“I never imagined he would betray our trust.”
It was still dark when Aisha heard a plane in the distance. While this had now become an everyday occurrence in her world, she was always alarmed by the roaring sounds that made her heart skip a beat. She knew they were foreign planes targeting the terrorists in the border area, but what if they ever decided to bomb close to their house?
As she tried to get the thought out of her mind, she heard their jeep starting and glanced out the window to see Shahzad, Phil and Ismail leaving. Where could they be going so early in the morning? She said a silent prayer for them and asked Allah to keep them safe.
Soon, there would be the call for prayer, and Aisha decided to get up and perform the ritual cleansing of her body. She got up from her charpoy in the women’s room. Since there were no guests these days, the place seemed vast and empty. It was a bit chilly, so she put on a sweater before she draped herself in a prayer hijab that Aunty Zakiya had brought her from Riyadh and walked out.
She saw the outline of her father standing next to a tree; she went to him, and a smile lit up his noble face.
“Ready for prayers?” he asked.
Aisha nodded, “It’s early, but I couldn’t sleep.”
“Yes, there’s so much happening…I, too, find it hard to sleep!” her father replied.
“I pray we find Ahmad,” Aisha said. “I’ll never ask Allah for anything else as long as I live if my little brother returns to us!”
“Aisha, I’m proud of you for helping the Lashkar rescue Rebecca and bringing us closer to Ahmad. None of our tactics worked, but your patient efforts bore fruit. Now, we must make sure the fair takes place without any incident. The next few days are going to be crucial. We all have to be extra vigilant; otherwise, as Rebecca said, we’ll see some trouble.”
“Baba, this might also be our chance to rescue Ahmad, no?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes, that’s our hope, but matters can get out of hand, and there will be nothing we can do. Sometimes it feels like we’re gambling on things going our way,” he sighed. “We must be cautious. The fair is in two days. Despite Rebecca’s warnings, it’s too late to call it off now; and besides, it’s a perfect opportunity for the community,” said the chief.
Aisha knew of the pressures on her father and wished she could say something that would help.
“Do you remember the woman who was with Rebecca on the day you got the note?” asked Chief Naseer. “I must get her to speak; she knows where the fugitives are.”
“How do you plan to do that, Baba?” Aisha asked.
“We have men watching the house, but so far, they haven’t been able to spot her,” he replied.
“She must visit the hospital for her chemotherapy treatment,” Aisha remarked. “These appointments are booked in advance. I can find out when she’s due by ringing up Dr. Zara’s receptionist.”
“What a clever daughter I have,” the father beamed; her green eyes and pink cheeks were so like Ahmad’s. “I’ve been working my brains to find access to her and had spies at the hospital but never thought of that! Let’s talk about a plan and check the hospital today. And don’t mention our chat to anyone!”
The azhan sounded, and they went to their respective areas to pray for mercy and guidance –and Ahmad.
Safia, Rebecca, and Zeina attended the early morning meeting with Aisha and her father. Safia was instructed to make the call to the doctor’s office.
“Gulnoor Begum has an appointment for chemotherapy; I don’t remember if it’s today or tomorrow; I’ve lost the slip…” before Safia could continue, the receptionist barked, “Today; 1.30 p.m.; you know you can’t miss the sessions! If you’re late, someone else will take your place!”
Safia repeated the message and said, “Now what?”
“We need information about the whereabouts of the group who fled the camp,” the chief said. “How do we get it from her?”
“Gulnoor won’t come alone; a man will accompany her for sure,” clarified Zeina. “And let’s keep it real; even if we get her alone, the woman is never going to talk to us!”
“Do you think you can get close enough to plant a bug on her,” Rebecca asked.
“Yes, that’s a possibility,” Zeina said. “I’ll go with Aisha in burkas, and we’ll do our best!”
The Chief smiled as he saw the optimistic looks on the women’s faces as the morning colors of the sun spread around. He raised his hands and whispered a prayer to Allah, asking the Almighty to grant him the strength to make this part of their world better for the future of these children.
The three men had made an early start to be at the farm before Afzal Rehman and his people arrived at the venue. Phil sat in the back of Shahzad’s jeep, and Ismail sat in front. Shahzad seemed to get more somber as they neared their destination, a farm built for the rehabilitation of selected convicts.
“This isn’t good,” Shahzad declared eventually, shaking his head. “If there are elements here who are plotting against us, then they are seriously betraying the trust placed in them. Each farmer working here has given up arms in exchange for the plow; each 15-acre plot of land is home to them and their families.”
“Yes, really sad that they’re going against the very people who’ve helped them. It makes me feel bad for them. They’re ruining an opportunity given to them. How many families live in the rehabilitation center?” Phil asked as Shahzad maneuvered his way over the hilly roads.
“Must be at least 25 right now,” Shahzad estimated. “Though things are constantly changing.”
Phil nodded and watched the sky changing from orange to light blue. He could count 10 houses around him, and though they were rustic, they looked well built. There was a slight breeze blowing, and it felt good to mull over the events of the last few days. He heard roosters crow, heralding the new day, and hoped today would end well.
Phil was so relieved to have found Rebecca, and though he could understand her reason to stay, he was worried about her leg and hoped the waiting did not damage it forever. Phil had asked her to leave while they waited, but she would not hear of it. He sighed and concentrated again on the task at hand. He could see several farmers heading off to work as the sun spread its early light across the fields; the orange glow on the green meadows made the scene in front of him look surreal, and he took out his phone to record this magical moment.
Parking the jeep behind a shed, they got out of the vehicle and followed Shahzad to where a table and four chairs were set up in a space between two other sheds. There was a somewhat old awning over this area, and a huge man was sitting on one of the chairs, his buttocks hanging over the sides. He waved to Shahzad and signaled for them to come and join him.
“Ismail and Phil, meet Fiaz-ul-Muhabat. He’s one of the seven council members and he oversees the farms and the farmers,” added Shahzad pulling up a chair.
Throughout the salaams, introductions and handshakes, the man never got off his chair. The mustache that Fiaz-ul-Muhabat sported was the biggest Phil had seen. It was curled up his ears into his large turban. Shahzad updated the man on the reason for their visit, and the frown on his giant forehead grew more profound with the information.
“Yes, Afzal Rehman has been seen heading towards Tariq Khan’s home. I have also seen Mullah Jamali visiting Tariq Khan; I never imagined he would betray our trust. He’s such a hard worker, and his farm produces the most profitable yields. We must find out what he’s up to, but first, some tea.”
“Shouldn’t we be moving closer to the meeting place?” Ismail urged, clearly getting impatient with the small talk. Phil felt the same. Weren’t they missing vital exchanges by sitting here? Fiaz-ul-Muhabat easily read their looks and smiled, beckoning a man who whispered something in his ear.
“Don’t worry. Chief Naseer has warned me, and my men are keeping an eye out for any unusual activity and will notify us when they’re all assembled. It looks like they’re waiting for one more person. We still have a few minutes after which we’ll head towards Tariq Khan’s house.”
“The farmers also serve as Lashkar soldiers to protect the community that they have built,” explained Shahzad as they were served tea with some fresh raisin bun. Phil had got used to the creamy sweet tea and dunked the bread in his cup. He had developed a taste for the local cuisine and was already learning how to make it.
“Fiaz-ul-Muhabat had been a Mujahedeen under Ahmad Shah Masood and can answer a lot of your questions about the war, past, and present. He is called the Mouth of the council for a reason. He doesn’t shy away from telling people the truth and criticizing what he thinks is wrong.”
“Isn’t Ahmad Shah Masood the leader who fought against the Taliban and Al Qaeda, and the Pakistan government in 2001?” Ismail inquired.
“And he was killed just two days before the attack on the twin towers in New York?” asked Phil.
“Yes, that’s the one,” Fiaz-ul-Muhabat confirmed as he turned toward them after checking his phone.
Phil guessed he must be getting his updates and relaxed. The vast land around him had small dwellings at intervals, and he wondered which one Tariq Khan’s house was. Hills surrounded the area, and the sounds of cows mooing, birds chirping and water flowing echoed around the peaceful valley. And yet, violence was being planned here in this idyllic setting by the people intent on destruction. Phil sighed.
As Fiaz stood up from his chair and stretched his back, Phil was further awed by the size of the enormous man. Well over six feet, his head almost touched the awning, and Phil could see the massive muscles where his sleeves were rolled up. For all his bulk, he carried himself with remarkable agility and grace.
“Ahmad Shah Masood’s work was left incomplete, and I’m hoping to take it forward; if not in Afghanistan then in this region, as a lot of our people have moved here,” he explained, looking around and indicating his surroundings with a hand that was twice the size of Phil’s. “Over here, we have our school, health clinic and a grocery store selling things grown here. We’re mostly self-sufficient.”
“Sir,” said Ismail, feeling odd to call the man by his name since he must have been his father’s age. He could have added Sahib, as most people used this term to show respect.
“Call me Fiaz; everyone around here does,” smiled Fiaz-ul-Muhabat, his warm brown eyes indicating he understood the hesitation.
“Fiaz Sahib, how does the system work? Do you select the people that are eligible to stay here?”
“Whenever the government, police, chieftains or even the people feel someone is a good fit for our community, they’re asked to fill out an application, and we check them out.”
Ismail nodded and was about to ask another question when he was interrupted.
“Come,” Fiaz-ul-Muhabat instructed, deciding they should get moving. “Follow me.”
They followed the giant out of the shed area and could now see horses grazing in fenced fields to their right and, to the left, there were goats, cows, donkeys and chickens. There were even three camels, and the proud creatures haughtily ignored the visitors.
“A family is given 15 acres of land to farm and rear livestock,” Fiaz explained, obviously very proud of what he seemed to view as his kingdom. “But they work together in teams with the other families, which sometimes consist of four generations.”
Fiaz then got into a scruffy old truck; its springs squeaking in protest as he settled behind the wheel, and the three younger men joined him. The vehicle smelled of sweat and animals, and Ismail rolled down his window for fresh air.
They drove around with Fiaz-ul-Muhabat, who pointed out different crops to them. They saw people working, and Fiaz waved out to them. There were old hairy men and young men in jeans. The women were going about their business in the kitchen gardens and houses, tending to the children. He was not sure why, but Phil was thrilled at just being here.
“Each family has a story,” Phil imagined. “Were they once with the Taliban? Did they lose family in the war? What had made them take up arms? What had stopped them? Maybe Fiaz Sahib has compiled all their stories. Maybe he’ll share it with me.”