Read Online The Places in Between by Rory Stewart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rory Stewart
Ads: Link
motionless in the archway and began to cry, waiting for the shot.
I paused and then stepped toward Abdul Haq. He glanced at me and I laid my hand over the rifle sight, smiled, and said, "No." The first boy ran out, grabbed his friend, and pushed him behind the door. There was a pause. I dropped my hand. Abdul Haq laughed and we walked off toward the village. I fell back. I did not want to walk alongside these men.
On the outskirts of the village they found a man squatting behind a wall, possibly hiding from them. He stood up and bowed and seized the hands of Abdul Haq and Qasim, ignoring me. Qasim went through the elaborate chain of greetings and then asked where we could stay.
"Over there."
"Lead us," barked Qasim.
"No," replied the man, turning away, "I really..."
Abdul Haq grabbed his wrist and Aziz pointed his rifle at his chest and the man said, "Of course, of course, I will come with you."
We entered the village and saw three old men sitting with their grandchildren on the platform beside the mosque. One white-bearded man advanced with a broad smile. Qasim was becoming aware of how nervous everyone was. He made his greetings particularly polite and lengthy, adding, "No need to be afraid. We just wondered whether we could find some bread, a place to sleep. We are not asking you to kill a sheep for us."
"Ah, yes," said the old man. "Yes. I'm afraid it is such a pity. We simply have nothing at all." He smiled even more broadly. "Nothing at all."
"Just a little," said Qasim, smiling back.
"I'm so sorry," said the old man. "I wish I could help."
"Right," shouted Abdul Haq. "That's it. We'll sleep in the desert. This is your Muslim hospitality ... how you treat guests ... I see it now. If we wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. Look, you idiots. You stupid, old ... idiots. Look." He pointed his rifle at them. They all stepped back and the old man stopped smiling. "Bahh," Abdul Haq roared, imitating the sound of the weapon and the recoil on his shoulder, "Bahh, Bahh..." And he walked off.
"No, no, please come back," said the old man, "stay with us."
"I would never touch your bread."
"Please," shouted the first man. "Stay with me."
"I'm never staying in this village. You are men without hospitality and without honor..."
"It's just the weapons," said the old man. "We were just a little afraid. Can't you understand? Many have been killed in this place."
Suddenly Qasim stepped in, grabbing the younger man's arm, talking calmly, restraining him, reasoning with him. Another villager offered his house and we moved toward his door. On the threshold, Abdul Haq pointed at me and shouted, "Look at this man. This man is a foreigner. Look how disgustingly you have behaved toward him."
***
Inside, we sat on the floor and put our legs under the low kursi table. There was a coal brazier beneath the kursi and over it a thick felt blanket, which we pressed down over our knees to keep the heat in. Abdul Haq took off his baseball cap, ruffled his hair, and, perhaps worried about revenge from the people he had bullied that afternoon, pulled out his hand grenades and ostentatiously screwed in the firing pins. Qasim stacked Kalashnikov magazines neatly beside him and removed two bullets he had hidden in his collar. Aziz curled up in the corner and fell asleep. Our host was silent and kept his eyes on the weapons. I was used to walking alone, observing subtle changes in the landscape and scraps of ancient history. Villagers usually took me into their houses willingly. I did not feel I understood these sudden happenings or such people.
On the wall a Technicolor poster depicted the Prophet Muhammad's cousin and son-in-law, Ali, who died in the seventh century. The poster made Ali look like a Hollywood sheikh with sparkling pale eyes. This part of Afghanistan had been conquered by the Arabs while Ali was still alive. But it took Islam another four hundred years to spread a week's walk east to Ghor. This was a Sunni area and the poster
I paused and then stepped toward Abdul Haq. He glanced at me and I laid my hand over the rifle sight, smiled, and said, "No." The first boy ran out, grabbed his friend, and pushed him behind the door. There was a pause. I dropped my hand. Abdul Haq laughed and we walked off toward the village. I fell back. I did not want to walk alongside these men.
On the outskirts of the village they found a man squatting behind a wall, possibly hiding from them. He stood up and bowed and seized the hands of Abdul Haq and Qasim, ignoring me. Qasim went through the elaborate chain of greetings and then asked where we could stay.
"Over there."
"Lead us," barked Qasim.
"No," replied the man, turning away, "I really..."
Abdul Haq grabbed his wrist and Aziz pointed his rifle at his chest and the man said, "Of course, of course, I will come with you."
We entered the village and saw three old men sitting with their grandchildren on the platform beside the mosque. One white-bearded man advanced with a broad smile. Qasim was becoming aware of how nervous everyone was. He made his greetings particularly polite and lengthy, adding, "No need to be afraid. We just wondered whether we could find some bread, a place to sleep. We are not asking you to kill a sheep for us."
"Ah, yes," said the old man. "Yes. I'm afraid it is such a pity. We simply have nothing at all." He smiled even more broadly. "Nothing at all."
"Just a little," said Qasim, smiling back.
"I'm so sorry," said the old man. "I wish I could help."
"Right," shouted Abdul Haq. "That's it. We'll sleep in the desert. This is your Muslim hospitality ... how you treat guests ... I see it now. If we wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. Look, you idiots. You stupid, old ... idiots. Look." He pointed his rifle at them. They all stepped back and the old man stopped smiling. "Bahh," Abdul Haq roared, imitating the sound of the weapon and the recoil on his shoulder, "Bahh, Bahh..." And he walked off.
"No, no, please come back," said the old man, "stay with us."
"I would never touch your bread."
"Please," shouted the first man. "Stay with me."
"I'm never staying in this village. You are men without hospitality and without honor..."
"It's just the weapons," said the old man. "We were just a little afraid. Can't you understand? Many have been killed in this place."
Suddenly Qasim stepped in, grabbing the younger man's arm, talking calmly, restraining him, reasoning with him. Another villager offered his house and we moved toward his door. On the threshold, Abdul Haq pointed at me and shouted, "Look at this man. This man is a foreigner. Look how disgustingly you have behaved toward him."
***
Inside, we sat on the floor and put our legs under the low kursi table. There was a coal brazier beneath the kursi and over it a thick felt blanket, which we pressed down over our knees to keep the heat in. Abdul Haq took off his baseball cap, ruffled his hair, and, perhaps worried about revenge from the people he had bullied that afternoon, pulled out his hand grenades and ostentatiously screwed in the firing pins. Qasim stacked Kalashnikov magazines neatly beside him and removed two bullets he had hidden in his collar. Aziz curled up in the corner and fell asleep. Our host was silent and kept his eyes on the weapons. I was used to walking alone, observing subtle changes in the landscape and scraps of ancient history. Villagers usually took me into their houses willingly. I did not feel I understood these sudden happenings or such people.
On the wall a Technicolor poster depicted the Prophet Muhammad's cousin and son-in-law, Ali, who died in the seventh century. The poster made Ali look like a Hollywood sheikh with sparkling pale eyes. This part of Afghanistan had been conquered by the Arabs while Ali was still alive. But it took Islam another four hundred years to spread a week's walk east to Ghor. This was a Sunni area and the poster
Similar Books
