by Jeff Buick
This is Russell Matthews reporting from Spin Buldak on August 8th, 2010. Yesterday, I accompanied three platoons of our troops as they mowed the grass. That's their term for keeping the area around the FOB clear of Taliban. Mowing the grass. At 07:00 hours, they left the safety behind the wire and headed out on heavily mined roads for the village of Dabarey. What they found in the village was not what they expected. The Taliban had snuck in during the night. They mined the incoming roads and the dusty fields surrounding the village and dug in to wait with three hundred of their best fighters. Less than one hundred of our troops. They in hiding. Us walking into a trap. The fight was intense. Brutal, even. We lost three men. Seventeen wounded. We killed scores of Taliban. I witnessed bravery that I never knew existed. I saw men repeatedly put their lives on the line to capture the town. Then, at the end of the day, we pulled back and returned to the FOB. So why did we do it? Why did the soldiers of the 5th Brigade venture out from behind the wire and risk their lives? Because the soldiers look at Afghanistan as a garden. It's a garden that's choking on weeds and the Afghans don't have the gardeners to tend it. That falls to the US and Canadian and British forces working in the Kandahar and Helmand regions of southern Afghanistan. It falls on us to give the men, women, and children who live in villages like Dabarey a chance at a normal life. The right to attend school. The right to a life without fear and violence. The right to a stable and just government. There's a cost - an incredible cost - to this responsibility. But the men and women who venture outside the wire believe in their mission. They believe Afghanistan is worth saving. This is Russell Matthews, reporting from Spin Buldak, near Kandahar, Afghanistan.
Russell switched off the camera and returned to his bunk. He plugged in his computer, transferred the video files to his hard drive and spliced in some of the footage from the fighting in Dabarey with his voiceover. He watched it run, edited it a bit more, then saved it and sent the file to Anita in Boston.
(Click here to watch this video)
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Chapter
25
Day 14 - 8.09.10 - Morning News
Kandahar, Afghanistan
Kadir brushed Halima's hair with a ratty comb that caught on the tangles and jerked her head each time he tried to force it through her thick curls. Finally he gave up and pulled her hair back and tied it with her scarf.
"Who are we meeting, father?" Halima asked.
"A man from Peshawar," he answered nervously. "A very important man."
Halima sensed the apprehension in her father. "Why are we meeting him?"
Kadir adjusted the scarf, then sat in front of her on a cinder block. His hands were shaking as he touched them to her cheeks. "This man may have an opportunity for you. The kind of opportunity that is very rare. We are most fortunate."
"What sort of opportunity?"
Kadir measured his words. He needed Halima on side and eager about the prospect of living in Pakistan. Taking her kicking and screaming to see Tabraiz was impossible. The man would walk out of the meeting and their lives would remain exactly as they were. Desperate.
"He can get you into a school."
Halima's eyes widened and she sucked in a sharp breath. She clutched her father's hands and said, "Oh, I do want to go to school. Badly."
Kadir looked at the dusty floor. "The school is not in Kandahar, Halima."
Her grip on his hands faltered. She sat back. "Where is it?"
"Peshawar. It's a city in Pakistan."
She managed a hint of a smile. "Maybe you can find work. And we can have a house."
"I won't be coming with you, Halima. Aaqila and Danah and I will be staying in Kandahar."
She pulled back from him and shook her head. "I don't want to live in Pakistan without you. It's impossible." Tears pooled in her eyes. "How can you watch Aaqila and Danah without me? You can't. And if you have to watch them, you can't work."
"I'll get by. So will your sisters. This isn't about us, it's about you. This opportunity is for you, Halima." He set his hands on her thin shoulders and lowered his head slightly so he could look directly into her eyes. "You will have a chance to live in a nice house, with a family, and go to school and get an education. Then, when you have finished school, you can come back to Afghanistan and get a job as a teacher or a doctor. And because you have a good job, Aaqila and Danah will be able to attend school. Everything will change, Halima. Everything. You will have a good life. We will have a good life."
She was crying, tears coursing down her cheeks and spilling onto the front of her embroidered blouse. She had seen her father like this in the past - his mind set and unwavering. She knew it was not possible to change things once he had made his decision. She was listening to him tell her that her life had changed. That her city, her country, her family, were soon to be nothing more than memories. She raised her hand and wiped away the tears. Afghans were strong people, and right now she needed to be strong.
"Where will I live?" she asked. She couldn't believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. The calmness with which she delivered them.
"A beautiful house," her father said. "And you will have your own bedroom. But you will have to work to earn your keep."
"What will I do?"
"Clean, and cook some meals. You are very good at both." He stroked her cheek. "We need to leave now to meet him." He wiped at the last remnant of a tear at the edge of her eye. "Are you okay?"
She nodded bravely. "I am, father."
They collected Aaqila and Danah, then made their way down the rubble-strewn staircase and into the street. Two blocks from their makeshift apartment, Kadir hailed a cab. They piled in, Kadir ensuring the driver that he had the money for the fare by showing it. Halima was going to ask why they could suddenly afford such an extravagance, but decided against it. Today was a strange day, filled with new things, and taking a taxicab was simply another one to tack onto the list. The trip to Ahmad's house was short, and cost thirty Afghanis. Kadir reluctantly handed over the cash, then herded the girls from the car and across the street to Ahmad's door. It opened before he could knock.
"Kadir, my friend," Ahmad said. "You are right on time. Five minutes to nine."
"It is rude to be late," Kadir said. He greeted the man with a firm handshake, then placed his right hand over his heart. His friend mirrored the gesture.
They entered the house and Kadir was shocked to see that Tabraiz had already arrived. He was seated on a pillow in a corner and stood when they came in through the door. He was dressed in business clothes again, with a suit jacket and a freshly pressed shirt. Ahmad's wife appeared in the doorway leading to the rear courtyard and at their father's bidding, Aaqila and Danah followed her into the mid-morning sun. Kadir and Halima sat next to each other, across from Ahmad and Tabraiz.
"So you are Halima," Tabraiz said. "Your father has told me so much about you." When the girl didn't respond, he continued. "He said that you want to attend school and learn to read and write."
Halima stared directly at him, and nodded.
Tabraiz waited for her to answer, but after a few seconds it was apparent she wasn't going to speak. "I have a family in Pakistan who are looking for a girl to help around their house. They have four children - the oldest is nine, almost your age. The mother and father are very busy, so they have need of someone to help with the household chores. Your job will be mostly cooking and keeping the house clean. And watching the children sometimes. In return, you will have your own room and you will earn one hundred Afghanis a day."
"When can I visit my father?" Halima asked.
Tabraiz's eyebrows pushed down a touch and slight wrinkles creased his face near his mouth. "That may not be possible for quite some time, Halima. You will b
e working every day and attending school four days a week. During the school holidays you will be busy with the children. It may be a few years before you see your father or your sisters again."
"My sisters will be grown. I may not recognize them."
Tabraiz smiled. "You will know them when you see them. Family is like that."
Kadir touched his daughter on the shoulder and said, "This is important for you, Halima. To have a chance at a good life. At an education. I am your father and I can tell you that you must do this, but I prefer for you to agree. To want this change in your life."
She stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on some unseen and unimportant object. A sheen washed over her eyes - then abated before tears could form. Then, for a moment, she was gone. Unconstrained by reality, in a world where her imagination was the only cage. A world where, at least for a few precious seconds, no one else could intrude. Sitting by the Arghand River with her mother, a soft autumn breeze tussling her hair. The sound of water trickling across smooth, timeworn stones. The scent of pomegranate on the air. There were no words - none were needed. Love was not a word that needed to be explained. And everything was good in the world.
That life had been torn away years ago. She barely remembered the warmth in her mother's smile, the passion in her eyes. But tucked somewhere in a remote recess of her mind was a sliver of the distant memories. She drew deep from the well, reaching out, struggling to touch the ethereal cloud that could never again be anything more than a dream. Halima opened her eyes and stared directly at the man from Peshawar.
"I would be pleased to live in this house and to work for this man and his wife." There was no smile on her face, or in her eyes.
Tabraiz measured her response, then said, "Once you go, that will be your life."
"I understand," she said. She smiled and the life returned to her limbs. She brushed a hair back under her headscarf. "I will work very hard. In the house and in school. When I return, I will be educated."
Tabraiz smiled and nodded, very slowly. "Yes, exactly. You will be able to make a difference to your city, Halima." He turned to her father. "My terms are acceptable, Kadir Khan?"
"They are."
"Then I will be in touch. It will take some time, perhaps a couple of weeks. I will let you know when I have the agreement in place with the family." He slipped his hand inside his suit jacket and retrieved the photo of Halima, which he handed to Kadir. "Thank you for the picture, it was very helpful."
"You're welcome," Kadir said. Confidence surged through him. The Pakistani had said he would return the photo and he had. He was a man of honor and his word could be trusted. He tucked the photo safely away in a pocket.
"Kadir is difficult to reach," Ahmad said. "You can contact me and I will be sure that the message is delivered."
"Thank you," Tabraiz said. He took the appropriate amount of time to say his goodbyes, then left, closing the door behind him.
Safa appeared at the back door and Halima joined her, the girls distracted by looking at how her wounds from the shrapnel were healing. Safa's mother called and they disappeared into the rear courtyard leaving Kadir and Ahmad alone in the house.
"It is necessary," Kadir said quietly. He ran shaky fingers across the smooth metal of the teacup.
"Halima will return a woman of great importance," Ahmad said.
Kadir nodded, but wasn't sure. If this was such an incredible opportunity, then why wasn't Safa leaving for Pakistan? The question hadn't occurred to him until this moment. He pondered asking Ahmad, but decided against it. His friend had introduced him to Tabraiz and was responsible for brokering a life-changing deal. To question his motives would be the greatest insult he could hurl at the man. He must keep his doubts locked away.
"She will change the world," he said.
The words were charged with electricity and he realized that he absolutely believed them to be true.
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Chapter
26
Kandahar, Afghanistan
Dusk was settling over the Governor's Palace, and across the street at the Mosque of the Sacred Cloak, the late-day sun glistened off the Helmadi marble and mirror tile. A sharply dressed man sat under one of the archways leading to the cloistered room containing the cloak that had once adorned the Prophet Mohammed. Armani sunglasses reflected the glare and hid his penetrating eyes from passersby. He watched the approaching police officer with a detached sort of amusement.
"Nice uniform," Tabraiz said when the man stopped in front of him. Sarcasm washed through his voice.
The Afghan National Police officer was sweating profusely and dark stains formed visible rings under his arms. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. His eyes darted from side to side, and he shielded himself from the men entering the mosque by turning his back to them.
"It was foolish to meet here," the ANP officer said.
"You wanted to meet," Tabraiz said. "Not me."
"I wanted to meet, but not here."
His name was Kunar Lodhi, and for six years he had been Tabraiz's eyes and ears inside the ANP. Money was constantly moving from the Pakistani to the Afghan - money that bought certain assurances of privacy and the opportunity to operate outside the law. But things were changing. The police force was morphing away from the practice of graft and incompetence and becoming a collection of men willing to enforce the law. A new connection to the Canadian military was shaping both the government police force and the army into working units, shocking some Afghans and pleasing others. It depended entirely on which side of the law you lived on. Kunar was a dinosaur who was still on another man's payroll with no intention of enforcing the laws. But his ranks were dwindling and it was becoming difficult to keep prying eyes at bay.
"What do you want?" Tabraiz asked.
"You are not safe," Kunar said. "The net is closing in on you. Quickly."
The arrogant posture Tabraiz had brought to the meeting left him. "What are you saying?" he asked.
Kunar licked his lips, dry from the relentless wind and sand. "They know who you are and what you're doing. I can't protect you any longer."
Tabraiz slipped off his sunglasses, his eyes burning with anger. "When did this happen?"
"We have weekly meetings on Friday. I was given an assignment on the south side of the city and kept out of the meeting. I only found out this morning that they were talking about arresting you. They know you're in Kandahar and are planning to throw you in jail."
Tabraiz did the math. It was Monday night, three full days since the ANP had sat around a table and discussed arresting him. He was surprised they hadn't been at his hotel, waiting for him. Maybe they had. He hadn't returned to the hotel since his meeting with Halima and her father earlier in the day. They could be waiting for him. They probably were.
"This changes everything," he said. He thought for a minute, then asked, "Who is looking for me?"
"The commander of my section. His name is Farouk. He has three men dedicated to tracking you."
Tabraiz wanted to scream at his informant. To demand why he was only finding out about this now. But it was useless. The man had reacted in a timely fashion when he found out. The only ones to blame were the ISAF forces that had brought their version of ethics and legality to a country that functioned perfectly well before they arrived. Now things were out of control - the police sticking their noses into things that had been the status quo for decades.
Tabraiz Masood traded in human flesh. For fifteen years he had provided young girls and boys to wealthy men in the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia for sums of money that far exceeded what most people earned in a decade, some in a lifetime. The girl who lived in the tent south of Kandahar had netted him thirty-two thousand US dollars
after expenses. Halima was a much better catch, and after e-mailing the photo of her to his client in the UAE, he had negotiated a fee of sixty-five thousand dollars upon delivery. Subtracting the fifteen hundred for her father, another one thousand to the ANP officer, two thousand to transport her, and four thousand to his contact in Peshawar who posed as a successful businessman with a lovely family, he would net just over fifty-five thousand dollars. Far too much to let slip through the cracks. He needed to make this deal work.
It would be his last transaction in Kandahar. His swan song. He was okay with that. He could rebuild the business somewhere else.
"I'll leave Kandahar immediately," he said to the cop on his payroll. "Today is August 9th. I'll be back in exactly two weeks, on August 23rd, to pick up the girl."
The policeman nodded, visibly relieved that his patron was leaving the city. "What do you need from me?"
"Two things. First, I want you to deliver fifteen hundred dollars to Kadir Hussein. I'll give you the name of another man who can contact him and set up the meeting. Assist Kadir to the bank and help him set up an account. Be of service to him. Be polite. Tell him that I had business in Peshawar and that I will return on the 23rd to get Halima. I want to meet just outside the south edge of the city, near Shakpur Darwaza Chowk-e. It's dark and deserted in that section of town. You can pick the exact place, but I want it surrounded by open fields with some valleys or rock outcroppings nearby. I can protect myself from an attack if I can see it coming. Do you understand?"
"Yes. This is not a problem. I know of a place that is only a few hundred meters out of the city, with a hill to the north and a narrow valley to the south. I'll scout it and make sure."
