Enduring Freedom, page 15
“Wow! You look like the boss in that Indian movie,” Maryam said.
“It’s so neat,” Sapoora said.
“Thank you,” said Baheer. He went toward Baba Jan’s building.
“I thought you didn’t have school until this afternoon.” Baba Jan smiled. “Why are you wearing that?”
Baheer was about to speak when Grandmother said, “Leave the boy alone.”
“I’m just asking.” Baba Jan laughed.
“Baba Jan, I think dressing this way will help when we meet the Americans.” Baheer’s face flared hot. He already felt enough like an imposter without being mocked for his clothes.
“Ah,” Baba Jan said. “Well, let’s hope you’re the expert on the Americans.”
After breakfast, the men from the neighborhood arrived.
“You ready to tell those filthy infidels to leave us alone?” Haji Dilawar patted Baheer’s shoulder. “We need youngsters like you to stand for our people.”
“Tashakor, Haji Saheb.” Baheer smiled.
“We’re all here,” said Commander Anwar. “Let’s go. You’ve talked to these soldiers before?”
Baheer nodded. “Bale, Saheb.”
“Then we’ll follow Baheer’s directions,” said Commander Anwar.
Just a little pressure.
In a few minutes, Baba Jan and ten respected Farah men headed toward the American compound. Baheer felt honored to be among them as Baba Jan gently moved him to the front of the group.
“Stay away from the wall,” Baheer said. “They don’t like us too close.”
“I’ll walk where I wish,” Baba Jan declared.
“You’re right,” Haji Dilawar said to Baba Jan. “These men need to move, not us.”
If that’s how they felt, there was no turning back. The group had drawn the attention of the guard near the gate. Baheer waved at the soldier. “Hello, sir,” he said, keeping away from the wall.
“You talking t’me?” The guard spoke quickly, but Baheer could still understand him.
“Yes, sir. We’d like to talk to your . . . um . . . manager,” Baheer said. He knew “manager” wasn’t right, but he couldn’t remember the correct word and hoped the soldier would understand.
“We don’t have a manager.” The soldier laughed. “Maybe you wannatalktoourseeay guy?”
The soldier spoke too quickly, and he mumbled, but whoever the soldier was talking about was probably the man they needed, so Baheer pretended to understand. “Yes, sir. That would be good.”
The guard spoke into his radio, probably some kind of Army code. Baheer couldn’t understand him. A moment later, he asked Baheer, “Who’re you?”
“We are your neighbors.” Baheer nodded at the elders behind him.
“Neighborstheysay. Yes. One of them speaks English,” the guard said into the radio. “Y’all can come to that small gate.”
Baheer motioned for the group to follow him, smiling a little when they did so. “They asked us to come to the small gate,” Baheer told them.
A few of the men nodded, as if impressed Baheer had gotten them this far.
The gate opened and a big soldier waved them in.
“Come. One. By. One.” The soldier pointed at a short wooden stool. “Talashi.”
“You want to search,” Baheer said in English, entering the compound, but his words were lost in the chaos.
The house inside the American compound was not unlike some of the houses in Baheer’s family compound, if a little smaller, but no one he knew would live like this. It smelled like they had ten cows whose manure had never been cleaned, and they’d built a meter-high wall of sandbags along the edge of the concrete porch. In the narrow lane between the house and the far wall was a deep trench and sandbag bunker.
Soldiers watched the Afghans like they were zoo animals. Two of them smoked cigarettes on the concrete guard platform in the far corner. Three green cots were cluttered with blankets, packs, and other gear by the wall. How many men were squeezed in here?
“Stand here. Hands up. Face the gate,” the chubby soldier commanded.
Baheer and his neighbors filed in and stood inside the small area while two soldiers closed the door with a loud clang, locking them all in.
“Sa Waayi?” Baba Jan wrinkled his nose, asking what the man said.
“They must talashi. Follow what I do,” Baheer said.
He volunteered to be searched first, standing on the stool with his hands up. The large soldier hit Baheer’s heel rather hard. Baheer looked back and shrugged.
“Keep your legs wide open,” the guy shouted.
Baheer spread his legs.
The soldier patted Baheer, starting at his ankles, feeling up, up, up between his thighs. He shivered. He recalled the way that harami talib had caressed his face in his old school. Why would they search all the way up there?
The soldier stopped centimeters short of too high. “You’re done!”
“Baba, please stand as I did,” Baheer said.
In ten minutes, the soldier’s hands had wandered over everyone.
“This is no way to treat guests, one’s neighbors,” Haji Dilawar whispered.
“On the radio, the American president said our nations are friends,” whispered another. “This isn’t friendly.”
“I might do the same if I were running a little base like this,” the commander said.
Baheer looked around but couldn’t find Killian. You have to be here. I need your help.
“They’re like animals,” Haji Dilawar said. “Why don’t they clean?”
“They’re savages,” Baba Jan said. “This soldier’s filthy. He smells like an old goat.”
Baheer hoped the Americans couldn’t understand them.
“This way.” Baheer led the others, following the soldier into the small guest room.
The walls and ceiling of the guest room were stained dark. A few blue plastic chairs and a gold-colored sofa were on one side of the long room. The space was too narrow for a proper comfortable guest room.
“Sit down, please,” said the American who had searched them.
Baheer translated.
Baba Jan was reluctant to sit. “The previous owners cooked food or burned trash in here,” he said, looking at the dark soot patches marring the sofa. “This will dirty our clothes.”
Baheer wanted to shout, Do you want to talk to the Americans or no?!
“Let’s spread out my shawl, Haji Saheb,” one of the neighbors said. Baba Jan agreed and, to Baheer’s relief, finally took a seat.
A tough-looking older soldier with a pistol holstered on his right thigh entered the room. The Afghans rose to show respect. Baheer smiled when Killian entered behind him.
“Baheer!” Killian said. “How’re you?”
“Fine,” Baheer responded.
“Please sit down, gentlemen,” the older soldier said. “So, you speak English,” he said to Baheer. “Would you translate for me?”
“Yes,” Baheer said, nodding eagerly. Now we’re finally getting somewhere.
The man spoke slowly and clearly, pausing between phrases to let Baheer translate. “I’m Major Besser, the leader of the Civil Affairs group here. My job is to work with Afghans to see how the United States Army can help. I’d offer tea. Unfortunately, we don’t have tea in this temporary base. Would you gentlemen like coffee instead?”
Baheer translated. The men accepted the offer, as he knew they would. It would have been rude to refuse the offer of hospitality. These men were not rude like the Americans. Killian left to fetch a tray of steaming paper cups, offering one to everyone. Baheer tried a sip and immediately had to struggle not to spit it out. He could tell by the looks on the faces of the other Afghan men that they did not like this coffee either. It was black as night, smelled like death, and tasted like ashes. Baba Jan, the perfect model of proper courtesy, could not even pretend to like it, but he drank it.
Major Besser sipped his drink. “Coffee keeps our Army running.”
Baheer translated, wondering how this Army ever did anything with this sludge for fuel.
“It’s good to meet you men,” said Major Besser. “How can I help you?”
Baba Jan said, “Tell him, we are so happy that they are living in our neighborhood.”
Baheer struggled to hide his surprise at this lie. He told the major, “They welcome you to our neighborhood.”
The major nodded.
“Tell him we don’t mind them staying here, but there are some problems.”
Baheer translated Baba Jan’s words for the major, but he worried Baba Jan was being too bold.
“First,” Baba Jan said, “when you enter or leave your compound, you block the whole street. Second, your generators run constantly. They make too much noise. We see the outside wall is complete on your base near the airstrip. If you don’t mind, would you please move there? We don’t wish to be rude. You needn’t leave immediately. Perhaps you can take your time and move in the next two weeks.” Baba Jan was done.
The other neighbors had been nodding while Baba Jan spoke. Nobody paid attention to Baheer. That was good because it was too long a speech for Baheer to remember and translate.
“Sir,” said Baheer. “They say, because of the street blocking when you come and go, and the constant noise of the generators in the neighborhood, they would kindly request you to move to your new constructed base outside the city.”
“Oh. That’s why you’ve come?”
Was the major surprised or angry? Baheer couldn’t quite tell.
Major Besser sat back, took a sip of coffee, and then smiled. “Tell them we will leave this compound in two days.”
Baheer translated this to Baba Jan and the neighbors. Baba Jan seemed surprised. The men smiled. Several of them nodded respectfully to Baheer.
The major said, “Thank you for bearing with us for so long. Our generators are too noisy. We’re sorry for disturbing you.” He let Baheer translate.
Baheer was puzzled. What had the major meant about bears? He ignored that part, telling the Afghans that the Americans were grateful and also sorry about the noise.
Almost everyone in his group said “Tashakor.” It seemed they were not expecting this from the Americans. Baba Jan looked shocked.
Major Besser asked if the men needed anything else. They said no.
“Please thank him for his time and for this . . . coffee,” Baba Jan said.
Baheer translated and everyone stood up.
Killian smiled at Baheer. “I better start packing.”
Baheer laughed a little.
“Please come see us again if we can help with anything,” said the major.
Baheer translated, and all the men shook hands. Baheer was pleased to see Major Besser seemed to understand the Afghan custom, leaving no one out.
Baba Jan waited until the other men had left the sitting room and then squeezed Baheer’s shoulder. “Ask him if I may speak to him about something else.”
Baheer did so and the major agreed.
Baba Jan looked at Major Besser as he spoke. “If you and your men need any help moving your equipment and supplies from here to your base, I have a large truck. I would haul everything for free.”
Baheer looked at his grandfather wide-eyed for a moment, shocked at the lie. Baba Jan didn’t own a large truck. But Baba Jan nodded at Baheer seriously, so Baheer translated. Before the major could say anything, Baba Jan spoke again. “My truck is in good shape, and my sons are excellent reliable drivers. I guess your supplies are coming in from Kandahar? We know the way well. Would it be possible for my sons to also haul materials to and from Kandahar for you?”
Again Baba Jan allowed Baheer to translate. He was amazed at his grandfather’s boldness, and excited he was taking Baheer’s suggestion from a few days ago.
Baba Jan continued, “I’ve heard from other truck drivers that the rate is two hundred American dollars per trip?” Baheer translated.
Major Besser smiled and nodded. “I think that’s the rate. I don’t handle the supply situation directly, but I can talk to the officer who does. I know he’s looking for more good, reliable drivers. I accept your offer to help us move to our permanent base, but the Army would never let me accept such an offer for free. I’d have to pay you at least one hundred American dollars.”
It took Baheer a while to translate all of that, and he worried the whole time that Baba Jan would be offended by the officer turning down his gift of free help. Mostly, he struggled to concentrate on getting the translation right.
“Good,” Baba Jan said, reaching out for another handshake. “My compound is next door to the west. Please let me know when you all are ready to move and when my sons might start driving to Kandahar for you.”
Major Besser promised he would do as Baba Jan had asked, and a moment later the two of them left the sitting room and joined the other Afghan men in the street. Baheer was burning to ask his grandfather about their supposed truck, but Baba Jan shook his head.
As the group walked down the road, Commander Anwar said, “I didn’t think they’d agree to leave so soon.”
Habib Khan said to Baba Jan, “Haji Saheb, could you imagine going to the Russies and asking them to move? They’d have shot the messengers!”
“The Americans don’t even know basic respect, though,” said Haji Dilawar. “They’re filthy. I must wash the taste of that coffee from my mouth.”
Baheer thought the man was acting petty. The Americans weren’t Afghans. They couldn’t be expected to know proper culture.
Another neighbor patted Baba Jan’s back. “I’m just happy they’re leaving soon.”
Commander Anwar put his hand on Baheer’s shoulder. “We must thank our young translator. Without his help, we wouldn’t have been successful.”
The men agreed, shaking Baheer’s hand, thanking him. They seemed genuinely grateful, looking Baheer in the eye like a man. He felt like one of them.
“My family will be so happy to hear this news,” said another neighbor. “Two days!”
“Yeah. That’s enough,” said Baba Jan. “As the saying goes, no chicken, no feces,” Baba Jan said. He bid farewell to the neighbors and entered their compound.
Baheer followed Baba Jan, bolting the gate behind him. Baba Jan smiled at Baheer.
When he said nothing, Baheer spoke up. “Baba Jan, we don’t own a truck, do we?”
He laughed a little. “I guess I better buy one very soon. There’s a lot of money to be made in driving the Americans’ stuff around.”
“But you said we shouldn’t—”
“Haji Dilawar is right about their filthy way of living and their ignorant, disrespectful ways. But they’re not out to conquer or destroy us like the Russians were. Any army that will apologize and agree to our request that they move is an army we can work with.” He shrugged. “We don’t have to like the infidels, but they do have money. We might as well earn some of it.”
“Bale, Baba Jan,” Baheer said.
“You did a good thing today, Baheer,” Baba Jan said. “Their language is horrible. It sounds like metal clanging on metal. But you’ve studied and learned it well.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “In only two days I’ll be able to sleep in peace.” He laughed as he headed toward his study. “Most powerful army in the world, and they move their base at the request of a boy.”
Baheer felt accomplished and important. The Americans were very strange, but at least they were capable of understanding a logical request.
Farah, Afghanistan
September 15, 2003
Joe never imagined he would miss the Unsafe House, but he wished he was back there now.
“Little more kerosene,” Joe said.
Sergeant Paulsen splashed more fuel onto the burning sewage in the two cut-off bottoms of fifty-gallon fuel drums.
Joe backed away as a fiery mushroom erupted. “No more,” Joe said. “That sludge might burst out of there. I’m dirty enough. I don’t want a burning poop-soup shower.”
“Roger that,” Paulsen said. “Keep stirring, Killer.”
Joe stirred the burning mixture with a metal pole.
This was a rotating duty at the Provincial Reconstruction Team base, more commonly called the PRT. Until the septic system was installed, they did their business in plywood Porta-Johns. Signs were posted telling soldiers to urinate in the PVC pipes angling down into the ground and not in the crappers, but people didn’t obey. This made burning off the waste take longer. They couldn’t dump the stuff in the desert, at least not anywhere near their base, for fear of disease, so they had to stir it to help it burn off. The process smelled terrible.
First Sergeant Dalton had ordered poo-burning shifts begin at 0200 while he slept. Even though it was an insane hour, the one good thing about this duty was that it didn’t take the full guard shift, so after an hour or so, they could go back to sleep.
Major Besser and the officers in charge of their unit had stuck to their pledge and moved from the Unsafe House to the PRT two days after Baheer and all the men from the old neighborhood had asked them to do so.
The Afghans had argued the Americans should move because their base was complete.
It was not complete.
There was the outer wall, a deep well, and one set of concrete-block buildings that would eventually be walled off from the rest of the PRT to serve as office and meeting space for the Civil Affairs soldiers. Eventually Afghan translators would be housed there, too. There was no septic system or latrines, no machine shop for vehicle maintenance, no proper barracks, and no kitchen or DFAC. Cookmaster had to prepare breakfast and supper on his little electric stove outside. The days were always crushing hot, dust blew everywhere, and flies buzzed over everything.
