Enduring Freedom, page 14
I’ve enclosed a book. I know you prefer nonfiction, but this old favorite was at the bookstore. Our teacher read it to my sixth-grade class. I loved it more than anything. So I’m sending it to you. I hope you like it.
Please stay safe. I want to hear all about your tour (IF you feel comfortable talking about it) when you get home.
Love,
Krista
As he tucked the letter away, Joe missed his sister more than he thought he ever would.
He tipped the envelope upside down and a paperback novel slipped out.
Bridge to Terabithia.
The cover was a painting of a boy and girl beneath a large tree. All that green looked so beautiful, Joe had to wipe his eyes. Here in the Unsafe House, everything was a shade of brown.
The title sounded familiar somehow, though he’d never read the book. It had one of those gold seals on the cover, the . . . John Newbery Medal . . . so somebody thought it was good. Besides these few letters and sporadic emails, this was all he’d had to read for the longest time.
He balled up his uniform top for a pillow. Then, lying on his back, he began to read.
Krista was right. Bridge to Terabithia wasn’t Joe’s usual choice of book, but he absolutely loved it. To hold a book in his hands again, to feel the smooth pages at his fingertips, to smell the paper—that scent of hope and endless possibility—to drift into the blessedly faraway world of the story, leaving everything else behind, was, in that lonely place, like a first precious gasp of air after finally surfacing from a deep, dark lake. It felt like he was coming alive again.
The Army provided enough food and water for him to stay alive, but the book’s first pages helped him realize that it was not enough to simply exist. Human beings require more, or they begin to die inside.
And in Bridge to Terabithia Joe found so much more. From time to time, he copied into his notebook lines that particularly moved him. “He thought later how peculiar it was that here was probably the biggest thing in his life, and he had shrugged it all off as nothing.” He thought about the war, about how he was in the middle of the biggest experience of his life, and how most days he couldn’t even comprehend that. He only struggled to stay awake on guard duty, to endure the pain in his back from the weight of his armor, to keep his weapon clean and ready. He hadn’t been in Afghanistan very long, but Joe doubted he would return the same person he was. If he returned.
By some miracle, Joe had enough time to read the whole book in one sitting. The Unsafe House, Afghanistan, and the war all faded away as Joe read. And as he turned the last page, he blinked back his tears, certain of three things: Katherine Paterson was one of the greatest writers of all time, her beautiful book had saved him, and he must not let the guys see him crying.
“OK,” Joe whispered, when he had finished. As long as kids like Jesse and Leslie, the main characters in the book, could have such meaningful, life-changing friendships, then he could keep going. One more day. Then another.
Sergeant Paulsen came into their room. “You OK, Killer?”
Joe took a deep breath and sat up. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”
“That’s good, because we have a dismounted neighborhood patrol in one hour.” He woke everyone and issued orders to be geared up in forty-five minutes. “Drink a lot of water. Gonna be hot walking around in full battle rattle.”
“It’s times like this,” Shockley said, rubbing his eyes, “the leadership should be stabbed in the face.”
Normally, Joe would have also been frustrated, but as he downed a bottle of water and checked his ammo pouches to make sure the rounds in his magazines were clean and ready to fire, he wasn’t upset. He didn’t feel like he was really there, in the war. He couldn’t stop thinking about the beauty of the language and of the friendship in that book.
Later, his squad walked down the middle of the street in squad column formation. Sergeant Paulsen had point. At equal intervals a couple meters back and to the left and right were PFC Baccam with the SAW and Corporal Mac. Joe kept his spacing, back and to Mac’s right.
Staff Sergeant Cavanaugh and Second Lieutenant Riley marched in the middle. Sergeant Hart, Specialist Quinn, PFC Z, and Specialist Shockley formed an opposite arrow covering their six.
Joe was supposed to scan their three o’clock sector for hostiles, people with guns who looked like they were about to shoot. Instead he saw curious or bewildered Afghans watching them marching down the middle of the street. Lieutenant Riley had warned them to stay alert. He even had Z and Mac carrying AT4s, just because, in his words, “We want the locals to know we have firepower.”
Joe knew he should be focusing on watching for danger, but his thoughts kept drifting to Bridge to Terabithia. The kids in that book were growing up poor, and all around him in Farah were people living in poverty the likes of which he had never seen or imagined.
After a few blocks, they turned the corner and passed an old Soviet tank. You sick Commie monsters. What kind of fight had it taken to stop that thing? How many Afghans died kicking out the invaders? Tens of thousands? Millions? And now, if what his leadership said was true, some of the Afghans had risked their lives preventing a Taliban attack on the Unsafe House. Whatever he had once believed, or had forced himself to believe, he now had to admit that these were brave people. The Farah police could have simply allowed the Taliban to carry out their attack. He owed them his life. And he hadn’t forgotten Baheer’s kindness.
A group of kids playing soccer in the street moved aside and waved. Many of them lacked shoes. One small girl wore only the shabbiest green dress. She looked with amazement at the soldiers and offered a shy smile.
Joe took a deep breath. That little girl, like those kids playing with the yarn and shoebox across the street—all these kids . . . they were not the enemy. They couldn’t possibly be, and no amount of anger over 9/11, or similar hatred Joe might manufacture to help him shoot the enemy if the time ever came, could continue to delude him into thinking these people really were the enemy. They were more of a victim of the Taliban and Al-Qaeda than he would ever be.
A line from Bridge to Terabithia echoed through Joe’s head. “He felt that it was the beginning of a new season in his life, and he chose deliberately to make it so.”
He was exhausted, filthy, in pain, and plenty fearful. Each part of every day was a struggle to reach the next part. But that night PFC Joe Killian felt that something new, something better had begun.
Farah, Afghanistan
August 11, 2003
I will not do it!” Baba Jan’s voice echoed across the courtyard from his study. Baheer slowed down so quickly he worried for a moment that the teapot would fall over on the tray he carried. Baba Jan sometimes liked tea when he was reading, but from what he had just heard, Baheer suspected his grandfather would not be very interested today.
“Father, please listen to us,” Uncle Kabir said. “We need to face the truth of our situation. The family finances are in trouble.”
“We may run out of food this winter,” Baheer’s father added.
“I am listening to you,” Baba Jan said sharply. “Have you no faith? We have faced greater hardships than these, and that land has been in our family for generations. Would you sell your birthright to some lazy slob who will let the land go to waste?”
Baheer froze outside the door to his grandfather’s study. They’re arguing with Baba Jan? And they’re still alive? Baba Jan’s word was law, and they were challenging him. But could they actually convince Baba Jan to sell the farm? Then I’d finally be free of that torturous place.
“The farm is not making enough money,” said Uncle Feraidoon. “In fact it may lose money this season.”
“The boys will work harder,” Baba Jan said. “They will make it profit. I’ll be sure of it.”
Baheer pressed his lips together. Despite the heat of the morning, he felt a chill. He and Rahim worked incredibly hard on the farm. He didn’t understand how they could make the land produce more. Baba Jan was living in the past, holding on to the old family land, trying to live as his family had when he was a boy.
But this was a new Afghanistan. Whatever Baba Jan said about the Americans, however much their generators annoyed everyone all the time, their arrival was a chance for Afghanistan to start again. And when Baheer had seen that truck arrive for the soldiers next door, he’d come up with a plan that might just be the solution to their problems.
But Baba Jan was not in any kind of mood to hear this sort of idea. He distrusted Americans—those infidels, as he called them—even more than Baheer distrusted his teachers back in Kabul. But here at last was a chance, maybe, to put his education, all those English classes to work to help the family.
“The money from the sale would be more than enough to feed us all through winter, with enough left over to fund the business improvements we talked about,” Uncle Kabir said.
“I do not want to hear any more talk of selling our land! My grandfather used to say that owning land is the pride of every man. I am not selling my pride,” Baba Jan shouted. “Maybe the sale would get us through this winter, but what about after that? Hmm? Have you thought of that? No! With our land we can always at least feed ourselves, but without it . . .”
Baheer smiled as the idea came to him. Baba might listen to his proposal if it meant keeping the farm. His history teacher would call it a compromise, and was always saying that this was something Afghanistan desperately needed.
Allah, please help me. Please cool my grandfather’s anger and protect me in what I am about to do. Ameen. Baheer took a deep breath and entered Baba’s study with the tea. “I know how we can fix the family’s financial challenges and keep the farm.”
“You were listening!” Baba Jan thundered, wide-eyed.
“Please forgive me, Baba Jan, but you were all so loud, and I was just now coming with hot tea for you. I could not help but hear.”
Baba Jan stroked his beard for a moment, staring at Baheer.
“Leave the tray and go,” Baba Jan said.
“But Father, can we hear his proposal?” Baheer’s father asked.
Baheer didn’t wait, but with a fast silent prayer in his heart, he blurted out, “A boy in my school, Omar. His father is a mechanic, and he is restoring an old truck. I heard the Americans pay two hundred American dollars per trip to Afghan truck drivers.” He’d heard this yesterday from Killian, but Baba Jan didn’t need to know he’d been talking to the soldier. “They need many deliveries, materials of all kinds, probably even more when their base is complete. If we bought that truck, we could earn money hauling supplies for the Americans.” Baheer let out a shaky breath.
Uncle Kabir shook his head. Uncle Feraidoon closed his eyes. Baheer’s father put his hand on Baheer’s shoulder.
When Baba Jan answered, his voice was even but cold. “You know I do not trust those infidel foreigners. Those harami soldiers think we are dirt. They will cheat us. Or worse.” Baba Jan poured himself a cup of tea. “Now all of you listen to me. Have faith. Allah the Most Merciful will protect us. We will overcome these challenges without working with the new invaders and without selling our land. That is the end.”
The finality was clear in his voice, so Baheer’s father and uncles led him out into the courtyard, closing the door behind them. “It was a good try, my son,” his father said sadly. “But don’t worry. He is at least right when he says we will get through this . . . somehow.”
On his way home from school three days later, Baheer was surprised to find ten elders who lived on their street, including Baba Jan, standing in front of their compound. Most gatherings were in the tea shop or outside the mosque, not here in the street.
“Keep your voice down!” said Habib Khan, who lived at the end of the block. “They’ll hear you.”
“Good!” Haji Dilawar, who lived on the far side of the American compound, shook his fist. “I want them to hear me! This cannot continue. From one side of their faces they say, ‘We want to help you,’ but then their generators run all day and night.” He pointed a shaking finger at Habib Khan. “You do not live next door to them! Only Haji Mohammad Munir Khan and I share a compound wall with them. They look over their walls! You know they do! They do not have good Islamic manners as we do. You know how they are with their broken families and the way their women run wild.”
All the men nodded. Haji Dilawar continued. “They have none of their own women with them, so they try to watch ours. I tell you they must go!”
Baba Jan nodded. “The walls of their compound outside of town are complete. So what if their buildings inside their walls are unfinished. They are soldiers. They can camp!”
Haji Anwar motioned all the men closer to him. They seemed to notice Baheer approaching right then.
“Go on home,” Baba Jan said to Baheer. “This is not—”
“Let him hear,” Haji Anwar said. “He is not a little child anymore. My son was fighting the Russians with me when he was younger than Baheer is now.”
Baheer’s cheeks felt hot. It was an honor for the man to remember his name. Haji Anwar was a legend in the community. In the 1980s he had been a local mujahideen commander, leading his fighters in a vicious battle against the Soviets outside of Farah right where the Americans were building their base now.
Commander Anwar spoke in a quiet, deep voice that made everyone, even Baba Jan, lean in closer and pay attention. “Their beliefs do not matter. They are powerful. The Soviet Union is gone. America remains, even after the country suffered a terrible attack. This is not something to take lightly.”
Baheer watched the man speaking so passionately, saw the other local leaders look at him with respect. It didn’t make any sense to compare the Americans to the Russians. Killian and his fellow soldiers weren’t installing deadly minefields or mowing down Afghans with helicopter gunships. They’d ended Taliban control. And Killian was mostly a kind person. Baheer thought about speaking up, but he dare not interrupt the commander.
“This is not like when we gathered together and persuaded our provincial governor to provide equipment to level the street,” the commander continued. “The American soldiers will not move simply because we want them to.”
At last there was a pause in the conversation. Baheer spoke quickly before he lost his courage. “Excuse me, Com—”
“Don’t call me Commander,” said Commander Anwar. “That war is over.”
You’re a fool, Baheer. Baba Jan will be furious if you insult the men. But it was too late to be silent now. “Has anyone tried to ask the soldiers to move to their base?”
Most of the men laughed. But Baba Jan fixed Baheer with a serious stare. Not necessarily angry, but he was clearly not in the mood to be embarrassed.
“This boy is deewana!” Haji Dilawar boomed. “They have rifles. Machine guns!”
The laughter died down when the commander held up his hand. “We do not share a language, and I’ve heard the Afghan interpreters they’ve hired cannot be fully trusted.”
“They’re being paid to do the filthy infidels’ bidding,” said Haji Dilawar. “How trustworthy could they be?”
“I know English,” Baheer said. He took a deep breath, trying to appear confident. “You can trust me.” Haji Dilawar looked like he was about to burst out with an objection. Baheer, legs shaking, quickly continued, “If we all go together to ask the Americans to move, we might convince them. The worst that would happen is they would say no, and then we’ll be in the same situation as we are now.”
Habib Khan raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Some of the other men nodded. Commander Anwar smiled. “I told you, Haji Munir Khan, he is not a little boy anymore. He is your grandson. The decision is yours. But I say we should do as the boy suggests. Tomorrow.”
Baheer opened his mouth to speak again, preparing to explain his connection with Killian, but Baba Jan placed a hand on his shoulder. “Are we agreed?” The men mumbled agreement, although Haji Dilawar did not look very pleased with the decision. “Bale,” Baba Jan said. “Then we’ll meet here tomorrow morning. This probably won’t work, but if there is any chance of stopping the endless roar of those generators, we must try.”
The men all shook hands with one another, including Baheer, and then went toward their homes up and down both sides of the street.
Baba Jan stopped Baheer just inside the compound gate. “You spoke well to the men. Confident. Well reasoned. But respectful.” Baba Jan stroked his beard for a moment. “Do you think you are ready for this?”
Baheer had been working hard on his English, both in school and in his conversations with Killian. PFC Killian might listen to him, and he could persuade his commanders. Baheer smiled nervously. If this worked, Baba Jan and the neighbors would be very pleased.
“I can definitely do it, Baba Jan,” Baheer said.
“Be ready. Go relax for a while before going to the farm,” Baba said, opening Ferdowsi’s poetry book, Shahnama.
Baheer could not remember the last time his grandfather had spoken about him so kindly. The man did not hand out praise lightly. The compliments almost made Baheer want to dance across the dusty courtyard.
If it didn’t work and the Americans refused to leave, nothing would be gained, but nothing would be lost either. In some ways Baheer felt like his prayers were being answered. Tomorrow morning, there was a chance his education might count for something important in the real world. Thanks be to Allah.
The next morning, Baheer dressed in his school attire—gray khaki pants and a sky-blue shirt—and joined Maryam outside. She was helping their little cousins make mud pies. Baheer smiled, and a part of him wished he could stay home and play.
Don’t go thinking baby thoughts, he told himself. You look like a respectable Westerner. You speak their language well enough. You know at least one of the soldiers. Time to toughen up and give this a try.
