The Watch (2 page)

I feel the weight of my answer as intensely as the burden of my brother’s death, but I manage to control my emotions and describe Yusuf, taking care to be precise.

After a moment the voice returns:

Your brother is being held for purposes of identification.

I can identify him, I reply.

You must leave. He will be identified by people coming from afar. Experts. Then he will be buried.

When will they arrive?

Soon.

How soon?

In two days.

That cannot be, I answer, trying not to let my emotion choke my voice. Yusuf must be given a proper burial. That’s why I’m here. It is my right.

Our business with him is not finished.

He is dead. What business can you possibly have with him?

He was a terrorist, a Talib, and a bad saray.

That isn’t true! My brother was a Pashtun hero, a Mujahid, and a freedom fighter. He fought the Taliban. And he died fighting the Amrikâyi invaders. He was a brave man.

You are as misguided as he was, Pashtana. You’ve no place here. Go away.

I’ve brought a white shroud, I answer. I will ask you for water to wash him, as is my right. I will dig the grave and place him in it, with his body facing the Quibla. Then I will say a prayer, pour three handfuls of soil over him, and recite: “We created you from it, and return you into it, and from it we will raise you a second time.” After that I will leave, I promise. Do not deny me this duty that I must perform.

In the space of silence that follows, I lower my eyes and gaze at the stumps of my legs, wrapped in goatskins held together with puttees and rags. The goatskins have stained red. My legs, usually numb, have begun to burn and sting.

Eventually the voice replies, sounding surprised but also slightly derisive.

You are a woman. You have no role in a Muslim burial. We are many men here. We’ll take care of it. I’ve asked the Amrikâyi captain who commands the fort. He’s an honorable man. He gives you his word.

I lower my improvised white flag.

I will not leave, I answer. My voice shakes with fatigue and anger. I’m close to tears.

There’s an electric crackle as the megaphone shuts off, and I’m left wondering. A crow flaps across my line of sight and I realize that I am surrounded by carrion birds. Then a shot rings out and a vulture keels across the sky and folds to the ground.

The next time I look up I’m startled to see four men slip out of a gate embedded in the high walls. They come to a standstill behind the barbed wire barrier with their guns pointing in my direction. The only one of them not dressed in a uniform is a wild-eyed, gangling
boy, not much older than me. He must be the Tajik interpreter. He’s the first to speak.

What are you doing here, you stupid woman? he blurts out in a nervous, indignant voice that’s markedly different from its omnipotent metallic incarnation. Didn’t you read the signs? You could have been shot!

I am not lettered, I tell him, forcing myself to be calm.

He brushes off my reply with an exasperated wave of his hand. My sense of him is of someone trying to play an adult, manifestly out of his league.

The captain, he says importantly, gesturing at a short, stocky man, would like you to know that he has no quarrel with you. But you’ve exaggerated your status and you must leave. This is a battleground. It isn’t a place for women’s hysterics.

I decide to ignore him and focus on his companions. I watch them without expression as they stand there, burdened with their guilt and lies.

The officer steps out in front, flanked by two helmeted soldiers. All three wear bulky jackets and dark glasses, and I imagine they must be stifling in this heat. I’m too far away to make out their features, and as the captain turns away from me and addresses the Tajik, the soldiers raise their guns and aim at me. The captain’s terse voice, the jittery interpreter, and the two wary soldiers all suggest the cautious bearing of a group of fighting men caught in an unprecedented situation. Clearly, I am a dilemma for them. I am a woman in their man’s world, and they do not know how to proceed.

They look at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak, but I remain silent.

The Tajik addresses me again, and it’s my turn to be surprised.

Listen to me carefully, Pashtana, he says. The captain says you are free to stay here and rot in the sun. But if you move even a single gaz toward the fort, you’ll be shot on the spot.

Can I bury the men lying in the field? I ask.

The Tajik turns to the captain, who speaks irritably, gesturing with both hands.

That’s between you and the vultures, the Tajik says. It’s none of our business.

They turn and begin walking back toward the fort, but the Tajik calls out to me over his shoulder. Remember the captain’s orders, he says. One gaz toward the fort, and it’s all over for you.

The dust from their retreating feet ascends slowly into the sky.

Sensing a small but crucial victory, I have a mad desire to laugh, which I manage to suppress. I have not, after all, been killed out of hand, which might easily have happened. I turn my cart around and roll it in the direction of Bahram Gul. The heavy wooden wheels drag over the cracked earth; the metal joints squeak and squeal. The sound must carry up to the fort, but I don’t care.

When I reach Bahram Gul, I take out my shovel and chase the crows away. Apart from these accursed birds and the plague of flies, there isn’t a living thing in sight. I take a deep breath and, turning my back to the fort, raise the veil of my bughra. It’s going to be hard work, and it must be done quickly. My poor dear Bahram kaka is beginning to smell. I remember the flowers he gave me, say a short prayer, and begin to dig. Fortunately, the ground is soft and yields easily to my shovel.

Hours later—how many hours?—my work is done. Three raised humps of freshly dug soil mark the final resting place of my brother’s faithful companions. On top of each grave I place a stone. Against the bare ground, the sparseness of the mounds embarrasses me: they should have been marked with gravestones, and poles at the head and foot decorated with green flags, as befits their status as heroes. But I hadn’t expected to be doing this work, and the only flag that I’ve brought is reserved for my Yusuf.

I hobble back to my cart. My back is almost rigid with pain, my hands are scratched and bleeding, but I feel at peace with myself. I put down the shovel and clean my hands with dust. Then I drink some
water from my goatskin bag. I’m so exhausted, the water swills out of my mouth. When I lower my veil and turn to face the fort, there is a line of soldiers watching me in silence. Some of them carry guns slung over their shoulders; others point theirs in my direction. One of them takes off his helmet and mops his face with a red handkerchief. He stuffs it into his pocket when he’s done and, turning to me quite deliberately so that there can be no mistaking his gesture, makes the sign of a cross. It’s a small indication of humanity. And yet, all afternoon, I smell the inhuman scent of their guns.

Dusk comes later on the plains than I am used to in the mountains. Crickets crawl out of the fissures in the ground and trill in the cooling air. The sunset fans across the sky in a play of glorious light. It soaks into the mountains with a crimson glow. Thousands of stars emerge to replace the melting sun. They make up for the absence of the moon. The fort hangs suspended in a swirl of evening fog, its sloping roofs slowly fading into the darkness. The spiderweb of trails I’ve had to traverse to get here, with their long and precarious stretches studded with mines, already seem part of another life.

In my cart I have a burlap bag filled with food: naan, walnuts, pistachios, dried fruit—enough to last me a couple of days. I eat some of the bread, tearing it into bite-sized pieces, but my mouth is dry and I have to chew for a long time before I can swallow. As I drink some water, lights come on inside the fort, but out here in the field, all is in shadow. Somewhere a hyena sets off on its nocturnal rounds with a mocking cry. I shiver involuntarily. I’ve never spent a night outdoors on my own, but I’m too tired to dwell on it. Besides, the heavenly garden of stars consoles me. When it’s completely dark, I crawl away from the cart and attend to my bodily needs.

Soon the night turns cold and I draw my blanket over my shoulders. I reach for my rebaab, which Father taught me to play after he lost his sight. He was an expert at the lute, and I learned quickly, graduating from simple expositions to more complex melodies until he said I sounded better than him. As I pluck the strings, they vibrate
through me and fill up the boundless emptiness all around. The fort seems to fall silent in response, but that must be my imagination. I think of Father as I play, but later on, after I curl up in my cart, it is Yusuf’s smile that colors my sleep. I promise him I will not leave this place until I’ve given him the burial he deserves. I am determined to be implacable.

Suddenly a searchlight switches on and roves around the field before it finds me and pries my eyes open. Its glare is hot and sharp. From time to time it darts away and restlessly probes the ground behind me and the road farther up. Then it darts back to rest on me again. This goes on the entire night until the break of dawn. I summon all the strength that’s left in me, pull my blanket over my head, and press my hands between my thighs for warmth.

Morning. Mist rises from the earth. My hair is damp, my blanket covered with dew. As I sit up in the cart, I nearly cry out in pain from my cramped muscles. My neck is stiff, my movements leaden. The chill in the air has crisped visibly; what little I can see of the field glitters like a mirror. The sun crests the horizon, but the mist continues to softly shield me. I cannot see the fort: perhaps this is all a bad dream?

The Tajik is the first to appear, accompanied by two soldiers with drawn guns. They stop just inside the barbed wire fence that encircles the fort. The soldiers go down on their knees with their guns pointed at me, while the Tajik stands between them with a dirty gray shawl wrapped around his shalwar kameez and shouts out a question. It is difficult to make out what he’s saying since the lower part of his face is concealed by a scarf. His surly, nervous tones barely reach me, and I have to ask him to speak up. I wonder about this strange habit of yelling from a distance. Perhaps it’s the Amrikâyi manner of doing things? Yesterday’s exchanges have left me hoarse, and I resent it.

He removes his scarf and repeats his query. Why are you here, really? he asks.

I’ve told you already. I’ve come to claim my brother.

It’s a man’s job. Where are the men of your family?

You’ve killed them all, men, women, and children. I’m the sole survivor.

He ignores my accusation and asks me what the matter is with my legs.

I lost them to the bomb that decimated my family. It came from the air. We were returning from a wedding.

He turns around and disappears with his escorts, but the blue gleam of guns from the fort warns me that I am being watched. I cast off my blanket as the heat and sunlight intensify. Soon I’ve gone from shivering in the chill to sweating profusely. I tell myself it’s the heat and not my nerves.

The mist dissipates as I wait. The fort emerges into the light of day. The square field is peaceful, the sky tranquil. As the morning wears on, a great tide of humidity rolls across the plain, the fort shimmying in its wake and appearing strangely evanescent. Soon after, the first smoke rises into the air from the fort, and the smell of cooking wafts out. I reach for my own dust-encrusted bag of food and am about to eat when the Tajik returns with a soldier. The Amrikâyi’s hands are thrust deep in his pockets; occasionally he touches his collar tenderly. Like the rest of his countrymen, he has a perfectly nondescript face. The interpreter walks with a slouch, his face hidden once again behind his scarf. They come to a halt just outside the fort and speak almost in unison, the Tajik struggling to keep up.

They say: We enjoyed your lute last night. It was soothing.

I don’t reply.

They say: It’s good that you’re able to play music again in this country. Under the Taliban, it was forbidden, but we’ve made it possible. That’s what freedom means.

I say: Under the Taliban, my family was alive. Now they are all dead. What is better? Freedom or life?

My answer discomfits the Amrikâyi. He grows visibly awkward
and constrained. He paces up and down, haughty and uncertain, then says something to the interpreter in a terse voice.

The Tajik shouts: You have displeased the lieutenant!

Why have I displeased him? I speak the truth.

It’s hardly that simple. You understand nothing.

What don’t I understand?

The Tajik turns to his master, who says: This is war. People die. It’s what happens.

I strain to keep calm. I say: You killed my blind father who couldn’t fight back. You killed my family from the air. But for you, my mother, my grandmother, my sister Fawzia, my sister-in-law, and my little brother Yunus would all be alive.

They’re about to reply, but I carry on speaking.

I say: This isn’t war but the slaughter of innocents. I know what war means. We’re a land of warrior tribes, of blood feuds that last for generations. But no man here would stoop to deliberately killing women and children. He’d be purged from society and subjected to lifelong contempt.

There’s a pause, then the officer gesticulates angrily. Your brother Yusuf wasn’t innocent. He was a Taliban leader who murdered my friends and fellow soldiers. He was a dangerous militant.

My brother was a leader of the Pashtun, and a prince among men, but he wasn’t a murderer, and I’ve already told you he wasn’t a Talib. He died a hero’s death to avenge his family. He struck at you because you struck at us.

Then perhaps you’ll understand when I tell you that I myself am here because innocents were killed—thousands of innocents. Do you know what was done in my country? Entire buildings collapsed!

I can assure you that my family had nothing to do with it! I protest. We’re simple farmers and shepherds. I don’t even know where exactly your country is.