The Places in Between

by Rory Stewart

He was a small man in his mid-forties with bandy legs, a wispy chestnut-brown beard and pinched purple cheeks. In a webbing pouch he carried a military radio, his link to headquarters; a pen, suggesting he was literate; a packet of pills, showing he could afford antibiotics; and a roll of pink toilet paper, a more subtle status indicator.

Two young men talked to each other about me, where England was and what a foreigner ate and carried and enjoyed. It was an easy rolling chain of speculation that didn’t require my participation. Men resting ‘He may be tougher than he looks,’ one of them said as I passed, ‘but I don’t think he understands what he is doing.’ They smiled at me and I grinned back.

Qasim left the room without speaking. I smiled at the man with the red lips but he just continued to stare. I took out my notebook and sketched Abdul Haq, who was sleeping on his back with his rifle across his thighs, his large chest slowly rising and falling. He had a clear, honest face. I found my fondness for him difficult to reconcile with what I knew of his enthusiasm for killing people and making small children cry.