How soon …? How much …? How many …? How far …?
I meet all these questions with a dignified silence. I do not budge, even when the sergeant raises his voice and leans his face close enough to mine for his spittle to rain down on me. Finally, he steps back in frustration, his face flushed, and snaps: How is it possible for anyone to be so ignorant? Is it because the women in your tribe are locked indoors and separated from the men as in the rest of your damn country?
No, we are neither locked indoors nor separated from our men-folk, I say calmly.
Then how do you explain your ignorance? Are you a fool?
I have other things to do, I reply, than to eavesdrop on what the men may be talking about.
But you have ears, don’t you? You have eyes and all your senses!
When one is busy with work, one does not hear or see.
My determination must show on my face because his voice loses confidence. He gestures to the soldiers behind him and they point their guns threateningly at me. The Tajik implores me to cooperate but I don’t respond. He continues pleading but my wall of indifference saps his spirit. He stops abruptly and we’re left staring at each
other. The sergeant shakes his head, gives his device a few desultory pecks, steps back, and marches off with the rest.
I am left staring at the rag on the ground, this pitiful remnant of my proud Yusuf.
Soon I myself might be forced into silence. Who knows.
Meanwhile, it is clear that they mean to exhaust me with this endless procession of interrogators. They mean to break me, but in this, as in their attempts to persuade me to leave, they will be disappointed. I will not go until I have satisfied my duty.
I gaze at the barbed wire fence and the walls that separate me from Yusuf. If it were up to my heart, I would send those barriers wandering south across the deserts until they disappeared from our lands. If it were up to my will, I would ignore the warnings of these interlopers and breach their fortress with my bare hands. I would dig a deep hole in the ground and, lifting his body,
relieve the shame of my mother’s son, left to rot as an unburied corpse. But my mind holds me captive. My mind tells me that any hasty action on my part would ensure my death before my brother’s burial—
and then we would both be left unmourned, unwept, unburied without the rites, an unexpected treasure for the carrion birds. Heart or no heart, I have no choice: my anger and despair must yield to patience, resolution.
So I wait in the dust instead, the silence ringing in my ears.
And many memories. A host of memories crowding around, slipping through the air like specks of dust; slipping through the silence until I hear the voices they carry. Whose whispers? What voices?
In my head, Yusuf laughs. He says:
Nizam, you silly girl, you are talking to yourself.
I know, my brother, I know. I know that it’s nothing. It’s nothing but the silence—cruel, endless silence whispering in my ears. But what else do I have to keep me company—to console me now that you too are gone, lost remnant of my flesh and blood? My first, my best friend from childhood. My last, my final companion.
How my heart hurts.
The sun is high when a new soldier appears with the Tajik. He carries a steaming bowl of food that he places before my cart. He’s young, with a closely shaven head and a martial, erect bearing. He glances at me fleetingly, but other than that, his face shows nothing.
That’s for you, the Tajik says. The men in the fort are concerned about your welfare. Maybe you will think better of them after this. There’s meat in it, and lentils.
They walk away, and I leave the food untouched.
Soon, the ubiquitous crows congregate. I wheel my cart away and the bowl disappears under a blizzard of black wings. I watch two crows squall over a piece of meat while I chew my dry bread. It’s gone stale and crumbles at the touch. I search instead for my figs and nuts.
The same young soldier returns with the Tajik to pick up the bowl. The crows disperse with raucous caws. The Tajik looks pained. His narrow smallish head bobs from side to side.
There was no need to reject the food, he says. They were trying to be kind, that’s all. It was a gift. It’s against our traditions to refuse a gift. Now you’ve rejected their overtures and made them angry.
He stands a few paces away from me and says that I should put my bughra back on. My lack of response doesn’t seem to bother him. His expression is guarded but also intrigued.
He lights up a cigarette, which he smokes in quick puffs while continuing to stare at me. It’s sad, he says finally. We’re both Afghânyân, we’re much the same age, and yet we’re on opposite sides. I work with the Americans because nine years ago the Taliban slaughtered my family. We were prosperous traders in Charikar; my mother was an educated woman. He pauses and draws on his cigarette.
In other words, he says, I can understand how you feel, believe me. But I sincerely think the Americans are here to help us, to make our lives better before they leave. And you—I suppose you believe, with equal sincerity, just the opposite, because they killed your family.
My loyalty is to my brother and the memory of my family, I reply. Yusuf is not carrion for these jackals to tear apart.
He gazes at me without animosity. You’re so fierce, so determined, he says with admiration. I’ve never met a woman like you. I’m sorry I called you stupid earlier. I wonder if my sister would have grown up to be like you had she lived.
What is your name? I ask abruptly.
Masood, he says, and blushes.
Then listen to me, Masood. You are a dog and the servant of your masters. I’ve seen how you behave around them, without any dignity or self-respect. I’ve no desire to speak to you. I find your presence distasteful.
He raises his face and squints at the sun, which is directly overhead. He purses his lips and exhales forcefully. It didn’t have to be like this, he says, and motions to his armed companion that it’s time to go.
There’s genuine regret in his voice and it’s because of this, perhaps, that I find myself asking, despite everything: Did my brother suffer … when he died, I mean …
No. He didn’t suffer. He was shot through the heart. A clean shot. He died instantly.
My voice breaks. I’m glad.
You should be. He was lucky. But some of the others—they suffered terribly.
Tell your masters I won’t leave until Yusuf is returned to me.
He hesitates. His expression shades with regret.
Then you’re going to be here for a very long time, he says quietly.
What do you mean?
Didn’t you hear what the lieutenant said? Your brother will be taken to Kabul. It was his fate to be transported through the air as a dead man. It was written.
I watch him dully as he walks away with the soldier, scuffing the dust with his slippers.
Then I sit back in the cart, my head pounding.
They haven’t even reached the perimeter of barbed wire that surrounds the fort when I let out a sharp cry of grief. The Tajik freezes and glances back wide-eyed as my cry echoes across the plain and soars into the mountains. I follow it up with another cry, which seems to unnerve him completely. He picks up his slippers and sprints toward the fort, while the soldier glares at me with undisguised hostility. I beat my head with my fists and begin to laugh, but in reality I am crying.
The day drags on. The sun beats down relentlessly; the light is blinding. I look around the field with a heavy heart. This is where I’m staying. This is now my final home. How strange life is. I used to have so many wishes, so many dreams.
I steel myself. I raise my face to the sun and it burns into my skin.
All through the afternoon I carry a feeling of extreme sadness. I listen to sounds from the fort. Someone laughs; someone else shouts. The laughter ceases abruptly, as if cut by a knife. There’s sporadic singing, whistling. The crackle of a radio swims in and out.
As the sun goes down, a steady wind blows from dark clouds forming over the southern plains. The day’s heat had made the mountains hazy. Now they reemerge in the dying light, crowding in on the fort as the air turns cold. But the sunset inspires me with awe, the colors moving me simultaneously to laughter and tears. It lasts much longer than I’m used to in our high valley. There the transition from day to night is instantaneous: bright light one moment, coal-black darkness the next.
The night arrives with a cavalcade of clouds. I’m grateful for the blessed silence and the absence of the searchlight, but when I strum on my lute, a shot rings out, and I stop playing.
Soon the air turns glacial. I put on my bughra and drape my blanket over it. My hand slips inadvertently through the hole my baby brother Yunus had made in the blanket. Mother had given him a hiding for it. My eyes mist with tears as I remember my family. I still find it difficult to believe I’m the only one left.
Without warning, the searchlight switches on. It skitters across the field and comes to rest on me. I shrink away from it and close my eyes. What I desperately need is sleep.
At daybreak, I am awakened by the melodic sound of sheep bells. I sit up and look around. A flock of sheep has entered the field from the same mountain trail that brought me here. Some of them wear blankets. There’s an especially plump white animal, not much more than a lamb, with a bright crimson blanket embroidered in black. They scatter over the field, looking for pasture, weaving in and out of strands of mist.
Dawn is cool and silent. The black silhouette of the fort is more like a dream than reality. When I clap my hands for warmth, it attracts the attention of the sheep. Their quest for pasture in this arid plain is proving fruitless. I call out softly to them and they gather around. In the solitude of the plain, I enjoy their inquisitive company. It reminds me of my childhood years shepherding flocks in highland pastures. Soon the white lamb is frolicking by my side: I stroke the fuzz underneath its chin, and rub its muzzle in the manner that sheep like best. A larger animal, no doubt its mother, nuzzles it as we play, and I stroke both of them.
A red sun rises in the gray sky. I watch it with weary eyes and feel as if I’ve been here for a very long time. Fatigue has lent a touch of the illusory to everything. It’s as if I’m living on the sharp edge of a knife. The slightest relaxation in my vigilance threatens an onslaught of held-back tears. At times, I feel feverish, especially now, with the warm, soft lamb in my grasp. So I force myself to attend to the task at hand, mute and exhausted.
Without letting go of the lamb, I draw out the knife concealed in the inner lining of my bughra. Forcefully yanking back its neck, I plunge the knife with brutal swiftness across its throat. It doesn’t even have the chance to bleat but simply hammers its hooves against the earth. A stream of blood spurts into the air and indiscriminately sprays the terrified flock. It drenches the mother, who cries out loudly,
the whites of her eyes showing. She lurches forward, but I push her away with one hand. Blood continues to spurt from the severed arteries and splashes the sleeves of my bughra and my veil. I hold the lamb down with all my strength until it stops kicking and shudders to stillness. Then I drop the knife and drive the mother away with my fists, leaving bloody marks on her pelt. Still she circles around, calling out in distress, while the rest of the flock scatters. Finally, even she moves away, and I rest my violently shaking hands on the dead animal, my breath coming in bursts. To kill in these circumstances requires nerves of iron, which I do not have. There’s blood, blood everywhere.
Only then do I hear the commotion from the fort. There’s a gaggle of soldiers clustered behind sandbags, but they’re too far away to register what happened. Instead, it is Masood the Tajik who comes racing out, skidding to a stop just inside the barbed wire fence. He looks bewildered.
I point to the lamb and call out: This is in exchange for your masters’ gift of food. We Pashtuns also have our traditions of hospitality. Now we’re even.
His face lights up in perfect comprehension. He gives an excited laugh.
This was well done! he exclaims. I will certainly convey your message.
He casts an appraising eye on the lamb. We will feast tonight, he adds. Do you want me to take the lamb to them?
No. Tell your captain I would like to give it to him personally.
I will do that. He’s meeting with his officers, but I will find a way to tell him.
He turns to leave, then hesitates. Four soldiers are hurrying purposefully toward him, led by the hard-faced sergeant from yesterday. He begins yelling at Masood even before they close in on him. The Tajik points to the lamb and begins to explain something to them in their language, but the sergeant cuts him off angrily and escorts him back to the fortress. Remarkably, in all of this, I am ignored almost
as if I were invisible. I watch them leave, and am left to wonder why their wrath was directed at their own interpreter and not at me.
Not knowing what to expect next, I wait in the light of the rising sun. Slowly, the mist clears; the sun begins to blaze down, as always. The heat intensifies. It steams from the circle of blood-drenched earth surrounding the cart. Light touches the stone walls of the fort. It illuminates the dead lamb; the necklace of blood around its throat glitters.
When the Tajik returns, it is with an armed escort. They walk up to the barbed wire. The Tajik looks crestfallen. He flops down on his haunches. The captain has refused your gift, he calls out, gazing in disbelief at the lamb. The soldiers who watched you kill the lamb deemed your act barbaric: they claimed that civilized women do not slaughter animals. I tried to explain it was a gift from you in keeping with our traditions, but they refused to listen to me. They made fun of your sanity. I don’t understand it. I simply don’t understand it.
He steals a sidelong glance at his escort, who’re staring at me with undisguised contempt. I notice that they seem to be keeping watch over the interpreter as much as over me.
The Tajik winces. I don’t understand them, he says again. It must have to do with their customs. They’ve adopted a stray dog, for instance, and treat it as their pet. They give it the choicest morsels as if it were a prize sheep and not a mere dog, that most unclean of animals, and they fuss over it and fondle it in a manner that makes me ill. They’re a strange people.