heavens.
CHAPTER FOUR
TALIBAN HOSPITALITY
7:15 P.M ., W EDNESDAY
I NEVER EVEN NOTICED THE DEPRESSION IN THE TRAIL. WHEN my left leg slipped into the hole, I was too tired to respond. My ankle twisted. I tripped and landed on my left knee and hand, narrowly avoiding tumbling headlong into the dirt. As tempted as I was to let myself fall so I could just lie there, I knew that wasn’t an option. Haqqani’s Kalashnikov nudged me even as I staggered to my feet.
Four hours. That’s how long we’d been hiking with almost no break at all. Fatigue, mixed with a rise in altitude and adrenaline spikes and drops from facing armed kidnappers, had begun to wear me down. Rafiq also seemed to be moving slower. I had to admire Farzad and our captors, however. They still seemed to be pushing forward with relative ease.
Passing clouds partly obscured the two-thirds-full moon. My eyes had mostly adjusted to the darkness, but my feet did not always cooperate. The fall was my second since sundown. Fortunately my ankle seemed all right. And I didn’t feel so bad about it when Hopeless also tripped and nearly sprawled on the trail a few minutes after I did.
A half hour earlier I’d spotted a single-story structure on a hill, ahead and to the left of the direction we were headed. Though I didn’t see light or movement, it immediately raised my hopes. What if people saw the six of us walking in the dark? Would they stop us and ask questions? Would the sight of guns scare them off, or would they decide to get involved?
Unfortunately, our captors led us on into the night without even a glance at the home on the hill. It was another letdown on a day overflowing with extreme emotions.
A few minutes later Rafiq’s voice broke the stillness. Though I didn’t know what he’d said in Pashto, I soon understood when our captors stopped and Rafiq sat down. Grateful for the respite, I plopped down near my friend. The three gunmen soon joined us on the ground.
This was a rare opportunity to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. Man, I need to find a way to identify with these guys. No matter how different we are, there must be a way.
Inspiration struck a moment later. I whisper to Rafiq, “Should I tell them that my kids have Pashtun blood?”
He considers this a moment; then without looking at me whispers back, “Go ahead.”
I clear my throat and begin to speak in a loud voice: “I just want you to know that I am originally from India. And as such, I am your neighbor.”
Each of the three Taliban watch me closely as I speak. I see no anger or malice in their eyes, but there is nothing encouraging there either. I keep going, as Rafiq continues translating for me.
“Historically, India has been a big-brother nation to Afghanistan. If not for the political boundaries drawn by the British close to a century ago in your land, we would all still be one nation.”
Still no response. I’m glad for the pause while Rafiq translates my words. It gives me time to decide what to say next.
“I also have the privilege of having Pashtun blood in my family,” I say. “My wife’s great, great, paternal grandmother was a Pashtun princess who married a man from India. So my children have some Pashtun blood in them as a result.
“I have come to your nation several times now with the hope of being of assistance in the rebuilding of your nation. My desire is to continue the same great relationship that our countrymen have had for a very long time.”
My speech was over. I was disappointed by the lack of response. The three Taliban made no comments and asked no questions. What had I expected? I suppose I’d hoped for something along the line of, “Sorry, we didn’t realize you are one of us. You can go now.”
Obviously that wasn’t going to happen.
Nevertheless, it felt good to have at least attempted to connect and make peace with them. I had put it out there for them to deal with. The response was now up to them.
Our hike continued, our
CHAPTER FOUR
TALIBAN HOSPITALITY
7:15 P.M ., W EDNESDAY
I NEVER EVEN NOTICED THE DEPRESSION IN THE TRAIL. WHEN my left leg slipped into the hole, I was too tired to respond. My ankle twisted. I tripped and landed on my left knee and hand, narrowly avoiding tumbling headlong into the dirt. As tempted as I was to let myself fall so I could just lie there, I knew that wasn’t an option. Haqqani’s Kalashnikov nudged me even as I staggered to my feet.
Four hours. That’s how long we’d been hiking with almost no break at all. Fatigue, mixed with a rise in altitude and adrenaline spikes and drops from facing armed kidnappers, had begun to wear me down. Rafiq also seemed to be moving slower. I had to admire Farzad and our captors, however. They still seemed to be pushing forward with relative ease.
Passing clouds partly obscured the two-thirds-full moon. My eyes had mostly adjusted to the darkness, but my feet did not always cooperate. The fall was my second since sundown. Fortunately my ankle seemed all right. And I didn’t feel so bad about it when Hopeless also tripped and nearly sprawled on the trail a few minutes after I did.
A half hour earlier I’d spotted a single-story structure on a hill, ahead and to the left of the direction we were headed. Though I didn’t see light or movement, it immediately raised my hopes. What if people saw the six of us walking in the dark? Would they stop us and ask questions? Would the sight of guns scare them off, or would they decide to get involved?
Unfortunately, our captors led us on into the night without even a glance at the home on the hill. It was another letdown on a day overflowing with extreme emotions.
A few minutes later Rafiq’s voice broke the stillness. Though I didn’t know what he’d said in Pashto, I soon understood when our captors stopped and Rafiq sat down. Grateful for the respite, I plopped down near my friend. The three gunmen soon joined us on the ground.
This was a rare opportunity to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. Man, I need to find a way to identify with these guys. No matter how different we are, there must be a way.
Inspiration struck a moment later. I whisper to Rafiq, “Should I tell them that my kids have Pashtun blood?”
He considers this a moment; then without looking at me whispers back, “Go ahead.”
I clear my throat and begin to speak in a loud voice: “I just want you to know that I am originally from India. And as such, I am your neighbor.”
Each of the three Taliban watch me closely as I speak. I see no anger or malice in their eyes, but there is nothing encouraging there either. I keep going, as Rafiq continues translating for me.
“Historically, India has been a big-brother nation to Afghanistan. If not for the political boundaries drawn by the British close to a century ago in your land, we would all still be one nation.”
Still no response. I’m glad for the pause while Rafiq translates my words. It gives me time to decide what to say next.
“I also have the privilege of having Pashtun blood in my family,” I say. “My wife’s great, great, paternal grandmother was a Pashtun princess who married a man from India. So my children have some Pashtun blood in them as a result.
“I have come to your nation several times now with the hope of being of assistance in the rebuilding of your nation. My desire is to continue the same great relationship that our countrymen have had for a very long time.”
My speech was over. I was disappointed by the lack of response. The three Taliban made no comments and asked no questions. What had I expected? I suppose I’d hoped for something along the line of, “Sorry, we didn’t realize you are one of us. You can go now.”
Obviously that wasn’t going to happen.
Nevertheless, it felt good to have at least attempted to connect and make peace with them. I had put it out there for them to deal with. The response was now up to them.
Our hike continued, our
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