The Run in
“Haroun, come back to the kitchen !!” I called my 6 year old son in angst, and fear that the gun toting men on the road may hear my feminine voice. Amidst his hunger pangs the boy seems to have lost his fear, showing his face in the window to strangers on the road. He seems to be in awe of the bearded men with guns.
Its the same thing every day: the fear that one of the men might take aim at the window and shoot. He is the only one I have; there is nothing else worth living for.
The Deaths
Haroun’s father died few weeks ago. Shot dead while taking food to his lonely mother. She insisted she wanted to die in her ancestral home at Tupak, instead of the safer house, where Saman, my husband lived, with his first wife and children, near the town of Nangaresh.
“Ahfad alkufaar”(descendants of kaffir) was the insult, the Arab, Tajik and Turkish men with guns, roaming around in our land would shout, to insult us. They had a distinct preference for Arabic phrases, when belittling us. We are not accepted as true Muslims, despite the fact that all of our ancestors were forcibly converted, at the threat of torture and death, by Emir Abdul Rahman Khan’s army more than 100 years ago. How many hundreds of years more of prayers, before they consider us true ? We are also good Muslim: our men go to the mosque and dutifully perform the five prayers. We observe the Ramadaan, even more piously than these violent men. May Allah save us ! I pressed the Qur’aan even closer to my chest. The holy book gave me some hope, among all the death and destruction.
Saman had bled to death, in his mother’s lap, I heard. There was nothing anyone could do, to help. My son and I were alone at home. A Talib fired his machine gun at the ground near my feet, when I ran out, tears in my eyes, on hearing the news of his death. Unaccompanied women are not allowed outside, he shouted in vari, our language. “Next time, I will shoot your knee”, he warned. These were the boys we grew up with in this village ! How can they be so …? Are the Madrasas(schools of religious education, where the Taliban learn) in Pakistan so different ? “Zia did it”: in my grandfather’s voice, I am reminded of the name of the assassinated Pakistani General I had heard so much about. He wanted soldiers for the army from Madrasas, well conditioned to overcome the tribal allegiances of the mountain tribes. “The white man can never understand this, and so he can never win”: Grandpa loved to talk politics.
Saman’s mother died of hunger, in the house she loved so much, like she wanted. I only wish she had not taken my husband along with her. He was so kind. He agreed to take me as his second wife, at age 14, after my parents died in a suicide blast at the market, and my younger brothers and sisters were taken away by the Taliban. I was lucky to be away when they came for the children. His first wife, Sofar, is also very kind. If only I could go to Nangaresh, to be with her, without being noticed by the Taliban. I hope they are safe with Arhan Sahib, who has agreed to take her as his third wife. Taking in a new wife and her kids was only for the large-hearted men. It meant that he and his existing family had lesser to eat every day. And the man or his grown sons had to go out more often, risking gunfire, in search of grocery.
Hope and Despair
Being a wife is the only hope for survival, for women and children under the Taliban. Long ago, one of my neighbors showed me a page about America on her phone. The men there are allowed only one wife. We wondered about the lives of women there. Were they happy, living alone ? Here, there are very few men left. Every few months they come and take away all able-bodied men, and boys as young as 15, to fight their war. Those who refuse are shot. Sometimes their houses are burnt. Joining the Taliban is like a death sentence. If the Taliban doesn’t kill you for some small mistake, American guns and bombs will.
I craned my neck on hearing a commotion outside, and heard a sudden shot being fired. We are so used to hearing guns in this land, we can tell which direction the bullet went. This time a single bullet was fired above our house. The walls of every house has bullet marks. Apparently, one of the men had pointed his gun at Haroun to threaten him, but another one in the group pushed the would-be shooter’s AK 47’s barrel towards the sky to prevent him from shooting the kid. This caused the trigger to be pressed. There was a squabble and the shooter was repeatedly saying that he never intended to “shoot the kaffir kid”. An older man with a gray beard seemed to be the leader. He asked the man, in a long blue dress, who had pushed the gun barrel to the sky, intending to save my son, to check the house.
He came to the front window to check and found my son cowering nearby. I was still hiding in the kitchen, frozen with fear. I dreaded that he would knock on the door any moment and find that a widowed woman and her child are living there. Many women without husbands have been taken away by the Taliban. And Haroun would be abandoned, like an orphan. “It is a sin”, they say, for a woman above 15 to be without a husband.
“I’m very hungry” said my son in between sobs, to the man, when he peered in through the window. Haroun’s pleading seemed to have mellowed down the man. His face changed. There was no anger any more. After many weeks, I saw empathy, on man’s face. He picked up some berries from his pocket and gave them to my son, before leaving. Haroun started gobbling the berries without even washing them. Then he saw me, standing near the kitchen door, in fear. He walked slowly towards me and stretched by his right hand, with the remaining berries. He remembered that his mother has also not eaten for two days; ever since the neighbors helping us, ran low on food. Silent tears streamed down my face. I picked him up in my arms, kissed him, and he put two of the berries my in mouth. I dont remember these local berries tasting so good. Must be the sweetness of the hands that fed me.
The cellphones have been dead for a month now. Thank Allah, that Saman insisted on storing weeks worth of drinking water in the two barrels in the kitchen. He had promised me to move them to the larger main room, as soon as he came back from his mother’s…
The Food Messenger
The next day I was sitting on the wooden frame of my kitchen door that opens to the outside sipping water in a metal cup. Since the kitchen is behind the house, I was secluded. I was thinking of a safe way to reach Sofar at Nangaresh. If only Sofar could take in Haroun, I would submit to one of the Taliban men. Atleast I will have food, and my son will be in safe hands.
I turned around to see Haroun come running. “There is a small package near the window sill”, he said. Don’t go there. I was afraid it could be a bomb, though I could not think of any reason why anyone would want to kill us. “But it smells of karhi”, he said, using his word for food. It was a small pack of leaves pinned with twigs. I waited for hours before going to the window and opening the pack, after asking Haroun to stay in the kitchen.
It was boiled wheat sprinkled with goat meat. Though there was the aroma of lentils, I could not see any. Maybe these were leftovers. I wondered who brought this here. The neighbors definitely cannot afford this kind of protein. Only the Taliban had access to goat meat in these mountains. The taliban leaders and their family could afford markhor(mountain goat meat). The leaders were rough men with multiple injuries, and violent temper; but many women hoped to be with these men. Their prize catch was the Spin Boldak commander who already has 7 wives.
After the leaf pack was opened, we could not hold back. The aroma was .. intoxicating.
We would have eaten it even if it was poisoned. It is difficult to put in writing, how days of hunger feels.
The emotions and delight: Haroun words were tinged with happiness, after may days. I was so grateful to Allah, for his messenger, who brought this to us. We slept soundly that night, hugging each other, in the torn blanket. If we are going to stay in this two-room house, we need to get a cot. This old cotton filled bed, spread on the floor, is not warm enough for the coming winter, I thought, before drifting off to sleep.
The package appeared on and off for a few days; once a day. Meanwhile a kind neighbor offered us some wheat, a share of what he had managed to get from a shop during an early morning foray. Haroun and me satisfied ourselves with boiled wheat and salt, during the days the package did not come.
One day, Haroun found out who the messenger was. It was the same man who had given him the berries. The next time there was a drop, Haroun ran up to the window and smiled. The man smiled back, as if he had been caught, but did not say a word, and left.
Soon word spread of this Talib who is delivering food to a house. Taliban were allowed house visits, for conjugal purposes, but food delivery was new. I was afraid of the repercussions. I wanted to talk to him, to ask if he would take us to Nangaresh. But he never stopped to talk. It was as if the talk would invite some kind of danger. But now he knew that this kid lived with his mother. Later I would learn that he already found out about my husband’s death after the first visit.
The Inspection and the Revelation
One day, after delivering food, and leaving, he ran back to the house, and hastily knocked on the front door. I opened the door and let him in. He told me that a Taliban inspection party is coming and pulled me into the kitchen and closed the door. I feared for my son since we had forgotten to lock the front door. I saw fear and concern on his face. There is an unexplainable connection you feel, to someone who brings you the most important thing in your life: food.
For thousands of years, before Islam took over this land, our ancestors used to keep dogs. They were the best companions in these mountainous lands, and great for hunting. And there was only one thing that you had to give, to get their allegiance and trust: food. They would defend us with their life.
The Mullahs and the Taliban detest dogs, for being un-islamic.
“Wheat fills their bones”, my grandma used to say, mocking the mindset of the elite, the opinion makers and the mullahs, mocking their ignorance of hunger and lack of empathy for the mindset of the hungry. It was an old Prasuni proverb. Basically, the proverb translates that they had “too much to eat, and did not have to worry about their next meal”. So true.
I wanted to talk to the man, to thank him. As soon as we heard the vehicle in front of the house, he took off his khameez top and asked me to do the same. I noticed his lack of body hair and his pale skin. He was definitely not from Nuristan. Apparently he had informed his leader that he was coming here for conjugal visits, but someone got suspicious. He wanted to make it look like this was a conjugal visit.
I had my bodice on, when he hugged me, without even asking. There is no time, he said. It surprised me that I was not embarrassed to be semi naked with a stranger. Fear does strange things to the cultured mind. I hugged him back and hid my face in his chest. It felt good, hugging another human being after a long time. And this man with strong arms was also whispering in my ears: getting me up to date on the story to tell, incase they questioned me. I felt the small hair on my arms and back stand on end. “Dont get too crazy with men, remember what happened to your grandma’s sister”, my mother had warned me at 13. Standing there, for a few seconds, in my small kitchen I wished, for a split-second, if he would come for real conjugal visits.
Someone from the inspection party barged into the house and kicked open the kitchen door. Rajun turned around and shouted at the intruder to close the door, feigning anger. The leader of the party came in with more men, and on seeing us, they all started laughing. Nobody bothered to close the kitchen door. One of the men said something to my son, in a Tunisian accent. It had something to do with a woman’s body, and pulchritude, that Haroun was too young to understand. From their chatter, it sounded as if the inspection party is used to such bedroom invasions, in the name of inspections.
Rajun moved me to a corner of the kitchen where they could not see me. He then went to the leader and begged him to leave us alone. I was frozen with fear that one of the men would step into the kitchen. The leader soon stepped out and ordered his men to follow. It was a huge relief. Rajun closed the front door and waited for their vehicle to leave. He spoke to Haroun and consoled him meanwhile. Growing up in Nuristan, I have been in many such incidents which shakes you to the core. Some of the kids go into mental trauma for weeks and refuse to come out of their blankets. Luckily Haroun was made of sterner stuff. It must be the Kari lineage.
Rajun came in and closed the kitchen door again, using a twig as a wedge to hold the door in place. I wondered why since we did not need to pretend anymore; now that they are gone. Still standing in the kitchen corner, I wondered if this visit would be conjugal after all. He was a good man, apart from being our lifeline; I was ready. But he did not even look at me. He stepped to the other corner, pulled out a metal grain container and sat on it, his face in his hands and elbows supported on his knees. The relief I felt was not there on his face. I could see a teardrop finding its way down his right arm.
I wondered if I should put my Khameez top back on. On an urge, I walked up to him, and caressed his curly black hair. Maybe this will make him feel better. This man does not belong with the Taliban, I surmised. He looked up, with red, tear-filled eyes. I saw deep sadness in his eyes.
Eyes, being the only exposed nerve endings, are the gateways to the mind.
How effortlessly his expressive eyes shared the depth of his feelings with me, without a word being said. I kneeled on my left knee and hugged his head, his forehead against mine. Maybe he was conflicted about this. Or maybe he was inexperienced and ashamed ? I took his right hand and placed it on the bare skin of my left shoulder. This gesture calmed him down a little. He raised his eye brows, gave me a soulful look and shook his head. He was not interested !
Am I too old for him ? Is it because I have a child ? Moving his hand to the back of my head, he said: “I can’t sister”. I collapsed and sat on this floor. This was too much to take in. There was something differnt about this man. He was only looking at my face ! It was as if I was fully clothed. Even when fully covered, lecherous men were a bane. Yet, here he is. Sensing my pain and confusion, he whispered: “I am not interested in women”.
I was shocked, till my mind processed this. Now it all made sense. And my dignity was intact. I smiled inwardly. That’s when it struck me: Rajun needed me as much as I needed him. Maybe even more. The Taliban would skewer him alive and hang him from meat hooks if they came to know. I got back on my knees and hugged him again, tightly. He reciprocated, hugging me back and putting his head on my right shoulder. The soft touch of his beard tickled my neck. I loved it when Saman did that. I could feel Rajun’s warm tears rolling down my back. The hair on the small of my back stood up, slowing the free flow of tears. It felt good, again.
This could work, I thought. For appearances sake, I had my own Talib lover, even though we were unmarried, and there was no need to find another one. No one would question the unmarried union of a Talib and his lovers. We could even get married. But what about my need for a man ? He stood up, put his Khameez on, and offered me mine. He smiled knowing that he had one friend in this world. It was time for him to go. He hugged my son, gave him a kiss and left. Haroun seemed surprised at the change in Rajun.