He promised that the ag team would soon get the go-ahead to visit the villages, but later that day a radio call came in from Ron, an analyst and friend stationed near Kandahar. “You’ve got a problem,” he explained. “A patrol stopped a shipment of drugs not far from your area.” He read the coordinates.
“You’ve seen the surveillance docs,” Joey replied. “The farms around here are clean.”
“The drugs aren’t from your area,” Ron said. “The problem is the guys with the shipment—three scared teenagers. All three were using the same name and carried what looked like new birth certificates.”
“They’re from around here?”
“We don’t think so. The clowns managed to get through at least two road checks with matching names on birth certificates. The place of birth says Laashekoh.”
Laashekoh—it was the nearest village to the outpost and the smallest one. Less than 1 percent of the Afghan population had birth certificates or identity papers. It was hard convincing villagers they were useful. Most people in rural Afghanistan didn’t know how old they were, and many rural women didn’t know where they’d been born. Parents and husbands didn’t want them running off.
The government didn’t have an exact population count, and so the United Nations began a program to register newborns to help organize vaccines, census, education levels, and other data. Analysts had warned that the literacy rate in Helmand was about 20 percent for men, 10 percent for women, and probably close to zero for Laashekoh’s twenty or so families. The place was too backward for organizing a program on birth certificates.
Joey mulled the implications. “Everyone here is an unknown. But that’s what we expected when we arrived.”
“We see no immediate threat. Someone’s passing out phony birth certificates—but why? It’s not like they’re tickets for anything good. The biometric scans and ID cards are more useful.”
“Would you have caught it if the names weren’t the same?” Joey pressed. He knew that, unless they had spent time in prison, most rural villagers had not been subjected to the biometric scans yet.
“No,” Ron admitted. “But they’re in the database now. So keep a close eye on the village, look for anyone using certificates listing Laashekoh as their place of birth or any phony documents.”
“This place is off the map. People using Laashekoh certificates—doesn’t mean they’re from Laashekoh.”
“Our thought exactly. The writing was shaky, as if someone struggled to copy the words. We’re putting out an alert—hoping someone has an idea about what these guys are up to.”
“Corruption by illiterates,” Joey noted. “I thought the birth certificates were for newborns.”
“That was the plan. Maybe someone in the bureaucracy made a mistake, a few stray certificates getting passed around.”
“And the worst-case scenario?” Joey asked. He had been in Afghanistan long enough to expect the worst.
“You got me—maybe use a phony certificate to harass a future president?” Ron joked.
Joey laughed, and then swore. “Maybe they need us more at home, but I’m not sure anyone can stop that bickering.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Ron said. “Civilians getting to you?”
“No. The Guard. One jackass in particular.”
“He’ll figure it out. Or he won’t. Seriously, though, I’m hoping there’s no good use for these birth certificates.”
“As if IEDs, snipers, and trafficking aren’t enough.”
“Hmm, it could be drug gangs, evading authorities by using different names and villages. Maybe we’ll spot more certificates and figure it out. Our team is stretched thin.”
“I can’t see career criminals in Laashekoh,” Joey concluded. “How much difference is there between a phony Afghan certificate and no birth certificate at all?”
“Not much,” Ron admitted. “Technically, they’re supposed to have passports and visas to cross into Pakistan, but they bribe guards and find unsecured routes. These days they need serious documentation to get into India or Iran.”
“Your people working these three guys over?”
“Killing them with kindness. Unlike the rest of us, they love the cooking here. But they look like lost kids and don’t know much. We have to find the people calling the shots. Hey, when’s your next leave?”
Joey couldn’t leave the camp for long, not with Cameron acting out. “It’s going to take a while before we’re settled here.”
“Be sure to give me a ring. We’ll go out on the town. Kandahar-style.”
After midnight, Joey wrapped himself in dirty gray and tan cotton—clothes of an Afghan migrant in search of work. To minimize detection, he went alone, moving freely in the night, wearing what special forces called a nonstandard uniform. Along with an old pack, he had purchased the payraan and pants from a merchant in Kandahar who had learned that US soldiers were fussy, preferring used clothing that was worn, with dust and stains from the previous owner.
From afar, with beard and worn clothes, Joey might pass as an Afghan as long as he stood still. But when he moved, Afghans recognized the stranger in their land: His gait was too sure, and his hands, shoulders, and head could not disguise years spent in a more confident land with a faster pace. Up close he fooled no one: His skin and light brown hair were too clean and nourished. His leather boots fit well.
NGO workers howled about any break in the rules of engagement, so after sunset, Joey slipped away and changed, not mentioning his patrols to Mita or other civilians at the outpost. Habib and Mita had the final word for all agriculture decisions, but Joey was in charge of security, and he interpreted that mission broadly. Besides translating for the team, he researched regional activity, designed scouting missions before the team visited any village, and advised on schedules. He ran checks on village leaders for previous anti-military activity, checking out any odd behavior or movements that could signal drug trafficking or other illegal activities.
The split in the team’s leadership had its benefits. Joey didn’t relay security findings that might unnerve the specialists.
The teams expected smooth operations with minimal interference from the military—of course, until disaster struck and the military had to swoop in for rescues. Joey agreed that soldiers with armored vehicles, flak jackets, and weapons could complicate messages of goodwill. But after a decade, soldiers had a range of experiences all over the country and a feel for Afghans defending their territory. The work of civilians was spotty. They didn’t know what questions to ask and didn’t realize Afghans already knew the answers.
So for security planning, military personnel often found it easier to leave contractors and NGO types out of the loop as local conditions changed. Once an area was secured, the soldiers no longer searched homes, set up roadblocks, or used drones for surveillance. They became security guards, providing occasional expertise in other areas and letting the civilians take the good results for granted.
The village was a refuge amid the slopes with treacherous cliffs and passages. At night, the homes looked like plain wooden blocks. Dark, low clouds promised rain. He couldn’t see the fields or gardens. People were indoors. Fires were dying down, no longer tended, and dust suspended in the air added to their eerie glow. The American soldier approached cautiously, until he was close enough to smell the wood smoke, maintaining the same distance as the Afghans who had examined the outpost earlier in the week.
Joey carried minimum equipment. He had decided against bringing along his pack, the tripod, or a long-range-laser listening device. He didn’t even take the night-vision glasses. Joey didn’t want to display any technological advantage, other than his M16.
He put the weapon to the side. Stretching out in a comfortable place, leaning against a rock, he studied the sturdy homes of Laashekoh, all similar in size with no embellishments. Windows were small, and candlelight from lanterns flickered from a few. He waited patiently, hoping to detect shadows moving among the buildings, perhaps e
ven catch the tenor of conversations.
But the place was still. There was more noise from insects rattling in the nearby brush.
He couldn’t imagine living in such a place—with no televisions, music, or arguing. He recalled his own home as a child—the quarrels and rowdy fighting interspersed with harsh indifference. More gentle sounds came from the homes in Afghanistan, but those could be deceiving. Adults spoke to children in whispers, and were attuned to listen for any hint of anger or disrespect. Over time he had observed that the behavior of children did not necessarily reflect their parents’ character—a discovery that was a relief in a way. Vicious terrorists could have lovely children.
Plenty of cover was nearby, and he listened for sounds of alarm that suggested he had been spotted. He was comfortable, more relaxed than he’d ever be in an enclosed room. It didn’t matter if the sleep hut had cool air or not. It didn’t matter if he was in Helmand or the States—Joey felt more comfortable outdoors in the fresh night air. Alone.
Content, he remembered a quote from some class long ago, Nemo malus felix. No evil man is happy. Not that unhappy people are evil. Most of his fellow soldiers would disagree with him, but Joey thought of evil as rare and war, politics, and religion as imperfect methods for finding or eliminating evil. More often than not, evil was linked with fear.
Footsteps moving through the dry grass interrupted his thoughts. Holding his breath, Joey slowly sat up and glanced toward the village. He didn’t reach for his gun. Moments later, a soft cough broke through the night.
Joey slowly turned in that direction and a villager stood close, with a Type 56, the Chinese version of the AK-47 in his hands. A scarf covered his nose and mouth, protecting his face from desert winds or an opponent’s eyes. The man’s eyes were stern, but his weapon was pointed toward the ground.
“Salaam,” Joey said.
The man returned the greeting and continued in cordial Dari. “What do you want to find?”
“What I hope Afghans find when they check on our outpost,” Joey said. “Except that you probably see and hear more.”
The other man smiled. “Who knows if people in any home speak the truth to one another.” He studied Joey. “You’re an American.” It wasn’t a question, but Joey nodded. “You must have a plan for this area.”
Joey swallowed. “We’re part of a team to help villages in this area with farming projects—the villages that want help.”
The man gestured toward Joey’s weapon. “A useful tool for farming. Even around here, you should keep your weapon ready.”
Joey glanced at the M16 leaning against his pack, but made no move. The man walked over to Joey’s gun, picked it up, and gently placed it within Joey’s reach. “We may not be alone out here,” he commented, before squatting and placing his own rifle on the ground, close at hand. “Our village has done everything in our power to separate ourselves from the fighting. We can’t be careless.”
“The Americans won’t start a fight here.”
“But the Americans attract outsiders and extremists to this area.”
Joey sighed and agreed. “Some Afghans want us to keep the extremists at bay.”
“In the cities.” The man gazed at the rectangle homes on the mountainside, the smooth mud walls in bright contrast against dark trees and green fields. “We have more control here. We don’t want the crime, the greed.”
“We don’t either. If you—”
The man put his hand up. “Soldiers bring fighting. Our village does not want to relocate. Some will blame you for every problem in this area, even those that developed before your arrival.”
“We don’t want to interfere.”
“I have seen your outpost. There’s a lot of equipment.”
“It can be moved out as quickly as it was moved in,” Joey offered. “We’re here to share agricultural advice. And defend against the few who don’t want farmers to succeed.”
The man waved his arm. “A few will be receptive and others will despise you,” he noted. “Most will change their minds. Are your people afraid—or will others wander about?”
“So far, just me. The others are farmers.”
The man rubbed his beard and gazed at Joey. “Would any of your people have reason to walk these hills and kill a member of our village?”
The phrasing was odd, and Joey wondered if he misunderstood the Dari. He tried to be as direct as possible. “This team just arrived and is not prepared for fighting. If fighting starts, our group will leave this area.”
“It doesn’t take much to kill a child,” the man said, cryptically.
Joey was unnerved, wondering if extremists were already wreaking havoc in Laashekoh, pinning blame on Americans. “A child was killed?”
“A strange death.” The man pointed toward the outpost. “Soon after your arrival.”
Joey thought back to the hectic early days. He would have noticed anyone wandering off. Besides, the crew was too timid. “No one left the outpost. They wouldn’t have ventured out on their own. I would have seen them.”
“Others blame the Americans, but. . . .” Pain crossed the man’s face and he stopped. “It was a strange death.” They sat in silence, and Joey waited for the man to speak again. “Some will want to hear what you have to say about agriculture.”
“Then we can visit your village soon?”
“My village?” The man laughed. “No village belongs to one man.” He turned serious again and stood. “In the meantime, keep this meeting between the two of us. Perhaps we meet again some night? Khuda hafiz.” Bending his head, he ducked under a low-hanging branch and disappeared into the shadows.
Joey waited, but didn’t hear the man or see him return to the village. For all he knew, the man could be bluffing about keeping the meeting a secret and warn his fellow villagers.
Joey wasn’t worried. The conversation suggested that people in the region were not outright hostile to the Americans, at least on this night. The guy passed a test by returning the rifle and not pushing him around. The fact that the Afghan had talked so candidly was a good sign. But the man didn’t lower the scarf to show his face. Joey couldn’t help but sense that the man knew he had not caught an American soldier by surprise.
Alert, Joey hiked quickly back to the outpost in the dark. He didn’t want to answer questions about the outing or mention the encounter with the villager. During previous rotations, he would have told fellow soldiers. But this group wouldn’t understand.
Going out at night, luring the Afghan villager, broke the rules that Joey had imposed on the rest of the ag team: Travel in a group while away from the base. Meet with villagers in a group rather than alone. “Together, we’re more secure,” he had assured the team. In truth, he felt more secure alone.
Before heading to the hut, Joey changed his clothing and took one last look at the sky. The clouds had moved away, exposing a brilliant array of stars. No rain had fallen.
Cameron stood outside, as if he were waiting for Joey. He noted that Joey had not come from the headquarters hut. When Joey didn’t answer, he whispered, “Is there something we should know about?”
“Not at all,” Joey replied. “Routine patrol.”
“Around here? With all the surveillance cameras?” He waited a moment and then pressed. “You told us absolutely no leaving the outpost at night.”
“That order stands.” Joey kept his voice flat. Answering the questions would lead to gossip. “Perimeter patrol. So far, we’ve spotted nothing.”
“We,” Cameron commented.
Eager to crawl into his bed, Joey aimed for ambiguity. “We,” he repeated.
“The rest of us need to know what’s going on,” Cameron griped.
Joey held the door open. “Not when you can’t do anything to help.”
Chapter 7
With the men gone, I had more time alone but could not raise the suspicions of the other women. Every day, I inspected our orchard, impatiently pinching at aphids or weeds. Tending the pomegra
nates had been a favorite task, until reading came along. I had never imagined finding such joy sitting still, and eager to spend more time with the Koran, I hurried my work in the orchard.
A few years back, after a particularly good season, the men of the village had purchased the large rooted cuttings at the market. They were from Iran, and pushing the sale, the dealer had promised that they would provide ample fruit and screen village homes from prying eyes. Very easy, he pressed, holding the cuttings out. In time, they will make you rich.
So the village had planted the pomegranates, about twenty in all, in a semi-circle, on the slope flanking our compound. Unfortunately, the dealer had offered minimal instructions.
Looking forward to the tart fruit, I nurtured the plants and their soil, lugging water, using blankets to shield them from wind or cold. I was pleased when all of our family’s trees survived into the following year and the next with a show of coral blossoms. Other families lost plants and turned to me for advice.
To replace the failed plants, I removed young branches from the hardiest trees, soaked them in water steeped with compost, and waited for the roots to arrive. Once planted in the orchard, the trees grew fast, and I ruthlessly pruned them, preventing them from growing higher than my arms could reach.
The trees produced ample fruit and resentment. A few women shrugged, no longer willing to help in the orchard. That was when I learned to hide exactly what I knew and how I knew it. Instead, I asked questions rather than show off my skills. I found other reasons to praise Allah, besides the pomegranates or other crops, never suggesting that He favored me more than others. The women preferred to think of my success as luck, or taale.
At times, I neglected my plantings just enough to allow others to catch up and produce more fruit. After a few seasons, the resentment faded, and the pomegranates required less care. I taught my children how to handle the fruit, scolding them when they wandered off the paths between the rows, compacting the soil and endangering the roots. I saved old tea leaves and regularly mixed that loamy mess into the sandy soil at the base of every tree. As the fruit took on a blush, I scanned the skies for any sign of rain, anxious to prevent the balls from ripening too quickly, cracking, and falling to the ground.
Fear of Beauty Page 6
