Gunga Din 8

Cptr. 7

Saturday, Sept. 15, 2021, 3:47 AM. Khost, Afghanistan.

Aminullah stumbled a few steps, caught himself, and then jumped from one side of the river bank to the other to keep his balance, landing with a thud in the dark, his eyes adjusting from the few bright lights near the hotel in the central bazaar. He kept his eyes low, below the horizon, and followed the footsteps of the young man in front of him. They ran and skipped along the small tributary than ran on the south side of the main Khost road. It was more dusk than dark, not long before the muzzein’s call to prayer would rouse everyone in the valley. Aminullah’s head still throbbed, a dull pounding as he ran, along with his heartbeat and his footsteps, a cacophony of blood pumping from his exertion, yet he dared not stop. He knew he couldn’t go home, risk bringing the Taliban to his home and his village. It’s the first place they would go to look for him.

Aminullah knew he had only one place left, so he called to the other boys in front of him.

“Tssst!” There was a pause in the footsteps. He could feel more than see any heads turn toward him. “I… have to go this way.” He pointed in the dark across the canal, almost perpendicular. “Be safe.” He heard a few murmurs from his fellow escapees, waved at the darkness, then jumped back across the riverbed, heading north and east at an angle away from his own village and khel.

By himself, Aminullah picked up the pace. He was close to Kemal’s village, but he wanted to make sure he hadn’t been followed, so he continued past the dirt road where he would normally turn, then cut through a patch of trees and scrub grass. Aminullah waited inside the treeline looking back across the field he had just crossed. He forced himself to wait another minute, taking the time to get his breath back.

Nothing. No one followed - a light breeze caused the top of the grass to twitch, but nothing else moved in the soft gray of almost-morning.

Aminullah checked the sky to his southeast, where the sun would begin its ascent… the muzzein’s call was soon. Aminullah could hear the first sounds of families stirring behind the walls of their compounds. He turned and ran, cut right for thirty yards, then ducked into a small path. He came to Kemal’s compound from the back, a four-meter high wall punctuated only by a single steel gate. As children, he and Kemal had climbed the tree on the other side to let themselves out without permission. He scampered around to the front, not wanting to be seen if people came out to greet the call to prayer.

He listened for a moment and thought he heard a sound, someone going to the cistern for water…? He rapped on the front gate and then listened. He heard some footsteps and shuffling, then a whispered voice. He turned his head straining to hear in the darkness; it felt like an eternity standing exposed on the street. He decided to risk raising his voice:

“It’s-”

The iron latch on the gate squeaked as it slid, then the gate opened inward, and there stood his uncle, shadows from his pakol hat hiding the older man’s expression:

“Aminullah,” he heard a whisper.

Aminullah froze, not certain if he was being invited in. He tried to look on either side of his uncle, but there was barely enough light to see inside. Then he felt his uncle’s hand pulling him inside and the gate close behind. Uncle Kemal kept his grasp on Aminullah’s wrist and then led him toward the back of the main yard, where the largest of the three mud and brick buildings were. Aminullah could see the shadow of the tree silhouetted against the sky to his left, heard a door open, and then he was inside. A few candles flickered, and a small GE electric lamp cast shadows on the wall from a low table. Aminullah let his eyes adjust for a moment, then turned around to see his Uncle’s expression, but instead watched his Uncle’s back as the elder Pashtun went back out the door they had just come in, and then closed it.

Aminullah turned his attention back to the room he was in - it served as the living room for family meals. Aminullah had eaten there many times as a child. He hadn’t come by as much in the last few years, since Kemal’s marriage and birth of his daughter. Some rugs and curtains divided the room, and muffled the sounds from, the sleeping areas in the back where Uncle Kemal’s two wives and younger children slept.

Not sure what else to do, Aminullah slipped off his sandals, padded over to the table and then levered himself down, sliding around onto some cushions. He used his hands to get himself comfortable, then shrugged his back up against the wall. For a few moments, Aminullah closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and rested - allowing himself to feel safe in his Uncle’s house for the first time in days. His heart slowed, his breaths becoming deeper with less desperation. He still wasn’t sure how he was alive, much less that all of them had escaped.

The door opened and in came Kemal with his namesake Uncle close behind.

“Kemal!” Aminullah jumped up, as Kemal flipped his sandals, then crossed the floor to give Aminullah a quick embrace.

“Amina. Waraka. Takliyeh?” Kemal pushed Aminullah way, then cupped his chin, and lightly turned Aminullah’s face to look at the wound on the right side of his head. Aminullah could see Uncle Kemal’s visage swimming into view behind, squinting at Aminullah’s principal injuries - the lumps, blood, pus, and suppurating wounds from multiple strikes from the wooden buttstock of an AK-47.

“AL-LAAAHHH-HU AKHBAR!” The muzzein’s voice split the quiet of the night and announced the new day to the faithful. All three of their heads turned at the sound, and then Aminullah and his cousin turned to Uncle Kemal.

“Did they release you, ‘Mina?”

“No, Uncle. There -”

“AL-LAAAHHH-HU AKHBAR!” The muzzein continued his chant.

“- someone found a hole in a wall… there were some rotted boards - like a small section of the wall - we all just… crawled through to get out. And… it was… like no one was guarding us… I don’t know. We all just ran away into the night.” Aminullah could hardly believe it had happened himself. One minute he was sleeping, leaning against the wall and a few other boys - two of them students of Kemal’s - at one end of the room. Then he woke to the noise of someone peeling back a rotted section of the drywall and ten minutes later he was running in the cool night air, his legs carrying him to freedom, and away from death at the goal posts… like his father.

“There is… much happening, Nephew. Let us wash ourselves and then pray together, Allah be Merciful. You are safe here with us now. We have a little time, but we will have to go soon.” Aminullah squinted his eyes. “I think this year…” his uncle continued, “will be an early beginning for the hajj… for you, Aminullah,” his Uncle said with little expression, then added a wink.

“Really?!? You- Uncle… I cannot- I do not have th-”

“It’s been a good brick season, Aminullah,” Kemal cut in, moving back over to the door to get his sandals on, nodding toward the outside, where Aminullah could see the lighter color of the sky around the edges of the door frame.

Aminullah suddenly had to fight back tears, his shoulders heaving as he put his hand over nose and mouth, sniffles escaping. He had been certain that he would be executed, die branded an apostate by Taliban in front of all of Khost, strung from the goalpost, legs kicking as shit and piss flowed… he had seen more than his share of them. He felt his Uncle’s wiry strength, his arm around him.

“Shhh, shhh. It’s okay, Aminullah. You’re safe. We have you.”

Aminullah let himself be led to his slippers, then out the door, so he could cry outside of the women and children’s presence. He praised Allah silently, as he stumbled to the cistern to wash himself before prayer. The muzzein kept calling the faithful as the sun begin its ascent over the Khost valley. As they washed their hands and feet, Aminullah’s cousin and uncle explained to him what it would be like to make the pilgrimage to Mecca for the first time. Allah had truly blessed Aminullah, heard his prayers and laments, and delivered him from his enemies.