| November 7, 2002 | Thursday | Ramazan 1,1423 |
Taliban child soldiers have no guns now
Very seldom people from the ‘literature written in a hurry’ have developed their faculty and shifted over to serious writing, literature and research. Taj Sehrai was among those few who began their skill in journalism and subsequently adopted creative writing and reasearch.
Beginning as newspaperman, Taj joined teaching followed by research in various fields and creative writing till his last. When he died at Dadu early this week, he had over a dozen books, innumerable papers and essays to his credit. He was 81.
Taj Mohammad Memon, who became known as Taj Sehrai, was born on Sept 14, 1921 in the historical town of Shikarpur, a centre of arts and literature. He developed liking for writing at an early age and gained a flair of his own, which drew him to newspapers like Sitara-i-Sindh, and later Jamhoor. At that time, these papers raised the voice in support of Independence Movement. Through his writings, Taj soon became a popular figure. His columns and articles were read by a wide circle of readers who were at that time divided in two distinct schools — one believed in independence within the unified India and the other in the separate Muslim homeland. state of Pakistan.
After shifting to Dadu, he launched a weekly newspaper, Awaaz, in 1948 which lasted till 1952. But then his interest grew into education. By being associated with poetry, he had a special regard for Makhdoom Mohammad Zaman Talib-ul-Maula, who for the sake of the promotion of education established a high school in Dadu. As its head, Taj made special efforts towards creating awareness for education in the district, and undoubtedly Talib-ul-Maula High School proved a great asset.
After retirement from education, Taj spent the remaining days of his life in Dadu during which he worked for promotion of all arts, poetry, prose, history and research. However, his interest in archaeological richness of the district was overwhelming, which took him to far and near sites of Sindh.
Owing to his interests in other fields he remained organizer of Qalandar Lal Shahbaz Literary Conference, organizor of Sindhi Adabi Sangat and Sindh Graduates Association in Dadu, Ranikot seminar and participated in almost every activity which aimed at the promotion of arts and literature.
He wrote a number of papers on these subjects. His contribution towards research and education will be long remembered. He encouraged younger generation to write and guided them in the skill of writing, specially the research and poetry. He himself was an accomplished poet.
In all, he authored and compiled over a dozen books including Tasveer-i-dard; Sur Sarang (an interpretation of Shah Latif’s song of rain); Maqalat (an anthology of his essays) and Qalandar Lal Sehwani.
A soft-spoken and dedicated Taj Sehrai remained a simple person all his life. He never grudged what he was awarded nor did he ever aspire for prestigious positions. He loved learning, tried to guide the young writers who appreciated his sincere help. His departure will be a loss to the Sindhi literature and arts.
MANY were 14 or younger when they left their schools to join the Taliban, and then many were killed, others lost limbs and some were lucky to return home unscathed, physically. Now abandoned and demoralized, these little Taliban soldiers are struggling to adjust to a life where there is no gun, no war.
In 1999, UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan said the Taliban were conscripting 2,000-5,000 recruits every year, many younger than 14. The numbers increased in October 2001 when the United States launched a military offensive against the Taliban after the Sept 11 terrorist attacks in New York and Washington.
Most of these recruits came from madressahs spread across Afghanistan and Pakistan. “Did you send volunteers to fight in Afghanistan?” I asked one of the teachers at a madressah in Karachi during a recent visit to Pakistan. “The kids come here to learn religion, not fighting,” said the teacher while commanding his students to focus on their books.
Several prominent Taliban leaders studied at this madressah — seen across Pakistan as the hub of militant Islam. At the entrance sits a man with bottles of perfume popular among madressah students and teachers. Next to him is a little bookstall, selling books on Islam and — jihad. Miracles of Jihad in Afghanistan, read a title. I pick up the book and leaf through it. As the title suggest, it is full of jihad stories, some about the bravery of the Mujaheedin who fought against the Russians and later their own Muslim brothers from the Northern Alliance.
Inside, about 200 students were scattered in an open and large courtyard, reading Arabic texts. Most of these were day scholars, the neighbourhood kids who come in the afternoon to learn the holy Quran and go to secular schools during the day. Older of them who obviously knew more Arabic and Quran than their secular friends were supervising some of these students.
I did not ask the teacher why they were selling books on jihad in Afghanistan if they did not send volunteers to that country. I did not have to. One of the teachers, who spoke Urdu poorly and with an Afghan accent, asked me: “Why are the Pakistanis so cowardly? They could have stood up and fought the invading forces instead of betraying their brothers.”
Now it was my turn to be silent. Although living in America, I am a Pakistani and for many Afghans I am a traitor because after Sept 11, 2001, President Pervez Musharraf dumped the Taliban and joined the US-led war on terror.
Feeling the tension, one of the teachers asked a student to bring something to drink. The shy, young boy placed a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice before me and the discussion moved to the Oct 10 parliamentary elections in Pakistan.
“Will America allow religious parties to form the government?” asked one of the teachers. The elections brought unexpected victory for the religious parties. They have the largest number of seats in the provincial legislatures in two key provinces bordering Afghanistan and now want to rule them.
“Depends on how you plan to deal with the Taliban and Al Qaeda fighters hiding in those two provinces,” I responded. We were silent again.
I looked at the young boy who brought the juice for me. He was hardly 12 and appeared very keen to please his teachers. “Lucky for him, there’s no more jihad in Afghanistan,” I said to myself thinking of other boys of his age who were sent to fight a war they did not understand.
“I was given some basic military training and was sent to fight the Northern Alliance,” says Ehtesham, who was 13 when he went to fight with the Taliban in 1997. “We first fought the Northern Alliance and were then sent to patrol the streets of Kabul, freeing more experienced soldiers for the battle front.”
Ehtesham, whose real name was not disclosed, belongs to a group of young Taliban soldiers who spoke with a UN-International Labour Organization team in the Bajaur tribal agency earlier this year about their experiences in Afghanistan. The interviews were transcribed in a recent report released to the press.
“We were also trained to operate multi-barrelled rocket launchers,” says Hafeezullah, who was also interviewed by this team. “These rocket launchers were so destructive that a single round was enough to destroy an entire neighbourhood.”
“I detested being assigned to the frontline because it entailed continuous fighting,” says yet another young Taliban fighter, Mohammad Ali, while talking to a Karachi-based magazine.
“Many people got wounded and killed. I had a narrow escape when the tank I was riding hit a land mine.”
All three were below 14 when sent to Afghanistan to fight. All went to madressah in the NWFP. All were encouraged by their teachers to fight who told them that “fighting for the Taliban will bring great rewards here and in the hereafter,” says Ehtesham.
“The Taliban used to treat people in an inhuman manner ... the scourge of bribery and corruption had found root in the Taliban ... I was disgusted,” says Mohammad Ali.
Ehtesham tells the story of a man the Taliban arrested in Kabul for gambling: “We laid him face up on the floor and began to lash him with electric wires from head to toe. Then we turned him over and repeated the lashing on his back. In the morning, our commander decided that the man was innocent. We rushed him to the hospital but it was already too late. He died on the way.”
“It raised many questions in my mind. Is this jihad? If I were to be killed fighting for these people, would I go to paradise?” he asked.
Despite these doubts, there was no escape for the likes of Ehtesham. Most of them had to stay in Afghanistan until November last year when the fall of the Taliban regime allowed them to escape.
They were among those few lucky ones who were not captured by the Taliban and succeeded in escaping to Pakistan where they are now sheltered by their families.
“Now that I look back, I realize that I have lost all I had. I have no education, no career, no future,” says Ehtesham. “My message for all youngsters like me: Never get involved in the war. It is not for the children. I got lucky and returned unscathed but many like me are buried across the border.”
“At the moment, there is nothing in my life that gives me hope for the future,” says Ali who now wants to “earn an honourable living.”
Hafeezullah, who began to hate the Taliban after he witnessed a public hanging, concluded that “what the Taliban and their teachers practise is not Islam and their fight is no jihad.”
Asked to describe the public hanging, he first refused to recall those painful memories and then he slowly narrated his experience.
“The accused were placed in front of four tanks, with ropes attached to their barrels. Those ropes were tied around the necks of the accused men and gradually the barrels were raised. The victims were suspended in the air and died slowly, struggling for air.” Hafeezullah broke down after he finished his story.
I had wanted to discuss this and other stories with the teachers at the Karachi madressah but they were not interested. They wanted to know whether they can regain power, this time in Pakistan.
I looked back at the shy boy who brought me the glass of juice and left quietly without saying a word to him or his teachers.