Free The Honey Thief by Najaf Mazari, Robert Hillman

as a demonstration of the agony that his people live with. But to kill himself without shedding a drop of his enemies’ blood seems without purpose. He could kill one of the generals who murdered Hazaras, but generals are always surrounded by soldiers. He could kill one of the King’s family, so that the King would know what it felt like to lose someone he loved – one of his sons, one of his daughters.
    Or he could kill the King himself. The idea is so shocking that Abdul Khaliq draws in his breath and releases it slowly. He is amazed at his own boldness, and yet before enough time has passed for him to think of what might follow the assassination of the King, to reconsider, he has accepted that this will become his mission in life: to murder Mohammad Nadir. But it is not Mohammad Nadir he will be killing; it is a symbol of the oppression that the Barakzai family has subjected the Hazara to for fifty years.
    Of course, he too will die; he, Abdul Khaliq will die. He accepts his destiny in the same dreamy way that he accepts the death of the King. He will be shot down by the King’s soldiers within seconds of the assassination.
    In our time, suicide missions are in the news every day. A young man, occasionally a young woman, is fitted with a vest of explosives, makes a journey to a certain target, then counts down the last two minutes, the last twenty seconds of his life, of her life. It is thought by some that these young men and women have been comforted by the belief that an eternity of bliss awaits them; that the gates of Heaven will be opened wide to admit them, and that rose petals will be strewn by angels along the path leading them to a throne of glory. But the prospect of being welcomed to Paradise is not the true solace of those who accept suicide missions. Their first comfort is that they will have stood up to injustice. Then the young men and young women think of those who will be left behind; of their families, provided for by those who have encouraged them to strap on a vest of explosives; they think of a better life for their brothers and sisters, who will be given a full education; they think of their grandparents, who will be offered an electric fan to cool them in the summer months, and an armchair, a television set, a new set of dentures, medical treatment for hypertension, a good pair of spectacles, a flushing toilet.
    Perhaps their fathers and mothers will be comforted in their grief not by electric fans and dentures and armchairs, but by the praise they will hear all over their neighbourhoods for the sacrifice that has been made; for the blow that has been struck against a callous enemy. A suicide mission is a bargain struck between the young man who accepts his premature death, and his community. It is not a bargain with Heaven, although Heaven plays its part.
    Abdul Khaliq’s plan is not a suicide mission, in the way that we have come to understand such missions. He has chosen only one man as his victim, not some dozens of people in the midst of a crowd. He has not been granted a licence to murder by a mullah. This is simply an argument between Abdul Khaliq and a man whose family have for decades murdered Hazaras in their villages. Nor will Abdul Khaliq’s family be rewarded in the way that the families of modern suicide bombers are sometimes rewarded. Just the opposite. A number of them will be hanged. Others will be thrown into prison for the remainder of their lives.
    Abdul Khaliq cannot afford to think about the fate of his family. It has been announced that Mohammad Nadir will visit his school on 8 November 1933. The King will shake the hands of students who are graduating; students who might have a further opportunity to enter Kabul’s university and study to become historians, doctors, lawyers. Abdul Khaliq is himself a graduate of the school. He will have the opportunity to shake the hand of the King. But he is not thinking of the honour of meeting the King. Certainly he is not thinking of