Pashto is in the Mountains

Written by: Hafizullah Turab

Translated by: Kalimullah Turab

Whenever I heard this term, I couldn’t grasp its exact meaning. I kept telling myself that it might indicate “Pashtu is in the mountains,” that Pashtuns are as strong as mountains, or converting in mind that people living in the mountains, their Pashtu language would be much better.

I never knew, nor could I have imagined, that someone would ever provide proof of this saying through black stones and waterfalls, that I wouldn’t never forget for the rest of my life.

Before that, I had stayed in that area once more. During that time, I determined never to become a burden on the shoulders of these people. Observing their way of life, I considered myself an aggressor with committing each person’s murder. A dry solid mountain, where there was mountain’s tree, one at a distance from the other, and in some places two or three houses were situated on the top of the large rocks and didn’t have anything else except a little clear water. Gazing at this area, a question would surely come in human’s heart that how do these Pashtun civilians near the Durand Line manage to survive in such conditions?

It was profoundly more shocking that after the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, people from twelve provinces traveled through this route to Pakistan and back. In this area, from each household, people would share whatever food they had, even before they had finished their own, as more refugees arrived. Yet, despite their struggles, there wasn’t the faintest trace of resentment on their faces. Instead, they welcomed the new arrivals and immigrants with genuine warmth and heartfelt hospitality.

Their generosity wasn’t out of fear of the Mujahedeen. For centuries, the people of this area had access to guns.

After some time, I decided to return home. We didn’t want to trouble these people again. So, early one morning, the three of us set out. We planned to pass quickly by the spot where we had last eaten. Though we moved quickly—almost running—we arrived at the same spot at half past one in the afternoon. Hunger overwhelmed us, leaving us unable to continue walking. For the first time, I witnessed the sheer force of human desperation and realized that it has the power to break even the strongest of promises.

After a short rest, we approached the door of a small house. After we knocked, an elderly woman dressed in black emerged. At the sight of her, I instinctively stepped back, and for a moment, we considered leaving without saying a word. However, she swiftly opened the door to the guesthouse. Despite there being no men in her home, we entered, our hearts gripped by a peculiar sense of unease.

A short while later, the woman returned, carrying a pot of water.

I said to her, “I don’t think there are any men in your house. Perhaps we should leave.”

In a holy tone as Pashtun women are like men, she replied, “Have some food and tea. Then you may leave whenever you wish.” She stepped back into the house, leaving us with an unsettling feeling weighing on our hearts. The situation was unusual and fraught with danger for us—being guests in a home without any men present was precarious. Even a small misunderstanding could provoke violence, and in such circumstances, a man might resort to murder over suspicion.

Moments later, she returned, bringing us food, tea, and water for ablution. After completing our prayers, we prepared to leave, intending to express our gratitude for her generosity. But before we could, she emerged from the house, a gun slung over her shoulder.

Seeing her armed was a shock, and we froze. Our words of gratitude stuck in our throats. She walked a short distance ahead of us, turned, and said, “Let’s go.”

She led the way ahead of us, and we followed in silence. My mind raced with fear, wondering if she might have planned to kill us. For ten minutes, she guided us through rough terrain and over massive rocks, until we reached a flat and secure area.

There, she stopped and said, “You can go now. I’ve escorted you through my area. There’s no danger ahead.”

More than ten years have passed since that time, yet her face remains standing into my eyes. It would be standing because she demonstrated genuinely to me that:

“Pashtu is in the mountains.”

Difficult Question (Short Story)