I couldn’t understand why others in the village lacked this desire. Did they not share the same sensations? Or was the problem with me, an inability to sort ideas in my head without the benefit of reminders on paper? I didn’t dare ask questions, giving others reason to stop the endeavor.
After Ali’s death, I had more time alone. Parsaa left our home at night, a habit that normally hinted of dark affairs. But I understood that he missed Ali, too, and grief can take strange turns. Writing and reading organized my thinking. In mastering my feelings, I had more influence over Parsaa, the boys, and others.
I came to realize that writers can control assessment of their ideas, especially if they keep the words hidden away from others.
Chapter 6
“The corporate ag types won’t like her,” Cameron confided the next morning before heading into the first district-reconstruction team meeting led by Mita Samuelson.
“She’s not going away,” Joey countered.
“She’s Muslim,” Cameron added. “From around here, I heard. . . .”
“Try Northern Virginia.”
“Before that . . .,” Cameron said, flustered.
“Bangladesh, on her mother’s side,” Joey noted. “Not close and nothing like Afghanistan. You have nothing to fear.”
Cameron looked relieved and headed for the second row of seats.
“Give her a chance,” Joey said. “Listen to her. And no chatter.”
Joey shook his head. He had issued orders—no gossip, especially around the Afghan troops. Gossip signaled division and arguments and the notion that the Americans couldn’t maintain order. He didn’t know why people didn’t look her up on Google, but he wasn’t about to give them the idea and spur more gossip.
Unfortunately, Cameron wasn’t alone. Rumors about one of the few women leading teams, and the only civilian leader, swirled throughout the outpost and beyond. The general had already promised politicians and the Pentagon that he counted on academic go-getters like Mita to stabilize the region and reignite international donor interest in Afghan projects. An avalanche of funding tumbled into Afghanistan following the 2008 US election, but the money didn’t last long, not when the bulk had to go for security. Voters in the United States, Europe, and other far-off places were weary of never-ending war in Afghanistan.
The regional military commander was keen on fixing Afghanistan’s agriculture industry as quickly as possible, and he counted on Mita and other specialists to spread ideas to convince one of the poorest countries in the world to play catch-up. A charming Muslim, with a Jewish father who had served as a US Army general, she was knowledgeable about military eccentricities and eager for dispatch to volatile Helmand, the largest province in Afghanistan and one of the most sparsely populated. The region had long relied on growing poppy or joining insurgencies for income.
Journalists, generals, politicians, professors, donors raved about her. Joey had his doubts, and there was no point speculating, but media coverage about projects in South America would impress few Afghans.
Mita Samuelson hurried into the room full of men on folding plastic chairs and started speaking, not waiting to reach the desk or board: “Great to see you all here today.”
As her large, dark, happy eyes darted about the room, Joey glanced down at his watch. Two minutes before the meeting was scheduled to start, yet she didn’t wait. Friendly, warm, she showed no sign of operating on less than eight hours of sleep after concluding seven thousand miles of air travel. “Our goal is to move into the villages, listen to people, and find out what they need.” She introduced Joey as the lead on security and strategy and Habib Bulaq as the lead Afghan who would collect requests from the villagers.
Quickly, she went through the background summary: 80 percent of Afghans relied on agriculture for a living, and the nation supplied close to 90 percent of the world’s opium. The country grew more wheat than opium, but the opium had brought in more revenues. Troops just barely managed to keep up with destroying poppy fields. The population was young, with 75 percent under the age of twenty-five and looking for ways to earn money and help their tribes, if not their country.
The introduction was modest and brief. She dove into the work, not boring the group with her résumé or reminders that she had the full support of top generals. She was determined and prepared—her voice a soft alto, its tone as sure as a chisel, splitting through any dissension, not matching her tiny stature or dark curls that refused to be tamed by a casual headscarf in lavender. The dozen men might have more military and agriculture experience, but she wasn’t intimidated. Joey could not help admire her efficiency and enthusiasm for farming, more carefree than Cameron’s.
She then sat down and asked Joey to review security.
He explained that provincial reconstruction teams were not new. Specialists had filed into the cities not long after the United States invaded the country in the fall of 2001. As the war dragged on, US commanders recognized the value of having tested and trusted Afghans lead interactions and any training. Major Habib Bulaq would search for viable proposals that would busy villagers of all ages into the future. At the same time, commanders would decide if this location was appropriate for a regional training center.
“My initial assessment: The area is more sustainable than many in Afghanistan.” A few eyebrows went up. Even men who had previous rotations in Afghanistan were impressed by the rugged mountains emerging abruptly like some imposing wall from what looked like a dull desert surface, cracked and interrupted by occasional rocks and stray patches of grass. But a healthy river and a manageable population would support development. “There are some good working farms in these villages,” he added.
“Maybe they’d be willing to focus on a big project—close to the river?” Cameron asked. “A joint venture for these villages—one that’s highly visible.”
Joey was blunt. “That would look like we’re taking over the area’s major water supply.” A few laughed, annoying Cameron. “We don’t need that kind of visibility.”
“I thought the idea was to do high-profile projects and grab attention,” Cameron said.
Mita broke in.
“True, but we need to entice the Afghans first.” Rather than detail her own experiences, Mita talked about traditional Afghan families and the difficulties of getting villages to work as cooperatives. Wind came up outside, lashing bits of sand at the thin walls, as she proceeded to distribute research reports on the region’s history.
One of the men spoke up sharply, asking Mita to raise her voice, and the question snapped Joey back to attention. The ag specialists peppered her with questions about demonstration projects around the compound, protocol for visiting villages, and her priorities. Wind battering the walls added to tension.
Mita remained calm, inviting Habib to describe the types of requests he anticipated from nearby villages. He distributed a list about general interests among villages—seed programs, veterinary advice on disease prevention, pumping for irrigation and drinking water, soil testing, and erosion control—all straightforward.
“We’re relying on Major Bulaq to guide us on viability,” Mita noted. “Everything goes through his group—and he’ll advise on avoiding hurt feelings or unfair competition. The early projects will be QIPs—quick impact projects—small and doable.”
Cameron studied the list. “Nothing here follows the wheat model tried by teams up north. I think Habib should understand all the available opportunities.”
Joey waited for Mita’s response. The briefest check of her background revealed that she was big on local control and would resist mega projects with corporate sponsors.
She nodded slowly. “I understand that several of you posted here had hoped to work on the wheat projects.”
She asked his name and then quickly followed by asking for Cameron’s opinion on the wheat cooperatives.
He flushed. “The Afghans rely on wheat, there’s plenty of suitable land,” he replied. “The crop would reduce reliance
on Pakistan for imports.”
“True.” She started pacing. “But the Afghans lack storage capability for a larger crop. The big boosts in harvests in recent years reduced prices for the small farms. That’s compounded by other inefficiencies of the small farms in terms of irrigation, crop rotation.” She turned and shot a disarming smile at Cameron. “And I don’t even have to go into the messy corporate prohibitions on seed gathering and selling.”
She had done her research and knew that Cameron was not merely a member of the Wisconsin National Guard, but also employed by TopSeed International, a biotech multinational.
“It’s way too early to introduce Afghans to the ways of big corporations.” She fired questions at Cameron, getting him to admit that while his company distributed plenty of free grain seed, there was a catch: The small village farmers were prohibited from selling or giving away extra seed—a confusing regulation for rural farmers in the States, let alone those in Afghanistan.
“You don’t want to rush these farmers,” Mita concluded. “Any problems and they’ll be turned off from biotech for decades.”
Joey was relieved. She had taken the time to research her personnel and the nuances of Afghan culture.
Mita moved ahead. “At this point, we have limited funding and patience from the American people. The wheat projects are fine, but won’t produce much before the deadline for making a decision on this location. Rest assured, this team and Major Bulaq are flexible. We’re not focusing on any one crop or technique. The key words are fast, manageable, useful, and sustainable.”
Another man asked about processing and export markets. “Only for non-food products,” Mita said. “Afghanistan is primitive and most of these villages lack electricity or refrigeration. Besides, news reports coming out of this region have been extremely negative. Let’s be honest—consumers in India, Europe, or the US are not ready to rush out and buy Afghanistan jams or cookies. Markets won’t materialize in the next few months, and villages don’t need false hopes on that front.”
More questions followed, and Mita didn’t hesitate to turn to Habib or Joey for answers. At one point, Habib discouraged rapid investments in road construction, and some in the group groaned.
“How do we reach these places without equipment?” Barnaby howled.
“If they don’t have roads, it means they don’t want to be bothered,” countered Chuck Greely, another Guard member.
Habib waited for the grumbling to play out. “The lack of roads has also reduced the influence of al Qaeda and other extremists in many regions.”
Cameron shook his head, disgusted. “They’re stopping progress.”
“If the villagers don’t set the agenda, we risk increasing resentment,” Mita warned.
“We know what works,” Cameron fired back with a smile. “You want fast improvements, but reject state-of-the-art techniques. As long as we all see the contradiction.”
“There’s no contradiction,” Mita said, lifting her head. “We’re out to help people. Turn their ideas into fast improvements. Not do everything for them.”
Cameron turned and muttered to one of his men. Despite the shaking walls, Joey heard the words, “She wants to look good for journalists.” Mita heard, too.
She approached Cameron’s table and tapped the edge. “The only way we look good for television producers or bloggers is if the villages look good. And we have to plan carefully. No doubt you’re aware that journalists are getting wary of corporate charity and the motivations.”
A few team members applauded, and Cameron looked uncomfortable. She took a kinder turn.
“Captain Janick is on the right track. We want improvements that are highly visible for the Afghan people and then journalists. We can’t keep them out forever, and when they do get out here, we want success stories—not boondoggles.”
The room went silent. “It’s happened too often here. Roads get constructed between two villages and are used for fighting rather than trade. Schools and hospitals and police stations become traps for those seeking services. I feel fortunate to be part of the ag team. Agriculture offers great potential for this region. Once Afghans see small, manageable projects up and running, they’ll be ready to try more substantial projects.”
“The big security-training facility—do we mention this area is being considered?” Cameron asked.
“No,” Joey said. “This is one of many sites under consideration.” He explained how the facility review was supplemental to the ag mission. “We’ll be offering advice on farming and security while gauging connections with extremists, as determined by the amount of fuel in the village, the percentage of poppies as a crop, treatment of women and children. There’s no need to confuse the two projects this early.”
Cameron had made his point and smiled—team leaders were not ready to give local Afghans control in all areas.
Thunder cracked nearby and the lights went out, saving Joey from other questions. One of the tech crew ran out to check the generator. A few started to stand, and a flashlight went on. Mita pointed to the seats. “No reason we can’t finish this meeting.”
The man with the flashlight directed it at her face. She did not look away or complain. Another man sitting next to Cameron spoke up, and the flashlight shifted in that direction. “Can we expect the Afghans to handle multiple projects? Some specializing could make it easier for us to assign staff to the compound.”
“Nobody promised this would be easy,” she said to wry laughter. “Major Bulaq wants to hear all your ideas, but listen to him carefully. The people in this area have been displaced multiple times. They struggle to feed their children. The benefits of trade, schools, or a limited family size aren’t immediately apparent.
“The nearest school is almost fifty miles away. Virtually none of these families can read, they don’t have a clue about the outside markets. They’ve been taught that singing, art, any kind of fun, is sin. So many are bored to tears, and too many are addicted to opium or find trouble in other ways.”
“That’s patronizing,” Cameron shot back, and Mita looked as if she had been slapped. The room went silent. Joey glared at the man, but Cameron didn’t look his way. A poem by Kipling ran through Joey’s head: “Take up the White Man’s burden . . . Your new-caught, sullen peoples, Half-devil and half-child.” Cameron had a problem being supervised by a woman, and that was a bigger problem than Joey had anticipated. He almost spoke up, but Cameron was an agriculture man. Mita had to frame the goals and lead him if she was going to last at this outpost.
“Starting out, most won’t trust us,” she said quietly. “There are reasons why fear and terrorism whip through Afghanistan. That doesn’t mean Afghans are stupid. They have every reason to suspect our motivations and the programs of people from the other side of the world. Why wouldn’t they?”
Most people nodded, already tired of Cameron’s overbearing ways.
Joey spoke up. “It’s basic security. We can’t give them any reason to think we’re here to disrupt their lives or that we’re here to boost our own careers, Captain Janick.”
Cameron was chastened by the lack of support, and Mita turned to the board, proceeding to outline the schedule as if the exchange hadn’t happened. The team would split up, visiting nearby villages and talking with elders. Basic assistance would be offered. The teams might offer to assess soil samples, water resources, and farming techniques. Any requests for work would be reviewed by the security unit. “It’s a client-based system. We help.” She paused and turned around the room. “We can’t afford failures,” she concluded. “Any unnecessary failure will result in immediate reassignment.”
One of the men raised his hand and asked about initiatives on women’s rights and other services.
Mita shook her head, surprising the group, discouraging what she called “romantic notions” about family farms, tribes, women’s rights, or traditions. “Our work is limited to farming improvements.”
She held up a hand to stop the murmurs. “Some
teams have been on the ground in Afghanistan for five years. Most people—at home and in this room even—are doubtful we can bring about real change. But a pragmatic approach, a few improvements in one area, might nudge a village into a new direction,” she explained. “We need to convince Afghans that we’re capable, and so are they.
“Fast ag successes first—we can worry about cultural factors later.”
The power was out while a crew worked on repairing the generator. Joey assigned a guard to the team leader’s hut. “It’s just until the cameras come back on line,” Joey advised. “And don’t be obvious.”
Later that evening, another one of his men, Dan, noticed a dark cloth hanging from the door of the unit where Mita slept—and ordered it carried to headquarters. Joey joined him, and Dan stretched it out on the desk.
“A hood?” Dan asked. “There was a question. I looked away for less than a minute and when I turned back, I noticed it hanging there.”
Scowling, Joey folded the cloth in half, and put his hand through the opening. “It’s what women wear in Saudi Arabia—there are different kinds, but this is a one-piece niqab. Covers a woman’s face in public.”
“How the hell did that get in camp?” Dan asked. “The Afghans?”
Joey shook his head. “They don’t wear them around here.”
“So the ass-hat is one of us.”
“The question came from one of the Guard?”
Dan nodded. “Cameron.”
Joey stuffed it in a drawer. “We’re going to pretend this didn’t happen. And don’t take your eyes off her goddamn door.”
Over the next few nights, surveillance equipment showed that a few curious Afghans ventured close to the outpost late after darkness fell, examining the razor-wire fencing and testing the motion lights. But there were no attacks or niqabs left at doorways.
Mita pressed Joey to begin trips to the villages. “Otherwise, they’ll wonder what we’re doing here.”
“Curiosity is good. We’ll understand each other’s patterns before we barge in.”
Fear of Beauty Page 5
