In My Father's Country: An Afghan Woman Defies Her Fate Page 15

  “Please, tell me what is wrong,” I said in Pashtu.

  She gasped. Her eyes filled with fresh tears. “You are Pashtun? How can this be?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “Tell me why you are crying.”

  She began thanking and praising God for bringing me to her, a Pashtun and a female, someone she could communicate with, someone who could really understand her and help her. Even in all that excitement, her confidence in my ability to relate to her was touching, and boosted my confidence in myself. She was a poor woman, one of thousands in Afghanistan. She lived in a tent with her six children, in the front yard of the compound we’d just passed. A kind man, a complete stranger, and his wife had offered her living space in his yard and given her the tent. Sometimes he brought food out to her and her children, but he was not a rich man himself, and when one of her daughters had fallen ill, he didn’t have enough money to give her to take her daughter to the doctor.

  I asked what was wrong with her daughter. The woman didn’t know. She wrung her hands. She was so hot, her head ached, she hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in many days, and now she was dying.

  Our medic happened to be in the convoy, and I asked the woman if she would let him look at her daughter. She hesitated only a moment before giving her consent. When you are dying, you don’t have the luxury of worrying about the gender of your savior.

  The medic and I followed the woman to her tent. Inside, her daughter, who was perhaps eleven, lay curled on a rug. The sharp, yeasty smell of infection made my eyes water. The girl was listless. Her eyes glittered with fever. She’d been this way almost two days, the woman said.

  The medic asked the girl to lift her head, but she couldn’t. Instead, she turned it slightly, and in the dim light we could see frothy yellow pus running from her ear. The medic thought she had an ear infection that had gone septic. Her mother was right: She would die in days if she didn’t get treated soon.

  The medic and I went back to the convoy. I asked him if we could take her to the PRT, but he said he didn’t have any resources to treat her there. He could call the BAF hospital and make sure she was admitted without having to wait for the normal screening at the ECP there, but there wasn’t anything to be done for her in Farah. There was no hope for the girl unless she was admitted to the hospital at BAF within the next forty-eight hours. But BAF was on the other side of the country. How would she get there in time? There were few roads in Farah in 2005, and the rough and unpaved journey would be torturous for her. I remembered how long it had taken me to get to Farah on a plane. And, anyway, the medic said she couldn’t be airlifted because of the ear infection. I asked the mother if she could get a taxi and get her daughter to BAF. She said she didn’t even have money to buy her Iranian medicine in the local bazaar, much less to get a taxi.

  When soldiers are posted on PRTs far from BAF, they don’t have ready access to their money. The finance department tries to fly out to these sites, bringing cash, but because of the flight restrictions and difficulties, that money source is not regular and can’t be counted on. The soldiers are allowed to take out only a couple of hundred dollars a month from their accounts for incidentals—sodas, cigarettes, and chew. They tend to be very careful with how they spend money because no one knows how long it will be until the finance people are able to come back to their installations. I can’t remember whose idea it was, but when the soldiers in the convoy heard the story, every one of them emptied his pockets, donating whatever was on him, to get this girl to BAF as soon as possible. I pressed the cash—almost two hundred dollars—into the old woman’s hands and told her to get a taxi to drive her daughter to BAF immediately.

  This selfless act of the American soldiers, most of whom were young adults, touched me even more than it could have touched that woman. She was of course grateful but probably believed that the soldiers had endless bags of money at their disposal. I had always felt bad about loving being an American more than being an Afghan, but seeing the goodness of these soldiers made me feel better about being more American than Afghan. Over the years I would see how cruel many Afghans are to one another, calling it ethnic politics, or religious preference, or just plain fighting for survival. I remembered all the nasty, hurtful things my uncles in Oregon had said about me. I had experienced Afghan cruelty firsthand, from my own blood, and that had made me fear what other Afghans would be capable of doing to me, if given a chance. The spontaneous generosity of these American soldiers on behalf of an Afghan woman and her daughter began to restore my faith in the choices I had made over the years.

  There was a chance, of course, that the woman would have allowed her daughter to die and fed herself and the rest of her children with the soldiers’ money, but a few weeks later she showed up at the PRT to tell me that her daughter had been treated in BAF and had recovered, and that every day she prayed for a safe return to America for every American soldier in Afghanistan.

  SIXTEEN

  The winter of 2005 had been one of the snowiest in a decade. March 2005 brought record rainfall. By April, the western deserts were experiencing massive flooding. Since Afghan village dwellings are built of mud, the water swept away thousands of homes, entire herds of livestock, and many children. We had our hands full carrying out day missions delivering rice and beans, tents, tarps, buckets, and shovels. We flew as much as we could, but sometimes there was no way around it: We had to drive the Humvees over the muddy, unpaved roads studded with huge potholes.

  If there is one vehicle impossible to dig out of the mud, it’s a Humvee. Fully armored, it weighs about three tons. We’d leave the wire, and sometimes within a half mile of the front gate we’d get stuck in mud. We’d spend the whole day trying to dig it out. Then we’d do the same thing the next day. The locals in whichever area we were stuck in would bring out some green tea and their little cups and say, “Don’t worry, relax, have some tea, we’ll dig you out.” For a while they’d stand there and make fun of us for getting stuck in the first place, then one of them would fetch an ancient tractor to drag us out. Not surprisingly, some genuine friendships were formed this way. Here we were in our huge, expensive vehicles to help the Afghans rebuild their nation—and it was their puny, ill-maintained tractors that rescued us. The irony was not lost on any of us. The effort was cooperative, which made our relationship with the local people seem more equal. The locals were able to hold their heads high and extend the hand of famous Pashtun friendship, without which foreigners can’t expect to live for long in Afghanistan.

  Spring turned to summer and my six-month contract was winding down. Eric was also nearing the end of his tour. The knowledge weighed heavily on both of us. I was still struggling with so many conflicting emotions when it came to him. Eric had hinted several times that he wanted the two of us to come back to help Afghans as a married couple. I couldn’t deny how tempting this was to me. In the way I typically deal with issues I haven’t decided on, I ignored his comments. I was worried that things would explode when I went back to Portland and announced that I was going to marry Eric. I wasn’t sure that he and I were committed enough to each other to face the centuries-old opposition to this union of a Pashtun woman to a white, Catholic, U.S. Army soldier. But even though I had never believed that it was my fate as a Pashtun woman to find happiness with a man, I didn’t want to give up on the idea so quickly. I took to going off alone to sit on my bench to read and ponder the future.

  One day I was sitting in the sun, reading a book, and I heard fast footsteps on the small gravel behind me. I turned around to see Eric approaching me with that look of single-minded determination that had made me fall for him. He sat on the other end of the bench—to the rest of the world, we still pretended there was nothing personal going on between us.

  He said he’d thought about it and decided we should get engaged before we left Afghanistan. This was the first time Eric had put me on the spot about marriage. Up until then, I had been able to joke about his asking my family for my hand, lea
ving me out of the equation like a good Pashtun daughter.

  “What happened to doing this the Afghan way and asking my family for my hand in marriage?” I teased, putting my finger between the pages to mark my spot.

  “We can just get engaged, and get married once we tell your family,” he said, undeterred.

  “You know there is no such thing as an engagement in Pashtun culture,” I said. “Families arrange the marriage and tell the bride and the groom when to show up. The families get a mullah and do the ceremony. You want your family to go talk to mine in Oregon?”

  “I’d be happy to call your mother and ask her for your hand,” he said.

  “I won’t be your interpreter for that conversation. And I know you can’t ask Omar to do it, since he would then confirm all the gossip around the FOB.”

  He knew he had a dilemma, but Eric was nothing if not resourceful. He decided to go about it in a different manner. “You know, Saima, you’re nothing like any of these Pashtun women. You should decide for yourself, and right now. Don’t you want to be married to me and live with me happily ever after?”

  I admired his technique, trying to appeal to my independent spirit, but I was not going to fall for it. “You have a point, Eric. I’m not like the rest of the women here or maybe anywhere, but I still have a brother, sister, and mother that I care a lot about, and who I would be pissed at if they ever did something this big without talking to me. You know the American in me wants to jump up and hug you and accept the proposal with teary eyes, but the practical Pashtun in me wants to know if I’m ready to fight my extended family, all two hundred of them, for you. You have to convince me that we’re going to be together forever because I am causing this type of drama just once, and then never again in my life. More than that, I have to convince myself I can be with you for the rest of my time on earth. I am only doing this once, and it has to be worth it.”

  Eric told me that he loved that I wanted those in my family who were close to me to stay close to me forever. He wanted that relationship with my family, too, and would try to be patient. But he also wanted some compromise, which he reminded me would be great practice for marriage because according to him, a successful marriage is all about compromise.

  “Can we at least promise each other that we’ll get engaged once your family has had a chance to meet me and gotten to know me a little?” Eric asked.

  “You mean like a promise-ring exchange?”

  “Yes, something like that. I want your promise that you will always be mine, no matter how much pressure you get from your family.” Hmm, does he know that the only pressure he needs to worry about is from within me? I thought.

  I told him that if he could find a ring I loved, I would consider it, knowing there was nothing remotely resembling an engagement ring at the local bazaar or in the small shop inside the wire.

  I wasn’t being coy, or playing with his emotions. This really was a decision that I had never thought I would be asked to make. From a very early age, I knew I was not going to marry an Afghan man because I refused to give in that much to another human being, especially one who is himself so controlled by his culture. After my fights with the uncles, I had also decided that I didn’t want to face them in another battle, ever. It was not because I was a coward but because I was afraid of what I might end up doing if I heard one more “If your father was alive, he would be ashamed of you” judgment. I knew I was going to lose it. Therefore, my solution was that I would never marry, and no one who knew my father would ever get another chance to say that to me. I was more than happy being in a committed and loving relationship, without making it everyone’s business by getting a license for it. Eric, on the other hand, had a different mind-set: You are mine and I want to claim you legally and in the eyes of God. I guess he hadn’t counted on our having two different gods.

  In telling him to find a ring I would like, I hoped he would take the time to rethink things and realize that marriage was a complication that might best be avoided. A week passed, then two. He showed up at my bench bearing a plain gold-and-ruby ring. I said I didn’t like the bright yellow of the twenty-two-karat gold. A few days later he presented me with a small sapphire ring. I said I never wore anything blue—how was I going to match anything to the ring? He told me he would keep trying. I tried to convince him to let me keep the rings just as tokens of his love, but he said he would save them and give them to me when I least expected it, like on our tenth anniversary, or the birth of our first daughter, who would look just like me but would have a sweeter personality, like his (he was sure I was going to change my mind about not wanting kids). I would try not to panic when he would draw this picture of our future; I would tell myself that if he had enough time, he would come to his senses, and I would be spared another painful decision.

  One day there was a meeting with Mrs. Sadiqqi, the director of Women’s Affairs. She was covered in the black Iranian hijab, but her hands were exposed and on one finger she wore a beautiful ring of rose gold and ruby. It was so striking in its simplicity that I couldn’t stop staring at her hand as she rearranged her scarf or picked up her teacup. I always translated at meetings with her because she felt more comfortable having another woman in the room. I’m sure my translation was sloppy that day, because I was so distracted by her ruby ring.

  After the meeting, I told Eric I might seriously have to consider his offer if he could get me a ring like that.

  “You know it’s impossible for me to ask her about it,” he said. “In Afghan culture it’s completely wrong for me to even acknowledge that she’s wearing a ring, much less that I like it.”

  I smiled at him. “You know life with me is going to be one impossible thing after another. If you are not able to take the challenge, just admit it and I will think that this was just a fling for you.” He hated it when I would imply that our relationship wouldn’t stay strong in the real world outside Afghanistan. Plus, I wanted to see what he would do when faced with an impossible task in an alien and complex culture.

  Eric accepted the challenge.

  ONE FRIDAY THE governor was called to Kabul for something and there was no barbecue that we had to attend. Fridays were also considered down days, although the soldiers still had to be prepared at a moment’s notice to get out there if necessary. Fridays were also the day when the PA played music from 7:00 A.M. to about 7:00 P.M. The choice of music depended on who was manning the desk at the TOC. I heard some interesting music while in Farah; the first time I heard country music was while sitting on a bench under the hot, dry sun of an Afghan sky. That day, I was sitting in my usual spot, with a line of water bottles in front of me on the bench, some empty, others full. One thing I learned very quickly was that if I wanted to sit in the Afghan sun, I had to drink a lot of water to compensate for the sweat pouring down my back. Eric always knew where I was, and he easily found me that afternoon.

  “Do you know this song, Saima?” he asked as he sat across from me.

  For the first time, I paid attention to the song. “It’s country, and you know that I don’t really know any country songs or singers. Don’t ask me what it is, but I’m sure you can find out whose MP3 it is.” I smiled at him. He looked so dashing and handsome in his uniform.

  “It’s mine, and I am playing it for you. I want you to listen to the words.” Eric looked very serious but still had a twinkle in his eyes. I listened and realized how sweet the tune was. The name of the song was “To Make You Feel My Love.” Here I was in my father’s war-torn country, sitting across from a man whom I felt I could be with for the rest of my life, who had just dedicated a love song to me. No one had ever done that for me. I didn’t know what to say, but at that moment I made up my mind that I would be okay with a man who could render me speechless with such a tender gesture.

  “I want you to remember that you were listening to this song when you promised yourself to me, and I promised to make you the happiest woman on earth, no matter how many tests you try to put me through,” he sai
d. He took out a folded napkin and handed it to me. We were still in public and had to be discreet. I opened up the napkin, and there sat the ring I had coveted on Mrs. Sadiqqi’s hand.

  He was eager to tell me how he had met my challenge. After the meeting with Mrs. Sadiqqi he had told Omar that he wanted to buy the ring for his mom, and sent him to try to get it. Eric learned something else about Afghan culture that is sometimes puzzling to Americans. When you admire something on someone, like a ring or scarf, they will try to give it to you, and quite forcefully. Mrs. Sadiqqi refused to sell the ring but offered it to Eric as a gift. Eric refused; he knew it was expensive and she couldn’t afford to simply give it away. Omar went back and forth several times. Finally, they agreed that in exchange for the ring, Mrs. Sadiqqi would receive a new generator for the women’s center. Eric bought an Iranian generator and a couple of barrels of fuel at the local bazaar with his own money. He hadn’t stopped there; he had also gotten the matching earrings, which he told me would be mine on our first anniversary. This was one of the very few times in my life that I became choked up with my own happiness.

  And so we were promised to each other.

  SEVENTEEN

  Less than a month later I stood inside the gate at BAF, anxiously waiting for my cousins. It was difficult to contain my excitement. I was finally going to be able to live in Afghanistan as just another Pashtun woman among my people. Knowing that I was finally going to have real interaction with my own family members, no matter that I had never met most of them before, had made it a little easier to say good-bye to Eric the week before.

  I watched the guards bustle around. Every day hundreds of local laborers are searched before going through the gates of BAF. It took an hour or more for the cooks, the cleaners, and the local interpreters to work their way through the Entry Control Point (ECP). While I waited, I stood around talking easily with two soldiers whose names I only knew because they were stitched on their pockets. I had become very much at ease talking to soldiers. In just a few short months my discomfort had become a distant memory. I knew the two soldiers weren’t related to each other but they could have been brothers, with their blond brush-cuts and sunburned cheeks. Finally, one of the other guards, his CAT I trailing behind him, came up to me and handed me a big black bundle. “It’s from some man who says he’s your cousin,” he said. “He said to put this on and come outside.” I had told my cousin that I would be waiting at the gate for him and to let the guards know when he was there.