If an owner became ‘besotted’ by a child, Walid had explained to Jabril, he might become the man’s ashna, his beloved, and be lavished with presents and special treats, but as far as Walid could tell this boy had only ever been a commodity. He described how the child continually lived in fear of being found and taken back to the merchant, but was also riddled with shame for what had been done to him and guilt that the merchant would take retribution on his family for his disappearance. The boy was now marked for life as bacha bereesh and vulnerable, excluded from society and probably selling himself on the streets to survive. A little confused about why Walid was telling him the story, Jabril had asked Walid what he thought he could do.
‘Help these boys,’ Walid had said. ‘You’re a good man, Dr Jabril. I was hoping you could help these boys.’
Later that evening, as he sat on the lounge with Sofia and Zahra enjoying an after-dinner tea, Jabril had told them about the boy before asking what they thought he should do.
‘You already spread yourself too thin,’ was Zahra’s response. ‘There are other people dealing with bacha bazi. Leave it to them.’
Jabril had turned to Sofia.
It was an inflammatory issue, an open secret that no one wanted to touch because you never knew what powerful person might be involved. She shook her head slowly. ‘I’ve no idea what we can do.’
‘No,’ Zahra had said, seizing on her words immediately. ‘There is no “we” here. You definitely are not getting involved in this issue, even if Jabril does.’
Agreeing that Sofia should not become involved, it had taken Jabril twenty-four hours to devise a plan. Using his influence among his rich and powerful friends in Kabul, he would create a public, high-profile campaign to raise awareness of the evils and prevalence of bacha bazi. ‘Get people talking,’ was how he explained his idea to Sofia. ‘Get the subject out in the open. Put pressure on the politicians to force the police to crack down on those who traffic in little boys.’ Jabril knew his plan would meet resistance, but in his idealism he had faith.
Without exception, everyone Jabril spoke to had put his hand on his heart, solemnly condemned the practice, agreed unequivocally that it was a terrible business and that it should be stopped and the perpetrators brought to justice, and had done nothing. There was simply no plausible upside for a high-profile person to have his name linked to bacha bazi.
‘Not to put too fine a point on it,’ Jabril would later say to Sofia, ‘no one wants anything to do with bacha bazi, probably because their powerful friends might be involved.’
Minister Massoud was the only person to show any interest, but because bacha bazi was not covered under his portfolio as Minister of Counter Narcotics he would not be able to help. He did, however, ask Jabril to keep him informed of his plans and the two men spoke often, although the general lack of support for his project had left Jabril hurt and frustrated. A month ago, he had made the decision to fund the campaign himself. And now, thought Sofia, there are four little boys missing from Jamal Mina. Were they related to bacha bazi?
When the second little boy had gone missing from Jamal Mina about a week before Walid had arrived in Jabril’s surgery, Sofia, Jabril and their friend Taban had begun to suspect someone was targeting Hazara children from the slum. In a country still torn apart by violence, the disappearance of a couple of little boys from poor Hazara families was of little interest to anyone. And although the disappearance of the third boy last week had seen Chief Wasim expressing some sympathy for the grieving families, he had told Sofia that he didn’t have the resources to launch an investigation when there was no evidence of abduction.
‘Three boys have gone missing,’ Taban had said when Sofia passed on the chief ’s message. ‘There’ll never be evidence of abduction until someone starts looking for it! The loose change of history,’ she had said, looking up at Sofia with tears in her eyes. ‘No one records these children’s births or deaths here because no one cares.’
As Sofia watched Farahnaz disappear down one of the access paths to the alleys behind the square, she remembered her father’s parting advice: Pick your fights. It had proved wise counsel, but how many times should you turn away, she wondered. How many times was too many and what would the price of that turning away eventually be? Surely there came a point when you could no longer live with yourself? Were these missing boys a fight worth picking? She decided they were. She could not remain silent any longer.
10
OMAR SUSPECTED ALLAH had been playing games with him that morning by tempting him with memories of the young Behnaz. Lost in these pleasant thoughts, Omar had forgotten the fact that Allah had not seen fit to bless him with sons, or that He had done nothing to stop the slow creeping death now stealing through his body, and in this bliss of forgetfulness he thanked Allah the Merciful and the Compassionate for his infinite generosity on that fine sunny morning. As Omar was revisiting all these pleasing thoughts – which were bringing happiness to his heart but not his manhood – he thought again of the Viagra hidden in a drawer under the counter in the shop.
Which, by the way, has not been the seller you anticipated, has it?
Omar would have preferred to ignore the voice, but annoyingly, it captured his attention. When he had seen the ad on the internet for ‘Erection Medication – Discreet – Express Delivery’, he realised
