SIkander Read online

  Having had no breakfast, Sikander’s mouth was dry, so it was no challenge to agree. The six of them walked out of the grounds of the Zarghooni Masjid, the short distance to Hayatabad’s Civic Center. In its recesses lay the Rahman Coffee Shop, a place as familiar to Sikander as it was to Abdul Latif.

  On the way, Sikander discreetly put his hand into his jacket pocket. Good. His money was still there. These people certainly seemed religious, but this was Peshawar.

  Minutes later, Abdul Latif returned from the counter with two cups of green tea in hand, his sons following him each with their own two cups. Saleem and Ejaz brought up the rear, with a few bakery rolls in a couple of bags. It was a decent, if not rich, breakfast.

  About now, Sikander thought, his parents would be stirring. It was Sunday and his father had probably already left the house with scarcely a thought about the previous evening. Sikander was unwilling to forgive him for that. He was sorry he’d upset Sofie but the exchange with his father would have to be resolved in his own mind before he could re-engage with her. They probably won’t even miss me until after I’m supposed to be back from school, Sikander mulled.

  “What will you do now?” Abdul Latif asked.

  “I don’t really know.” Sikander shrugged. “Can’t go home now; my bridges are burned there, and I… I can’t just wander around Peshawar.”

  “No,” replied Abdul Latif, solemnly. “You can’t. In fact, the way I see it there are really only two choices. Go back home and deal with things, or…or why not come with us and join a struggle that by the grace of Allah will be worth fighting for? We can help you become a useful fighter in this jihad. We’re mujahideen and w’Allahi, huh!” Abdul Latif grinned. ”We can use all the help we can get.”

  The words were seismic. Sikander had spent many hours opining with his classmates, and his father for that matter, on the worthiness of the mujahideen efforts against the Soviets. They had persisted despite seeing their homes demolished, fields reduced to barren wasteland, and children maimed by land mines after mistaking them for toys. Now here they were, real people who had lived this real experience. It was no longer an intellectual exercise.

  He recalled the moment of pause from the previous night as he had been packing his things, considering his future. Could this be Allah’s way of sending him a message?

  “I need to think about this Khan sahib.” Myriad conflicts were racing through Sikander’s mind.

  “And we would expect nothing else,” Abdul Latif agreed, beaming.

  His sons and nephews grinned encouragingly. As someone closer to their own age, they knew what Sikander was going through and hoped their demeanor would tip him over the edge to make the “right” choice.

  “Brother Sikander,” Abdul Majeed interjected, “Aren’t you a Muslim? Aren’t we Muslims? And don’t the infidel communists oppress us in our own country? It’s that simple. What is there to think about? If you’ve decided to leave home, then w’Allahi let it be for a purpose that will allow you to return to your family as one worthy of his ancestors!”

  Compelling reasoning wrapped in simple words, it was an arresting combination. Adding to Sikander’s burgeoning sense of conviction, Saleem joined in.

  “Brother, there are few better feelings than seeing the enemy running in fear until their helicopters come to rescue them!”

  Abdul Latif chuckled. To a certainty he knew how Sikander’s inner conflict would resolve itself, but it was entertaining to see the realization emerge on the young man’s face. All the while, Abdul Latif fixed his gaze directly on Sikander’s eyes, maintaining an infectiously expectant grin as he nodded at his boys’ prodding, almost willing the emergence of the only conclusion possible, from within Sikander’s psyche. And when it came, with an initially reticent but ultimately committed nod of Sikander’s head, Abdul Latif greeted it as one might the birth of a child.

  “W’Allahi! Alhamdulillah!” he proclaimed, and the young men gathered around Sikander to pat him on the back and hug him welcome into their fold.

  The decision had been harder to make than to embrace. On its heels tumbled an avalanche of rationalizations as to why it was the obvious choice. It was time he made his own contribution to the cause he had talked so much about. It would give meaning to his leaving home, to himself, his siblings, and his parents. He was on board.

  “So? What’s next?” he asked.

  “We have to go into Jamrud Bazaar, pick up supplies, and get them back to our temporary house. It’s not far from Jamrud Fort, about seven or eight kilometers north of here. We’ll spend one, maybe two nights there awaiting our ISI brothers. InshaAllah they’ll have more information from the Americans about the enemy. If we’re lucky, we’ll also pick up some weapons to take back with us. There’ll be more to tell you once we get to Jamrud but right now we need to hurry; we’ve lost an hour but,” Abdul Latif shrugged, “but it was worth it.

  “And Sikander…welcome to our cause, mujahid.”

  Mujahid. Sikander began to glow. He offered a slight bow, in acceptance of Abdul Latif’s assignment of such a title. Abdul Latif acknowledged the gesture. “I assume you know that Sikander is our name for Alexander—”

  The Great? Yes, I do,” interrupted Sikander, his back straightening. At least in spirit he was a soldier now and he needed all the more to live up to his illustrious name. He motioned forward with outstretched palm and a simple, “Let’s go.”

  As they walked along Lalazar Avenue then north toward Takht Baig Chowk, Sikander ventured to learn more about his new companions. “Brother Abdul Latif, why Hayatabad last night?”

  “Yesterday evening, we were meeting with a captain of Pakistan’s ISI. Probably has a home somewhere in the Hayatabad area. That’s where he usually asks to meet us; right by the Jumma Bazaar. Calls himself Captain Junaid. We were with him before coming into the masjid for isha. We thought we might as well spend the night there and w’Allahi, that same night you were sent to us. You’ll be meeting Junaid too, this evening.”

  Sikander and Abdul Latif continued chatting as they walked and before long the six of them arrived at Takht Baig Chowk, at which point they turned onto the Grand Trunk Road to head west toward Jamrud.

  “Which city do you live in, Brother?” Sikander asked, feeling better informed about Afghanistan than most of his classmates.

  Abdul Latif chuckled. “Not a city!” he declared. “It’s a small village to the south of Jalalabad called Laghar Juy. It’s—”

  He’ll be going there anyway, so why not let him experience the journey? Abdul Latif mulled. With travel in the country being far from simple, knowing the whereabouts of a place did little to convey what it took to get there. “You’ll see where it is.”

  The going was easy and they were soon at the bustling and chaotic Jamrud Bazaar, a place with vendors crammed into a tiny area, each vying for the meager rupees that bargain hunters generally spent there. Plainly visible a little further down the road was the Baab-e-Khyber, a limestone brick gateway arch spanning the GT Road, promising the Khyber Pass ahead to the west, and Afghanistan beyond. Although not now, eventually they would be passing through it.

  Strolling around Jamrud Bazaar was pleasant, not just for the buying of goods, but also for the shade it provided from the hot August sun. After visiting a small mosque for zuhr, and following it with a dish of chickpeas and Peshawari naan taken at a roadside dining place, they walked back to the bazaar.

  “Aren’t you going to spend any of that money?” asked Abdul Latif, turning to Sikander.

  “Um…” Sikander’s face reddened. He had been careful about it all day. He guessed that Abdul Latif must have searched him while he’d been asleep.

  “It’ll do you no good in Afghanistan.” Abdul Latif didn’t care for the name, Afghanistan. He never identified with it politically and saw it as way of separating his Pakistani Pashtun brethren from those on the other side of the border. But there were times when it was the only reasonable way of referring to the place.

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nbsp; So far, Sikander had not needed to spend any money. He was the charge of his Pashtun hosts. His needs were theirs to meet. According to their tribal code, Pashtunwali, this extended to personal protection. Protection was a binding obligation on any Pashtun host, even if a person under his protection were up to that moment a sworn enemy.

  “Let me buy our food. At least while we’re in Pakistan,” Sikander offered. Abdul Latif didn’t object. Their shopping for provisions continued until they were able to carry no more. How exactly the group would travel to Afghanistan and how they would manage their accumulating baggage more than once crossed Sikander’s mind as the men left the bazaar.

  It was early evening. Tired and hungry, Sikander marveled at the stamina of his hosts. Though he was a fit young man, lugging around his share of the bags of supplies, his backpack, and his coat, had worn him down. Finally, at around seven o’clock, the group approached the intersection of the GT and Warsak Dam Roads. They were supposed to meet their ISI contact there an hour earlier.

  “Abdul Latif!”

  The loud voice belonged to a man in his thirties about ten meters away walking hurriedly toward them, making sure he would be heard over the passing traffic. “Where’ve you been? Arif and I have been worried about you!”

  “Assalaamu ‘alaykum! No need for alarm, Junaid,” Abdul Latif reassured as Junaid neared them. “We got a little sidetracked into a recruitment operation,” proclaimed Abdul Latif, before relating the story of their encounter with Sikander. Junaid raised an eyebrow as he leaned to the side to look past his friend and examine the youth.

  “Well,” he observed, “healthy, mashAllah. So, zwey, your name’s Sikander eh?”

  “Yes. I’m from—”

  “Glad you can join us,” Junaid made barely perceptible sideways glances to assure himself that neither he nor the rest of the group was being watched. “Come! We have to go this way.” He gestured toward Warsak Dam Road leading north from the GT Road. “It’s about three kilometers from here,” he continued as he held out his hand to relieve Sikander of some of his burden.

  “Where’s Arif?” asked Abdul Latif.

  “Gone ahead. He should be waiting for us. God, I hope he has something to eat—I’m famished!” replied Junaid.

  After almost an hour, they came upon a larger-than-average house, and were led by Junaid to the rear entrance. Behind the house stood a mud-covered Mitsubishi Pajero.

  Arif Saiduddin Khan was baby-faced and portly. He was a fifty-three year-old Pathan landowner from Punjab who also maintained this house north of Jamrud. He was well off but careful about showing it. Having been kidnapped for ransom—an everyday hazard in these parts—eleven years earlier, whenever he visited this particular home, he was not ostentatious.

  Abdul Latif knew Arif from not long after the Soviet invasion. It was in early 1980, when the ISI began engaging with mujahideen units from around Afghanistan. As they were admitted inside, Arif was occupied with another matter, and all except Junaid, who needed to talk to Arif, were led downstairs to a modest basement room. The group, of which Sikander was increasingly feeling a part, sat around a large table. On it was an equally large map of Afghanistan’s Nangarhar Province, one of the provinces bordering Pakistan’s own North West Frontier Province.

  An administrative stalemate between Pakistan’s central government and the tribal rulers was the norm in the region, with neither side interested in disturbing the arrangement. As long as tribesmen could come and go across the border with Afghanistan—or in the south, Iran—they would not bother anyone, except of course for kidnapping for small ransoms any visitors who had foolishly failed to seek their protection.

  Around the edges of the map, holding it in place, were a few empty plates, a bowl of fruit, well stocked with apples, apricots, plums, and a few carrots, and a smaller bowl filled with almonds. Sikander’s stomach grumbled in anticipation. He stole a glance at Abdul Latif but blushed as his smiling friend was ahead of him, having seen Sikander’s longing stare at the fruit. It would, however, be impolite to attack the food in the absence of their host, so there it remained. Before long, everyone’s attention was on the map. A surprisingly rare sight in these times, a map was a curiosity that revealed their intimately understood world from a perspective rarely imagined. Abdul Latif, his sons, and nephews knew just about every hill, valley, cave, and stream between Peshawar and Jalalabad, but it was intriguing to see perhaps a tenth of their knowledge diagrammed in this fashion.

  A few minutes later, a conversation between Junaid and Arif emerged from the stairwell, heralding Arif’s heavy descent with Junaid’s close behind.

  “…safe route, where to drop off the truck, the Hind, and T-62 concentrations, and, yes, when we can expect those damned Stingers!” Arif said, materializing from the dimly lit staircase into the better-lit basement. “Oh, and the money,” he muttered looking back over his shoulder.

  “Assalaamu ‘alaykum wa-rahmatullahi wa-barakaatuhu!” proclaimed Arif beaming and directing his attention first to Abdul Latif, then to the rest of them. It wasn’t customary to convey this extended form of greeting unless it was a truly special occasion, or, as in this case, the personal habit of the individual offering it.

  “Wa ‘alaykum assalaam, Brother! Good to see you again,” replied Abdul Latif warmly, followed by everyone else.

  “Before we begin,” Arif noted, “we should make du’a for the success of your venture.”

  No one could disagree with the need, given their impending return to the dangerous world of the Afghan resistance. Arguably the one with the longest beard, Abdul Latif instinctively stepped in to lead a brief recitation and supplication for success.

  Arif picked up the fruit bowl and offered it to Abdul Latif, Junaid, and then Sikander before setting it down again and asking the remaining men to pick from it as they pleased. He plucked an apricot, took a bite, and gestured the rest of it toward the map.

  “All right. You people came into Pakistan through Sara Garhi, but we’ve just secured a new place for taking mules across,” he began. “Here’s how you’ll be crossing the border. Proceed up the N5 Torkhum Road, about twelve to fifteen kilometers past the Baab-e-Khyber. Not far from the point where the road splits to either side of the river, there’ll be a trail leading to the southwest and it’ll take you through a compound all the way up this hill. There’s a small house there. That’s where you’ll empty the Pajero and be met by our people; they’re Afridis. They’ll have five mules for you and will return the…Pajero…back…here…” Arif paused, looked at Abdul Latif and then around the table, landing his gaze finally upon Junaid before declaring with an annoyed and quizzical look, “I was told there’d be five of you.”

  “Er…yes,” said Junaid. “It seems Abdul Latif’s picked up a new mujahid. We didn’t introduce you but this young man,” he gestured to Sikander, “is going to fight fi-sabeelillah!”

  “Really!?” Arif drew the word. “And your name, zwey?”

  “Sikander, sir.”

  “Aah, Iskander!”

  “Er…no, not Iskander, it’s Sikander.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Arif dismissively. “But it is all the same, you know?”

  “It isn’t to me,” responded Sikander, not meaning to be as defiant as he sounded.

  “What do you mean?” demanded Arif wearing a rapidly brewing frown. “You surely know that they both refer to Alexander the Great?”

  Sikander puzzled over his innocuous correction causing so much grief with Arif, who had initially seemed amiable enough. He thought for a moment then pressed his position with a little more force. “Arif sahib, my name is my right. It was given to me by my parents and can’t be taken from me against my will to be done with as anyone pleases.” Sikander surprised everyone, but most of all himself, with his assertiveness.

  Arif’s frown deepened into a terrifying scowl as the two stared at each other. Probably a good time for Abdul Latif to intervene, thought Sikander as he flicked a nervous glance in his new fr
iend’s direction. When he again locked eyes with Arif, however, the scowl vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and on its heels came a belly laugh. The laughter spread quickly among the others, though with considerably less sincerity.

  “He! He! Son,” said Arif, “you’ll be dealing with some rough things out there and, well, I can see you have some steel in you! And well said about your parents naming you. Very good. Very good!”

  With everyone’s dignity intact, Arif returned to the matter at hand. “As we’re using a new staging house this time, we’re going to have you do a slightly different zigzag to get to Laghar Juy.”

  Abdul Latif listened intently as Arif began the detailed explanation. “After spending the night at the house on the hill, you’ll be picking up a stash of light arms, including six boxes of ten RPGs and four RPG launchers. Together with the supplies you’ll be taking from here that should come to about two hundred kilograms for each mule to carry. Take the western route down the ravines until you turn north right here toward Chenar Kalay. There are caves in the hills to the south of the village, which, I’m afraid, is where you’ll have to sleep for the night. Sorry.

  “After dawn, proceed north and then west…here, then south again right here.” His calloused finger pointed to various spots on the map. “From there it’s a steep climb up into Showlghar Kalay. That should be around late afternoon, so you can rest there for the night.” He gestured to a point on the map well to the south of the main highway connecting Torkhum with Jalalabad and in terrain thick with snaking switchback trails.

  “If you leave Showlghar the following morning, you should make it before nightfall to Baro. It’s tough going, but it can be done. So far so good?”

  “If we go through Baro, it’ll make sense to remain in the mountains and go from Baro through Takhto Kalay,” noted Abdul Latif. “At this time of year at that altitude we could have difficulty with rain. But if we can pass Takhto, then we’ll have a straight run to the west. I know a little-used gap that will get us into the next valley over here. From there you can see Laghar Juy about eight kilometers away and we can even make that at night if we have to.”