War in North Carolina Literature
around soon. They are not as awful as the Taliban, but they are still a rather foul bunch. It is best to avoid them after dark if you can.” Aminullah nodded. “Yes, Teacher,” he said. “Khuda hafiz. God protect you.” “Khuda hafiz,” Hajji Umid said, before turning and starting to trudge slowly towards his house on the other side of the village. Aminullah lifted his school bag and started back down the road toward his father’s farm. It was a forty-minute walk, and there was no chance now of making it back before nightfall. By the time he reached the top of the first hill, the sunlight was almost gone. The temperature was also dropping. He shivered beneath his loose-fitting, cotton clothing. It was dark, but he knew the way well. After another fifteen minutes, he had already made it up the second hill that marked the halfway point. Up ahead, he saw headlights. A truck was idling on the side of the road. As he got closer, he heard voices and a smattering of laughter. The headlights were in his eyes, and he couldn’t see clearly. After another minute or so, he gradually made out two figures standing and a couple more sitting beside the truck. One of them wore a faded khaki uniform, while the other three were dressed in local garb. A couple of AK-47s and a few other weapons lay on the hood of the vehicle. The two sitting men appeared to be playing cards while passing a glass pipe between them. One of the non-uniformed men glanced up casually at Aminullah before looking back down at the cards and inhaling from the pipe. Aminullah lowered his head and continued walking. His nostrils caught a foul whiff of opium smoke and body odor. As he passed, one of the militiamen called out, “Hey boy, where is an ugly little Pashtun like you sneaking off to so late?” “Home,” Aminullah said quietly. “Hm, what do you mean ugly? Look at that pretty face, and those slim ankles. He could almost be a dancing boy,” said the uniformed man. “Hey baccha, why don’t you stay and do a little dance for us? That’s what Pashtun boys do best, right?” “Yeah, I know I’d sure like to do a little dance with him,” one of the others chimed in. “Do you have any ankle bells in that bag? Any perfume or colored scarves?” He smiled lecherously before sliding his tongue slowly along his upper lip.
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A Storm is Coming (mixed media acrylic, graphite on canvas, 30x40) by George Scott
There was a pause, and then the four men burst into laughter. The one smoking the pipe laughed so hard that he started to cough uncontrollably. It took fifteen seconds for him to finally catch his breath. Aminullah lowered his head. He clutched his school bag and quickened his pace. After he was past the truck, he took off running into the dark. One of the men shouted another taunt after him, but he didn’t hear. He kept running. Twice he stumbled, but he continued until he found himself within sight of the three-room adobe house where he had been born. The light of an oil lamp flickered from the doorway. The humble structure had been built by his grandfather in the 1960s to replace a smaller dwelling that his great-grandparents had constructed when they first migrated from Jalalabad in the 1920s. In the late 1950s, the property passed to his grandfather, who farmed the land until he was arrested in 1988 for criticizing the Soviet puppet government. He died in police custody a few months later, and the land passed to his three sons. Mohammad, the oldest son and Aminullah’s uncle, left the following year to join the mujahideen