ZABUL PROVINCE
‘He can’t hear you, Omar, the explosion hurt his ears.’
Ahmed Defari pitied his older brother; he had never truly seen the death that was part of a jihad.
They had travelled all through the day in an old pick-up truck to bring Ghasul home. Now the young fighter lay bleeding under a blanket, close to death. The villagers had stood outside his room and mourned for him until his mother arrived by his bedside and kissed his cheeks – then they celebrated.
‘How did this even happen, Ahmed?’ Omar demanded. ‘You were only meant to attack the front gate. You were going to draw them away from the base and into your trap, you said.’ Omar’s face reflected the pain that he felt over the imminent death of his young nephew.
‘The situation changed, brother. We found a way inside their base, into the very lair where they sit and plot our destruction.’ Ahmed took a step back from his son and turned to face the others. ‘We couldn’t pass up the opportunity to show them they are not safe, no matter where they hide.’
Omar stroked the forehead of the young Taliban, not yet in his twenties. ‘And now this, Ahmed – your eldest son? Bleeding from the nose and ears like a yard cat that has been beaten around the head with a stick?’ As if to reinforce his point, the old man smashed his walking stick into the hard ground.
‘Yes, it’s very sad that he was not martyred like the others, but it was not his time.’ Ahmed smiled across at his sibling. ‘Listen, brother, we tried it your way, but the infidel didn’t listen; now we must do it this way, the way of the fighter. I have the approval of Quetta. Think of it, Omar: God willing, if this succeeds, I will be the governor before the new planting season and we will rule all these valleys again.’
Omar scoffed under his breath. ‘Abdul Rahman, you stand there very quiet – do you agree it is worth the bloodshed? The loss of twenty brothers, most of them family?’
Abdul Rahman looked at Ahmed and then around at the others gathered by Ghasul’s bed. ‘Omar, old friend, you know my feelings on this. The council has chosen your brother, Ahmed Defari, and now we need to follow him. I will fight to my last breath if it is God’s will.’
The real truth of the matter was that Abdul Rahman would much rather be tinkering with motorbikes, and the young chai boys, in his Tarin Kowt workshop. He also knew that he wouldn’t be asked by Ahmed to be a foot soldier any time soon. He was best utilised as a conduit of information and distributor of Ahmed’s weapons.
Omar sighed and looked around at the group. ‘I fear you may yet fight to your last breath if you follow Ahmed. I fear it will be his will for us all.’
‘It is true that the attack did not go to plan, brother,’ Ahmed conceded. ‘The bearded devils arrived. They are special: the infidel use them when they feel most threatened. They are different from the others; they can see in the dark and they are deathly silent. If they catch you, it is said that you disappear forever.’ Ahmed became animated talking about the Australians. He had come to respect them, almost to idolise them, rather than fear them like the others.
‘I hear that they use explosions to open walls, Ahmed, that they come into the homes in the dead of night and rip you from your bed and that they have wolves with them with teeth the size of fence posts,’ an awed Abdul Rahman added.
‘Yes, yes, that’s right, Abdul. But I have noticed a weakness. I have watched them for many years now. Every fighting season they are different men from the years before.’
‘What have you learnt, Ahmed?’ asked Faisal Khan. He had appeared bored, standing in the corner watching the grieving family, but now his eyes were alive.
‘They make the same mistakes, Faisal. They always take the same paths – even when there are no roads, they seem to drive the same way as the years before. They park their tanks in the same places and they look in the very same houses.’
‘I have seen that the traitors with them are Hazara Shi’a!’ Faisal Kahn added. He walked across to the group and put his hand on Abdul’s shoulder.
‘Yes, Faisal, this is true. They bring the Hazara from the north.’ Ahmed was not surprised that Faisal had observed this; he was highly regarded as an intelligence officer within the Haqqani network. The senior leadership in Quetta had decided to promote Ahmed but only provided he took the counsel and guidance of Faisal. It was said that Faisal had been hand-picked by Mullah Omar himself for the task.
Before Ahmed had met Faisal Khan, he had been a low level fighter with modest aspirations. His small village had been peaceful and had always grown pomegranates in the land between the mountains and the walls that circled the village. It was a hard but honest way to make a living and the village was wealthy compared to most.
When Faisal arrived, so too did the processed opium from Helmand Province for shipment to Pakistan and beyond. At first, this made Ahmed uncomfortable; they were Muslims, yet this poison they were helping al-Queda and the Taliban supply to non-believers had found its way to their own people as they, too, became addicted. Abdul Rahman’s brother was managing the profits from Kabul, and he seemed always to have money whenever Ahmed needed it. Over time Ahmed grew to trust Faisal and the closer he worked with him the more powerful and successful he became and the less of a concern the drugs were to him. He knew where the money ended up.
Ahmed turned to look once more at the still form of Ghasul. ‘Things are going to change soon, my friends,’ he said soberly. ‘Let’s move outside – I want to speak to you about something important’. He motioned towards his wife. ‘Mouza, tend to our son now.’
Mouza rose like a spirit from the corner of the dusty room just as a moan came from Ghasul. She had been sitting crouched in her burqa, hidden from the men’s view in one of the dark corners. She was listening intently and watching Ahmed’s every gesture and movement. His control of the group and the power that he now wielded within the tribal area filled her with excitement. Soon, she was certain, her family would be rulers of the lands between Tarin Kowt and Kandahar, just as her father had once been.
‘What’s so important that you can’t discuss it in front of a dying boy, Ahmed?’ Omar asked.
‘Your nephew is not the concern, brother – I want to be under the stars so that Allah himself might look down upon our discussion.’
Ahmed walked through the doorway and out into the open courtyard. The compound itself was modest in size, but it looked over the entire valley below and its thick stone walls and single entrance had ensured that it remained unconquered for hundreds of years, as had the family within.
‘In the coming months, we are going to receive a new weapon,’ Ahmed revealed when the men had assembled again outside. ‘I am told by Quetta that it will change the fight.’
‘What, Ahmed – what is this weapon?’ Omar asked, wide-eyed.
‘They are uniforms made of a special material. Explosive is woven into the fabric. With these we can get inside the government and police buildings and destroy their leadership. A single vest will kill a group of ten men standing together. They were tested in Pakistan, against a government spy and his family, and the best part is that the foreigners can’t see them with their wands.’
‘You mean that clothes are the new weapon, Ahmed? How is this possible?’ a toothless Abdul said, smiling to disguise his anxiety. He sensed that he was going to be receiving the new shipment of weapons very soon, which always made him nervous.
Omar, too, was puzzled. ‘How will this help, Ahmed? They listen to us, they see and hear everything. How are we meant to fight them when they have all these machines, these planes, and all we have is clothes?’
‘I told you, brother, they will not detect these, not like the vests you send the young Pakistanis out in – and we will make a plan: they will all go off together, in every police station and army HQ in the district. There will be no one left in power. The American puppets will be finished and then we will step in to run the province.’
It was true, Omar thought, the Pakistanis were less than effective, especially being such weak, sick creatures. He’d had little success with them in recent months.
‘The same way the Mujahedeen fought the Soviet Army.’ Faisal smiled.
A high-pitched squeal came from inside the house and then the door burst open. Mouza came running out, one hand holding her abaya above her ankles to allow her to move more freely.
‘Ahmed, Ahmed – Alhamdulillah, Ahmed, praise be to God! Ghasul has left, he is a martyr now. Oh, Ahmed, it was meant to be.’ Mouza could barely contain her joy now that her eldest son had died and gone to the afterlife. ‘We must make preparations. Come now, we must send him off properly. Come, come, Ahmed.’
Ahmed looked up into the brilliant night sky. ‘Alhamdulillah. You see, Omar? God was listening to our prayers. Abdul Rahman, make preparations to receive the weapons in the secret place. And Faisal? Use your contacts. Keep them looking the other way. I need some time to plan this well.’