Enduring Freedom, page 6
“Get up and listen to this . . .” Baheer said to Rahim.
“Who cares? Let me sleep,” Rahim mumbled, eyes closed.
“Listen. Ferdowsi says, ‘Capable is he who is wise / Happiness from wisdom will arise.’”
“You talk too much. I don’t care about any kind of wisdom,” Rahim replied.
“How can you not care?” Baheer asked. “Don’t you see? This poetry was among the best in the whole world back in ancient Persian times. It’s an example of the greatness we can achieve. No wonder the Taliban wanted to destroy books like this. They wanted to hold us all back to their own pathetic illiterate standard.”
“That poetry can’t pull all these rogue shrubs from this field for us,” Rahim said. “It’s useless. Maybe the Taliban had a point in banning it. Now let me rest.”
Baheer looked at his brother. How had they become so different in so short a time?
“One day you will know the value of wisdom,” Baheer said.
Farm work continued through the summer. There was always more to do, and although Baheer’s body became more adapted to the work, his spirit became less so. His reading brought him comfort, but it made him long for more and wish that shoveling, planting, and cutting weren’t so often in his way.
On many days, either coming from or going to the farm, Baheer would see the girl who had looked at him before. At first, Baheer ignored her, even when she followed him from a distance or looked right at him. One day she even waved at him, holding up her books as if to show them off. Each time he saw her, his heart beat faster, though whether that was out of fear of getting caught being too familiar with a girl outside of his family or because of her smooth skin, dark eyes, and kind smile, he couldn’t say. But he knew she was always clean, and carrying many books, and he was often dirty, his one book always hidden away until he was sure nobody but Rahim would see. Compared to Baheer, the Mystery Girl was a scholar. She must think I’m just a poor ignorant peasant. The idea bothered him more than it ever had before.
Baheer could tell no one about the Mystery Girl, not even Rahim. His brother had become a different person lately. He was content in their new lives as farmers. Finally, at the beginning of September, Baheer realized he was not. Something must change.
Walking home after a long hot day on the farm, Baheer summoned his courage.
“Rahim, school starts in one week. Let’s ask Baba Jan to get us admission.”
His brother curled his lip in disgust. “Man, I don’t care. You want? Go ask him.” Rahim marched on ahead of him.
Baheer thought about the prospect of school late into the night. Even if the teachers in Farah schools turned out to be as bad as those in Kabul, they couldn’t be worse than the farm work. And besides, the people he’d seen going to the school didn’t appear to be dreading it.
Careful not to wake Rahim, he went outside to sit up on the roof. He remembered what Maryam had told him when he’d chosen work over school. You will regret it. He looked out across Farah and thought of the poem he’d read in Sa’di’s Gulistan:
The clouds, the winds, the water, the sun, and the Heavens are all at work
So, you do not forget their hardships for you, while earning from your work.
He could do something different with his life, something better. It was a new Afghanistan, but Baheer would never be a part of the progress while he was trapped within the confines of the farm-compound walls. He had to try. Tomorrow, he would ask Baba Jan if he could choose the book. He smiled, relaxed, and eventually went back to his room to sleep.
The next day, during breakfast, Baba Jan said,“Eat quickly and go to the farm to prepare the land for this year’s wheat crop.”
Rahim responded, “Bale, Baba Jan.”
“What are you waiting for, Baheer?” Baba Jan looked at him. Although Baheer was done eating, he kept staring at his empty teacup. He couldn’t find a way to phrase his request.
“Hey! Are you alive or not?” Baba Jan said.
“I want to go to school,” Baheer said quietly.
“What? Come again?”
It was Baheer’s worst fear. His grandfather wasn’t happy. “I want to resume school.”
“Why?” Baba Jan asked. “Because the farm work is too hard for you? You want to run and hide in the school? You were not raised to be a weakling.”
“No, Baba Jan,” Baheer said quickly. “It was like you said, last year when you asked us to choose.” Baheer closed his eyes, trying to remember. “‘Read in the name of the Lord who created you. Allah teaches us things we do not know.’”
Baba Jan watched him silently for a long time. “It has been tough for your father and uncles to establish good business here in Farah. We cannot afford to neglect the farm, and—”
“I will work before or after school,” Baheer said quickly, instantly regretting interrupting his grandfather.
“What about you?” Baba Jan asked Rahim.
He responded, “I also want to go. I wanted to tell you, but Baheer said it first.”
Baheer was surprised, wondering what had changed Rahim’s mind.
“OK. I will ask your father to take you today for admission.” Baba Jan spoke with a kind of sigh. “But I expect you both to keep up with the farm, and there will be serious trouble if you come back to me asking to leave school. A real man commits himself fully to every endeavor.”
Baheer went out to the courtyard and thanked Allah for this new chance. He felt like his destiny was calling to him.
“Why haven’t you gone to the farm?” Maryam asked when she saw Baheer still in his room after breakfast.
“Baba Jan’s agreed to let Rahim and me go to school.”
Baheer smiled when Maryam danced in joy.
“Wonderful! This is the best news, my brothers.” Maryam hugged them both.
The joy and excitement were tempered over dinner that night.
Uncle Kabir brought up their recent losses in the rug business. “I don’t know what the matter is. Maybe we’re choosing the wrong patterns or colors. Maybe people in Farah don’t like good rugs as much as they do in Kabul.”
Uncle Feraidoon ran his hands down over his face. “It’s worse than that, Haji Agha,” he said to Baba Jan. “We have to increase the wages almost fifty percent if we want to keep our workers producing.”
“Why?” Baba Jan asked.
“It’s all because a few Iranian rug dealers have come and destroyed everything. Our workers shear the wool from their huge herds of sheep. Until now, they would use them in our rugs. Now, this new dealer has asked our workers to sell their original wool to them for a very good price. Then, these Iranians gave them synthetic, low-quality wool for almost free to weave rugs for them. When I talked to my workers, they said that the Iranian designs are much easier, allowing for a twelve-meter square rug in a week.” Uncle Kabir said.
“How long does it take them for our designs?” Baba Jan said.
“It takes a month,” Uncle Kabir said. “And the workers just asked me to raise their wages by fifty percent. Impossible! From the other side, the harami Pakistan government has increased the import tax on the rugs we sell there. We can’t make a profit there either. And, unfortunately, shipping through Pakistan is the only way to get our rugs to the American market, where the real money is.”
Baba Jan looked meaningfully at Baheer. He worried his grandfather might change his mind about Baheer and Rahim going to school. Would they have to help Uncle Kabir with the rugs or help his father get his carpentry shop up and running? Was Baheer being selfish?
His grandfather drew in a deep breath through his nose, the way he often did before making an important pronouncement.
Here it comes. No school. No chance.
“These are tough times for us,” Baba Jan said. “But we have faced tough times before. We are true Afghans. We are indomitable. We will work hard and keep our faith in Allah. In the end we will prosper.”
As Baba Jan spoke the men seated there for dinner sat up a little straighter. A look of hope returned to their faces. His grandfather could inspire people like that, and Baheer was more determined than ever to succeed on the farm and especially in the classroom.
Iowa City, Iowa, United States of America
January 30, 2003
Nevertheless morale is running high throughout the unit.”
A smiling Army major in a pressed desert-combat uniform stood next to a tan Humvee before an expanse of dry Afghan desert, answering NBC reporter Phil Jameson. “Our soldiers approach every situation with a firm ‘mission first’ mentality, and if the mission requires our deployment to be extended for a few more months, or even years, we are prepared to do our duty in support of that mission, and in support of peace and freedom.”
“What is this crap?” Joe said aloud to the TV. His roommate was out at a party, so Joe had the dorm room all to himself. He was supposed to be reading an essay for his rhetoric class, but the first semester had been so easy it was hard to take the class too seriously. Still, he hadn’t made the dean’s list by being lazy. If he was going to succeed second semester, he had to study. He needed the best grades possible to impress the editors at the Daily Iowan, the University of Iowa newspaper.
“Thank you so much for your time, Major,” Jameson said.
“That’s it?” How could he study with this garbage on TV? He could turn it off, but as a journalism major, Joe wanted—needed—to pay attention to news coverage. If this could even be called news. An Army transportation unit in Afghanistan was all set to return home after its deployment. The soldiers had their bags packed and loaded, ready for the freedom bird to take them back to America. Then they were told they had to stay for another six months. And all Phil Jameson had done to get the story was contact an Army public affairs officer. All the PAO would ever do was regurgitate official Army propaganda.
Joe’s infantry company had been subjected to a PowerPoint lecture from the battalion PAO at November’s drill. It was all about Operational Security, or OPSEC, how they weren’t supposed to reveal sensitive information about troop movements, even in training. And they were not supposed to talk to reporters, but had to refer all questions to the PAO, who would deliver the official position.
But the official position he’d just seen was total garbage. There was no way those soldiers were fine with their extension. He hadn’t been in the Army National Guard for long. He’d only finished his month of infantry training at Fort Benning, Georgia, this last summer, the summer after he’d graduated high school. But he’d been serving long enough to know extending deployment like that would cause serious problems. Oh, the men would follow orders, but morale would not be high.
Joe shut off the TV. It was a little over a year since the 9/11 terrorist attacks, and too much of the country had settled for bland noninformation like this. For the most part, America rolled on as if nothing had happened. They were already debating whether or not to launch the next war. Now here was this Army unit with an extended tour, serving two deployments back-to-back. Other units had deployed, come home, and deployed again.
And Joe’s infantry company had gone nowhere. The officers were planning on the normal two weeks of annual training at Fort McCoy, Wisconsin, this June.
I’m just stuck. The war against the terrorists and their Taliban friends was heating up in Afghanistan. He wanted to be there, reporting on it, telling the real truth about the war. The war would be over before he had a chance to fight or write about it.
The phone on the wall rang. Joe happily ditched his book and rose from his chair. Lindsey, a beautiful girl with curly red hair from his chemistry class, had said she might call. It was still early. Maybe they could meet for coffee or go get something to eat. Joe lifted the handset off the receiver after the third ring.
“Hello,” he said with a little swagger in his voice.
“Private Killian?” A rough voice. Definitely not Lindsey. It was a man from the Guard. But weekend drill wasn’t until the middle of February.
“Yes.”
“This is Sergeant Hodgins.” A pause. “Stampede.”
Joe put his hand against the wall. Cool solid plaster, a crack that ran like lightning beneath his hand. Stupid thing to notice. Get yourself together.
“Stampede” was a code word used to notify a soldier that he was being activated for war. Joe knew this moment might come, had even hoped for it, but the possibility had always seemed so remote. He suddenly felt like he was in one of those drunk-driving-accident videos shown before prom every year, with the kid saying, “I thought it couldn’t happen to me.”
Joe licked his lips. Grateful for the long cord on this old phone, he crossed the room to grab a pen and paper. “I understand.”
“Prepare to copy.”
“Ready.” Joe’s hand shook.
“This is your activation call.” Sergeant Hodgins spoke firmly. “Elements from your infantry company have been selected for federal active duty. During February drill we will conduct mobilization prep and soldier common-task training. We should have our official federal orders sometime in late February and we will report to the armory for zero seven hundred formation on February 15 for two weeks, in lieu of annual training, for more mobilization prep.”
So, they’d moved the two weeks of annual summer training to February.
Sergeant Hodgins continued. “Eventually we’ll deploy to Fort Hood, Texas, for additional training, until proceeding to Afghanistan for a year or more. How copy?”
Joe nodded, like an idiot, then spoke up. “That’s a good copy.”
“Any questions?” Sergeant Hodgins asked.
“Neg—” Joe swallowed. “Negative, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Hodgins sighed. “Prepare yourself. Get your finances in order. Your chain of command will be in touch with further instructions. Sergeant Hodgins, out.”
Joe stood in his quiet room. Loud bass thumped from a passing car outside. A girl down the hall laughed and shouted about the Hawkeyes. Joe knew, even then, that those things were already relegated to his past. The phone call had broken his existence into two distinct lives. He was no longer simply Joe Killian, but Joe Killian before the call, and Joe Killian after.
Joe was eighteen. He’d only been driving for two years. He hadn’t had the opportunity to vote in a presidential election yet. He didn’t feel like a kid, but only eight months ago, he’d been in high school. Now he was going to war.
How do I prepare for this? How does anyone?
Where would he even start? He’d have to tell some people he was leaving, his professors for one thing.
And he’d have to tell his family. How would Krista deal with this? Growing up, they’d fought like crazy, but lately they’d become closer. She could be annoying, but she was more a friend now than a sister. Sometimes she even came to him for advice about high school stuff or about looking ahead to college. After Dad split, Joe tried to look out for her. How could he do that from the other side of the planet?
His mother hadn’t been super excited about him enlisting. Would she freak out now, wishing she made more money so he wouldn’t have felt compelled to enlist to pay for his education? Would she wish she’d refused to sign the parental permission forms for his early enlistment? If he didn’t make it home, would she blame herself?
No. Get yourself together, man. Be a soldier. Forget the feelings and execute the mission.
But a guy going to war could no more avoid thinking about the possibility of death than someone buying lottery tickets could avoid thinking about riches. What was war besides people trying to kill one another? People would be trying their best to kill him.
He might have to kill another human being. He hadn’t been to church in a while. Faith had been hard after his family split apart. But he hadn’t forgotten “Thou shalt not kill.” Even if the enemy deserved the bullet, he still had a mother, a family. He was still a person. How did God keep score during war?
“Joe, what are you doing home?” Mom looked at him, wide-eyed. He’d come back to the apartment for a few weekends his first semester, but he’d never brought back all his belongings. It took about two seconds for Mom to take in all the boxes and duffel bags in the crowded living room and know something was different. “When did you get here?”
Joe only had two classes that Friday, and after talking to his instructors about the situation he was excused from both. “Krista here?”
“Basketball practice.” Mom stepped into the kitchen and dropped her keys on the counter.
“Right,” Joe said. It would have been better if Krista could have been here, too, so he could break the news to both of them at the same time. But even now he was reluctant to tell his mother what he knew he had to tell her. “I got back at about two. Walked around the square for a while.”
“Walked around the square? But it’s freezing out there. What’s wrong?”
“Wasn’t too bad.” He’d been walking around this town where he’d always lived, remembering driving with his friends when he’d first had a license, kissing Beth Finley by the fountain in the square the summer after eighth grade. Except for half a year twelve miles to the north at college in Iowa City, his whole life was right here in this town. Now the Army would be shipping him to the other side of the planet.
“Joseph Paul Killian,” Mom said. “Talk to me.”
“My unit’s been called up,” Joe said. “Afghanistan.”
Mom was silent for a long moment. Finally, she asked, “How long will you be gone?”
He shrugged. “About a year.”
“OK,” she breathed, nodding. “OK. We knew this was coming.” She drew in a shaky breath, her eyes beginning to well up.
