When Elephants Fight (8 page)

Islam:
It is the second largest religion in the world with 1.4 billion adherents. It follows the teaching of the Qur'an, which was established by the Prophet Muhammad in the seventh century. It has two main subgroups, the Sunni and Shi'a sects. It is practiced throughout the world but centers in the Middle East.

Christianity:
It is the largest religion in the world with 1.8 billion members. It is divided into three primary groups: the Roman Catholic Church, the Protestant movement and Orthodox Catholicism. All follow the teachings of the Bible and believe that Jesus Christ is the Savior, and his teachings in the New Testament form the basis of religious salvation and personal life.

Islam and Christianity, while in conflict in many areas around the world, share many common historical roots.

Farooq climbed the stairs, shielding his eyes as he stepped out into the sunshine of the courtyard. It was so bright compared to the dim faint light of the basement. He stepped out and took a deep breath of air. It was clean and cool. Despite the clear brilliant sunlight with no clouds in the blue sky, it was still winter, and Kabul had cold winters. He was bundled up against the weather, but he still felt the chill against his face.

He looked up at their house. It was spacious and friendly—and now unoccupied. They could go inside during the day to retrieve things—if there was no sound of shelling—but they had abandoned their home and taken refuge in the smaller building. It was the only building with a basement and it sat inside the courtyard of their home so it was more protected.

Being protected was important. All around the neighborhood—all around the entire city of Kabul—houses had been hit by rockets and cannons and tank shells and stray bullets. The capital of Afghanistan, Kabul was a bustling place of businesses, factories, markets and mosques and was home to over a million people. Now, all across the city, people were being killed and homes were being destroyed as rival mujahideen groups fought to gain control.

Of course, Farooq, who was five, didn't know about this conflict. He just knew that things were different for his family and in his neighborhood. His father, a successful businessman, mostly stayed home. Farooq didn't go to school. They slept in a basement, cooked in the garage and didn't venture out of their neighborhood. Even then, the war had come to them.

Just down the street was a small bakery. His mother would prepare dough for bread, and one of Farooq's jobs was to take the dough down the street to be baked. He was proud to be of help to his family, and since
everybody in the neighborhood knew each other there was no danger in him being out alone even at his age.

Afghan children walk past the war-damaged Darlaman Palace in Kabul. Sixty-three thousand homes and more than 60% of the streets were damaged in over two decades of conflict
.

There was always somebody out walking or sweeping, adults gathering together to talk or looking out windows. There were always friendly eyes watching out for all the children. Afghanis are famed not just for their hospitality but for their love and caring for children.

As Farooq walked back from the bakery that day, carrying the bread, he briefly stopped by the park on his street. Today there were no children playing. The big rock in the center was empty. He'd been told not to climb it anymore. It was a high spot where he could see out but also where he could be seen. It was dangerous to be seen from a distance. He hurried on his way.

Suddenly there was a loud swooshing sound and an explosion. Farooq screamed and tossed the bread into the air as he was splattered by mud and dirt. Momentarily stunned, he ran for home, finding his mother and throwing himself into her arms.

Her first question was about the bread and what had happened to it, before she realized how close she had come to losing her son. She held him tightly, and he held on, feeling safe in her arms.

The little basement certainly wasn't home, but Farooq's mother had done all she could to make it comfortable. They had taken carpets and beds down into the small basement. And between those things and the fire, it was warm and comfortable and kept out the cold winter nights. Together,
he and his parents and sister and aunt and cousin slept in the little room.

Farooq missed sleeping in his own room, but part of him liked them all being together. If he woke up in the night he could hear the breathing of the others, and in the light of the fire peeking out of the cracks in the woodstove, he could see the sleeping shapes of his mother and father. Those sights made him feel safer.

“Farooq, come,” his father said. He was carrying three water jugs.

Instantly Farooq fell in beside his father. He was an obedient boy, but he also just liked being with his father.

Getting water was a daily task. The house had taps and running water, but that had stopped working weeks before. It and the electricity were the first casualties of the fighting. Luckily for them there was a working tap just a few houses up on the street.

As they walked Farooq held onto an edge of his father's coat. He'd been doing that a lot lately—since the explosion that had come so close to him on his walk home from the bakery. He just felt better to be right there by his father's side. When Farooq had first started to do that, his father had brushed him away, but now he knew it was important for his son to be close, that he needed to be close.

As they approached they saw that there was a lineup waiting to get water. That was often the case. They settled into the back of the line, and his father began talking to the others who were waiting. He knew everybody and everybody knew him. They lived in a big city, but mainly they lived in their own little neighborhood. Almost everybody lived close by, used the same stores and businesses, gathered on the streets and the parks and worshipped at the local mosque. They were neighbors, but in some way they were like a larger extended family, many of them living side-by-side for many generations.

The men placed their water containers on the ground in a little line, and they clustered together in groups. Some squatted down, while others stood. Many smoked cigarettes, and they all exchanged stories about what was going on in the city.

Farooq was too young to understand much of what they said, but some things seemed clear even to a boy of his age. There might have been some laughter, but the men were mainly somber and serious. Whatever was happening wasn't good. He heard stories about people—people in the neighborhood— being wounded, or even killed. They talked about families who had left. They had gathered whatever they could carry, or put in their cars or carts, and abandoned their houses, going to stay with family in another part of the country where the fighting had passed or hadn't happened.

Farooq knew of people who had left. Some of the friends he'd played with, the mates from his school, were gone. Now he mainly played with his cousin and his little sister—two years younger and not much of a playmate.

Farooq was afraid of the bombs, but the last thing he wanted to do was leave his home and all his things behind. This was the only place he'd ever lived, the only place he'd ever known. But he also knew that he had no choice. He would simply go where-ever his father decided was best.

“It was bad enough when we were being killed by foreigners,” one of the men in line said to another. “But now it is Afghanis killing other Afghanis.”

“A bullet doesn't care about the nationality of the person it hits,” another man said.

“But it shouldn't be fired by one Afghani at another,” the first protested.

“A Russian bullet or an Afghani bullet kills the same.”

“I just prayed that when the Russians were forced to leave that it would be different,” the first man said.

Farooq's father just shrugged. He was not a political man. He was a businessman. He had lived through the invasion of the Russians the way his ancestors had lived through invasion by the British, and before that, Darius, Genghis Khan, Tamerlane and Alexander the Great. The greatest armies in history had invaded Afghanistan over the centuries, but none had ever been able to tame or control it for long. The Afghanis were
strong and tough and prided themselves on their independence. They had always thrown out invaders and reclaimed their country. And now with the latest invaders expelled, a civil war was taking place as different sides tried to fill the power vacuum left behind by the retreating Russians.

Population:
32,000,000
Location:
Latitude: 33° N, Longitude: 65° E, southern Asia
Area:
647,000 square kilometers
Climate:
cold winters, hot summers, arid to semi-arid
Languages:
Afghan Persian (Dari)
(Official) 50%
Pashtu (Official) 35%
Turkic languages 11%
Ethnicity:
Pashtun 42%
Tajik 27%
Uzbek 9%
Religions:
Sunni Muslim 80%
Shi'a Muslim 19%
Other 1%
Life Expectancy:
44 years
Infant Mortality Rate:
157 per 1,000 live births
Per Capita Income:
$800
Literacy Rate:
28% (male 43%, female 12%)

Slowly they had moved up the line; now it was their turn. His father filled three water containers, giving the first to Farooq to carry. As they started to walk, Farooq held onto his father's coat with one hand.

“Use both hands for the container,” his father said. “If you spill it you'll be going back by yourself to fill it.”

Farooq did what he was told. He
did
need both hands to carry the heavy container.

“There's nothing to worry about,” his father said to him.

“What?”

“There's no need for you to worry,” his father repeated. “I'll make sure my family is safe.”

They dropped off the water in the garage. This was their kitchen now, the place where meals were prepared. Sometimes they ate in there. Sometimes in the courtyard, when the weather allowed. Other times, especially when there was the sound of shelling or bullets, they ate in the shelter of the basement.

His mother was already in the garage preparing breakfast. Farooq put down his water container and quietly went back outside before he could be given more work to do. Carrying water was one thing but helping to prepare breakfast was another.

As he walked outdoors, he reached into his pocket and pulled some marbles out. He had many toys and games, but playing marbles was one of his very favorite things to do. He stopped in a little patch of sunny dirt in the corner of the courtyard. He bent down and with his finger he drew a circle. He placed some of the smaller marbles inside—he was going to use the larger one, his lucky marble, to knock the others out.

“Can we play?”

It was his cousin and his sister. Playing marbles with his cousin was one thing, but his sister, Zakia, only three, was too young to do anything except cause trouble. He wasn't positive, but he thought she had actually swallowed some of his marbles before.

“You can play,” he said to his cousin. “And she can watch,” he continued, pointing to his sister.

She sat down on the ground. She didn't seem too disappointed. She was just happy to be around her big brother.

Farooq handed his cousin one of the big marbles. The idea of the game was to take the big marble and “flick” it so that it hit the little marbles in the circle. If you knocked out one of
the little marbles, then it was yours. Some the bigger kids played it for “keeps.” They got to keep whatever marbles they knocked out of the circle. For Farooq and his cousin, they just did it for fun. They were, after all, just kids, and playing was what they wanted to do. And while they were playing, they forgot everything else—all those things that were happening out beyond their home.

They kneeled down in the dirt beside the circle and took turns. His cousin was good, but Farooq was better. More than half the time he hit one of the little marbles and most of the time it skittered out of the circle.