunduz. They should have been deposited at Qala-i-Jangi, but…well, you know what’s happening there.”
“Yeah…raghead bastards!” uttered the paramilitary as he told the others to drag them out and take the dead and dying away into the desert southwest of Sheberghan to bury them. “Take the walking ones inside. We’ll hold ‘em here until we figure out what to do.” The man turned to address the prisoners. “Down!” he yelled in Pashto. Sikander finally stepped out into the almost blinding light.
However brief that moment of fresh air, Sikander savored every millisecond of it. He was barely able to move and as he shuffled toward the building into which they were being led, he began to cough and saw a fresh stain forming on his qamees. This time it was from inside. He staggered for a while and was caught by an Uzbek guard as he began sinking to the ground.
“He needs attention!” said the guard, looking in the direction of an American soldier. The soldier paused for a moment, then calmly strolled toward Sikander. Being with Special Ops, he had a Kalashnikov, and used its muzzle to lift up Sikander’s qamees. The wound and dressing were plainly visible. Without a word, he gestured to the guard to walk Sikander over to the prison hospital.
The battle of Qala-i-Jangi continued raging throughout that day and for a few more. Eventually eighty-five surviving prisoners from among the hundreds that had been brought there surrendered one more time as they were without weapons, ammunition, and food. Now they were systematically being flooded while occupying the basement of the fort’s armory. It was from this group that the so-called American Taliban, John Walker Lindh, emerged with a wound to the leg and was taken back to the United States for recovery, detention, and trial.
From the moment Junaid had shown up at Sikander’s home without him, everyone was plunged into anguish over the fate of the head of their household. Rabia was too distraught for words, consumed by her own sense of culpability. She had felt a foreboding from the very outset of Sikander’s mention of the adventure and now her worst fears were being realized. Indeed, Sikander’s absence was made all the more acute by the ordinarily joyous month of Ramadhan, amplifying her misery along with everyone else’s.
Living in Hayatabad, Junaid often came to visit them. His membership of the ISI gave him a better grasp of things and that provided some comfort to Sikander’s family. One of his sources was Arif. Not long after his return to Pakistan, Junaid went up to see Arif in Jamrud. Arif had his ear to the ground for all kinds of news and information that wasn’t to be found on CNN or the BBC. He was disappointed to learn of Sikander’s disappearance, but like many people who knew Sikander, Arif seemed to believe that the young man’s resourcefulness would probably see him through. He was, however, devastated to learn of the death of Abdul Latif. The two had known each other for more than twenty years, since the Soviet invasion back in 1979. Still, he marveled at learning of the manner of his friend’s passing, which he, and just about anyone else who heard of it, could only describe as enviable.
A week passed and the news from Afghanistan was bad. The uprising at Qala-i-Jangi was all over the media. At one and the same time, in grim antisymmetry, it revealed the first American combat casualty and the emergence of an American Taliban. A less well-known fact was that the uprising and the many subsequent suffocation deaths among the container loads of prisoners largely involved men who had surrendered in Qunduz.
Junaid was at Sikander’s home visiting when CNN first broke the news of the battle. Rabia pressed him into confirming her grasp of what was being shown. She simply couldn’t continue watching it without becoming frenzied from imagining the worst for her beloved husband.
“It’s a massacre,” said Junaid softly, shaking his head in disgust. “It looks like things got out of control in the prison yesterday. That’s where the Taliban captives from Qunduz had been taken. Several… several hundred Taliban have been killed, and the battle’s still going on.” Each word pierced his soul.
Sikander, why did you listen to me!? Ya Allah bring him back—just…just bring him back! Rabia half prayed and half wept as her two young sons looked on. They missed their father too, but it was hard to watch their mother cry and berate herself. Rabia arose to escape into the lounge. Junaid and Sofie followed.
“We don’t know anything about where he is, whether he left Qunduz before the surrender. Even if he remained, he’s a strong and intelligent enough person, Rabia,” said Junaid reassuringly. “He’ll get himself out of trouble. Don’t worry so.”
“Junaid bhai, what can we do? What can we do? There has to be something?” implored Rabia through her tears.
Sofie placed a tender, supportive hand on her daughter-in-law’s shoulder. “Rabia, Junaid bhai’s right. We have to be patient and pray to Allah, who listens even more intently to worthy individuals in Ramadhan. Pray for his safe return.”
Jamil called out from beyond the lounge. He and Kausar, were just leaving the TV room: “Sameena’s here.”
Sameena drove in through the front gate together with husband, Wasim. “Assalaamu ‘alaykum!” she called out as she hurried into the lounge to sit with the others. Sameena had met Junaid on one of his earlier visits and tipped her head toward him in a gesture of greeting. She saw Rabia’s wet cheeks and approached h
er for a sympathetic hug.
“Rabia bhabhi!” offered Sameena. “Look, I may have some good news,” she added cautiously, speaking in English. Her time studying at the LSE, coupled with the near constant use of it in her father-in-law’s family home, made it her preferred medium and she felt a certain bond with Rabia through the language.
Rabia suspended her whimpering, adopting a hopeful expression as she wondered what news Sameena might have and how it might relate to Sikander. “News?” she asked, sniffling.
“Well, you remember my father-in-law knows Gen…um…President Musharraf well, and when he heard what had happened in our family he thought to ask Musharraf if he could pass along the query about Sikander bhai.”
“What do you think can be done, Sameena?” asked Sofie. Overhearing the conversation, Jamil entered the lounge.
“I’m not exactly sure, but let’s say, for example, that he was captured. From what I’m able to learn, there seems to be a priority among the Americans to interrogate Pakistanis. Junaid bhai, you said he had a paper signed by you, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did,” said Junaid catching Sameena’s drift. “I did, and if they found that on him, at least it could confirm he’s one of Musharraf’s own people who failed to make the airlift. Perhaps if they take him into their custody there might be a chance to find him and have him returned to us, inshaAllah.”
“That’s right Junaid bhai,” replied Sameena. “So we have to get Musharraf to act. Please continue to pray for Sikander bhai to be alive and to return soon.”
Although this development offered hope, it challenged them to wait, monitor the news, and remain in touch with Wasim’s father. Throughout this time Sofie was a pillar of strength. She just knew her son was alive. The knowledge was deeply seated in her being. But for Rabia, still grief-stricken by the news a week earlier of her uncle’s death, the waiting and hoping were unbearable. She had to direct all her available effort to cling to hope; a hope that refused to be separated from thoughts of the terrible consequences of being dashed.
Chapter 16
Jahannam
SHOES TAPPING ON A hard concrete floor greeted Sikander’s emerging consciousness. The air was notably fresh. There was something important about that. Sikander couldn’t recall what it was, but as his head began to clear, the air’s essential contrast with what lurked in his mind triggered his recollection. He was immediately overcome by memories of a dark day, of evil blackness, accumulating death, and foul air. Sinister, stifling air. He wept into his pillow as he thought of young men, foreigners, mostly from Pakistan, who had surrendered themselves with naïve expectations. Along with the silent tears, his mind and spirit seemed to be draining away.
Adrift without anchor in either dimension, Sikander lacked any sense of time or space. It hadn’t been possible for the container occupants to overhear the new destination given to the truck driver during the night, and Sikander was beyond paying attention to any signs he might have seen as he staggered out of the container the following morning. All he could recall from that moment was a detached but misplaced euphoria from having survived. He struggled to move his head and saw several beds lining two walls of the room. The beds’ occupants appeared to be immobilized; amputees, people with splints and casts on their limbs, others with no obvious injury. Double swing doors, each with a round window, were in the middle of an end wall. From what he could see, he was in a hospital ward, and a very basic one at that. Still in a relative daze, through the glass in the doors he could make out guards. He let his head relax back into the pillow and fell asleep.
A couple of hours passed, when he was awoken. The focus of his opening eyes slowly settled on the weathered face of a middle-aged nurse who laid a tray on his bedside table with a simple meal of buttered bread and onions, before proceeding to change the dressing on his wound.
Wound. I have a wound, he thought. “Where? Where is this?”
With a troubled expression, she discreetly checked to her left and right, then whispered in Pashto, “Hospital. Sheberghan prison hospital.”
Sikander nodded his gratitude.
“You’ve been here two days,” she added. “Asleep mostly.”
Deprived of sleep on the way from Qunduz, Sikander had suffered further blood loss on top of his general weakness from the now two-week-old bullet wound.
Five days later, on December 2, Sikander had two visitors. They were American soldiers. Unlike Special Forces, these men wore the regular BDU. First Lieutenant Bryers was a white Anglo-Saxon with a long thin face and the slightest hint of freckles. He couldn’t have been much more than twenty-two, Sikander estimated. Captain Valdez, a Latino, was a thickset individual, about the same age and build as Sikander. His narrow eyes and downturned mouth projected earnestness.
“Is he coming?” Valdez asked Bryers.
“He’s on his way, sir.”
Sikander didn’t volunteer his knowledge of English until he could be confident of who these men were.
The doors swung again and another man in a U.S. military uniform came through. His name, surprisingly to Sikander, was Khan.
“Let’s get on with it, Lieutenant Khan. You know the routine. Name, where he was captured, and why he was there.” said Valdez.
Khan translated the questions into Pashto.
Well, look at you. Indian? Afghan? Maybe even Pakistani? Sikander reflected. He thought about whether or not to speak in English, but decided it would look bad if he didn’t. They didn’t seem in any mood to be played with.
Sikander shifted his gaze and locked eyes with Valdez: “My name is Khan. Sikander Khan. I was shot in Qunduz right at the beginning of Ramadhan. I was brought back to health by some people who sold me to one of your…your buyers. I’ve been in Afghanistan since the end of October trying to get my wife's family out of the country after you people began your bombing.”
Valdez’s eyes widened reflexively as he looked at Bryers. Lieutenant Khan stared at Sikander with a look of disdain, as if to ask why he and his ilk were so bent on bringing their name into disrepute by associating with terrorists.
“Well! Seems we have a brother or cousin o’ yours, lieutenant!” said Valdez, smiling. Khan didn’t respond. Valdez paused for a moment and with his eyes on Lieutenant Khan, waved his head in the direction of the doorway. The young lieutenant saluted and left without another word.
“Okay,” Valdez said, “I guess you can speak my language, Mister Khan. So, what are you going to tell me about the Taliban and al-Kayda?”
“Captain. I came to arrange for my wife’s family to come back with me to Pakistan, out of harm’s way. None of them are Taliban or al-Qaeda. They were from a village called Laghar Juy, which is south of Jalalabad in Nangarhar. We spent over ten days walking and riding by mule to get to Qunduz, where the Pakistani Air Force had arranged for some people to be flown to Pakistan. It was Musharraf”—he paused to regain the strength to continue—“Musharraf who arranged the airlift with your Vice President Cheney.”
“Mmhmm…” responded Valdez. “And how come they left you behind? Sounds as if your in-laws are like mine!” Valdez popped a chuckle amid the seriousness. “You people!” Valdez continued, shaking his head. “Each story’s wilder than the last guy’s! Creative though, I have to hand it you.” The cynical tone lingered another moment before Valdez adopted a more serious expression and continued. “Mr. Khan, from where I’m standing? Sounds like bullshit. Smells like bullshit.” Slowly, he leaned over the edge of the bed, his nose a few centimeters from Sikander’s. “You understand…” Valdez spliced the word, “…bull, shit?”
Pressing his head back into his pillow, Sikander gave a cautious nod. Valdez straightened, pondering for a moment.
“Okay. Suppose you’re right and you did come—like you said,” Valdez shrugged. “Why didn’t you stay with your friends?”
“I had taken our mules into Qunduz, expecting to sell all but one of them, get some food, and return to the airfield to my people so that—”
<
br /> “Food?” cut in Valdez with a frown. Sikander nodded. “Wasn’t it Ramadhan? I thought it was Ramadhan. Weren’t you all supposed to be fasting? Leaving that aside for a moment, if you were going to fly back to Pakistan, why did you need food? Didn’t you think there would be any on the flight? How long could the flight have been? It’s not real convincing, now. Y’hear what I’m sayin’?”
“Oh, no, for traveling Muslims it’s not required to fast,” replied Sikander. “And we’d last obtained food in Pul-i-Khumri, a couple of days earlier. The food ran out and we were hungry from the journey, before Ramadhan had started.”
“Hm. We can check on that, but I have to tell you, Mr. Khan, you’re not making a lot of sense right now. I mean, you’re picked up with a bullet wound in a major hotbed of fighting. Biggest damn surrender in this whole war’s taken place. You’re from the largest group of non-Afghan hostiles—Pakistanis—and you’re giving me this…this guacamole about rescuing in-laws from some village hundreds of miles away? Do us all a favor and tell me something I can hang my hat on!”
“Captain, I’m Sikander Khan. I have a business in Peshawar called Javelin, and—”
“Peshawar?
Sikander nodded.
“Okay. Tell me, Mr. Khan, you said your in-laws were from a village south of Jalalabad? If you’re from Peshawar, how in God’s name did you find someone to marry all the way out there?”
“It’s the truth, sir,” replied Sikander, struggling to avoid tearing up over the effort to be convincing.
“Oh. The truth,” replied Valdez, nodding with raised eyebrows in mock acceptance of appearing to have absorbed something of significance. “Well, let me see,” he began counting on his fingers, “you’re in Kundooz, you’re with none of the people you say you were traveling with, you have a bullet wound, you’ve confessed to being Pakistani. Want me to go on?” asked Valdez pointedly.
SIkander Page 40
