Other women helped with the harvest, plucking the pomegranates and arranging them in crates, loaded by the children into carts, for delivery by our men to the nearest towns. The men were cautious, dividing the produce among villages because they didn’t want others to realize our small village’s wealth.
In recent years, each tree produced two hundred pieces of fruit or more, earning the village enough to buy supplies that carried us through the winter. We did the same with our grains, apricots, turnips, and other vegetables, and of course, stored plenty for our own use.
That soil and water and sunlight could produce such delicate colors and textures—the ruby globes of pomegranates, apricots with velvet skin, and the golden threads of saffron—astounded me. Pride is evil, but surely appreciating the products of one’s labor is not the same as admiring one’s self.
Eventually, other women offered to cook and provide meals in exchange for my time in the fields, and I declined, laughing as if they were mad. Instead, I lowered my head and urged them to thank Allah. I do not pray as much as the men do, but my constant gratitude is genuine.
A steady hum competed with the locusts. Children ran to the compound walls, pointing, before women hurried to doorways, sternly calling children inside. Two young men who stayed behind to guard the village reached for weapons always kept nearby.
The engine slowed and then stopped at a pile of boulders.
From the other side of the orchard, my children looked at me—but I shook my head, signaling them to remain quiet.
Ducking behind a shrub, hiding from villagers and visitors both, I peered at the road for our village that started far below. Three soldiers with large packs trudged away from a large truck that then roared away. Memories of Ali’s warning reverberated. The Americans.
One man carried a large weapon, strapped to his back like an afterthought. This group was more nuisance than danger, I decided, wondering what the fools wanted from us.
About an hour later, the men took the final steep climb in the approach to our compound. One of the three men glanced upward, with curiosity and expectation. Such a hopeful face was difficult to hate or ignore, and I jerked backwards into the leathery leaves. Unnerved, I gathered my boys and ran for home in a village that had gone silent.
A few children, chattering and leaping, gathered around the two men and their translator. The visitors nodded to the children, saying salaam, but they did not toss around candy or trinkets as other foreign visitors had tried in the past. Instead, this group was deferential, ready to ask for permission or favors rather than control. The subdued demeanor was more disarming than arrogant, but I wondered if it wasn’t an act to gain trust. I had heard the warnings: The Americans could be so appealing, but so unreliable and inconsistent.
The young men left behind to guard the village acted like fools, arguing about inviting the men for tea in front of an Afghan translator who understood every word. The Afghan awkwardly broke into the argument, introducing himself and asking to speak with an elder.
The men are at the market, one of the boys explained. But we can . . .
Frustrated, Mari stepped into the sunlight, waved the youth away, and confronted the soldiers. You are not from these parts. Our men do not want to speak with you.
Our outpost is near, the translator said softly, introducing the other two with a jumble of names. They’re Americans—trying to help get the country settled.
We cannot help you, and you cannot help us. Mari’s voice was shrill. The translator looked relieved about ending the conversation. But another man, the observant one, pressed the translator to continue. I watched his face, certain that he could understand what the Afghan soldier and Mari were saying.
We want to leave a small gift. The Afghan handed over a tube. And also some containers of cooking oil.
Leila, Mari’s daughter, moved close behind her mother, curious and staring at the items. If the rest of us needed any reminder of Leila’s beauty, we only had to glance at the eyes of our visitors. We were accustomed to her, but these men were mesmerized by waves of dark hair, green eyes, and skin as smooth as an almond petal.
Mari didn’t notice, instead directing the men to place the items to the side on a stone bench. With rude silence, she then pointed to the path leading away from the village. As the translator glanced at his colleagues, the tallest man nodded and turned away. Children and women remained in the doorways, waiting for the sound of the men’s footsteps to disappear.
But the Americans didn’t leave. A third American, with pale hair and face, waved his arm, arguing with the translator, while the tall man shook his head. The pale man was annoyed with his colleagues, not us, but it was still strange. Stepping back, the tall man rolled his eyes and held out his hand as if offering the man to us. A few children laughed.
The Afghan translated. We came all this way, and Captain Janick wants you to know he’s a grain specialist. If you have any questions about growing wheat, he can give advice.
We have more grain than we need, Mari snapped. The other villagers snickered, and she included them in her scolding. Allah multiplies for whom He pleases.
The translator looked embarrassed, repeating the words, bowing his head like the villagers. At last, the group of men said farewell and headed out the gate.
Mari’s glare followed them until they were out of sight. Excess brings injury, she murmured. Then she turned and snapped at the young men in a low voice. That is how you handle strangers. Arguing about tea? Telling them our men are gone?
One of her daughters reached for the tube. Leave it alone, Mari snapped. It could be dangerous. No one touch that until our fathers return.
The other mothers repeated Mari’s order. Flushed with fear or power, Mari collected the containers of oil and stormed into her home, missing the resentment crossing the faces of the young men left to protect the village.
Joey had ordered the men against loud assessments on Laashekoh until they reached the outpost. The climb down away from the village was treacherous, over piles of unstable rubble, and it would take more than an hour for the men to reach the waiting vehicle.
The narrow pass—the entire route—was probably watched around the clock.
But Cameron didn’t wait to let loose with his complaints. “They weren’t interested. I don’t think they can understand.”
“Rushing didn’t help,” Joey retorted. “With luck, we didn’t frighten them.”
“Surveillance would have helped,” Cameron griped. “We should have known the men were gone.”
“Keep the chatter down,” Joey reminded. He hated to admit it, but Cameron was right. The trip was a waste. Joey quickened the pace, hoping to wear the other man out and end the conversation.
“We’re far enough away . . .” Cameron looked behind.
“Far enough from the village,” Joey warned. “If they want, they hear us here. They hear us at the outpost . . .”
Habib nodded, and Cameron’s laugh was nervous. “You’re trying to spook us.” He glanced up at the rocky cliffs protecting Laashekoh from unexpected visitors. “They’re not going to head up or down this hill any more than necessary.”
Habib and Joey kept a steady pace, and Cameron managed to keep up. “There’s got to be a better way into this village,” he muttered, squeezing between two boulders. “They couldn’t move any big loads of crops out of here if they wanted.”
With every step, rocks cracked and crumbled. Steady footing was impossible on the layers of broken rock, and sometimes the men slid along, using the edges of their boots to dig in and brake.
“If the women don’t want our help, then none of them do.” Cameron panted as he scaled a boulder. “We can scratch this place. It’s a lousy location—no decent fields—and the people are out of touch.”
Joey was tired of the griping, but waited for the group to hit secure ground. He stopped, facing Cameron. “Keep it down,” he ordered. “I doubt anyone in that village understands English. But they pick up on the to
ne of our voices.”
Cameron checked the path and the slope rising above them. “You think the women and kids would follow us?”
Habib shrugged. “Anything is possible.”
They walked in silence for a few more moments. Cameron’s pace was anxious, and he moved close behind Joey. At one twisted turn, Cameron’s foot slipped on loose rocks and he pitched forward. At the sound of clattering rocks, Joey spun and used his body to push the man back into the cliff wall, blocking him from a drop-off of several hundred feet. The three stared at one another.
“Take a deep breath,” Joey said. “No rush.”
Cameron nodded. Single file, the three men stepped side by side around the curve to safer terrain.
Joey had to talk to distract Cameron, keep him calm. “Laashekoh has potential,” Joey said. “Excellent orchards. The women are confident.”
Habib nodded. “Rural Afghanistan can be more relaxed than the cities. It depends on who’s in charge. The village looks capable.”
“They’re not ready to work with us,” Cameron whispered. “No one reached for that solar flashlight.”
Conversation was better than panic, and Joey kept his tone friendly. “They’ll come around. We spoke to one woman.”
“But Mita wants fast success,” Cameron explained. “We need to get these people dependent on us and wanting wheat.”
Joey cringed, speaking in English, then Dari, to emphasize the point. “That’s not what she wants. She ordered the team to listen, not push projects.”
The Afghan nodded, but Cameron did not acknowledge the comment, rushing ahead toward the Humvee’s purr. “I’ve met my first wheat extremist,” Habib murmured in Dari.
As they turned the corner, a young girl emerged from the brush, unnoticed by the driver or Cameron. Joey gripped his M16, and Habib’s hand covered his side arm. The beautiful girl from the village was not alarmed and waited, a loosely draped blue chaadar framing dark hair and delicate skin. She was the only one who had showed interest in the solar light.
Smiling, she approached the Humvee, running her hand along the side and letting it rest there, as if posing for a photo. “It’s okay,” Joey croaked, not having the presence of mind to greet her in Dari. Of course, the girl couldn’t know what he meant.
Startled, the driver turned. A more skittish soldier might have shot her—fulfilling the fervent wish of every extremist.
“What’s she doing here?” Cameron shouted, looking back at Habib and Joey.
Habib took over. “Bekhatar ast.”
The girl nodded shyly and stepped closer, a younger, softer version of the one who had just scolded them back in the village. Her eyes were bright, curious, and she held her head high. “I have questions,” she said.
Joey took a deep breath, ignoring the other men and his embarrassment. Despite her slight frame and horrible shoes, she had negotiated the rough terrain, managing to beat three trained soldiers down the hill. Not even breathing hard, she looked as though she’d have no problem sprinting another mile.
Habib nodded and waited.
“Why didn’t you attack us today?” Her puzzlement was genuine.
Habib didn’t take time to translate, following Joey’s directions on not breaking the rhythm of initial one-to-one conversations. “We’re not here to attack—there are no plans for us to attack. These men will fire only if fired on first.” Joey let out a nervous breath, and she glanced his way even as Habib pointed back to the village. “Is that what the others think?” Habib pressed.
She nodded. “Laashekoh is an important place for America?”
Habib’s reply could have come out of a recruiting manual. “The US cares about all of Afghanistan. You’re doing good things with agriculture here, and the soldiers want to help Afghanistan get its markets going again. Hamkari. Sheraakat. If people have good harvests and products to sell, that would slow the fighting and bring prosperity.”
She thought about that. “Only if we have goods to sell,” she said. “But you must come back when the men are here. Talk with my father. When will you come back?”
Her tone was demure, but Joey didn’t like the question—too damn convenient, requesting a schedule. The answer could go back to any Taliban in the area. But Habib was doing a good job, not releasing specifics, so Joey didn’t interrupt or confront her directly—no point in letting her know that at least one of the Americans understood Dari. Not yet.
“That’s up to our commanding officers. Who wants to know?”
Habib was good, Joey thought. She murmured more about her father, and then mentioned that Taliban were in the area. Unfortunately, Cameron picked up on the word. He hopped out of the truck, startling the girl, and she scurried toward the trees.
“Did you hear that, Joe? What’s she talking about?”
Annoyed, Joey curtly nodded and kept his face blank. “Let them continue.” Joey spoke gently. Like Habib, he did not break eye contact with the girl from Laashekoh. “Cameron, get back in the truck and shut up. Now.”
Leaning against a tree, she watched as Cameron complied. “The Taliban. They’re watching you,” she warned. “And they watch us.”
“Do you feel threatened?” Habib questioned. Sweat dripped from his hair.
“Who doesn’t feel threatened anymore?” She shrugged. “There are more ways to threaten a village than ways to stop the threats. All we can do is ignore them or attack, join a more powerful village or run away.”
“And which will your village choose?”
She smiled at Habib as if he were foolish. “We won’t run away.”
“Our team only wants to provide assistance. Help with jobs or money or schools. The same cannot be said about the Taliban.”
She dismissed the comparison. “But the Taliban can help. They can pay us and help with supplies.” She sighed. “We work in the fields and in our homes. The boys leave for maktab and the girls leave for marriage. Nothing changes. And it’s no secret the Taliban will be here long after the Americans tire of this place and return home. But you promise no attacks?”
Joey wanted to defend his entire nation to this one person, beautiful and willing to talk with three foreign soldiers alone, and explain what troops were trying to achieve in Afghanistan. This girl, her mother, and maybe others in the village had spunk. They were not afraid of arguing with men. Maybe they wouldn’t mind more education, healthcare, and connections with the modern world. Yet he remained quiet and waited for Habib.
“No attacks.” The man was firm. “Are there Taliban in Laashekoh now?”
“They come and go,” she said cryptically, tilting her head in a calculating way. With that, she turned and darted away, rushing straight up the mountainside, not bothering with the path. The sounds of running feet and sliding rocks were gone in minutes.
Habib pulled out a cloth and wiped his brow and neck. Joey leaned against the side of the truck and stared after her, relieved that the men followed standing orders—weapons aimed only for active defense.
“You did good,” he said to Habib.
The Afghan shook his head and looked uphill. “I don’t like it. She’s young. She’s breaking rules. It puts us in danger.”
Habib was right. The three of them would have been goners if a male had startled them. The rules of engagement were stressful when one side didn’t know or care. Joey tried not to think about it—and climbed into the back of the truck.
Mita was waiting to hear their report. Though the group had dispensed no agriculture advice in Laashekoh, Cameron did most of the talking. That was fine by Joey, who wanted to hear the man’s take on the afternoon and the strange encounter.
“You should have been with us,” Cameron complained. “The men were away.”
But Mita was impatient to hear about Laashekoh’s status as a farming community. Cameron shrugged. “There wasn’t much,” he said. “We weren’t there long . . .”
“What crops did you see?” she pressed. “What tools or equipment?” The man was flu
stered.
Joey took over, listing off the observations on structures, size of fields, water supply, the general heath of villagers. “The children and women we saw looked healthier than most,” Habib added. “Normal weights. Beautiful hair, clear and healthy skin.”
Cameron cut the Afghan off. “Laashekoh is a waste of our time. The bottom line is they don’t want our help.”
Joey coughed. “On wheat . . .”
“We had to bring some idea forward,” Cameron protested. He thought a minute, and then deftly shifted the topic. “They were upset we arrived when the men weren’t there. With better scouting, we could have chosen a better day.”
“The women were not afraid,” Habib noted.
Mita looked at Joey for his assessment. She encouraged debate and, normally, Joey expected her to give more weight to Cameron’s expertise in agriculture, so Joey was careful with his words. “The women were quiet, but not afraid. The village has potential, but they’ll need time.”
“We can’t force ourselves on them.” Mita didn’t hide her disappointment. So far, all the villages in their target area had been unresponsive, not suggesting projects to the team—even basics like drip irrigation or secure storage facilities. She sighed. “They get enough intimidation from the Taliban.”
“Speaking of the Taliban,” Cameron broke in. “Habib had a detailed conversation with a young woman who left the village to meet with us alone. She mentioned the Taliban, and it might help if he and Joey share the details?”
“You met with someone alone?” Mita frowned.
Habib looked uncomfortable. “A young adult, no more than sixteen. She followed us to the Humvee. She asked about fighting in the area and our plans.” As directed by Joey, Habib didn’t go into detail.
Fear of Beauty Page 7
