In My Father's Country: An Afghan Woman Defies Her Fate Read online

  “Oh! I didn’t realize you had company. I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you had everything you needed. See if everything went okay.” His smile had vanished.

  “It went fine,” I said. “I’m not even on any painkillers.”

  He turned away, mumbling. I knew he despised surprises. “Okay, if you need anything, well, you certainly don’t need my help, if you need anything, I’m sure the LT here can get you anything you need, or someone else can.”

  I spent most of the next week sitting around with my foot elevated. It wasn’t that it had been a big surgery; it was just that there was gravel everywhere, and walking on the little rocks with open-toed sandals was unsanitary and painful. So I had to wrap my foot in gauze and cloth and walk on one foot. Eric never checked on me again. After a few days, I hopped on one foot from my bed to my bench, my favorite place to sit and think. Farah PRT was a little over an acre, so flat and barren it felt as if you were in the middle of a sand ocean. My bench was set off from the barracks, the CMOC, and the chow hall, beside the door of the single shop. On the other side was the only sapling on base—it looked as if it had a future as a provider of shade, maybe in another twenty years. Muhammad, the shopkeeper, watered it in the mornings. The bench faced the orange wall of faraway mountains. I sat there many mornings. But still no Eric. I was furious at him, then furious at myself for being furious. He was the PRT commander, my boss. This was the army. This was Afghanistan. I was not a teenager. This was silly. And I hated being silly.

  The day I was finally able to return to work, I ran into him at the CMOC. He pretended to be busy with a folder. He said he didn’t realize I was fully recovered. I wanted to say, You didn’t know because you never came to see me! But I held my tongue.

  It was Friday, the day of the governor’s weekly barbecue. Business was rarely discussed at these gatherings; mostly our goal was simply to eat Afghan food and drink tea and mingle with the community, building relationships.

  In 2005 it was still safe to leave the wire in an armored Land Cruiser, accompanied by the FORCEPRO in three or four Humvees. Later, it would be impossible to travel anywhere in the country without a convoy of nine or more Humvees or mine-resistant, ambush-protected vehicles (MRAPs), equipped with “birdcages” on the exterior doors to catch the rocket-propelled grenades favored by insurgents. Back then we could tool around in a simple, bulletproof Land Cruiser.

  Eric had had his own driver, but once the rains came in late March he decided he preferred to drive himself. Omar and I would sit in the back, while Eric roared along the road, making sure to hit every rain-filled pothole. He said it eased his mind, took the pressure off.

  Today he’d given Omar a break. So Eric and I left the PRT in the Land Cruiser by ourselves, with the FORCEPRO (force protection) following closely, and started up the ten-minute ride to the governor’s compound in Farah City. I stared out the window, trying to interest myself in the scenery. It was strangely tense in the car; I felt like there was something we both wanted to say, but each of us was waiting for the other to take the lead. White clouds skipped along overhead. It hadn’t rained for several days, and the potholes were dry.

  “Are you angry with me?” he asked.

  “Why would you think that? What have you done that might have pissed me off?”

  “I have no idea. But I’m sure you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

  “How come you didn’t even check on me to see how I was doing?” I hated that I had to know.

  “I can’t really tell you anything,” he replied.

  “Well, you’re going to have to say something because we are going to be stuck with each other for the rest of the evening.”

  “I wish I could,” he said.

  “How come you didn’t even check to see how I was doing?” I asked again.

  “You didn’t have any shortage of people checking on you every minute, and I really didn’t want to be just one more soldier hanging around your doorway, wanting to be noticed by you,” Eric replied, staring straight ahead at the road.

  “You stayed away because you think something is going on between me and Pete? The door was open! Nothing happened! I’m the only Pashtun female your soldiers will probably ever come into contact with, and I’m not going to allow you to cheapen my professional interaction with them.”

  “This has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with how I feel about you,” he muttered.

  The seats squeaked on their springs as we bounced along. Two boys walked along the shoulder of the road, wearing baggy white trousers, sandals, and oversized down jackets. I raised my hand to wave at them, and when they saw I was a woman their mouths fell open in unison. I could have easily changed the subject to the reaction of these boys.

  “So now we’re going to talk about feelings. Do you talk to Omar about your feelings, too?”

  “When I’m done here I don’t plan to make Omar part of my life, so no, the answer would be no.”

  “You’re pretty cocky if you think I’m going to let you be part of my life, just like that,” I said. “Especially when you didn’t come and visit me after my surgery.” I was teasing, but only just.

  “Are you serious? You don’t want me in your life?” He twisted around and looked at me; I tried to look the other way so he wouldn’t see my smile.

  And then we were at the governor’s house.

  Eric was so attentive at the barbecue that it was hard not to laugh. He peeled my oranges and cracked my pistachios, as I sat there talking to other Afghans. Usually I was the only female at these gatherings. As we were walking in, I saw an old woman, all covered in traditional scarves, sitting next to a mud wall, which I later found out was the kitchen of the governor’s compound. One of the things that I initially had the hardest time getting used to at my uncles’ house in America was that the kitchen was inside. In Afghan homes, kitchens are always outside the house, in the courtyard. Therefore, we walked by the kitchen in the courtyard of the governor’s compound as we made our way to the living rooms. Usually the governors hired male cooks because in most of Afghanistan women were not allowed to work outside their homes. In the bigger cities, like Kabul and maybe Herat, you might see women cooking or cleaning in a government building, but not in remote provinces like Farah. As I walked by, following Eric and the soldiers who were going to be pulling security for us, I saw the old lady sitting next to the wall, trying to cover herself even more so we wouldn’t see any of her. She reminded me of Mamai, who tried to cover every inch of her body, even if my male friends were the only ones around. I told Eric I wanted to go talk to her and asked him if they could stay behind so that she would be more comfortable. In those days, in the relative safety of Farah, I was allowed to approach a totally covered lady, but later on, as we stayed longer in Afghanistan and came upon the phenomenon of suicide bombers, I wouldn’t need to be told that approaching a stranger like that would be, well, suicide! I talked to her for a while, and she said she wanted a job at the governor’s. So when I saw the governor I asked him if he could please hire her as a cook. “I do have a cook, Miriam, but I will hire her, too, just to make you Americans happy,” the governor said, laughing. After that I saw her many times in his kitchen. It made me happy, knowing I had gotten that done—silly, I know, but it was a very good feeling, one I could easily get addicted to.

  We arrived back at the base around ten o’clock, parked the Land Cruiser, and after a short debrief, Eric and I walked to my favorite bench on the far side of the base. The sky was black and messy with stars. There was no question of going back to his room or mine. Even though so much of me was American, the Pashtun in me was always there, and my traditional upbringing popped up in the most annoying and inconvenient ways. I was still terrified that people would talk, that my reputation would be ruined, and with it that of my whole family.

  “I will let you come to my favorite bench,” I said, “even though you’re not my favorite person today.” I was still upset with his insinuation that I
was too friendly with the soldiers.

  “Well, that’s okay. I’ll just stand beside it, then,” he said.

  “No, it’s fine. You can sit on it,” I replied grandly.

  We talked until three in the morning. Eric told me about his long, successful army career, his failed marriages, his children, who lived with their mothers in Florida, his concerns for his oldest boy, who was eager to join the army, and his father’s heart troubles. We gazed up at the Milky Way. Afghanistan is the only place on earth where I have seen the magnificent way that it lights up the night sky. I remember looking at the Milky Way and feeling so insignificant compared with what was above me and, at the same time, awesome to be part of this breathtaking galaxy in the country where I was born, sitting here with the man I thought I could easily find eternal happiness with.

  Eric was also a great listener. I confessed to him my personal doubts about what I had done in my life, and how I saw the role of an unofficial ambassador to be the only way I could bridge the two cultures that were so dear to me that I couldn’t pick one over the other. I talked about my struggle to move between cultures, and how it was impossible to embrace my American side without becoming painfully aware of my Pashtun side, and vice versa. I talked about missing Najiba and Khalid, and Mamai, whom I hadn’t seen in months. I neglected to tell him about the uncles. As I like to say to Najiba, some history is just too much information—TMI.

  From the moment I had laid eyes on him, I knew Eric was going to be a big chapter in the book of my life. Although I deflected the attention from soldiers without much effort or thought, I saw their confusion about my true identity, and how that could be alluring to them. Standing there in my jeans and polo shirt, no scarf, admonishing them for telling me how they felt about me, and telling them how that behavior outside the wire could easily get them killed by insulted male relatives, even I was confused as to my true identity.

  But Eric was different. There was a twinkle in his eye that I felt was there just for me and that I knew was sincere. He had a deep understanding of where I came from and an appreciation for what it could mean to be involved with me. He went into our relationship with his eyes wide open, and that told me a lot about what kind of person he was. I trusted his feelings because he seemed realistic about the future. He was not an eighteen-year-old boy who didn’t know the ramifications of an Afghan Muslim woman’s entertaining the idea of a marriage with a non-Afghan—and even worse, a non-Muslim.

  At first I fought myself long and hard, trying to talk myself out of the ideas he was planting in my head, the feelings that I knew were growing stronger every minute we spent together. I still wasn’t comfortable about giving up control of my life to a man, which was how I viewed marriage. But after the heartache of the breakup with Greg, I had decided there was going to be no casual dating for me. I didn’t want to get close to someone only to have him not be part of my life again. As confused as I was about my emotions, one thing I did know was that I had always looked for an ambitious and strong man like Eric to stand next to me in a true partnership. I wanted my marriage to be one of equals in every sense, and I thought that in Eric I had potentially found a man who was not going to be threatened by my refusal to let him control me, with whom I could share a mutually supportive, enriching life.

  Even thinking about the possibility that Eric might be the right person for me made me feel horrible about what I had done to Greg, the kindest and most giving man I had ever known. I had needed to be with someone like Greg while I was going through my anger at my uncles, and if I had stayed in Portland, fuming, for many more years, instead of coming to Afghanistan to come to terms with the anger, I would have remained committed to Greg, maybe even forever. But after spending just a few months in Afghanistan, I realized that my anger was only getting in the way of my own happiness, and I was ready to let the famous Pashtun anger cool off. I knew that at this new stage of my life, I was better suited for the more aggressive and realistic type of relationship that Eric offered, a relationship that would endure any relapse to the old angry me without falling apart.

  Our romance was like something out of the Victorian novels I was forced to read in my high school English-literature class. It was a love affair conducted with complete decorum. I hung out at the CMOC, where the locals came to request meetings. Because Farah was a brand-new PRT, small and far-flung, we encouraged people to show up at our gate without an appointment, any time they wanted to talk to us. Eric made excuses to drop in at the CMOC three or four times a day, and I would make excuses to go to the TOC and chat with Nick, an older enlisted soldier whose office was next door to Eric’s. It felt like the old days with Vasily—the last time I had had a courtship in secret. Even though years had passed, I still couldn’t express my feelings for a man freely in public.

  It was not any easier for Eric. There was always a strange tension in the room during our meetings with the governor. Wasifi would have with him various assistants and clerks, young and sometimes handsome Afghan men who worked for him in some capacity. I would be the only woman in the room, and probably the only Afghan female they’d ever spent any time with, aside from their relatives. They had many questions for me, some personal, all of them about my family.

  It made Eric anxious on several levels. He was worried about my security.

  In Afghanistan, the only thing that travels faster than gossip is bullets. Who knew what would happen to me if the insurgents found out that a Pashtun female was working for the Americans? Such knowledge could also put my family still living in Afghanistan in danger. Any one of them might be kidnapped and held for ransom, or simply murdered, in revenge for my presumed treason.

  Eric rechristened me Miriam, a common Afghan name. To every new person I met, that was the name I gave. It was for my safety, he insisted. It also didn’t escape my notice that by becoming Miriam I was preventing the handsome young Afghan men from knowing who I really was and tracking me down after I left.

  Even though we were supposed to be fostering relationships with the locals, Eric found it unbearable when I would strike up a conversation in Pashtu with an eligible-looking Afghan. Usually, when we returned from a meeting he would compliment me on the good job I’d done and thank me for some insight or observation. On the days he’d suffered a bout of jealousy he’d be gruff and uncommunicative. I’d ask him how the meeting went and he’d give me the silent treatment. Fine. Good. Great.

  “What’s going on here?” I would finally ask.

  “I hate seeing you talking to all those men.”

  “Right, because at any minute I might run off with one of them to the village and become their baby machine.”

  “If you were to marry a good-looking Afghan, you could take him home and everyone would approve …”

  He didn’t finish his thought. I was sympathetic. Eric was handsome, accomplished, decorated for his service in the special forces, where he was a respected commander of brave American men. He was a star. Still, he knew Afghans. He knew that those things would never matter to my family and that an illiterate, unemployed Pashtun would be their preference for me.

  “But I don’t like Afghan men like that. It’s not something I’m just saying to you. I have been saying that since I was ten years old in Peshawar. Afghan men are controlling. I’ve said repeatedly that I’ll never marry one. I want to marry someone like you, who’s ambitious and romantic and adventurous. Frankly, you need to be more worried about your soldiers than about any Afghan.”

  “Which soldier? Who’s hitting on you?”

  “No one!” I said. “I was just trying to make a point.”

  Still, he took every opportunity to show that I was taken, without ever saying anything outright. Sometimes, in the chow hall, when I couldn’t bear to eat another bowl of cereal, another apple or peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Eric would march into the kitchen and scramble some eggs for the two of us. He loved to do this during mealtime rush hour, when he could reappear with the plate of eggs and place them in fr
ont of me with a flourish saying, “I want you to have energy for our meeting.”

  No one missed the message. In private I would beg him to please make it clear that we were meeting with the governor, but the very next time he would load his announcement with even more innuendo: “Miriam, eat this. You’re going to need your energy for later.”

  I loved being Eric’s interpreter, but when he was off taking care of army business, I was happy to join any outgoing team in their Humvees to get a chance to interact with regular Afghans. The Afghans I met at the governor’s were not the villagers, who I have always believed represent the true spirit of what it means to be an Afghan. If my mission was to get reconnected with my past and learn about my father’s people, I needed to be in the villages.

  It was another Friday, but Eric was in BAF for some PRT Commanders’ Conference and so I was going out on a mission with the CAT. We were going through a village, and as we passed one compound an old woman in dusty clothes ran to the edge of the road, waving her arms and talking loudly. The tank commander (TC) told the soldiers to be alert, that there might be some trouble ahead. I twisted around in my seat to get a look through the front of the Humvee to see what the commotion was all about. I got a very quick and distorted look at her face, but her agony was clear. She was probably only forty years old, but with her deep wrinkles and bony eye sockets she could have easily passed for sixty. I could see that she wasn’t any threat to us, that she wasn’t part of an ambush, and her suffering was genuine. She really needed our help. In today’s Afghanistan, I would never ask the TC to stop the convoy, but in 2005, Farah was a mostly green province, one that was relatively calm and safe, and I saw a chance to actually impact the life of at least one more Afghan.

  “Stop!” I touched the shoulder of the TC who was sitting in front of me. “Please! Just stop for a moment. It’s okay. Let me talk to her.”

  I struggled to open the heavy door of the Humvee, and before I could step out she scuttled over to me, already crying.