The Retired Terrorist.
By: Robert Cormack
Tags: Short Story, Afghanistan, Terrorism, Fiction, Taliban

“I don’t regret anything.” Amy Winehouse

Kachru watched the people coming into the school auditorium, some frowning, some perhaps hoping he’d die right there.

Most were retired couples wearing parkas and carrying coffee cups. A heavyset reporter was there from The Edmonton Examiner. He’d tried to interview Kachru coming through the doors earlier. Kachru had politely declined. A mistake, obviously. Now the reporter sat directly in front, feet out and crossed, running his fingers through his sweaty hair.

That morning, Kachru had brought in his slide projector and screen. There was a remote of sorts on a long electrical cord. He’d taken off his sweaters, but still wore his Wellco boots. They left chevron footprints on the stage, looking like a crazed migratory flightpath.

Now Dorfman stood with his feet apart like he was expecting a strong wind or glacial slide.

When everyone was seated, a tall, balding man approached the stage. His name was Dorfman, the school principal. While Kachru was setting up earlier, Dorfman had asked to see the slides. Finding no pictures of legless victims or abandoned children, he said, “I’ll give a brief introduction and you can take it from there.”

Now Dorfman stood with his feet apart like he was expecting a strong wind or glacial slide.

“Good evening,” Dorfman said into the microphone. “Let me start by saying we aren’t engaging a forum on terrorism tonight. We’re here to learn this man’s background and what brought him to our school on this occasion. Is that a fair summary?” he asked and Kachru nodded.”Then I’ll turn this over to our guest. Ladies and gentlemen, Kachru Geelani.”

There was light applause, none from the sweaty-haired reporter.

“Hello,” Kachru said, bending to the microphone. “Thank you for coming out on such a stormy evening. Where I come from, it gets very cold, too. And hot sometimes. We’re either shivering or sweating.”

Nobody reacted. Kachru picked up the projector remote.

“There are no pictures of my house or my family. They’re all gone now. Everything is gone except the well.”

“When I was young,” he said, bringing up the first slide, “I lived near Quetta in the northern province of Pakistan. Growing up here was not easy, but I have fond memories,” he said, clicking the projector, showing a village street, old trucks slightly tipping from their loads, buildings that could have come out of a Spaghetti Western.

“I can’t show where I lived,” he said. “There are no pictures of my house or my family. They’re all gone now. Everything is gone except the well.”

He cleared his throat and moved to the next slide.

“Here is a child wearing the usual clothes of our village,” he said. “I wore something similar. When I was this boy’s age, I was a terrorist, but I also liked to swim,” he said, showing a slide of a muddy stream. “Believe it or not, I swam more than I was a terrorist,”

There was light smatter of laughter.

“Obviously,” he said, “I was not a distance swimmer.”

A few nervous laughs at the back.

“If you say I lived in poverty,” Kachru went on, “I’ll tell you, I didn’t know the difference. There was no television. I saw a Western once at the theatre. It looked as dusty as our village. I didn’t think you lived better than us. From what I could gather, you all wore guns. Only police and military wore guns in our region.”

“He was shot at all the time, but nobody hit him. He was very lucky. My mother said that’s how he got to make so many movies.”

The next slide showed John Wayne with a patch over his eye, his gun belt low, a rifle in his hand. “This man seemed well armed to me,” he said. “He was shot at all the time, but nobody hit him. He was very lucky. My mother said that’s how he got to make so many movies.”

Some people were taking their coats off now.

“I was surprised to learn,” he went on, “you have so many cows. Every Western I saw seemed to have thousands of them. When I came to this country, I expected to see cattle being herded down every street.”

The sweaty reporter suddenly laughed out loud.

Kachru smiled back over the light of the projector.

“One day some men came to our village,” Kachru went on. “They wore a variety of uniforms — quite dusty — lots of bullet belts and blue tagelmusts — what you call turbans. All of them had long beards. This was the first time I ever saw the Taliban. Taliban, by the way, means students.”

The sweaty reporter held up his pencil.

“Yes?” Kachru said.

“You said this was in Northern Pakistan?” the reporter asked.

“Correct,” Kachru answered.

“Where were you from originally?”

“Jaldak in the Kandahar province. A small village near there.”

“You left because of the Soviets?”

“So what was it that impressed you?” the sweaty reporter pressed. “The uniforms? The guns, the turbans? Didn’t the presence of guns suggest jihad?”

“Yes,” Kachru answered. “Many people did. We felt we would be safer in Pakistan. The Soviets did a great deal of damage — “

“So the Taliban,” the reporter interjected, “seemed like a better alternative than the Soviets or the Kabul government that followed?”

“To some extent,” Kachru said.

“So what was it that impressed you?” the sweaty reporter pressed. “The uniforms? The guns, the turbans? Didn’t the presence of so many armed fundamentalists suggest jihad?”

“I was still quite young at the time,” Kachru replied. “I thought they had more bullets than John Wayne. I was impressed — “

“They were jihadists, though, correct?” the reporter asked.

“They never said jihad at first,” Kachru replied. “They formed madrasahs, religious schools. Jihad would come later, once we were trained. Until then, it wasn’t so much a religious crusade as a teaching of Islam.”

“No more than any religious crusade, I suppose,” Kachru answered.

Kachru was ready to move onto his next slide.

“A teaching?” the reporter said. “Doesn’t Islamic fundamentalism provoke extremist — if not violent — views?”

“No more than any other extremist religion, I suppose,” Kachru answered.

Principal Dorfman came up on the stage.

“As I mentioned at the beginning,” he said to the audience, “this is not a forum, ladies and gentlemen. We’re here to learn what life was like for Mr. Geelani back then, not necessarily his politics — “

“But they’re obviously related,” the reporter said. “Surely, we have to talk about that, don’t we?”

“…I saw in the Taliban, men who did not run. They fought. They reminded me of John Wayne. I wanted that, too.”

“I promised Mr. Geelani — ” Dorfman started to say.

“Let me answer,” Kachru said politely, putting down the projector remote. “I was young and impressionable. Like boys here in this country, we looked for heroes. I saw in the Taliban, men who didn’t run. They fought for their beliefs. They reminded me of John Wayne. I wanted that, too.”

And elderly woman wrapped in a big coat stood up.

“Have you killed people?” she asked.

“Not then — “ Kachru replied.

“But you have killed people,” the reporter jumped in.

“In circumstances I’ve come to regret — “

“Can you describe those circumstances?”

People were mumbling to each other.

“There was much to hate at the time,” Kachru said, “One day I saw forty cattle blown to bits in a marketplace. The Taliban claimed — ”

“How old were you at this point? the reporter interrupted.

“…It was like we were getting ready for the gunfight at the OK corral. Except we didn’t have shoes.”

“Still a boy,” Kachru said. “We were all boys. The Taliban told us we had to fight to stop these murderers. So we needed to learn to shoot. They taught us this in the mountains. It was like we were getting ready for the gunfight at the OK corral. Except we didn’t have shoes.”

“Who were you planning to draw down upon?”

“Anyone who didn’t respect sharia law.”

“Americans?”

“Some were Americans, yes. Except I thought Americans dressed like John Wayne. It was very confusing for most of us. We knew there were bad guys in Kandahar. The Taliban called them bad guys.”

“Were you expecting them to wear black hats?”

“Yes, actually, I did. I also expected them to smoke cigars.”

“Like Clint Eastwood?”

“I only saw one of his movies.”

“Did you want to be like him?”

“I was never a very good shot.”

“Perhaps we could get back to Mr. Geelani’s presentation,” Dorfman said. “I said before this isn’t a forum. We’ve covered the indoctrination stage — and certain comparisons with Westerns…”

The people were talking amongst themselves. The reporter started scribbling in his notepad. Dorfman approached the podium.

“Perhaps we could get back to Mr. Geelani’s presentation,” Dorfman said. “I said before this isn’t a forum. We’ve covered the indoctrination stage — and certain comparisons with Westerns. You are welcome to approach Mr. Geelani afterwards — “

The elderly woman stood up again.

“What circumstances?” she asked.

“I’m sorry?” Kachru replied.

“Circumstances you said you regret. What were they?”

Dorfman started to speak, but Kachru stopped him.

“And that made you kill?” the elderly woman asked.

“Many,” Kachru said. “So much of what we heard — what we saw — didn’t seem to make sense. The Taliban were supposed to be liberators. But they were very strict and harsh. Women had to wear burqas. Market stalls were burned for selling foreign cigarettes. Movies were banned. If your beard wasn’t long enough, you were jailed.”

“But you still followed them.” the elderly woman said.

“Less and less at that point,” Kachru said. “I was confused more than anything else. I thought heroes were good, bad guys were bad. I continued fighting for a while, then I went back to Quetta. My parents told me to run. They’d been running for years. Across borders, back and forth. Then they were gone.”

“What happened to them?” the elderly woman asked.

“I have no idea,” Kachru said, picking up the remote again. “Here,” he said, “is Kabul before the Soviets. Wide paved streets, Western clothes. This is afterwards,” — hitting the remote, showing a desolate town scene. “How is this liberation? Nobody could tell me.”

“But you did run, obviously,” the reporter said. “You’re here.”

“Why didn’t you run like your parents?” another woman asked.

“To where?’ Kachru asked. “I was mujahideen at that point.”

“But you did run, obviously,” the reporter said. “You’re here.”

“There were Red Cross stations,” Kachru replied. “Not many. Refugee camps. All a mess. I got to India — “

“How old were you then?” the reporter asked.

“Not old,” Kachru replied. “Late teens.”

“Who helped you emigrate?”

“People said they could help, then they couldn’t. Renouncing didn’t help much. Everyone renounced—”

“Did you ever find your parents?” another woman asked.

“No,” Kachru said. “They disappeared like so many. I was lucky. A Christian society decided to be my friend. A poster boy of sorts. Two years in Ahmedabad, then Mumbai. I saw movies again. I liked Forrest Gump. He was very sincere. That’s how I learned English. He talked slow.”

The elderly woman started wrapping a large scarf around her neck. Others were putting on their coats. Kachru looked over at Dorfman who seemed confused by it all. Kachru turned off the light on the projector.

“…What did that Shane character say? Once a gunslinger, always a gunslinger? I remember him riding off and the little boy calling his name. Those mountains in the distance reminded me of Kandahar…”

“I suppose there’s not much point in showing you the rest of these slides,” Kachru said. “Calling myself retired — or reformed — doesn’t help much, does it? What did that Shane character say? Once a gunslinger, always a gunslinger? I remember him riding off and the little boy calling his name. Those mountains in the distance reminded me of Kandahar. I have many memories of those mountains — ”

“Would you ever go back?” someone standing asked.

“To what?” Kachru asked.

“Your family may still be alive.”

“They aren’t.”

“How can you be sure?” the elderly woman asked.

“I can’t,” Kachru said, “but we were moving around so much. There wasn’t time to look. We’d cry, but then we’d look for food. We didn’t have the energy to do both. Eventually we just looked for food.”

“Do you cry now?” the elderly woman asked.

“One night while I was in Mumbai,” Kachru said, “I went to the theatre. I saw League of Their Own. I liked Tom Hanks a lot by that point. I liked him more than John Wayne — especially his line, ‘There’s no crying in baseball.’ That was a very good.”

He paused, looking around at the people.

“For some reason, it made me cry,” he said, shifting his feet, feeling like his Wellco boots were sticking to the stage.

He took the slide tray off the carousel. Dorfman came to the microphone again and cleared his throat.

“Yes,” the reporter said. “Why is that such a good line? There’s no crying in baseball?”

“Are there any last questions for Mr. Geelani?” he asked.

“Yes,” the reporter said. “Why is that such a good line?”

“What line are you referring to?” Dorfman asked.

“There’s no crying in baseball?”

Kachru had to think about that for a minute.

“I thought of women in Kandahar,” he said. “I tried to imagine them playing baseball. Even if they could, I can’t picture them crying.”

“Why’s that?” the reporter asked.

“They would be too happy to cry,” Kachru said.

“I’m not sure I understand,” the reporter said. “When you say, ‘Too happy to cry,’ you cried over League of Our Own. What’s the difference?”

“I suppose because those women cried so much with the Soviets and the Taliban. They never ran. I did, and maybe—I don’t know—maybe I thought it gave me license to cry. Or maybe I’ve never been happy enough not to cry.”

The sweaty reporter started to raise his pencil again, then decided he had enough for his article. The others seemed to take his cue. They stood up, put on their parkas, looked for a garbage to put their coffee cups in. They left single file through the doors, some looking back, others talking quietly.

He told Kachru he was sorry he didn’t get to show the rest of his slides. Kachru thanked him and took his equipment out to his car.

Kachru finished packing up. He put on his sweaters and his coat. Dorfman was standing at the doors. He told Kachru he was sorry he didn’t get to show the rest of his slides. Kachru thanked him and took his equipment out to his car.

It was snowing. Kachru looked up and let the snowflakes fall on his face. He felt them melting. That seemed like a movie, too. What movie was it? It might have been with Jimmy Stewart. Something with snow, anyway. He put his equipment in the car and got in the driver’s side. He started the engine and stared across the parking lot. As the snow fell more, it felt just like it did crossing the mountains. Just like when he ran with the others.

Robert Cormack is a satirist, novelist, and former advertising copywriter. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores. Check out Skyhorse Press or Simon and Schuster for more details.