Forgotten Heroine - Conclusion

WARNING: PLEASE READ PART ONE FIRST
Malalai stood ready by the water containers, strips of cloth and a bowl full of brown paste in hand. Bitter, intense odor from the concoction emanated throughout the tent before she covered the bowl with a thick cloth. She had helped her mother grind the sun dried leaves and added the formulaic ingredients into the mixture to make a smooth soothing remedy.

The men outside the pavilion gathered in the open, armed and ready. Malalai heard her father speak in his calm and commanding voice, catching only parts of his speech amidst excitement all around her, inside and out. Gathering from the words she heard and after piecing them together she learned that the British army was marching towards them, charged and ready to attack. Wedding festivities aside, the tribe had to fight, to preserve their honor at any cost. Abandoning the welcome preparations for the groom and his tribe, Malalai’s family geared up to face the attack and defend their land.

The battle was brutal against the British army’s guns and precise strikes. Honored men fell to their knees continuing to fight till their last breath. Under the scorching sun, Malalai went out with a few other women with water and to help the fallen, the injured, and the broken. In the middle of battle, she saw her groom arrive with his large clan, regal on his white horse. Discarding their wedding wares, he and his tribesmen brought out their swords and fell right into step to fight. The British army was now furiously outnumbered, faced by strong Afghan men led by two strong leaders – the chiefs of two prominent tribes.

The fierce sun had started its descent behind the far off mountains. The dry landscape blew dust clouds all around them shrouding the warriors with the earth’s blanket. Blinded in the midst of battle, Malalai ran from one wound to another, applying her paste, soothing the dying with her words, offering the balm of her presence.

In the midst of the heat of the battle, the call of a wounded leader echoed in her ear. Turning around she saw her father fall to the ground and she rushed to his side. She saw hope in his eyes before he closed them forever. The battle carried on with full force and a cacophony of gun fire, steel hitting steel, shouts of commanders, calls of the angry chargers, cries of the wounded, howls of the dying reverberated in the battlefield.

Within hours of her father, Malalai witnessed the massacre of the second chief, the leader of the tribe that she was to be married into, father of her groom. Not long after, one of the wounded informed her of the demise of the man who was to be married to her. Without shedding a drop of tear, she carried on helping those she could and praying for those she could not.

The sun winked before descending further down, leaving a glimmer of light before preparing to rest for the night. Malalai saw the scene before her in the soft light, her tribesmen standing tall but unwilling to carry on, despair painted on their faces. Slowly she saw them begin to fall off like flies dejected and disheartened. Vision of her father’s hopeful eyes swam past her and she stood up. She stood tall as a woman of Afghan and reprimanded her tribesmen. She pontificated on what it was to be an Afghan, to be of the tribe who was led by a great chief, to protect the soil that was their home, to fight until death. She shouted and commanded and led the men of his tribes to charge and drive the foreigners away. She reminded them of their honor. Inspired, the tribesmen rose once again ready to fight until death. Before darkness engulfed the land, whatever was left of the British army had to retreat back across the border, their guns and strategies in tow.

The morning sun shone upon the field and bathed the sea of bodies with its harsh rays. In a constellation of beige uniforms and white loose shirt pants, clusters of army helmets next to tribal turbans, men of all shapes and sizes lay in contorted forms, their bloods mingled overnight. Among the scattered bodies the sun’s rays gleamed on a long red scarf. Shrouded under it lay the form of Malalai, her bowl of medicinal paste still in hand. Her body stretched and hand reaching out as if trying to apply the balm to the tribesman next to her, even after her death.

Women and the surviving men of the two tribes buried their fallen, shed tears for their loved ones, honored them for their bravery and took pride in their victory. They honored those who lost their lives by keeping them alive through stories passed down generations. Legend of the losing battle which was saved by a brave and honorable young woman was told and retold across the land with pride.