Enduring Freedom, page 17
Finally, the jingle trucks inside the PRT compound had been unloaded and rolled back out. Instead of walking all the way back to the gate, Joe climbed in and caught a ride as Baheer’s uncle drove them up the path between the coils of wire, winding sharply back and forth around high concrete barriers, a set of obstacles designed to force vehicles to slow down so they couldn’t drive straight through the gate. “I don’t know how it is with you all, if you have to stay home after a certain time, but next week, next Saturday, a bunch of us guys are going to watch this movie Star Wars. Have you heard of it? It’s this old movie about spaceships and light swords and stuff, at eighteen hundred—six o’clock. We have a TV set up and someone bought the DVD at the bazaar back in Kandahar. We just gotta wait till next week so we’re not on guard duty. You’d have to be searched again, but my commanders said you could join us.”
Baheer smiled. “I have not heard of this movie. It has always been hard for us to watch movies. Mostly we like Indian movies. The singing. The dancing. Amazing.”
Joe laughed. “Yeah. I’ve seen parts of those.” So cheesy and melodramatic. “Whatever you’re into.”
“Tashakor, but I am pretty sure we have a delivery to make at the United Nations compound near the bazaar next Saturday night. I am very busy with my studies and helping with the truck business. It helps when I am a translator.”
“All right, buddy,” Joe said as the truck stopped at the gate. He opened the door and climbed down. “Good talking to you. See you next time your truck comes in.”
Farah, Afghanistan
September 28, 2003
It was almost one o’clock when Baheer’s English teacher, Ustad Ahmadi, finally entered the class. Afghans were not as obsessed with clocks as Americans. Many Americans would yell if a truck was even ten to fifteen minutes late. Afghans did things more when the time was right, not when a watch or alarm clock said it was time. Still, their teacher was extra late today. It wouldn’t have mattered to Baheer except it was one of those bright September days with a clear sky and weather—no wind, not too hot or cold—that would have pulled him toward sleep even if he were fully rested.
He was not fully rested. After Baheer returned home from the farm the night before, his father had told him he’d received word that the Americans had somehow acquired a civilian flatbed truck. “Maybe they took it in a raid on the Taliban or from some highway robbers,” Father had said. “The point is, they have no use for it and are willing to sell it. I’ll need you to help me deal with them.”
Baheer had studying to do, but Baba Jan had pointed at Baheer, his hand noticeably missing two silver rings with precious stones he’d always worn before the family bought their first truck from Omar’s father. “Your English is good. The Americans listen to you. If your father and your uncle Kabir try to deal through the Americans’ interpreter, we’ll be cheated.”
The deal had taken longer than they’d expected, and when they got the flatbed truck home, Father needed his help checking it over to see what repairs might be needed. It was late by the time Baheer was done working and studying.
“OK students. Go to page fifty-four!” Ustad said. Baheer sat up straighter and shook his head, trying to focus through his fatigue. “Today we are going to talk about all three forms of conditional sentences. Sometimes these are called ‘if clauses’ and . . .” He took almost half an hour explaining the rules, writing a formula on the blackboard for each form. Baheer and the other students took notes. This was great material. Ustad Ahmadi had a clear way of teaching that let Baheer see when he had recently said something in English in a way that was not quite right.
Rahim sat next to him, but sitting was all he did. He took no notes, asked no questions. Rahim’s English sounded more and more like a conversation with a very small child. He is wasting his opportunity. Already Baheer’s learning was helping him and helping the family. Sometimes Baheer was too busy translating for his uncles on truck runs to American bases to get stuck with farm work. But more than that, he’d been able to help get the family into the truck business. Baheer knew the American curse words, knew how the soldiers talked, and how much they hated the Taliban, all useful for getting better terms from them.
The night before, when he was bargaining with the Americans for the flatbed truck, Baheer told the truth, about how he hated the “mother-ducking” Taliban, too. His intentional error made the American soldiers laugh and shake Baheer’s hand. He told the truth about how he wanted to use the trucks to help the Americans and build up Farah Province. In the end, the stupid rich Americans had agreed to Baheer’s ridiculously low first offer. Most Americans were good people, but all of them were terrible at bargaining.
His new skills in English and in mathematics were helping to make life better for Baheer and his family far faster, and with less physical pain, than farm work. That was one reason he loved the private English classes he and Rahim took every day after the regular school day. He watched Ustad Ahmadi at the front of the room, so passionate at teaching. Baheer knew in that moment that, somehow, he would teach at a school or university. He might open his own school, Insha Allah. By helping people learn, he would be transforming them into their better selves, into people who were the opposite of the Taliban, people who had hope and knew kindness.
This, Baheer thought. Classes like this are the best hope for Afghanistan. He’d thought this before. He’d said this before. Lately, he’d made the mistake of voicing these ideas around Rahim, who had only mocked him.
“Baheer, it is your turn,” Ustad said.
Pay attention! Baheer told himself. You’re bad as Rahim. Every day, Ustad asked one person to present, in English, a news story he’d heard from the BBC News radio channel.
“Yes, sir.” Baheer stood up with his notebook. On the chalkboard he wrote “September 28, 2003.”
“Last night’s BBC News was about George Bush, the president of America, and Tony Blair, the prime minister of England. They discussed working to build a new Afghanistan.
“More important, yesterday, the Farah Department of Education inaugurated a new building in Merman, Nazoo Girls’ High School, which was partially funded by the PRT, er, the Provincial Reconstruction Team at Farah. This is the first and very famous high school for girls in the city. Fifty girls have started their studies there. But because there were no experienced women for principal, a former boy school’s teacher is principal. Nevertheless”—Baheer hoped he’d used that big English word correctly—“more and more girls are going to school than ever before. I hope someday all the girls and boys can go to school. Thank you!”
The students and teacher clapped, except for Rahim, who merely yawned. Baheer returned to his spot on the floor.
Rahim leaned closer to him and whispered, “Man, there’s a war going on and you talk about girls in school.”
Finally, after their teacher’s warm encouragement and a brief reading assignment in English, class was dismissed.
After the private English class had ended, Baheer and Rahim headed toward their bikes. As usual, Rahim hurried much faster than Baheer. Good. Race home as fast as you can, Brother. Baheer didn’t like those rare days when Rahim stayed with him the whole way home. Then Baheer couldn’t even glance at Mystery Girl.
They’d never spoken, and yet he and Mystery Girl seemed to understand each other. As if in answer to his thoughts, there she was, walking beneath the twisted old tree next to the dry irrigation ditch. And there was that warm, nervous feeling in his chest. As she passed, no more than a meter and a half away, he could almost feel a spark of electricity coming from her. He heard her giggle, just a little bit, and the sweet sound almost made him drop the bike he was walking.
But there was more than that. She’d been carrying an English textbook. She was studying English, just like him. He remembered Killian’s letter from an American girl he liked. Killian had said it was a new Afghanistan, suggesting, without outright saying it, that Baheer should write a letter to Mystery Girl. But he’d told Killian the truth. That was not done in Afghanistan. If anyone else found the letter, the resulting punishment would be extreme. But if he could write to her in English, very few people would be able to read it. If questioned, she could say it was her homework. English was a perfect secret code.
Baheer smiled and turned to look back, but Mystery Girl was gone. He rode away on his bike, excited about his new plan.
Back at home, he dropped off his bike and changed into his work clothes, finding Rahim already changed and Maryam waiting for his notes from school.
“What took you so long getting back?” Rahim asked. “I’ve been waiting a long time. The main irrigation channel on the north end has collapsed a little, and it won’t dig itself out.”
“I’m hurrying,” Baheer said.
Maryam smiled at him. “I hope you wrote everything down,” she said. “Last time you left out key points, and then you were annoyed when I had to ask you questions.”
“I didn’t get annoyed.” Baheer handed over his whole schoolbag.
“I was annoyed,” Rahim said. “I was, because it’s all so much of a waste of time.”
Maryam snatched Baheer’s schoolbag and squeezed his arm. “Thank you, dear brother,” she said. “And you, my other dear brother. You need to find a break. Working that farm like a mule is making you grumpy.”
“She may be right,” Baheer said when the two of them were out on the street. “I’m sorry if I haven’t been helping enough. I’ll try to do better.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Rahim clapped Baheer on the shoulder. “It’s just that we never seem to catch up on the farm. And school . . . for example, today in English class. Three types of conditional clauses? I don’t understand.” Baheer was about to offer to help, but Rahim quickly continued. “I hate the stupid language. What’s wrong with our own language?”
“Nothing, but knowing English—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Rahim said kindly. “Is that OK? I need a break from it.”
“Sure.” Baheer stopped outside the door to the compound the Americans had once occupied. “I only need to stop here quickly to see how the new truck is doing.”
Rahim sighed, but Baheer was already knocking. A moment later their father opened the door, grease smeared on his cheek and his clothes dusty and stained. “Assalamu Alaikum!” He waved with a large wrench. “My son, I don’t know how we managed to get this truck all the way back to Farah last night. Bullet holes have this thing leaking all over.”
Their first truck took up a lot of room in their compound but still fit. When they had bought their second truck, they needed more room. So the family began renting the old American compound. Now they had three trucks, barrels of fuel and oil, tools, tires, and even some freight waiting to be transported that they were storing there. For the first time in months, Father and his uncles seemed cheerful and hopeful. And with the trucks just on the other side of the wall from their own compound, it was easier to guard from thieves or intruders.
“I didn’t know you knew how to fix trucks,” Rahim said to Father.
Baheer nodded. Their father was an excellent carpenter. He could make wood do anything, take any shape. But working on this old flatbed truck seemed completely different.
Father spun the wrench around a couple of times. “For a man to make it in Afghanistan, he must have many skills and can’t be afraid to try new things.” He started back toward the truck, patting a dusty bullet-hole-riddled fender. “But don’t worry. We will get this truck repaired. Your uncle Kabir thinks we’ll be able to profit more from the rug business using our own trucks. He’s working on the numbers in the house. Your grandfather is in there, too, talking to Haji Dilawar about something. I don’t know what, though.” Father pointed toward the house in the other half of the compound. “He has some contracts in English that he would like you to try to read.”
“Come on, man.” Rahim tugged at Baheer’s sleeve. “We have work to do at the farm. You can’t translate now. We need to work while we still have daylight.”
Baheer shook himself free as he led the way to the house in the other half of the compound. The place had been transformed since the Americans left. He stepped up on the concrete porch. The sandbags had been removed. The trench over by the wall had been filled in.
“It’s illegal. It’s dangerous. It’s un-Islamic,” Baba Jan said inside the house.
Baheer stopped himself just as he was reaching for the door handle. He met Rahim’s raised-eyebrow look.
“Illegal?” said the other voice.
“Haji Dilawar,” Baheer whispered to Rahim, who shrugged.
Haji Dilawar continued, “Who is to say what is legal? Who writes the law? The puppet government of the Americans? My friend, did we worry about what was legal according to the government the Russians imposed on us? Never! What is different, I ask you? Infidels are infidels.”
What could they be talking about? Baheer wondered. Something was very wrong here.
“We came right here to this compound and asked the Americans to leave after two weeks. They answered with respect and said they would move in two days! You were there! The Russians would never have done this. The law aside, it is dishonest and dangerous.”
“There is no danger,” said Haji Dilawar. “My brother’s friend was paid to transport supplies for the Americans. The Taliban paid him three times what the Americans paid for him to drive his truck down to Zaranj in Nimruz Province to a giant compound on the north side of the city. They took the cargo, beat up the driver a little bit, gave him a black eye and split lip only. Then, when the Taliban broke into the shipping container and found out he’d been transporting explosives and ammunition, they paid him an additional five hundred American dollars!”
The Taliban have a whole truckload of American explosives? Nothing good can come of this.
Rahim gripped Baheer’s arm hard. “We should go. Now,” he whispered. “This doesn’t concern us. We don’t want to know about this.”
“The Americans would suspect him,” Baba Jan said.
“What if they did?” said Haji Dilawar. “They can do nothing. So many trucks get robbed, nobody could sort out which were real robberies and which were drivers plotting with the Taliban. The Americans still paid my brother’s friend. He made five times as much money for the one delivery.”
Rahim pulled Baheer hard, away from the door. “Now!” he whispered with fury. “No good Afghan listens to the conversation of others this way. And we don’t want to know anything about this.”
They were already to the truck-lot side of the compound. “Rahim, did you hear what he—”
Rahim pushed him a little, glancing nervously at their father, who was working under the flatbed truck. “No,” Rahim said bitterly. “And neither did you!”
Rahim reached for his arm again, but Baheer batted his hand away. “Stop it. What’s the matter with you?”
His brother called to their father, “We’re going to the farm now!”
“OK,” said their father. “I will lock the door in a moment.”
Baheer had to run a little to catch up with his brother. “But this is terrible,” he said quietly. “If they’ve stolen—”
“Be quiet!” Rahim said. “Like I said. We don’t know anything about it. We’re not involved. You think you are so smart in school, almost to the head of the class line. Fine. Be smart about this and forget it. It has nothing to do with us.”
Was that true? Surely Baba Jan was right. Stealing trucks, being dishonest in business dealings. These were not the ways of a good Muslim. What did the Prophet Mohammad (peace be upon Him) say about keeping deals with infidels? All Muslims should keep their transactions clear regardless of who they are dealing with. Baheer couldn’t remember the exact words, but Baba Jan had once quoted something like this. Surely Baba Jan wasn’t about to let the family try to make extra money by turning over their cargo to the Taliban? It was wrong, and far too dangerous.
And no matter what the Taliban claim, they are about as Islamic as the Americans. Baheer kicked a rock, sending it skittering through the dust along the road. No, the Taliban are somehow less Islamic than the Americans. The Americans don’t torture innocent Afghan kids like the Taliban.
“I know what you are thinking, Brother,” Rahim said after a long silence between them. “You want to tell the Americans what you imagine you know.”
Had Baheer been thinking that? Not in any serious way. “I wasn’t—”
“It’s bad enough to make money transporting American supplies. But if you tell them what you believe you heard, and the Americans use that information to attack the Taliban, the Taliban will find out somehow. They’ll find a way to punish you and our whole family. We thought they were gone forever, but we’ve both heard the stories of Taliban cells returning to Farah Province and other parts of Afghanistan.”
“I never said I was going to tell anyone anything,” Baheer said. “But what can the Taliban do? The Americans have them on the run. They will not come after—”
“Baheer! You are the dumbest smart person I have ever met!” Rahim grabbed Baheer by the shoulders, standing close and looking him in the eye. “I don’t like the Taliban either. I’m certainly not sad when the Americans bomb them. And I don’t want the Americans or anyone else getting hurt. But we can’t be in the middle of this. It is too dangerous. I know you think the Americans are your friends, but they pretend to like you only because you act like they do. You dress in their clothes for school and you speak their language. Those soldiers—what’s his name? Killan?”
“Killian,” Baheer corrected.
“Killian,” Rahim said. “He talks to you only because he is stuck here where his government sent him. You yourself have said that he talks all the time about going back to America. When he goes, he will forget about Afghanistan and about you.” Rahim thumped his own chest. “I am your brother. You and I are brothers, together forever. As your brother, I am asking you—I am asking you, in the name of the Prophet Mohammad (peace be upon Him), please do not tell anyone what you heard today. We owe the Americans nothing. They are not our friends. This is not our fight.”
