As we walked to police headquarters the following morning, Yasir said, “Hazrat Ali has many, many houses and plenty of money. He doesn’t need your house. It’s a matter of pride and his stubborn nature. He doesn’t like anyone telling him what to do because he thinks it makes him look weak. You must convince him that you are Rahman Popal’s son and find a way for him to save face. There’s one thing you must be careful of. Ali will ask and answer his own questions. ‘Do you have the title to the property?’ he will ask, and before you have a chance to answer, he will say, ‘Nay!’ and tell you to go away. You must speak quickly and not give him a chance to cut you off. Only then will you have any chance against him. I will tell you what to say.”
People prefer to be outdoors in Jalalabad’s warm climate—even officials. We found Hazrat Ali dressed in a suit on the terrace in the back garden of the police station, where he had set up a desk and chair. Several men, some dressed in gebis, others in police uniforms, stood nearby as Hazrat Ali spoke in Nuristani to two elders. When he saw us, he dismissed the elders and motioned to us to come. Hazrat Ali looked at me with close-set dark eyes that sat beneath thick, arched eyebrows. “What is it you want?” he said impatiently.
“I am Baryalai Popal, Rahman Popal’s only son. The house you claim in Jalalabad is mine.”
“I have taken care of this house for seventeen years,” he said, eyeing me with contempt, “and you come here and tell me after all this time that it’s yours? How is this your house? Anyone can say, ‘This is my house.’ Why should I believe you?”
“Because I have the title.”
“For twenty dollars anyone can buy a title in Kabul.”
“Many have said I was crazy to come here, but I’m not crazy enough to bring you false documents. You know the title company cuts the title in half and keeps half for itself and gives the other half to the owner. Do you have the matching half? Nay! I do.”
Hazrat Ali considered this. “If your title is as you say, I will call you, and you will have your house back. If not, I will be your worst nightmare.”
He never called me about my house.
I went to the minister of land disputes and told him that Hazrat Ali had ignored all the government’s orders.
“I spoke with the governor in Jalalabad,” the minister said. “He told me Hazrat Ali was prepared to return your house, but you never came to get it.”
“That’s a lie!” Although I should not have shouted at a minister, I could not contain my anger. “Hazrat Ali is trying to save face by saying he offered to give me my house back, but he did not, and he has no intention of doing so.”
“Apparently, Hazrat Ali’s offer is still open,” the minister said, remaining calm. “You must go speak with the new governor of Jalalabad, Gul Agha Sherzai, and claim your house.”