Ackerman Green on Blue

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-907970-80-1
Verlag: Daunt Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 272 Seiten

Four explosions rolled in the distance. If there'd been clouds in the sky, the noise would've been mistaken for thunder. Aziz and his older brother Ali live in a village amid the pine forests and endless mountains of eastern Afghanistan. Their family is poor, but inside their mud-walled home,they have stability, love, and routine. But when a convoy of armed men suddenly arrives in the village, their parents disappear and their world is shattered. In order to ensure his and his brother's survival, Aziz must join the Special Lashkar - a US-funded militia hungry for Afghan recruits. No longer a boy, but not yet a man, Aziz struggles to understand his place in a conflict both savage and entirely contrived. Will he embrace the brutality of war or leave it behind, and risk placing his brother - and a young woman he comes to love - in jeopardy? Green on Blueis a gripping debut novel, and an astonishing feat of empathy and imagination about boys caught in a deadly conflict. 'Harrowing, brutal, and utterly absorbing . . . Ackerman has spun a morally complex tale of revenge, loyalty, and brotherly love.' - Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner 'Haunting . . . Powerful . . . a bone-deep understanding of the toll that a seemingly endless war has taken on ordinary Afghans.' - Michiko Kakutani, New York Times 'As good a book as you're likely to find on men at war. It is full of insight, compassion, and extraordinarily beautiful writing. I could not recommend this novel more highly.' - Kevin Powers, author of The Yellow Birds 'What makes Green on Blueso brilliantly poignant is Elliot Ackerman's feeling of empathy, his ability to get under his characters' skin, reminding us not only of our vast differences but of our shared humanity.' - Azar Nafisi, author of Reading Lolita in Tehran

Autoren/Hrsg.

Ackerman, Elliot

Leseproben

MANY WOULD CALL ME a dishonest man, but I’ve always kept faith with myself. There is an honesty in that, I think.

I am Ali’s brother. We are from a village that no longer exists and our family was not large or prosperous. The war that came after the Russians but before the Americans killed our parents. Of them, I have only dim memories. There is my father’s Kalashnikov hidden in a woodpile by the door, him cleaning it, working oiled rags on its parts, and the smell of gunmetal and feeling safe. There is my mother’s secret, the one she shared with me. Once a month she’d count out my father’s earnings from fighting in the mountains or farming. She’d send me and Ali from our village, Sperkai, to the large bazaar in Orgun, a two-day walk. The Orgun bazaar sold everything: fine cooking oils and spices, candles to light our home and fabrics to repair our clothes. My mother always entrusted me with a special purchase. Before we left, she would press an extra coin in my hand, one she’d stolen from my father. Among the crowded stalls of the bazaar, I would slip away from my brother’s watchful eye and buy her a pack of cigarettes, a vice forbidden to a woman.

When we returned home, I would place the pack in her hiding spot – the birchwood cradle where she’d rocked Ali and me as infants. Our mud-walled house was small, two thatch-roofed rooms with a courtyard between them. The cradle was kept in the room I shared with Ali. My mother would never get rid of the cradle. It was the one thing that was truly hers. At night, after we’d returned from the bazaar, she’d sneak into our room, her small, sandalled feet gliding across the carpets that lined the dirt floor. Her hand would cup a candle, its smothered light casting shadows on her young face, ageing her. Her eyes, one brown and the other green, a miracle or defect of birth, shifted about the room. Carefully she would lean over the cradle, as she’d done before taking us to nurse. She would run her fingers between the blankets that once swaddled my brother and me and, finding the pack I’d left her, she’d step into the courtyard. And I’d fall back asleep to the faint smell of her tobacco just past my door.

This secret made me feel close to my mother. In the years since, I’ve wondered why she entrusted me with it. At times, I’ve thought it was because I was her favourite. But this isn’t why. The truth is, she recognised in me her own ability to deceive.

Like most men, my father farmed a small plot. He understood the complexity of modest tasks – how to tap the ever shifting waters of an underground karez, how to irrigate a field with that water, how to place a boulder at the curve of a furrow so the turning flow would not erode the bend. He taught these lessons to me and Ali. We grew, working by his side, our land binding us together, sure as blood.

In the warm months, my father would head to the mountains, to fight. His group operated under the Haqqanis, and later joined Hezb-e-Islami, but loyalties shifted often. My brother told me that when my father was killed, his group was again with the Haqqanis but now they all served under the Taliban. For a boy these things meant little. Sometimes I wonder how much they matter even to a man.

When I last saw my parents it was summer. Against the Taliban’s orders, my father’s group had returned home early. They’d disobeyed their commanders after being told to extort taxes along a certain road. At the time, I understood none of this. On that last morning, my father slept late and my mother prepared breakfast in the courtyard. Ali and I had no work to do on our land, and we grew tired of waiting for my father to wake. Our mother grew tired of restless boys, and she shooed us off to gather pine nuts for the meal. We wandered away from the village towards the tall trees lining a ridge. Ali climbed their thick trunks and shook their branches. I gathered the cones that fell, cracking them open between two rocks and picking the nuts from each.

That year, Ali had grown strong enough to climb onto the highest branches. His long arms would grasp above him as he took powerfully assured steps up the tree, without pausing. He’d only stop when no branches remained to take him higher. When I climbed, I’d test each branch, tugging it to ensure it could hold my weight.

He was about to turn thirteen and would be a boy for only a short while longer. Each year, our mother would buy a bolt of fabric and make one new set of clothes. Ali would get the new set and I’d get his hand-me-down. He was always larger than me, and my clothes never fit.

We both had little education. When my mother was a girl, she’d learned to read and write in a school built by the Russians. She taught us how, but nothing more. My father had never been to school. He’d fought the Russians instead. Now that Ali was old enough to travel on his own, my father planned to send him to the madrassa in Orgun.

What will you learn there? I asked, my head tilted back, staring up at Ali among the pine branches.

I don’t know, he said. If I did, I would not have to learn it.

You leave in the autumn? I asked.

Yes, Aziz, but you’ll see me when you come to the bazaar. And in two years, when you’re old enough, maybe you’ll join me.

Ali shook a high branch and more cones fell around me. I broke them against the rocks. My pockets were nearly filled with nuts when I heard the sound of an engine in the distance. Ali waved after me and I climbed into the branches with him.

What I saw next I didn’t understand. To remember it is like being on a high trail in the fog, feeling but not seeing the mountains around you. First there was the dust of people running. Behind the dust was a large flatbed truck and many smaller ones. They pushed the villagers as a broom cleans the streets. A shipping container lay on the bed of the large truck. Amid the dust and the heat, I saw men with guns. The men looked like my father but they began to shoot the villagers who ran.

I tried to climb down from the tree, but Ali held me to its trunk. We hid among the branches. A thought came to me again and again: my father has a rifle too, these men must know my father. Soon the shooting finished. The living and dead were locked together inside the container. I looked for my father but saw him nowhere. The gunmen walked from home to home. They lit the thatched roofs on fire. Still, I told myself not to worry. My father had a rifle. No harm could come to him.

All that day the fires burned. The wind changed and we choked on the smoke from our home. We had no water. The flames receded in the night, but this gave us little relief. Hungry and thirsty, we returned to our village in the morning. The truck and container were gone. Sperkai was empty and smouldering. In our home, the carpets were little more than ash brushed across a dirt floor. My mother’s cradle had collapsed into a pile of charred sticks. But my father’s Kalashnikov lay hidden by the door, mixed with the woodpile’s embers. I reached for the damaged rifle. Ali swatted my hand away. He had no interest in it.

This is no longer our home, he said.

I clutched my hand to my chest. It stung from where Ali had struck me. I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat filled with the sorrow of all I’d lost. I swallowed, then asked: Where will we go?

You’ll come with me, he answered as though he were a destination.

We travelled the familiar road to Orgun. In the city, we hoped to find work and perhaps some news of our parents. Each day we begged our meals in the streets. Cars sped by us. Grey buildings rose several storeys high, a stream of people passing in and out of them. We crouched in the doorways. As crowded as Orgun was, it might as well have been deserted. We never saw the same face twice. Those who looked at us did so with pity, as if we were doomed boys. Ali was nearly a man, but having no family made him a boy.

Once, in Sperkai, an older child had split my lip in a fight. When my father saw this, he took me to the boy’s home. Standing at their front gate, he demanded that the father take a lash to his son. The man refused and my father didn’t ask twice. He struck the man in the face, splitting his lip just as his son had split mine. Before the man could get back to his feet my father left, the matter settled. On the walk home, my father spoke to me of badal, revenge. He told me how a man, a Pashtun man, had an obligation to take badal when his nang, his honour, was challenged. In Orgun, every stranger’s glance made me ache for a time when my father might return and take badal against those who’d pitied his sons.

Ali and I would beg during the days. At night we would leave Orgun and cross the high desert plain to the low hills that surrounded the city. There we would rest with the other orphans. Among them, we’d share a crack in the earth or the embers of a spent fire, our shadows mixing as we slept. Some stayed for a night or two, never to be seen again, others stayed for years. Ali warned me against befriending these boys. He didn’t trust anyone as poor as us.

We lived like this for two winters.

*

One night as we left Orgun, it began to snow. Ali and I stumbled across the barren plain. Dust turned to mud in the storm. The snow gathered on the earth and on our shoes and clothes. Our bodies melted the snow and we became wet. Around us, the storm and the darkness blew neither white nor black, just empty. Soon we were lost. On the plain, there was no fold in the earth or clump of trees to protect us. Far off, we saw a square shadow. We staggered towards it, and pulled open the rusted hinges of some metal doors, and...