The job of an Afghan tribal leader has as much to do with
settling disputes among his own people as it does dealing with
traditional or new enemies. Khairullah was very proud of his
ability to keep his people happy, or if not happy, at least not
at each other’s throats. He was particularly annoyed with a
lesser village chief who apparently thought he was tough enough
to defy Khairullah’s edicts regarding water rights between
clans.
“Come with me,” he said to the American. “I will show you
how government works.” Khairullah used his school-learned English
as a weapon.
Government in this case meant Khairullah.
They formed a small group: Big K, the American, and four
AK-47’s slung over the shoulders of an equal number of hard-eyed
bodyguards. Familiar? They started off on a set of small,
spirited ponies that trotted along at a good pace. The trick to
handling these steeds was to try to stay glued to the multiple
small carpets that passed for a saddle.
It was definitely an impressive little patrol. Khairullah
had a submachine gun slung across his back and the American fixed
a really mean expression on his face. A farangay
is not much feared in this part of Afghanistan, but tough
tribal khans with solid reputations get the respect they
deserve.
They came upon the target village after about a half hour
riding. It wasn’t much of a village, just the usual mud brick
homes and some corrals for horses and donkeys. Interestingly the
village was entirely ringed by a mud wall. Perhaps at one time it
had been a fort. Red coats tumbling out of the mud brick barracks
to man the wall against the wild Pathans, as the British called
the Pushtuns… an instant bridge to the past — or the
future.
Khairullah dismounted and picked up a young child much to
the delight of the crowd. Several elders in turn sought to touch
Khairullah’s knees in the old custom of showing loyalty to their
khan. He quickly pulled them up as a gesture of modern democracy,
but he was clearly pleased with their attention. A middle-aged
man embraced Khairullah and they exchanged multiple kisses on the
cheek, first one cheek then the other, perhaps five times. It was
perfect Pushtun manners.
So this was the man who was the reason for the trip. He was
also a khan, though as a simple local headman he was of
considerably lesser rank than Khairullah, a khan who led an
entire tribe.
Here was the typical Afghan scene: Mafia-like politics,
ghosts of past regiments, effusive greetings which combine the
customs of Arabia, Central Asia, and the Macedonian legions of
Alexander — and more. To get on to the social aspects of the
visit they were quickly served tea accompanied by collections of
berries. Squatting on hastily spread rugs, a pleasant exchange
began between Khairullah and the village headman.
The conversation became more intense between the two men;
the elders drifted off, disassociating themselves from the
controversy. The American wondered if he, too, should make a
diplomatic exit and put forth an effort to unwind from his own
sitting position. One of Khairullah’s soldiers shot him a look
that froze him in place. He went back to drinking tea.
The tense conversation ended abruptly. Both men stood up
unsmiling and embraced as they had earlier but with more
formality. Miraculously the elders all appeared again and stood
around as if they had never left. That was their way of
signifying approval of whatever had been agreed while not
interfering in the process of the negotiation — or at least that
was how it seemed.
As abruptly as the discussion had ended, the visitors
mounted their ponies and headed back on the trail without
ceremony. This had been a business trip in every sense of the
term, and now that business was over it was time to leave.
Khairullah did not speak at all during the return trip. He
rode on ahead alone, leaving his bodyguards straggling in the
rear. Every now and then one of them would quicken his horse’s
pace to move closer to his khan, but never close enough to annoy
him. The American was acutely aware that if any danger lurked in
these craggy highlands, it could come from any angle. Marksmen
could take a quick shot from anywhere above or behind. It all
seemed far more dangerous than the ride going to the
village.
It took quite a while after they returned to Khairullah’s
home community, but eventually he treated the American to an
explanation of what had transpired:
“We have a custom that if a man — or clan — is wronged,
then the victim can call for a punishment. There were many goats
stolen. The other side said they weren’t stolen but that they
were taken as payment for the goats eating the grasses where they
should not have been, on the other family’s land. The village
khan, the man you saw, decided that the crime had been greater by
the man who took the goats than the one who let the goats eat on
the other’s land. So the village khan decided to take away the
goat stealer’s water rights and give them to the goat owner as
payment.”
“Why didn’t he just make the man give back the goats and
then maybe pay something?” was the American’s obvious
question.
“It is a very bad thing to take a man’s goats even if they
have been eating on your land. The man should not have tried to
make the penalty himself. He should have gone to the khan. So he
also had broken the law. It was an insult to the khan.”
“So the khan was mad and took away his water
rights?”
“Just so…and gave them to the first man.”
“Is that fair — is it right?”
“It is right, but not right. A khan has to be wise. He must
see beyond what is there. The elders and the entire village want
that. They do not want everything settled before a
jirga, although I thought this was
something that should be. I told him that. He did not like it. He
said it made him look without strength. I said it didn’t. I said
it made him look stronger. But he didn’t believe me,” Khairullah
sighed.
“So what happened in the end?”
“It will go before a jirga and they
will decide. I think they will give the man back his water, but I
think he will pay much to the village. The value of the goats
eating the grass will be taken away from the goats the man stole.
He will return the goats left over. That’s what I told them
should be done. I think they will do it, but the village khan did
not like me telling him. I didn’t want to, but I had to. That is
my job.”
Khairullah seemed very sad. Being a great khan is a very
difficult occupation in South Waziristan.
