Date: Wed, 7 Aug 2013 20:22:53 -0700 From: Amar Patel Subject: An American in Kandahar (Chapter Two) Written by: Amar Patel Disclaimer: The following story is fictional. The author (myself) is older than 21, anyone who is under the legal age (according to their country, state, or provincial laws) to view erotic material should immediately dissuade themselves from reading further.The story is fictional and similarities to events and persons (living or dead) are purely coincidental and unintentional. If you are offended by homosexual erotica or it is illegal for you to read such material. Please read no further. Copyright: The story may not be copied, distributed, in any way, shape or form without consent from the author. Opinions and Improvements can be sent to my email: patelamar360@gmail.com or on twitter (PatelAmarNifty) If you wish to continue to read mine and other authors works, it is important you donate to Nifty. They have provided a rich amount of stories for your enjoyment so it is only fair you give back ;). Comments are always welcomed. And encouragement. _____________________________ Message to Readers: Thank you for the positive feedback (mostly positive that is), I had a rather fiery response from a gentleman. Your emails and comments bring aspiration. If you have any questions for me or Rahat, please feel free to email those as well. Besos, Amar _________________________ Chapter Two The next two years had some of my most cherished memories, yet these memories preluded the horror I faced for years. Baba and Maman's deaths had instilled a newfound passion, and that was the desire to save lives. I devoted countless hours at the clinic, learning under the tutelage of doctors. Sohrab called it an obsession, he would often find me studying when he awoke to prepare a morning meal. He had become like a second father to me, giving me the affection that was lost. I loved Sohrab for that, and the regret would make me cringe at ever wanting his death. Some of the neighbors disapproved of it, they maintained the staunch racial divisions that plague Afghanistan to this day. To them Hazaras were below Maman's ethnic group and should be treated as such. I sometimes reflect on that, how they contradicted themselves. My father was an Iranian, a people looked down upon because of their branch of Islam. While most Afghans were Sunni, the Iranians and Hazaras were Shi'a. Those same neighbors who mocked Sohrab and Khaled's appearances and faith, were the same people who were amongst the mourners at my father's funeral. I admired how much Khaled had grown in such a short time, his once slender body became toned from labor. His physique resembled a professional soccer player's, clearing debris was turning him heruclean. He remained courteous and benevolent, always turning his cheek from some of the neighbors taunts. At fifteen, he possessed the humility of a holy man. I worked long hours, from dawn to late afternoons tending to minor injuries. It was never expected of Khaled to provide me a meal, but he would always find the time to do so. He would greet meet at the front gate, that smile of his forever present. There would be the intoxicating scent of a fresh meal that flirted with my nostrils. I walked home as usual; however, there was a sense of dread in the air that day. Neighbors stood in close knit circles whispering in hushed tones, the same word being repeated over and over. Taliban this and Taliban that, their tones were fearful. The Taliban were a small group that was quickly growing, they were students in the literal translation of the word. Educated in conservative Islamic schools that borderlined on extremism, they sought to topple the government. Their rate of expansion was lightning fast, and militants from other nations had joined their cause. I was unware of the threat they posed, my childish innocence made me ignorant. Khaled did not greet me at the gate like he usually did, this time it was Sohrab. He was grim faced, and his feet shifted in nervousness. As I approached, he came to meet me in a brisk pace. "Jahan-jan, there is little time to explain. Come with me." Sohrab took my hand. "Where?' I had an ominous feeling. "I will explain later." I trusted him so I followed, the sun had set. I followed him and struggled to keep up with his pace, I had never seen Sohrab walk so quickly. He looked back every so often, his eyes had a sense of urgency about them. At last we came to a halt and I caught my breath, we had travelled quite a distance and were near an abandoned part of the district. It was long since left by its inhabitants, they fled the soviets who shelled that particular area frequently. As I looked about I could see why, buildings sat dilapidated and crumbling, roofs had collapsed from shelling and rocket fire. In front of me stood remnants of housing and what appeared to be a clinic, Sohrab waved his hands to follow once again. He ducked behind a collapsed structure ,and I followed with hesitation. I gasped as two fallen minarets laid forgotten upon the ground, Sohrab had taken me to an abandoned mosque. It was hidden behind the clinic, and was moderate in space but small in comparison to other mosques I seen. There were lights on in the mosque which was odd, but Sohrab stood at the entrance. He removed the bottom boards and pushed the door inward, I had to get on my hands and knees to get inside. The inner structure of the mosque was unscathed, there were many suitcases strewn near the entrance. I gazed about in awe and realized the suitcases were full of things from the house. Sohrab shut the doors behind him as silently as possible. He made a gesture for me to sit, I was filled with questions and he sat with the answers. "As you can see Jahan-jan, I have moved many things here. There was a warning that the taliban are coming, this for your safety and Khaled's. This mosque will serve as your home, though it will take time getting used to. There is a hammam, several bedrooms, a library, and a kitchen. It is hidden and I doubt the Taliban would go to an abandoned area." Sohrab smiled faintly. "Where is Khaled?" I had not seen him anywhere. "He is preparing the rooms. I know this is sudden but I promised your father to keep you safe." "You did this Kaka Sohrab?" I gestured towards the bags. "No, I had help from neighbors. There are many people who were friends with your parents. Go get settled, I am sure you will find the place to your liking." Sohrab was right of course, the mosque had both traditional and contemporary aspects. The main entrance was domed shaped with a circular room, and three pathways led to a different part of the mosque. From where I stood, the hall at the front led to the prayer hall. Both the right and left had absolution facilities; however, while the left had a kitchen, the right had a vast library. Each hallway had a staircase that led to a second floor underground. I was amazed and my excitement grew. The down stairs floor was contemporary rather than traditional, there were several living quarters along with a functioning hammam (or turkish bath). Khaled was unpacking in what appeared to be my room, he was more joyed than I was. Kandahar fell to the Taliban sometime after we settled, it was proclaimed their capital. Sohrab feared for Khaled's and my safety, and he would make supply runs alone whenever needed. He saw that I needed a teacher to continue my study of medicine, and he found a doctor from the clinic who was willing to make the trip. We explored the abandoned clinic, and there was much needed equipment and usable items inside. The doctor and I converted an unused room into a makeshift treatment center, there he tutored me until I could learn no more. He warned that if I needed supplies , I would have to send Sohrab to fetch them for me. Sohrab was of course willing to make the trip, but we were unaware that his death would come sooner than we thought. He had gone to fetch supplies as usual, but this time he was accused of stealing. A former neighbor had spotted him carrying bandages and other items, and had reported Sohrab to the Taliban. Being Hazara, his words fell on deaf ears, and the Taliban believed the Pashtun man. Sohrab was shot to death in the name of justice, but for me they shot him for the sheer hell of it. Talibs see the word of a Pashtun as viable; I was somewhat gleeful when the man was found dead in his home. Khaled was devastated, I remember how he wailed for weeks on end. His smile disappeared for nearly two years, but when it returned there was nothing to smile about. In 1996, Kabul capitulated to the Pakistani backed Taliban. What remained of my country was a region dominated by the Northern Alliance, a group who waged defensive war against the Talibs. I watched my country change into the embodiment of hell, where everyone was in the sight of cross hairs. People fled once again in mass exodus to the North East, Khaled and I stayed for we couldn't nor wouldn't defy Sohrab's orders. The Talibs passed laws that prohibited a clean shaven face, and the duty of supplies fell upon me. Not only being Hazara, Khaled was unable to grow any facial hair whatsoever. I couldn't risk losing him, and so I made the perilous journey each week. I walked the streets and felt nothing but fear, the ever watching eye of the Talibs scanned the streets. There was nothing but suffering from this fundamentalist doctrine, no specific ethnic group was spared. The Hazaras were once again targeted and further marginalized from society. It was sickening what the Talibs did to their fellow countrymen... In a matter of two years, Taliban agents managed to systematically starve nearly 200,000 people. Aid workers were either killed or denied access to the forcibly starved people of Hazarajat. Uzbeks, Tajiks, and Hazaras were killed without discretion. To be a woman during those years was unfortunate, your situation was hopeless and subjected to violence. Taliban laws required the body to be covered from head to toe, and a male escort at any given time. A woman's voice had to be at a certain volume, any louder and she would be beaten. Windows and doors were covered in thick fabric, for a woman shouldn't be seen from the outside. I was the doctor that women went to in secret, they bore the wounds of abuse from husbands and relatives. One particular woman haunted me for sometime, she had ran from her abusive husband and was caught. They made a jagged line from lip to hairline, then proceeded to beat her severely. She recovered , but like many others before there was now a permanent reminder of Taliban reign. Though appalling that women were treated this way, there was a greater sin commited. Children were deprived of vaccinations on the basis that vaccines were used for espionage, as a third world nation we had rampant cases of polio. I had no choice but to watch some children become crippled for life, for there was only enough to vaccinate a couple hundred. I never forgave myself, it was my duty to save the women and children. Khaled kept my hope alive, and to this day I rely on his strength to propel myself forward. _______________ The Present, Progress of the war has been slow, it has become the norm to accept that conflict shall never cease. Walking through the bazaar today, I see things that were lost under the Taliban returning. Pirated Hindi films are being sold, and people are coming out more often. Scars from the Taliban regime remained, women still went out in burqa for they feared their lives. Injustice against them persists throughout the country, there are still reports of abuse and honor killings. Poverty is common and I am sad to see even the youngest of children working, their education abandoned for income. Poverty has also brought back a practice long considered taboo by the Taliban, Bacha Bazi or "Boy Play". Rich and powerful men now have the courage to walk through the market with boys in hand, their faces innocent and naive. Poor parents sell their sons for sexual service and dancing for entertainment, the son becomes binded for years to come. American soldiers have beared witness to this, their eyes wide in shock as a man bends down to kiss a boy's lips. Some Bacha Bazi boys have even gone to the length of fondling these soldiers. Homosexual Acts are what the Americans call it, but the word homosexual is like poison to this society. The men strictly deny it, their reasoning is that the boy is taking on a feminine role. Perhaps this is why we are called backwater. The mosque has been my home for two decades now, and it serves as a clinic as well. I am hoping that the Americans will arrive soon, my supplies are running dangerously low. We were in neutral territory, both the Taliban and Americans want claim to the area. In recent days, I've seen quite a few helicopters roaming over the district. As I approached the house, the smell of freshly baked naan filled the air. I ran my hand affectionately over Sohrab's grave, and found what he had left behind. Khaled was folding laundry, tanned slightly from being outdoors often. He had grown into a fine specimen of a man, features more defined and smile brighter. Women would ask me secretly if he was a convert, for there were rumors of Korean soldiers converting to Islam. I am still amused when I tell them that he is Hazara, his mother being a Korean long settled in this part of the world. They loose some interest, but cannot help looking at his toned body from afar. It was one of those pleasures that keep some hope alive. I did my usual greeting of waving my hand in his face, a smile came as he looked up. He folded a sheet and placed it in a basket. "I've prepared your favorites Jahan-jan." He still acted younger and obdient. "Thank you Khaled, come on inside it is getting hot." I lifted the basket much to his protests. There was quite a bit of food on the table, and the house was very clean. Khaled poured me a cup of tea, and he added a drop of honey to my liking. He knew me well, and treated me with respect and compassion. He could have left at anytime but remained here with me, I never quite understood that. I noticed he was not eating, and I quickly knew what he was doing. "Khaled have you eaten?" He nodded "Yes." Such a terrible liar, he always waited for me to eat first. "Kaka Sohrab wouldn't want you to starve himself." That was the response I always gave. Khaled laughed and took a bowl "I will eat then Jahan-jan." I was half-way through my meal when Khaled took out a basket of sweets "Ms. Khan stopped by today, she asked me to give you these for payment." "I saw an American helicopter earlier, they are still keeping distance." Khaled said matter of factly. "They will come soon then." I was somewhat relieved. "Ms.Khan is being taken to prison..." I was shocked "For what?" "She broke her curfew and ran away, and she left those sweets as a good bye." "How long is her sentence?" "15 years." He responded sadly Islamic law once again turns its back on the woman, to me it is just close-minded conservatism rather than our faith. I am devout but not to the extent where I blame a woman who flees from abuse, but the society I live in does not permit me to speak out. Anything is criminal these days... sex, loving another person, even back talking to your father. My attitude towards the future is negative, for our conservatism conflicts with progress. Khaled saw my expression and passed me a naan, his eyes were soft and understanding. "There is nothing we can do Jahan-jan." Khaled patted my clenched hand. "I will be in the Hammam, thank you for the meal." I grinned and decided to retire for the day. As I turned on the bath water, I couldn't help but ponder our ways. Why we resented Americans and freedom, is it because we seek to limit women or afraid freedom can spur a divergence from faith? My thoughts were interrupted as the faint sound of a vehicle came. ____________________________ End of Chapter II Hope you guys enjoyed it, and a big thanks again to Rahat for his input.