Chapter 1
1.
“Distant gunfire echoed through the ruined city. My eyes squinted in the haze and my throat seized in the dry air. I was daydreaming again, daydreaming of Ladakh. That old hotel room, those crystal eyes… I had forgotten the soothing warmth of po cha. The mint doogh I bought down the road sent shivers down my spine and left a foul taste in my mouth, one that lingered for the rest of the day. I couldn’t explain it at the time, but I felt as if I was approaching the final days of my life. Perhaps it was the cheap doogh, or the loaded Smith & Wesson aimed at my chest.
The soldier’s hands were steady and his eyes austere. He spoke to me in words that I could not understand, not that the conversation would have been fruitful anyway. He was, after all, threatening to end my life, an action I had been trying to gain the courage to achieve for many years. I should have thanked him.
The man’s name was Pacha, and he looked like an Afghan Castro. At the time I had no idea that he was in command of an entire militia, but I doubt that it would have mattered to me in that particular instant. It’s strange how existential moments like these can so quickly change your outlook on life.
My ears perked up at the sound of boots eroding the earth behind me. A battalion of armed men stampeded down the road, their crazed eyes glaring towards us. Pacha lowered his weapon and turned to face the bloodthirsty hoard. He spoke again in words I could not understand, but his voice seemed to put the dust-coated warriors at ease. It was soon after that I realized what had happened. Whilst mindlessly contemplating the meaning of human existence in the seconds before certain death, my camera had slipped from my palm and fallen into the rubble at my feet. Pacha had taken notice and decided to spare my life, but at a cost. He had just found his new American journalist.
It was New Year’s Eve in Afghanistan when our encampment was shelled. Both Al-Qaeda and the Taliban wanted Pacha’s head, but they forgot an important piece of information. They forgot that there are few stronger bonds than those forged over a common enemy, just as there are few stronger motivators in this world than hatred and fear. After the towers fell, the United States needed men on the inside who were willing to fight for the winning team in Central Asia, and Pacha was the man they needed. A week later and he was dining in the capital, popping Champagne and sharing war stories with American generals and diplomats. I guess one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.”
