You may not know but I’m sure your brother did, he says.
Speaking quietly and intensely through the Tajik, he continues: Who brought you here?
No one. I came on my own.
Where have you come from?
I mention the name of my valley.
The Amrikâyi spreads out a map on the ground and they study it together. Then he laughs while the Tajik exclaims: That’s impossible! It’s too far away. Do you think we’re fools to believe that you pushed yourself in that cart all the way from the heart of the mountains?
It is the truth. It is up to you whether or not to believe me.
The officer folds away the map and rises to his feet.
But this is a very important matter, he says, and it’s important for you to speak the truth. If you don’t want to answer, that’s your decision, but words can be bridges, and I’m trying to understand your motives.
I feel worn down. I address the Tajik directly: Tell your master that words count less than actions and I’m not prepared to engage in a conversation that impugns my family’s honor. Tell him that I am conscious of the passage of the hours, which belong only to God, and all I want to do is to ensure my brother’s safe return to Him.
They say: We are waiting for men who will come in a helicopter to take your brother to Kabul. There they will display his corpse on television. Ministers and generals will be interviewed about the battle. He was an important insurgent. That’s why we are waiting.
That’s sacrilege! I exclaim. You can’t rob a dead man of his soul. It’s forbidden, and I won’t allow it! I have a religious duty toward my brother.
And I have a duty to the state, the Amrikâyi says, which is also your state, by the way. I have a duty to abide by the rule of law, which are now your rules. Without laws, we’d be back to your tribal anarchy.
I turn to the Tajik. You’re a believer, aren’t you? You know this is wrong.
He shoots me a quick, anxious glance.
I tell him: I thought you said the soldiers would bury him here, that the captain had given his word.
He evades my eyes, while the lieutenant throws up his arms.
He says: It’s impossible to talk like this, always shouting.
I say: I agree. Why don’t you come closer, or let me approach?
Their answer baffles me: Because we’re concerned for our safety.
I feel like laughing. I’m a single, unarmed woman, I tell them, and you’re an armed garrison bristling with guns. How can you be concerned for your safety?
The Amrikâyi goes red in the face when my answer is translated.
He snaps at the Tajik, who in turn snaps at me. How do we know you’re not a black widow? he says. How do we know you’re not carrying a bomb?
How can I be a widow when I’m not even married? As for a bomb, I am here to bury—
Yes, yes, we know, he shouts, cutting me off. But we must check you for explosives. There’ve been reports. Maybe you have other intentions.
What do you want me to do?
They do not reply but their answer comes later in the day, a little before noon.
The lieutenant reappears, as does the Tajik, but with them is an enormous black man, along with a line of marksmen who lie prone on the ground and aim their guns at me. Others crowd behind them, and they all stare at me as if I’m some strange animal, potentially interesting, yet dangerous enough to maintain a guarded distance. Meanwhile, the black giant lumbers purposefully toward me.
I begin to wheel back my cart in a panic.
Mëyh khudza! the Tajik shouts. Don’t move! He won’t harm you; he’ll just check you for bombs.
Then he says quickly, confidentially: The bomb is in the cart, isn’t it? You can tell me. I won’t betray you.
I don’t even bother to answer, merely glance at him with contempt.
The giant turns authoritatively and says something, after which the Tajik looks embarrassed and speaks to me with less assurance than before, and with lowered eyes.
Lutfan burqa obâsa, he says. Please take off your burqa.
I can’t do that! I blurt out, my voice rising.
You must take it off if you want to stay here, he repeats irritably.
Is this the foreigners’ sense of honor?
Just do as they say, I tell you.
So I am to be humiliated before an audience of men. I hadn’t anticipated this, but I realize I’ve no choice but to obey. I will not leave this place without burying Yusuf. All the same, I feel ashamed that they will see me with my hair worn loose.
I take off my bughra slowly. My hair hangs down to my knees. As I let the bughra slip to the ground, dust billows from it. I’m sure my shalwar kameez is equally dusty and stained with sweat. I lower my eyes, my naked face burning with shame.
It isn’t the end of my ordeal. I’m instructed to move away from the cart. I say a silent prayer as I climb out shakily. The strand of cowrie shells and coins that I wear on my head tangles in my hair. I brush it free and, trembling with mortification, hobble away on my stumps while willing myself not to fall. My goatskin wrappings smudge with dust. I come to a standstill after a few gaz.
Now put your hands on your head and turn around, the Tajik calls. Turn a full circle.
I do as he tells me, my stumps hurting.
When I face him again, the black giant makes a tipping motion with his hand, which the Tajik translates: Please lie down facing the ground with your hands on your head and your legs spread apart.
I refuse! I cry out, scandalized. What you are asking is shameful!
The Tajik ignores my response and says: Once you lie down, the sergeant will approach you and search you for explosives.
Didn’t you hear me? I won’t do it.
The sooner you comply, he says, his voice turning shrill, the quicker they will resolve your petition for your brother’s corpse.
I stare at him for a long moment. He is sweating profusely. I cannot tell if he is lying, but the tone of entreaty in his voice is unmistakable.
I lower myself slowly to the ground and lie down on my stomach.
A silence closes over me; all I can hear is my own heart beating.
I turn my head and see that, in the distance, the Tajik has averted his eyes. Closer to me, the giant approaches the cart and prods it with his rifle. He turns it over gingerly and examines it. Putting it down the right side up, he begins walking toward me, all the while speaking in a surprisingly calm and gentle voice. He ignores the bughra lying on the ground, walking past it. He grips my hands and places them wide apart on the ground above my head. When I feel his hands on me, I grow rigid and imagine I’ve turned into a pillar of stone. Closing my eyes, I sink deep into myself.
When he is done, he helps me get up and once again places my hands on my head before repeating the search. He is discreet, efficient, and all the while he continues speaking and I’m gratified that his voice isn’t entirely steady: he’s as afraid as I am. I decide to focus on his shoes, which are surprisingly small for a man his size. Somehow, that reassures me.
When he finally steps away, I can sense him relax. He’s been holding his breath and now he lets it out in a long sigh. Just as he turns to inspect the bughra, I slump against him. I’m shaking uncontrollably. He holds me gently for a moment. Okay? he says huskily, patting me on the shoulder. Okay?
He takes off his helmet and shouts to his comrades in a relieved voice. He invites me to return to my cart and offers his hand for support, but I ignore him and make my own way back, picking up the bughra as I go. All the marksmen have risen to their feet. The tension in the air dissipates. The Tajik keeps his eyes averted, possibly waiting until I’ve put on my bughra, but I simply throw it into the cart and collapse in an undignified heap on top of it. A cheer goes up from the
line of soldiers, but whether they’re cheering me or their comrade, I can’t tell. I’m close to tears; I feel utterly spent.
The giant walks away and approaches the lieutenant. They talk for a while, and then they call their men back into the fort. When the lieutenant returns, he crosses the field briskly with a couple of soldiers and walks right up to me, the Tajik trotting at their heels like a dog. The lieutenant’s hair is cut so short, I can see right through to his shiny pink scalp. He stands before me and bows in an exaggeratedly humble gesture of greeting, which the Tajik dutifully imitates. I recognize the signs: they want to be chatty after stripping me of my dignity.
Salâm, the officer says. Peace.
He continues speaking, and the Tajik says: Lieutenant Ellison hopes you weren’t scared.
I think of how Father taught me not to bend before adversity. I remain silent.
Then the Tajik says: The lieutenant would like me to convey his sincere apologies, but he hopes that you understand he didn’t have a choice.
Now the officer smiles and addresses me directly, speaking very slowly and in loud, distinct tones, as if to an imbecile. The Tajik translates: The lieutenant says he hadn’t realized how young you were. He says you remind him of his sister—his younger sister—who goes to college. She wants to be a doctor. Maybe she will come and work in Kandahar province.
I think of my younger sister, Fawzia, dead before her time, and remain stone-faced.
The lieutenant says his grandfather took part in building the highways south of Kandahar, after the Second World War.
So what? I think to myself, and look away.
The officer’s voice falters for a moment. Then he speaks confidently to the Tajik, who says: The lieutenant would like to ask you a few questions.
The Amrikâyi takes out a ketâb and holds his qalam at the ready. He smiles encouragingly at me. I ignore him and tell the Tajik: I will not answer anything until you have returned my brother’s body to me.
The Amrikâyi says: As I have explained to you, we cannot do that. We have rules and regulations governing such matters.
I have no illusions about that, I say with scorn. You are here to impose your rules by force, but they mean nothing to me.
The Tajik interjects hurriedly: Pashtana, you would do well to listen to him.
He turns to the officer, who appears to interrogate him about my response. They go back and forth, and I sense the Tajik defusing the aggressiveness of his master’s queries with some well-turned phrases. Eventually he says to me: The lieutenant would like to assure you that if you answer his questions, he will arrange for you to be given a thorough medical examination, especially in terms of the injuries to your legs.
I compose myself but find I have to swallow a few times before I can speak, and even then I barely recognize the whisper that emerges from me. I tell them that all I want is to accomplish the task I’ve set myself so that I can leave this wretched place. I don’t want anything else.
The officer looks disappointed. Still, he wears a conciliatory smile in the hope that I will fall for his ludicrously transparent ruse. I turn away from him and look back at my mountains. Somewhere high up is the narrow patch of emerald green that is my valley. Despite my attempts at stoicism, a tear spills out of my eye and courses down to the kameez that Fawzia had embroidered with flowers. I miss her very much; I miss them all very much. I would like nothing better than to go home now, but I recognize that sometimes there is no going back.
The officer clears his throat, as does his factotum.
He says: We’ll leave you now.
Please open the eye of your heart and give me my brother, I reply.
He says: I can’t do that. It’s not in my hands. I have my orders.
I think of Yusuf rotting inside their fort and watch with cold fury as they leave.
Shortly afterward, I am surprised when the Tajik returns with yet another Amrikâyi, accompanied as usual by gun-toting soldiers. The lieutenant is nowhere to be seen, and I feel distinctly relieved.
The newcomer plants himself before me and, without further ado, hands me a stiff and ragged piece of brown cloth. I fix my gaze warily on him: he has coarse stubble, a hard reddish face, and watery eyes. He addresses me rapidly, his teeth flashing as he belts out the words, his eyes opening wide once he finishes and awaits my response. I turn my face to the Tajik and wait for him to translate. With a peculiar diffidence, he says: Sergeant Schott has cut out this piece of cloth from your brother’s kameez.
I glance at the rag with shock and nearly drop it.
At length, in a stranger’s voice, I hear myself telling them that my brother’s kameez was green in color, while this cloth is brown.
That’s dried blood, the sergeant says indifferently.
From his very indifference, I know that he is speaking the truth. I hold the rag; it burns like a red-hot brand.
I ask the Tajik: What am I supposed to do with this?
He replies in an undertone. The Americans would like you to bury this cloth in place of your brother and, in return, give them the information they seek. After that, you can depart in peace.
I close my eyes and bury my face in the rag. Before my shuttered eyelids I see my brave and handsome brother with his ever-present smile—but also the moment of his death. I see him lying broken-backed in the dust, his eyes cast down in shame at my own ordeal. I would give the last of my food and water for a final word from him. I would surrender my own life with a glad smile if I could exchange it for his.
Before I open my eyes, I press the cloth to my face again and breathe in deeply. It retains the scent of our house and the mass of mountains that surround it.
Then I let it drop to the ground.
Addressing the Tajik, I say: Tell your masters that I refuse. I am not going to barter on the basis of these pitiful credits and debits.
Even before he has finished translating, the sergeant takes out a shiny tablet and stabs his fingers into it. Then he nods at the Tajik and begins firing questions at me, the words shooting out as if from the barrel of a gun:
What is your full name? What is your father’s name?
What is the name of your tribe? How many men are in it?
How many of these men accompanied your brother in the attack? What are their names? Who will succeed your brother now that he is dead?
How many guns does your village hold? How many villages in your tribe?