PHILLIP ROBERTSON. Selected Stories.

Qasim's fighters, plus the shooter, then got out of the van and talked with the new arrivals for a few minutes, then took off. One of the new arrivals, a teenage boy with a shock of thick black hair, began arguing with the other fighter about who was going to ride with us to the hills. The black-haired fighter was moving so fast, and wanted in on the action so badly, that he aimed his Kalashnikov at the other boy and pulled back the bolt before we knew what was happening. He wanted to shoot him right there. There was something wrong with the black-haired boy. He didn't move normally. Our side door was open; Homayoun was in the back seat. We didn't make a sound. They shouted and yelled at each other. The violent one drove his colleague away from the van. This is when their commander arrived and climbed into the front seat, grinning. This one, who the other fighters obeyed, looked like Homayoun, fair-haired and blue-eyed.

Our driver was terrified and we had completely lost control. The strange boy then got into the van next to Aman with his gun. The side door stayed open. I shook hands with him in the front seat. I smiled. "I am the commander," he said. It seemed wise to be impressed. He couldn't have been older than 19. Usually, Afghan fighters become commanders after they have demonstrated responsibility and courage on the battlefield. It's part of the tribal system. When fighters work under a commander, they have a father figure responsible for their food, clothes and shelter. This kid was way too young for that job. That was a bad sign, on top of the fact that the rest of them still had their guns raised long after they knew we weren't a threat. The boy told me his name was Istmatullah, and said, "You have green eyes, you must be an American."

Aman explained that I was a journalist who wanted to see the monuments on the hill. Istmatullah loved the idea. I started to explain to Istmatullah that we had to go and he put a hand in my face to shut me up while he put a question to Aman. "Is this his bag?" Istmatullah wanted to know. Aman told him it was. "Does he have a satellite phone?" Aman said Yes, he does. "Is everything in here?" Istmatullah asked, patting the case. "Yes, everything is in there." Aman wanted him to think I was legit so he answered all his questions truthfully. While they were talking, I tapped Abdullah on the shoulder and drew a circle in the air with a finger, to say turn the car around right now, and he nodded but we didn't move. Istmatullah caught it.

Realizing that we were about to back out of the deal, Istmatullah broke away from questioning Aman and said to me, pointing to his chest, "Dost," which means "friend." I laughed and said, "Dost" back. They had us. Istmatullah wanted us to go up to the hills because he thought that was a fantastic plan. Istmatullah thought that this was efficient because he would go up there, kill us, take the cash, computer and satellite phone and be a made man in Ghazni. This is why the boys had been fighting about who got to ride in the van.

I tried to remember the name of a warlord, the man who had just become governor of Ghazni province with the victory of the mujahedin. He was an old political figure who had fled with the collapse of the Rabbani government. I lied to Istmatullah, "Listen, the monuments are too far, and I have to be back in Ghazni to interview someone." Istmatullah wanted to know who. I said, "Qari Baba is expecting me in 15 minutes," and checked my watch. "We have an interview all set up with the governor, and he doesn't like to wait." Homayoun backed me up, saying I really had to be there or there would be a problem. He explained that we had lost track of time. Istmatullah did the math. If he killed someone who knew the governor, it could be the end of his career. We kept saying the name "Qari Baba" as a kind of lucky charm, because the sound of it made Istmatullah hesitate. It was a ridiculous lie, and it worked.

I told Abdullah to take us directly to the governor's mansion and asked Istmatullah to help us find it. The insane boy was given the responsibility of leading us to the governor's mansion in town. "Help me," I asked the child bandits, "Help me find the governor this afternoon." Most of them drifted away. The guns were gone. Istmatullah had said something to them while I was looking at Aman. "Are you coming back?" Istmatullah asked Aman. "Of course," Aman said. "We'll have tea at your house." Istmatullah was happy and turned toward his house. Then Abdullah drove back down the riverbed to the main road. The crazy one stopped us once so he could get out and leave his weapon in the dust: He wasn't allowed to bring it in town. In the new security regime for Afghanistan, only regular army soldiers are allowed to carry weapons in cities. Once we were in town, I asked the crazy one his name, and he told me, without looking up, "Mohsin." But it seemed the human spark had gone out of him, leaving Mohsin a shell, all flattened affect and animal movements. He didn't want to be picked up in town. We drove to the governor's place, and he wasn't in. Aman told the guard the ridiculous lie. I acted surprised and put out by the inconvenience of not being allowed to meet with Qari Baba. Mohsin was standing right there and heard the whole conversation, and he looked like he'd been ripped off, he was on to us, but his moment had passed. Aman was worried that he would figure out where we were staying. Night was coming on, and Mohsin went off walking down the street without saying a word. When we got back to the room at the Spinzar, Homayoun said that the murderers of the two brothers at the gas pump had come from Istmatullah's camp, and the whole town of Ghazni lived in fear of them but there was nothing they could do. It was easy to see Mohsin as the killer. The kid with the black shock of hair. Istmatullah was the charmer, the money man, the one the others listened to. The director. After eating, we took a vote on whether we should keep going to Kandahar. It was unanimous. We turned around and headed back for Kabul the next day.

I wrote a series of stories while I traveled by road from Jalalabad to Kandahar, in the first months of 2002. It was a beautiful and harrowing drive across the country, which was not fully under the control of the central government. The Taliban had fled to Pakistan or gone underground, but there wasn't anything else to replace it except rampant warlordism.

LEAD IMAGE: 4 November, 2001, Afghanistan. A rocket bearer with Northern Alliance forces. Many male children without a means of support are picked up by fighters who give them food and shelter. I believe that a great number of these children are abused by the older men in their units. None of these children could read or write.
Photo: Phillip Robertson.
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