Dan nodded and summed it up: “They’re doing us favors, not the other way around.”
“They’re people,” Cameron insisted to no one in particular. “They must want what we want.”
“Agreed,” Joey said gently. “But it’s news to them that we see their lives as miserable. Look at it his way—every idea we bring is radical and terrifying.”
“Waiting is tough,” Cameron said. “I worry patience is a way to keep old ideas in place.”
Joey felt sorry for Cameron. He was more afraid of rejected ideas than bullets. The man expected appreciation, and that was a dangerous form of extremism in itself. It happened with every rotation, every new set of people coming into the country.
He kept the session on preparations going, but knew inside that the operation depended on luck.
Orders had been issued long before the AH-64 Apache landed, delivering the civilian ag leader: She had free rein, yet all assigned troops had to watch her back and keep her out of trouble. “Mita Samuelson is talented, tireless, and fearless,” noted one confidential briefing. “Her past work has attracted media attention and support at the national level, including profiles in the New York Times, Barron’s, Self, and Glamour magazines. Any missteps or accidents are anticipated to attract negative publicity for the International Security Assistance Force. Don’t let anything happen to her.”
She was not only a retired general’s daughter and active-duty general’s pet project, but a media star. She was the reason why a seasoned Special Ops leader was stationed at the outpost, not just to secure the civilian, but to anticipate problems. “Let her get some projects done, but protect her,” Joey’s commander had ordered. “That’s the mission. To be honest, I don’t care if nothing else happens out there. . . .”
The Apache landed after midnight, and Joey was waiting. The tiny, bundled woman didn’t object as Joey stepped forward to carry the four bags.
Smiling, she waved to the pilot as he took off, and then turned to Joey. “I was hoping to arrive in the daylight and scan the countryside by air,” she shouted.
He assured her that reconnaissance photos were on file and more from the ground were coming in. She flashed a smile and said, “But there’s nothing like seeing it for yourself.”
Joey didn’t answer. He liked that she was ready to work, but there wouldn’t be any unnecessary flyovers. No point in alarming villages in the area—or arguing about such details late at night. “We pushed the first planning session back tomorrow until 1100 hours. Give you time for sleep!”
“How thoughtful,” she said. “But my late arrival has caused enough delays. If it’s not too late, can we stay on schedule?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Or I can meet with my team early.”
“That’s great,” he agreed. “You’re on.” They reached the door to her quarters and he handed over a small handheld radio. “It’s on all night at the main station. Press this button and speak if there’s any problem at all.”
They quickly bid each other good night, and Joey waited to hear the click of her lock before heading for the computer station, checking in with the Army PFC overseeing the outpost’s security cameras. He checked the monitors, adjusted a few camera angles, and ordered the young soldier to keep at least one lens trained on the ag leader’s door until further notice.
“Does she know?” the soldier asked, staring at the screen.
“Not yet,” Joey said. “She just got in. If anything moves near that door, let me know.”
Joey sat at another computer, checking e-mail and reports and then reading more about Mita Samuelson. Born to a Bangladeshi immigrant mother and a military father, she grew up in Loudoun County, an all-American girl accustomed to all the privileges in genteel horse country. At Cornell’s College of Agriculture and Life Sciences, her interests shifted from the leisurely concerns of horse farms to agriculture in developing nations. Studying applied economics, she became convinced that agricultural exports were key to promoting property and gender rights, if not peace in the developing world. During two summer breaks, she led teams of students to villages in Colombia to work with small coffee cooperatives, composting and tending soils, experimenting with shade, and developing aromatic varieties. The marketing team emphasized the regional character of the specialty coffees, and these became more lucrative than coca.
Graduating with honors, she organized a nonprofit venture in Colombia. Devastated by drug trafficking and eradication of crops by officers on the hunt for coca—three villages signed on for her cooperative specializing in horticulture. The women studied magazines like Brides, Vogue, and Martha Stewart Living to anticipate home, wedding, and fashion trends in the countries to the north and then nurtured exotic blooms in custom colors and sizes to suit the styles. The wildly successful nonprofit venture caught the attention of the New York Times, and overnight a rich girl fascinated with agriculture in poor lands became a media darling.
From there, she completed an agriculture policy fellowship at Yale and interned with a microfinance program in Bangladesh, before joining the US government as an agriculture economist.
Reading between the lines, Joey realized that Mita Samuelson was not a typical media hound. In every article he had found, she was pleasant and brief—bursting with ideas and generous with crediting her professors and coworkers at every level.
Cameron and the others didn’t realize how many journalists had clamored to embed with this team. The DoD public-affairs office would have approved the requests, but Mita had requested that the journalists be kept at bay. The woman had earned the trust of top commanders and held top clearance for releasing public-affairs reports.
It was a solid, strategic move to include women soldiers and civilians on the teams for connecting with villagers. It might just work if the villagers let Mita get anywhere close to the women.
He remembered the woman on the hill and thought that happy people could connect. Tired, he shook his head and looked forward to heading out into the night for surveillance.
Chapter 5
After the burial, the other women tried to talk to me, but I refused to dwell on the loss of my oldest child, except to stubbornly repeat sentiments of which I had no doubt: Ali had donned his travel clothes and looked forward to attending school. The boy was curious and a sure climber.
Shaking my head, I went to work with the pomegranates.
Others heard accusation in my voice and could see the fury of suspicion in my eyes, and found it easy to leave me alone with my grief. My other sons scattered, prepared to take over Ali’s tasks. With women delivering lots of food, most from Leila and Mari, I didn’t have to cook much for my family.
The next morning before sunrise, I ran up the hill that Ali and I had last climbed together. My lungs burned and my hands clawed among the rocks, reaching for the metal box. But of course the box was gone, and I stood on the cliff’s edge, looking at the rocks below.
Allah, you should have taken me instead.
Ali’s fall was no accident, I insisted to my husband, as we lay together in darkness. Neither of us could sleep.
The man shook his head, but asked questions: Could he have gone up to check on our plants? Was the saffron a reason for anyone to kill Ali?
His questions startled me, and it took a moment for me to respond. I had started the secret field, yet never thought that our saffron could be a reason for Ali’s death. Parsaa was just as angry, hunting for an explanation. He had a sharp mind, and I felt guilty keeping the box and papers a secret. But maybe it could have been the saffron. We’ll keep watch, I whispered. How others prepare their meals, what they say about us, where they go at night. The boys can help—
Clasping his hand over my mouth, Parsaa let out a cry, breaking off my words before I could vow vengeance against Ali’s death. We cannot think this way, he ordered. We don’t involve the other boys.
Without other words, he took me roughly, his strong arms like a trap. So soon after a child’s death, I was unwilling and protest
ed. It didn’t matter that I felt his hot tears against my face. Afterward, I turned away, shaking off his arm and refusing to speak. He left the bed and headed out into the night.
Our children were the only ones who slept that night. I kept still, but my thoughts raced. Parsaa was right about not involving the boys, but I wouldn’t stop hunting. If I saw someone with our saffron, that might provide a clue. I decided against telling anyone, even Parsaa, about the box, the money, and the papers I could not read or explain. If I showed him the paper and he didn’t understand, his questions to other men might drive the killer to destroy the other papers.
I had to wait and watch for someone with those papers.
Over the next week, villagers brought us many meals. None contained the golden spice. Three days after no words between us, Parsaa tried to return to our conversation from that horrible night. Only a fool would show off the find so soon. We’ll keep watching.
I did not reply, going about my work, mourning, and refusing to talk. Other villagers did not disturb me, and Parsaa stayed away, too. I was angry and hurt. At odd times of the day, I wrapped my arms around my remaining sons, grieving and silently trying to understand how much they, too, felt their brother’s loss. Ali had been kind to them. As parents, we never had to convince him to be generous and loving with them.
It bothered me that Ali never had his chance to attend school to learn about reading, solving problems, and talking with others. It pained me not to know what the words on those papers meant.
Before Ali’s death, I had often picked up my husband’s copy of the Koran and examined the pages. It was difficult to think of the strange marks, with no meaning, as sacred. I scratched the few simple words I had figured out into the dirt, and felt no awe.
Days of mourning transformed into days of planning, as I became determined to learn to read the Koran on my own and keep a record of my thoughts. Not that anyone in Laashekoh cared about what I had to say. This project was for me alone. I didn’t want to explain my reasons. I didn’t want to fret about losing good ideas. I didn’t want to worry about memories of Ali fading over time, much like the memories of my childhood. I wanted to preserve the fondest memories of all my children and not just Ali.
I became convinced that if I knew how to read, then I would have understood those papers hidden away on the hillside. I might have known to warn Ali to stay away.
Uncertain whether such learning was possible, I intended to keep my reasons to myself. No one I knew had learned to read on his own, and finding a patient teacher is difficult for boys, let alone women. But then, teachers don’t always realize when or how much they are teaching.
Only a few men in our village could read, and I was certain that my husband was the best of these. I had also observed that the men who could read were better at making decisions. They organized their arguments and didn’t worry about losing track of details.
So I hoped that reading and writing would help me think clearly, too.
Like many men, my husband owned a copy of the Koran and read from it most evenings after dinner. He was fortunate to be his family’s oldest son. Just before his adolescence, two younger brothers were prepared to take over his tasks, so he left home to attend the maktab for four years. The school was run by an elderly imam, whose followers had turned against him for refusing to join a group of imams eager to denounce capitalists, communists, Americans, Europeans, Indians, and the Jews. The imam had rejected the notion of keeping a list of enemies that was too long or lacking in specific crimes.
Solve the problems that are under our noses, the old man had explained to the boys. No list of enemies should be longer than my nose.
Those in charge of that village took his comment as criticism, and the imam was forced to leave his post at the mosque and open a school in a smaller village. He didn’t have much education himself, and not many parents were willing to send their boys to the new school run by the strange old man who enjoyed quarreling with authorities.
But the imam knew enough to teach the boys how to read, recite verses from the Koran, apply lessons to daily life, and never stop learning about something, anything. He taught the boys how to farm and raise their own food and use mathematics for transactions. Because he didn’t charge much, his school was preferred by rural people who could not afford expensive lessons and did not mind if their sons returned home more freethinking than most young men.
After the war with the Russians began, the man closed the school and encouraged the boys to join their fathers in defending their villages. Not long afterward, the imam was hit by a shell, lost a leg, and died of an infection.
My husband admired his old teacher and had long regretted not having the chance to thank the man for the lessons. After a hiatus of a few years, the imam’s son and Parsaa’s classmate returned to the area. He had spent several years in a refugee camp, and took lessons provided by teachers from northern Europe. Scholarships were arranged for him to study math at a foreign university, but he decided to continue with his father’s dream, reopening the maktab and taking his father’s place.
That was the school Ali was to attend.
To prepare Ali for school, Parsaa had read aloud for hours from our copy of the Koran, the translation in Dari that accompanied the Arabic. Like many men in our village, he had memorized long passages, and it didn’t take long before I realized that I, too, could memorize the verses, especially those he read immediately after turning a page. I listened closely to phrases and sounds, and when Parsaa was not home, I opened the Koran, studying the shape and order of characters while reciting the verse. Slowly, I began detecting a few words and searched for them to repeat elsewhere in the book.
Occasionally, after a struggle with a particularly difficult phrase, I stopped my husband during his reading and asked him to point to the word. Parsaa was surprised, but complied. The boys listened to their father, but showed no eagerness to pose such questions themselves.
Why don’t you teach the boys more about letters and words? I questioned.
He hesitated, suggesting the boys would appreciate the task more if they traveled and learned from a proper teacher. It needs to be combined with work or prayer. Recitation is not enough.
There’s no good reason to delay worthy tasks or desires, I advised. With the more lyrical verses, Parsaa encouraged the boys to pick out and repeat phrases, and this lent speed to my own understanding.
By that time, I had calculated that there had to be nearly one hundred letters. Only later did I discover that Dari had thirty-two letters, which took on three forms depending on their position—the start, middle, or end—in any word. Despite early frustrations, I refused to give up. Sadly, I only understood a handful of phrases, not nearly enough to draft a history of Ali’s short life or a brief description of my dreams. Our lives were too rich, and I was missing too many words.
Practicing words, trying to learn more, distracted me from Ali’s death. Ali didn’t have his chance to head to school, and I was determined to read and write before another one of my children vanished from this earth.
Of course, I had our Koran to read, but to write, I needed other supplies. The document from the hill was good for a week of practice. But with Ali’s death, it was no longer a scrap. I decided to save that document until I understood what it meant.
My son’s death had delayed the men’s regular trip to the market, a trip that kept them away a full day. Only the men of Laashekoh went to the market, at least four hours from our village. The women sent lists along with husbands, sons, or brothers. Others grumbled about the inconvenience, but I didn’t mind. With the men away, I’d find more time to practice. Like the hawk that silently waits for the squawking flocks to devour seeds in the fields, I let others complain.
As I made breakfast, my husband prepared to leave a day earlier than the other men. I spoke to him for the first time in days and asked him to make a purchase for me. If we have paper and a pencil, I can better organize our plantings, I explained. I c
an draw plots and plan our harvests.
It was the first time I had spoken about anything besides Ali’s death in days, and he laughed, relieved to have a simple way to distract us from the darkness of our child’s death. Yes, it’s a good idea, he said. I can help with the numbers.
He didn’t realize how much I already knew. Because of the careful ordering of the verses in the Koran, it hadn’t taken long to figure out numbers. With the few pieces of paper and old pencils that came our way, I kept notes. Using words repeated in the Koran or my own symbols, I logged a few observations about the plants, the weather, and the seasons. Just a few words—garden, child, running—could provoke a torrent of memories and feelings. I had much to say and not enough words.
Before Ali’s death, building a collection of words was like a child’s game. At first, I focused on the easiest of words, oft repeated, that I later learned were nouns—Allah, love, land, and pomegranate. But many words were not in the book—seb, gol, bara, and more. So I said words aloud, compared their sounds with the ones I knew and devised my own spelling. As long as this small collection belonged only to me, spelling did not matter.
After Ali’s death, the game turned into urgent need, and I hurried to expand my skill. To write about my children, I had to understand words of action, more challenging to discern. The Koran had plenty of verbs: to follow and forsake; to waste, submit, and forget; to doubt, warn, and forgive—but these did not describe my children or the best parts of life. Writing my thoughts was a bridge to others. To write for my children, I needed to know more words of action.
Fear of Beauty Page 4
