March 6th 2010 – The English Fighters

Malik was a seasoned veteran now. That first kill seemed a long time ago. He’d seen innumerable bodies since the execution in Pakistan. He had already fought one long, difficult campaign in Afghanistan. Mosul, Paula and Hakim seemed a world away.

Malik shifted uncomfortably. He was seated on the ground in a semi circle with another fifty or so men. The heat from the sun was unrelenting, and it had been a few hours since he’d last been able to have a drink from his now empty water bottle.

His fighting group had all just returned to Helmand from the harsh, rocky environment of the mountains. They were all awaiting the local tribal commander, who was to brief them on the current situation. And what the objectives would be for the next week. He was late, but everyone who was part of Malik’s group had learnt patience. Both in their training and in the tedious boredom, that characterised most of their time in the Afghan campaigns.

At last the Taliban chief arrived, flanked by several of his bodyguards, and began his speech. He started quietly enough, addressing the group in the local language of Pashtun. Malik could understand though. He had always been a natural at languages, ever since learning English at home with his mother.

His time spent in Pakistan had allowed him to pick up the basics of Pashtun. Now on the second spell of six months in the front line, his linguistic ability was coming in useful. He couldn’t speak sufficient words to hold more than a rudimentary conversation. But he could understand well enough to work out what was going on at the briefings.

Day to day, he often didn’t need Pashtun, as the members of his mahiz, his combat unit, were all from foreign parts. They had met at the same Pakistan madrasa. Malik was the only Iraqi. There were three others from England and ten Pakistanis. Malik could speak English with all of those.

Plus there were two twenty year olds from Riyadh. Saudi kids on a gap year as the Afghans joked. He spoke to them in Arabic. Nonetheless, he talked to enough locals to keep his Pashtun up to speed. And the major commanders were Afghans. Like the man lecturing them now.

He was dressed in the local clothes. Although he carried himself like a young man, his snow-white beard revealed his true age. Not to mention the deep creases ironed into the leathery skin of his face. His black eyes glinted with barely disguised ferocity.

“The Unbelievers are crazy!”

The audience nodded. In point of fact they all agreed with him. But they would have nodded in any case. No one wanted to get on the wrong side of this man.

“They support these corrupt officials and the execrable Afghan police. No merchant or traveller is safe from the thieving of the locals who have sided with the cursed invaders. That doesn’t happen where we’re in control.”

No thought Malik. They want to keep their hands.

“The cursed Infidels destroy the poppy crop on which the farmers rely. And replace it with what? Nothing!”

Shouts of agreement greeted this remark.

“So the Afghan people join the Taliban. Or feed us and hide our weapons.”

“Then the Western invaders forget they are unclean Infidels. Christian Unbelievers returning to our land to subjugate us. So the true Believers amongst the Afghans join our cause!”

He gestured theatrically towards Malik’s mahiz.

“And even from far away, they come to join the jihad. They journey far from Arabia. They come to us from Pakistan and Iraq. We are even joined by fighters from England!”

At this the crowd were on their feet. Weapons were raised skywards and shouts for revenge on the foreigners filled the air. But Malik had his own reasons for revenge. It wasn’t for the invasion of Afghanistan. A country he had known nothing about until two years ago. Oh no. It was much more personal than that.

That night his team were gathered round a fire they had set up next to their eclectic collection of tents. Malik was sociable enough, but he had never had a particularly talkative nature. Just preferred to sit back at night, and let the others get on with making conversation.

That night it was the three men from England who were doing all the talking. Some of the others had already drifted off to bed, as they couldn’t understand English that well. But Malik and the some of the guys from Pakistan who could speak the best English were listening.

“Do you remember the TV programs we would watch before our trip?”

The smallest of the three men had a pockmarked face, and seemed to be the leader of this contingent. Well, he was the one who had opened up the conversation. The accent he spoke in was a little strange to Malik’s ear. He was speaking in a quick animated fashion. Malik had to strain a little in order to understand.

“The verbal contortions of the TV commentators as they twist their arguments. The lengths they will go through to justify the unprovoked attacks on the Faithful of Iraq and here in Afghanistan. The troops are here to stop terror on the streets of Britain. How do they work that out? The only attack in Britain was from British Muslims. And the invasion of Iraq just makes that more likely.”

The other two Englishmen nodded and grunted in agreement.

“And anyway, I don’t agree with crazy lunatics like that idiot Khan. And those pricks that flew on 9/11. Blowing up innocent civilians. It’s just fucking ridiculous. Makes us look no better than Bush and Blair.”

Malik pricked up his ears at that.

“And was it really Believers that flew those planes in New York. You all saw the Urdu paper from those days in Pakistan. Didn’t bin Laden deny involvement? Why would he change his mind?”

This was dangerous territory. His companions exchanged nervous glances. Malik thought that the young Englishman had better be careful to whom he expressed that opinion. Whatever the background, they were certainly at war now. The taller of his two fellow countrymen seemed to realise this.

“Calm yourself my friend. Remember the learned teachings of our preacher, back home in Blackburn. Can you recall? He taught us the words of the Prophet, Peace be upon Him, ‘The best jihad is by the one who strives against his own self for Allah.’ That is a struggle for faith, not armed conflict. But we are forced to be here due to the aggression of our enemies. Does not the Holy Book say, ‘Fight in the cause of Allah those who fight you’?

We have right on our side, we do not need to curse and blaspheme, like those we see everyday in the land of our birth.”

Suitably admonished, the pock marked man returned to safer ground.

“Even so that Bush is just plain stupid. He shouts from the rooftops that the Coalition is in a Crusade against us. And that is exactly right. Just like the Crusades. The soldiers we fight are Unbelievers, who invade the lands of the Faithful on the flimsiest of excuses. And the atrocities are probably worse than they were, even in those barbarous times.

How many of the Faithful have been killed in Iraq, and on the ground here? Is it a hundred thousand, two, three, four, maybe even a million dead? These guys, they’re like the fucking Nazis. Women and children, they just don’t give a shit.

And the guys who join the British army back home, what do they think they’re doing here? How do their families feel when they see the body bags coming back? And for what? As if a few thousand Brits and Americans could do what a few million Russians couldn’t?”

As he finished his impassioned rant, the young Englishman emphasised his last point, by gesturing at the burnt out hunk of a Russian tank that was silhouetted by the remaining light from their fire.

Safer territory, but his language had not improved. His comrades shook their heads indulgently and huddled closer to the fire, pulling their blankets over them to keep out the worst of the night’s cold.

Malik was lying back, listening with interest and taking in the information. He had heard similar stories before. But this perspective was interesting as it was from the Infidel’s own land. He couldn’t understand, given what the men were saying, why there wasn’t a popular uprising in Britain against the pointless deaths of their fighters. Their government must have a tighter control of the people than Saddam himself.

The third member of the English group was older than his friends. Maybe in his thirties, his long beard flecked with grey. It was rare for him to make a contribution to any discussion, let alone to a political discourse. But apparently this night there was something he needed to contribute.

“My trusted companion, I am afraid you are over simplifying the position of the media in England. They are determined to split all our Islamic brothers into two categories. That is extremists or moderates. The first group is portrayed as evil, deranged, insane and dangerous. The second as civilised, normal, fit to be part of their society.

We of course would be extremists. But it is not that simple is it?”

The others were looking at him with some surprise. These was the deepest conversation they’d had with him since they’d left home.

“I am with you on 9/11. I have no time for whoever committed that act, be it a Believer or not. But then that has been used as an excuse to invade two countries. That to me is extreme. We have done nothing but join our brothers in faith to defend their lands. What is that? Is it the act of extremists, or of brave men, seeking to right a great wrong? Those in command of the TV and the newspapers at home, they should be asking that question.”

That seemed to have exhausted his fund of words. Saying nothing further, he wrapped his blanket even more tightly around his shoulders and sank back into his customary silence.