Giaz's story. March 2004.

Sounds of crickets overhead in the trees. A growing chill through my fingers, and a familiar pounding in my gut. For the hundredth time, I tell myself I should’ve pissed before I left base camp. No way was I going to now- Some bastard of an angrazi comes up behind you and all you have in your hands is your... yes, well. I wasn’t taking any chances. That’s how you died early. Go the old way; keep your head down, and your rifle cocked. A bead of sweat swam down my face, just like it did that first day I saw a real killing. That day...Faizal had shot an Indian jawan, and stood there, watching and smiling as the man died. He lovingly polished his gun that night, while I sat and stared into the canvas wall of the tent, smelling the man's blood in my nostrils.

There's something about watching a man being shot down...he just falls. That’s all. Like an old tree when you cut it down. Rustling in front of me- Faizal getting restless again, because he hates waiting. But we must wait, and watch. It’s what standing on lookout is all about. Crouching, anyway. Among the undergrowth, in the bushes, while insects crawl into every pore of your body, and your own sweat freezes you into a waiting statue, nothing living but your eyes, and that trigger, glowing red hot as the hours go by. Crouching, on the side of this hill, overlooking the American camp.

The insects didn’t bother them so much. The Americans lived in tents with electrical lighting. We crawled in darkness, on our bellies, squatting in mud. The lights flickered below- warm. Comforting. Even their sentry guards were at ease: they had nothing to worry about... no afghan villager or trained mujahadeen would dare try anything at this time of night, at a time of ceasefire. It would mean the deaths of villages full of people. Not innocent civilians. Who the hell is innocent these days? You steal a chicken, look at another man's wife, get drunk. Why not? It is after all, a life to live. No, not innocent. But people anyway, even if some of their actions did cause such animals as Faizal to be born. You must realize of course- Faizal and I are brothers, united through blood, religion and the Cause. But he is an animal. A beautiful animal, constantly moving, constantly desiring life, and death. He lives to die, gloriously, and would- if he could- recount the tale of his death to the rest of us with as much zest as when he told us about his escapades in the highway brothels.

The camp lights flickering below, and a growing pain in my left calf. Shifting my weight again, I stare at those lights, massaging my calf. If Naseeban was with me, she would have rushed to do it herself, chiding me for preventing the execution of her wifely duties. Those lights remind me of the night of our wedding...or maybe it's because I’m so tired... yes, our wedding night. The same warm glare from the lights...the same chill in my hands. I hadn’t seen Naseeban, though of course her father had said she was beautiful. Of course he had. But she was, as I found out. That first night was terrible. She kept looking at me with an adoring gaze...apparently the fact that I was a hizbul mujahadeen made her think that I was filled with some strange power... and the very thought that such a thing- the power of inflicting death- could be worshipped this way terrified me. As you can guess, it didn’t leave me in a mood for anything other than a cup of tea. Naseeban thought it was her fault. Of course she did. She sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at me out of mournful eyes. I stared back for a while, then- I was tired even at that time- fell back on the bed, and tried to get some rest. But those eyes... finally, she got up and went over to my gear. This made me turn and look at her- She was still a child, and I didn’t want her howling in pain after having hurt herself by mistake. She found my knife... a sudden movement by the guard catches my attention. But it’s nothing, and I let my breath go noiselessly: the white man is only relieving himself in some bushes a little to the right after the clearing. I knew I should've pissed before I left base camp.


I slide the blade back into its sheath. It moves noiselessly, well greased as always... She had eased it loose just as easily that night. With a strange reverence she had felt the edge of the blade, letting the full flesh of her finger rest against its tip. I opened my mouth to warn her, but she stopped me with a tiny smile. She told me she liked my knife very much indeed. I told her- almost out of relief, to find conversation possible- that it had been my grandfather's. Again came that look of reverence. Slowly, she moved the cold steel over the soft skin of her inner forearm. Slowly. Then up, at her throat, while she traced the edges of her jaw with the flat length of the blade... then lower, over her chest, stopping just where the neck of her salwar began. I was mesmerized, my eyes never moving from her. Coming towards me, she knelt down on the mattress, smiling that same smile. One swift motion, and the salwar was gone, leaving nothing but- Naseeban. Still holding my knife, she now moved the blade lower...I could feel her breath catch as the cold steel touched her warm flesh...moving lower as she closed her eyes, opened her mouth and sighed. Well, it was all I needed. Allah, she was so beautiful. An animal…like Faizal. Beautiful- of course. But maybe it was because she was so young. That knife re-appeared on many occasions between us... she would always tease me, and I happily over-powered her. But then she grew older, surer of herself. Then that knife became a symbol to her, a symbol to be worshipped.... like she once worshipped me. That knife...easing it loose, i hold it naked in my hand, holding it flat against my forehead. Its coolness always made it easier to think. Looking up, I see the stars have moved silently…a memory…they had moved this way that evening my father had given the knife to me, on my 11th birthday. It was the day he said I had become a man. A man, who would fight for the cause of jehad, who would sternly live by the word given to me by my father and his father, and his before him. That knife stood for everything I was taught to believe in, my very manhood. Of course it had power. And Naseeban had felt it.


But at some time, I had come to hate it, and her. The exultant feeling she would get holding it. The way it had to be cleaned after every killing. I’m a man, but I'm not Faizal. I never had stories to tell at night by the fire, of strange women and what I did to them. But Naseeban dared my manhood... I remember that one night. She was playing with the knife again, and refusing to come to bed. I had caught her in my arms, and had thrown her down. I was ruthless- I wanted to destroy her. To show her who was master. But she had gasped, laughed and had given me as much as she got. After it was over, she had smiled... as for me, my hands grew cold, and there was a sick feeling in my gut. Naseeban and that knife, they both wanted to make an animal out of me.


I just want sleep, and an end to all of this needless thinking.
Another sudden movement, this time from Faizal. Turning around, he smiles at me, and then mouths terrible words: he needs to make his killing now, because he's bored of waiting. Bored, he says. The next few seconds flashed by. Before I could stop him, Faizal crawled closer to the sentries, to get them within his range. One shot, two shots. A horrible cry, from the American. Another shot, and Urdu curses. Faizal was down.
He's as good as dead.

Another shot, and I’m running. Faizal is dead...Faizal is dead... I run for about 20 minutes, noiselessly, the way we had done for years. Running, always or crawling. Till I reached the hole in the side of the mountain where Faizal and I often hid our supplies. Crawling in, my hands tremble.... crawling, always crawling- why? I just fit inside the hole, which tunnels into the side of the mountain. The Americans didn’t know about it. I think it’s because they cannot understand that men will crawl and hide shivering in holes in the earth to keep their lives. But I cannot blame them- When did they ever have to hide? I can’t light a match- the little air that is in the hole will be gone then. I move forward on my knees and elbows. They can’t see me, but I can hear them. Footsteps running past, commands given. Angry voices. And finally, the silence. Dark Silence.

I need air. I need air.

Crawling back out, gasping for breath. I lie flat, my face in the good earth, hearing the birds. Dawn was breaking, again.... those birds. Faizal’s birds. Faizal loved birds. The last summer we spent training back in our camp, I remember him lying on his back under a tree and watching them, with a smile on his face. It was the only time I saw him still. He was still now too...lying somewhere like me, in the mud. Except I’m breathing. Salt running down to my mouth, and I taste it. I’m so hungry and so tired. I’m crying for Faizal. Mourning the death of a beautiful animal. I sit up, rubbing my eyes with my sleeve. Why in hell wasn’t I dead with him? Fear. I was scared. I ran away, and let him die alone. A bird fluttered above my head in the trees. I’m trained to die. I am Giaz, a hizbul mujahadeen, and the son of fighters. But I ran away...

Giaz sat there, like a five year old playing in the mud, his head lifted as he watched the treetops sway gently in the dawn light. But his eyes were blank. His rifle fell to his side. But he still held his knife, grasping the hilt hard in his clammy hands. Suddenly he stared down at his blade. He had run. It was excusable: he had had no sleep or food for days. Men act strangely when they are miserable. But he could still fix it. There were still Americans to kill. And he could die in honor.

I breathe easier now. Lifting my head I take a deep breath. There were still Americans to kill....

why kill? Who wins in the end? Not you, anyway.

Damn that voice, those words. I try not to listen. But it’s no use. That voice is mine; I know it. Faizal, wait for me....

Giaz walked quickly, yet noiselessly through the undergrowth, till he came back to the lookout point. A new guard was armed and standing watch. Young Americans. Boys with guns.

But we aren’t much different, the voice said. And we started earlier.

Giaz watched them for a few moments. They were both nervous. But one guard whispered to the other, and they both laughed. It was just a moment, and then they went back to being silent. Watchful. But for Giaz it was enough. They can still laugh. For the second time in two hours, Giaz walked away from what he had been trained for his whole life.

They had laughed. I cant remember the last time I laughed. Laughed like that, out of pure enjoyment. I walk on back to the hiding place and sit down, sighing. Those boys can go home from this. Can walk on, not to run away or hide, but to actually leave this entire killing behind them. I can’t kill them. I cant...I cant? Then Giaz must die. Killing is all I know. But I cant live like this. Change then.

I can’t change. I was born a jehadi; I'll die a jehadi. Giaz thought of what his appearance must be like, and smirked. I’d be known anywhere. To change would be to give up all of this. I can picture my father's face, watching me cutting off my beard with this knife- his knife. It almost makes me laugh. I can’t give up what I am. It would mean leaving tradition, beliefs. And I can’t bend that much, I'll break. Would you?
Yes, I-
No. No, I wouldn’t.

Giaz thought fast, his blood pounding in his ears. He knew he couldn’t stand here forever. His own people would think he had deserted if they found him- it wasn’t uncommon. And they would kill him. The Americans would find him soon here. And they would kill him. To leave, to truly walk away...The sun was up by now, illumining the whole hillside, blinding Giaz with its light. Change, now.
It happened like clockwork, in a few minutes. Giaz shaved off his beard with his razor sharp knife. He cropped his hair, and wrapped himself in an old blanket he carried. He looked like any other starving native of these parts.

I feel lighter now. All that’s left to do now is walk away.

Throwing his clothes off the side of the hill, Giaz staggered off, towards the Indian border town of Pohra. They would let him in, thinking he was just another poor, mad Kashmiri. Mad- why not? Why not. Just let go.

Walking, feet moving, tiny pricks of pain from thorns in the soles of my feet, and the cold air freezes the trickle of blood from a nick between jaw and throat. Keep walking. Just a little way, just a little more…


At three in the afternoon, later that day, a man was seen staggering into Pohra. He collapsed near the water pump. The Jawans tried questioning him, but from his silence, they concluded that he was just another shell-shocked civilian who had evidently lost his mind. “Leave him. He’s gone. We'll tell the hospital about him". Giaz, or what was Giaz closed his eyes, hearing the footsteps go by. I’m gone. Slowly he got to his feet. A sob shook in his throat. I am gone. And for the first time in many years, Giaz threw back his head and laughed, tears streaming from his eyes, as the women at the pump hurried away, water slish-sloshing from their pots.
A year later, a thin, middle-aged man sat under a tree, wrapped in a soiled yellow robe, his shaven head thrown back, as he listened to the birds in the branches above him. He spent his days now sitting quietly in the shade. When he spoke, it was about the uselessness of killing and of wanting death. The people -whoever thought of him at all- thought he was a wandering Buddhist monk. He was poor enough. They called him bhaba.
For the fifth time today- he was counting now - he smiled up at the tree, at the birds, at heaven. He had stopped thinking about Naseeban a while ago. She was happier this way, the widow of martyred jehadi. She could find another knife. It didn’t matter to him anymore. Some nights, he wondered if she was all right. But it passed. You cannot always be thinking of someone else. Faizal was gone, and so was Naseeban. He lived now; an old tree struck by lightening doomed to die, but still standing. Scarred and empty, lodged by its roots in the earth, in an unconscious tenacious grip. Sometimes, he tried speaking of peace. When he did, it was quietly and slowly, thinking of every word he said. Weighing it to see if it was true. Peace was not an easy concept. It was easy for the white-robed man in the prayer house to say the word often, looking up at the statue behind him.
The man in the yellow cloth shivered at the thought. That statue- a crying man nailed to two wooden sticks, bleeding. It was horrible. He remembered how the first time he had seen it; he had run outside, and curled up under this same tree, sobbing in fear and pity and sadness.

Peace cannot be bought through blood- anyone’s blood.
Those people think I'm a holy man. I’m not holy. The birds know, though...all I did was to throw away that knife.

Lying down flat on the ground, the man smiled once more, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he did so. Six. The wind blew over him, carrying dust and whispering in the dancing leaves above, as the sun set, an orange globe sinking behind the shoulder of the hill. Stars shone, as the mans eyes shut in sleep, as he murmured, the words lost in the bustling leaves- "Goodbye Giaz...” The wind blew out over the hill, and darkness fell.