Enduring Freedom, page 22
“Yes!” Baheer waved his fist as a football player does after scoring a goal. “I knew it. She is a strong girl,” Baheer whispered to himself like a crazy man. He continued reading.
I was very happy my father change his mind because I wish for school and because I wish to reply to your letter.
I will answer your letter. Yes. I have been giving you signals. I am very happy you have write to me. I always had a question, “Why would you go to farm when all the kids would go to school?” That’s why I want to know that. I was showing my books to you. I mean, I am going to school. Why you are not going? But, when one day, you showed me your books, I feel happy. I thanked Allah that you start school.
And thank you for your saying “my eyes are beautiful.” My mother also tells me this. You look very good person. Study as much as you can.
We must be careful. I hope to read a new letter from you, my Mystery Guy. You said me about your sister. I thought, my life with school is the same. Actually, my mother was a great support. First, you can speak to your mother to convince your father. When my mother spoke to my father, first, he rejected. But I did not give up. Luckily, my father agreed after that. But, my mother played important role. I can’t tell the full story here.
Sincerely,
Ayesha
Her name was Ayesha. It was his mother’s name.
Relax. There is more than one girl named Ayesha. It is not as though it is a sign from Allah. But it did make him think. The Mystery Girl—Ayesha. He barely knew her, and yet he felt proud of her. Baheer hadn’t faced the kind of obstacles to education that she had, but he knew something of the challenges.
And so did his sister, Maryam. She worked so hard to learn all she could from the notes he brought home, but she deserved a chance to go to school. He’d told Maryam so many times that he would do all he could to help, but had he really tried? No. He needed to be brave like Ayesha and try harder to help his sister.
The next night, the family was drinking green tea in Baba Jan’s room at his house as usual. Maryam entered. “Nabegha!” Baba Jan called her a genius, his words sounding like a celebration. “Come here.”
Maryam sat close to Baba Jan. “Come now, my brilliant little walking book of poems. Recite something new you’ve memorized,” Baba Jan said with warmth in his eyes.
“Bale, Baba.” She smiled. She looked up and down, a sort of trick she had as she recalled poems.
Baba Jan leaned back and closed his eyes.
Ask him. Ask him about school for Maryam, you coward! Baheer tried to work up the courage to say something. The school is on the other side of the wall from yours. So many other girls are attending.
She began reciting Maxim 81 from Sa’di’s Gulistan:
A sage was asked: “Of so many notable, high, and fruitful trees which Allah the Almighty has created, not one is called free, except the cypress, which bears no fruit. What is the reason of this?” He replied: “Every tree has its appropriate season of fruit, so that it is sometimes flourishing therewith, and looks sometimes withered by its absence. With the cypress, however, neither is the case, it being fresh at all times, and this is the quality of those who are free.”
Place not thy heart on what passes away, for the Tigris
Will flow in Baghdad even after many Khalifas have passed away.
If thou art able, be kind like the date tree,
And if thy hand cannot afford it, be free like the cypress.
Baheer knew this poem. It was about not being bonded too much to temporary or meaningless things. If Maryam is to be free, shouldn’t she be allowed to go to real school?
Baba Jan patted Maryam’s shoulder before he kissed her cheek. He smiled. “Wasn’t this from the last chapter of the book?”
“Yes. Baba Jan. I have finished reading it.”
“This is my nabegha.” Baba Jan looked all around the room.
“Baba?” Baheer said. His heart pounded. Baba Jan’s anger was not something to be taken lightly.
“What, bachem?” Baba Jan asked.
“We can send her to school, where she can learn even more than this.” The words were out almost before he’d made the decision to take the risk and speak. They could not be taken back.
Baba Jan did not say a word. All his aunts and uncles stared silently at Baheer. Uncle Feraidoon shook his head sadly, as if Baheer were condemned.
Baba Jan looked around the room. He was silent for a long time. “No,” he said quietly. “I can’t let her go.”
Baheer wanted to ask why, but he couldn’t. Fortunately, he didn’t have to ask.
“I’d like to say yes, but our people are not yet open-minded. All the relatives would start talking bad about me. They would say that I let my girls go wild in the downtown.” He shook his head. “I can’t let that happen. I can’t let my dignity and honor be questioned.”
“I will take her to school every day on my bike,” Baheer said. “The school is right on the other side of the wall from ours.”
“No. It’s the bottom line. No.” Baba Jan’s voice changed and Baheer could see the anger in his eyes.
Baheer could not understand how a man like Baba Jan, with all his appreciation for literacy, who was obviously delighted with Maryam’s learning, could be so stubborn about letting girls go to school. His stated reasons didn’t make sense to Baheer.
Maryam didn’t say a word. Who would, when Baba Jan was angry? The whole time, Maryam looked down, rubbing her fingers.
Everyone remained silent for quite a while. Eventually Maryam ran off. Baheer followed her quickly.
He caught up to her just before she entered her room.
She turned to face him, forcing a smile. “It’s fine.”
“I’m sorry. I will try again. Don’t worry,” Baheer said.
“I knew he wouldn’t let me go to school. I’ll try to at least keep reading around the house.” She ran into her room.
The next day Baheer and Rahim arrived on the farm as usual, but as soon as they opened the compound gate Baheer knew today was anything but normal. “Oh no.”
“What happened here?” Rahim said.
The vineyard was smashed, plants chopped, torn up, and thrown everywhere. Irrigation channels were crushed and filled in. The diesel pump for the well was shattered into pieces on the ground. “Someone did this on purpose,” Baheer said.
“This destruction is too much work for one man,” Rahim said. “And look at the many footprints.”
Baheer dropped to his knees in the torn-up dirt and shredded plants. All the work they’d done for the spring planting. Destroyed.
“Who would . . . Why?” Baheer asked.
“People know our family has been working for the Americans, and someone doesn’t like it,” Rahim said. “This is a message. We better go tell Baba Jan.”
At first the brothers rode their bikes home very fast, but before they’d gone even halfway, Rahim slowed down. “There is no use in rushing now. The damage to the farm is already done.”
As they rode home, Baheer couldn’t get the image of their destroyed work out of his mind. Was Rahim right? Had the farm been attacked because they worked for the Americans? Cold dread tightened his chest. Was it because of our trucks or was it because of the information I turned over to Killian? “No, no, no,” Baheer whispered. What if this is all my fault?
Back at home, the two of them rolled right across the compound on their bikes. Baheer’s legs were shaking when he dismounted outside Baba Jan’s house.
“But Haji Dilawar is a good man,” Uncle Kabir said inside.
“Of course he is,” Baba Jan said. “I do not say he is much involved with them, but his brother is more deeply connected to the Taliban than Haji Dilawar says. I wouldn’t be surprised if Haji Dilawar is storing weapons for them.”
“We don’t know that,” said Uncle Feraidoon. “We should not speculate.”
Rahim grabbed Baheer’s arm hard and yanked him inside. “Come on,” he said sharply. “Enough of this.”
“What are you boys doing here?” Baba Jan said sharply as soon as they entered. “You should be on the farm. Anyway, don’t sneak up on conversations.”
“Bale, Baba Jan,” Rahim said. “But we have bad news.” Rahim waited for Baheer to explain, but Baheer could only look from his brother to his grandfather and back again.
What if this is my fault?
Finally Rahim explained what had happened on the farm. “I think we were attacked because of our work for the Americans.” When Rahim was finished, Baheer expected an eruption of fury from Baba Jan or the other men gathered in the study, but instead a cold silence fell on the room.
Baheer read the looks of worry and even fear on the faces of his father and uncles. Baba Jan stared off as if looking into the far distance. He stroked his beard. “It is early in the season,” Baba Jan said at last. “With enough hard work, we can still produce a good crop. As to who did this, of course we cannot know, but if it is as you say, Rahim, we will not be intimidated. We will continue our business. The Americans may be infidels but they have dealt with us fairly, paying well.”
Baheer’s cheeks flared hot as he remembered the stack of American money he’d refused. Should he have taken it? His family could use it now. He took a deep breath. No. If he truly believed in working for a new and better Afghanistan, he would not do so with dirty spy money.
“If the cowards who destroyed our farm thought we would wither like the plants they ripped up, they are wrong.” Baba Jan stood up. “Now, let’s get changed into our work clothes and go salvage our farm.”
Baheer, Rahim, and the men of the family worked hard restoring the farm that night, as long as the light lasted. Through the next week, with every spare moment the men could muster, they worked to return the farm to working order. “This is the way men should be!” Baba Jan would sometimes shout. “We cannot fail! We’ll get a great crop yet!”
Everything Baba Jan said was meant to uplift them, but it only made Baheer feel worse. Finally the family managed to return the farm to normal, but Baheer never escaped the shame and fear that he was responsible for the destruction.
“Oh man, I’m sorry about that, rafiq,” Killian said the next Saturday, after Baheer had told him about the trouble on the farm.
Uncle Kabir had driven the truck to the PRT that day. The search was complete and now they were second in line within the compound to be unloaded. When this happened, and Killian wasn’t sleeping off a guard shift or away on a mission, the two of them, and sometimes other soldiers, kicked around a football, what the Americans called a soccer ball. But today Baheer was not excited about playing. He half-heartedly kicked the ball back to Killian.
Killian stopped the ball with his foot. “I wish we could get out there, find all these Taliban scumbags and force them to stop messing with everybody. I understand this is a war, and they want to kill us soldiers. That’s fair. That’s what war is. But why won’t they just leave their own people alone?” He kicked the ball back hard.
Before the ball reached Baheer, that THT guy Jase rushed in and stopped it, cheating by using his hands so he could try to bounce it from one knee to another. “Hey, there’s my buddy Baheer!” The ball fell to the dirt. “How you doing?”
Baheer couldn’t fake enthusiasm anymore. Not with this THT guy. “I do not have anything to tell you.”
Jase put his arms up in front of him. “Whoa! This isn’t an interrogation. I was just checking in to see if you’d heard anyone saying anything interesting. Maybe you’ve talked to other truck drivers who—”
“He said he has nothing to tell you, Jase,” Killian said, putting extra emphasis on the man’s name in a way that somehow sounded insulting. “Leave him alone.”
Jase’s smile faded a little and he stood up straight. For a moment, he looked like he might try to fight Killian or at least yell at him. Killian did not have the highest rank, and Baheer knew that most of the time Killian was as respectful of those with higher rank as Baheer was of his parents, uncles, aunts, and grandfather. But there was no respect in Killian’s eyes now. He glared at Jase.
“Let’s go check on your truck, Baheer,” Killian said after a long tense silence. Killian picked up the football, and the two of them left Jase behind. “I hate those THT guys,” he said when Jase was too far away to hear.
“I know!” Baheer said. “Every time they see me here, they ask what I know.” Baheer looked around to make sure nobody was looking. “For months they ask me what I know about the Taliban. I know nothing! A week ago, my grandfather and uncle were talking about Haji Dilawar, a friend of our family who lives on the other side of your old Unsafe House from my family’s side. They were saying they think his brother is too close to Taliban. They think . . . they guess Haji Dilawar stores weapons in his compound. This is nothing! And that’s all I’ve heard besides rumors and news of what Taliban cells have done around Farah Province and the country.” Baheer took a breath. He couldn’t afford to be loud. Those THT jackals could be anywhere. “Sorry, Killian. I should not become angry.”
Killian was quiet for a long moment. “You know . . .” He stopped walking. Baheer stopped as well and looked at him curiously. “Way back at the Unsafe House, I wouldn’t tell you my first name.”
“That is OK,” Baheer said. The Americans did have to be careful about their security. And Killian had orders from his commanders not to share too much information.
“Joe,” Killian said. “My name’s Joe. Joseph actually, so I guess you might call me Yusuf.” He reached out for a handshake. “But my friends call me Joe.”
Baheer laughed and shook his hand. “It is nice to meet you, Joe Killian.”
Farah, Afghanistan
April 15, 2004
The squad was staged up, vehicles prepped and ready, waiting outside the chow hall. Armor, helmets, and all their gear was gathered beside them. They’d just finished chow about an hour earlier, and now they waited to roll out to wherever they were supposed to go. It was the medics’ show. Master Sergeant Dinsler had ordered them all to stand fast while he was working out some last-minute details.
The THT clowns came out of the chow hall. Jase seemed to light up when he saw Joe. “Hey! You guys fixing to go out on a mission?”
“Oh no,” Mac said. “You know First Squad. We just love getting all our gear out so we can stand around the Humvees, just for fun.”
Jase didn’t seem to understand Mac’s joke was at his expense. He laughed.
“Hey, Specialist Killian, can I have a word?” He motioned for Joe to walk with him.
Joe looked to Sergeant Paulsen, who nodded. “Don’t go too far. We’re gonna roll out pretty soon.”
Why couldn’t Sergeant Paulsen just have refused permission? Joe sighed and walked off a few yards with Jase.
“Good job with that HumInt asset,” Jase said.
“Sure,” Joe said. “Now will you finally leave Baheer and me alone about it? We’re not spies.”
Jase moved closer and spoke quietly. “I can’t tell you everything that happened.”
“Good.”
“But some good results. Keep cultivating that HumInt asset.”
“I told you what he told me as an example of how little information Baheer has. And that Dilawar guy is a friend of Baheer’s family. He was supposed to be left alone.”
Jase frowned. “Well, the guys who made the decision about how to deal with the information aren’t the kind of guys who take orders or ask permission from specialists in the Iowa Army National Guard. I’m just saying, good work. Keep it up.”
What did these guys do? I should have kept my big mouth shut.
“What was that all about?” Baccam asked when Joe rejoined the squad. “Still playing spy?”
“No,” Joe said. “Hopefully it’s about nothing.”
Finally Master Sergeant Dinsler and Farida, the new American female civilian interpreter, emerged from the chow hall. It was time to roll out. They didn’t normally do a lot of night missions, but on this four-day rotation of local duty, they had been going out every night driving around on “presence patrols.” These were regularly scheduled cruises for the sole purpose of letting any would-be Taliban know that the Americans were just fine going out at night. Other than those patrols and tonight, there had only been one unexpected night mission, that time they’d been called out for the UN compound bombing. That seemed like a lifetime ago.
Joe rode in the gun turret behind the Mk 19, covering the convoy’s six as they rolled out of the PRT. He marveled at how comfortable and routine this had all become. Even after the UN bombing, the near attack on the Unsafe House, and assorted highway robbers and other minor issues they’d encountered on long convoys, this had all become a routine, a job, a way of life. Sure, he had his night-vision on and scanned his sector, watching for trouble, but he wasn’t all that worried about an attack.
What had happened to him? How could all of this possibly have become normal?
And if this was his new normal, if this soldier guy was now his identity, how would he live after he finally returned home? How do you go from wearing armor and manning machine guns to writing papers and studying for midterm exams?
Do I even want to go back to college? If I want to be a writer, maybe this is the best place to be, riding around with rifles and machine guns and stuff. When Joe had first been called up for this war, it had seemed like a big interruption in his progress toward his writing and journalism dreams. But he was living his best writing material right now. Maybe he should be like Specialist Quinn and request a second deployment, hook up with another unit and stay in Afghanistan.
