by Sharon McKay
“My name is Yasmine,” Yasmine whispered.
Brenda stopped and peered down at Yasmine. “Did you hear that? She speaks English!”
Dan-Danny, still searching his pockets, looked up. “No way. Maybe she knows a few words. I took French for ten years and all I can say is, ‘Je n’suis pas parley Français.’ Hey, I found it.” Dan-Danny held up a photo. “Sister—Haley—she’s fourteen.” He held up a picture of a smiling girl standing in snow, wearing a big coat, scarf, and funny wool hat.
“I am also fourteen,” said Yasmine.
“She can speak English, all right,” announced Brenda.
“Holy . . .” Suddenly there was nothing to say. Both Brenda and Dan-Danny were looking at her as if they had just discovered a kitten who could bark.
“Please, could I see my parents?”
“Come on, I’ll take you.”
Brenda led the way into a wooden building. The air was cool. Yasmine had forgotten about air conditioning. Everything was modern, clean, spotless. There were four beds, two on each side. Blinking machines were pushed next to the beds. Equipment hung from the ceiling. This wasn’t exactly like the hospital she’d been to once in England, but it was certainly nothing like the one in Herat that stank of unwashed bodies and cigarettes.
“This is the trauma room. It’s where we bring wounded people for initial assessment, to see how hurt they are. Your parents are in the next room, through those doors. That’s the ICU, Intensive Care Unit. Come.” Brenda pushed the door.
No, no, no. Yasmine covered her mouth. Her parents lay in high beds, eyes closed, their faces pale as the white sheets that covered them. Baba’s face was almost hidden by a mask, a tube ran under Mother’s nose, and there were machines flashing and beeping beside both of them.
“It only looks bad. See? The mask is giving your father oxygen. That is your father, isn’t it?” asked Brenda.
Yasmine nodded. She couldn’t open her mouth for fear of what might come tumbling out.
“Mother?” Yasmine took hold of her mother’s hand. It felt bony and crumpled, like paper. Worse, the metal band around her head made it look as if she was being tortured! And she was tied to the bed. Why? Did they think her mother might run away?
“Your mother is not in any pain. We have secured her head, back, and legs so she can’t move. Now, listen to me.” The medic spoke softly into Yasmine’s ear. “Most people die from an assault like this because of loss of blood. It was dumb luck that we were out on patrol in the area. Your father took shrapnel to the leg and arm. But here’s the thing, he has a bullet lodged in his lung. We have given him a very strong sedative. He is in a very deep sleep. We have just given your mother a mild sedative, but in a few minutes we will give her a very strong one so that she sleeps through the flight. There are surgeons at KAF. They will operate on your parents. They are very good, the best in the world.”
“What’s KAF?” Yasmine felt faint.
“Kandahar Airfield, it’s near Kandahar City. By road it would take about three, four hours but we’re transporting your parents by helicopter. It will take only twenty, thirty minutes. It’s where all the United Nations Forces are—Canadians, Dutch, French, British, Australians, Americans, Romanians, everyone. Come, sit with me and I’ll tell you all about the operations. Drink some water.” Brenda opened a tiny fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and twisted off the cap.
They were going to take her parents away. What would happen to her? Did the soldiers understand that a girl her age could not be left alone without family? As Yasmine forced water down her throat a young soldier poked his head around the corner.
“Lieutenant, two more cases of the Kandahar-crappies just reported. What should I do with them?”
“Great, that makes five. That’s all we need, an epidemic ripping through the camp. I’ll be right there.” Brenda turned back to Yasmine. “Honey, I have to handle this. Talk to your mother. Stand on this stool so that she can see you without turning her head. She is not to move. I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?”
Yasmine nodded. She tiptoed over to her mother’s bed.
“Mother, Mother.”
Mother’s eyelashes fluttered. “Your father! Where is your father?” She struggled to lift her head up and pushed against the restraints that tied her to the bed.
“Hush, hush, he is sleeping. Please, do not move!” Yasmine cried.
She sank back into the pillow as Yasmine buried her head in Mother’s blanket. She must not cry in this place, and she must not be selfish. What would happen to her after they took Mother and Baba away did not matter.
Mother coughed. There was a glass with a straw poking out of it on the little table beside her bed. Yasmine held the straw close to her mother’s lips. “Here, Mother, sip.” Mother swallowed, then lifted a heavy hand and pushed it away. Tears streamed down her face to settle in her hair and pillow. “Mother, Mother, please, please don’t cry.” Yasmine stroked her mother’s cheek.
“Yasmine, I am sorry. We are so sorry.” Mother was sputtering. “Yasmine, you are the noor of your father’s heart. If only more Afghani men loved their daughters like your father does you, perhaps our country would not be in such peril.” Mother took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
“Mother, Mother . . .” Yasmine laid her head on the pillow.
Behind her a door opened and closed, bringing with it a stream of hot air. Brenda came in and sat down on a bench.
“Yasmine, come sit beside me,” she said.
Yasmine kissed her mother’s cheek, dried her tears with the fringe of her scarf, and sat, hands folded, ankles crossed, on a bench at the foot of her mother’s bed.
“Eat this.” Brenda handed Yasmine a peeled banana. “So tell me, why do you speak English with a British accent?”
“I don’t understand.” Yasmine choked down a bite then put the banana aside. She kept her eyes on her parents, afraid to look away in case they vanished forever.
“Your accent, you speak like someone from England. Did you have a British teacher?”
Yasmine nodded. “I had lots of British teachers when I went to school in England. My father was a teacher, a professor. And my mother was a lawyer who studied in the United States.” Yasmine sat up a little taller. Allah forgive her, she was guilty of pride.
“But you and your parents are Afghans, correct?” asked Brenda.
Yasmine nodded.
Brenda let out a big sigh as she slumped back. “And I guess they came back here to help their country, and brought you with them.”
Yasmine watched her parents for some movement; even a flicker of an eyelash would have made her feel better. Mother, Baba, don’t leave me. Don’t go. I do not know what will happen to me, she thought.
Brenda looked Yasmine in the eyes and said, “This is important, Yasmine, really, really important. Is there a special place in your home where your father keeps important papers? A box perhaps, or maybe a big envelope or file?”
“Please, I do not care about papers. I care about my parents, my father—”
The door banged open and a soldier filled the doorway. “Incoming. One down. Shrapnel to the abdomen. ETA six minutes.”
Brenda leaped up. “Mike, call Dan and tell him to take Yasmine here back down to the gate. The civilians are ready for transport. There are five bottles of ciprofloxacin on the shelf. If any more cases of the Kandahar-crappies report in, have them fill out the form and give each one a five-day dose. Tell Dan to take a few bottles down to the gate. Michelle says that a couple of ANA soldiers have come down with it too.”
As Brenda talked she strapped on a holster, checked a small gun, and donned a heavy-looking vest and helmet. She spun on the heels of her big boots and spoke quickly to Yasmine.
“Dan will take you down to the front gate. There’s a female soldier there named Michelle. I’ll call her on my cell. Is there anyone living in your house? Are you safe there?” Brenda spoke quickly, eyes wide. There was no time to hesitate.
&nb
sp; Yasmine nodded. “I am safe in my home.”
“Good. I want you to go and find all the documents you can. Bring back anything that looks official, and look for passports. Tell Michelle that you are to be let out of the FOB and back in. Do not stand outside the gate.” As she spoke, she replenished a medical kit and bolted for the door.
Yasmine stood in the middle of the room. What now?
“Hey there, Princess, your chauffeur is at your service.” Dan-Danny laughed. It was a big laugh, like the rest of him. Mike was on his heels. “What gives? Isn’t Princess here flying out to KAF with her parents?” Dan-Danny’s eyebrows came together to create two deep ridges between his eyes.
Yasmine watched. Baba’s forehead looked the same when he was worried.
“Can’t take locals in military transport unless they’ve been wounded. Her parents are scheduled to be vacced out in an hour, but this place is going to be hopping any minute. Another IED just called in. That makes two,” said Mike as he opened Mother’s chart.
Dan-Danny’s face, which had been pale to begin with and dotted with freckles, went white. “Okay, Princess, let’s hit the road.” He hoisted his gun onto his shoulder.
So, she would be left behind—her skin grew clammy and her heart began to race. But she must not think of herself. Her parents would be helped. That’s what was important.
She took a deep breath. “Please, I must say goodbye to my father, even if he is asleep.” Yasmine ran over to her father’s bed. She kissed him on one cheek, then the other once, twice, ten times, then whispered, “Allah, You make night pass into day and You make day pass into night, and You bring forth the living from the dead . . . Allah, give sustenance to us.”
“Best to get out of here before this place heats up.” Dan-Danny swung open the door.
“Hey, Dan, take a few bottles of Kandahar candies down to the front gate.” Mike shoved a handful of pill bottles into a cloth bag. “I swear half the camp will be in the can before nightfall. One pop a day for five days. Not five pills in one day!”
“Yeah, got it.” Dan grabbed the bag.
Yasmine followed Dan-Danny outside. They trailed up a stony path and then stopped at the top of the hill where a jeep was waiting. In one easy swoop he bounced up in the air and almost magically landed behind the steering wheel. Yasmine hesitated, then did her best to climb in gracefully. And then, over the hill, she saw an amazing sight. All she could do was stare.
Three mountains surrounded a space that housed dozens and dozens of fearsome tanks all lined up in front of massive concrete walls. There were hundreds of tents and long tin buildings, and as many more vehicles and tall cranes. Ten, twenty villages could have fit into that space.
Flags flew over buildings. She recognized the American flag and the Canadian flag—they were also on the sleeves of the soldiers that patrolled the village. Everywhere she looked, soldiers, men and women, walked around with big guns hanging off their shoulders. The kharijis had brought their world to Afghanistan. How could the Taliban, how could anything or anyone, stand up to such might?
“Pretty amazing, huh?” said Dan-Danny. “You drove right through it in the ambulance. Now, hang on as we blast off to all of your favorite destinations!”
As Dan-Danny put his foot to the floor, the jeep took off. Yasmine grabbed the overhead bar. The wind snapped her head back and took her breath away. They plunged down the hill and bounced along the flat middle ground, passing the long line of ferocious-looking vehicles with long guns. Dan-Danny moved a stick beside his leg. The jeep growled like a dog then made a great leap forward and raced back up a small hill. It lurched and pitched, and just as it felt as if it might actually leave the ground, it came to a sudden stop in a cloud of dust at the top. They perched there, peering down like birds onto the little encampment at the front gate.
Yasmine adjusted her headscarf, then pulled the ends across her face. Down below, a female soldier was arguing with a local man.
“Do you know him?” Dan-Danny asked.
Yasmine shook her head. A girl might not recognize her own neighbor if he was a male, but he might recognize her even though she was seldom outside the walls of her house. It was funny that the kharijis had been in the country for such a long time and yet seemed to know so little about their customs. What else did they not know?
The female soldier’s voice rose up like smoke. “I repeat, we cannot interfere in local politics or your culture. We are not an occupying army. We have been invited here by your government. We cannot provide shelter for your nephew. That would be kidnapping. Children who come to our door must be returned to their parents. It’s the rules.”
The man flapped his hands in the air. “Why are you in my country? All you do is make more war. When we ask for help you have your rules.” He turned his back on the female soldier and stomped back towards the gate. Two ANA soldiers tried to keep up with him.
Dan took giant strides down the hill, and Yasmine did her best to keep up. “Looks like you’re making friends with the locals. Catch.” Dan-Danny tossed the cloth bag down to Michelle.
“Yeah, I’m a hit. He thinks his nephew is in danger of being recruited by the Taliban and he wants us to give him a job inside the FOB. Every boy is in danger. We’re not babysitters. What’s this?” Michelle held up the bag.
“Kandahar candies for the ANA. It looks like we’re all going to come down with the Kandahar-crappies before too long. Directions are on the container.”
Michelle looked over at Yasmine and smiled. “Hi there, Yasmine. Brenda told me about you.” Michelle was heavyset, with wide hazel eyes and a huge smile. “You speak English, right?”
Yasmine nodded.
“I’m not sure what’s going on here. Brenda was in a hurry. I do know that you are to go to your house, collect whatever it is Brenda asked for, and come straight back. Straight back!” Michelle spoke gently but firmly. Yasmine nodded again. “And you are going to have to hurry. I mean run, really run. I’ll be waiting for you here. Take this. I bet you haven’t eaten a thing today.” Michelle shoved a chocolate bar into her hands.
Chocolate—it had been so long! “Thank you. Please, the soldiers that are coming into the hospital were hurt by IEDs. What is an IED?”
“An improvised explosive device.”
“A land mine?” said Yasmine.
“Yep, but bigger.”
“I am sorry that the soldiers got hurt,” said Yasmine.
“Oh honey, it’s not your fault. Now go,” said Michelle.
Yasmine ran for the gate.
Chapter 11
Goodbye, Tamanna
Yasmine held the ends of her scarf over her face and crossed the road, skulking between the jingle trucks, rickshaws, cars, and millie buses. It would not do to be seen. Everyone seemed to think that her parents were spies. What would they do if they saw her going back to her house? She ran towards the middle of the village, ducked behind a wall, and watched as Rahim Khan, the kebab-seller, turned his meat. There was one slice of naan left on the small table beside the grill. Today was Tamanna’s wedding day, but no matter, she would still be told to deliver the naan, Yasmine was sure of it . . . almost sure. Please Tamanna, come, come, she begged silently. How long should she wait?
Minutes passed, and more minutes. It was no use. And then there she was! Tamanna, her eyes fixed on the ground, came down the road and placed the bread on the table.
“Tamanna,” Yasmine called out in the loudest whisper she dared.
Tamanna spun on her heels and saw Yasmine’s head bob up briefly from behind the wall. Casually, eyes glued to the ground, she walked over to Yasmine’s hiding spot then ducked down beside her.
“I thought you were gone!” Tamanna said, taking her friend’s hands with delight.
“Have you been crying?” asked Yasmine. Tamanna’s eyes were as red as saffron.
Tamanna shook her head. To admit to such a thing, even to a friend, was too humiliating. “Your parents . . . are they . . . ?” Tamanna
could hardly form the question.
“They are alive. The kharijis will put them in a helicopter and take them to Kandahar. I have something for you.” Yasmine handed Tamanna the chocolate bar that was now soft in its package. “But I cannot stay. I just wanted to see you, to tell you that they are all right. I have to go to my house, then return to the FOB with papers.”
“I will go to the house with you.” Tamanna reached for Yasmine’s hand.
“But your wedding?” said Yasmine.
“I do not get married for hours.” Never mind that Mor needed her to help, or that Uncle would be angry that she was away so long. He would not beat her on the day of her wedding. Her future husband might object to having her damaged.
Hugging walls, their eyes averted, they made their way through the village to the door of the courtyard. Quickly, Yasmine twisted the knob, the bolt slipped, and they ducked inside.
“What are we looking for?” asked Tamanna.
“I’m not sure, but there is a box under Mother’s bed.” Yasmine ran into Mother’s room and reached under the bed. Carefully, she pulled out a large metal box. It was heavy, too heavy to lift, so they slid it across the floor. “It’s locked.” Yasmine sat back on the floor.
“Where would your father hide a key?”
“His desk?” Yasmine ran to the desk and began opening the drawers. Nothing. In England she’d once seen a detective show where a key was taped under a desk. She crawled under and looked up. Nothing. And then a thought. Baba’s favorite poet was Rumi. He was seldom without a copy of the poems. Yasmine pulled a book off the shelf, held it by its spine, and shook the pages. Still nothing.
“What about Rabi’a Balkhi?” suggested Tamanna. Baba had read her poems to both girls many times.
Yasmine searched the shelves. “Here.” She pulled it out of its leather case and gave it a shake. Still nothing.
“Could you carry the big box back to the fort?” Tamanna asked.
Yasmine shook her head. It was too heavy for one person, and if Tamanna helped, she would certainly be accused of helping spies.
