by Tom Corbett
“She is more lost than the little girl you remember,” Azita inserted quickly.
“That is certainly part of it, but that part I understand, at least I think I do. When you were 11 or 12 years old, the full canvas of life had not been made available to you. You knew so little of what the world might offer you. It was easy back then. You could look around and see the person you loved the most in the world. Your father indeed was a special man. To be him, to be like him, made all the sense in the world. And now, this world of ours is so much more complicated. Even though, to you, I probably look as old as some of those stars up there, I can see what you are dealing with.”
Azita started to interrupt, “I doubt if anyone…”
“Shush girl, listen to your elders,” Amar said gently, “you will have plenty of time later to tell me what an idiot I am.” She paused to see if her daughter would continue but the girl remained silent. “Azita, you are burdened with what most would die for, something I have mentioned to you before. You have these choices, too many perhaps, but you are burdened with deciding which to follow. You are attractive and so you have boys with which to contend. But that doesn’t worry me all that much. I really feel you will sort out your heart in that regard. Just, for God’s sake, don’t get yourself pregnant.” When she saw Azita about to respond, she hurried on. “The bigger thing is taking your time on some things, no need to rush.”
Azita looked puzzled. “Do you mean Benjie?”
Amar said nothing at first. “Just don’t be like me, I threw myself at Chris an hour after I met him. Of course, I thought he would just use me and throw me back. Some judge of character I am.”
“But that turned out to be a great decision, no?”
“Okay, bad example.” Amar regrouped in her own head and started again. “Here is my lesson in love and, in fact, all the tough decisions we are required to make. More than anyone, you know how complex the human body is. I have thought from time to time about the core parts of our brain. To make this simple, I focus on three essential parts. We have the midbrain and spinal cord, which is where we feel stimuli and sensation. Some of those stimuli are pleasant, some not. Then, we have the cerebral cortex where deep memories lie along with autonomic and instinctual responses. Finally, we have the prefrontal lobe where the intellect and judgment operate. This is a highly stylized set of distinctions but these parts of the brain and nervous system that some refer to as the ‘me, myself and I’. Think of them as the dimensions of identity.”
Azita’s slightly confused look brightened. “Perhaps they are analogous to the id, ego, and superego of Freud’s understanding of human behavior? Are you suggesting that I get mental help, some therapy?”
Amar grimaced but more in frustration than anything else. “Yikes, they should take my parenting merit badge away. I am doing terrible at this.”
“In truth,” Azita responded with a tiny smile, “it is quite difficult to decide how you are doing, I have no idea what you are trying to say. But that is okay, you have only been at the mother thing for a dozen or so years.”
“Yes,” Amar said and gestured toward where the distant mountains had been when some light remained, “I know exactly where I will dump your body. Now listen, you naughty girl, I am trying to tell you something important.”
“Yes ma’am.” The young girl looked on with feigned seriousness.
Amar ignored her daughter’s bemused look. “Despite my labored explanation, my dear, I do have a point and you need to hear it. My point is that women like us, lucky enough to be highly educated at the best universities believe we are different. We think we can approach everything with our highly developed pre-frontal lobes. Everything is an equation to be solved, a mystery that can be unraveled with the correct data or analysis. Just apply the same methods that work in the lab to our life and all will become clear.”
“Mother, are you talking about boys?”
“Azita, my dear, I am talking about everything: boys, your career, your cultural confusion - where the hell you feel you belong. I would bet everything that your heart tells you that your confusion is unique to you. No one else in your circle is struggling for answers like you are. But you know what, we all are. I did, that is for sure. And if you pushed your peers hard enough, you’d find most of them are similarly afflicted.”
“I…I thought you and Kay the two most wonderful women I ever met, maybe except for Madeena. The two of you are equal to her. Maybe I should throw Deena in as well, I will think on that.”
“Well, I am taking myself off that pedestal for the moment, we can put me back up there later. At your age, I was beset with doubt and confusion. I cried myself to sleep most nights. Who was I? What was I? Where did I belong? What were the rules I was to follow? I was so confused I found myself swept along by the expectations of others. What happened? I ended up pregnant, getting an abortion, and then agreeing to a loveless marriage to a man who treated me like a piece of furniture. No, that is not true. He loved his La-Z-Boy chair much more.”
“I…”
“Just listen, now. That is why I brought you here, to my home. I am not so different than you. Hindu and Muslim, India and Afghanistan, yes there are differences for sure, but we’re so much alike in important ways. I feel everything you feel, maybe worse. I will tell you a secret: being a mother has more joys than I ever imagined. But it also has pain that cannot be anticipated. You can see your child confused and hurt and you cannot just take all that away. That is the definition of agony. You want to suck all the bad they experience out of them, make it your own and you simply can’t do it. That is the private despair of every parent.”
“Amar, mother, is that how you feel toward me?”
“What?”
“About taking all my pain as yours. I mean, I am not even your real daughter.”
Amar sprung to her feet and walked a few feet away as Azita was struck dumb with surprise. Then, the woman spun around and faced the now mute young woman before her. “Don’t you ever say anything like that again, ever. You are my daughter…MY daughter. In fact, you are even more special. You were not some accident of birth or lust or some bio-genetic lottery wheel. I chose you. I wanted you. I love you more dearly than anything. I would give my life for you in a second. Do you understand? Never doubt…” Then she caught herself and stopped.
The two women looked at one another in silence. They only had the light from the moon that had creeped over the horizon by which to see but that was enough. They knew that the other had tears that were finding a way down their respective cheeks. Neither bothered to hide the evidence of their emotions. Amar slowly walked back and sat next to her daughter, wrapping an arm around the young woman who slowly buried her face in the neck of her mother. “I am sorry.”
“No,” Amar quickly intruded. “I am sorry. Do you remember those early days in the camp? I remember meeting your father, dear Pamir. I was so happy he had escaped the Taliban to join us, we needed his medical skills and his knowledge of the language and the people and the land so badly. But he came with this package, you. My first impression was: how cute. Then I thought, I hope this girl does not become such a bother, I am too busy to babysit her. And then I remember the very first day working with him, we both were needed to save a young girl about your age at the time, she had been struck with shrapnel from an IED. When we had her stable, Pamir said we should move on to the next patient, there were so many that day, and that you would suture her up. I was shocked. I wanted to protest but he said this in such a matter of fact way. How could we let this girl do that, I argued to myself, but we were so busy? I kept glancing over from the next table and watched your fingers move with such skill. You were…a natural. Later, in the refugee camp, you were such a comfort to the children. You were the same age as many but had such a presence, such love and compassion. I will tell you a secret: I thought that I would talk to your parents about letting me take you back to England with me. I would tell them it was to give you a good education, and that was true
, but also you would be like a daughter to me. I thought I would never have any of my own. When your parents were murdered, I never doubted that I would take you away, not for a moment. If Chris didn’t agree to you being a part of the deal, there would not have been a marriage. You were a deal-breaker for me.”
“Really?” the younger woman said.
“Yes, about this I would not lie.” Then Amar felt a need to lighten the conversation. “I would have just used him as a sex object and thrown him away when finished.” Amar could sense a slight response to her small joke from her daughter. She remained grateful that she could make her daughter laugh, like Chris. “Remember how we feared his arrival? I think I promised to separate his family jewels from his body, if he tried what I thought he might try.”
Azita now giggled at her own memory. “I thought for sure he would have horns, like the devil.”
Amar continued as if her daughter had not said anything. “His sister told me so much about him before he arrived. I did not know what to expect other than the horrendous possibility he would try to take her away. I mean, I had seen his face on Skype but that is not the same. But he was her brother and she was the best woman I had ever met, like the sister I never had. I concluded that he must have some redeeming qualities. I think she had somehow made me love him before he arrived. What else could explain that I seduced him that first night?”
Azita pulled her head away from her mother’s neck and wiped the moisture from her cheeks. “Yes, you were a wanton woman, not a good role model for a young girl like me.”
“You really didn’t suspect that back then, did you?”
“Oh no, you were still on a pedestal for me. But please forgive me for what I said before. I sometimes pinch myself at my good fortune. You and Chris seem too good to be true. How has God blessed me so? It does not seem possible.”
“He has blessed us both. But Azita, you know I don’t believe in any traditional understanding of God. Still, I admit to embracing Buddhism in some half-assed way.”
“Such language from a believer.” Azita now could smile.
“Well, sainthood might be a stretch for me. But I have learned much from the monks, from the writings. You have always talked about omnism, finding and using the good in whatever spiritual tradition it can be found. That has always struck me as very wise. I can recall talking with some monks at the monastery here once. It was some time ago, way before you and Chris, and I talked about my loneliness, the pain that brought me. One of them told me that no other person could ever take my loneliness away. That was not love, that was giving into one’s craving and looking for a false remedy.”
“Did the monks share the secret of love or, better yet, the secrets of life?”
Amar considered this. “Well, one of them talked at length about finding a balance within where all the human properties were in sync with one another. I call it allostasis, a way of maintaining some semblance of homeostasis where all is proportional, and a sense of symmetry prevails. Each of us must find a way to sustain homeostasis in ourselves, he told me, but sometimes another person can help. This other doesn’t satisfy our cravings for sex or any other need. If they complement you, help you find that inner peace and balance, then you have found love. It sounded profound at the time. I think he explained it better.”
“And you have discovered allostasis, this secret formula?”
“Most days, except when I am not thinking of ways to dispose of my inquisitive daughter.” Then Amar turned serious. “I suspect it is not like finishing a race, crossing the finishing line or reaching the top of one of those peaks out there. For me, it is always remembering what is important.”
“What is important? I mean, how will I know I am approaching this…state?”
“The trick, my dear Azita, is not to deny what you are becoming, an intellectual and a scientist and a Westerner and a complete woman. Never forget that Islam was creating algebra and advanced mathematics and astronomy when the Celtic tribes were worshiping trees and rocks. You have to bring all this together and, I think when you do, all these conflicts inside you will dissolve away.”
“I desperately hope you are right. There are moments when my mind shuts down in conflict. Sometimes it is silly things like should I put a scarf over my head or not in public. Sometimes it is things I try to think of as silly but are not, like how do I really feel about Ben and…Ahmad. I get emails from both, but the ones from Ahmad are so…special.”
Amar spoke up. “You know, when it comes to understanding boys, I sometimes think we should bring in Chris for a consult.”
Azita looked at her mother and then broke into a real laugh. “Seriously, talk with dad about boys?”
“Okay, okay, I sometimes say stupid things.” Amar was also laughing.
“There are questions on which Chris can help. There are the big questions - am I a scientist or a healer? Which path should I follow, where exactly is my heart? With all my conflict inside, I am drawn to the certitude of science. Physicists can predict phenomena with one one-billionth of a degree of uncertainty. It is so clean.” Then the girl fell silent, not knowing where to go next. “But healing, that power is breathtaking, total, even if you can only help one at a time. Through science, you can affect many. As a clinician, you can reach few but in such a dramatic way. I have felt that on occasion. There is nothing else like it.”
“Oh, my dear Azita.” Amar pulled her daughter even closer to her. “You are the only woman I know who would not consider a conflict of the heart the most important thing in her life.”
“Mother, do you know what helps me? The same heavens that bewitch you. I look up at those stars. Yes, I am humbled by the immensity of the universe and how much we still cannot see and know. But there is another thing. I know, as both a scientist and as a spiritual person, that I am connected to those stars even if what I see at this moment is something that existed before human history. What I am as a physical being is composed of heavy elements such as carbon. Those elements were forged in the fiery core of some star that died eons ago and whose death throes flung what was created inside it out through the universe in gas clouds that became our solar system and this planet. I am one with those stars. Think about that.”
“My dear, I think about that every time I come here. This is my temple, my church. I saw a picture what represented what cosmologists think our universe looks like, at least the one universe we know about. It is a funny shape, with great spirals of clustered galaxies. And there we are, out at the tip of a spiral in the Milky Way. It is like we are on an outpost in the far reaches of the known world, a backwater place. But I keep worrying that maybe we are the only ones.”
“The only ones what?” Azita asked.
“As you said before, the only ones conscious of the universe and of their place in it. That is a scary thought for sure. But it is also a glorious thought, and don’t you ever forget it. You might be one of the few beings that can comprehend where we are in existence, one of the very few.” After a pause, Amar said, “You know what?”
“Probably” Azita responded with her mischievous smile.
“After you achieve some humility, if you ever do, you are going to find that balance you are seeking. Then, love will follow, and contentment, and the balance we all need. I have never been more certain of that than tonight.”
Azita sighed. “Tonight, it has been so special.”
“How so?”
“Well, when I get pregnant by some bloke I meet in the pub, I can blame your example.”
Amar did not respond as Azita giggled. Then, she did so quietly as her daughter leaned closer to hear the words. “Yup, they will never find your body out here.”
Mother and daughter resumed looking at the sky, now in silence.
“Thank you for bringing me here, this is like a mosque, a church, a temple.” The daughter said at long last. The two of them continued to wonder at the sky above them without needing to utter another word.
CHAPTER 7
&nbs
p; AFGHANISTAN
Azita was tired as she sat down to catch up with her emails. She and the others had spent another long day visiting medical facilities, hospitals, schools and social service centers. They had been meeting with seemingly countless government officials, international humanitarians, local service providers. Karen and Deena had arranged the tour to assess how far the Afghan government had come in repairing the human services infrastructure after decades of conflict. Of course, the conflict was far from over, but it was seemingly contained most of the time, at least in parts of the country. Kabul, during their visit so far, seemed much changed from when they lived there as children. The purpose of the review was to assess whether existing program efforts were well considered and targeted or were new tactics required. For Azita and her sister, though, an additional and more personal agenda dominated their minds -an opportunity to revisit their past.
Before she would huddle with her sister to debrief on the day’s events, Azita would catch up on her personal world. There were emails from classmates and friends back in Oxford. The notes were chatty but a couple that brought her up to date on the research she would have been doing had she not decided to join Karen’s expedition to the Mideast. There was a little bit of gossip and an update of the doings at the university. She found herself longing for the weather back in England as they endured the summer Kabul heat. She relished her brief note from Chris talking about the visit from Beverly and his trip to Chicago. She so missed her new step-sisters, the girls whom she found delightful as she watched them grow. The process of becoming a fully human being was endlessly fascinating to watch, she had concluded. She looked up from the screen for a moment. She had never felt a strong maternal urge but her up-close experience of shaping young lives had made an impression. Her reverie was short-lived, however.
