Here - for the first time in print anywhere - is the prologue for the book. It depicts the life and motivation for the antagonist of the story, a person of better character and purer motive than our self-interested hero, Dillon.
Afghanistan,
eight months ago.
The
soldier stopped and gazed over the edge of the mountain pass, admiring the view
of his hometown below. It was a quaint
village with just over three dozen clay homes, containing some 400 plus of his
kin and countrymen. From here, it looked
very picturesque, cuddled in amongst the mountains, with a tiny lake to one
side, an oasis of greenery and humanity in an otherwise barren landscape.
Although
he could only barely make them out, he watched in amusement as children ran
about and played. He watched a couple
race old tires down an empty street. Women
were starting their daily chores, taking clothes off of clothes lines, fetching
water, picking figs and vegetables and taking laundry out to the lake to
wash.
The
early morning sun, still struggling to crest the mountains, cast a rosy glow
upon the scene. The soldier did his best
to etch the image into memory.
He
had a trim black beard, bronze sun-baked skin and soft brown eyes with deeply
engraved smile lines. Facial scars told
stories of his time in the wars. Raising
a leg, he placed his weathered boot onto a rock and leaned forward, forearm
against his knee. His loose cotton
clothes snapped about in the brisk mountain air.
As
a youth, he had grown up in this town but not here in this mountain pass. The
town had needed to relocate, twice due to war and again because of
drought. Despite the moves, and
hardships of living in so remote a place, coming back always brought warmth to his
heart and a bounce to his step.
How
long had it been since he had last seen his wife and children? He rubbed his beard as he tried to
recall. His children would all be much
bigger now. How much of their lives he must have missed! While they had been running and playing in these
fields, he had been hiding in mountain caves, dark and dank as sewers crammed
in with his fellow soldiers like so many rats in hole, coming out only to snipe
or plant roadside bombs to scare off the armies of the West. It was not a very dignified way to wage a war
but they had few options.
It
was a very different war than when the Russians had invaded. That had been a more conventional war and one
that played to his strengths. He had
been young and brash then, but smart. As
a child, his uncle Dabullah, had always challenged him to think, constantly
playing mind games with him, giving him problems to solve and making him look
beyond the obvious answers to question what was real. It had paid off and he had risen quickly in
the ranks of the Afghan army to become a commander due of his ability to
out-think the enemy. When the Russians
had left and the ultra-religious Taliban had sought to take control of the
country, they asked him to lead their army.
The Taliban were strict and heavy-handed in their approach to rule but
under his leadership their army had freed much of the country from the
villainous rule of warlords, with surprisingly little bloodshed. The Taliban brought stability to the
war-ravaged nation. That was until their
religious cousins in Al Qaida had provoked the West and brought their one-time
allies sweeping in to overthrow the Taliban government and set themselves to
rule in all their hedonistic ways.
Despite
all the setbacks, he had kept strong in his faith and Allah, his god, had
finally rewarded him for it. Soon he
would be made great again and the entire world would come to know the name of
Shareef Haider.
Shareef
grabbed his gear and continued. The dirt
road wound its way down the mountainside, at times putting the village out of
view, always to return to it later.
After a couple of hours he reached the outskirts of town on the far side
of the lake.
He
wandered along the edge of the small lake until he spotted three women up
ahead, stooped over, washing clothes. He
paused and hid behind a tree, observing them.
Like all women here, they wore burqas, a gown that covered them from
head to toe making it very difficult to distinguish one from another. Having grown up here, he learned to use signs
other than looks to identify friends and family. He knew these young ladies. He easily recognized their voices and the way
they carried themselves.
He
walked up quietly behind them as they worked away, listening to them gossip. As one
of the women bent over to scrub, her undersized, dark grey burqa pressed against
her back and framed her buttocks in a way he felt was most inappropriate.
“Do
not judge others when you are not even dressed properly!” Shareef stated.
The
women gasped, dropped their washings and turned to stare at him.
The
young chastised woman looked at him in fright, then her dark eyes softened and
twinkled. “Father?”
“Hi,
Noushin.”
She
jumped into his arms but he pulled her back and held her hands. Such public
displays of affection were inappropriate at her age.
“You’re
back! Are you staying? Does mom know?” she asked.
“Not
yet. I want to surprise her. Gather up your sisters and Jordan. Tell them you have some kind of work for them
and bring them here to me. But don't
tell anyone I’m here.”
“Okay,
sure! I'm so happy to see you. Are you staying?” She had always asked that question.
Shareef
looked over to her friends and nodded at them as he answered her.
“Have I ever?”
Twenty
minutes later she was back, with her five younger sisters and Shareef's only
son, Jordan, in tow. They ranged in age
from four to seventeen. Young girls did
not need to wear burqas so they were mostly dressed in the fine dresses Shareef
had been able to buy when he was a General in the Taliban army. Shareef noted that since he had last been
there, the dresses had all been handed down to each girl's younger sister. His wife had done a wonderful job of
maintaining them but they had still become faded and tattered. Their elegant dresses distinguished them from
the rest of the village whose clothes were almost entirely handmade.
As
soon the children laid eyes on him, they surged forward and came running into
his arms. He hugged and kissed them and
listened to their excited prattle. Little
Lutha, his second youngest trailed behind, as she shifted her weight to and fro
to hobble forward on her crutches. In
her hurry she threw too much weight on one side. Her crutch gave out with a snap, sending her
face first into the dirt. Shareef ran to
her, scooping her up into his arms. Up
close, he could see, and feel through her clothes, how the disease she suffered
from, Polio, had consumed and disfigured her, shriveling both her legs, and
now, one arm as well, until they were little more than stumps on bones. She
felt so terribly, terribly light in his arms; lighter than she had two years
ago.
Noushin
handed him a cloth and he gently wiped the dirt off Lutha’s face.
If
the fall or disease were causing Lutha any pain she didn’t show it. Her eyes beamed and she gave a huge toothy
smile as she brushed a tear off his face.
“Why
are you crying?” she asked.
“Because
I’m so happy to see you,” he replied. He
took in his other children as they gathered around and extended, “To see ALL of
you.”
They
sat down in the field by the lake and he listened intently to all their
stories, allowing each of them to speak, but Jordan first, as it was proper for
the male to go first in all things. He
was the middle child, and although Shareef was careful to not play favourites,
it was his son that brought him the most pride and happiness. Being the only male child, Jordan could have
monopolized his father's time, but he was courteous and kept his stories short
so his sisters could also speak.
After
they were finished talking and asking about where he had been, Shareef stood up
from where they had been lying and addressed them.
“Listen,
it's getting to midday, and your mother will want you all home for lunch
soon. Before that, I must speak to
her. Alone.”
Noushin
cleared her throat. Shareef could see the raised eyebrow and the questioning twinkle
in her eyes through the meshed covered slots in the burqa. He ignored the insinuation.
“Stay
here and help Noushin wash. I'll come
get you all soon enough.”
Shareef
left them and made his way into town.
Keeping his head low and turned away from others, he quietly slip by the
clay homes, going out of his way to avoid being seen or drawing any attention
to himself. He didn't want his arrival
in town prematurely revealed. The entire
village would swarm him wanting to hear about his travels, the war and the
outside world.
Shareef
ducked inside his house. His father was
lying on the couch, looking even thinner and more haggard than Shareef
remembered. He gestured for his father
to remain quiet with a finger to his lips and a wink, and he looked about.
His
mother was not home. That was a relief,
for although she prided herself on being able to recite every word of their
religious text, the Koran, she spent most of her time reciting every word of
gossip in town. Once she knew he was
home, everyone would know.
Shareef
peeked into the kitchen and found his wife cooking. Burqas were not required indoors so he could
see she was as shapely as ever. Her
long, black hair tumbled down her shoulders in waves. He made a couple cautious steps, years of
practice sneaking up on enemies were put to shame, her ears were too
sharp. She spun around, knife at the
ready and he quickly stepped into her, crushing his lips into hers. He held her
tightly around the waist with one arm and used his right hand to grab her wrist. She flailed wildly for a moment, before
slowly melting into his arms.
The
children were kept waiting for their lunch, so to make it up to them, Shareef
himself prepared supper, over the protests of his wife and especially his mother
who needed to be repeated removed from the kitchen. Shareef had hoped to spend at least his first
day home with just his family, but as expected, his mother couldn’t resist
talking. Banned from the kitchen, she
instead went bragging to all the neighbours that her heroic son was back from
the war. By the time supper was done,
the house, the largest in the village, was overflowing with people. While he appreciated the attention, Shareef ruefully
wished he had allowed her to cook instead.
Over
the following days Shareef reacquainted himself with all the various relatives
and townsfolk and brought them all up to speed about was happening in the outside
world, as least, as much of it as he had seen.
He spent time with each of his seven children, discovering what he had
missed in their lives and imparting whatever advice and wisdom he could upon
them. He spent the most time with his
son, for it was he who would eventually have the biggest burden in life,
becoming the only man in the family and responsible for looking after his
sisters until they were all married off.
Except for Lutha, there would be no husband for her.
It
pained Shareef to think of the burden he was about to place on Jordan, he was
still so young and yet… Shareef was
already committed and there would be no going back.
Mostly,
he spent time with his wife, always making sure she knew how much he cherished
her. However despite all their late night talks, he did not have the heart to
tell her the news that had brought him home.
“Shareef,
what's wrong?” she asked as she sat up in bed one night. They had retired to the bedroom early but not
to sleep. Shareef had been eager to
spend some alone time with her but now he sat on the right foot corner of the
bed solemn and quiet.
“Nothing,”
he replied.
“Don't
give me that,” she said. “I'm not blind;
I can see something has been eating at you ever since you arrived. Tell me.
Please. What's going on?”
Shareef
glanced over to her then returned his gaze to his hands cupped in his lap.
“I-it's...
it's nothing. It's fine.”
She
smiled a crooked smile and shook her head. “Shareef Haider, I seem to remember
a time when you said you could tell me anything. Remember? You used to say how much you
cherished me not just as a wife but as your friend. Have I not always been there for you? Even stood by you when Daddy
disapproved? Whatever it is, you know I am
always here to support you.”
Shareef looked at
his wife and smiled. She was speaking
the truth and it made him love her all the more.
His smile faded
and he looked away. “I'm leaving.”
“What else is
new? You come, get us all excited to
have you back and then leave again. You
have your war to fight, we know.”
He shook his head.
“It's not like that. I... I'm going far
away.”
“To Pakistan?”
Shareef
chuckled. “To Canada.”
“To Canada!” She
crawled down the bed to be next to him.
“That's wonderful,” she said as she touched his arm.
“It is?” Shareef
was confused. He expected her support,
but not enthusiasm.
“Of course! Once you're settled in you can send for
us. The girls could all go to school
---”
“To school?”
Shareef furled his brow as he watched his wife's enthusiastic outpour.
“We could get a
house, a proper house – with plumbing!
And electricity! Jordan wouldn’t
have to go fight in this stupid war; he could grow up to be... a doctor. Anything!”
Shareef turned
away. “Stop.”
“And Lutha... We
could get her medication, surgery maybe!
She could live---”
“STOP!”
She looked at his
dour demeanour and squeezed his hand.
“Stop? Aren't you excited?”
Shareef stood up
abruptly and stepped away from her. “I'm
not going to Canada to live!”
The words had
come out harshly and he cast his eyes down to avoid her pained look. But he needed to appear strong and certain of
his decision or she would sense doubt and seek to exploit it. He forced his eyes to meet hers and held his
voice firm. “I'm going there to die.”
“To die?” Her
eyes and mouth slowly closed until her pupils bore into his soul from behind
thin slits and her lips pressed tightly together. She lowered herself into a sitting position
and wrapped blankets around herself. “To
die. Is that how it is? You are going to take your little war to the
enemy’s homeland? So you can go get your
glorious death and what about us? Your
father, you know he's not well.”
“I know.”
“What about the
children? Don't you---”
He abruptly cut
her off. “This is a gift from God!
Nothing comes before service to Allah.”
Her eyes asked
questions her lips were forbidden to. He
could not bear to see them. So much for
support! He stormed out of the room and yelled,
“Nothing!”
The sound of her
tears chased after him. His daughters
came scrambling to see what was wrong but he forbade them from entering the
room. They looked at him for some
explanation but he offered none and stormed off to the kitchen. He grabbed a drink and sat down. He tried to maintain his anger and conviction
but the sound of her crying pulled at his heart. He soon discovered there was nowhere in the
house he could hide from the sound. When he eventually left to wonder in the
fields, the sound haunted him still.
The next few days
seemed to pass by quickly. Neither
Shareef nor his wife broached the subject again and life continued on almost as
before, except now they both seemed far away at times. Finally, on his last day she spoke of it.
“You must tell
the children.”
He looked at her
and nodded. “I know. I will. After dinner.”
And that was
it. Although he thought he would rather
face the entire United Nations forces alone than his own children, he was true
to his word. The girls all cried as he
had expected. His father merely nodded,
coughed and went to bed without saying a word.
His mother clapped and whooped, overjoyed that her son, always a hero,
would now die a martyr and be assured a special place in heaven. She heaped praise on him and cooked him his
favourite dessert. She continued unabated to praise and honour him, somehow becoming increasingly
intoxicated throughout the night even though no one saw her drink, which was
forbidden, until she passed out in a drunken stupor. Jordan neither cried nor went to sleep. That night he crawled out of his bed and up
onto the roof of the house where he stayed all night searching the stars for
answers to the questions in his heart.
In the morning,
Jordan was gone. They searched all about
for him but he was nowhere to be found.
Shareef's dad reassured him Jordan would be back, after all, where was
there to go? They resolved themselves to
breakfast. No one said anything, except
for Shareef's mother who picked up right from where she left off last night,
hangover notwithstanding, prattling on about the greatness of Allah and the
braveness of her son and how he would be seated on high in heaven, unlike his
father. When it became evident no one
could stand to listen to her anymore, Shareef, his wife and father all tried to
gently get her to be quiet. When she
demonstrated a total lack of restraint, her husband angrily ordered her out of
the house to fetch water. She left in a
huff. Shareef’s father shook his head a
couple of times, coughed twice, and muttered, “Stupid woman,” before he went
right back to picking at his food.
After breakfast,
they gathered around in the yard and Shareef said his final good-byes to his
daughters. He hugged and kissed them. Lutha he picked up and cradled in his
arms. As he did he noticed her crutch
was starting to come apart again so when he put her down, he took a moment to
tighten its corded bindings.
His father gave
him a long but awkward hug. The man felt
so light and fragile it disturbed Shareef but he said nothing of it. What was there to say?
His wife pulled
him back indoors where she could remove her burqa and kissed him.
“I love you,” she
whispered.
“I know.” He
smiled back at her. “I love you, too.”
She looked at him
for a while and then pulled away.
“Honey...”
“Yes?”
She looked back
and studied his face, “Was it Omar who asked you to do this?”
Shareef grimaced;
he knew where this was going. Mohammed
Mullah Omar was the head of the Taliban and his lifelong friend. Even though Shareef did not always agree with
his convictions, Omar had trusted him enough to ask him to lead his army. Shareef would do anything for Omar.
“No...”
“No? Then who?
Not Al Qaida....”
Al Qaida shared
many of the fundamental beliefs of the Taliban but where the Taliban sought
only to bring peace, stability and moral righteousness to their own country, Al
Quida sought to bring war and fear to those they perceived as enemies. Shareef did not agree with their morals or
their methods. They bent the teachings
of the great prophet Mohammed to justify their attacks. After the 9/11 attack on the United States,
if he had been in charge instead of Omar, he would have gladly handed their
leader, Osama Bin Laden, over to the U.S.
Or at least, that's how he felt; actually doing it would have been
another matter altogether.
Shareef said
nothing but dropped his gaze.
“Shareef, why?”
She pleaded; her eyes asked him to reconsider.
“What choice do
we have? We cannot win here. If we ever
want our country back, we have to hit them were it hurts.”
She studied the
determination in his face for a moment. “Why Canada? Why not the Americans?”
Shareef sighed
and nodded. She knew how much he hated
Americans. “Canada is currently leading
the infidels against us. And Canadians
have less of a taste for this war. When
they see the chaos it has brought to them, they will lose all interest in being
here.”
She nodded
understanding and then looked down. She
knew full well that the chaos he spoke of would come at the expense of his own
life. Not wanting to discuss the matter
further, Shareef turned to leave but she called after him, “Shareef Haider.”
He rolled his
eyes and did not turn around, “Yes…”
“Do you still not
know that I always support you? Even… in death.”
Glancing back, he
saw the tears welling in her eyes.
Shareef felt so
touched and saddened that words escaped him.
His kiss said everything that needed to be said.
When they walked
back out, their son was still nowhere to be seen, but Shareef’s mother was
back, along with the rest of town to see him off. They all whooped and cheered and praised his
glory. Shareef shook hands and waved and
got the hell out of town as quickly as he could, all the while looking for
Jordan to be in the crowd somewhere. He
was not.
Shareef set off
down the mountain pass that would take him, eventually, to the sea and from
there, on his months long planned journey to Canada. Minutes later, as he passed a boulder at the
foot of the mountain, a voice called out to him.
“Father?”
Shareef turned
around and embraced his son.
“Jordan! Where have you been? We were worried sick about you.”
“I know
father. I'm sorry. I'll try to be better.”
Shareef looked at
his son; he was still so young but brave and strong. One day he would become a fine man, like his
father before him.
“I know,
Son. I'm so proud of you. I... hope you understand.”
“I do… and in a
way I'm happy. It's an honour right?”
Shareef smiled.
“A very great honour.”
Jordan smiled,
then frowned, “I will miss you, Daddy.”
Shareef hugged
his son and waited for him to stop crying.
“I'll miss you, too. I'll always
be with you.” Shareef pointed to Jordan's heart.“Right here.” And his head,
“And here. Remember that.”
Jordan wiped his
nose with his arm and nodded.
“Now run on home,
you need to help grandpa; you are now the man of the house.”
Jordan took a
couple heavy steps and then turned around. “Father?”
Shareef nodded.
“Could you do
something for me?”
“Of course.”
Shareef waited as
Jordan struggled for words.
“When you...”
Jordan paused to hold back tears. His
hand trembled but he held his breath, composed himself and continued. “When you
smite our enemies, I want to know it. I
want to hear them scream and know it was you.”
Shareef blinked. The request both touched and troubled him.
“Even here?” he
asked as he gestured to the surrounding mountains. The town was far removed from anything. The townsfolk hadn't even known that the
country had been invaded until Shareef and his family arrived. For word to reach here his actions would
have to be mighty indeed.
Jordan nodded.
“Uh huh.”
Shareef gulped
involuntarily as he looked at his son.
He was asking for something near impossible and yet, it was the last
request his son would ever make of him.
The last request Shareef could ever fulfill. Shareef frowned and nodded. “I promise. Now run home.
That's an order!”
Jordan smiled broadly
and ran off as fast as he could.
Shareef turned
around and did not look back. He walked
stoically making no attempt to wipe away the tears that began to roll down his
face. Nor did he sniffle or give any
indication of his troubled heart. He
would not have anyone’s last memory of him be one of weakness. Once the path took him out of sight of the
town and Jordan, he cleaned himself up.
He pushed aside all thoughts about his time here and of his family. He
focused his mind only and always on thoughts of hate.
No comments:
Post a Comment