Hadji Jawid’s older brother had fought with Hazrat Ali against the Russians. When a rival of Hazrat Ali pulled a gun on Hazrat Ali, Hadji Jawid’s brother put himself between Hazrat Ali and the gunman and was fatally wounded. With his dying words he asked Hazrat Ali to look after his youngest brother. “Please take Jawid into your hands and protect him,” he said.
As one who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca, Jawid had earned the title “Hadji.” Hazrat Ali arranged the marriage between his sister and Hadji Jawid and appointed Hadji Jawid head of his security forces. He built the new couple a house in a public park near my house in Jalalabad. In Afghanistan a brother-in-law is a powerful member of a family. My only hope against Hadji Jawid was Afghanistan’s new government.
At the beginning of April I went to meet Hadji Jawid in Hazrat Ali’s compound, which was directly across the street from my house. Armed men in the front yard stared at me as I walked to the compound’s doorway. Two gunmen stood in front of the door. In the garden beyond, I could see another twenty men armed with automatic rifles and machine guns. As I stood at the doorway, one of the guards began roughly patting down my gebi. “You think I’m crazy enough to bring a gun here?” I said.
“I think you’re crazy to come here at all,” he replied.
“I am Baryalai Popal. I own the house across the street. I am here to see Hadji Jawid.”
“Hadji Jawid isn’t here. Look for him at his house in the park across the street. If you are smart, you will return to Kabul right now and never again come closer to Jalalabad than the Darunta Tunnel.”
I found Hadji Jawid sitting in his garden. Unlike Hazrat Ali, who always wore a suit, Hadji Jawid wore a white gebi and turban. He invited me to sit with him. A servant brought a tray of tea, dates, and nuts, but I wasn’t hungry.
“What business brings you here?” Hadji Jawid said, fingering a honey-soaked date.
“I’m Baryalai Popal, the son of Rahman Popal. I am the owner of the house across the street. Hazrat Ali controls it. I want it returned to me.”
Hadji Jawid stared at me. “Rahman’s son was killed many years ago in a landmine explosion.”
“Nay, that’s not true. As I stand before you, I am Baryalai Popal.”
“Where is your proof?”
I handed him my documents proving my title. He looked at them quickly. “I have documents too. Everyone in Afghanistan has documents. This proves nothing.”
My anger rose in my throat. “You asked me for proof, and I have given it to you. Now you reject it. You are just playing with me.”
Jawid held up his hand. “Let me ask you a few questions about your house,” he said calmly. “If you are who you say you are, you should have no trouble answering them.”
After I correctly answered his questions, Hadji Jawid said, “My gardener worked at the house when Rahman and his son were there. If he recognizes you, you can have your house back. If not, you are to leave and never return. Agreed?”
I knew the “gardener” would be one of his fighters or an elder allied with Hazrat Ali or in his debt. I had been set up, but to question the honesty of Hazrat Ali and Hadji Jawid would be the greatest of insults, and this I would not do.
“Why do you hesitate? If you are Baryalai Popal, you have nothing to fear.”
“I have changed a lot in twenty years,” I said, thinking quickly. “When my own cousin, who I had not seen in a very long time, saw me at a wedding recently, she did not recognize me.”
“What you say may be true, but it’s the only way. Meet me at the Security Office tomorrow morning, and we will settle this once and for all.”
That night in my room in Jalalabad, I heard Baba’s voice in my head. “Why put yourself in such danger for a house, Bari?” he said. “I have invested everything in you, not a house. A house is not an important thing compared to a son.”
Maybe he was right. Anyone foolish enough to enter the headquarters of the secret police could expect only one of two things: imprisonment or death.