The Watch Read Online Free Page B

remnant of my proud Yusuf.
    Soon I myself might be forced into silence. Who knows.
    Meanwhile, it is clear that they mean to exhaust me with this endless procession of interrogators. They mean to break me, but in this, as in their attempts to persuade me to leave, they will be disappointed. I will not go until I have satisfied my duty.
    I gaze at the barbed wire fence and the walls that separate me from Yusuf. If it were up to my heart, I would send those barriers wandering south across the deserts until they disappeared from our lands. If it were up to my will, I would ignore the warnings of these interlopers and breach their fortress with my bare hands. I would dig a deep hole in the ground and, lifting his body,relieve the shame of my mother’s son, left to rot as an unburied corpse. But my mind holds me captive. My mind tells me that any hasty action on my part would ensure my death before my brother’s burial—and then we would both be left unmourned, unwept, unburied without the rites, an unexpected treasure for the carrion birds. Heart or no heart, I have no choice: my anger and despair must yield to patience, resolution.
    So I wait in the dust instead, the silence ringing in my ears.
    And many memories. A host of memories crowding around, slipping through the air like specks of dust; slipping through the silence until I hear the voices they carry. Whose whispers? What voices?
    In my head, Yusuf laughs. He says:
    Nizam, you silly girl, you are talking to yourself.
    I know, my brother, I know. I know that it’s nothing. It’s nothing but the silence—cruel, endless silence whispering in my ears. But what else do I have to keep me company—to console me now that you too are gone, lost remnant of my flesh and blood? My first, my best friend from childhood. My last, my final companion.
    How my heart hurts.
    The sun is high when a new soldier appears with the Tajik. He carries a steaming bowl of food that he places before my cart. He’s young, with a closely shaven head and a martial, erect bearing. He glances at me fleetingly, but other than that, his face shows nothing.
    That’s for you, the Tajik says. The men in the fort are concerned about your welfare. Maybe you will think better of them after this. There’s meat in it, and lentils.
    They walk away, and I leave the food untouched.
    Soon, the ubiquitous crows congregate. I wheel my cart away and the bowl disappears under a blizzard of black wings. I watch two crows squall over a piece of meat while I chew my dry bread. It’s gone stale and crumbles at the touch. I search instead for my figs and nuts.
    The same young soldier returns with the Tajik to pick up the bowl. The crows disperse with raucous caws. The Tajik looks pained. His narrow smallish head bobs from side to side.
    There was no need to reject the food, he says. They were trying to be kind, that’s all. It was a gift. It’s against our traditions to refuse a gift. Now you’ve rejected their overtures and made them angry.
    He stands a few paces away from me and says that I should put my bughra back on. My lack of response doesn’t seem to bother him. His expression is guarded but also intrigued.
    He lights up a cigarette, which he smokes in quick puffs while continuing to stare at me. It’s sad, he says finally. We’re both Afghânyân, we’re much the same age, and yet we’re on opposite sides. I work with the Americans because nine years ago the Taliban slaughtered my family. We were prosperous traders in Charikar; my mother was an educated woman. He pauses and draws on his cigarette.
    In other words, he says, I can understand how you feel, believe me. But I sincerely think the Americans are here to help us, to make our lives better before they leave. And you—I suppose you believe, with equal sincerity, just the opposite, because they killed your family.
    My loyalty is to my brother and the memory of my family, I reply. Yusuf is not carrion for these jackals to tear apart.
    He gazes at