The Honey Thief by Najaf Mazari, Robert Hillman Page B
Authors: Najaf Mazari, Robert Hillman
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not forced to their knees to be executed were forced to their knees by the poverty and starvation that followed the reprisals. By the onset of the winter of 1892, Hazarajat was a land of mourning and despair.
And yet, early the following year, when the snows had begun to thaw, the Hazara rose again. People reduced to such misery as the Hazara have nothing to lose; death itself is preferred to humiliation. In this third rebellion, the Hazara surprised Abdur Rahman’s soldiers. It was thought impossible for these defeated people to find the will to risk even further reprisals. However, in the battles that followed, the Hazara reclaimed the whole of their homeland, only to fall victim to starvation. For years, almost no provision could be made for the winter; men who would normally till the fields and guard the sheep and goats in the pastures were fighting for their survival. Weakened to the point of collapse after their victory, the Hazara were easily overrun in the counter-attacks of Abdur Rahman’s army. Ultimately victorious, though shocked at the fierce resistance of the Hazara, Abdur Rahman ordered more mass executions, more public torture. But he went further, and caused the greater part of the Hazarajat population to be forced from their homeland and resettled in stony places far away. At this time, many thousands of Hazara fled to Iran, to India, to Uzbekistan, or to the far north of Afghanistan where the soldiers of the Emir were fewer.
* * *
Abdur Rahman, by God’s grace, did not live forever. In 1901, his son Habibullah succeeded him on the throne. I have said that Habibullah was not the worst of the Barakzai family, and that is true. He attempted to make peace with those Hazara who remained in Afghanistan. It was his desire to be remembered as the man who built the modern nation of Afghanistan, not as a formidable warrior like his father. He granted an amnesty to any Hazara who might wish to return from his land of exile. And a number did return, perhaps with dread still in their hearts. But the legacy of the years of murder was a solemn determination of the Hazara to one day live in freedom.
In Afghanistan, memories are not made of air and light and colour; memories are made of iron and stone. A wrong committed by one man against another will stand like a statue in the wronged man’s mind forever. Forgiveness is not a common virtue in my native land, no matter which tribe’s blood pulses through your heart. One man may consider an insult endured by his ancestors five hundred years ago to be as fresh as a callous word spoken yesterday. The Hazara who had remained in Afghanistan and those who returned could not forget how many of their friends, how many family members had been murdered by Abdur Rahman. It was not possible. If I am a child and I put my hand in the fire, the burning and the pain will stay in my mind forever. Hazara children grew up in fear of Abdur Rahman’s soldiers. Abdur Rahman was the fire that they could not forget. The son of Abdur Rahman said, ‘Return! All is forgiven!’ but for the Hazara, forgiveness was something that only the Hazara could grant, if they wished. To be forgiven by the son of the man who had made towers of the heads of our people? No.
* * *
The great massacres became part of who we are – we, the Hazara. I say ‘part of who we are’ rather than ‘part of our history’ because history is a thing apart; something that you can study, if you wish, and write books about. The massacres are not ‘history’ in that sense; they have a place in our minds and our hearts from which they can’t be torn. But don’t imagine that it is something we wish to have living inside us. No, it is a burden. It is like the burden of the Jews. They cannot stop being Jews – they are Jews every second of their lives, and being a Jew means carrying a burden of grief, because the Jews too had an Abdur Rahman in their past.
The reign of Habibullah the son of Abdur
And yet, early the following year, when the snows had begun to thaw, the Hazara rose again. People reduced to such misery as the Hazara have nothing to lose; death itself is preferred to humiliation. In this third rebellion, the Hazara surprised Abdur Rahman’s soldiers. It was thought impossible for these defeated people to find the will to risk even further reprisals. However, in the battles that followed, the Hazara reclaimed the whole of their homeland, only to fall victim to starvation. For years, almost no provision could be made for the winter; men who would normally till the fields and guard the sheep and goats in the pastures were fighting for their survival. Weakened to the point of collapse after their victory, the Hazara were easily overrun in the counter-attacks of Abdur Rahman’s army. Ultimately victorious, though shocked at the fierce resistance of the Hazara, Abdur Rahman ordered more mass executions, more public torture. But he went further, and caused the greater part of the Hazarajat population to be forced from their homeland and resettled in stony places far away. At this time, many thousands of Hazara fled to Iran, to India, to Uzbekistan, or to the far north of Afghanistan where the soldiers of the Emir were fewer.
* * *
Abdur Rahman, by God’s grace, did not live forever. In 1901, his son Habibullah succeeded him on the throne. I have said that Habibullah was not the worst of the Barakzai family, and that is true. He attempted to make peace with those Hazara who remained in Afghanistan. It was his desire to be remembered as the man who built the modern nation of Afghanistan, not as a formidable warrior like his father. He granted an amnesty to any Hazara who might wish to return from his land of exile. And a number did return, perhaps with dread still in their hearts. But the legacy of the years of murder was a solemn determination of the Hazara to one day live in freedom.
In Afghanistan, memories are not made of air and light and colour; memories are made of iron and stone. A wrong committed by one man against another will stand like a statue in the wronged man’s mind forever. Forgiveness is not a common virtue in my native land, no matter which tribe’s blood pulses through your heart. One man may consider an insult endured by his ancestors five hundred years ago to be as fresh as a callous word spoken yesterday. The Hazara who had remained in Afghanistan and those who returned could not forget how many of their friends, how many family members had been murdered by Abdur Rahman. It was not possible. If I am a child and I put my hand in the fire, the burning and the pain will stay in my mind forever. Hazara children grew up in fear of Abdur Rahman’s soldiers. Abdur Rahman was the fire that they could not forget. The son of Abdur Rahman said, ‘Return! All is forgiven!’ but for the Hazara, forgiveness was something that only the Hazara could grant, if they wished. To be forgiven by the son of the man who had made towers of the heads of our people? No.
* * *
The great massacres became part of who we are – we, the Hazara. I say ‘part of who we are’ rather than ‘part of our history’ because history is a thing apart; something that you can study, if you wish, and write books about. The massacres are not ‘history’ in that sense; they have a place in our minds and our hearts from which they can’t be torn. But don’t imagine that it is something we wish to have living inside us. No, it is a burden. It is like the burden of the Jews. They cannot stop being Jews – they are Jews every second of their lives, and being a Jew means carrying a burden of grief, because the Jews too had an Abdur Rahman in their past.
The reign of Habibullah the son of Abdur
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