by Tom Corbett
Azita stopped so abruptly that Deena was startled. “And you listen to me. You stay in my life, do you hear. If you go and get yourself killed, I will follow you and drag you back into this world. Promise me to be safe.”
“Of course, silly sister, why do you worry about such things?”
Azita remained very serious. “Because you have become the famous one. You are known as a champion of girl’s education in the Panjshir Valley and other rural areas. Things have changed in this country and they have not. Many yet wish to drag us back and strike out at those pulling us forward. Just…just be careful.”
All Deena said was: “I love you dear sister.” The two continued on their way.
Back at the hotel, Azita ran to her room to check her emails. She skipped over the rest and found one from Ahmad. It was short:
Do you mean what you said?
She stared at the screen. Did she? Time was short. The others would soon knock on her door to begin the afternoon events and meetings. But she felt compelled to respond and not wait for her thoughts to clear. That might take forever.
Yes…I do.
But you must understand, things are complicated.
Life is complicated, my life at least.
Sometimes, I wish I were just a simple girl but then I realize that you would probably not like me. I am not beautiful like my sister. The reality is that I am very complicated, and I have hard decisions about what to do with my life and the gifts that have been bestowed on me.
I cannot say more now, I must go. One thing for now, though: I have always felt this great passion within me, something I inherited from my father, from both my parents. But figuring out what to do with it is much more complicated than I ever imagined. That is becoming something different…more like an obsession. That is a terrible burden.
Then a knock came at the door. It was time to go. She stared at the screen for another moment and hit the send button.
The group flew in two helicopters from Kabul to the north. As they flew over the hard, sunbaked earth below, Azita reflected on her last journey north. They were little more than refugees sneaking away from a terrorist regime through deceit and trickery. Every mile was fraught with uncertainty, each roadblock an exercise in terror at various levels of intensity. Now, the land below flowed past them with ease. She knew the war yet raged but it seemed out of sight to her. Perhaps a new day had dawned, the worst was over. She permitted herself a small hope.
They landed in the old camp where her father first practiced after the family’s escape. It was here that she met Amar and Kay and Chris and Karen. It was here that the trajectory of Azita’s life shot off in an entirely different direction. As they descended from the aircraft, she looked around. Deena had been here on several occasions to look after the schools and education programs. But this was Azita’s first return in many years, her medical studies had been rather absorbing. It looked both different and the same. The buildings were in the same location, performed similar services. Yet, they struck her as smaller, with less bustle. Was that accurate or merely because she had been smaller and younger back then and perhaps had attached so much significance to the place? Perhaps that reaction was a natural response to a location which had meant so much to her early in life.
As Azita glanced about, she saw some evidence of foreign troops but mostly she noticed numerous Afghan soldiers in their military uniforms. There was no presence of the fierce looking Northern Alliance warriors who bravely fought the Taliban in her youth. Were they still around? These soldiers looked more professional. Yet, they did not strike her as likely to prevail against fanatical terrorists. Then again, who could protect you against someone willing to die just so you would no longer live?
“Welcome,” she heard. The accent was not quite British, Australian she concluded. Doctor Archibald Singleton, trained as a physician in Melbourne she would soon learn, was in his fifties and sported a decidedly avuncular air. He greeted them with a warm and genuine smile. This was the head of Karen’s team here. He started off with a small joke he had obviously used many times about hating his name Archibald and that he never forgave his parents for this unforgivable sin. It was Archie, and nothing else. Azita immediately liked him. As they toured the medical operations, Azita noticed that a good many of the patients were children. She inquired about it.
“Yes,” Archie said, “there is fighting, and we do have wounded combatants to treat, but we see many more children now. Of course, this country has a disproportionate number of children. So many adults died young through conflict and poor conditions. I also have a couple of personal theories about our abundance of young patients. I suspect that parents used to accept the death of the young as God’s will but no longer. They may now see a future for themselves and their families and they know full well that their offspring are the key to that future. That’s an intriguing thought if correct.”
“What is your second hypothesis?” Azita asked.
“Oh yes. It is the school. The work that Deena has done to build up girl’s education here and in some of the villages that draws both the young and their parents to our services. It is more than a school. We teach public health and pregnancy prevention and so many other things. The older generation have come to trust us through their children.” Then Archie looked at Azita. “You are the younger sister, the one studying medicine at Oxford?”
“Yes.” For some reason, Azita felt a bit embarrassed.
“My advice is to focus on pediatrics in your post-grad work. This is a young country as I mentioned. So many of the adults were killed off in decades of war and civil conflict. Ridiculous the way we slaughter one another. Young lady, you learn to work with children and come back here, do you understand me? We will keep you busy.”
Then he moved on to the next topic without waiting for her response. Then, it hit her - perhaps he simply expected her to return. By late afternoon, Archie mentioned heading over to the educational facilities. Deena demurred: “I am not sure that there is anything to see. This is summer, no school will be in session, they will be at home.”
“True enough,” Archie said, “but we have made a few structural changes to the buildings that I want you to see. Besides, we have other ideas that cost money and as long as Karen is here…” With that, they headed over to the school area. As they approached the buildings, sounds could be heard, muffled sounds and rustling sounds that suggested the building was not empty.
“Wait,” Deena said, stopping. “what is going on?”
Archie yelled something out and soon dozens and then several hundred children and parents and teachers emerged. They surrounded Deena, trying to touch her, and calling out her name repeatedly. A chair was brought out and she was asked to sit. Deena looked at Karen and her sister with a perplexed, somewhat helpless, expression on her face. What’s happening? she mouthed silently.
With a few shouted instructions, the girls scrambled to order themselves into rows. A woman in her early 20s, obviously a teacher, stood before Deena and explained how the students insisted on coming here to honor the woman they saw as responsible for the education they were now getting. Deena tried to protest that the new government encouraged girls to learn, that schools were open throughout the country where the Taliban was not strong. The teacher dismissed her comments, emphasizing that no other rural area had the resources they had. They were able to tutor girls individually, work with the reluctant parents, and use education as an overall modernizing strategy. What Deena and the others were doing was far more than teaching reading and writing. They were bringing hope and a future to this area. A small girl brought Deena some flowers while the assembly broke into several native songs of joy and thanks.
Archie moved closer to Karen and Azita who stood as spectators nearby. “Touching, is it not? When they heard that Deena was coming, they insisted on doing something. I thought a few dozen would come but look.”
“I am…speechless,” Karen murmured, “and no wisecracks from anyone.” She quickly lo
oked at Kay and members of her staff to make sure all were behaving.
Azita stood silently, but Archie noticed a tear working down her cheek. “You know,” Archie said, “this is for the entire Masoud family. They revere all of you, your parents are saints and martyrs in their eyes. They yet speak of you as the girl healer. That young teacher who spoke earlier began as a student in the school you and your sister started in her village. And you, and your dear father, healed her wounds suffered in one of those cursed roadside explosions. She will thank you later.”
“I don’t recall her,” Deena whispered softly.
“No matter,” Archie responded, “she remembers you. You never forget those that give you everything.”
Azita whirled and looked directly at the man. “That is what dad, I mean Professor Crawford, has said often to me.”
“I know. I had the good fortune to meet him once, in England, not all that long ago. I was traveling, restless. My children were gone on to their own lives, my medical practice had been very successful, and my wife and I had all the creature comforts we could want. And I kept saying, this is it? This is all? Funny, I don’t even recall how Christopher and I intersected, it was not planned. It changed my life, though. Here I am, with my lovely wife, who is a nurse. She thought the idea crazy at first. I am sure she had no idea what a dreamer she had been stuck with. But now…you never get this kind of affection working with people who have everything to begin with. In a short while, at dinner, the staff here will lay out how we are working in all areas - community development, entrepreneurship, family planning and strengthening, public health. Sometimes, we help the government, sometimes we are the only game in town. The one thing we do, most of all, is that we keep it all glued together.”
Azita spoke with a distant look on her face. “What you are doing in this, of all places, is amazing. Back when I was here…I remember so much tragedy and despair. I think there is more hope now. I feel it. You should be proud.”
“My dear, it is not about me. I am here because, in some way, I was meant to be here. But listen, over the next couple of days, I want you to work with me. I will be treating many children who will be here from all over the area. You will see all manner of infections and problems endemic to a poor country with primitive conditions. Then, I believe it has been arranged for you and your sister to go to your home village with your aunt Kristen, Kay I believe she prefers. She wants to visit the place. In any case, are you willing to help a poor country doctor who wants to see the skills he has heard so much about?”
“I would be most pleased, and I suspect I can learn much from this country doctor. I am yet young in years, but I have learned one lesson; those who protest they have little to teach others have the most to share.”
“And wise also,” Archie smiled, “and one more thing you might do for me.”
“Of course,” Azita replied, “if I can.”
“Tell Chris that his vision works.”
That night, Azita snuck away as dinner ended. Deena was yet glowing from the attention she had received while Karen expressed her opinion several times about how impressed she was with this site. Karen mentioned to her team that she could not wait to email Chris, who by now was in the States, about the reception here and how well things were going. She might even spare him her usual wicked wit and be nice. Then she thought, no way. If she were nice, he would worry that something was amiss, perhaps go into cardiac arrest. He was, after all, getting older and the shock might be too much for him.
Despite the good feelings all round, Azita was restless. Was she jealous of her sister? They had fought all the time as young girls, but she must have grown out of such childishness, or had she? After all, she had been the gifted one in everyone’s eyes back then, the prodigy and academic star, the healer who would assume the mantle of her Papa’s life work. That had been her passion and her destiny. Now, Deena was being fawned over while she continued to labor in school with her endless studies. What was she doing with her life? An unease had settled deep in the pit of her stomach. It had been there, gnawing at her, ever since running into Bahiri and Ferhana. She was improving herself but contributing so little.
She wandered the camp rather aimlessly that evening until she noticed a bench. It brought forth a memory. Yes, she recalled sitting there with Amar so many years ago when they had first met, also a time when she had been much troubled. Azita finally permitted herself an ironic smile. She was older now, more mature. Yet, Amar’s counsel still reached her. She wondered for a moment if she could possibly be as wise and as understanding if she were to be blessed with children. She pondered that question as she looked up at the evening sky. There was yet a dim, burnt orange light to the west since the coming canopy of night was not yet in full relief. Still, many stars were visible. Were the patterns the same as that which looked down over Kashmir? She could not be certain, at least not as certain as she was that no way could she ever rival Amar as a mother.
“Counting stars, are we?”
Azita jumped at the sound. “Damn you, Deena, you frightened me. How did you find me?” But she smiled slightly. “Now I will have to start anew.”
Her sister sat next to her. “It wasn’t difficult. I merely asked people in the camp if they had noticed a morose and pouting young woman. They all knew exactly who I meant.”
“I was not pouting.”
“Morose, then?”
“Oh shush…” Azita realized her sister would not go away.
“You are wrong if you think I am jealous that everyone is paying attention to you. It matters not to me.”
“I never said…”
“All right, it matters a little but not for the reason you think.”
Deena shifted her body somewhat to look directly at her sibling. She started to stroke Azita’s long dark-brown hair, hoping that her hand would not be swatted away. It was not. “I will admit to something,” the older one said in a confessional tone, “after a lifetime of being the one ignored and invisible, this does feel good.”
“Oh Deena, I hate myself.”
“Please, sweet sister, no need for such self-loathing. I can loathe you enough for the two of us.”
It took Azita a moment to catch the jest. Then she let out an involuntary laugh. “Oh, praise Allah, I needed that. Just as if dad, Chris, were here.”
“I know who dad is by the way. We both may have learned much of Chris’s terrible wit, but I have learned some equally evil talents from Karen,” Deena said.
“And we were both such good Muslim girls who always respected one another.” They both laughed at this shared joke. Then Azita turned serious. “I will admit to a moment of jealousy and I am ashamed. Don’t say anything. You know, I came on this trip because I feared I was losing my roots. What is my faith, my culture, my purpose? Can I relate to my homeland any longer? You have been back many times, well several times. I have buried my nose in books, and Shakespeare, and a Jewish boy who probably will reject me in the end because his parents cannot accept who I am. I walk the streets of Oxford and I cannot decide whether to throw a scarf over my head or not; the last remaining vestige of my culture. When is the last time I attended mosque for prayers? Everything is a choice and I cannot choose. What is wrong with me?” She looked at her sister but continued. “No, I was not jealous of the attention you were getting. I was jealous that you know who you are. You have a life partner, a vocation, a mission. I cannot figure out what to wear, whether to be a clinician or an academic doctor, whether to focus on healing people or solving medical mysteries and, worst of all, I cannot decide whom to love.”
The last item caught Deena a bit by surprise. “Ah, boy trouble. Who would have thought, ten or twelve years ago, that you would be afflicted with boy problems? Now, you and I disagree on much, but we surely can agree on this one thing - they really are stupid, smelly, obnoxious creatures.” But this time her attempt to lighten the mood fell flat, so she left her attempt at lightness aside. “You are still hearing from the Ahmad boy?�
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“Yes…” the word came from Azita so weakly that Deena barely comprehended it.
“And he professed his love?”
Azita nodded but could not form any words.
“Well, isn’t it simple? Tell him you are not available until you settle things with Benjamin. I am sure that boy will come around. You are the best he can do. Besides, he loves you. I realize that there is no accounting for taste in matters of the heart, but he does love you dearly.” When Azita said nothing in return, something hit her sister. “Wait, you love this other boy, this boy you spoke to once and who was a fat obnoxious kid from our childhood. He really was so irritating. I recall wondering how such a nice man like Abdul could have such a bratty, spoiled offspring. Have you lost your senses?” The words were out, and she could not take them back.
Azita, however, did not argue. “When he professed his love in a message to me,” she said slowly, “I told him I loved him also.”
Deena tried not to betray her feelings. How could her sensible and rational sister be such an idiot, such an emotional mess? All that came out was: “I see.”
Azita, though, had more to say. “I am not sure you do. It is all bound up together. I came here thinking that I would find this backward country that was hopeless. That would decide things for me. I would put all those romantic notions from my childhood aside and focus on a career in academic medicine. That is where my professors say I belong, that I am one of the talented ones, a special one. But that is not what is happening to me. Yes, there is still corruption and poverty and violence and religious intolerance but there is so much more as well. What we saw at our Kabul home, what Bahiri and Ferhana are doing. Look what you are doing here, what Doctor Singleton is accomplishing.”
“Archie…he would yell at you if you did not call him that.”
“Yes, Archie. It is the old puzzle all over again. What if you can give someone everything? Can anything be better than that? I always knew I had passion for knowledge and for medicine. That never wavered. But what if there is something beyond passion?”
