“We weren’t responsible for the 9/11 attacks.”
Fiaz drove further for a few minutes, after which he turned off the road. This part of the farm was different somehow, and the brick house they saw was unlike any they had seen so far. Usually, the houses were made of stones and mud. Even Chief Naseer’s house was stone plastered with mud.
Fiaz-ul-Muhabat honked at a man on a tractor in the field and waited for him to stop his engine and come to him. The elderly farmer had a face that seemed very majestic and calm, but he had a scar that ran across his forehead and down to his cheek, almost closing his left eye. Fiaz talked to him, and the farmer cast a long look at the passengers. He nodded and went back to his tractor, and Fiaz led the way to the brick house that was almost hidden by leafy trees.
There were two children, a girl, and a boy playing in the open courtyard. A two-year-old baby boy wobbled around them, dirt on his bare chest and diaper, and his chubby cheeks, suggesting he had fallen. Phil reached down and scooped the baby into his arms and was pleasantly surprised when the kid did not make a fuss. Instead, the boy held Phil’s face in his tiny hands.
Phil handed his phone to Shahzad and asked him to take a picture while he enjoyed the attention he was getting. He saw Fiaz point a house to Ismail, which was in the background but was in perfect view from where they were. A girl, about six with unruly black curls, took Phil’s hand and pulled him towards a chair in the courtyard. Everyone followed and sat down.
Ismail was already unloading a receiver from his backpack that would connect to a tiny listening drone that resembled a bee.
“Tariq Khan lives there!” Fiaz explained, looking towards the house where they could see some activity in the yard, where a couple of vehicles were parked. “His house is the venue for the secret meeting; I never expected this of him.”
Phil tried to put the baby down, but it clung to him, and so he sat him on his lap. He enjoyed this chance to hold a baby, such a friendly one, too. The girl who had ushered them there went into the house and returned shortly with a couple of curious ladies who kept their distance. As they settled down, Fiaz-ul-Muhabat beckoned one of the women to take the baby, who had attached himself to Phil. He then gave them a little introduction about the owners of the house.
“The children’s father is Khalid Aminullah; he’s a most trusted friend of mine and Chief Yousef. That was his grandfather I talked to in the fields.”
An older woman came up to them and greeted Fiaz, who explained to her their reason for being there. She nodded and looked curiously at Phil and then Ismail before she said something to Fiaz, looking at the house nearby.
“She says the house we’re interested in has had many visitors recently,” Fiaz translated, as Ismail fiddled with his phone and connected a receiver to it. The receiver would allow them to record whatever the drone picked up.
“I think I’ll need to get closer, “Ismail admitted, and he headed towards the neighboring house through the fields of tall grass that he hoped would keep him hidden. Shahzad followed him, but Phil stayed with Fiaz and the family.
“I’m surprised to see the women here meet so freely with the men,” Phil observed, and Fiaz smiled and replied, “With the present history, we may look like barbarians to the outside world. Before the chaos, we were more forward! We try to uphold some civilized ways despite the fanatics who suppress the population through intimidation and violence!”
Four men came into the yard where they were sitting, and Fiaz introduced Phil to Khalid. The men shook hands while in broken English, Khalid introduced his grandfather, his uncle and a cousin.
The baby’s mother, in whose hands the baby was comfortably playing, was Khalid’s wife, Aliya Bibi, while the other lady Rukhsana Bibi was his uncle’s wife. They went and sat with the grandmother and busied themselves cleaning grains, and Phil assumed it was preparation for lunch.
“Phil, what’s your story?” Khalid inquired after they had settled down, and he had gulped down a drink of water. “I heard from Yousef that you lost your mother in the 9/11 attacks, which is the reason why you want to help in places like this.”
“I’m surprised, you know, but yes, I do have a story,” Phil hesitantly looked at Khalid and related the story of his mother’s unfortunate airplane ride. “My whole life has revolved around the incident that happened 18 years ago.”
“So has mine,” Khalid admitted. “When the Americans attacked Afghanistan, my father and grandfather were fighting as Mujahedeen under Ahmad Shah Masood. They were fighting the Taliban. Remember, after the Soviets left, there were lots of different groups that wanted to rule Afghanistan. The Americans took sides, as did the Russians. We saw the Taliban rise in power and become a threat to the Americans.”
Phil had not heard this idea for the first time, and he cringed inwardly at the silent criticism of his country. He could have argued his rationale but decided to be quiet and hear him out. Sometimes you learn a lot from listening to people and ignoring unessential remarks.
“At that time, my mother, my sister and I lived with my uncle and his family. Things were terrible back then. The Taliban banned many sporting events and forms of entertainment; cinema-going and listening to music; even flying kites became a crime. They closed all girls schools. Women couldn’t appear in public places unless accompanied by a male relative. When women were in their respective homes, the windows were painted black to prevent passersby from catching sight of them.
Living under the Taliban was not the kind of life my father wanted for us, so he decided to move our family to Pakistan, where my mother’s family lived. We immigrated the summer before the attack on America. We were worried about our family in Afghanistan when the war broke out; the foreigners didn’t know the difference between the Taliban,or Al Qaeda, or Mujahedeen. The innocent and the guilty suffered the same fate.”
“So, everyone was at risk,” Fiaz-ul-Muhabat added, joining the conversation. “Everyone you talk to in this area will have their own stories about what they went through during the time of war. There was confusion all over. Everyone running around, not knowing what action to take.”
“And in that terrible time, we were losing our loved ones,” Khalid uttered sadly.
As Phil thought about his mother’s death, Khalid continued.
“My father could easily have gone through the mountains and reached a safe place, as my grandfather did, but he wanted to get his brother Farooq and their family out of the area. He died in the chaos.”
“He did reach us and managed a safe passage for us,” Khalid’s cousin Bilal recalled. “I was only seven years then, but I remember. On the way, the bomb came from nowhere, and my mother and my uncle, Khalid’s father died along with five other people.”
“Yes, it was a time of sad news constantly. I used to study at a madrassa,” Khalid revealed. “It was good to have something to do. Then my grandfather found extensive activity by extremist groups within the school; they were trying to radicalize the students. He removed me at the pretext that I was needed to work at home. Later, I did join the Mujahedeen because I believed that outsiders were to blame for the war.”
“Didn’t you meet Yousef then?” Fiaz-ul-Muhabat asked.
“Yes, it had felt so right to revolt against the foreigners; the infidels who had come out of nowhere and were killing us for no fault of ours,” Khalid declared. “But Yousef showed us that worse than the outsiders;, there were elements among our people who were selling out the country and doing us more harm. We had to protect our family and our community; we had to be strong for them, and he showed us our fight was internal. In strengthening ourselves, we can resist any outside intervention. Slowly, we started to build our group of people who thought like us. We found Fiaz Bhai, who started this farm with the other leaders, and here we are with what we have left of our family.”
Something did not fit, Phil thought. The farm was meant for criminals to get their act together. He gazed at Farooq and was confused.
“My baba,” Bilal whispered, taking his father Farooq’s hand, “He believed in the Taliban; he still believes in them somewhat. That was the reason for the difference between the brothers. When America attacked after 9/11, my father tried to escape but was caught and spent more than 10 years in jail in another country far away. Finally, he was released and given a place here to start a new life, and slowly, we all joined him.”
Phil looked at Farooq with renewed interest. He was no different from all the people he saw around, but supposedly, he had supported the attacks.
“Can I talk to Farooq?” Phil asked, looking at Fiaz-ul-Muhabat.
Fiaz-ul-Muhabat nodded.
“Go ahead. I’ll interpret it.”
“Did he know of the attacks in America?” Phil questioned, looking at Khalid’s uncle, wanting to observe his expressions when he answered.
The uncle was silent and looked Phil in the eye. Phil did not waver, and the man shook his head. He spoke in a gruff voice, and Fiaz-ul-Muhabat translated.
“We weren’t responsible for the attacks; every person in control of those planes was Saudi. Where’s the evidence that Afghans were responsible?” Farooq answered. “There are so many elements at play in Afghanistan — Pakistan, America, Russia, and all the other proxies in the region; everyone seemed to have a hand in the destruction of my country. AlQaeda and Osama bin Laden played with us. They made us believe that foreigners caused our problems. Who knows who the real perpetrators of 9/11 were? We may never know the truth of the matter, but I tell you, we weren’t the only ones to blame!”
“This is true,” Fiaz-ul-Muhabat confirmed. “The conflict attracted numerous fighters from all over the world in the name of jihad. It’s difficult to understand the motivation for such actions that have kept the country in a state of violent turmoil.”
“Extremism and terrorism have been the most important tools used to undermine Afghan society after the Soviet withdrawal,” Bilal agreed. “It’s now so deep-rooted, it seems impossible to eradicate.”
”I believe the situation has improved since the people are tired of death and destruction,” Khalid argued. “Look at us; we’re a prime example of the new way.”
“And yet there are terrorists on your doorstep, planning murder as we speak!” Phil retorted, pointing to the house next door. It all seemed so hopeless.
Farooq became quiet before he took Phil’s hands in his own. Phil understood the gesture and nodded his acceptance of the man’s apology and friendship. Then he felt a small hand pulling at his pants, and he looked down to see the smiling face of the baby. He bent down to lift the delighted baby into his arms again.
Ismail saw six men enter the house he was watching. The screen door slammed and shut on the tip of the bee’s head. Ismail saw what happened on his phone’s monitor and cursed. He maneuvered the bee-shaped drone around the thatched mud house and tried to find an open window or any other entrance to the room. All the windows had fly screens, but Shahzad spotted a tear in one of them. The bee was sent through the opening and made its way to the ceiling, where it found a beam to sit on. Through the camera on the bee they could see what was going on in the house.
All the men were seated on cushions around the carpeted room. A young boy served them tea from a tray while another placed a plate full of dates and assorted nuts on the floor in the middle of the group.
“Has the meeting started?” Phil questioned. Shahzad nodded while Ismail concentrated on getting the best view and recording.