The soldier explained that the Americans brought another gift. Unlike Mari, the men gave the translator a chance to turn the light tube on and explain. He pointed to the sky, then to a small silver panel on the tube’s side, and explained: It absorbs the sun’s rays. Leave it outside for eight hours and you get four hours of light at night.
Ahh, we thought the other one stopped working.
No, the Afghan soldier said. Bring it into the open, and it will work again. The village men passed the tube around, each pressing the switch on and off a few times, testing the flash of light.
Gul approved. It’s small—easy to hide. Some in these parts do not appreciate toys from the West.
The translator nodded. Those who prefer darkness to light? Our men looked thoughtful, and no one spoke up to disagree. How much harm could come in a tool that brought light into a home?
We do not want to put you in any danger, the visitor assured the villagers. But someday, you must decide which groups have your best interests in mind. Who respects this village and who wants to control you? Is it us or those who fight us?
Our village was safe before you and the other foreign soldiers arrived, Ahmed noted.
He turned to Gul, who was blunt: What do you expect from us?
The Afghan soldier was ready. Let us know about any threats against the outpost or other villages in the area, he explained. And resist joining in any fighting.
That is all? Gul questioned.
The visitor nodded. We don’t expect you to fight for us. But do not help them. In exchange, we can provide some tools to help you increase the crop levels. You can give us project ideas, say farming, and then our men will come and help you with tasks that you assign.
What type of tasks? Ahmed questioned.
The visitor was ready with a list: planting, planning irrigation ditches, installing water pumps, checking livestock for disease. The crew will follow your wishes and nothing more. If we set you up with a solar oven, you can dry fruits and grain and cook more with less firewood. We can help in clearing out mines along the roads, so you can get your crops out to market quickly. Or more. We want your ideas.
Ahmed leaned forward. Many in this country resent any cooperation with the foreigners. Accepting your gifts will invite attacks. And then there would be no people left to harvest the crops, or bring them to market.
The group did not argue. The Americans had been in the country long enough to understand the dilemma for small villages.
Like others, I listened anxiously. This offer would divide our village. For a few among us, fear led to constant public demonstration of religious beliefs. They’d warn about the dangers of working with the infidels, listening to their flattery. They would call the gifts bribes. In the end, the religious arguments would sway.
Listening closely, I noticed that the translator did not repeat all of Ahmed’s or Gul’s responses to the group, and I didn’t like this. Either they understood, or the Afghan would explain later, though I doubted anyone was capable of understanding our village or conveying our feelings to strangers from another country.
The visitor continued, Most of these Americans have been here long enough to understand the dilemma for the villages. I am Muslim. Mita is Muslim. Muslims live and practice in the United States. It’s a government that tries to respect all religions.
The men murmured and shook their heads in disbelief. It was an impossible task to protect all religions. There was but one way. The Prophet had warned about the loss of power that comes from arguing with those weak in heart.
Gul directed Ahmed to offer more fruit and turned his attention back to the Americans. Good Muslims don’t mix with the infidels.
I was sure the woman didn’t understand or she would have been insulted. Instead, she took another apricot slice. A smile accompanied her bite, and I felt triumph.
She was so exotic next to the Afghans and the Americans, more comfortable and relaxed. My eyes could not stray from her for long, and I wondered how she kept her composure among men and strangers. It was hard to believe she could participate in the debauchery whispered to be practiced by Americans. I looked down at my own patched perahaan, the colors worn to a soft gray, and reminded myself that it revealed a woman who worked hard.
Anyone can don a chaadar, bow her head while speaking in soft and pleasant ways. But the woman had a grace that had nothing to do with clothes or hair. The way she studied and admired the fruit, she knew such a harvest required more work than the men let on. And she cared about others. It didn’t matter if they were strangers. Such grace was possible only after years of practice and not the work of deception.
After the group was silent for a few moments, the woman quietly pointed to the tray of fruit, then to the orchards behind the mud brick homes, before asking a question of the Afghan soldier. He translated, and it was as though she had read my thoughts. I leaned forward to catch every word.
Mita asks me to relay that this is the most productive village she’s seen in Afghanistan. The apricots are the most beautiful. Such sweet fruit is the product of long hours.
Gul shrugged at the compliment. The orchard and fields were not a priority for him. We make do, Ahmed said.
The woman spoke quickly and the Afghan nodded. The Americans could learn from you.
You flatter us, Ahmed said. But hard work is the only ingredient we know.
Of course, the Afghan replied. Allah extends rewards on those who work hard. The men bowed their heads in Allah’s praise. If you like, we can we leave some papers with you? About projects you could work on.
Ahmed glanced around, and Gul gave a nod that was barely perceptible. Mita opened her pack slowly to expose its contents, but Gul waved his arm to hurry her along. Suicide attacks were not part of the American arsenal. Americans had more reason to fear the afterlife, or so the imams said.
Ahmed accepted the folder, giving the contents a cursory glance, before passing them to Gul.
The rest of us stretched our necks, curious about colorful images of trees, seeds, leaves, and roots.
I suppose you will give these to other villages, too, Gul said. And lower prices at the market.
Not all villages want to grow the same crops, the Afghan soldier assured Gul. Everyone doesn’t have rich soil or ready supplies of water. And if the harvests increase, plenty of people in the cities would appreciate your fruits and nuts.
Gul flatly dismissed the idea. We have no time to travel to the cities.
But others do have time, and you could sell to them.
Not without roads. Gul was curt. Blocked roads protect our village. Otherwise unwanted visitors show up.
The group of Americans started murmuring among themselves, almost like arguing. The woman was earnest with the Afghan soldier, and the others seemed to defer to her. He addressed our group of men: Your area is fertile and rich, and you could teach techniques to other villages.
The women handle the fields, Gul interrupted. We do not need help in these areas and have little time to help others who might hurt us. He pushed the papers near the fire, to show his disinterest. Our men looked like fools, I thought to myself. Stern fools who regarded flimsy paper as threats.
Watching from the doorway, visible to all the other villagers, I dared not express my own eagerness. If I were lucky, the papers might make the rounds in our village, eventually passed on to Parsaa. I might get my chance to unfold the papers, crumpled and worn, and study the details.
But that wouldn’t happen if I showed how much I cared.
The group asked about purchasing vegetables, and Ahmed quickly agreed, directing boys to carry the sacks to the cave and load them with crops. Choose the best and pack carefully, Gul ordered. The Afghan handed over Afghan currency.
Parsaa and others stole looks for my reaction. Unsure whether they expected anger or pride, I tightened my jaw, determined to show nothing.
The group said their farewells and agreed to another meeting in the future. As they stood, the woman tu
rned and smiled shyly at the female audience gathered in nearby doorways. Surprised, we stood there gaping like old wooden dolls, surprised by her acknowledgement, as if it were wrong for us to smile.
At that moment, my own anger at the Americans seemed pointless, reminding me what Parsaa’s teacher had told him long ago: We cannot let our list of enemies get too long.
The Americans could sit, talk, and eat in our village and offer advice, but they couldn’t understand the divide between our way of life and theirs. That alone was enough to trigger fear.
As people separated and went about their way, Ahmed bent and looked over the papers. He looked towards Gul, who shook his head, and Ahmed tossed them into the fire.
Trees with their dark leaves filtered the late afternoon sun and the quivering, mottled light was hypnotic, belying any sense of harm. Not far from the village, with its cool mountain streams and trees, the landscape abruptly changed to harsh and barren folds of dirt and rocks in browns and grays.
Joey led the group downhill, and it didn’t take long before he sensed they were being followed. He listened closely, but heard only their trudging feet, the whispers of rustling dry leaves, and the nagging questions inside him.
Walking slowly, he scanned either side of the trail, as well as ahead and behind, checking for any signs of trouble. More than once, he paused abruptly to catch the tracker off-guard. He was alert, his weapon ready with safety off.
It could be the girl following again, he tried to tell himself.
He signaled Habib, but didn’t tell the others. No point in alarming them. Habib nodded and relied on the same cautious approach, taking the lead and forcing the others to pick up the pace, while leaving Joey in the rear.
The visit to Laashekoh had gone better than the first: Mita, more attentive and respectful than Cameron, had intrigued the villagers. Cameron, left behind, had smugly announced he couldn’t wait for her report.
Now Joey had to make sure she made it back to give that report.
A branch cracked behind them, and Joey paused, first retying a boot and, moments later, adjusting his pack. Better to get a confrontation over with quickly.
But the follower had no intention of catching up.
Joey couldn’t wait to get off the desolate, steep path and reach the Humvee, returning to the familiar and secure outpost. The wind picked up, kicking up dust, jerking the treetops, and flattening the tall grass.
Every move made him jump inside.
The most time-consuming part of the trail was covered with tons of sliding broken rocks, overlooking a drop-off. They had to move one at a time—flattening their chests against the slope, digging the boots into the side, inching along—utterly exposing themselves to anyone watching the trail from above or below. They stared straight ahead at the wall of rock and dirt, not looking down.
Habib went first while Joey provided cover. As Mita approached the stretch, she tripped on a root. Joey lunged, grabbing her arm to break the fall.
Her laughter sounded like birdsong. Joey cringed, not wanting villagers to think the laugh was directed at them, and automatically put his finger to his mouth. “Take it easy,” he said, nervously. “We’re far enough from the village, but we shouldn’t take chances.”
Nodding, she crossed the rock pile without a problem. Barnaby followed, and then Joey, as Habib eyed the surrounding area and provided cover.
After the rock fall, the path widened and passed through a rocky meadow. Mita waited for Joey to catch up. “You seem nervous,” she said in a low voice. “I thought the visit went well. That village is . . .”
He wanted to hear her reaction to the meeting. He wanted to talk and laugh with her. But that had to wait. Joey put his finger to his mouth: “Wait until we get back to the base.”
She looked around, sensing his problem was immediate. “What’s wrong?” Mita whispered.
Joey shook his head, but the question alerted Barnaby. Time to put the group to work. “Keep moving,” he ordered. “If you see anything, call out a description and a position. Hear a noise—hit the ground and find cover.” Barnaby looked like he was going to get sick. “We’re fine, we’re near the Humvee. If they wanted to hurt us, they would have done it where we were exposed.”
“They want to make sure we’re taking off,” Habib added.
The other two nodded, but looked worried. The price of striving for predictability, Joey thought to himself, the price of not knowing one’s enemies. A visit in open daylight might reassure villagers who wanted to cooperate, but could make the team a target for the resentful.
On the way back to the outpost in the Humvee, though, they would drive off-road.
As they rounded one of the last switchbacks in the meadow, a lone shot blasted, skipping in the dirt in front of Habib. The group froze, just for a moment, before Barnaby and Mita took off in a wild run.
“Cover!” Joey shouted, as he and Habib rolled into a stand of tall grass. Mita crouched and scrambled to reach some inadequate rocks. “Lower!” he screamed.
Furious, Joey thought about spraying the hillside with a round, but waited. He scanned the rocky slope, but could not determine the number of shooters or intent. The slope was still except for grass swaying in the fickle breeze. He reached around and found a rock that fit into the palm of his hand. He swung his left arm back and heaved. It landed along the edge of the path, bouncing in the dust.
No response.
He glanced at Mita crouching by the pile of three rocks, each barely larger than her head. A serious shooter could have easily picked her off. Habib had already climbed to a more secure position, covering both Mita and Joey. Still, Joey signaled her to lower her head.
They waited, watching the hillside. Sweat made the bullet-proof vest and heavy pack more uncomfortable than usual, and Joey was ready to take off. But Habib shook his head firmly, lifting his left palm, the signal for them to hold. The translator was right. Afghans had infinite patience.
After a half hour, Joey tightened his helmet, determined to flush the shooter out and get Mita off the hillside. The Afghan circled his fingers and held them to his forehead, then pointed toward the top of the slope. Joey crawled to get a better view.
The man holding an assault rifle was backing away over the ridge, no more than fifty meters away.
No point rushing into a trap. The driver had radioed. The Humvee was near the pickup point and reported no action. Someone was taunting the Americans, reminding them who controlled this territory—or forcing a delay, to give time for planting an explosive for the Humvee’s trip back to the outpost.
Darkness was at least three hours away. But that wouldn’t help with the ride back to the outpost. IEDs would be hard to spot.
Joey didn’t want to wait for darkness. “I’m going to try the path,” he shouted. “Habib, shoot at anything that moves.”
Barnaby howled. “If you’re shot, what the hell happens to us?”
Joey sternly held his palm out flat, and then stood. Barnaby clung to his cover, as Mita stared, squeezing one of the rocks. Habib shifted position to provide coverage.
Joey stood and moved slowly, testing the shooter. Nothing happened. He slowly headed for Mita. It took at least a minute before he was close enough to reach for her hand. “You okay?” he asked gently.
“I just want us to stay together,” Mita said.
“Good plan,” Joey agreed.
Staying close to her, he walked backwards until the path dropped away from the meadow into a thick stand of trees. With every step, he made sure he was between her and where they had last seen the shooter. He positioned her behind a huge boulder. “Move, Barnaby,” he shouted. “Habib has you covered!”
Barnaby jogged toward them, and only then did Habib back away to join the other three. “Let’s get out of here,” Joey said.
“We’re pushing our luck, going to villages where we’re not wanted,” Barnaby noted.
Joey sighed. “That bullet didn’t come from the people we just met with—
I’d lay my life on it.”
“They’re not down here helping us either,” Barnaby pointed out.
“Keep moving,” Joey said. “And be ready to fire.”
The rest of the way, the group kept to the one edge of the pathway, maintaining a pattern of pauses and moves as Joey stepped out ahead, testing the shooter before directing the other three to the best cover. Over and over, they paused, waited, then moved.
It was still light when they reached the Humvee. Joey ordered all packs off once the vehicle was in sight, and Dan was ready with the doors and single-movement lock. Joey advised Dan against using the road and easiest way back to the outpost. The driver took a hard left over rugged terrain.
In the rear, Barnaby checked the packs. “The fruit is bruised.”
“Be grateful it’s not you!” Dan teased.
Joey scowled. “Enough. A shot was fired at us.”
The two men in the Humvee were surprised. “We didn’t hear anything,” Dan said.
“Why shoot one bullet?” Mita added. “Could it have been a mistake?”
“Maybe.” Joey tried to keep his voice light. “Or they wanted to test our panic level.” He didn’t say it out loud, but if the shooter had been serious or brought a friend, the four team members would be dead, stretched out along the meadow’s path.
Mita leaned back and stripped away the scarf, shaking her hair loose. “They were so friendly in the village,” she murmured.
“They are,” Joey added. “Problem is someone else doesn’t want them to be.”
The strangers in black returned minutes after the Americans trudged away. This time, Jahangir and his men arrived by foot, slipping over the compound wall. Approaching the bench where our men had sat and drank tea with the Americans under the afternoon sun, they were prepared to judge the exchange.
Some men looked surprised, but not Parsaa or Gul.
Jahangir spoke for his band of men. Did you enjoy hearing the Americans praise your fruit? Have you forgotten that they are the foreign invaders?
Fear of Beauty Page 11
