Later that evening, the whispers about the odd death of a healthy boy would go silent as my husband came and went. I remained in seclusion, refusing to abandon what was left of my oldest son.
As Parsaa left the village center to oversee the digging of the grave, the questions and opinions took on volume. The boy should have attended the maktab attended by other children in this village, one said.
Maybe he didn’t want to go, said another.
Allah works in strange ways, Gul concluded. He gives life and causes death.
I twisted and squeezed the damp cloth in my hands, until it was tight against my fingers. I wanted nothing to do with Allah if the boy’s death was His work.
Parsaa’s voice suddenly pierced the conversation. Ali was attending the same maktab as his father, my husband insisted, his voice calm and maddening. He was happy about going. He died in this village. The school had nothing to do with his death—unless others were envious of this choice.
A woman wailed and Gul quickly shifted the subject, blaming the foreigners gathering by the river. It was the first time I had heard anyone speak about the Americans building near the river. A few men expressed surprise. Parsaa expressed neither fear nor anger about the foreign soldiers, but dismissed the accusations.
They have nothing to do with Ali. It was an accident.
No, I said aloud, closing my eyes and remembering a boy who never had problems scrambling along the rocks and cliffs around our village. No.
But no one was inside our home to hear me. I dipped the cloth into water and cleaned the boy’s hair, thinking about that last day. I had foolishly suggested that we needed to keep a watchful eye on our part of the mountainside. Or perhaps Ali had watched me find and open the metal box, and then returned to satisfy his own curiosity. Perhaps the owner of the box, following and catching Ali examining something he was not supposed to see, had bashed my son on the head and shoved the body over a cliff.
The owner could come after me next and I’d be waiting.
I studied Ali’s face. It appeared younger than it had the day before and offered no clue as to why he had climbed the slope again or who killed him. There was no fear or wonder in his face—no answers. Pressing my hand gently against his neck, I lay my head on his chest, hoping to detect a last bit of warmth leaving his small body.
We buried Ali that evening. Nothing could ever hurt me so deeply again.
Others tried to help with ablution, but I turned them away. My hot tears mixed with the water used on Ali’s hands, his mouth, his face and head, his feet. My hands were shaking, nervous, performing the task dreaded by every mother. My arms felt like heavy logs, and I kept hoping, praying, that the boy would stir and open his eyes. But prayers of the living do not move the dead.
Weary, I helped my husband wrap the final cloth and then nodded for the men to carry his body away. This was a day I didn’t want to remember, my son stretched out on our floor. Instead, I wanted to treasure our last climb together. I kept my head down and, throughout the prayers, struggled to focus on memories of Ali jumping, laughing, and talking—so pleasant, yet distant and strange because I’d never know his thoughts again.
Chapter 4
The new strategy was to provide security to rural areas and accompany sector teams organized to boost the Afghanistan economy. Military analysts had loaded statistics—education and crime levels, income and other community resources, water, and land features—onto GIS software, creating colorful maps that pinpointed areas of need. Military planners then dispatched teams of teachers, mechanics, healthcare workers, miners, cabinetmakers, construction crews, or engineers to areas with potential, hoping that skills and security would spread. Agriculture teams included academics and professional farmers familiar with chickens, beef, wheat, and other crops; as well as horticulturists, vets, or botanists who could offer specific technical advice. The Afghan soldiers would train with US soldiers and guide teams into area villages to collect requests for projects.
Afghan cooperation was crucial, and Joey warmly greeted the Afghan commander in Dari.
“Major Pearson, I’m honored.” Habib Bulaq eagerly shook hands with Joey and then Cameron. Joey felt lucky. He had heard only good reports about this devout Muslim from Kandahar. The father of six was passionate about securing education for his children and resented politicians who used religion to limit dreams and communities. Joey introduced the Afghan, in his early thirties, to Cameron, and repeated sentences in both English and Dari for the two men. Habib politely held up his hand.
“Sir, I understand English,” he announced proudly. “I studied for this mission.”
Joey flashed a smile. “But I should practice my Dari!” And Habib laughed. Joey showed the man their sleeping quarters, and encouraged him to select one of the two cots left. “In here, we use first names—if that’s okay with you?”
Habib nodded. He tentatively opened a small locker, then switched a lamp on and off with admiration. “Very nice . . .”
Joey liked the guy already.
Cameron pointed to a military map of their assigned area in Helmand posted on the wall, and abruptly asked Habib, “Any ideas about which of these places are the most safe?”
“Safe?” The Afghan glanced at Joey. “None of them.”
Cameron’s eyebrows went up as Joey went to the map. “As soon as troops step into a village, any guarantee of safety vanishes for the people there.”
Cameron rubbed his hands and stared at the map. “Once we rip out the opium crops . . .”
“Hold on.” Joey held up his hand. “We’re not here to destroy livelihoods. Besides, we don’t know what they’re growing here. Every action we take is to support the villages. That’s a direct order from the top.”
Relief crossed Habib’s face. “Anything else puts us at risk,” he said.
Cameron looked puzzled and Joey explained. “We’re not here to control. Most people in this area have already ditched opium as a crop. There’s too much competition and too much trouble. Even if we find some opium . . .” Joey shook his head. “We don’t interfere. We don’t push. We wait for their requests.”
“Wait?” Cameron protested. “But how do they know what to ask for?”
“You’ll work with Mita Samuelson on demonstration projects. And you can join us on scouting missions. We’ll get ideas about what the villages want and need, and then Habib and his men will talk it over with them.”
Cameron flopped down on his cot. “Wouldn’t it be easier to get them going on something reliable, like wheat?”
Joey, realizing Habib still nervously stood at attention, pointed to the cot. “It’s fine, Habib.” The man carefully stashed a worn backpack underneath the cot. “Look, Cameron, pushing them around is a waste of time. And we don’t have a lot of time. And that’s the least of our challenges.”
Cameron frowned. “What else?”
“Most villages in this valley are relatively new, formed by people who were sick of fighting and relocated. Some estimates suggest that at least seventy-five percent of Helmand is made up of internally displaced people. Some will appreciate the advice. Others will be terrified and refuse to talk with us.”
Cameron waved his hand. “They’ll get used to us. Once they see what modern agriculture can do, they’ll get on board.”
Habib glanced at Joey again, as if asking which man would lead the charge in villages. The villages wouldn’t like eagerness or control. Unfortunately, Mita Samuelson was an unknown quantity. In Dari, Joey advised Habib that the leader of the ag side had been delayed. “The civilian commander will review and decide on these matters before we head out to the villages,” Joey promised the man, before translating a shorter version for Cameron.
“We should get started right away,” Cameron pressed.
Joey kept his voice calm. “Don’t count on these villagers being keen on a rush of help from outsiders. The country’s been at war since 1980—and the villages blame us and the Russians. Not the Taliban.”
“But you’ll help us avoid them?” Cameron asked.
“We can’t avoid them,” Joey said. “Habib’s here to help us understand the villagers’ point of view. They want no interference. But the good news is they’re sick of fighting. The bad news is that some are nostalgic for the days when the Taliban were in control.”
Habib nodded, but Cameron was incredulous.
“They want the Taliban back?”
Joey shrugged. “The country wasn’t at war throughout the 1990s. For some people, that’s good enough.”
“You’re from California. The give-peace-a-chance crowd can get to you.”
“Try again,” Joey said flatly. He wasn’t about to try to explain what it was like coming from western Maryland and Garrett County. He wasn’t going to bring up his farming background in front of Cameron, who would automatically assume he grew up on one of the elite horse or dairy farms dotting the other side of the state. Stereotypes didn’t help build assessments. He turned to Habib who listened closely. “Beware of false premises.”
“What do you mean?” Cameron asked.
“It’s dangerous to jump to conclusions—about me or the Afghans,” Joey said.
“So you’re from New York or Massachusetts?” Cameron asked. “Vermont?”
Joey groaned. Stereotyping, an inflated sense of superiority—it was why a high-tech military still struggled against insurgents dressed in rags, often going without food or basic supplies, piecing together weapons that were decades old, gathering parts to improvise explosives. The enemy was determined and patient.
Cameron would learn with show, not tell. “After a few tours, it doesn’t matter where any of us are from,” Joey said. “All I know is that we have one big mess to untangle. But it’s like a bunch of kids, using forks to untangle a giant mountain of yarn. If we go too fast, we’ll only tangle it more.”
Habib spoke up. “The people here don’t want to fight. But that doesn’t mean they like Americans. They only see Americans and the government in Kabul shoving new laws at them. Out here, it’s not a good idea to force new ideas.”
“The only chance for success is convincing the villages to approach us,” Joey agreed.
“Our survival could depend on it,” Habib noted. “I want to get back to my family.” An awkward silence followed.
“Okay, okay. You guys understand the place better than I do. All I’m trying to say is if these people are ready to establish some real crops in real quantities, I’m ready to help. And wheat is the way to go.”
“And the orders are we wait to be asked, Cameron,” Joey repeated. He stepped away from the map and went to the doorway, studying the surrounding terrain. Joey couldn’t see a wheat field popping up anytime soon, not from a guy who was more talk than action. “We’ve got two months, and we can’t blow it.” He sighed, removing his cigarette pack.
Habib frowned.
“Don’t worry,” Joey said. “It’s my last one . . .”
“I knew Muslims don’t like alcohol,” Cameron said. “Smoking, too?”
“The smell,” Habib replied.
“If we do surveillance work,” Joey said. “The smell carries. Also, remember that we need to finish what we start. If we don’t carry through, the villages won’t have anything to do with us.”
Habib nodded. “Results.”
“They can’t ask if they don’t know,” Cameron complained. “Remember that.”
“It’s up to Samuelson,” Joey concluded. “Talk to her about setting up a demonstration. And focus on basic techniques for irrigation, pest control, crop storage.” He shook his head. “With luck, the villages won’t be stubborn, but some will destroy their fields before taking any advice from us. We can’t do enough research or planning.”
Habib, eager to learn, repeated what seemed to be a popular phrase for military discussions. “Remember.”
There was no escaping pessimism in Afghanistan. Joey threw the newly lit cigarette into the dirt. Twisting his foot hard, he wished that he could stomp away memories so easily.
The team members, eager to get started, were anxious to meet Mita Samuelson. Joey posted a map on the wall and initiated the small group on the region and security concerns, describing the four villages in the outpost’s region, all within a hard day’s travel of the outpost. “Some villages are more isolated than others, and most don’t want to mingle with one another, let alone with us. They want no outside influences—Taliban fighters or NATO forces.”
“At least they’re honest,” Dan, a staff sergeant, offered.
“That they hate us?” asked Cameron, who sat in the front row.
“Telling us what they want,” Joey explained. “That’s better than the ones who smile and take our information. They hide their feelings and then attack the first chance they get.”
“Maybe you’ve given up on them.” Cameron had a haughty way of arguing, even when people might agree with him. Joey stared at the man, deciding he was wrong about the label of Jolly Complainer.
“Hey!” Dan shot back. “Don’t say that to a man with as many deployments as Joey Pearson.”
“One who has saved other men,” Habib said softly.
Cameron held up his arms as if to surrender. “Don’t blame me, but this country could use new blood.”
“Watch the words, man,” Dan retorted. “Blood?”
Joey buried his fury and held his hand up. “That’s why Habib and his men are here—to screen proposals—and the team will respond to those proposals.”
Cameron looked skeptical. “They do the screening?”
“Requests will be few and small. We expect most to be genuine, but we’ll monitor everything, looking for traps.”
“Traps?” Cameron blurted out.
“They lure us to a location.” Habib spoke slowly, as if interpreting for someone who did not speak English. “Then they attack.”
“We’ll set up feasible goals,” Joey added. He jotted down a note, reminding himself to ask Dan and a few other guys to get to meetings early and take the front-row seats. “We can’t rush. Mistakes take months to resolve. The world’s most powerful military has worked on this for a decade—it could be another decade before there’s real trust.”
“What about the women?” Cameron asked. “Why not focus on them?”
“The rules are set up against it,” Joey said. “We can’t talk with them, we don’t know what they want, and they have little power.”
“We’ll have a woman commander,” Cameron pressed. “Maybe we’ll find shortcuts.”
Joey gave a hard laugh. “The Taliban know plenty of shortcuts. Intimidation, tossing bombs into crowds. A man tossing acid into a woman’s face because her family’s not ready to marry her off. People out here are tired of shortcuts.”
“Some will find a way to blame their problems on the outpost,” Habib warned. “I don’t know which are worse, the extremists who are impulsive or the ones who wait and plan.” He told a story about a translator working with US soldiers in Kandahar hurrying for a fuel purchase from one of the local suppliers. “A new man working there—he didn’t like how the translator looked at a woman waiting in the office. She was covered from head to toe, but the fuel guy was looking for an excuse. He didn’t say a word and went into a back room. When he returned, he threw kerosene at the translator and lit a match.” He closed his eyes. The room was quiet. Every man imagined his own version of flames, screams, and what happened next. “The translator died immediately. The man from the fuel depot was in the hospital for three months before he died. The woman and the troops were burned. Badly.”
He concluded. “Shortcuts are not worth it.”
For some reason, the memory of the laughing woman on the hillside came to Joey’s head. She couldn’t have been alone, and he didn’t mind that villagers were watching the outpost. The laugh could be a good sign. He hoped that the outpost, Mita Samuelson, and the men
in this room weren’t going to make her life more difficult.
He tried to forget the face. “This is an isolated area—it hasn’t seen a lot of violence,” Joey pointed out. “These villages don’t have imams, and there are too many opportunities for bullies to lay guilt trips on people. Our success depends on luck and the villagers not feeling threatened. But if someone starts accusing the others of not being religious enough . . .” he shook his head. “People fall for it every time. No matter what we do, we’re the infidels.”
“And handy targets,” Dan said.
“On the other hand, any small improvement will let us make huge strides.” Joey went on to explain how every visit, every comment, could send signals to the Afghans. Joey had grown up in a family constantly searching for signs with stoic pessimism, and he had discerned similar tendencies in rural Afghans.
“The rural villages are superstitious,” he advised. “They look for signs, and we can anticipate behavior based on how they read us.”
“So if there’s an attack, we’re to blame?” asked Barnaby, a guardsman reporting to Cameron.
“I’m saying be careful with any facial expression, tone, or behavior,” Joey said. “It’s foolish to threaten or humiliate the villagers in any way. And it’s easier to do than you think. No jokes, no laughing, no sarcasm. They might not understand the words, but they can read faces. Don’t show frustration. Say what you mean, but keep words to a minimum. Habib will filter comments, but they’ll be watching your faces and hearing your voices. Building a relationship takes time.”
“Do I hear a ‘but’?” asked Cameron.
Joey paused—how to explain the fast-changing emotions in villages lacking schools and Internet, let alone electricity and running water? “We can’t expect miracles. Say we meet a friendly guy who listens and wants to work with us,” Joey said. “If we go too fast, others could move in and intimidate his family. The extremists could destroy his home or his fields—a year’s worth of work. They threaten his wife or snatch his kids. He despises himself for even thinking of working with us. And if we’re lucky, he won’t hate us. But he’s ruined.”
Fear of Beauty Page 3
