In the afternoon, Mortenson changed some money and hired another jeep from a devout father and son who agreed to make the two-hour trip to Khan’s headquarters in Baharak, as long as Mortenson was prepared to leave immediately, so they could arrive in time for evening prayer.
“I can go now,” Mortenson said.
“What about your luggages?” said the boy, who spoke a few words of English.
Mortenson shrugged and climbed into the jeep.
“The trip to Baharak couldn’t have been more than sixty miles,” Mortenson said. “But it took three hours. We were back in country that reminded me of the Indus Gorge, creeping along ledges over a river that wound through a rocky canyon. I was glad we had a good vehicle. All those SUVs Americans drive are made to get groceries and take kids to soccer practice. You need something like a real Russian jeep to get over that kind of terrain.”
Twenty minutes before Baharak, the river gorge opened into lush benchland between rolling hills. Bands of farmers blanketed the slopes, planting poppies on every arable surface. “Except for the poppies, we could have been driving up the mouth of the Shigar Valley,” Mortenson says, “heading for Korphe. I realized how close to Pakistan we were and even though I’d never been in that spot before, it felt like a homecoming, like I was among my people again.”
The town of Baharak reinforced that feeling. Ringed by the snowy peaks of the Hindu Kush, Baharak was the gateway to the Wakhan. The mouth of its narrow valley was only a few kilometers to the east, and Mortenson was warmed with the knowledge that so many people he cared about in Zuudkhan were so close by.
The driver and his son drove to Baharak’s bazaar, to ask the way to Sadhar Khan’s home. In the bazaar, Mortenson could see that the people of Baharak, who grew, rather than trafficked, opium, lived in a subsistence economy like the Balti. Food in the stalls was simple and scarce and the overburdened miniature donkeys that carried wares to and from the market looked unhealthy and underfed. From his reading, Mortenson knew how cut off all of Badakshan had been from the world during the reign of the Taliban. But he hadn’t realized just how poor a place it was.
Through the middle of the market, where the only other traffic traveled on four hooves, a well-worn white Russian jeep rolled toward them. Mortenson flagged it down, figuring anyone who could afford such a vehicle in Baharak would know the way to Sadhar Khan.
The jeep was packed with menacing-looking mujahadeen, but the driver, a man of middle age with piercing eyes and a precisely trimmed black beard, got out to address Mortenson.
“I’m looking for Sadhar Khan,” Mortenson said, in the rudimentary Dari he’d coaxed Kais to teach him on the drive out of Kabul.
“He is here,” the man said, in English.
“Where?”
“I am he. I am Commandhan Khan.”
On the roof of Sadhar Khan’s compound, under the browned hills of Baharak, Mortenson paced nervously around the chair he’d been led to, waiting for the commandhan to return homjuma prayers. Khan lived simply, but the apparatus of his power was everywhere apparent. The antenna of a powerful radio transmitter jutted up beyond the edge of the roof like a flagless pole, announcing Khan’s affiliation with modernity. Several small satellite dishes were trained toward the southern sky. And on the rooftops of surrounding buildings, Mortenson watched Khan’s gunmen watching him through the scopes of their sniper rifles.
To the southeast, he could see the snow peaks of his Pakistan, and made himself imagine Faisal Baig standing guard beneath them, so that the snipers wouldn’t unnerve him. From Faisal, Mortenson drew a mental line from school to school, community to community, down the Hunza Valley, to Gilgit, across the Indus Gorge all the way to Skardu, connecting people and places he knew and loved to this lonely rooftop, telling himself he was far from alone.
Just before sunset, Mortenson saw hundreds of men streaming out of Baharak’s plain bunkerlike mosque, which looked more like a military barracks than a house of worship. Khan was the last to leave, deep in conversation with the village mullah. He bent to embrace the elderly man and turned to walk toward the foreigner waiting on his roof.
“Sadhar Khan came up without any guards. He only brought one of his young lieutenants to translate. I know the gunmen watching me would have dropped me in a second if I even looked at him the wrong way, but I appreciated the gesture,” Mortenson says. “Just as he had when he met me in the bazaar, he was willing to tackle things head on, by himself.”
“I’m sorry I can’t offer you any tea,” Khan said through his translator, who spoke excellent English. “But in a few moments,” he said, indicating the sun sinking behind a boulderfield to the west, “you may have whatever you wish.”
“That’s fine,” Mortenson said. “I’ve come a long way to speak with you. I’m just honored to be here.”
“And what has an American come so far from Kabul to talk about?” Khan said, straightening the brown woolen robe, embroidered with scarlet seams, that served as his badge of office.
So Mortenson told the commandhan his story, beginning with the arrival of the Kirghiz horsemen, in a dust cloud descending the Irshad Pass, and finishing with an account of the firefight he had passed through the evening before, and his escape under goatskins. Then, to Mortenson’s astonishment, the fearsome leader of Badakshan’s mujahadeen shouted with joy and wrapped the startled American in an embrace.
“Yes! Yes! You’re Dr. Greg! My commandhan Abdul Rashid has told me about you. This is incredible,” Khan said, pacing with excitement, “and to think, I didn’t even arrange a meal or a welcome from the village elders. Forgive me.”
Mortenson grinned. And the tension of the terrible trip north, if not the dust and goat smell, melted away. Khan pulled a late-model satellite phone out of the pocket of the photographer’s vest he wore under his robe and ordered his staff to start preparing a feast. Then he and Mortenson paced circles in the roof, discussing potential sites for schools.
Khan’s knowledge of the Wakhan Corridor, where Mortenson was most anxious to begin working, was encyclopedic. And he ticked off the five communities that would benefit immediately from primary education. Then Khan catalogued a sea of schoolless girls, far more vast than anything Mortenson had imagined. In Faizabad alone, Khan said, five thousand teenaged girls were attempting to hold classes in a field beside the boys’ high school. The story was the same, he said, across Badakshan, and he detailed a vast litany of need that could keep Mortenson busy for decades.
As the sun slipped behind the western ridges, Khan placed one hand on Mortenson’s back as he pointed with the other. “We fought with Americans, here in these mountains, against the Russians. And though we heard many promises, they never returned to help us when the dying was done.”
“Look here, look at these hills.” Khan indicated the boulderfields that marched up from the dirt streets of Baharak like irregularly spaced headstones, arrayed like a vast army of the dead as they climbed toward the deepening sunset. “There has been far too much dying in these hills,” Sadhar Khan said, somberly. “Every rock, every boulder that you see before you is one of my mujahadeen, shahids, martyrs, who sacrificed their lives fighting the Russians and the Taliban. Now we must make their sacrifice worthwhile,” Khan said, turning to face Mortenson. “We must turn these stones into schools.”
Mortenson had always doubted that the entire life a person led could flash before him in the moment before death. There didn’t seem to be enough time. But in the second it took to look into Sadhar Khan’s dark eyes, and then through them, as he contemplated the vow he was being asked to take, Mortenson saw the rest of the life he had yet to live unreel before him.
This rooftop, surrounded by these harsh, stony hills, was a fork where he had to choose his way. And if he turned in the direction of this man, and these stones, he could see the path ahead painted more vividly than the decade-long detour he’d begun one distant day in Korphe.
There would be new languages to learn, new customs to blunder
through before they could be mastered. There were months of absences from his family, scattered like blank spots on the bright canvas that stretched before him, this sunlit prospect that rose like an untrodden snowfield, and dangers he couldn’t yet imagine, which loomed over his route like thunderheads. He saw this life rising before him as clearly as he’d seen the summit of Kilimanjaro as a boy, as brilliantly as the peerless pyramid of K2 still haunted his dreams.
Mortenson put his hands on the shoulders of Sadhar Khan’s brown robe, as he’d done a decade earlier, among other mountains, with another leader, named Haji Ali, conscious, not of the gunmen still observing him through their sniperscopes, nor of the shahid stones, warmed to amber by the sun’s late rays, but of the inner mountain he’d committed, in that instant, to climb.
K2 photographed by Mortenson during his failed 1993 attempt at the summit.
Mortenson (third from right in cap) with Scott Darsney (far right) and expedition leaders Daniel Mazur (second from right) and Jonathan Pratt (far left) before taking on K2's challenging West Ridge route.
Mouzafer Ali, the renowned Balti porter who led Mortenson safely off the Baltoro Glacier.
Haji Ali, the nurmadhar of Korphe village, and Mortenson's mentor.
Mortenson in Tanzania with sisters Kari (standing), Sonja, and family friend John Haule.
Mortenson, with Sir Edmund Hillary (center) and Jean Hoerni, whose donation established the Central Asia Institute, at the American Himalayan Foundation dinner where Mortenson met his wife, Tara Bishop.
Led by Sher Takhi, the men of Korphe carry roof beams for their school eighteen miles, after landslides close the only road up the Braldu Valley.
The Korphe School under construction.
Mortenson with students of the Khanday School.
Inauguration of the Hushe School.
Mortenson with supporters and members of CAI's staff in Skardu. Front row, kneeling: Saidullah Baig (left), Sarfraz Khan; back row, standing (left to right): Mohammed Nazir, Faisal Baig, Ghulam Parvi, Greg Mortenson, Apo Mohammed, Mehdi Ali, Suleman Minhas.
Mortenson with wife, Tara Bishop, and daughter, Amira, age nine months, at the Khyber Pass. This image was used for a family Christmas card, with the caption “Peace on Earth.”
Syed Abbas, supreme leader of northern Pakistan’s Shia, and key supporter of Mortenson’s mission.
Mortenson and Twaha in Korphe, at the grave of Twaha's father, Haji Ali.
Mortenson with Korphe's children.
The Lower Hushe Valley.
Aslam, nurmadhar of Hushe village, with his daughter Shakeela, the Hushe Valley's first educated woman.
Relin with Ibrahim, an elder of Hushe village.
Jahan, the first educated woman of the Braldu Valley, in Skardu, where she is continuing her studies.
Mortenson briefing U.S. representative Mary Bono on the latest developments in Afghanistan.
Relin, at President Musharraf's personal helipad in Islamabad, preparing to leave for a visit to the Northern Areas in a Vietnam-era Alouette.
Mortenson with Sadhar Khan, commandhan of Badakshan.
Acknowledgments
When your heart speaks, take good notes.
—Judith Campbell
It is my vision that we all will dedicate the next decade to achieve universal literacy and education for all children, especially for girls. More than 145 million of the world’s children are deprived of education due to poverty, exploitation, slavery, gender discrimination, religious extremism, and corrupt governments. May Three Cups of Tea be a catalyst to bring the gift of literacy to each of those children who deserves a chance to go to school.
All the pages of this book could be filled with acknowledgments to the thousands of incredible souls who were a vital part of the creation of this story and book. I regret—and will lose many nights of sleep—that I cannot acknowledge each one of you in this limited space. Thank you for blessing my life and know that a tribute to each of you lives on in the education of a child.
The coauthor of this book, David Oliver Relin, persevered for two years to bring Three Cups of Tea to fruition. Without you, this story in its entirety never would have been told. Shukuria Relin sahib.
A special thanks to Viking Penguin editor, Paul Slovak, who worked diligently to guide this paperback edition to completion, and for patiently heeding our multiple requests to change the hardcover subtitle version of “One Man’s Mission to Fight Terrorism and Build Nations… One School at a Time,” to the present Penguin paperback subtitle, “One Man’s Mission to Promote Peace… One School at a lime.
Viking Penguin publicist Louise Braverman provided extraordinary assistance that helped Three Cups of Tea become a bestseller. Thank you for your eternal optimism. Thanks also to Susan Kennedy (President, Penguin Group (USA)), Carolyn Coleburn (Viking publicity director), Nancy Sheppard (Viking marketing director), and Ray Roberts (the original Viking editor of this book).
Our literary agent, Elizabeth Kaplan, was a stalwart force that guided Three Cups of Tea for two years from a mere proposal to full publication. We are forever grateful for your support.
Thanks to the devoted “Montana women” at the Central Asia Institute (CAI) office, Jennifer Sipes and Laura Anderson, who work diligently for our grassroots mission to bring education to more than 24,000 children. A special thanks also to Christiane Leitinger, the director of the “Pennies for Peace” program that builds bridges between children halfway around the world.
CAI Board Directors Dr. Abdul Jabbar, Julia Bergman, and Karen McCown, are a vital part of our endeavors. Thanks to you and your families for your steadfast support, encouragement, and commitment through the years.
To Jean Hoerni, Haji Ali, and Christa—this is to humbly honor your legacies!
Our unlikely, indefatigable CAI staff in Pakistan moves mountains tirelessly to keep the ball rolling. Bohot Shukuria to Apo Cha Cha Abdul Razak, Ghulam Parvi sahib, Suleman Minhas, Saidullah Baig, Faisal Baig, Mohammed Nazir, and in Afghanistan, Sarfraz Khan, Abdul Waqil, Parvin Bibi, and Mullah Mohammed. May Allah bless you and your families for the noble work you do for humanity!
To my beloved friends, mentors, elders, teachers, guides, and brothers and sisters in Pakistan and Afghanistan: there are no words adequate to express my gratitude, except to say that each of you are a star that lights up the night sky, and that your loyalty, ardor, and perseverance bring education to your children. Shukuria, Rahmat, Manana, Shakkeram, Baf, Bakshish, Thanks!
Thanks to my grandparents, Regina Mortenson and Al and Lyria Doerring, for their wisdom. Thanks to my sisters, Sonja and Kari, their husbands, Dan and Dean, and their families for their love and tribal loyalty, which bring true meaning to “family values.”
As a child in Tanzania, my parents, Dempsey and Jerene Mortenson, read fastidiously to us at bedtime by candlelight and, later, electricity. Those stories filled us with curiosity about the world and other cultures. They inspired the humanitarian adventure that shaped my life. My mother’s lifelong dedication to education is an immense inspiration. Although cancer took my forty-eight-year-old father in 1980, his legacy of compassion lives on forever in our spirits.
What motivates me to do this? The answer is simple: when I look into the eyes of the children in Pakistan and Afghanistan, I see the eyes of my own children full of wonder—and hope that we each do our part to leave them a legacy of peace instead of the perpetual cycle of violence, war, terrorism, racism, exploitation, and bigotry that we have yet to conquer.
To my amazing children, Amira Eliana and Khyber, who give me courage, unconditional love, and the hope that inspires me to try to make a difference, one child at a time.
Most of all, I owe immeasurable gratitude to my incredible wife, Tara. I’m glad we took a leap of faith together. You are an amazing companion, confidante, mother, and friend. In my frequent absences over the eleven years of our marriage—to the rugged Pakistan and Afghan hinterland—your love has made it possible for me to follow my heart
. I love you.
—Greg Mortenson
Neelam Valley, Azad Kashmir, Pakistan
November 2006
I’d like to thank Greg Mortenson, both for telling me one of the most remarkable stories I’ve ever heard, and then for inviting me to tell it to others. I’d also like to thank Tara, Amira, Khyber, and the entire extended Mortenson/Bishop clan, for making my frequent visits to Bozeman such a family affair.
Brigadier General Bashir Baz and Colonel Ilyas Mirza at Askari Aviation not only arranged for me to reach some of the most remote valleys of the Northern Areas, they also helped me reach at least a rudimentary understanding of the challenges currently facing Pakistan’s military. Brigadier General Bhangoo flew me to the high-altitude treasures of the Karakoram and Hindu Kush in his trusty Alouette and entertained me late into the night with high-minded conversation about his country’s future.
Suleman Minhas sped me past police barricades and into the most interesting areas of Islamabad and Rawalpindi, where, with great good humor, he helped an outsider to see more clearly. Ghulam Parvi worked tirelessly as both tutor and translator, making the rich culture of the Balti people bristle with life. Apo, Faisal, Nazir, and Sarfraz anticipated and catered to my every need as I traveled throughout the Northern Areas. Twaha, Jahan, and Tahira, along with the other rightly proud people of Korphe, helped me understand that isolation and poverty can’t prevent a determined community from achieving the goals it sets for its children. And, repeatedly, relentlessly, the people of Pakistan proved to me that there is no more hospitable country anywhere on earth.