The Nameless Corpse At Torkham: Silence, Fear, And The Shadows Of War

The jagged, sky-high mountains of Torkham were stretching long shadows in the evening light. From a crevice in a rock, a wave of white dust still rose; just moments ago, a cannonball had struck it.

The fine particles from the chalked chest of the stone scattered as if they were the last breaths of a wounded heart. Yet, the hearts of those firing the cannon were still cold, as if a pot kept simmering on a slow flame: tick... tick... tick... the dry echoes of intermittent gunfire, followed by a few rapid bursts.

Silence would descend when each tick's echo tired and faded, only for sudden stillness to return-but the restlessness in hearts remained. Wars, too, ignite this abruptly.

At the very line of the border lay a corpse-neither on this side nor the other. Like the mark of some crooked line gone wrong. No one knew when it had fallen, who it was, or who had killed it. From afar it was visible, yet no one dared approach.

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Still, news of it had reached faraway cities, to soft beds in peaceful towns. Some said it was Muhammad Qasim, who had fallen into petty smuggling in search of a livelihood. Others claimed it was Toriyali, a truck cleaner. Another named him Majid Khan, a laborer.

But here, next to this nameless corpse, no one came. All watched from a distance, as if it were just another stone fallen from the mountains. Perhaps someone atop the peaks had a finger on a trigger; any movement might have sealed a bullet's fate. This fear had settled in every heart.

From distant, secure settlements came voices-of reproach, sorrow, debate-but no step moved forward. Everyone waited for someone else, as if the corpse was another's responsibility, as if it belonged to the other side, as if it were debris from a different war. Yet everyone knew one thing: someone had been killed, whether on this side or the other.

A house had been destroyed, whether on this side or the other. On both sides of this line, invisible in the noise of war. And when cannons and guns were blazing, the one to carry the body remained unseen.

Silence spread as in a desolate graveyard, where no sound exists, yet every mound of soil and stone paints death in the eyes. A bird rustled its wings, and a black vulture appeared from the sky. It circled the corpse several times, then slowly descended and perched on a stone a few steps away.

It did not look at the corpse, as if even it feared the hidden gunmen, whose hearts were like stone and whose blows were blind sticks-striking anywhere, hitting anyone.

In the mountains' stillness, the same tick... tick... tick... rose again, as if the pot had resumed boiling. The echo grew longer. Red bullets struck the ground near the corpse. From their hiding spots, people groaned, saying they didn't even spare the dead, while others said the bullet hadn't been aimed at the corpse but to scare away the vulture.

The vulture flew away, disappearing into the shadows of the mountains. Silence settled once more.

In the distant cities, people had moved on to other topics. This corpse, this incident, had faded from memory. But here, an old man, hands trembling on his knees, rose. His dry lips moved, and in a faint voice, he recited the kalima. Someone called out,“What are you doing? Sit down, don't go!” Another said,“Maybe he has gone mad.”

But the old man, seemingly deaf, did not hear. With a bent back, he started toward the border line. He did not look toward the mountain peaks. People watched. With each step toward the corpse, their own heartbeats became audible. The gun barrels remained silent yet loaded.

The old man, stooped, reached the corpse. He extended his hand, his shadow falling over its face. He spread his white sheet alongside it. One hidden observer said,“Looks like the bullets have stopped,” another said,“The old man is unbothered,” and a third said,“The body should be secured.”

A young man asked,“Whose body is this?” The old man did not answer, focused on his task. Then came another question:“Is it from that side or this side?” The old man looked at the corpse-a young man, face sunburned, as if belonging to all here. The old man knew neither this side nor the other. Perhaps his head was on one side, and his heart on the other.

As the old man slowly pulled the corpse, two others stepped forward, then three more. The vulture circled from afar, then perched elsewhere.

The corpse was brought to this side, and the vulture remained hungry on the other. Silence spread again. No one knew when the vulture would return.

Note: This column was written by Emal Pasarly, and the Urdu translation was done by Shahid Momand.

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