Life of Akbar: Part One ( Life with Taliban)

By Akhtar Allahabadi

While growing up in a village in a mountainous region spread across both Afghan and Pakistani territories, Akbar Khan transforms into an understanding and intelligent boy who is devoted to his studies of the Quran and resolving problems. In a land where no one argues with the Taliban, his parents do their best to keep him from being thrust into the JIHAAD against the enemies of Islam, for Akbar is highly regarded in their village and in demand for his wisdom beyond his years.

When he is thirteen, Akbar notices Jameela. Almost immediately, Akbar becomes determined to follow his heart and make her his through marriage, no matter how long it takes. As he begins to work on making his dream come true, a chain of unexpected events unfold, and how he maneuvres his own destiny through the dangers of life amongst the Taliban and how Kismet helps him escape to a near-normal life and happiness.

Life of Akbar: Part One is an epic tale of determination and devotion as an intellectually gifted young man who sets out on a quest to avoid jihad and try and eliminate poverty and spread education amongst the poor of the country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665599962

Akhtar Allahabadi

Akhtar Allahabadi was educated in India, Pakistan, and Scotland. During his lengthy career, he was an eye surgeon, consultant, professor of opthalmology, and in private practice. Since retiring, he has been focused on writing. Life of Akbar: Part One is his second book.

Book preview

© 2022 Akhtar Allahabadi. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/18/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9995-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9996-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022912487

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Akbar Khan

Chapter 2 The Story of Basheer Ullah, the Amir

Chapter 3 The Gulistan Training Centre

Chapter 4 The Child Marriage

Chapter 5 Two Documents

Chapter 6 A Visit to Quetta

Chapter 7 Back to the Centre

Chapter 8 Justice

Chapter 9 Shopkeeper’s Folly

Chapter 10 Another Wedding

Chapter 11 The Government in Quetta

Chapter 12 The Fragrance of a Woman

Chapter 13 A Letter to Jameela

Chapter 14 Safron Khan

Chapter 15 The Tall American

Chapter 16 Tanveer Ahmed Cheema

Chapter 17 The Russian Girl

Chapter 18 Russian Retreat

Chapter 19 The Exams

Chapter 20 Colonel Bahadur Khan

Chapter 21 Najmunnissan

Chapter 22 Akbar Khan, the Reception of His Wife

Chapter 23 Colonel Bahadur Khan, Part 2

Chapter 24 Francis Marker

Chapter 25 Course in Sabotage and Disguise

Chapter 26 The Wedding in the Mosque

Chapter 27 The Russian Withdrawal

Chapter 28 The Peaceful Wedding

Chapter 29 Aalima, the Girl from Swat

Chapter 30 A Treasure Chest

Chapter 31 The Sermon

Chapter 32 Fazeelat

Chapter 33 A New Life

Chapter 34 Freedom for India

Chapter 35 The Big Day

Chapter 36 Independence and Division

Chapter 37 Kashmir

Chapter 38 The Road to Diagram

Chapter 39 The Blown-Up Bridge

Chapter 40 This One Is Alive

Chapter 41 In Islamabad

Chapter 42 Back to Jhelum

Chapter 43 Another Marriage

Chapter 44 A Job for Me

Chapter 45 A Car for Akbar

Chapter 46 Akbar’s Exams

Chapter 47 A Trip to the University

Chapter 48 Arrangements

Chapter 49 Colonel Bahadur’s Story—The Jhelum Airstrip

Chapter 50 Captain Masoom’s Story, Part 1

Chapter 51 Life Back at the Centre

Chapter 52 Captain Masoom Story, Part 2

Chapter 53 The Bombing of Afghanistan

Chapter 54 Not Alone Anymore

Chapter 55 Gladys

I

dedicate this book to my friend Dr. Alistair Blair. Without

his appreciation and constant friendly encouragement, this

collection of stories would not have seen the light of day

71292.png

CHAPTER 1

AKBAR KHAN

T HE DARK AND STARRY NIGHT had covered the mountains and the valley in a quiet, slumberous repose. It was still quiet and dark when the moazzin’s shrill voice, boosted by an electronic microphone, shattered the peace. His call to prayers cut through the sky:

"Allaaaho Akbar. Allaaaaho Akbar (God is great). I depose that Mohammad is His beloved prophet. Come to pray. It is prayer time. Do not sleep. Pray."

And as if God Himself had called, Mujahid Khan woke from his sleep.

Mujahid was an old warrior of about sixty years and was not in deep sleep anyway. It was his habit to get up this early, winter or summer, and go through his ablutions and go to the mosque for prayers. His wife, Sakina, was the same and was quickly awake. Their son, young Akbar, was fast sleep in his young repose, dreaming of fantastic things. He was only thirteen years old. His younger sister, Marium, was only ten. She too did not budge. Sakina called out to the children to get up and get ready for prayers. She had to go and shake up both children to wake them up.

Mariam got up quickly, fixed her hair and clothes, and walked slowly, sleepily, to the bathroom, murmuring, ‘Yes, Mum. Why don’t you stir up Akbar just as you do me?’

Sakina shouted, ‘Akbar, oh, Akbar, get up, son, or you will be late for the prayers.’

Akbar stretched his arms and legs out of the sheet he was sleeping under and grunted. ‘Yes, Mum. Have I ever been late before?’

‘Yes, you are quite often late,’ Sakina said. ‘Your father and the molvi of the mosque complain.’

Akbar grunted as if to protest, but no one can protest in matters of the religion. So, he huffed and puffed a little, threw off his sheet, and staggered towards the male bathroom. His father, Mujahid, was just coming out of the bathroom when he caught sight of his son crawling towards it.

‘Good morning, son. Get through your ablutions and let us go to the mosque. Hurry up.’

Akbar mumbled something in agreement with his father and was soon ready to go.

It was still quite dark. As the father and son walked to the mosque, Akbar observed to his father, ‘Dad, this mullah wakes us up much too early. Look, it is really dark still—the stars are glittering—and he gets us all out of azan bed hours early.’

Mujahid in a scolding voice said, ‘Shh! Don’t talk like that about the molvi, Nadir. He knows when it is time. These stars play games, and if you are caught out, God help you. He is a respectable old man. He taught you and other children the Quran and Hadees. Just go and pray and keep nice thoughts about him in your head.’

Some other men and boys of the village joined them along the way, and in the mosque there were collected about fifteen persons from the village. Molvi Nadir solemnly greeted all of them with customary ‘Good morning.’ Then he faced towards the west to Mecca and recited the azan once again. He then stepped in the mehrab at the head of the congregation and started the recitation of the prayers. With great reverence and silent submission, they all followed the imam and completed their morning prayers in about fifteen minutes.

After completing their payers, the young boys quickly left the mosque to go back home and maybe to resume their slumber. The older folk sat down on the floor of the mosque to have a usual natter.

When Akbar got home, he was disappointed to see that his mother had folded up his bedding and put it away. Also she had taken the cot and stored it by the wall in the yard. This annoyed the young fellow, and he stared at his little sister and growled, ‘You naughty girl. You put away my bedding in jealousy so that I may not be able to snooze some more. Wait till I get my chance. I will fix you!’

828025_01_final_05-26-22.jpg

The girl had washed her face, fixed her hair, changed into her days clothing, and smiled at her brother’s outburst. Mariam giggled and said, ‘Big brother, speak to your mum instead of shouting at poor me. I am only a small girl.’

Sakina heard what was being said and said to Akbar, ‘Stop being grouchy. Go and fix yourself up and get ready for a nice yummy breakfast instead of bothering your sister. You have to go to the molvi for studies and have to give a small recitation in the neighbouring village.’

At this, poor Akbar said, ‘That is two days on, Mum.’

He then slunk off to his room where he had a shower and changed into clean clothes. The sweet smell of food wafted along into his nostrils, and his mood changed into that of a hungry young lad.

He presented himself at the dining mat and sat down, waiting to be served. His mother brought for him the nice-smelling egg omelette and potato, fried with the usual tasty parathas. He was really hungry and tucked in quite a lot of the stuff.

Marium slyly remarked, ‘Oh, brother dear, don’t finish all of this. Dad has to come and eat too, you know.’

Akbar made a face at his sister and said, ‘Go and make some more.’

His mother smiled and said to Akbar, ‘Don’t worry, son. There is plenty more. She is only teasing you. Eat more if you want.’

Akbar made a face and complained to his mother, ‘Then why is she teasing me all the time?’

Sakina said, ‘Because your pretence of being the big brother amuses her, and she enjoys teasing big brother.’

‘But I am the big brother,’ Akbar said, ‘and she had better start to respect me.’

Father Mujahid walked in at this time. He smiled at the banter and said to Akbar, ‘Yes, big boy. Just you make sure you behave like a big boy. Leave your sister alone. Now get ready and go to Molvi Nadir. He is waiting for you. He has special programme for you today.’

Sakina asked Mujahid, ‘What was the meeting about in the mosque?’

‘There was a demand from the front for some more volunteers for fighting,’ Mujahid said. ‘A lot of young men have been eliminated, and they want more young men to go and fight. They have an eye on Akbar and other kids in the village.’

Sakina became somewhat agitated. ‘Don’t look at my Akbar. We have already given two sons. Is that sacrifice not enough? He is all we have. The girls get married and go away. The son looks after us in our old age. He is the one who will look after us and the family business. All the young men have disappeared from our villages, and there is no one to marry the girls. What will happen to them?’

‘Be quiet, woman,’ Mujahid said. ‘You know the Taliban. Who can argue with them?’

Sakina began to cry and went very quiet.

It was brighter now. A mild haze hung above the valley which was clearing up slowly. The village was situated in the valley between two small mountains. These were part of the Hindukush mountain range and the subsection of the Koh E Suleman, in the province of Baluchistan. This is a vast, barren, unproductive, vegetation-deficient, rugged region, which, if it were not mountainous, would have been classed as desert. The area extends across Afghan and Pakistan territories. A small, narrow stream flowed through the valley. Some fifteen or sixteen houses were built on both sides of this stream. One narrow dusty path lay between the houses, meandering through the village and slowly climbing up to the pass between the two mountains. As the path descended on the other side, it merged into a dirt road, which connected the area to a tarmac road of sorts that ran between the border towns of Chaman and the capital of the province, Quetta. Traffic on the tarmac road was the trade route between southern Afghanistan, Baluchistan, and Pakistan. This junction was the halfway point on the route, and quite a few buses and trucks plied their trade that way. Quite often, they would take a break at the junction. Some utility shops and stores had opened up, with a restaurant to cater for these travellers. The people of Mujahid’s village ran some businesses there and did well by that.

The women of the village had developed a small vegetable garden along the stream, where they also got their drinking water. A narrow sewer stream was dug along the other side of the row of houses. This stream discharged its filth in the depth of the valley, where it was absorbed in a deep ditch dug by the villagers for this purpose. There were no trees anywhere in this area. Some grass grew along the banks of the stream. No other cultivation was possible.

The mosque stood at the place where the footpath went over the ridge and met the dirt road. It stood guard over the valley and the village. Each household had at least four goats that they cared for. This provided them with milk, butter, and cheese. They also had chickens, which gave them eggs and protein in their diet. There was hardly any rain in the year.

As far as was known, this village, Killie Suleyman, though small and off the beaten track, had existed from time immemorial. The families living there were all related to one another through marriage. The trade on the junction had brought prosperity. They grew most of their vegetables and imported other materials from outside sources. There were villages on the other side of the mountains and scattered through the area. All the villages communicated through the mosque and religious activities. The education was through the madrasas in the villages, and there were regular meetings and competitions and the like to bring the folk together. Traditional and religious fairs provided some fun to the families and served as a communication enterprise.

The awakening of the area was thought to have started with involvement in the Anglo-Afghan wars. Ever since then, the people of this region were always involved in the changes and upheavals of Afghan history. Islam was always their religion. Most of the time they pursued the radical pattern of Islam. Through their own stark and struggling lifestyle and their ferocious desire for individualism and prestigious self-respect this radicalism has been ingrained in their genes. Their tribe is Bungalzais, and they stick to each other faithfully. They also develop animosity quickly, and it is a lifetime matter with no possibility of forgiveness. This present conflict with the Kafirs in Afghanistan started long ago, even before the Russians.

With the Russian invasion, the Americans developed the jihad culture to counter the Soviets. They trained these people in warfare and taught them ruthlessness undreamt of even in their own culture. The Americans provided them military hardware, gave them training in all kinds of warfare, and provided them with armament of all description. Religious radicalism was blown up to inhuman proportions, and even after withdrawal of the Soviets, the urge to wave jihad all the time kept them going. They then started to fight amongst themselves, and then against the Americans, who dissociated with the jihadis.

This war has been given the jihad status, and jihad has become an integral part of their Islam. This has transformed the population of this region into cannon fodder for the so-called war. No one can question the merits or alternative process of the achievement of their goal. It is as if jihad itself is a goal against anyone and everyone who even so much as demurs. Families are duty bound to provide money and volunteers for this war: jihad against the infidel, the whole Western world. Families have sacrificed their life their money their sons and even daughters, and the region is totally impoverished. The families in KIlli Suleyman have given all their money all their sons so that now they have only one or two small children at home.

The Taliban rules the roost in these places. Beheading is common and abduction of the girls is common. Now they wish to recruit boys as young as Akbar and the parents are not able to resist. Mujahid and others of their age group themselves were in the war in their time and were not in any position to oppose the rule of the Taliban. The old enthusiasm for jihad has waned, and now they worried about their families and businesses.

It was now bright. The sun was chasing the darkness over the hills, out of the valleys and exposing the scene for all to see and begin their day. Akbar started to go to the mosque, taking his copy of the Quran and a copybook for writing the notes. At this tender age, he had mastered the Quran; he had learnt it by heart and could recite any passage extempore. People liked him very much and used to ask him to come and recite the holy book at their meetings, weddings, and births, as a mature molvi would. He had also learnt the Arabic language and was reading some literature.

Molvi Nadir was a learned man. He had had his education at a well-known madrasa in Karachi, where he had graduated in theology, Quranic matters, and Arabic language. He had come to this little mosque on the orders of the Taliban with a promise for a pilgrimage to Mecca in due course and then a scholarship to the Jama E Azhar university, in Cairo, for further studies and to become a mufti. During this period, he had taken on the religious education of the children of the fifteen or so villages. No one was as good as Akbar. He paid special attention to this bright young soul. He had seen in him a clear, peaceful, hard-working, dedicated, disciplined young boy. He learnt his lessons and was never belligerent. Akbar had lost two older brothers to this war and had missed them very much. He had seen the sorrow of his father and mother and had no stomach for jihad.

As they entered the mosque, the molvi greeted them and directed them to the open prayer area, where they all sat down on the mat. There were seven boys, aged ten to twelve years old. There were four girls too, all below six years of age. No girl over six years would be allowed out of the house. The girls sat down on the mat in a close clump and boys sat down in another group, separated from the girls by a gap of six or seven feet. The molvi sat down on a small flat stool/table. He was seated close to both groups and was in the centre. This was supposed to keep the sexes separate. There were occasional incidents of bead throwing, paper bullets, and such things thrown by the boys at the girls. Sometimes the girls would get angry and complain, and the culprit would get a smack across his face, but mostly they were well disciplined.

Akbar was very disciplined, and the boys made fun of his failure to join in the naughty activities. He was, however, pricked on times by the memory of his interest. This was a beautiful girl that used to be in the group till this year. She was now seven and could not be out. He missed her. He was quiet about it, and never more than a shy glance at her from time to time betrayed his interest. She lived in the third house down the stream. Her father was the owner of a general store at the market at the junction. Her name was Jamila. Her older brother, Yusuf, was sitting next to him in the class at present. He and Yusuf were good friends. That family had also lost two older boys in the war. Yusuf, the youngest brother, was about fifteen and was studying the Quran with him. He had guessed Akbar’s interest in his sister. Nothing could be discussed about these matters, and it was all secretive. The custom and practice of the community matures the girls extremely fast. They also keep an eye out for suitable males at this early age.

Akbar’s sister was now ten. She was aware of the future, fast approaching her. She was now well trained in matters of housekeeping, religious practices, social politics, and the like, as were other girls of the same age. Jamila would be in the same band.

One day, just a few days earlier, a small piece of paper fell out of Yousuf’s copybook as he was sitting down to the class. Akbar happened to pick it up unnoticed. He saw that there was something written on it. He quickly concealed it in his book and resumed studies. That evening, when he got home, he went straight to his room, pulled out the paper, and examined it. It was a white paper from a copybook with rulings marked on it. The paper was barely one and a half-inch square, written in lovely Pushto script. It just said, ‘How are you?’

Akbar was shaken upon reading this as the origin and significance of these simple words dawned and grew and grew in his mind. He was surprised to feel his heart thumping for all it was worth. Happiness engulfed him and amazed him—and scared him. This could become a life-and-death situation in this life of theirs. He had missed her. He had no idea that she knew of it. The girls have the sixth sense, which is very sharp. He controlled his emotions, and holding down his jubilant heart, he went out to join his family for the usual cup of tea. He then went out to join his friends in a game of cricket in the small flat field just behind his home. He was distracted, however. His catching was below par. He even got out without scoring on many occasions. He was rebuked by his mates for his lack of attention.

As the sun went down, they all returned home. Akbar came home. His mother asked him to go and wash his face and come down to dinner, saying, ‘Marium made some nice mutton brinjal karhai for us today, and there is naan, of course.’

Akbar made a face and said, ‘Oh, Mother, why don’t you make all this yourself.? It will all have been ruined by her.’

Marium was standing washing her hands right there. She heard the remark, which was quite usual. She, however, remarked back, ‘Yes, Mum. I have ruined it. Let the lord go to the fields and chew grass today.’

Sakina and Mujahid laughed, and Mujahid said to Akbar, ‘When someone comes for her and takes her away, then you will miss her. Then, don’t come crying to me.’

Akbar smiled, enjoying the little prick. In his room, he was soon overtaken by his own emotions. He drew out the little piece of paper, kissed it and said to it, ‘I hope you will be a good cook.’ He hid it in his book and went to have dinner.

The food was well cooked and delicious. He had three naans and enjoyed them. After drinking a whole glass of lemon sherbet, he sat back and, looking satisfied, said, ‘Oh, Mum why don’t you say you cooked it?’

A small piece of naan hit him in the face, and all laughed. There was happiness.

Akbar sat talking to his father and mother for a bit about the Taliban and their activities. His father told him not to worry and to go and get down to his work. Akbar went to his room. He took out the piece of paper and read it again and again, thinking what to do next. She was only seven, and he was just thirteen. Anyway, he decided to write a note back. He tore up an equally small piece of paper from his notebook and wrote on it, ‘I miss you.’ This he decided to slip into Yusuf’s notebook next day, as they would be departing for home.

The next day, with his heart pounding, he managed to slip the piece of paper into Yusuf’s notebook as he was winding things up to go home.

For two days, Akbar watched out for something to happen. Nothing did. He was restless and very thirsty. Everyone noticed his restlessness and remarked upon it. His mother asked him, ‘Akbar! Are you feeling well? Why are you so jumpy?’

He just hummed and hawed in reply and kept it all burning in his chest.

Today as they sat down for the class, he noticed a tiny tinge of brown paper peeping from the lower margin of Yusuf’s working book. As Yusuf turned to get something out of his bag, Akbar swiftly pinched the peeping piece and pulled it out. It was another little piece of paper with writing on it. He had no time to read it and swiftly tucked in between his sheets and got involved in the class.

Today, the class was about the history of Islam involving the principles of sacrifice. This was a serious matter, and he had to pay particular attention. This was also the day he would have to go and give a recitation in another village. He had prepared for his own recitation at home and was ready.

Molvi Nadir was well educated and took about two hours to cover half of the subject. In the middle of this, a truck arrived with three mujahids all dressed in black. They parked the truck close to the steps of the mosque and barged in. One of them shouted to Molvi Nadir, ‘Hey, Molvi, who is Akbar here?’

They were always rude and arrogant. Molvi pointed out Akbar to him. He said, ‘OK, friend Akbar, come, let us go. We have come to take you to Killi Abdurrahman for your recitation.’

Molvi Nadir had to close his lecture. Akbar was allowed to go to the toilet and have a drink of water. He was bundled into the jeep, and off they went.

The driver was lad of about twenty. He was full of himself and drove the car like the devil. The three were talking amongst themselves. One said to the other, ‘Hey, are you sure we have the right person? This here boy is much too young to give recitations to a bunch of senior members of the village.’

The third person said, ‘Yes, I know him. He is very bright and capable. The whole Bungalzai tribe knows him. He is only thirteen or so, and he can recite the Quran and Hadees to your request at any time and from anywhere in the book. He has learnt the theories and meaning of many aspects of the religion, which you and I don’t know. We are just fit to go to jihad and get to paradise. This guy knows all there is to know about the theory, the meanings, and the history of jihad. This is what he is going to give a meaningful recitation about today. Let us learn something from him.’

Akbar never spoke a word. He was squashed between two of the burly mujahids as the jeep sped to the Killi, jumping and shuddering in great speed over rough and broken-down paths. They arrived at the destination after half an hour of driving with a cloud of dust. They stopped at a mosque larger than the one they had come from.

A bunch of people came forward to welcome them. One old man took Akbar’s hand and greeted him, ‘I am glad you could come. Have a few minutes’ rest and some water before we begin.’

After about fifteen minutes’ rest and some watering, Akbar was escorted into the prayer hall of the mosque where some twenty-five to thirty men were collected. They were all sitting down on the floor. Akbar and the host molvi, Khair Mohammad, were seated in chairs on a small platform just a foot high. There was a loud exchange of greetings. Khair Mohammad introduced Akbar to the audience and invited him to get on with his recitation and explanation. At this invitation, the thirteen-year-old, Akbar, stood up to speak. All the persons sitting down to listen were at least three times his age, and this looked ridiculous. But as the proceeding went on, his recitation of relevant text and the explanation of the meaning of the institution of jihad overwhelmed everyone, and there was rapt attention.

The boy spoke to his much older audience with conviction and authority, and at the end, there was a lot of clapping and hurrahing. Akbar and Molvi Khair Mohammad fielded some questions from the audience and wound up the proceedings with thanks. Some elders came up to the platform to embrace him. Everyone was suitably impressed, and people had developed plans for him already.

828025_02_final_05-26-22.jpg

The mujahideen had plans to recruit him for intellectual functions, something they lacked. Some older men had their eyes on him for their girls. The school’s department had their eyes on him for teaching purposes. In short, he was in high demand and regard. He was treated to a cup of tea and some sweets and savouries. The same three mujahideen drove him back to his mosque.

Molvi Nadir was so proud of his charge that he actually walked with him to his home and spoke to Akbar’s father about the capability and the potential of the boy. Mujahid was very proud. Molvi Nadir swept the yard with his curious eyes for a glimpse of Marium but was disappointed. He left for his mosque with Mujahid since it was now time for evening prayers.

Akbar was tired. His mother gave him some apple sherbet. He was also burning with curiosity about the piece of the brown paper that he had managed to prize out of Yusuf’s copybook. He went to his room and carefully, closing the door, sat down in the chair at his table, and retrieved the paper from his copybook. In the typical graceful Pushto, the writing said, ‘Don’t forget me.’ His heart jumped ten feet in the air and nearly jumped through the roof. Wild thoughts stormed through his head. This included going to the Jamila home, pronouncing love and marrying her and bringing her home right away—a sure prescription for inter-family war and death. When things cooled down in his head, he sat down to work out what to do. He knew this was the girl for him come what may. But she was only seven, and he was thirteen. He had a great deal yet to learn. She was just learning the ins and outs of family life and being a girl.

The trouble was that he could not see her, and he worried that some old guy might come along and her father might be tempted to give her to him.

No! No! That cannot happen.

He would have to do something. He thought and thought right through the evening meal and tea and back to his room. He could not sleep that night. In the middle of the night, he sat down at his desk to write a small sentence to his beloved Jameela.

Jameela, oh Jameela! What a name. It meant beautiful—not just beautiful but intensely radiantly beautiful, so radiant that you could not keep your stare upon the face, like staring into the sun. She was indeed very beautiful. His mother, sisters, and the whole village said so. When she used to come to the mosque, she was restless and provocatively playful. She even came out to play cricket with the boys in the afternoons when her mother was engaged in other activities. She had won his heart even then, but they were small, and the customs were so strict. Recently, he had got a glimpse of her on festive occasions as the families came to visit. Dressed in beautiful festive clothes, pink, and red embroidered and gold and silver inlayings, she looked like a little fairy. Her thick, long light-brown hair flowing down to her knees, well-groomed and tied in the customary inter-twining bands, her large brown eyes flashing bright bolts at him, imprinted a picture like no other on his heart.

The advent of this literary contact had made things very serious, and now he would never give her up.

Akbar was a flexible, accommodating, understanding, and intelligent young person. His learning, understanding, and ability to express his talents were now well known. He was very determined, too, and devoted to his studies all his attention to understanding a problem, never giving up. And so now, when his heart was set upon this girl, he was determined to follow this to the eventual logical end, which was to marry her and make her his own, no matter what or how long it might take. He sat down, and his mind took over, working on this problem. All the possibilities, courses of action, good and bad, for both of them.

It occurred to him that money was no problem. Both his father and Jameela’s father were well-to-do, and since they lived in extended families, she would be most helpful and welcome in his home. The custom was a small problem. There were early marriages quite often. Just now, it was a bit too early for him and her. He had to study yet and obtain a degree in Islamic law, which he had decided to graduate in from a proper university. He would like a career in teaching law and be a respectable professor. He preferred his intelligent wife to learn things, be educated, and educate the girls of their tribe. This would take four years. At the end of that, he would be seventeen and she twelve. That was early still, but he decided they could not wait any longer than that. Besides, the danger of her being given away to some other man was very high after that age. So that much time they had.

He took up the pen and drew a small piece of paper and wrote on it, ‘wait 4 Y.’ This would give her a firm commitment and direction. She was intelligent and would draw the required conclusion. However, this was not enough. There would have to be a longer explanation and firmer support. That would have to be arranged later. Having done that, he fell asleep easily, and his mother had to shake him up to awaken him for early-morning prayers.

That morning after breakfast, as he was going to the mosque for his lessons, a bright thought occurred to him. If he could persuade his good friend Yousuf to be a liaison between his sister and himself, it would sort out the communication problem. This would be a prickly subject and could result in disaster. He slipped his little note into Yusuf’s notebook at an opportune moment.

After his lessons, he was made to practise giving a speech to an audience upon the subject of the need of religion. He was given half an hour to prepare, and then they would all sit down and listen to him. His speech went well. Molvi Nadir interrupted him to guide him and correct him at places. He had been giving speeches for the whole of last year. This was in line with his education and in preparation for a speech contest to be held in Quetta in two months. The students had to be good public speakers if they wanted their degrees from this programme. And since he was bright, he was very good at giving speeches. He had also been reading widely, and this helped him in putting over his point of view. His molvi, Nadir, was a great help. How lucky that Nadir was well educated and happened to be in that mosque at this time.

After the mosque lessons, at about 4 p.m., they were let off. The girls were allowed to go home fifteen minutes before the boys so they could get home without any teasing. As they were sitting in the mosque, Akbar struck up a conversation with Yusuf.

‘How is your father, Yusuf?’

Yusuf replied, ‘Oh, he is fine. Come and see him some time. He comes back from the shop about 5 p.m. He will be pleased to see you. You know your father and my father are great friends from the past warring days.’

‘Yes,’ replied Akbar. ‘I will come tomorrow after school. It is nice to keep in touch with our families. You too come to see my dad and mother. Today we will play cricket, yes? You remember I like kabuli beef.’

Yousuf laughed and said, ‘Yes, I remember. I will tell my mother to prepare it for you.’

‘How is Jameela? Akbar asked. ‘Does she cook too? Our Marium is very good at cooking now. She made an excellent lamb and brinjal karhai last night.’

Yousuf’s face lit up.

‘Friend Akbar, these girls are marvellous things.’

At this, they all got up and raced outside and all the way to the cricket ground. An intense game of cricket was played for two hours. As the day drew to an end, they ended the game on an argument and headed home. A chorus of ‘Goodbye. See you tomorrow’ accompanied the retirement, and they all went home.

As the excitement died down in Akbar’s mind, he slowly thought about the opening he had made with Yusuf. Yusuf was about two years older than him. They had known each other for as long as they had lived. Their families were close friends, and when the men were away to work or to madressahs, the women would visit each other’s home, and the usual family matters were discussed furiously. Happiness and sadness was shared and bonds were made. As Akbar opened the door to his home he saw his little sister washing the pot that was used in the kitchen. She was too busy to notice him but he noticed her. Tall for her age, slim and lithe, wearing white shalwar (baggy trousers), a long blue shirt, and a white cotton head sheet, she looked quite attractive. In his heart, he thought, How would Jameela be looking now?

He entered his house and said greetings to everyone and went to his room. A thought: Ahh, it would be a very nice exchange. He had a shower and changed his clothes. He went out to the family yard and sat down in the chair. His mother came, sat down on the edge of the cot, and asked him, ‘How are you, son? What have you been doing today?’

Akbar told her the whole day’s story apart from the bit about the strip of paper. His mother hesitated, then spoke to him earnestly.

‘Look, Akbar, my son, you are a very intelligent person. Life for you should be much higher than the usual mosque-shop-mosque routine. You should think of becoming a doctor, an engineer, a teacher in a university, or a lawyer. This will need a lot more work and time. Do not get carried away by the talk of jihad, religion, and such things. The Taliban would like to take you away and use you as a donkey to carry their explosive stuff and make you a martyr. Don’t believe all that. Two of my sons have become martyrs, and that is enough for this family, Be smart.’

It had now grown quite dark, and Marium was getting things ready to lay out the dinner for the family. There was a sudden knock at the outer door. Sakina, Akbar’s mother, got up quickly and went to the door and without opening asked who it was. There was a gruff voice from outside.

‘Woman, send Akbar. We want to talk to him.’

Sakina replied, ‘Who are you and why do you want to talk to Akbar at this time of night? Go away and come back in the daytime.’

Saying that, she turned round to go to the kitchen. There was persistent knocking, and the man insisted that he will talk to Akbar. Akbar then went to the door. Sakina screamed to him not to open the door. ‘You don’t know who it was. Get Father to speak to this fellow.’ Hearing the voices, Mujahid came out of the living room, where he had been relaxing. He asked the chap outside the door what was the matter.

The man said, ‘Look, Uncle! The Taliban want Akbar to go to the training centre for more studying and training. Get him ready tomorrow morning.’

Sakina ran to the door and screamed to the person, ‘Akbar is not going anywhere. He has a lot to do here. Tell the Taliban Akbar will not go.’

The other person said, ‘Auntie, they will come for him. Don’t resist. Goodbye.’

Sakina was very worried. So was Mujahid, and so was Akbar himself. At this juncture of his life, he could ill afford any distraction. Marium came out crying. Having heard the conversation, she was distraught. Sakina consoled the girl, saying, ‘Don’t worry, Marium daughter. They will not take him.’

Mujahid was standing transfixed and slowly murmured, ‘Mother, you do not understand these Taliban. If you say no, they will make it a matter of prestige and get really angry. Come, children. Let us eat our meal and leave the matter to Allah and tomorrow.’

They had their meal in a quiet mood, and the matter was hung heavily on all of them. After the meal, Mujahid sat down with Akbar and discussed the situation with him. Sakina came and joined in. Very enraged and excited, she said, ‘No matter what happens, I will not let them take this son of mine.’

Mujahid said, ‘Wait and see what happens next. We can’t hide Akbar anywhere. He will be taken away, and my prayer with Allah will be that they do not send him on one of their suicide missions.’

Akbar was quiet. Jameela was on his mind and, his heart ached. He did not want to be separated from her. This Taliban organisation was so unpredictable, they could do anything. That they might harm him, his parents, or his sister was the worst of his fears. If they came for him, he would have to go. That night, each of them prayed long. Sleep was hard to come by. They were all up early and prayed hard and long.

The day began as usual. Akbar went to the mosque for his lessons and practice. Mujahid went to his shop. The girls stayed at home and did what they always did. Sakina went to Jameela and Yusuf’s house and related the whole matter to their mother. Alarm was alarmed, and more prayers were said. Poor Jameela was shocked and prayed harder than she had ever done. Sakina and Marium came back home, and they went on as usual. It was as if the Almighty had listened to their prayers.

The evening came. Both Akbar and Mujahid came home. There was no report of any unusual happenings, and they sat down for their evening meal, thinking that the day had passed peacefully. Thank God. It was tranquil and peaceful, as it usually was in that isolated valley.

They had their meal and were sitting talking to each other when they became aware of some loud voices outside on the path between the houses. Then there was a commotion.

‘Allahu Akbar. Open the door, Mujahid.’

With this, there was loud and forceful banging on their door. This was so intense that Mujahid had to go and open the door. Three large men bearing Kalashnikovs barged in. They were all dressed in black. The leader addressed Mujahid in a loud and threatening tone.

828025_03_final_06-01-22.jpg

‘Look, Uncle Mujahid. You are an old warrior, and we respect you very much, and that is why we will spare you today. You must comply with the Taliban orders. Akbar has to go to the institute.’

He had hardly finished when two hefty female Taliban, draped in black from head to foot with only their eyes showing, barged in, pushing Mujahid to one side and threateningly wielding sticks. They rushed up to Sakina. Sakina was transfixed with surprise and alarm at the attack. The women grabbed her by the neck of her shirt and shook her up violently. They shouted at her, ‘Old woman, come to your senses, or we shall beat you up into pulp.’

They raised the sticks but did not go any further. Mujahid and Akbar held their sticks and pleaded with them not to do any harm to the lady. They were furious and spewing fire. The oldest said, ‘Get the boy ready tomorrow morning. There will be a transport here to take him in the morning. No silly stuff.’

Saying this, they departed, leaving the family shaken. Sakina was shivering with fear. Akbar, Mujahid, and Marium held her up and took her to her bed. They gave her a glass of water and laid her down to recover. The Taliban gang left, banging the door behind them.

The noise had shaken up the whole village. Men and women from other houses came down to see what had happened. Yusuf, his mother, his father, and even Jameela came down in great anxiety. So did the other people. This was a lesson to all of them. Fear, upon which the Taliban relied to govern, was widespread. All of them were relieved to see that no one was beheaded. They sympathised with the Mujahid family, but no one could do anything about it. They advised Mujahid and Akbar to comply quietly in the morning. Sakina was lying senseless in her bed. The other families went away to their homes, saying prayers to Allah to have mercy. Mujahid, Akbar, and Marium fell into their beds. There was no sleep to be had. All became deathly quiet. Akbar lay thinking about his future and, of course, of Jameela. Deep in the night, he decided to take his sister into his confidence. He wrote a small letter to Jameela. He said in this letter:

Dear Jameela,

I am sorry for what has happened and cannot say what will happen. I have hope in Allah. Do not be disheartened. We have a little time. I will come back for you. Keep faith and hope, and keep praying for me and us.

Some tears flowed down his cheeks as he folded this paper into a small bundle. He never slept a wink that night. Neither of them did. Early in the morning, Akbar walked over to his mother’s side and felt her hand and saw that she was at peace. Her eyes were closed, and she made no effort to get up. Marium woke up and quickly came up to her mother to see how she was. Both brother and sister took their mother’s hand and tried to wake her up. But she did not move. They sat down on the floor beside her bed. Sakina opened her eyes, and in a hoarse tired voice, spoke to them.

‘I am OK. Don’t worry. Marium, you get things ready and look after the house today. I will get up in a little while.’

Mariam said, ‘OK, Mamma. You just lie and take your time. I will manage everything.’

She went away to get things ready for Akbar. He had a small suitcase, which had to be packed with things that he would need some clothes, a pair of shoes, and other small items. Mujahid was also up. Having checked to see how his wife was, he went away for the prayers. As Mariam was packing her brother’s suitcase, Akbar approached her, and in a soft, sad voice, he said, ‘My sister Mariam, I would like you to do something for me. Be very careful and give this note to your friend Jameela for me, please.’

Marium was surprised and looked sharply at her brother.

‘What is it?’ she said with a sly grin.

Akbar’s face remained serious. He said, ‘Don’t treat this lightly. My life depends on this. I will send notes like this from the training camp, and you should quietly pass it on to her. Then send me her replies. And don’t be naughty.’

She giggled very slightly, and with a meaningful glance, said, ‘What do I get for this service?’

Akbar frowned a little. ‘You will be rewarded with an excellent bhabi (brother’s wife), and hope you will get a fine husband.’

Both managed a laboured laugh. Marium hid the paper in her clothes and went on with the task. Mujahid came into the room. With tearful eyes, he looked at his son and embraced him and said, ‘My dear son, don’t worry. Go like a proud soldier. Allah will look after you. Keep writing to us, and come and see us whenever you can. I will keep trying to get you transferred here with us.’

To this, Akbar replied, ‘My father, I am not worried. Come what may, I will never let you down.’

Mariam laid out the breakfast. They sat down for the meal. Mariam took some soup for her mother to take. The light was upon the sky, and the sun was rising. They were all set to say goodbye to Akbar. Yusuf came in to say goodbye to Akbar. They both embraced each other. Yusuf said, ‘Good luck. Write to us often,’ and then he left for the class in the mosque.

It was nearly ten in the morning when a hooting horn from the direction of the mosque indicated the arrival of the transport. Akbar picked up his suitcase and said goodbye to his mother. Sakina sat up in her bed, embraced her son to her chest, kissed his forehead three times, murmured a prayer upon him, and said goodbye, son. Allah be with you.’ With that, Akbar said goodbye to his home and went to the, mosque where the transport was waiting for him.

The transport was a small white Suzuki people carrier van, which had seen better days. He noticed that the van was full of young students being taken to the training centre. They all said greetings to each other, and the driver took in Akbar’s suitcase and started the engine, and off they went. The little van soon gained the main road to Chaman, the border town, going west southwest towards the Afghan border. The little overloaded van made good time. Jumping and bumping along a badly maintained road, they rode along for about an hour and arrived at a roadside restaurant, where they stopped for some refreshments. There were six other boys in the van. All were older than Akbar. They were all going for military training and studying the theory of Islam. They had been picked up from various villages. Some of them had actually volunteered for jihad training. They talked to each other about what they wanted to do. They wanted to take part in jihad against the infidel (i.e., America) and the other Western nations.

After fifteen minutes, they piled in and started the trip again. After driving for half an hour on the main road, the driver took a side road. This was very bad, and the car was just shaking and bumping along very badly. Riding inside was not easy. After an hour of this painful ride, they arrived at the destination. The car stopped at a barrier. The lounging guards took a good look at the driver and occupants then allowed them in. After about two hundred yards, they came to the front of the main office block of the training centre. This front was made of proper bricks and wooden doors. This was an old government school that the Taliban had overrun, chasing away the staff. This building was roughly one hundred feet across. A veranda ran along the full length. About six doors opened into the main building. These were all administrative offices. There was a big hall for meetings and lectures. There was a large office for the emir (manager), with the supporting clerks at the back and the filing room. It all seemed well organised. Some eight long barracks were built behind this unit. These were all mainly mud huts with some stones mixed, and the roofs were corrugated tin. These housed the dining area, student living quarters, teacher living quarters, training setups, lecture halls, a large gym, and other such facilities. It was a large area, spread over many acres. The area was bound off with barbed-wire fencing all round. A guard patrol was inspecting the perimeter all the time. The road went past this training ground and disappeared in a valley, where a narrow stream ran through on its way to the river, many miles away. This stream provided fresh drinking water. It was not enough to support any trees or grass. The area was as dry as any desert. There was no village or dwelling within fifty miles of this institute. Since it was built from mud it was so well camouflaged that it was not detected from above.

The Suzuki stopped at the foot of the six steps leading up to the veranda. They all got out of the van, heaving a sigh of relief. They were immediately welcomed by an official. This was a man of about fifty. As he saw the young boys, he said, ‘Welcome boys to our institute. Here you will learn many holy procedures and become fit to be martyrs. Come with me. We will go and meet the ameer.’

He led them to a largish wooden door. A black-uniformed hefty looking guard was at the door. He opened it, and thrusting his head, he addressed someone inside. ‘May we come in, Ameer?’

A loud, gruff voice said, ‘Yes, yes, come in.’

He herded the boys into this large room. Sitting at the desk was the ameer. He was a man of about fifty—very large, big head, broad shoulders and chest, dense large black beard, wearing the black uniform of the Taliban. His large red eyes stared at them intently, and his large teeth flashed as he smiled and said, ‘Welcome, you patriots, and the flag-bearers of the Islamic movement. You will be comfortable here. You will train hard and go on to the fight as soon as possible.’ He raised his already booming voice and called out, ‘Saleem, oh Saleem, come in here.’

The door in the wall behind him opened, and a tall, slim, energetic man of about thirty, clad in black, came in.

‘Yes, lord, what can I do for you?’ he said.

The ameer pointed towards the boys and said, ‘Take these newcomers to Ashraf and ask him to allocate them to various programmes.’

The boys began to follow Saleem. The ameer said, ‘Who is Akbar?’ Akbar stopped and faced the ameer. The ameer said, ‘You sit down here. The rest can go.’

The others were marched away. Akbar hesitatingly sat down in a straight chair provided at the large wooden table, where the ameer was working. Ameer picked up a sheet of paper and began reading it.

‘Hmm! Hmmm, and so you are, Akbar.’

828025_04_final_06-01-22.jpg

Akbar managed a nod. Words could not come out of his throat. The ameer then said, ‘Look here, young Akbar. It shows here that at this early age, you are a very bright and hard-working young man, a kind of intellectual, right?’

Akbar managed, ‘By the grace of Allah.’

The ameer then put down the paper, and with his large bloodshot eyes, looked straight at Akbar and said, ‘We can’t load you up with dynamite and send you to paradise just yet. What you have to do is to learn the philosophies of the religion, learn English, write papers, pamphlets, propaganda material, give lectures write books, translate material into Pushto and Persian and Arabic and all this work. We have no one here that can do any of this, and we fall behind the Western propaganda. So you will get education from our molvi, Saddruddin, who used to be a professor of philosophy at the Afghan University before it was all blown away. There is a library you can use. You can order books that we will get for you. Saddruddin is very old now. You are very young. If you do all this for us, you will not have to go to the war areas. You will, however, have to take training in weapons and explosives. I know your respected father. Write to him all that I have said. He will be relieved.’

Saleem came in to say he had done the job. Ameer asked him, ‘Go and get Molvi Saddruddin.’

In ten minutes, Molvi Saddruddin came in through the front door. They exchanged salutations. Molvi sat down in the chair beside Akbar. The ameer greeted the molvi. Pointing towards Akbar, he said, ‘Respected Molvi, this is young, very young, Akbar. He is very bright and hard-working; you will see from this paper. I am giving him into your care. You have to educate him and make him a stalwart of the Taliban movement. Take him with you. He will be given physical training also. That we can work out later. You get him started in your programme.’

Akbar, and the molvi got up and said, ‘Goodbye, and thanks to the ameer,’ and left to go to the library. The little library was just down the veranda. They entered the door. Akbar found it to be a small room. There was a round table in the centre of the room with six chairs set around it. There were three narrow bookshelves with few books sitting in them.

The molvi sat down in a chair at the table and asked Akbar to sit in the other one. He then talked to him in a very soft and cultured manner. This was unique in the ranks of the Taliban. He was, of course, an old, civilised man and had been a professor at the Afghan University before the Taliban overran the whole thing and shattered it. He was, however, not disheartened and continued to work here in the organisation as an intellectual guide. The molvi had a family in Kabul, which became scattered in the war. His son was killed in the attack, his wife died soon after. His daughter was married off quite early, and they escaped to Pakistan. As far as he knew, he was now quite alone. He was now about sixty-five.

He related to Akbar his work at the institute. He was engaged in writing pamphlets, articles for the information of the Taliban. He would get information in English from external sources. This he would translate and write in Pushto and distribute amongst the troops. Akbar listened to him with great attention and reverence. He would have to do this same work. He would learn the languages properly and learn the art of translation. Molvi Saddruddin set down a programme for Akbar to follow. Akbar would learn the languages for the first month and familiarise himself with the literature that came in and went out of the unit. He would stay in the same block as the molvi. He would also do some teaching to new recruits and practise giving speeches. There was an old clerk in the office, who was at one time a teacher of English at a secondary school. Arrangements would be made for Akbar to go to this man after work each day to learn English. After about two hours of this briefing, they decided to have some lunch. They left the library to go to the dining room.

The dining room was housed in a large barracks. There was a large kitchen at the back, a large dining area as one entered the barracks main door. There were ten or so tables in the room. Each table had roughly six stools set around these tables. This would accommodate about fifty to one hundred persons. There was a small area for washing hands and the toilet. The place was full of the aroma of the meal that was cooked. As it was still early for lunch for other groups, the place was nearly empty when they entered the hall. They went up to the counter and ordered what they liked from the kitchen. They then sat down at a table to have lunch. Soon others came in in ones and twos and groups. In about half an hour, the place was filled with a variety of people. Most of them were very young boys about eighteen to twenty-five years