Crossing the Wire

by AnnaMaria Cardinalli

  “See, you can’t help it,” I smiled, seeing the quality of the brave teenager before me. “You’re honorable. You might call that knightly even.”

  He blushed, looking at his knees, but smiling at the compliment.

  “Knightly,” he repeated to himself softly, liking the word.

  “Now think of the people in the neighborhoods. They know what’s going on. They live there and they know who’s who. They are threatened by the gangs, but they’re a little of scared of the police too. They don’t know who to trust, and they certainly aren’t inclined to make enemies of the gang members. The gang members have them completely terrorized.”

  “Right, just like the insurgents here.”

  “Exactly. Now imagine what it would be like if the people in the neighborhood liked you—if they knew you and trusted you and understood that you would win and protect them against the threatening gang members who made their lives miserable and their neighborhoods violent.”

  “Yeah, they’d tip me off, because they’d want the gangs out of there.”

  “Right, and then what would happen?”

  “Well, then we could find the gangs, take them down, and people would be safe to do whatever they wanted—to get on with their lives.”

  “Right, and if the gangs are stopped, then they can do less damage not just in the neighborhood, but all over—like drug trafficking across borders, for instance.”

  “Or like terror attacks, in this case here.”

  “And that’s the definition of winning. It’s putting an end to terror, just like you signed up to do.”

  “Huh. I like that a lot.”

  “Me too. Except in our case, you need to consider one more issue. Imagine you are doing all of this on Mars.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Instead of it being a neighborhood you basically understand, imagine you are in another world, where the things you say and do and think don’t mean the same things to the people that they do to you. You need somebody to go learn what things mean to the other culture, and how to best make the friends you need in the neighborhood.”

  “So that’s why you’re here to do the touchy-feely culture stuff?”

  “Yep. And it’s also why I try so hard not to upset the locals.”

  “Okay, another question, then.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The guys you had to fight—I bet they all wanted to rape you, right?”

  “I think one did, yes.”

  “One? So, you’re out there, completely in the open, and out of all those men and teenagers who almost never get to see a woman, you mean each and every one of them didn’t want to—you know…?”

  “Um, no.” I chalked his observation up to the lively hormones of his youth.

  “Well, they’d be crazy,” he offered, while giving my dusty self an appreciative glance.

  “Yellow light, Soldier,” I said in half-teasing reference to the sexual harassment training the military receives. It’s a light-hearted way to hint that someone is approaching the line of propriety.

  He smiled abashedly and took up his tray to leave. “Thanks,” he said, “for the talk.”

  “Anytime.”

  He turned back. “By the way Ma’am, you’re not ‘Barbeque’ anymore. Just ‘Barbie.’”

  I choked on the last of my cereal as I laughed.

  Kuchi family.

  __________________________________________

  [1] This is an Israeli martial art meant to provide an advantage to someone with a smaller and weaker frame.

  Chapter 4

  Bow-Wow, Kuchi Coup

  Day 21

  The day’s outcome revolved around a dog. He was an enormous sand-colored dog with round tufted ears like a bear—a breed that seems completely unique to this area. I think he was a good dog, but my Marines weren’t so sure.

  I am “home” again. Things have speedily improved at Leatherneck, so my team has been reassembled. I know my way around now. I see that a new, large, real-wood chow hall is being built. Navy Seabees (the Construction Battalion, or “C.B.’s”) mill around, creating gyms and showers and offices that seem to appear overnight. I have mastered the vault to my bunk. Life is good. I am starting to feel like an old hand.

  Today I patrolled the nearby area with the Marines for the first time. I think this might have actually been a few of these young men’s first time out, because they seemed a little jumpy. We almost lost the dog.

  It’s funny that my first time out was so recent, and already it seems a lifetime past. I’ve been on a few mundane and uneventful patrols since my first. I am reassuring friends that they will make it through their first experiences at this point. Life seems to move quickly in a war.

  Today’s assignment was a simple “presence” patrol with the friendly goal of introducing the Marines to nearby residents. A bit of prior research told me that some families in the area were resettled Kuchi people—part of Afghanistan’s unique gypsy population.[2] Some were also Pashtun. I couldn’t wait to meet the neighbors.

  We left early in the morning trying to avoid carrying our heavy packs through the desert in the heat of the day. For the first fifteen minutes of our walk, we saw absolutely nothing but dunes. Then the dog bounded out at us seemingly from nowhere.

  He skidded to a sandy stop squarely in front of us and barked with his booming voice. It wasn’t so much an “I-intend-to-eat-you” bark as a “you’re-strange-here-and-I’m-not-sure-about-you” bark. My Marines, unfortunately, saw it differently.

  “You get the #$!*&%#*$%# out of here,” they snarled and shouted at him. The dog, who had been unsure about us, now made up his mind that we were hostile. He snarled back. The Marines jumped.

  It has always been my experience that the bigger, stronger, and more intimidating a man is, the more he is prone to be frightened by a dog. I have a huge dog, and big men are compelled to run from him or challenge him while little children throw their arms around his fluffy neck and hug him. Now my Marines were reacting to the dog as though he was a threat.

  “Get him out of here or I’m shooting that thing!” they yelled louder. The dog barked louder and grew more menacing.

  “That’s not authorized. Don’t waste the ammunition,” the Sergeant commanded.

  “I’m shooting it before it bites me!,” a few Marines yelled back with sincerity. Rifles rose to the ready.

  Something was terribly wrong, and it had more to do with people than the dog. Before deploying, I learned as much as I could about the Kuchi. To them, a dog was as valued as a family member, and killing one was an offense equal to killing a person. Because Kuchi people were nomadic, their dogs were relied upon to protect the camels and goods they sold, and to keep people safe as they were exposed to the dangers of the road.

  The Kuchi depended enormously on their dogs, and to harm one would be to deprive a family of one of its most valued assets. It would make instant enemies of the people immediately surrounding our camp, which couldn’t be good for us. This was the kind of thing HTT was here to prevent.

  The Marines seemed unaware that our relationship with the local area currently rested on the furry shoulders of the dog. I had to stop this, the only way I knew how.

  “Whooooo’s the barky dog? Who’s the biiiiiiig barky dog?” I mustered all the delight and affection into my voice that I would give to my own dog. The dog cocked his head in an unmistakable “huh?”

  I walked up between the Marines and him. “Yes, you’re a gooood barky dog. You’re such a good guard doggie, aren’t you? Yeeeees you are!”

  “Ma’am,” the Sergeant put in, trying to cope with the fact that I had apparently lost my mind. “He doesn’t speak English.”

  “He doesn’t speak Pashto, either,” I continued in my sing-song tone. “He’s just listening to me talk to him. Aren’t you, you Kuchi poochie? You Pashtu puppy? Yes you are!” Eyes rolled, but the Marines got my idea.

  “Now you go home and tell your people we’re here,” I tried. Ever
yone liked that direction. “Yes, good doggie, you go home,” they chimed in. We clapped briskly and pointed cheerfully away in the direction he had come. The dog understood.

  The dog ran ahead of us to a Pashtun dwelling, so it turned out he was not a Kuchi dog after all. Still, shooting a neighbor’s animal is never a good way to say hello. When we arrived at the compound, we introduced ourselves and the dog bounded up to me.

  “Oh, very sorry about that!” the owner of the household said. “Just throw a rock at him and he’ll keep to the wall. Here, I’ll do it.”

  The owner pelted the dog, and mimicking their father, his little boys started a game by doing the same. The dejected dog retreated, and I was compelled to ask why they would hurt him, since he seemed to be such a good guard for their home. The question made me seem daft to the Pashtun man.

  “He’s a dog,” the owner replied, as if this explained the matter to me. “It’s in the Koran,” my Afghan translator finally added helpfully. Then I remembered.

  A story in the Koran tells of how angels wouldn’t enter a house if a dog was in it. Because of the passage, there is a common logic in Afghanistan that dogs must be somehow offensive if they keep away angels. I’ve always interpreted the passage to mean that a house doesn’t need angels to protect it if it already has such a good guardian as a dog—the angels must trust the dog to do the job.

  I thought it was sad how the Koran was interpreted in this case to allow for the worst treatment rather than the best—for cruelty rather than kindness. However, it is my job here to learn and to keep my feelings to myself. One of the most important skills one can have in HTT work is the constant attempt to mitigate his or her own natural value judgments, and I take this challenge seriously.

  We spoke for a while at the compound. The man would not allow me to visit with his wives, but he was happy with us because the run-off sewage from our camp was creating a fertile pool near his house. Things were growing on their own. We tried to explain why that water wouldn’t be the best to use, but that we could try to assist in the family’s farming. The explanation didn’t go over well, but we left on friendly terms.

  Pashtun pup.

  Still, as we walked on, I continued to be confused by the small matter of the Pashtun family’s attitude toward animals. About a mile from the complex that the dog guarded, I saw a camel. It wasn’t a Kuchi camel, with a pretty bright bridle, but an unkempt one, hobbled by having one leg tied bent at the knee, so he stood on only three feet. He hopped miserably.

  I wondered why he was not penned but tied in such an uncomfortable way. I also wondered why he was kept so far from people. Had he actually walked so far on his three feet? Would his owner go out and bring him home? I jotted my confusion in my notes.

  Later, I actually did meet a Kuchi family nearby. They told the story of how they were forced to settle in a Pashtu-style village because the Taliban had made it too dangerous for them to travel on the roads. The Taliban enforced their intolerant laws at roadblocks, and women who weren’t appropriately veiled or even appropriately deferential—as Kuchi women rarely are—were beaten savagely. Men would be similarly punished for equally minor infractions.

  The Kuchi were good Muslims, but they didn’t subscribe to all the culturally-based Islamic practices of the Pashtun. Kuchi women were seen openly as the families traveled. Compared to Pashtun women, this made them shockingly and scandalously free. The thought brought a smile to my face.

  The men of the household had no problem with me visiting their wives and daughters. I found myself chatting easily among the women—who treated me as an immediate member of their gossip clutch. I felt drab compared to them, who wore tatters in every clashing color of the rainbow, and managed to look glamorous doing so.

  I liked these families. The fact that the Kuchi treated even their dogs with kindness spoke volumes. I hoped that taking back control of the country from the Taliban would have the happy side effect of returning these people to their traditional ways.

  Young farmer—a hero of Afghanistan.

  __________________________________________

  [2] It is thought that the Kuchi people are ethnically Pashtun and do not share the Rom bloodline of Gypsies elsewhere worldwide. However, even in apparent genetic and cultural isolation, their lifestyle and attitudes about their social place is similar to the Rom almost to the point of being exact.

  Chapter 5

  “So, What’s a Nice Girl Like You Doing in a Place Like This?”

  Day 25

  The early spring is quickly becoming summer, and the heat is now so unyielding that it is nearly impossible to sleep. If anyone should be so lucky or exhausted as to manage, they will soon be awakened by the crackling and squealing of loudspeakers that precede the prayer calls from faraway mosques. Sound carries long and clear across the desert. Unlike the beautiful and ornate calls I remember hearing when I served on the Arabian Peninsula, these are short, gruff, and surprisingly lacking in melody. They seem more a demand than an invitation.

  In fact, if too few people come to prayer, one local muezzin occasionally wakes the congregation by firing a few shots into the air. I always worry about the bullets hitting someone—maybe even a child—on their deadly way down. A bit shockingly, that favorite Muslim attitude to almost everything, “inshallah”—let whatever is God’s will be done—seems to resolve the issue for the villagers.

  It is because of restless nights like these that I have gained the habit of wandering, eventually finding a quiet place to sit and watch the moon in its almost-touchable closeness. Inshallah. What a strange sense of humor God must have, I thought, for His will to have somehow led me here.

  I am not the kind of girl who anyone would easily believe had any business in this war or any background to do the work to which I am assigned. In fact, I do, but how I arrived at these things is a story almost stranger than my participation here and—in its own way—contributes to it, as well.

  The truth of the matter is, I’m an opera singer. At four years of age, I fell in love with the opera Carmen—yes, a slightly inappropriate fixation for a preschooler—and from that point on have wanted to spend my life singing the character. This obsession was predated only by my love of the Spanish guitar, which I began studying when I was three. Both art forms are expressions of my Sicilian and Spanish cultural heritage, which I have always embraced with immense pride.

  First opera.

  In the miniscule world of classical music, I actually have a notable career, both as a guitarist and a singer. I have given a solo recital at the Kennedy center. I’ve performed for dignitaries like the Prince of Spain (several times—before he was married and while he was at his most devastatingly handsome). I’ve played major guitar concerti with a number of orchestras, and I have over a dozen CD’s to my credit. I tour nationally and have sung leading roles in operas in Italy and the U.S. Between deployments, I even provided an operatic vocal track for a CD featuring Kanye West and John Legend.

  A chance at an opera career can only be achieved with extensive training, so years ago I sought to find the voice teacher who could render me Carmen-worthy. Eventually, I had the fortune of being accepted by Janice Pantazelos, head of the Chicago Studio of Professional Singing. Janice’s impact on my voice and on my life would be profound. However, a major problem existed in that the studio was located in Chicago. I am from Santa Fe, New Mexico. I was nineteen, and I needed a plan. I never thought it would involve two wars.

  Publicity shot for my first career.

  That year, while playing flamenco in one of the Santa Fe tapas bars where I worked my way through college, I was “discovered” by the head of a major record company. I won’t name the label because of what happened next, but for a moment I was slotted for being the next “it” thing. At that time, I actually possessed the teenage prettiness that we all do so briefly, could sing low and sultry torch songs as only a bar room can prepare one to sing, and could play the guitar like a woman possessed.

  I
recorded a new CD for the label and was scheduled immediately on tour to play the Concierto de Aranjuez with a full symphony—a preliminary step in a major national marketing plan for the album. Shortly before the tour began, my Mom and I were in a severe car accident with a drunk driver. Mom’s selfless instincts saved both our lives.

  Though we were gratefully alive, I had two injuries. My face was sliced open and mangled on the left side, and I had a “closed head injury,” meaning my brain function would be disrupted. I could not remember basic things, but I could remember how to play the Concierto de Aranjuez, so I went on tour. With a stack of triumphant reviews and newspaper photos that showed me playing dramatically in profile (so that my Frankenstein-fresh stitches were hidden), I returned to the record label to begin the national launch of the album. “Sorry, my dear,” the executive said after staring at me in complete silence, “but you used to be the total package.”

  With my appearance “ruined,” my record was dropped. I realized I needed a new plan. This time, I wanted to possess something that couldn’t be taken away so easily. I began to think that a Ph.D. might ensure a more stable future, regardless of my looks or lack thereof. At nineteen, prior to the Aranjuez tour, I was just completing my Master’s degree. I had completed my B.A. at eighteen after graduating from high school at fourteen (as a result of being expelled—which is another long story that belongs elsewhere).

  However, because of the head injury, while I retained my reasoning and memory, I hardly knew how to dress myself, tell time, or add two and two. Rather than “accept a new normal,” I worked to relearn the things my injury had taken from me. I found myself at the community college, taking remedial courses. Eventually, I returned to the level of functioning where I could pass the GRE with the scores required for application at every Catholic girl’s dream school.

  With the theme music from the movie Rudy echoing in my mind, I applied for doctoral studies at the University of Notre Dame. I had an idea for an interesting dissertation topic, and I hoped that someone there would be receptive. I had always suspected a link between the Flamenco guitar music I grew up performing and the ritual prayer music of the Penitentes of northern New Mexico. If I was accepted to Notre Dame to research this, I would be only a short train ride away from the voice teacher with whom I so desperately wanted to study in Chicago. Plus, I would have a room, food, and a stipend just big enough to allow me to afford my lessons if I used it for nothing else.