The River Village: A Touching Tale of Survival in Afghanistan by Wali Shaaker - HTML preview

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Kalashnikovs, the same machineguns that the Soviet soldiers carried around, slung over Aziz and Jawad’s shoulders and rounds of bullets, attached to leather straps, crisscrossed their chests. A pistol hung from one hip, a qama, a double-edged dagger from the other, and another ammunition belt lined with magazines wrapped around their waists. With sunburned, bearded faces and soiled traditional clothes, much baggier than what people normally wore, they looked similar to how Masih had pictured the mujahedin fighters.

***

Sori entered the upper room, holding a tray that contained a plate with cookies, four cups, and a china kettle filled with green tea.

“Salam Lala. Tea?” out of respect, Jawad and Sori called Aziz Lala, big brother—and so did the rest of the youth in Deh Darya.

“Yes, God bless you,” Aziz laid his weapon against the wall, in the corner near the doorway. Jawad’s weapon leaned right next to it. The brothers piled their belts, magazines, handguns, and daggers in the same corner. Then, they slouched on two mattresses across from each other and leaned their sore backs against the pillows.

“How did it go?” Sekandar sat crisscrossed on another mattress under the window, turning his prayer beads in between his wrinkled, dry fingers. Almost every evening he would sit there with his eyes shut meditating, mumbling verses from the Holy Quran, and waiting for his sons to return from the mountains.

“The same,” Aziz answered, “we’re almost prepared for a big operation, one of these days, God willing.”

Sarwar and his men returned from Pakistan three weeks ago. Since their arrival, they had spent every single day, preparing dugouts and barricades on the rocky hills that overlooked the main road along the river. The brothers possessed skills and strength that came in handy when digging hideouts and moving rocks. After all, they extracted, smashed, and hauled rocks for a living—sometimes using explosives, other times with just a pickaxe and a sledgehammer.

Sarwar and his men believed that after the project was completed, it would make it impossible for any Soviet convoy to pass through the valley. Once the mujahedin inflicted heavy casualties on the Soviets and their puppets, they would not dare to cross that road again.

***

Masih stood by the doorway, staring at the pile of ammunition and weapons. He wondered how it would feel to carry a machinegun, a modern weapon that he had only seen in World War II movies at Baharestan Cinema. Sekandar raised his teacup with one hand, and with the other beckoned Masih, “Come Jan-e Baba, Baba’s dear, sit next to me.” He tapped on the mattress where he was sitting, only a couple of feet from the pile of weapons.

In addition to the two Kalashnikovs, there was one other weapon in the room. A rifle, called Jezail hung from two nails on the wall opposite the doorway. Baba had inherited the gun from his grandfather, who had passed it on to his son. Masih had touched and held that rifle a couple of years ago. He remembered his arms succumbing under its weight within a few seconds. It would be nice if he could hold a Kalashnikov too. Was it heavier than a Jezail? Would he be able to walk around the mountains with one slung over his shoulder when he became a mujahed, fighter? Would he be able to lift the weapon up to shoot the enemy? It would have been nice to know the answer to those questions. But first, he must find a way to become a fighter.

“How long have you been a mujahed, Lala Aziz?”

“I have always been a fighter. Jihad, the struggle is in my blood. I have inherited it from my grandfathers,” he said, alluding to his great grandfather’s participation in the first and second Anglo-Afghan wars, and his grandfather’s participation in the third war against the British. Baba had told him that both men, grandpa and great-grandpa were sharp shooters and fearless warriors. Grandfather had not been born yet, when his father was killed in the battlefield. Therefore, they never saw each other, but they lived nearly identical lives, and died in the same manner—martyred by the infidels. Now, Aziz and Jawad had an opportunity to achieve the same honor as their ancestors did.

“Mulla Salim says it’s our farz-ul Ayn, essential religious duty, to fight against the invaders, just like our grandfathers did,” Jawad said.

“Yep, they defeated an empire, we’ll beat a superpower. Be it Englis, Britain or Shorawi, Russia, they are all the same,” Aziz said.

“Sag-e zard, biadar-e shaghl, yellow dog, the brother of a jackal.” Baba never missed an opportunity to state a proverb related to the subject of a conversation. Everyone laughed except for Masih. He had witnessed the Soviets’ military might. These men don’t know what they are up against, he thought to himself.

“So, when the Soviets roll in with their tanks, how are you going to fight them?” Masih asked.

“We are not scared of their tanks. God willing, we’ll shred them into pieces,” Aziz said.

Jawad raised the palm of his hand toward the ceiling, “We don’t care about their machines. We want to deal with the guys operating them.”

Masih said, “This Kalashnikov is so small. It is not even going to make a hole in a tank.”

“This thing fires about a hundred bullets a minute. It is a lethal weapon.” Aziz leaned over and picked up the Kalashnikov, “Here, check it out.”

Surprised and pleased, Masih accepted his offer with a grin plastered on his face. As he let go, Masih’s arms sunk under the weight of the weapon. No doubt, it was heavier than the Jezail. Judging by its appearance and weight, it must be capable of inflicting some serious damage to whatever it hit. It would definitely cause more harm than the Jezail. Still, Masih could not see how in the world a small weapon like that could shoot down a flying dragon. Despite its impressive look and feel, firing that weapon at a tank would be like throwing pebbles at an elephant.

While pretending, without much success, that he had no trouble handling the weapon, he raised it and ran his fingers along its barrel and stock, “Lala, I have seen a tank, and the charkhaki, helicopter too. If you fired at them with one of these machineguns, they wouldn’t even feel it. I am sorry, but I am just not convinced that you could beat the Soviets with this.”

Aziz said, “Well, next time Sarwar travels to Pakistan, he’ll get us some heavy weapons, mortars, rockets, those sorts of things. Then, we will make the bears run like mice.”

“To be honest, I don’t even care. If they have technology, we have God on our side. Let me put it this way,” Jawad said, “we fulfil our duty to God and to this country. If we live, we are Ghazi, a soldier of God, and if they kill us, we are Shahid, a martyr. Either way we win; we go to paradise.”

Baba nodded his head in agreement, “You are right son, but remember, according to Sharia, Islamic law, protecting oneself is every Muslim’s duty.”

“Yes, Baba,” said Jawad obediently.

“I’ve heard enough. Let me see how tough this machinegun of yours is,” Baba extended his hand and reached for the weapon sitting in Masih’s lap.

Unsuccessful in making the act appear effortless, Masih held the weapon up and offered it to Baba.

 Using only one hand, Baba clutched the Kalashnikov as if snatching a feather in the air. That was the second surprise of the day for Masih. As far back as he could remember, Baba executed every task slowly and with much deliberation, and no one could blame him for that. The man was probably ninety or one hundred years old, or maybe he just looked old. Nobody really knew his age, including himself. No matter how old, Baba never seemed to be in a hurry. He took his time walking, eating, speaking, and even breathing. But age alone did not slow him down. His decade-old back injury, which had never entirely healed, also affected his mobility.

To face the open window, he made a one-eighty turn, raised the Kalashnikov, and pushed its butt against his right shoulder. Impressed by his agility, Masih detected a slight quiver in Baba’s right hand as he reached for the trigger.

“This feels like a plastic toy,” he flashed a smile at Masih.

Masih answered with a grin of his own. For about ten seconds, Baba held one eye shut, and the other on the sight. His quivering index finger wrapped around the trigger. Across from his house, birds of all sorts took refuge in the berry trees. The chill of the plundering wind from the mountains kept them huddled on the revived branches. With budding blossoms and leaves, the trees had just awakened from a long dormancy period.

A cool gust whistled through the room and exited through the opposite window that opened toward the garden, yet nothing moved. The sun, surrounded by haphazard dark blue clouds along with orange and red streaks crisscrossing the gray sky, was about to sink behind the mountains.

Is he going to shoot a bird? Like a wedding drum, Masih’s heart pounded. A poor bird looking forward to a season of joy and excitement, was about to perish and miss the chance to fly tomorrow—on the first day of spring. Please don’t! He almost blurted.

“Relax. I won’t shoot,” Baba said releasing the trigger and turning toward Masih, as if he had heard his plea. Then he stood up, returned the Kalashnikov to the corner of the room, and stepped toward the wall where Jezail dangled from a couple of five-inch nails.

Holding its crescent-shaped stock with one hand and its long barrel with the other, Sekandar kissed the rifle and rubbed his hand over it. The only other item that his sons had seen him kiss and handle with such reverence was the Holy Quran. After all, that weapon laid next to his grandfather when he was martyred.

“This is the real deal,” he held it up over his head like an athlete raising a trophy.

“That gun was good for its own time. In today’s war, it’s just not going to do the job,” Jawad said.

“My son, this gun has defeated the Brits,” Sekandar said, shaking the rifle upright to emphasize its significance. “What has your Kalashnikov done so far?”

“Baba, by the time you load up the Jezail, a Kalashnikov would have already fired fifty rounds,” Aziz said nodding toward the corner where the weapons were stocked.

“Well, the Jezail has already passed its test; not once, but three times. It deserves our utmost respect. When your Kalashnikov kicks the Soviets out of Afghanistan, then you can brag about it too,” Baba did not seem convinced at all by his son’s argument.

“God willing, that will happen soon; maybe next year,” Aziz said.

Next year was going to be tomorrow. Masih would wear his new traditional Afghan clothes on Nawroz, the New Year’s Day, and pray in the mosque. He will listen to Mulla Salim’s first khotba, sermon of the year. According to Father, Salim was a fearless mulla.