Chapter 33
Later...
At last, Rahim decided to turn on his headlights. "It is safe now," he announced.
"How can you tell?" Derek asked, staring out at the darkness. There was no small amount of sarcasm in his voice, which his companion either failed to detect or good-naturedly ignored.
"I know the feel of this road," Rahim explained. "It is home... my village.... It is called Sas'aret. We are in Kâm'aston... the land of the K'om." He threaded his way along a narrow, rocky track, then stopped to allow two men to wheel a handcart, laden with wood, past them. Turning hard right, he spun his wheels and began to climb. The ancient vehicle complained with groans and rattles, but after a few moments Rahim pulled into a dimly lit yard and switched off the engine.
Derek gazed into the blackness, saw pinpricks of light rising in the darkness, and could imagine the village.... The pinpricks would be lanterns hung beside a gate or door... a candle in a window. The village would be a conglomerate of square stone, wood, and mud brick homes whose flat roofs would seem to stairstep up the mountainside from the river below to the ridge above.
Rahim sighed in relief, then leapt from the cab. As he rounded the front of the truck, a skinny, cur of a dog emerged from the shadows to bark. "Bah!" he shouted and kicked at the animal, which skulked back into the darkness. He then hurried on and opened the passenger door for Derek. "Filthy, unclean beast," he muttered, "but even they serve God's purpose.... Welcome to my home.... Please... enter!" He pulled open the wooden door and yellow light illuminated the yard. A delicious smell of cooking wafted through the air. "We will eat... rest.... You are my guest... my family's guest.... In Kâmv'iri you are l'ea vâllâla
... a friend... a pâtv'âa.... How do you say?... A fellow traveler?"Derek was ushered into a warm, friendly room, furnished with thick, multi-colored carpets and woven drapes. For a man the precept's height, the beamed ceiling seemed low. An old man laid aside his pipe and rose from a mound of cushions beside the stove.
"This is my t'ot... my father.... His out-world name is Ismail... but here he is Azor-malik of the Kâñ'a Dâra.... It is hard to... express.... We are of the Kâñ'a Dâra... the 'Blind Man's Boys'."
"Like a clan?" Derek suggested. "Like a Pashtun khol?"
"Yes.... A clan," Rahim stated. "I am pRun'ala, but that will not come easily from your tongue, so I remain Rahim. "Tata," he spoke loudly to his father. "This man is Kincaid's friend.... He is called Derek Rayne."
"Wel...come!... Wel...come!... Daa-reek Ra-hin!" the old man exclaimed in hesitant English, his voice high pitched and quivering. "Kincaid's friend is our friend.... Drink.... Str'i!... Wife!" he called. "Sori!... Tea for our guest."
< < + > >
Two hours later Derek sat amidst cushions, carpets, and smoke in the honored place at a family meal.... A communal dish, filled with rice and mutton, measuring more than a yard in diameter, squatted at the center of a circle of men and boys... older men nearest the great, brass platter, boys in an outer ring. The women and younger children enjoyed their own meal off to the side. He could hear their soft murmurs and giggles from behind a screen of woven rushes and tapestry drapes. Every now and again from the corner of his eye, he would catch a movement of fabric as someone would peek out at the honored guest.
The K'om familial relationships were a muddle to him and the language was filled with syncopations and guttural stops. It seemed as though every older man was a t'ot... a father... with various prefixes to indicate their status in the hierarchy.... He knew that Ismail was, indeed, Rahim's father. Then he had been introduced to a succession of men called j'est'-tot, others called mâj'am-tot, and younger men named as kâñ'atot. At first he thought that perhaps they were all Rahim's uncles... the elder and younger brothers of Ismail... but after the first dozen, he came to realize that they must be the designations of any clansmen of Rahim's father's generation... split into older, middle, and youngest by the prefix. The ones of Rahim's age seemed to all have a br'o embedded in the word, while the youngsters all seemed designated by some form of p'ütr. It was definitely an agnatic system... father based... for no relatives of Rahim's mother or sisters seemed to be present. Perhaps, one day he would write an article for Anthropology Today on the sociological relationships amongst the K'om.
Again and again, Derek heard the word "br'ok", which seemed to be addressed towards him or about him. Finally he whispered to Rahim, "What is br'ok?"
Before replying, his host searched for the proper English. "It means 'my older brother'," he explained. "I was telling them a little about you, but I am careful. I will say only enough to satisfy their curiosity."
Now recognizing the br'o base of the word, Derek nodded in understanding, then thoughtfully accepted the choice piece of greasy mutton, which one of the men called kâñ'atot had offered. The precept had slyly watched the group's table manners and took special care to touch the food only with his right hand, mindful of the Islamic custom to reserve the left for less than clean activities. To avoid any faux pas because of his natural left-handedness, he let that arm take his weight as he leaned against a cushion.
"Br'ok is a respectful name... no... maybe like a title... for someone of a man's own age... no.... I am sorry. I do not know the word," Rahim thoughtfully apologized. "A brother... a cousin... a friend... of the same age group."
Again, Derek nodded. "A generation?" he suggested, as all the men around the circle, without understanding a word, smiled at their guest's wisdom and education.
"Thank you," said Rahim. "I shall remember that word... 'generation'. It is very important to the K'om.
"J'est'-tot Kam'ruk, the wisest man of our village, says that he sees in you the mysticism of the Sufi.... You have the yaqin, the knowing without knowing how, of which the greatest Sufi, Imam al-Ghazali, spoke.... He asks if you are Sufi.... Are you a mullah amongst your people?"
Derek laughed and smiled at the oldest man of the group, who stroked his snow white beard as he returned a toothless smile. "Tell your kinsman that I am honored to be so called by such an insightful man... but no.... Tell him I am 'of the Book'.
"But, he is right. I have been called a mystic by some... crazy by others. Perhaps, I am both." Determined to be honest with these people, he added, "I have the gift... or the curse... of 'Sight'... and I am a Doctor of Theology in my world. I used to teach at a university. I am a seeker who seeks to understand all religions... and the people who follow them.... In doing so...," he hesitated, then repeated what his sister had once told him, "in doing so, I gird myself for battle against evil, in whatever form I may find it."
Before Rahim had a chance to translate the precept's statement, the old man, Kam'ruk, whose dark eyes had never left Derek's face, smiled once more and nodded, as if in understanding.
Derek noticed a movement and heard a husky, feminine voice speak from behind the drapes. One of the elders leaned into the curtain, smiled, then spoke. Rahim translated, "They ask, 'What is your tribe and clan? Where is your home? Is your family large?' My aunt is really asking, 'How many wives and children do you have?'"
The precept smiled, then patiently replied, "I live near the Pacific Ocean... in a city on the west coast of the United States... in California.... It is called San Francisco. My home is on Angel Island, in the middle of San Francisco Bay. My father's clan was the Raynes. They are American... a mixture of English, Irish, Dutch, Cherokee, and Mexican. My mother's tribe is Dutch. She lives in a city in Europe called Amsterdam. Her grandfather was a count... like an 'amir'. I have no family of my own... no wives... no children."
A great whisper of voices rose from behind the curtains, until Rahim's father silenced it with a single word. Gradually, as the evening and the meal wore on, the conversation turned to the events in New York and Washington. It was not easy for Derek.... There were memories of a jovial man, who never seemed overwhelmed or unhappy... of an office with its shelves lined with crystal baubles... of a view and a height that, despite the glass, offered freedom... then there were other memories... of fire, pain, terror, desolation.
Everyone in the room knew what had happened in September. The precept discovered that the village possessed two televisions with limited reception and that newspapers and magazines had made their way into even the remotest areas. He found that, though all completely understood the immensity of a twenty-thousand-foot mountain... and all understood what a jet was... only Rahim, who had traveled the farthest out-world, could comprehend the photos of the World Trade Center with the 757 jumbo jet plowing into the side. They saw, yet there was a disconnect, because none had ever seen a man-made structure of such height, nor could they comprehend the nature of a place such as New York City. One or two of the men had been to Jalalabad, Kabul, or Peshawar, which did nothing for their ability to imagine Manhattan.
Although all tried to be deliberate in their statements and questions, so as to seem courteous and wise, Rahim had difficulty in keeping up with the translations. At last, a question came that he seemed reluctant to repeat.
"What is it?" Derek asked, turning with interest towards his new friend.
"B'odür," he said, indicating a young man with a light brown beard, "has studied at a madraseh in Pakistan. He wishes to be a muezzin.... He has a good voice for the call to prayer.... He is a good boy, but I am not sure about his teachers.
"I cannot repeat this," he told Derek. "It is an impolite question." He then turned B'odür and spoke rapidly in Kâmv'iri.
"No," said Derek, taking a sip of tea. "Ask me. I am a teacher... therefore no question, if asked from an honest desire to learn, is rude."
Rahim hesitated, searching for words. "He asks, 'Is it true that this disaster was made by the CIA and the Israelis and that they seek to blame all Moslems for the deed?... Do they wish to destroy the people of Palestine and Iraq?... Your President has declared Iraq and Iran to be evil.' He says that he has heard this on the streets in Jalalabad and in Pakistan... heard it in the mosques... and on television... on al-Jazeera... and so have I... an interview with a respected imam," he added, then listened to B'odür again and translated. "He says that over four thousand Jews did not show up for work that day at this place... and that one day, you will all see the truth of what is said... that it is America that is evil."
"No," Derek replied firmly. "That is lie.... My kinsman... a good man... died there... and his assistant with him. His assistant was a Jewish woman, named Naomi. That is a rumor started by those who hate Israel and who would see a valid jihad declared against the United States, Israel, and all Western nations. There are fundamentalist Islamic groups... who would see the entire world ruled by an Islamic theocracy... like the Taliban."
"But Allah rules all.... Islam teaches this. There is no other way," B'odür interrupted and was immediately shushed by his elders.
Derek felt the young man's hostile mistrust and chose his next words carefully. "People want to believe those rumors because they cannot bear to believe that such evil can be born in Islam... but such evil can be born anywhere... in any culture, any religion, any society... any human being. It doesn't take Iblis... the devil... to do it," he declared. Then under his breath added, "Take my word... I'm an expert on evil."
At the last, quiet confession, Rahim looked up at his friend and read the truth that lay behind the eyes. "I believe my friend speaks the truth," he announced. "We have no love for the Taliban, nor the Pashtun clans, nor their Arab allies. Wahhabi is a perverted version of Islam... and those men are as foreign to us... to Afghanistan... as the British or the Russians. They have sought to merge Pashtunwali, the Pashtun's tribal code of honor, with Wahhabi's extreme... how do you say... conservishness?"
"Conservativeness?" Derek offered. "Like backwards, old-fashioned thought?"
Rahim nodded vigorously. "Yes... then they seek to destroy our ancient ways with their own harsh interpretations. I know what is said by the rest of the world... and I know what has been said by Osama bin Ladin himself... and I will always declare B'odür's question to be a lie."
B'odür once more spoke up. "If the Wahhabi way... Osama's way... is perverse and foreign, then what is the American culture and their political goals? They are heathenish infidels who hate the true faith. We see the uncovered faces of women... and worse... plastered on walls... sold like harlots. We know that they have women in their armies, who give orders to men. This is not right. We all know this... Would you want this for your mother or sister or daughter?... They entice us with music and film and television.... None of these things have a place in Islam.... The Prophet, blessings be upon him, said that those who listen to music in this world will, on the day of judgment, have molten lead poured into their ears."
Rahim's father spoke up. "Silence!... Your mullahs do not even know their Koran. Your mullahs invented that about music. Music has been a part of our people... of all people... since before time....This has been fought over since the beginning of Islam. The only thing that our blessed Prophet said was that he disliked stringed instruments and he called music 'arousing'.... Yet does not the Koran praise the Psalms of King David?... Does it not say that the songs of birds are sung in constant praise to Allah?" The old man stroked his beard, then laughed. "Perhaps our blessed Prophet simply had a tin ear and music was only so much noise to him... and what did he mean by 'arousing'?... Perhaps he meant 'invigorating'... rather than 'lustful'."
B'odür was not to be silenced. "You will see.... You will all see.... America wants the whole world to be as godless and wicked as they are. Their 'entertainments' call us from the true path."
Kam'ruk then interrupted and with a soft, low voice, heard by all, said, "No 'entertainment' can entice a True Believer from the path. You cannot force a man onto the 'true path'.... Allah does not want slaves.... He wants those who come willingly to him and who willingly obey his laws. What good is a man who is forced?"
B'odür had no reply, but continued, "They want their military and their money to rule the world. They commit genocide in Iraq by bombs, starvation, and disease. They give the Israelis anything they want, while the Israelis murder Moslem children. The Americans say nothing, but sell more tanks and missiles. They give permission.... They are accomplices. What makes the slaughter of your 'innocents' so much more important than the deaths by bullet, grenade, and disease of our 'innocents'?... Is it because yours happened all at once, while ours happen one or two at a time, day after day?
"It was debated at the madrasah.... Osama writes and the mullahs agree that since America and its heathenish allies are democracies... with governments...." The boy paused in thought... remembering. "...governments of the people, by the people, for the people, who pay taxes to support their governments' aggression... then the people are guilty and should be considered the same as enemy soldiers... and should suffer the same fate. Government of the people, by the people, for the people is wrong... It is evil and wicked... as America is evil.... It means that people will be ruled by their own greed and lust.... People should be ruled by the laws Allah gave us... and only the laws of Allah.... Then they will do what is right... or will be made to do what is right.... America is Satan's great whore, who wants all the world to be either her lovesick eunuch or her slave."
Again Kam'ruk interrupted. "Have you forgotten the history and ways of your own people, boy?... Perhaps the greatest accomplishment of the tribes of Afghanistan?... The jirga... our council?... Democracy was old in these lands before the West... before the Greeks... even put a name to the idea.... Are we to surrender our rights to religious police and a hoard of arrogant mullah's who know nothing of real life or the truths of which the Prophet, blessings be upon him, spoke?"
"The mullahs say that the blood of the West is not that which flows through the veins, but its money... and we will bleed them to death... America, Europe, India.... The West wants war to have a beginning and an end. The war we fight is infinite, eternal.... It is a way of honor and faith and life that began with Mohammed, blessed be his name, and will continue until the whole world submits to the will of Allah... for there is no other way. I, and millions like me, will take up the jihad... and in a thousand years the West will have surrendered, while we will still be here.... We will have our Islamic crescent from Pakistan to Sudan... and it will have the bomb... and then the world will submit to Allah."
Rahim did not translate, but glowered at the nods and sounds of agreement from the outer rings of the circle.
"That is enough!" said Kam'ruk. Silence followed his harsh gaze as it swept around the room. "B'odür... you are young and have been seduced by outsiders....You insult a guest beneath your host's roof.... You insult your host.... You insult our ways.... Be silent... or leave. Go back to your mullahs.
"I would remind you all," he said, "that our hospitality has been extended to this man. He is our guest, whom we are now pledged, by blood and honor, to respect and defend, even with our lives and the lives of our women and children."
The young man grew quiet, but remained seated. "You will all see," he whispered.
"What's being said?" Derek asked. He was at a loss, but knew that the conversation had taken an extremely serious turn. "Is there a dispute?"
"It is nothing," Rahim replied. "B'odür's mind has been filled with fanatical nonsense by radicals in Pakistan. He has forgotten his own people's ways. He has forgotten our ways of honor and hospitality." The tribesman paused, then looked over to meet Derek's gaze. "But... the fanaticism has found a foothold and fertile soil here. It is growing... as you can sense.... It holds a powerful call... and not just for the angry youth.... I fear it. The West wants us to be like them, but we are not... and we do not want to be. You either push to hard... or you try to undermine traditional ways... just as the mullahs do."
Suddenly, a young boy from the furthest edge interrupted. "Will they bomb us... those who hate Afghanistan?" he asked, wide-eyed, trying unsuccessfully to hide his fear. "Your people.... They are bombing the cities... Kabul... Kandahar... Herat.... Will they bomb here too?"
"The Russians bombed our largest villages," Rahim explained, "K'omb-rom, our capital, if we ever had one, was a major target. Did'ama's family lived in K'omb-rom. Many were killed. They are all worried. They all fear that your President will believe the Pakistanis... that we will become a target." No longer translating another's words, but speaking for himself, Rahim turned again to face Derek. "Tell your President... the leaders of the West... that no matter what the ISI, the Pakistani Intelligence Service, might say, no villages in Nuristan... no house of the K'om, the Kât'a, Vâs'i, the Kalasha, the Mum'o, nor any other tribe of Nuristan would willingly harbor Al-Quaida... not yet... but it may come, if chaos comes again... and the elders cannot control the angry young men," he said firmly.
"Tell the President that Pakistan, for a long time now, has sought to control the land of the K'om. Pakistan wants the forests of Nuristan... of the upper Kunar. There are many Pashtun tribes on both sides of the border.... It is the Pashtun who foster the Taliban... and even the most secular Pakistani politicians would turn a blind eye to the Taliban to keep those tribes happy.... Pakistan plays its own games. There is where the true dangers lie. Pakistan has the bomb... and the scientists... and radical mullahs aplenty... just like the one who taught B'odür and many, many other young, impressionable minds. In my heart, I believe that you will find one day that while Afghanistan was the birthplace of the plot to destroy your planes and buildings, Pakistan was the midwife. Tell your President... your news people... all this, my friend. Tell them we want peace and we grieve for your losses."
"We do not hate Afghanistan," said Derek, "nor its people... nor the true followers of Islam.... This I swear.... I will do what I can, this I also swear, Insha'allah... if Allah permits me to return home."
< < + > >
Hours later, the precept lay on a wool-filled mattress, wrapped in a warm nest of blankets and sheepskins. He listened to the noises of the house, as its inhabitants settled down for the night. A new moon shone through his small, casement window, bathing the room in a soft silver-blue.
By the faint light of a candle he studied his maps. They would take the truck for
another fifteen miles. Rahim had arranged that packhorses would be waiting at the
river crossing south of Diwanah Baba. His finger traced the creek that led northwest
into the mountains. Would Nick be there?... Was he alive?... He blew out the candle,
snuggled more deeply into his warm nest, and settled down to grasp at sleep.
Tomorrow would be another long, hard day.
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