East of Hounslow

by Khurrum Rahman

  There was no doubt whatsoever who I was staring at. I had‚ for reasons unknown to me‚ been granted an audience with the one they called The Teacher.

  I tried to force myself to eat‚ but I knew I wouldn’t be able to stomach it and it would ultimately come out the same way it had gone in. The quality of the food‚ and the fact that I was sitting with Terrorist Royalty‚ made it feel very much like the last meal afforded to a prisoner before his execution.

  ‘You can eat it later‚ if you’d prefer. Back in your quarters‚’ he said. I released a much needed and pretty obvious sigh of relief.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I asked‚ making the briefest eye contact with him.

  ‘Of course not‚ Javid. My appearance does not make for the perfect dinner companion.’

  ‘No... It’s not that. I’m just not very hungry.’ He looked at the tower of meat on my plate and smiled. ‘I... Um... Where am I?’ I asked‚ timidly.

  ‘It doesn’t matter‚’ he said. He glanced around at all the various beverages on the table and reached for the jug of lassi. And then‚ with a change of heart and seemingly without reason‚ he imparted: ‘Afghanistan... In a place called Khost.’ He poured himself a glass and topped mine.

  I ran it around my head a few times‚ committing it to memory. At the same time‚ I couldn’t help but wonder why he was openly telling me. Maybe because I would never have the opportunity to tell a soul. And now that he had started divulging he couldn’t seem to stop.

  ‘I bide my time on the border‚ we have locations in Parun‚ Asadabad and Gardez.’

  I now knew enough about his movements to bring a lot of heat his way. If I’d been bought there because they had found out who I was working for‚ then they would never have let me leave with that knowledge. I briefly thought about jumping up and running for my life‚ past the mountains and into whatever lay beyond. I’m pretty fast‚ and he’d seen better days‚ so I was confident that I could outrun him. But a man like that was bound to have guards nearby‚ and getting caught would have been inevitable. So instead I conserved my energy and nodded accordingly‚ all the while making mental notes.

  He stopped talking and sipped on his lassi. I picked up my drink and sipped along with him. We both placed our glasses down and simultaneously‚ using the back of our hand‚ wiped the milky moustaches off our faces.

  ‘Have you any idea who I am?’ he asked.

  ‘Some.’

  ‘My name is Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚’ he said. ‘I am affectionately known as Al-Mudarris‚ or The Teacher.’ He blinked.

  ‘Are you going to kill me?’ I blurted.

  He laughed. A familiar laugh. Toothy and broad. It lit up his fucked up face. ‘Why would you think that‚ Javid?’ he smiled‚ a hint of sarcasm present.

  ‘I was kidnapped. Hit with a butt of a rifle and bundled into a car‚’ I said‚ seeing his sarcasm and raising it. There was something about him‚ and after every passing minute in his company‚ I started to feel a little comfortable‚ as though I didn’t have to be on my guard with him. He had a certain way about him.

  ‘Rest assured.’ He placed his palms flat on the table and leaned in. At that moment it felt like he and I were the only people in the world. He lowered his tone. ‘No further harm will come to you. My men are paranoid‚ they did not want to reveal my exact location to you.’

  ‘But... You did‚’ I said.

  ‘Because‚ Javid. I trust you.’ He shrugged‚ it was a good shrug‚ nonchalant. Big enough to be noticed‚ without appearing overblown. It was natural. Fitting. It was…

  I instantly broke out into a cold sweat. The colour drained from my face.

  Once again my world tilted.

  ‘Mustafa tells me that you have had some problems settling in with the exercises.’ He continued‚ obliviously. ‘Tomorrow‚ you will accompany me to Nangharhar. I want to show you something which I believe will help you to focus.’

  I could hear him‚ but it was like he was talking very‚ very slowly‚ underwater‚ his words fading away before reaching me. My shoulders felt heavy‚ as though a small child was clinging on to my back‚ forcing me down into my chair. For the first time I looked past his spoiled face and saw him properly. My eyes travelled down to his feet‚ they were crossed at the ankles‚ like mine were. His palms flat against the table‚ as mine were‚ his physique‚ his posture‚ a mirror image. I recoiled back into my seat as if I had just taken a bullet.

  The expert shrug. The toothy‚ broad smile.

  All this time I had been wrong. How could I have been so fucking wrong?

  Imam Adeel-Al-Bhukara did not send me to attend the training camp because he saw my father in me. He did so because Abdullah Bin Jabbar personally wanted me here.

  The Teacher‚ AKA Al-Mudarris‚ AKA Abdullah Bin Jabbar was actually Inzamam Qasim.

  AKA Dad.

  63

  I was led to my quarters for the night. A hastily built brick hut. It was cool‚ thanks to the table fan‚ and had enough amenities‚ including a half-decent rubber shower‚ to get me through my stay. I had taken a bottle of water out of the mini cooler and sat on the bed‚ looking out of the cracked plastic window‚ watching the sun dip and the moon rise‚ with only myself and my thoughts for company.

  I hadn’t divulged my revelation to Abdullah Bin Jabbar. It wasn’t because I had any doubts‚ but because‚ really‚ what could I say?

  Why did you leave us? We needed you.

  Why did you choose this life over the life of being a Dad‚ my Dad?

  I hate you‚ I love you‚ I have no feelings towards you.

  Let’s go play some catch‚ maybe kick a fucking ball about.

  Hang on‚ Dad. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?

  Seriously‚ what? What the fuck could I have said? The synapses in my brain snapped‚ sending what felt like small electrical shocks through my mind. I wanted to throttle him‚ I wanted to embrace him. I wanted to kiss him‚ I wanted to spit in his face. Every thought contradicting‚ I threw my head in my hands and I used every ounce of strength not to cry. There was no way that I was going to shed a tear for that man. He was a terrorist‚ a fucking monster. He wasn’t my Dad.

  Except he was.

  After I had made that connection‚ he must have noticed the change in my demeanour‚ but he wasn’t Dad enough to work out what it was – Mum would have sussed it straight away – instead he said that I looked tired and that I should get some rest‚ maybe an early night.

  How fucking paternal of him.

  I woke up feeling strong‚ with a new resolve. I took a shower and looked around for my clothes. They had been taken and replaced by a green canvas bag‚ from which I fished out my passport‚ a wooden toothbrush and my worst nightmare‚ a brilliant white cotton shalwar and kameez. There was a harsh rap on my door followed by a raspy voice. ‘Wake‚ Zohar Prayers‚ five minoots.’

  I did my business‚ uncomfortably‚ in a hole in the floor‚ and then I carried out Wudu and stepped outside into the blinding sun. There were lots of men milling about‚ all nonchalantly carrying rifles‚ just like me and you would carry our phones. One of them approached me. I recognised him as one of the four who had smacked my head with the rifle.

  ‘Javid Qasim‚’ he beamed‚ checking out my outfit. ‘Look like pure Afghani‚ Mashallah. My name Haqani. Come.’

  He was there too. He had on mirrored aviator sunglasses which‚ coupled with the state of his face‚ made him look like a super villain straight out of a comic book. He acknowledged me with a nod of his dead head‚ and continued to converse with two men. One held an umbrella over him to provide shade‚ and another took notes on an iPad.

  Two rows of ten prayer mats were being laid out on the floor‚ and as the call for prayers rang out‚ everybody with a weapon removed them and placed them in a gun rack and observed the Azaan respectfully in silence.

  Everybody took their places on the mat; the front centre was reserved for Bin Jabbar. I waited for ever
yone to take their place and I took position in the last available spot. Bin Jabbar looked back over his shoulder and spotted me. He whispered something to the man next to him‚ the one with the iPad. He looked crestfallen as he left his spot‚ and approached me with a forced smile.

  ‘Al-Mudarris has requested that you join him for prayer next to him‚’ he said‚ in a clipped English accent.

  I weaved my way through the twenty strong congregation and stood next to Bin Jabbar without acknowledging him. As the prayers started I found myself‚ despite myself‚ inching closer to him. Our elbows brushed and our shoulders touched as we bowed down to Allah.

  Prayers finished and as the mats were being taken away‚ a white Mercedes pulled up – the same one which I had been brought in‚ I recognised the little window curtains. The door opened and the driver gave the keys to Haqani. The man with the umbrella escorted Bin Jabbar to the car and opened the door for him. Haqani motioned for me to jump into the front seat as iPad got into the back. Haqani started the car and the AC kicked in immediately‚ seeping some much needed cold air through my kameez. There was some discussion in Farsi coming from the back‚ followed by a tut and a sigh. Then iPad got out and opened my door. He inclined with his head for me to sit in the back‚ his frustration evident.

  Little did he know that a father wanted to sit with his son.

  Fuck‚ I had to stop thinking like that!

  Haqani slipped the car into gear and spun off‚ driving like a man on a mission.

  ‘Are you alright‚ Javid?’ Bin Jabbar asked‚ concerned by the nauseated look on my face. ‘Haqani‚ drive slowly.’ Haqani slowed down a touch. ‘You have to forgive him‚ he has somewhat of a manic disposition.’ Bin Jabbar then said something else to him in Farsi; it sounded like an instruction.

  ‘I very sorry‚ Javid‚’ Haqani said. ‘I hit you on head with rifle very hard. Many sorry.’

  ‘Yeah‚’ I said‚ rubbing the back of my head. ‘It’s all right‚ man. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Latif. The itinerary‚ please‚’ Bin Jabbar requested. He seemed to be enjoying showing me that he was in full charge.

  Latif consulted his iPad. ‘We should be arriving at Nangarhar in just over four hours. We are invited for a meal insisted on and provided by the Mehnaz family at their home at 5 p.m‚ after which you will have some down time. At 8 p.m. a car will pick you up and take you to an airfield in Kabul where a plane will be fuelled and ready to fly you to…’ Latif turned in his seat and eyed me before looking uncertainly at Bin Jabbar.

  ‘It’s okay‚ Latif. You may speak freely.’

  Latif’s eyes registered confusion‚ but he faced forward again and cleared his throat.

  ‘You will fly north to Shibirghan to oversee the testing of remote explosive devices.’

  64

  It wasn’t quite Beatle-mania‚ but it was close. As soon as Abdullah Bin Jabbar stepped out of the car‚ people seemed to gravitate towards him. Quickly building in momentum until he was surrounded by a crowd of fifty… sixty… seventy. They cried‚ they laughed‚ they begged for help. Haqani moved quickly to isolate him from the crowd. He seemed practised at it‚ but Bin Jabbar put a stop to it. I got the distinct feeling that he wanted me to witness the adulation.

  I separated myself from it‚ not giving him the satisfaction‚ and took in the landscape. It was a sight to behold. In front of me a large lake led up to a sequence of breathtaking‚ snow-topped limestone mountains‚ disappearing into the skies. They looked too beautiful to be here‚ as if they had been picked up by a giant hand and mistakenly positioned in this place. Because behind me‚ all I saw was devastation.

  ‘I once lived in those mountains‚’ Bin Jabbar said‚ now standing next to me. ‘It was home for me for a while.’

  Yeah‚ so was Hounslow.

  ‘But I had to keep moving. The Americans had located me.’

  ‘What happened?’ I turned to face him.

  ‘This happened.’ He spread out his arms to indicate the destruction around him. ‘Last month‚ two drone strikes hit the Nangarhar province. I and thirty of my men were the target‚’ he said‚ pointing at the mountains. ‘Two of my men were crushed by falling rock. The rest of them‚ they managed to escape by boat‚ here. In this small village called Hisarak.’

  ‘You weren’t here‚’ I said‚ without question.

  ‘No.’ Guilt crossed his face. ‘I was in Jalalabad.’

  ‘You knew it was coming.’

  He nodded‚ grimly. ‘The information that I received was not reliable. The dates were incorrect. I didn’t have sufficient time to organise evacuation.’

  ‘You said there were two strikes.’

  ‘Yes‚ right here‚ where we are standing. The Americans were not aware that I had escaped. Or… maybe they were aware.’ He shrugged. I looked away. ‘They released another drone‚ a direct hit into the village. Forty-seven lives perished. Fifteen of my men. The rest—’

  ‘Civilians.’

  ‘That’s a very cold term‚ Javid. They are not civilians‚ they are not numbers or statistics. They were residents‚ with homes‚ families‚ livelihoods. They had plans for the future. Not big plans like Mr and Mrs America‚ they had small plans. Getting through the day with enough to feed their family or to buy their child shoes and a third-class education. You see‚ Javid‚ this was always a poor village‚ which moved at a slow pace. This is not like Kabul‚ which could and has‚ to an extent‚ recovered from such an attack. Here the unintelligent lead the uneducated. I‚ we‚ helped fund this town.’ He pointed at a once-white‚ once-formed building‚ sliced and diced but still attempting to stand proudly amongst the rubble. ‘That was once a hospital. We enlisted good local men to build it‚ and we provided capable staff to run it. And when these good people needed a hospital the most…’

  *

  We headed towards what had been formerly known as the hospital. Haqani and Latif followed behind us‚ keeping their distance‚ reading the mood correctly and giving us room. We walked past homes in various states of disrepair‚ subsiding into the earth‚ windows smashed‚ front doors hanging off their frames.

  But the force of the impact had been felt most at the hospital.

  I carefully stepped amongst the rubble and gently touched what was left standing of the structure‚ scared that if I applied too much pressure it would come down around me. It felt cold to my skin as my palm moved across the surface. I could hear a thousand desperate screams piercing through my mind‚ visions of failed escape and trapped souls‚ wanting nothing more than to die instantly.

  ‘For most‚ death was immediate‚’ Bin Jabbar said‚ reading my thoughts. ‘For others it would have been a slow journey.’ He put his hand out and I couldn’t think of a reason to not take it. I placed my hand in his and he pulled me out of the ruins. ‘Times have changed. We live in a world filled with lies and hate.’ He continued as we moved slowly around the wreckage towards the back of the hospital. ‘There was a time where we would fight chest to chest‚ with nothing but guns and knives. Setting traps and seeking out the enemy. But those days are no longer. Now bullets are replaced by drones‚ manned from beyond sight‚ behind the luxury of a remote control‚ and they have the nerve to say that we don’t fight fairly.’

  We rounded a corner and what I saw then will haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Bodies laid out neatly‚ in two rows of six‚ covered in white sheets.

  ‘Their rules of war‚ invented to serve their purpose‚ and give them the advantage. It is the fight of a coward. We put our bodies and lives on the line and they just flick a switch.’ There was a rise and a tremor in his voice. ‘What they have in weaponry‚ we have twice that in heart.’

  He moved towards the smallest body and kneeled down and slowly removed the white sheet. A little girl. Eyes closed‚ lips parted‚ face smashed. A small skinny arm had been placed next to her shoulder‚ like a broken piece of a jigsaw which did not quite fit. I placed the wh
ite sheet carefully back over the body.

  I remembered‚ from what seemed like a lifetime ago‚ Khan telling Idris that he had picked the wrong side. The destruction of the hospital‚ the bodies‚ that dismembered young girl‚ I wanted to strike out with all my might. I had sick thoughts and fantasies fuelled by revenge. Every part of me wanted to wreak havoc‚ to turn my own body into a weapon and wage war against the Kafirs responsible. I wanted to hurt them and then move onto their fucking families and eat their children.

  These thoughts‚ they… they soon go. And I’m me again. Rational.

  I vomited.

  Gently‚ Dad rubbed my back.

  65

  We ate like Kings. Kings in squalor. The Mehnaz family had welcomed us into their broken home with God-like worship for Al-Mudarris. They didn’t seem to think they had the right to sit or eat with him‚ so they just stood around aimlessly‚ not quite knowing what to say or do. They fussed around him‚ topping up his plate and glass without request and smiling stupidly and gratefully whenever gratitude came their way. After the meal‚ Bin Jabbar requested the room. It was a demand wrapped up in the guise of a respectful request‚ and everyone vanished. Apart from me and him and two cups of masala chai.

  ‘I am sorry you had to see that‚’ Bin Jabbar said.

  I shrugged‚ then felt overly paranoid at the gesture.

  ‘You said it happened about a month ago‚’ I said.

  ‘Just under‚ yes. You are wondering why the bodies are still there?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Most of them have been buried. The remaining are waiting to be claimed.’ He took his cup and poured some tea into his saucer. ‘We wait twenty-eight days and then they will be taken away.’ He lifted the saucer to his lips and drank straight from it. ‘If there is no family to claim the bodies then it is up to the people of Hisarak to pull together and give them a respectful burial. They died as martyrs‚ a place in Jannat is waiting.’