All Is Fair in Lust and War

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A sideways glance at the woman carefully wrapped in an abaya, the quintessential Islamic cloak, sent shock waves down Pvt. Mike Riley’s spine. He had been seeing her for a week now. Even in the distance, he could feel her strong gaze all around him — a task he would have thought was impossible to accomplish through the narrow slits of a niqab. It was almost ominous. And then he felt something in his pants, a throbbing sensation against the tight fabric; it in itself was a feat he had never thought could be achieved by a woman of such conservative clothing.

Pvt. Mike Riley, clutching an M4 carbine close against his chest, looked quite the killer that Afghanistan by then expected of anyone who dared tread its war-torn lands. Huddled in his desert-patterned cammies against the rising sun, his eyes skimmed the horizon pathologically. The winds that rolled down the mountains of Hindu Kush in the north frequently unsettled the politically precarious expanse of the Helmand province. For two weeks since his arrival at the FOB, his finger had itched one inch shy of the trigger every other time an Afghan passed by.

Standing close to a makeshift cover of sandbags, Riley shifted his gaze towards a herd of sheep trying to find foliage in the distance.

A lonely man ushered the sheep with a long stick, keeping them off the north-south dirt track that ran parallel to a section of the base. This section — one of two doglegs of the perimeter — was convincingly open to the Delaram population without so much as a wall. But it had only been two weeks since the 3rd battalion’s settlement in the battered compound left behind by the Soviets. Amenities were not nonexistent but definitely scarce. The section was therefore protected with rolls of barbed wire strung around a line of steel barricades.

Riley found it disconcerting. Once in a while when a car or a jeep passed, his heart pounded to the uncertainty of what might emerge from the unsettled dust that would envelop the track for a full minute.

As the woman continued along this road, his heart pounded, but this time for a different reason.

Almost as a routine, he had noticed her walk to the nearest town and return with a bag of supplies every day. Two clicks due south, and two back to roughly where the base was. She looked like a small scale vendor who lived off of selling what could be stuffed in her small bag. She made him wonder how it’d been a long time since he had been in the company of a woman.

Mystery, he thought, she’s a mystery. All these days he had watched her become a silhouette against the early lights of the sun, he hadn’t been able to make out a single curve of her body.

The curiosity killed him.

He wanted so bad to run his palms over her, skillfully trace her frame, feel the weight of her breasts… And he knew it was possible, because there were few men who would notice that he had not been at his post for a while this early in the morning. And fewer who would do anything about it. Anything could be possible these days, he believed. Especially here, while they were fighting an unappreciated battle for a war that wasn’t supposed to be theirs.

He turned around to see if there was anyone around this part of the base. With around a thousand marines and corresponding accommodation, the place was nothing but sprawling. But all they ever did was take part in combat patrols and try and prepare for the inevitable last-leg onslaught at the Tora Bora. Those that remained didn’t have much to do until they were themselves sent on a mission, perhaps deeper into the province.

Down the line from his position, fifty yards away, was a cluster of twelve tents. Nobody seemed to be moving about yet, but these were living quarters to over fifty marines. Riley’s own tent was in the lot. He knew it would be deserted, because everyone from his crew were posted on perimeter control for at least another hour.

When he swiveled back, he noticed that she had swerved off the road quite a bit. A few unexplained degrees in the south-westerly direction. It put her in a position that lifted his spirits. She was walking along in a line that was certain to graze the shoulder of the perimeter in a very obvious way.

He retrieved his hand from his rifle’s belly and wiped his forehead with the back of it. He let his rifle swing on its sling, using his free hands to move one of the barricades a little to the side. He walked past it and looked questioningly at her.

“Sanga chal day?” he said, hoping he was using the correct pronunciation. What are you doing? She glanced his way but continued walking as if offended by the inquiry. She changed her direction back towards the road.

“Hey!” Riley blurted out. “Daalta raasha!”

She was clearly startled. “Come here” wasn’t something you told a woman in Afghanistan if she was travelling alone. With the satchel-like handbag swinging down to her waist, she turned to see her intruder.

“Come here,” Riley repeated. “Just an inquiry.” He made gestures with his hands. “In-kwa-ree… understand? Speak Angrezi? Pa uh… ta pe Angrezi khabaree?”

She just stood there, not knowing what to do.

“Come on,” he beckoned again. He tipped the safety of his rifle, making her realize that it could be turned against her any time. The gesture should have shell-shocked her the way she trembled, but Riley had no idea what her expressions were beneath the black fabric.

Uncertain and petrified, the woman walked haltingly towards him. He pointed at the gap between the barricades and led her inside the base. In the distance a group of marines were sprawled on the ground, a man at the helm counting each of their push-ups. The bunch of tents to his left still did not have any sign of life; he presumed the platoon should have come in late after a midnight reconnaissance mission.

He ushered her towards a green military tent that stood the closest to their approach. He kept swiveling his head in all directions, even fidgeting his rifle, his fear having reached a point that he felt his pants awkwardly deflate. It appeared to him as if every marine in the base was clawing his way to find a better view of that empty strip of land he inevitably had to cross for the privacy of the tent.

The tent was standard military issue. It had bunk beds left and right, tables and chairs front and back. He dragged a chair to the middle of the space and asked her to take it. She didn’t. He unslung his rifle, unhooked his helmet, unstrapped his vest, and laid them all on the ground. He also drew down the tarpaulin at the opening of the tent.

Satisfied with himself, he returned his attention to her. He took a piece of rag from the ground. He figured she was going to make a lot of noise, but he knew what it was like shouting against a mouthful of oily fabric. Like using up all the fight left in you on a war cry. It would make his job easier. He felt his manly vigor return to him, the profound disgrace, the interminable feeling of shame and the impeccable clout of fear in his chest making him more or less — probably more — aroused.

And then he prefaced what was about to happen by abruptly unbuckling and dropping his pants. The least he could do was let her know there was no other way to go about it. He waited for the scream, which he thought was gentlemanly, but it never came. He was surprised. He dropped the rag to the floor and advanced towards her. With a swift motion, he shoved her to the ground and she fell down noiselessly.

Bending over her face, he placed his hands on her niqab. Slowly, like a kid unwrapping his Christmas present, he wriggled it out of her head. There was no singular braid of hair to restrict the motion, and no cascade stuck into the abaya to be particularly unsettled. Although he had gone over a hundred times in his mind about how he should proceed once he got to this point, he wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Staring at him with cold, dark eyes was a face that did not make any sense.

It did not make any sense at all.

In irritable haste he held the bottom of the black cloth covering the body and pulled apart impatiently. The abaya gave way without much resistance. It tore in a line that tracked around to the waist, and from there to the neck until it fell on either side of the figure.

He felt stern eyes tracking his moves.

The face was a pale, blank slate of nothingness. And yet it seemed to speak volumes of something, which without the corresponding emotions was lost in the thickening air around them. It was perhaps suiting for a frustrated young man, Riley reflected.

A young pashtun.

A talib, apparently.

Shahid.

Martyr.

He was strapped with what looked like C-4 up to his neck.

It’s a man, he thought, a man! He knew the frustration of a talib was only vented off one way in Afghanistan. He looked towards where he had dropped all his gear and for a second fancied diving for his rifle.

The man’s hand was already in the bag that was with him all along. Riley knew it meant only one thing. He was holding a detonator inside the bag.

The man closed his eyes and started uttering what sounded like a prayer. His voice was coarse and oddly comforting. There was a hint of faith. It wasn’t the prayer of a person who wanted something done — it was more that of a person who wants his peace made with God. But he was scared. Riley knew he was scared because of the way his lips quivered when he spoke.

“Allahu Akbar,” he uttered with a sense of finality.

Riley felt his world spinning away, as if he was in a dream and he could take back everything when he woke up. He knew it was only a matter of seconds now before the button was pushed. Just a flick. And it would be over. He wanted to yell, let the other marines know, but he knew it was too late.

And suddenly, as if before God, Riley felt naked.