The police fled by a footpath through the hills when the Taliban drove into Imran’s village.
Their convoy of white Toyotas arrived just as Imran had finished teaching at his little boys school. So he saw the vehicles stop in the square and fighters with black beards and kalashnikovs climb out.
That night Imran told his older brother, “They’re all from the South.”
His brother did a bad job of hiding some concern, but he said, “As long as they preach Islam and don’t take any of my livestock I won’t say anything.”
Neither did Imran say anything when the Southerners told the video man to close his video rental shop because videos were sinful. Nor when they ordered the barbers to never shave another customer because men should have beards.
But the young teacher was jolted when a loud ‘crump!’ shook windows in the upper village one morning, sending white-faced boys racing through the lanes calling in low, shocked voices, “They’ve blown up the girls’ school!”
Indeed they had. It lay reduced to a crumpled heap of concrete. The country’s flag, once painted above the entrance gate, now riddled with ugly bullet holes.
Southerners with rifles waved open-mouthed onlookers away, saying the Islamic place for a girl was in the protection of her father’s house.
When the news rippled as far as Imran’s classroom he stiffened. Would his tiny boys’ school be next?
An hour later a thin talib pushed open the door into Imran’s that classroom. “Come with me!” he said. “Our Commander wants to talk to you.”
Imran said, “Talk about what?” But the talib said nothing. He turned on his heel and walked ahead of Imran to the old police station.
Close the girls’ school? Of course everyone knew the dynamiting would happen. Preachers on crackly Taliban FM radio had repeatedly said school for girls was unIslamic.
Girls needed to learn only the correct prayers and what the Holy Qur’an taught. It was scandalous for them to go out each morning to classrooms. Instead they should be secluded in their parent’s house until sent away on their wedding night.
Further, they demanded, what part did things like mathematics or poetry or this country’s history have in a virtuous education for girls? Or boys?
A growing dread seeped into Imran’s heart as he and the talib reached the guards outside the police station. If his boys’ school was closed how could the valley possibly advance into the modern world? Where would the next generation find engineers or people who could manage a complex society?
Then he was being marched across the courtyard into an office and halted in front of the desk of a large, overweight Southerner. A dim light bulb dangled overhead. In a corner a bodyguard adjusted his gun. The talib escort stepped back to the doorway and waited.
The fat commander looked up and quietly put down a pen. “You’re the teacher?” he asked.
Imran didn’t trust his voice to sound calm. So he nodded.
“Then sit down. I want to tell you about some changes.”
The boys’ school would remain open, the commander said in his thick Southern accent, but now there would be a new curriculum. One that would, Allah willing, bring to the whole valley the many satisfactions of living a submitted, righteous life.
The commander leaned forward. “I know you are not worthy of teaching this, Teacher.”
Imran accepted the insult, not daring to react.
“You fall far short of the standard,” the commander went on, almost spitting, his unfriendly, cold eyes boring into Imran. “But we need a boys’ school, so I am giving you a chance. The government curriculum is finished. Understood?” Imran nodded. “Come back tomorrow morning and I will give you the new one. Now, go!”
…
Imran was still shaking that evening when he slumped into a chair and looked at his older brother who told him, “I also got taken to the commander.”
He rubbed his large, farming hands together and looked at Imran; very seriously. “Don’t do anything that will get us into trouble, little brother. These Southerners don’t care about us. For them to snuff out our family … It would be as easy as that!” He snapped his fingers and stood up. “I’m telling you. Don’t do anything.”
Imran wanted to disobey. So he went looking for his colleague. The two teachers took a long walk, heads down, talking earnestly, quietly. His friend said, “Your older brother’s right, Imran. Don’t do anything.” Imran’s shoulders sagged.
Next morning Imran cancelled classes and went reluctantly to the commander’s office. The guards kept him waiting on the verandah. No-one offered him a seat. Then abruptly, he was called inside by the thin talib who again took up his position at the doorway. Everyone waited for the fat commander to speak.
Instead he indicated with a tilt of his head that Imran should take a seat and he pulled papers from a drawer.
He leafed slowly through them. At times grunting softly. Or pausing with a hand poised ready to turn the next sheet. Imran had seen education department officials play with him like this. He’d never been sure if they were truly studying their documents or trying to intimidate him.
Then the commander shuffled the papers together with his ponderous hands and pushed them at Imran. “You will now teach this, Teacher,” he said. “Every single detail of it.” A pause, before he hissed quietly, “If you fail I will make you regret your lapse.”
He leaned back in his chair. It creaked. “Make a copy and return the original to me after prayers next Friday.”
Imran gathered up the papers and wished he could control his hands better. They were making the papers shiver. The commander noticed this and smiled grimly. Then he glared at the other men in the room and ordered them out.
The heavy door was shut. He and Imran were left alone in the gloom and quiet.
The commander ran his thick hands through his hair and down his black beard and shifted in his seat. He looked at Imran. “Teacher,” he began, “I have a son. So I am thinking about his future and it is clear he must have the best schooling.”
He squirmed a little in the creaking chair and went on, “My son must be prepared to not only live in the new society we are building, with Allah’s permission, but he must be able to lead it. To manage it. He must understand much more than lesser boys. Those sons of caretakers and fighters and farmers. Understand?”
He searched Imran’s face. Did this foolish teacher get the point he was hinting at? Must the terrible secret be spoken? Imran sat rigid.
“Teacher,” the big man leaned onto the desk, “what I am saying is my son must certainly be instructed in Islam, but also in the attitudes and skills needed to govern.” He stopped hoping he would need to say no more. But Imran was motionless, saying nothing.
The commander strained forward further. “Mathematics, for example.” His voice contorted into a rasping whisper. ”Poetry. Other worldviews. Art.”
Imran’s heart skipped. The commander saw this reflected in Imran’s face and he stopped. He had said enough.
“Sir.” Imran struggled to unwind his tongue. “Sir, I could tutor your son in these things after school.”
The fat commander stayed rigid and unmoving, leaning close to Imran, his eyes narrowing. “After school,” he said slowly and deliberately. “And in secret. In total secret.”
Imran was now unable to contain a broad smile. “I am at your service, Sir.” Then he stopped. “At the same time I will invite a few other boys. In secret. They also can benefit.”
The fat commander sat back, “Do as you like, Teacher. All I require is my son is taught well and in secret.”
…
Imran said nothing to his older brother or his colleague. But by the following week his best students were regularly assembling with him in secret after school, each with their mobile phones stuffed with password-protected online documents full of forbidden material.
Then, when the fat commander would greet him in the bazaar and casually ask if the curriculum was being followed, Imran would smile broadly and assure him his students were being taught everything.