Enduring Freedom, page 2
The talib answered, a bit quieter than before. “My women.”
“Your women?” Baba Jan laughed.
Baheer’s legs shook. He had never seen anyone speak to a talib this way. He remembered his classmates being beaten or severely punished for doing far less.
“What do you mean?” The talib was even angrier now.
Baba Jan’s sons moved closer to their father. Baheer stepped behind his own father.
Baba Jan continued as if he hadn’t noticed his family’s presence, as if he didn’t need their support. “Look at your window right there!” He pointed at a very small hatchlike window that faced Baheer’s family’s compound. “How do I know your women aren’t watching my men when you are not here? You come to my home tomorrow morning around eleven! I will show you how easy your women could be looking at us! According to Islam, you should first find the truth of the matter, then if something wrong has been done, you punish the wrongdoer! Not before you know the facts!”
“How dare you accuse my women of doing this?” The talib’s voice squeaked a little as he shouted. His forehead wrinkled. “If you were not a white-haired man, I would have you beaten to death and buried right here, and no one would ever know what happened to you.”
Baba Jan thumped his chest. “Do it! Do it, if you have the courage! Or come see tomorrow! I am Haji Mohammad Munir Khan! You know where I live!”
The talib said nothing for a long moment, but his eyes darted from Baba Jan to Uncle Kabir, then at the ground.
“OK,” he said. “He can go. We’ll investigate the matter and talk tomorrow.”
Baheer’s father and uncle untied Uncle Kabir and helped him to his feet. Baba Jan’s fierce gaze remained locked on the talib until his three sons and grandson were heading out of the compound. At last, Baba Jan turned his back on the man and walked out.
“Don’t tell the others about what happened here tonight,” Baba Jan said outside the door of their own compound. “The women and children will be scared.”
“But you invited the man to our compound tomorrow,” Baheer said.
Baba Jan shook his head. “He realizes his mistake. And he is a coward. Deep down, most of the Taliban are cowards. He will not come.”
“Bale, Haji Agha,” said Uncle Kabir. “Tashakor.”
“You’re welcome.” Baba Jan smiled and squeezed Uncle Kabir’s shoulder.
“Bale, Baba Jan,” Baheer said, a warm feeling rushing in to replace the cold fear that had sent shivers through his body the entire time they were in the talib’s compound.
Baheer’s father put his arm around him as the men headed into their compound, safe in their private family world behind the security of their high walls. Baheer watched his grandfather, old but firm and sure, laughing as he walked with Grandmother toward their room. He looked up at the cascade of bright stars in the dark Kabul night, and asked Allah to help him find even a small part of Baba Jan’s courage and wisdom within himself.
Kabul, Afghanistan
September 11, 2001
The next day, Baheer was tired, having had trouble sleeping after the intense events of the night before. From the worrying reports about the death of Ahmad Shah Massoud and Baba Jan’s fears about it, to the talib taking Uncle Kabir, Baheer had been plenty wound up, and even though it was a beautiful sunny day with hardly any wind, Baheer still couldn’t escape the feeling that something was very wrong.
Or maybe he was only dreading school as he always did. “I hate this,” he said, packing his chemistry book.
“What did you say?” his mother asked.
He should not have spoken aloud. His family did not like hearing him complain about school. “Nothing, Mother,” he said. “Only this subject is so difficult.”
She patted his back. “Ask your father for help. He was a great student and wanted to become a doctor. If it hadn’t been for the Russians . . .” She sighed. “The infidel pigs were kidnapping young kids and forcing them to serve in their army.”
“I know the story, Madar Jan,” he said. All Afghans knew and shared it. The Russians and their Afghan puppets had ruined everything. They’d arrested Baba Jan multiple times for praying and fasting during Ramadan. Uncle Kabir had wanted to become a police officer like his father. Baheer’s father had wanted to be a doctor. Uncle Feraidoon had wanted to finish school and learn how to sew. Baheer used to dream of being a teacher or even of writing for a newspaper, but the Taliban allowed no newspapers, and anyway, few could read. As to teaching, the instructors at his school were so harsh, brutally whipping the hands of their students even just for asking questions, and Baheer could never be part of that. The invasion and brutal war had destroyed over two million Afghan lives and crushed countless dreams.
When Baheer and Rahim finally reached the school, four black Toyota Hilux pickups blocked the entrance, their cargo beds crowded with taliban and their guns. Baheer slowed his bike, gripping the handlebars hard. He’d never seen such a big Taliban presence there before.
“Is this about what happened last night?” Rahim asked.
“It can’t be,” Baheer said quietly. “If this was about Uncle Kabir and Baba Jan confronting that talib, why wouldn’t they just come to the house?” What he’d said made sense, but it did not ease his fear.
“Students!” A voice echoed from a loudspeaker on one of the trucks. “School is closed today. Go home.”
The brothers didn’t waste any time questioning what was going on but pedaled quickly toward home and freedom. For once, Baheer had no problem with Taliban orders. He thought about what he might do with his spare time. Maybe he and Rahim could play cricket in the back compound. Or maybe, Baheer thought with a smile, I could sneak a book from Baba Jan’s study, something better than my school books.
As they made their way back to the compound, taliban- packed trucks rolled past them, forcing them to pull their bikes off the road three times to get out of the way. Taliban pickups were parked on almost every corner. Maybe they were getting ready to attack those last areas of Afghanistan they hadn’t yet managed to conquer because of Ahmad Shah Massoud? Fear of whatever the Taliban were up to warred with his elation over school being canceled.
Back home, Baheer and Rahim hurried to tell Baba Jan what had happened. At first he seemed angry with them, either for interrupting his daily reading time or because he thought they’d skipped school. But after he heard their explanation, he looked off into the distance, stroking his beard. “Yes. Well, go play. Let me think,” the old man finally said.
When they’d left Baba Jan’s study, the brothers danced all the way to the courtyard. “No school today,” Baheer sang, and spun around. “Oh no, no, no!”
Rahim tried to do a flying leap like in the Indian movies. “We are freeeee!” he sang.
“What are you two doing home?” Maryam asked. They told her, laughing and trying to get her to join in their celebration. But Maryam would not dance. “You treat this like a joke,” she said. “But you are so blessed to be able to go to school at all. Me? What can I do? Nothing. Try to teach myself from your books. Practice in your notebooks. I’m not stupid, you know. I’d be a great student.” She spun around and walked away.
Baheer took a few steps after her, but Rahim held him back. “Let her go. She doesn’t understand how lucky she is. Anyway, you know you can’t talk to her when she’s like this.”
Rahim was probably right, but Baheer would have liked a chance to try to explain it to Maryam. School here in Kabul wasn’t about learning as much as it was about trying to avoid painful punishment. Maryam wanted to learn. Baheer had been the same way back in Pakistan. Maryam didn’t know it, but she was lucky she couldn’t go to school. Anyway, it made no sense for her to be mad at him. He had no choice in the matter. The Taliban would never allow girls in school.
Baheer and Rahim spent the morning playing cricket. In the afternoon, they kicked around their old, beat-up soccer ball. The black and white was nearly all worn off, but it was still good to play with. Even Maryam came out and joined them. The day was full of fun and freedom.
The next day schools were closed again. As Baheer and Rahim returned home, their father and uncles were leaving the compound toward their shop.
“No school again?” Father asked.
“Yes. They announced the same thing again like yesterday,” Rahim responded before Baheer could even open his mouth.
“OK. Whatever. Come lock the door,” Uncle Kabir said. As usual Rahim locked the gate after they left.
The guys began playing soccer once again. Rahim had possession of the ball, showing off, kicking it side to side, foot to foot. “Get ready! Goal!” He kicked it hard, sending it soaring over Baheer, Maryam, and the compound wall, so that it bounced out in the street.
Baheer didn’t hesitate for one second. It was foolish to leave something as valuable as a soccer ball out in the street for very long. A lot of kids in the neighborhood would love to have it and wouldn’t think twice before taking it. Fortunately, he found the ball quickly.
But as he was walking back, the gates of the talib’s compound opened and out thundered a big truck, loaded with old carpets, a few cupboards, and many other household belongings. A group of women in burqas and several children rode in the cab. The talib’s mother, wives, and kids, maybe. The vehicle’s gears made a horrible grinding sound, its engine roared, and then the truck rolled down the street and around the corner, out of sight.
“Why would they move?” Grandfather said when he heard the news. “They only recently arrived. Something is very wrong.”
“Haji Agha?” Uncle Kabir called from the front of the compound. It was strange. They’d just left a couple of hours ago. Why are they back this soon? Is the bazaar closed just like our school? Baheer thought, late that night after dinner.
Baheer’s grandfather waited for his sons to come to him in the study.
“Why have you returned so soon?” Baba Jan must have noticed the worried looks on their faces. “Trouble?”
“I think maybe a lot of it,” Father said.
Uncle Feraidoon unrolled a small carpet. “One good thing about working in this business, no one ever questions why we bring so many rugs home.” He unrolled the rug and revealed a video cassette.
Baheer smiled. “Oh, what are we going to watch?” With the talib next door gone, they wouldn’t have to be quite so careful with the sound.
Uncle Kabir had already returned with the television and VCR. “Our shop neighbor’s son keeps a secret satellite dish.”
“Very dangerous,” Baba Jan said.
By this time, all the adults and the older children had crowded into the study.
“He recorded this a short time ago,” said Uncle Feraidoon. “The American channel CNN.”
“If the Taliban finds this, they’ll murder us all,” said Aunt Toba.
“Be sure to keep the sound down,” said Aunt Sofia.
“I will,” Uncle Kabir promised. “Just rewinding.”
When he at last played the tape, Baheer wished he hadn’t. As the Americans talked in English, the video showed smoke rolling out of a tall building. A moment later, a plane struck an identical tower in a terrible orange-white fireball. Chunks of the building fell to the enormous city below.
“An American movie?” Aunt Zarlashta asked quietly.
“No,” said Baheer’s father. “This is real. Today. In New York City.”
“Allah, have mercy,” said Baheer’s mother. “Those poor people.”
The video continued showing smoke rising from what Uncle Kabir said was the military headquarters of the United States.
“A bomb?” Baheer asked.
“I have heard it was another plane, hijacked and used as a missile,” said Uncle Feraidoon.
Baheer felt a little dizzy. How could this happen? America was one of the most powerful countries in the world. They’d been to space. They had a massive military. And yet this wasn’t their military that had been attacked. “How many people live in New York City?” he asked quietly. “How many are in those buildings?” He looked at Baba Jan, who stared at the screen with a kind of intensity that reminded him of when he’d gone to bring Uncle Kabir back from the talib. Baba Jan had been right yesterday. Something dark was coming. O Allah the most merciful. Please. Please let this not be true. Please help those poor people.
Aunt Sofia and her oldest daughter, Sapoora, cried. Baheer’s mother turned away. Uncle Kabir wiped his eyes. Several gasped as the video showed one of the towers seeming to explode from the top and crash into smoke and ash.
“What kind of godless monster could do something like this?” Baheer’s grandmother asked. “This is evil.”
They watched the second tower collapse, and since Baheer had studied English in Pakistan, he tried to understand what the Americans were saying, but they spoke too quickly. More words rolled by at the bottom of the screen. He tried to read them, but again, they moved too quickly. He could understand some parts of their phrases and some of their words, though.
“I think . . . Several times they’ve said the word ‘Muslim’ and ‘Islamic,’” Baheer said. “Often with a word like ‘extreme.’”
“What does it mean?” Baba Jan looked at him intensely. “Quiet, all of you, so the boys can try to understand what they’re saying!”
The terrible footage repeated, and the Americans continued talking about it. Baheer listened. It was one thing to score ten out of ten on an English quiz, but another to make sense of what these upset people were saying. He kept hearing another word repeated, though, and when he heard it, he caught a look from his grandfather.
“They keep saying something in Arabic. Their accents make it hard to understand.”
“‘Al-Qaeda,’” Baba Jan said.
Finally, the photo of an Arab man appeared on screen. He looked fiercely into the camera, wearing a tight white turban, a long black beard, and a green and brown camouflage jacket. Baheer read the name, written in English letters. “‘Osama bin Laden.’”
“This man,” Baba Jan said. “This Saudi maniac. He is responsible.” Baba Jan was breathing heavy through his nose again. “The Americans are furious. They’re going to blame us for this.”
“We had nothing to do with this attack,” Aunt Zarlashta said.
“Look at him!” Baba Jan shouted and hurried to put on his white turban. “The Americans won’t care that he’s not Afghan. These monsters who attacked them claim they are Muslim, so the Americans will think this murder is part of Islam.”
Baheer’s father spoke up. “The Prophet—”
“Is a mass murderer in their eyes!” Baba Jan shouted. “They will see no difference between me and that man. Would you?” He tugged his beard. “When the Russians ravaged our country, do you think the Mujahideen took pity on a young Russian boy who had just arrived here and not yet committed any crimes? No! They killed every Russian they could, because Russians were killing us. The Americans see people who claim to be Muslim killing them, and they will kill all Muslims!”
“Why would Americans kill us?” Maryam muttered. “Why would these people kill Americans in the first place?”
“Don’t worry, Sister,” Baheer said. “Nothing is going to happen.” They were bold words. Baheer tried hard to believe them. The fear in Maryam’s eyes mirrored what Baheer felt inside.
Baheer’s grandmother put her hands on her husband’s shoulder and spoke quietly to him.
Baba Jan nodded. “Yes. You little ones. Somaya, Roma, and Yusuf? Off with you. Don’t worry. Allah will keep us safe. I will keep you safe.”
“What do we do?” Uncle Kabir asked when the kids had gone.
“If the Americans do bomb us, they will start here in Kabul, the capital,” said Baheer’s father.
“Maybe no trouble will come to Afghanistan,” said Uncle Feraidoon. “Look around Kabul. What else is left to bomb?”
“We could go to Farah,” Uncle Kabir suggested. “Uncle Mohammad Saeed Khan lives there. He could help us. Farah is nowhere. Nobody cares about it. They wouldn’t bomb there.”
“I am an old man,” Baba Jan said, speaking more quietly than before. “I have seen all of this before. The Lion of the Panjshir tried to warn the West. He warned them about these Arabs working with the Taliban, but they would not listen! Now it is too late. The Americans will come, like the Russians came. They will kill us, as the Russians did. They will bomb everything. The schools will be closed, people banned from gathering together or leaving their homes. They will torture our elders and our children just like the harami Russians! Think what the Russians did to us, and after we did nothing to them. Imagine how much worse it will be from the Americans who think we have killed their innocent people. I have . . . I have seen all this before.”
Baheer tightened his muscles to keep from shaking, thinking about what it would be like to suffer the kind of attack Baba Jan feared. He imagined streets of fire, the walls of every compound across the city blown to pieces. He tried to focus on the one light of hope in all this. The Americans were welcome to close the school. He hoped they’d bomb the building and destroy all the books so he wouldn’t have to go back to that torturous place ever again.
The horrible tape reached its end.
“Shall we watch it again?” Uncle Feraidoon asked.
“No,” Baba Jan said. “We’ve seen enough. We’ve all seen far too much.”
Riverside, Iowa, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
September 11, 2001
It was only first period, and one of the World Trade Center towers had collapsed, the other was burning, and Lower Manhattan was full of smoke and fire. Joe Killian held a tight, angry grip on the edge of his desk in Mr. Kane’s journalism class, watching the TV in disbelief like everyone else. Several thousand people were dead in the most horrific, surreal day of his life. His senior year of high school, like the whole world, had been completely altered in just a few hours.
