Editor’s Note: Ten years ago today, then-President George W. Bush announced that the U.S. would invade Iraq under false pretenses, suggesting that Saddam Hussein was responsible for the 9-11 tragedy and hiding “weapons of mass destruction.” Earlier today, a series of bomb blasts killed at least 56 people in Baghdad. For this 10th anniversary of one criminal war founded on another, we offer this short story set in Afghanistan. — Amanda
by Evan Sommers
Water’s been scarce, ever since they destroyed the well. The rubble still sits in an ugly heap near the village center. The thirst makes the Ghasu Khel bicker and snap at each other and say unkind things, but thirst will do that. The Ghasu are not unkind.
Ahmad doesn’t ride too fast; his horse will need to drink, too, and all of his thoughts, he’s careful to remind himself, must be directed toward finding water. Finding as much water as possible. The Ghasu are thirsty. The valley is drier than it used to be.
Some of the older ones will whisper that the dryness has something to do with the empire, with the grip it’s been exerting over the land, over stone and root, alike. Its sentries are constant, making small silhouettes against the grand sweep of Korangal cloud-forms and pale sky. They stand on faraway crags of mountain, surveying the valley from under the domes of their helmets. Looking out for anything they might need to destroy.
Ahmad wonders, sometimes, if they know how to do anything other than destroy. But such questions are not useful. Not as useful as horseshoes or sheepskins. His horse is white. There are no other white horses in the valley, nor have there been for at least a dozen years. His horse is special; his uncle named it Ghazi. His uncle sometimes takes Ghazi out at night. His uncle is one of them — one of the ones who fights the empire and makes friends of shadows. One of the ones with his suffering clearly on his face, centered somewhere in between his eyes and above his nose.