Enduring Freedom, page 11
Joe frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the village they were about to pass. About seven boys in big loose shirts and pants, the same pajamas that all Afghan boys and men seemed to wear, were watching the convoy roll by. “Hey, kids!” Joe shouted. “Catch!”
Joe tossed the tennis ball in their direction.
The boys screamed. They shouted in their language and ran as fast as they could away from the ball.
“No! No! It’s OK!” Joe shouted.
The boys sprinted barefoot across the rocky barren ground. Then the ball bounced. Bounced again.
As quickly as they’d run away, the boys reversed direction, their feet skidding in the dust, and they scrambled for the ball.
What had these boys experienced or heard about Americans that had made them so afraid of a tennis ball?
In the distance now, off the side of the road behind the convoy, the kids were already racing around with the ball, laughing and playing. Joe smiled a little. All that over a tennis ball. Poor kids. What a country.
The convoy rolled on, eventually leaving the bumpy broken concrete highway for a bumpy dusty dirt road. Since he was in the trail vehicle, Joe was practically showered in a cloud of the gritty Afghan filth. Joe’s back ached between his shoulder blades from the weight of his armor vest. He experimented with leaning his back against the upright gun turret hatch cover, trying to take the weight off his shoulders. It only helped a little bit.
Incredibly, the white station wagon found them again, hundreds of miles and several hours later. This time it sped past them quickly, the Afghans inside it watching them, before the car turned off the crude dirt road and vanished into the mountains.
“OK, be alert up there, Killer,” Corporal MacDonald called up to him after a long time. “We’re approaching Farah. We’re almost home.”
Farah, Afghanistan
June 24, 2003
Baheer skidded to a halt on his bike on the way home from school.
The road ahead was blocked by about twenty armed soldiers. They stood spread in a circle around two pickups and four big tan trucks with machine guns on top. For an instant, his stomach twisted in fright, thinking the Taliban were here, right outside his family’s compound, but then he heard one of them speak: “Donletdatkeedthrew.”
Was that supposed to be English?
The soldier closest to him, the only one among them with dark skin like Baheer’s, held up his hand. “Stop! Oldit!” The American flag was on his shoulder, like the one Baheer’s geography teacher had shown them.
The Americans. They’re actually here. He knew Afghan workers had been hired to build an American base outside of town, but it wasn’t close to ready, and it didn’t explain what they were doing on his street. Still, better them than the Taliban.
All of them held serious-looking guns. Most were longer, but a couple of soldiers held short, bulky weapons with larger drums for bullets. More machine guns? Why? There’d hardly been any signs of the Taliban since that night they’d run away.
Baheer’s legs were shaking. Could the Americans see his fear? Maybe he shouldn’t be afraid, but experience around groups of heavily armed men had taught him to be wary. He didn’t want them to think he was a coward, though. Maybe I know enough English to talk to them.
Before Baheer could figure out what to say, a white Toyota station wagon turned onto the road. The Americans spotted it at once and began shouting. The soldier closest to the car, the fattest one, raised his rifle a little higher, not pointing it at the driver, but making sure it was seen. “Boro!” he shouted. “CantgitthrooheerHajji.”
Is he saying “Haji”? The Americans spoke very quickly and with a heavy accent. But then Baheer was sure he heard the word again from another soldier who was pointing at the car. Why do the Americans care if the driver has ever made the Hajj? Besides, the driver was Omar’s older brother, and he was only nineteen. Baheer was sure he’d never made the pilgrimage.
A cold thought sank deep within him. What if Baba Jan was right? What if the Americans were furious with all Muslims after their country was attacked? Could they be here to hunt down everyone who had made the Hajj to Mecca? Baheer shook his head. That was a ridiculous idea.
The large soldier held his rifle handgrip with one hand, and with his free hand made a motion in the air, like he was miming pushing the car away from them. “Boro! Boro! Eyemnotduckeenjohkeenbahkupbahkup!”
The other Americans were looking around, holding their weapons tight like they were expecting a fight.
Omar’s brother stared at the soldiers, wide-eyed and helpless. He looked to Baheer. Baheer shrugged.
When the large soldier looked like he was going to point his rifle at the car, Omar’s brother backed up a little.
“Thasrigh! Motherduck binollowinus fromKandahar,” said the soldier.
He had understood “Kandahar.” But even though Baheer thought he’d made progress in English class, it hadn’t prepared him for understanding these men. Ducks. He was sure he’d heard “duck.” And “mother duck.” There were no ducks in Farah. But they had also been talking about Kandahar. Something about following maybe? Was that what he was saying? Following from Kandahar?
“My brother says you study English,” Omar’s brother called out his car window. “Do you know what they’re saying?”
“They don’t speak clearly,” Baheer shouted back. “I think they’re calling you a duck. Perhaps this is an insult? I think they believe you followed them from Kandahar.”
Omar’s brother scowled. “I’ve been at my father’s shop in the bazaar!”
“I know,” Baheer said. “I’m as helpless as you. I can’t get home either.”
“Ask them how long they’ll block the road,” said Omar’s brother.
Baheer wanted to talk to them, but his English wasn’t that good, and these soldiers with their guns didn’t look like they wanted to have a conversation. Who did these foreigners think they were, taking over the street and bossing everyone around?
Suddenly, another white Toyota station wagon turned onto the street and pulled to a stop behind Omar’s. Baheer’s stomach tightened. The Americans were becoming more and more agitated. Maybe he should hop on his bike and ride away from there as fast as he could.
A soldier with a green rope of black beads hanging off his chest left his big tan gun truck, pointing back and forth at both cars, saying, “Sameduckingar! Same!” All the Americans laughed. The guy with the prayer beads leaned toward the cars and spoke very loudly and slowly. “Youu wait heeere!” He made a downward motion with his free hand. “Weee”— he made a walking gesture with his fingers—“go inside. Sooon! Under-stand?”
“Yes,” Baheer said aloud without thinking.
Beads Soldier perked up. “DosdisHajispekEnglish?” He stepped closer to Baheer, who forced himself to stay still. “Engleesi?”
“English, yes,” Baheer said. “A little bit.” He wondered if it was a good idea to talk to these guys.
“Weeee aaaare goooing in theeeere,” the soldier said. He pointed at the big steel gate of the compound next to Baheer’s compound. “Sooooon. You. All. Stay. Back.”
“It is no problem,” Baheer said. But it was a problem. This soldier must have been lying. They were building a base outside of Farah. Why were they entering a residence?
A group of soldiers came out of the compound. One of them shouted “Clear!” and gave a thumbs-up. The large guy responded with a strange word, “Rocherdat.”
“Chee mega?” Baheer whispered in his own language. What did he say?
With a piercing creak, the steel gate opened and, one by one, all the trucks entered the compound. Just before the last truck rolled inside, the darker-skinned soldier waved at him and said, “Salaaaaam!”
Baheer looked around to see if the American was really talking to him, but there was nobody else on the street. Both cars had already hurried toward their homes. Baheer nodded at the soldier and then made his way toward his family’s compound.
Once he was inside the walls of his home, Baheer ran toward Baba Jan’s house.
On the way, he found Maryam watching their cousins Sapoora and Moniba playing hopscotch.
“Hey. Why are you running?” Moniba asked.
Baheer slowed for a moment, pointing at the west wall. “There are Americans right in the next compound.”
“What?” Sapoora almost screamed. She went for her scarf and covered her head and face as she was the oldest of Baheer’s cousins. “Cover your head,” she said to Moniba and Maryam.
Maryam watched the west wall. “They aren’t looking at us. We’re fine,” Maryam said, although she pulled her scarf on her head anyway.
“We’ll all be fine,” Baheer said. After the Americans’ aggressive ways in the street, he couldn’t be sure. But if they intended harm, why had they bothered explaining to Baheer where they were going? If they came here to hurt people, why wait? And surely they hadn’t come to hurt little girls. “Keep playing. I must tell Baba Jan.”
“Baba!” Baheer shouted seconds later, bursting into the study.
“What’s the matter? Calm down,” Baba Jan said, rising to his feet. After taking a moment to catch his breath, Baheer relayed the news to his grandfather.
“We wanted to escape the war,” Baba Jan said. “Now the war is next door.”
Baheer hadn’t even thought about the danger—the Taliban attacking with the Americans so close—and of his family being caught in the crossfire.
Baba Jan raised his hands. “O Allah. Please rescue us from this curse. We once lived with a talib next door. We escaped. Now, Americans are here. O Allah, keep us safe as you kept us from the curse of the Taliban. Ameen.”
“That’s why all that work was done in the compound over there,” Baheer said. “To make it ready for the Americans.” But why weren’t they just moving into their base outside of town? Were they some kind of spies?
From the other side of the wall a mechanical roar started. Probably an electric generator. A moment later a second screaming engine added its noise to the first.
Worst spies in the whole world.
Baheer and his grandfather exchanged a look. “Baba Jan, we have the worst luck with neighbors.”
The roar of the American generators continued all night. Baheer doubted if anyone in the neighborhood had slept very much. He hadn’t.
On the way back from the bazaar the next morning, where he’d picked up a bundle of naan and three Zam Zam sodas as a treat for himself, Rahim, and Maryam, Baheer slowed as he approached the compound next door. The soldier with the beads-rope dangling from the front of his vest stood with his head and shoulders visible over the wall. Baheer frowned, hoping they weren’t looking over the wall into his family’s compound.
But then he realized this could be his chance to make a difference, to make his English classes come to life by practicing with this American. The foreigner didn’t seem to be in a hurry like he had last night. Baba Jan would probably disapprove of him talking to the Americans, but he hadn’t told him not to. Anyway, the soldier didn’t seem dangerous. He seemed preoccupied.
“Hello!” Baheer finally said. The soldier stood up straight, and Baheer could see the rifle slung from his shoulder, his hand on the weapon’s grip near the trigger.
Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he is dangerous.
The American stared at Baheer. He didn’t aim his rifle at him, but he didn’t relax either.
“Salaaaaam, rafiq,” the soldier finally said.
His Persian was bad, but Baheer got it.
The soldier looked up and down the street.
Don’t just stand there, Baheer. Say something. Anything. “You are Americans, yes?”
“Yeswadouuwan?” he responded.
Baheer didn’t understand, but it was clear the American wasn’t happy.
The sun was crushingly hot. Baheer held his hands up over his forehead to shield his eyes. “Can you . . . speak slowly more? Please?”
“Yuuerdatkeedndabieklasnite! Wenweefursgoheer!”
Baheer shook his head.
The soldier spoke slowly and clearly. “You’re that kid on the bike last night. When we first got here.”
“Yes.” Baheer laughed. “I see when you come. Can I ask question?”
The guy sighed. “Sure. I got plenty of time.”
“Why are you all talking about ducks?” Baheer had been wondering about this since last night.
“Ducks?”
“Yes,” said Baheer. “Many of you say ‘duck’ and one of you is calling Omar’s brother a mother duck. There are no ducks.”
The guy burst out laughing. Baheer thought he had made a mistake in his English.
“Is a duck funny?” he asked.
The American looked around as if he didn’t want others listening to his conversation. What was the big deal about ducks?
“Thanks, man. I needed that. But we weren’t saying ‘duck.’” He explained the word and its many meanings, pronouncing it slowly, starting with an F. “That’s one of our meanest curse words.”
“Oh!” Baheer said. “I am understanding now!” Baheer bit his lower lip. This should never ever be spoken of in front of others. These Americans were sick.
“Yadoneversaydattoon American,” the soldier said. “Yoomiendupshot.”
Baheer couldn’t understand him, so he pointed to the soldier’s beads. “For to pray? The beads?”
The soldier chuckled. “No. They are pace beads, to keep track of how far I’ve walked on a patrol.”
Baheer had never heard of anything like that, but then he didn’t know much about these foreigners. I don’t even know this guy’s name. He asked.
The soldier slapped his name tape on the front of his uniform. “PFC Killian.”
“Your name is PFC—”
“My rank is private first class,” he said. “My last name is Killian.”
“That is your family name?” Baheer wondered why someone would tell only his last name. Baheer didn’t even have a family name. Afghans said their first name with their father’s name if asked.
“Yes. I’m not telling you my first name.”
“Why will you not tell me this?” Baheer stepped into the shadow near the wall, trying to escape the punishing heat.
“Because none of you need to know that information.”
Were all the Americans this rude?
“Get away from the wall,” Mr. Killian said.
“What?” Baheer asked.
Mr. Killian leaned over to look down at him. “Back away from the wall,” he said louder.
“Why are you wanting me to do this?” said Baheer. “It is very hot today. I want to be in the shade.”
“Yeah, I know it’s hot! I’m stuck out here in the sun, too. In this heavy armor. I’ll survive. So will you. Boro! Boro! Back. Away. From. The. Wall . . . Now!”
These Americans were so arrogant and ignorant. Normal people would never act this way.
He searched his mind for the right English words to explain this. “This is not good” was all he could think to say. “I am not hurting your wall.”
“What’s your name?” Mr. Killian asked after a moment.
“My name is Baheer.” At least he could answer like a normal person.
“Nice to meet you, Baheer.” He reached down behind the wall and produced a small green thing wrapped in plastic. “Have a candy.”
He tossed it to the dusty ground. Did he do that on purpose? Like I’m some kind of animal?
On the other hand, maybe Killian had tried to throw it to him. Baheer picked it up and smiled. “Thank you. I will enjoy this.” There was just one more thing he had to try to talk to the American about, or else what good was Baheer’s English? “May I ask? How you say? You Americans have very loud noise. All night. A loud machine. For electricity?”
“Our generators, yeah,” Killian said.
“Can you be turning these off at night please?”
Killian shrugged. “Sorry, man. Those generators power our computers and everything. The officers—um, my commanders, say they must stay on. I’m sorry.”
“It is no problem,” Baheer said, unsurprised, but still disappointed, with his response. “But I must return home.”
Killian nodded and wiped the sweat from his face. It was morning, but already very hot. At least Baheer had the right clothes for the heat. The soldier looked miserable in his tight uniform and heavy vest. Hot, sweaty, tired, and tense, like he was expecting trouble from the Taliban or—No. Could he possibly be afraid of me? Is that why he told me to back away from the wall? Is this guy scared? It seemed impossible, but then if Afghanistan had an army and sent Baheer to America, or even to Iran or Pakistan, to fight, he knew he’d be afraid.
Baheer looked at Killian for a long moment. He’s thousands of miles from home, he’s miserable, and despite his fellow soldiers and all his weapons, he’s worried about an attack at all times.
Baheer reached into his cloth bundle and produced the plastic bottle of orange Zam Zam soda, so cold that the bottle glistened wet in the bright sun. “You like?” Baheer reached up to hand Killian the Zam Zam.
The soldier frowned for a minute, then looked behind him before leaning way down over the wall and reaching out to take the bottle. He looked it over, inspecting the seal.
“Zam. Zam?” Killian asked.
“It is sweet,” Baheer explained. “Bubbles.”
“Soda?” Killian asked.
“Yes!” Baheer said. Had Killian’s brain cooked in that helmet? “It is good for you to drink.”
For the first time in their conversation, Killian truly smiled. He twisted off the cap with a hiss. Then he tipped back the bottle and drank. And drank. He moaned a little and drank and pressed the cold bottle to his forehead. “S’good!”
