The Kahn of Dogs and Boys
by Andrew Webber
“Parwan, please, have more chai.” The Tajik soldier used an honorific: “The Wrestler.” My broken nose and cauliflower ear were a mark of distinction in Afghan Persia. He filled the half-empty glass with poorly strained green tea; gingerly picking the larger stems out with henna-stained fingers.
“Neswari?” A young Uzbek asked, a soldier in his teens. He produced a small plastic bag of green tobacco usually cut with lye; a potent mix, even for experienced American chewers.
“Balay.” I affirmed in Farmer’s Persian, I’d have a little. “Shuea, lutfan.” Just a pinch, please.
A crowd of soldiers gathered around the couch I shared with their Kahn; my host. He was too busy fiddling with a knock-off of a Samsung camera to notice the offer of tobacco.
The soldier-boy poured a small dose on my open palm. In an awkward, unpracticed motion I flipped it into my mouth, packing it under the tongue. The lye burned into soft tissue, exposing my blood vessels to large, immediate doses of foreign chemicals. It tasted strange and the room moved a little differently; the coy smile on the soldier-boy’s face told me it wasn’t a typical chew.
“What’s wrong, Captain?” The Kahn asked. The nervous laughter of the soldiers caught his attention.
“What’s in this?” I asked.
The Khan’s eyes narrowed as a wave of pale, cold sweat drove the color off my face. I lost the ability to focus; my pupils’ became mismatched circles wandering around undisciplined sockets. He recognized the symptoms.
“Little bastard,” he shouted, eyes drilling holes into the young Uzbek’s chest. The Kahn jumped to his feet and delivered a hard backhand across the soldier-boy’s round, sunburnt face. “I’m going to screw thee tonight.”
The spectators erupted in laughter, the younger ones relieved to be off the hook.
“We should get a turn.” An older sergeant yelled from his bunk, “Ling bala!” Legs up! He held his two fingers in the air; a reverse peace sign, the most profane gesture.
“Get out of here, bitch.” The leader kicked the young soldier off his chair. “Thou must be clean and scented tonight.”
The boy ran out of the bay, head hung in shame. He’d embarrassed his Kahn in front of a guest; cultural blasphemy.
“There is only a little heroin,” The Kahn assured me while reclaiming his seat and grasping my shaking hand. “These fools smoke the high quality nectar right after payday, only the poorest leftovers go into Neswari.” He did his duty as a host, maintaining conversation no matter what.
“Are thou ill?” he asked, wiping my face. “Drink the tea, green tea cures bad drugs. These soldiers, they play tricks, they are always trying to see what they can get away with. You are too kind to them. Afghans require a strong fist to keep them in line; we require order.”
I took a small sip, allaying my host’s worry; as long as one can drink tea, one will survive.
Another soldier piped in, his curiosity overcoming politeness, “Can we see your wife?” He asked hopefully, cringing in anticipation of a beating.
“Sure,” I said as I reached into a Velcro pocket. I kept a half-dozen laminated photos for just such purposes; the taboo on viewing women in Afghanistan didn’t extend to infidels. I offered the photos, but the Khan ripped them away, slapping the hands of the young soldier as he did so.
The Kahn studied my photos first, examining each carefully, placing them gingerly in his lap before making a show of gracing his second-in-command with an opportunity to look.
“Ye shouldn’t be so forward.” He chastised the bold soldier. “Thy shall have last look, as is fitting someone as low as thee.”
“What did he do so wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” The Kahn replied. “He is a lion, and a good soldier; an asset now, but should I appear weak, he will be a danger to us all. One cannot trust a man who does not know his place.”
“That isn’t how we do it,” I replied.
“There are many things Americans do differently it seems,” he smiled politely. “Your wife is beautiful, but one cannot milk with those hands. It must be difficult; she cannot do her job and you cannot do yours.”
“We don’t have milk animals, we get it from other people, in stores.” I answered slowly, barely able to respond.
“Thou are rich. Why be here with us, away from your wife, if thou are rich?” he asked. “Thou are a terrible, useless husband.”
“Why?” I asked, more curious than defensive.
“Obviously, thou cannot beat her, her face is too delicate, her skin too soft. A wicked man covets such things, but a good man knows he must beat his wife. A good man doesn’t take pictures, he leaves bruises. She must be reminded of the law, even when he is away.”
“What?” I asked. The opium wouldn’t let me follow the conversation.
“Saheb,” an older, haggard Major addressed his Kahn. “He does not have children; he does not yet appreciate your clear wisdom.”
“Understand what?” I replied in broken, antiquated Persian.
The Captain explained in a fatherly tone; “The Colonel is saying that if one doesn’t beat one’s wife, she will not respect nor fear them. There is nothing protecting the children when the man is away. It is a very dangerous situation.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I answered.
“Thou knows nothing yet, thou are uneducated,” The Kahn corrected me. “Go sleep. Let the tea heal thy brain. We shall talk more about life tomorrow after morning prayer.”
“Khoda Fez,” I said goodbye in Persian. “Masah al-Khyer,” I finished with Arabic, a nod to The Kahn’s pious nature.
I spent the night with one booted foot firmly on the ground, anchoring the room. By morning, I felt nauseous but coherent. The call to prayer, a ten-minute warning, roused me to action. Half-way through brushing, a worker boy interrupted my morning routine, beckoning me to the front gate of our small outpost.
“Saheb,” he tugged at the edge of my blouse. “A grey-beard comes.”
“Balay,” I answered, quickly emptying my canteen. I followed the boy to the main gate, a fortified machine gun nest with two rows of movable concertina wire blocking the entrance. A guard aimed his machine-gun at an old man in a dusty, gold-laced turban pushing a UN relief agency wheelbarrow up our hill. A short figure lay across the wheelbarrow, its small, bare leg hanging loosely over the edge, bouncing violently in rhythm with the road's rocky, pitted surface.
“Get the doctor,” I ordered the messenger boy. He ran off to the fist-aid tent; there was no doctor, just a medic.
The Kahn arrived from prayer, greeting me with a serene, washed face. His spiritual peace dissipating as the wheelbarrow drew closer.
“These foolish bastards,” he muttered. We knew the old man, his village openly supported the Taliban government. Their young men were off fighting for the various Kahns supporting the traditional summer offensives against the Kabul government.
“Maybe we can gain something here,” I said with hope. We often leveraged medical care for intelligence and political influence.
“We will not have a good outcome today, Parwan,” The Kahn predicted. He waved for an orderly who handed off a dented, heavily taped cricket bat. “But we shall hear the true story; these stupid people. Pashtuns are worse than dogs.”
The old man stopped at the wire. The Kahn barked orders to a soldier who ran forward and pulled the wire to the side of the road allowing the grey-beard to approach.
“What is thy purpose here today?” The Kahn asked, tapping the bat against his gleaming black boot.
“My grandson, you must help him,” The old man rambled on, talking around the question, gesturing to the boy in the wheelbarrow. His toothless mouth diluted an already incomprehensible dialect of Pashtun.
Our American medic ran past us with a large medical bag. He began surveying the wheelbarrow-boy with a delicate, practiced touch, searching for signs of trauma, hoping for good news as he grudgingly lifted the cloth covering the boy’s face.
“Damn it,” The young medic cursed. He threw the cloth back onto the wound and turned away, covering his face.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“His brains are out. This kid’s dead as hell.” He threw his medical bag against the sandbagged wall, overwhelmed by his own impotence.
“Can’t you just pretend there’s a chance to save him? I’m trying to work some angles with this guy,” I replied.
“Fuck you, sir,” he replied as he stormed off. “I’m done with these animals today.”
“Thy medic is a coward,” The Kahn spoke, “I will solve this.”
The Kahn stepped forward, flipping the cloth onto the ground. The boy, maybe nine years old, lay still and pale, skin yellow on the edges. His misshapen head protruded upwards and backwards as a result of chronic malnutrition. His right temple was caved-in and bloody; bone fragments lodged themselves firmly into his brain. The blood, sticky and glossy, pooled in the collapsed temple, already turning black.
“What happened to him?” The Kahn asked the grey-beard.
The old man again spoke rapidly, round and round in circles, pointing, waving, pleading. The Kahn swung his bat and struck the old man across the thigh, knocking him to the ground.
“Can thou not find honesty, even upon thy grandson’s death?” The Kahn asked, raising the bat once more.
The grey-beard raised his hands in a panicked surrender. He rattled off a few short sentences; the right sentences. The Kahn relaxed, dropping his bat and walking back towards me.
“The boy’s mother hit him with a metal pipe,” The Kahn reported. “He was making too much noise, so she killed him.”
I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. The Kahn sighed, resigned to the fact I was but a simple child.
“Her husband is fighting against our brothers in Kandahar. He did not leave a good reminder, he did not beat her. He was like thee Americans; stupid and lacking in courage. Death is his reward.” He pointed the bat at the boy, “The son pays for the father’s sins.”
The Kahn’s voice lost its coolness, gradually surrendering to righteous anger. He threw the bat, narrowly missing the old man.
“Haroon! Get your platoon ready. We leave now!” He shouted towards a junior officer in attendance.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“We are going to attack this dog-village. They must learn to respect the law; they will fear me. I will act as a real man should while their dog-men are martyring themselves across the mountains.”
“I cannot partake in this.” I told him, “You will get no air support from us.”
“I do not expect it. Ye Americans have no understanding of war. Your meek, stupid generals think they can control us through money and machines. They want only to protect their temporary, physical existence while remaining morally comfortable. A living being’s will cannot be bent without engaging its soul, its fundamental nature.”
“We’re working hard to help the government of Afghanistan,” I offered.
“Yet Americans refuse to try and understand the problem.” He responded evenly, “Ye are heavy-handed like the Russians, but even they understood the human condition; they are not worldly cowards like thy people. One must sacrifice everything, including one’s soul, to please God and thereby receive the grace of victory.”
“We’re making progress,” I said defensively. “Look at the numbers, we’ve killed more enemy and spent more money on development than ever before. We’re doing more and more every year.”
“I’ve had this conversation every year for almost a decade. I will have it again when they replace thee with a new American in the spring,” The Kahn replied.
A heavily modified Ford pick-up truck filled with well-armed soldiers rolled out the gate, a new American-made machine gun mounted on top. Two rows of soldiers sat in the back, brand new M-16’s and Kevlar helmets freshly painted. The truck stopped abruptly in front of us, the dust cloud carrying the smell of bad wiring and smoldering hashish.
“Then why fight for us?” I asked.
“We are not.” The Kahn answered, “Our war is not your war, but your money allows us to prepare for the real war. While thy leaders count every bean and assign everything a number, we are focused on strategy; on victory. I do not play the number game like your colonel, I care not about the next promotion, or a row of shiny new medals. ”
I shrugged, “Numbers-based valuation is the easiest way for a centralized bureaucracy to manage human assets; it’s how our army does business.”
“Spoken like a political officer, comrade. Thy army is just like the Soviets but soft and overfed.” The Kahn laughed dismissively.
“I shall be back for evening prayer. God willing we shall dine together. My marksman found starlings this morning; they are ready to fry.”
“God willing uncle,” I answered while bowing slightly.
Two more trucks pulled up, each overflowing with excited, camouflaged boys and world-class weaponry.
The Kahn smiled. He drew his pistol, firing into the air to gain his men’s undivided attention.
“Send the Apostates!” The Kahn ordered.
A group of stoned boys on confiscated Chinese motorcycles raced forward, barreling down the road, haphazardly slung weapons bouncing up and down behind them. The Apostates, soldiers recruited from the ethnic and religious minority Shia Mongols, served as a route clearance team. Their job was to trigger any bombs or ambushes ahead of the main force, thereby limiting risk to the Sunni troops.
“Those villagers will learn to respect life and the rule of law,” The Kahn proclaimed, climbing into the passenger seat of his Ford. “They are powerless against the might of our government, the hand of God.”
“Allah Akbar!” He shouted, hand held high out of the window of his brightly painted Ford.
“Allah Akbar!” His men repeated, clenched fists and rifle barrels thrust to the sky.
Andrew is a law student in the Chicago area who served three years in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as four more in Europe and Africa. He grew up in the rain-forest of Washington State but currently resides in Bronzeville with his wife and daughter.
“Neswari?” A young Uzbek asked, a soldier in his teens. He produced a small plastic bag of green tobacco usually cut with lye; a potent mix, even for experienced American chewers.
“Balay.” I affirmed in Farmer’s Persian, I’d have a little. “Shuea, lutfan.” Just a pinch, please.
A crowd of soldiers gathered around the couch I shared with their Kahn; my host. He was too busy fiddling with a knock-off of a Samsung camera to notice the offer of tobacco.
The soldier-boy poured a small dose on my open palm. In an awkward, unpracticed motion I flipped it into my mouth, packing it under the tongue. The lye burned into soft tissue, exposing my blood vessels to large, immediate doses of foreign chemicals. It tasted strange and the room moved a little differently; the coy smile on the soldier-boy’s face told me it wasn’t a typical chew.
“What’s wrong, Captain?” The Kahn asked. The nervous laughter of the soldiers caught his attention.
“What’s in this?” I asked.
The Khan’s eyes narrowed as a wave of pale, cold sweat drove the color off my face. I lost the ability to focus; my pupils’ became mismatched circles wandering around undisciplined sockets. He recognized the symptoms.
“Little bastard,” he shouted, eyes drilling holes into the young Uzbek’s chest. The Kahn jumped to his feet and delivered a hard backhand across the soldier-boy’s round, sunburnt face. “I’m going to screw thee tonight.”
The spectators erupted in laughter, the younger ones relieved to be off the hook.
“We should get a turn.” An older sergeant yelled from his bunk, “Ling bala!” Legs up! He held his two fingers in the air; a reverse peace sign, the most profane gesture.
“Get out of here, bitch.” The leader kicked the young soldier off his chair. “Thou must be clean and scented tonight.”
The boy ran out of the bay, head hung in shame. He’d embarrassed his Kahn in front of a guest; cultural blasphemy.
“There is only a little heroin,” The Kahn assured me while reclaiming his seat and grasping my shaking hand. “These fools smoke the high quality nectar right after payday, only the poorest leftovers go into Neswari.” He did his duty as a host, maintaining conversation no matter what.
“Are thou ill?” he asked, wiping my face. “Drink the tea, green tea cures bad drugs. These soldiers, they play tricks, they are always trying to see what they can get away with. You are too kind to them. Afghans require a strong fist to keep them in line; we require order.”
I took a small sip, allaying my host’s worry; as long as one can drink tea, one will survive.
Another soldier piped in, his curiosity overcoming politeness, “Can we see your wife?” He asked hopefully, cringing in anticipation of a beating.
“Sure,” I said as I reached into a Velcro pocket. I kept a half-dozen laminated photos for just such purposes; the taboo on viewing women in Afghanistan didn’t extend to infidels. I offered the photos, but the Khan ripped them away, slapping the hands of the young soldier as he did so.
The Kahn studied my photos first, examining each carefully, placing them gingerly in his lap before making a show of gracing his second-in-command with an opportunity to look.
“Ye shouldn’t be so forward.” He chastised the bold soldier. “Thy shall have last look, as is fitting someone as low as thee.”
“What did he do so wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” The Kahn replied. “He is a lion, and a good soldier; an asset now, but should I appear weak, he will be a danger to us all. One cannot trust a man who does not know his place.”
“That isn’t how we do it,” I replied.
“There are many things Americans do differently it seems,” he smiled politely. “Your wife is beautiful, but one cannot milk with those hands. It must be difficult; she cannot do her job and you cannot do yours.”
“We don’t have milk animals, we get it from other people, in stores.” I answered slowly, barely able to respond.
“Thou are rich. Why be here with us, away from your wife, if thou are rich?” he asked. “Thou are a terrible, useless husband.”
“Why?” I asked, more curious than defensive.
“Obviously, thou cannot beat her, her face is too delicate, her skin too soft. A wicked man covets such things, but a good man knows he must beat his wife. A good man doesn’t take pictures, he leaves bruises. She must be reminded of the law, even when he is away.”
“What?” I asked. The opium wouldn’t let me follow the conversation.
“Saheb,” an older, haggard Major addressed his Kahn. “He does not have children; he does not yet appreciate your clear wisdom.”
“Understand what?” I replied in broken, antiquated Persian.
The Captain explained in a fatherly tone; “The Colonel is saying that if one doesn’t beat one’s wife, she will not respect nor fear them. There is nothing protecting the children when the man is away. It is a very dangerous situation.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I answered.
“Thou knows nothing yet, thou are uneducated,” The Kahn corrected me. “Go sleep. Let the tea heal thy brain. We shall talk more about life tomorrow after morning prayer.”
“Khoda Fez,” I said goodbye in Persian. “Masah al-Khyer,” I finished with Arabic, a nod to The Kahn’s pious nature.
I spent the night with one booted foot firmly on the ground, anchoring the room. By morning, I felt nauseous but coherent. The call to prayer, a ten-minute warning, roused me to action. Half-way through brushing, a worker boy interrupted my morning routine, beckoning me to the front gate of our small outpost.
“Saheb,” he tugged at the edge of my blouse. “A grey-beard comes.”
“Balay,” I answered, quickly emptying my canteen. I followed the boy to the main gate, a fortified machine gun nest with two rows of movable concertina wire blocking the entrance. A guard aimed his machine-gun at an old man in a dusty, gold-laced turban pushing a UN relief agency wheelbarrow up our hill. A short figure lay across the wheelbarrow, its small, bare leg hanging loosely over the edge, bouncing violently in rhythm with the road's rocky, pitted surface.
“Get the doctor,” I ordered the messenger boy. He ran off to the fist-aid tent; there was no doctor, just a medic.
The Kahn arrived from prayer, greeting me with a serene, washed face. His spiritual peace dissipating as the wheelbarrow drew closer.
“These foolish bastards,” he muttered. We knew the old man, his village openly supported the Taliban government. Their young men were off fighting for the various Kahns supporting the traditional summer offensives against the Kabul government.
“Maybe we can gain something here,” I said with hope. We often leveraged medical care for intelligence and political influence.
“We will not have a good outcome today, Parwan,” The Kahn predicted. He waved for an orderly who handed off a dented, heavily taped cricket bat. “But we shall hear the true story; these stupid people. Pashtuns are worse than dogs.”
The old man stopped at the wire. The Kahn barked orders to a soldier who ran forward and pulled the wire to the side of the road allowing the grey-beard to approach.
“What is thy purpose here today?” The Kahn asked, tapping the bat against his gleaming black boot.
“My grandson, you must help him,” The old man rambled on, talking around the question, gesturing to the boy in the wheelbarrow. His toothless mouth diluted an already incomprehensible dialect of Pashtun.
Our American medic ran past us with a large medical bag. He began surveying the wheelbarrow-boy with a delicate, practiced touch, searching for signs of trauma, hoping for good news as he grudgingly lifted the cloth covering the boy’s face.
“Damn it,” The young medic cursed. He threw the cloth back onto the wound and turned away, covering his face.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“His brains are out. This kid’s dead as hell.” He threw his medical bag against the sandbagged wall, overwhelmed by his own impotence.
“Can’t you just pretend there’s a chance to save him? I’m trying to work some angles with this guy,” I replied.
“Fuck you, sir,” he replied as he stormed off. “I’m done with these animals today.”
“Thy medic is a coward,” The Kahn spoke, “I will solve this.”
The Kahn stepped forward, flipping the cloth onto the ground. The boy, maybe nine years old, lay still and pale, skin yellow on the edges. His misshapen head protruded upwards and backwards as a result of chronic malnutrition. His right temple was caved-in and bloody; bone fragments lodged themselves firmly into his brain. The blood, sticky and glossy, pooled in the collapsed temple, already turning black.
“What happened to him?” The Kahn asked the grey-beard.
The old man again spoke rapidly, round and round in circles, pointing, waving, pleading. The Kahn swung his bat and struck the old man across the thigh, knocking him to the ground.
“Can thou not find honesty, even upon thy grandson’s death?” The Kahn asked, raising the bat once more.
The grey-beard raised his hands in a panicked surrender. He rattled off a few short sentences; the right sentences. The Kahn relaxed, dropping his bat and walking back towards me.
“The boy’s mother hit him with a metal pipe,” The Kahn reported. “He was making too much noise, so she killed him.”
I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. The Kahn sighed, resigned to the fact I was but a simple child.
“Her husband is fighting against our brothers in Kandahar. He did not leave a good reminder, he did not beat her. He was like thee Americans; stupid and lacking in courage. Death is his reward.” He pointed the bat at the boy, “The son pays for the father’s sins.”
The Kahn’s voice lost its coolness, gradually surrendering to righteous anger. He threw the bat, narrowly missing the old man.
“Haroon! Get your platoon ready. We leave now!” He shouted towards a junior officer in attendance.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“We are going to attack this dog-village. They must learn to respect the law; they will fear me. I will act as a real man should while their dog-men are martyring themselves across the mountains.”
“I cannot partake in this.” I told him, “You will get no air support from us.”
“I do not expect it. Ye Americans have no understanding of war. Your meek, stupid generals think they can control us through money and machines. They want only to protect their temporary, physical existence while remaining morally comfortable. A living being’s will cannot be bent without engaging its soul, its fundamental nature.”
“We’re working hard to help the government of Afghanistan,” I offered.
“Yet Americans refuse to try and understand the problem.” He responded evenly, “Ye are heavy-handed like the Russians, but even they understood the human condition; they are not worldly cowards like thy people. One must sacrifice everything, including one’s soul, to please God and thereby receive the grace of victory.”
“We’re making progress,” I said defensively. “Look at the numbers, we’ve killed more enemy and spent more money on development than ever before. We’re doing more and more every year.”
“I’ve had this conversation every year for almost a decade. I will have it again when they replace thee with a new American in the spring,” The Kahn replied.
A heavily modified Ford pick-up truck filled with well-armed soldiers rolled out the gate, a new American-made machine gun mounted on top. Two rows of soldiers sat in the back, brand new M-16’s and Kevlar helmets freshly painted. The truck stopped abruptly in front of us, the dust cloud carrying the smell of bad wiring and smoldering hashish.
“Then why fight for us?” I asked.
“We are not.” The Kahn answered, “Our war is not your war, but your money allows us to prepare for the real war. While thy leaders count every bean and assign everything a number, we are focused on strategy; on victory. I do not play the number game like your colonel, I care not about the next promotion, or a row of shiny new medals. ”
I shrugged, “Numbers-based valuation is the easiest way for a centralized bureaucracy to manage human assets; it’s how our army does business.”
“Spoken like a political officer, comrade. Thy army is just like the Soviets but soft and overfed.” The Kahn laughed dismissively.
“I shall be back for evening prayer. God willing we shall dine together. My marksman found starlings this morning; they are ready to fry.”
“God willing uncle,” I answered while bowing slightly.
Two more trucks pulled up, each overflowing with excited, camouflaged boys and world-class weaponry.
The Kahn smiled. He drew his pistol, firing into the air to gain his men’s undivided attention.
“Send the Apostates!” The Kahn ordered.
A group of stoned boys on confiscated Chinese motorcycles raced forward, barreling down the road, haphazardly slung weapons bouncing up and down behind them. The Apostates, soldiers recruited from the ethnic and religious minority Shia Mongols, served as a route clearance team. Their job was to trigger any bombs or ambushes ahead of the main force, thereby limiting risk to the Sunni troops.
“Those villagers will learn to respect life and the rule of law,” The Kahn proclaimed, climbing into the passenger seat of his Ford. “They are powerless against the might of our government, the hand of God.”
“Allah Akbar!” He shouted, hand held high out of the window of his brightly painted Ford.
“Allah Akbar!” His men repeated, clenched fists and rifle barrels thrust to the sky.
Andrew is a law student in the Chicago area who served three years in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as four more in Europe and Africa. He grew up in the rain-forest of Washington State but currently resides in Bronzeville with his wife and daughter.
