It took her about four times as long, but after a few groans, she stood next to me.
It’s so dark, she whispered.
The next chamber has an opening and more light, I said. Follow . . .
The cave had smooth rocks for sitting. She pointed at her chest and said, Mita. I copied her gesture and said, Sofi. Sofi, she repeated and nodded. Thank you, Sofi.
Our hiding spot was dry, cool, and deserted, one in a chain of many long-forgotten caves used as hiding places during the Soviet invasion. A few were still used for contemplation during times of mourning, sickness, or anger, but this cave was small and inconvenient for people in our village, making it ideal for my purposes.
I checked around and saw no sign that anyone had used the space recently. The remains of an old fire pit were in the next section—dangerous because fires eat away the air in such enclosed places. The fire pit looked the same as it had during a previous visit, more than four seasons earlier. No one had been in the cave since my last visit.
The cave was nestled at the base of a cliff that blocked views of the Americans or villagers. The secluded cave would serve for a long stay, with a nearby small spring trickling from the side of the cliff, landing in a small pool behind an outcrop of rocks.
The American woman could hide indefinitely, as long as she was agreeable. Wait inside here, and do not make noise, I advised. You’ll be safe until I return with food.
The visitors constantly scolded our women for stepping out in public, distracting the men, or gathering in groups of our own. So most of us stayed inside or wandered off alone to the fields. No one asked questions about my whereabouts.
Smiling, I handed my sons the basket half filled with berries, and ordered them to start an array of chores. After preparing my family’s dinner, I crept back to the cave and the mysterious woman known as Mita.
As I walked back to the cave, carrying a small pack of food, I said earnest prayers that she was safe, that she had not tried to make her way back to her camp. I believed what I told her—with the visitors and soldiers, the area surrounding our village was no longer safe.
In a small pack, I carried cooked lamb, yogurt, fresh fruit, and a container of water that could be refilled at the spring. I also brought a notebook and pen. Outside the cave, I paused. The surrounding scene was so peaceful—the clearing with young trees, a magnificent view of a pleasing corner of the valley.
Bending toward the hole, I whispered. Mita? I felt trepidation but had no choice but to crawl inside. The cavern was dry, comfortable, with no occupant or sign of a struggle.
She had left, and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried.
Opening the pack, I reached for a plum and took small, fast bites. What had I been thinking? That I could hide a woman without anyone finding out? That she might not have a family of her own and better things to do? There were so many rumors about American women—that they preferred prostitution to caring for families, they were bossy and abused, forced to do the work of men. Spending too much time with an American could only put me in danger.
I finished the plum, gnawing fibers from the pit, retrieved my pack, and pushed my way back to the open air.
Before pushing the pack outside, I peered outside to check for unwelcome surprises.
And there was Mita, not far from the opening to the cave, leaning against a tree. Weary and nervous, she stared toward the path leading to Laashekoh. I called out.
You’re back. She smiled with relief.
With a meal for you. She wasn’t anxious to escape, and I felt a thrill as I removed items from the pack, handing them to her. I also gave her soap, a tarp, and a blanket. It had been so long since I had tried to start a new friendship. Only the very young were new to Laashekoh.
Water never tasted so good, she said. Mita sank her teeth into a plum and smiled. And this is the sweetest plum I’ll ever eat. You are my Kabuliwala. Uncertain about what she meant, I shook my head vigorously, but sensed a compliment and was pleased.
Where are we? Mita looked out over the view, pointed toward the Americans’ camp, and asked another question.
I pretended not to understand and pointed to the meal.
Laashekoh? Is that where you’re from? I nodded.
Anxiety replaced her happiness. I need to get back, Mita said. The others will worry.
You came to our village with men. Are you married to one of them?
She shook her head, and I bowed my head. That’s not good for you.
She looked alarmed. My Dari is not good. She hurried to reassure me. They’re like brothers. Did the men come looking for me?
I did not see them, I said. True, I had not seen the Americans, though Gul and the others were asking questions about the missing woman and an attack so close to our village. But they wouldn’t ask the village’s women. Men assumed that women didn’t know about such matters. It’s best if you wait here awhile.
Mita sighed. I’m not sure what happened. There was shooting and then I fell.
You need to rest.
She held her hands, pointing one finger as if holding a weapon. Did you see who was shooting?
I shook my head hard. Until we know more, it’s not safe for you to return.
Mita frowned. I worry my colleagues will blame your village.
I thought a moment. The shooting had to come from Jahangir, and Parsaa and Gul would make it clear to the Americans that the man had nothing to do with Laashekoh. They might even force him to leave. I don’t think so. Our village won’t like a shooting so close to the village. Only after we know what happened and why, only then will it be safe for you to return. Eat more while you can. And then we will figure out whom we can trust.
She daintily used her fingers to scoop the lamb and yogurt and smiled. Americans use . . . She pointed three fingers downward and jabbed at the food, but I didn’t understand. I’m out of practice. . . . Do other villagers know that I’m here?
No.
Not even your family?
I shook my head. Men have strange ideas about what women shouldn’t do. And there are other men watching our village.
Your husband? She pressed.
He’s not one of those men. It was embarrassing to admit how men controlled us.
She asked how many children I had and their ages. It didn’t seem right to say I had four sons, and I included Ali in my count. I’m lucky you helped me, Mita said.
The warm food was gone and all that was left was more plums, apricots, and bread. I asked if she really was an American, and she nodded.
But you look like the people who live in the south and west.
Mita laughed. My mother grew up in Bangladesh. I was born in America and went to school there. She’s Muslim and so am I.
Muslims in America? You hide your faith?
She laughed, and in awkward Dari, talked about Muslims mixing with others in villages, schools, and business. They worked as doctors, teachers, and bankers. It was hard to believe. You like it there?
Mita smiled. Very much, it’s open and free. People work hard and love the land.
It’s that way here, too. She looked startled and I explained. We’re free to grow what we want. We work hard, and our families are comfortable.
Mita reached for an apricot, touching the soft skin with her fingertip. What you grow is . . . She held the golden fruit as if it were treasure. Perfect.
Perfect, I repeated the foreign word.
Mita laughed and added, Exquisite.
Ex-qui-site, I repeated. Confused, I pointed to the apricot. Perfect? Or exquisite?
No, apricot, she said, as if scolding herself, followed by another laugh. What kind of English teacher starts with adjectives? A perfect apricot. The apricot is exquisite. Then she explained that the apricot was good, or khoob. Stretching her arms out higher with each word, she repeated: Good, perfect, exquisite. Ta-shar-koor.
Understanding only her gratitude, I repeated the string of words.
The apricot is good. S
he smacked her lips. I laughed and repeated her sentence.
Yum. Mita returned to Dari and pointed at me. You could teach others to farm. You could teach others how to grow these.
I smiled and shrugged: Everyone knows. It’s not something to be taught.
Mita explained that she had studied farming in school. Only a few farmers grow such special fruit.
It was my turn to laugh. She dropped the endings of some words, though I caught the words farm and school—ideas that did not necessarily go together for me. I didn’t understand what she was trying to tell me. Farmaan-bardaari? I asked, but she didn’t understand. I folded my hands and nodded slowly, mimicking one who showed obedience. Baleh, baleh, baleh. But Mita looked puzzled, too, and pointed to the apricot once more.
Only those who care can produce such beauty, she said. Her Dari was stilted, but the praise was sincere. I fought the pride surging inside. Caution was required for one regarded an enemy by so many in my village, even if she was a woman. Trust took time to grow. Fast sparks could destroy a friendship. Still, I was fascinated. I had never met anyone so different from myself and the other women I knew. We had heard rumors that American women tried to act like men, and this woman was assertive about what she knew. We’d heard that American women spoke too much, and I could recall never conversing so long with anyone in my village.
But nothing about the afternoon seemed wrong. I had an exotic creature to myself, and I wanted to ask my questions before she found the cave or me dreary.
She enjoyed talking about farming and schools. In the school where you learned about farming, did you learn to read?
That school was for farming and science, ilm va daanesh. We learned to read before that school. Then she said a string of words in English that I didn’t understand at the time, but eventually became clear later, thanks to her gestures and odd mixture of English and Dari. For soil composition, she fingered a small handful of dirt; for genetics, she plucked two blue sage flowers, gently rubbing the insides together and then pointing to a group of flowers.
I had not expected such complicated ideas. Do you read Dari?
She frowned and explained how she spoke little Dari, but was picking up more every day. Especially with you, she added. I read English and my mother’s language, Bengali.
Disappointment tore inside me, and she reached for my hand. What is wrong? I explained my desire to read and asked if she could teach the little that she knew. Rather than look sad, she eagerly offered suggestions: We can study Dari together. Or, I could teach you English? She pulled a small bundle of papers, lashed together, from a pocket.
A friend gave this to me before I traveled here, she explained. I love wildflowers and he pulled together descriptions and photos of plants from an old Iranian field guide and added English translations.
I studied the script. It looks like Dari.
It’s Farsi. Dari and Farsi are close. And Bengali and Farsi rely on some of the same words. Why don’t we see what we can do?
I sat by her side, and she pointed to photos, asking me to identify them. She showed me the words in English, and we located the Farsi words on the paper. From my studies of words in the Koran, I was pleased to discover that I already knew many words—land, sun, green, branch, fruit, and others.
You learn so quickly, she commented. You must have been working on this for a long time. I nodded, in a hurry to absorb more words.
Chapter 14
A helicopter buzzed overhead, moving fast over the mountains and desert in search of vehicles, camps, guards—any signs of insurgents guarding a captured woman. But the searchers did not look for a cave at the bottom of a cliff or two women huddled under a leafy tree with papers and notebook.
The first time Mita saw the searchers, she stood, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. They’re looking for me.
I frowned. Yes. But they’re not alone. The men from the north planned to attack your outpost. This area has become very dangerous.
But my friends must be worried. If there was a way to let them know . . . Perhaps if I gave a letter to you?
I cannot admit to seeing you. I’d be in grave danger. Mita frowned, and I hurried on. No one knows where you’re at, and this confuses the attackers from the north. It also is saving children. We must wait.
I don’t understand, she admitted, but she returned to her seat.
She handled time alone in the cave better than most women of my village would. She didn’t complain about the food and spent most of her time writing in the notebook. She wore my clothing, but her skin was smooth, protected from sun and wind over the years, and so even from a long distance, she wouldn’t pass for an Afghan woman. More than our differences though, we were surprised by how many interests and ideas we shared.
She sighed. My parents will be frantic.
You still see your parents? I asked.
I’m their only child. I must find some way to get back. Can you help?
When the time is right, I promised and took a deep breath. The men from the north will leave soon. Then it will be safe to return.
Mita was unsure but didn’t argue. We resumed our lessons, and I vowed to bring her the finest fruit the next day.
There was truth in what I told Mita. The visitors from the north were close. As soon as the alarm was raised about a missing American woman, they appeared, climbing over the wall behind Mari’s home and watching our men conclude evening prayers. The strangers stood back, guns in hand, not waiting for the men to finish.
Where is the American woman? one of Jahangir’s men asked.
Our men stared at him in disbelief. She’s not here, Ahmed insisted.
She didn’t go far, Jahangir countered. Not without help. Did you kill her?
Of course not, Gul replied. We assumed she was with you.
We would not be here asking questions. Jahangir was impatient. This disrupts our plans.
Gul glared at him. We have no plans that include the woman.
The Americans will ask questions, Jahangir pressed.
They already have, Ahmed said. And if it wasn’t us and it wasn’t you, then—
They’ll give up, Gul broke in.
The dogs won’t give up! Jahangir paced back and forth. You don’t know them. They were headed to this village. Someone in this village must have seen something.
We’ve told you all we know. Parsaa broke in, irritated. We cannot keep watch over the unseen. The rest is Allah’s will.
That comment irritated Jahangir. One of the younger men handed him a mug with tea, and he flung it into the fire. We must find her first. The Americans won’t leave until she is found.
We do what we can, Gul said cryptically
The Americans will blame Laashekoh. I promise. Jahangir pointed out that his own encampment would attract attention, and Gul begrudgingly gave permission for the group to camp inside the compound.
The strangers came and went as they pleased and could startle us at any moment, suddenly stepping out from behind a tree or climbing over a wall. Typically, they joined the conversations of our men and offered strong opinions, revealing that they had been listening all along.
Other women complained bitterly. The eyes of Jahangir and his men followed us as we worked the fields, retrieved water, or gathered wood. The men claimed to watch the Americans, but we were also targets of their scrutiny. They watched our children at play. Villagers remained quiet and kept to themselves, taking fewer breaks. Some made an elaborate show of their prayers. When the young laughed or spoke too loudly, older villagers scolded and reminded them of the strangers, taking nervous glances at the surrounding walls and trees.
These activities complicated my ability to move freely about the fields and into the hills or valley.
I spent long hours with Mita, careful about retrieving a pack that had been hidden in the orchard early in the day and leaving while the men were talking or praying. Every day, besides extra clothes and meals, I packed a few comforts for her, including kni
ves, a brush, our finest soap with oils from nuts and spices.
I wanted her to stay a long time—though anxiety was a constant. At home, I worried about Mita, and in the cave, I worried about Parsaa and the children. So many were searching for her, and I worried about Jahangir finding her first.
All eyes were on the men in the village center, as I slipped out a rear doorway and headed for the orchard and the wall. I pulled my chaadar tight. If anyone asked, I’d simply say that I had work to do and that was under Allah’s control. But with so many women staying out of sight, no one noticed my absences and I quickly became accustomed to the new patterns.
Hurrying away from Laashekoh, I should have worried more, thinking about the many difficulties associated with hiding Mita. But a deep gratitude pushed such thoughts aside. Allah had provided a way to stop Jahangir from moving children.
I was determined to keep it that way and wondered why others in my village were so complacent. Reading and talking with Mita had pushed me to question others’ decisions to control or remain quiet.
She had changed my way of thinking, but not as others had long warned. Instead, I had more to think about. More opinions came from having more to compare, and too often we fear our preferences. People in our village constantly compared, assessing this day against the previous, one child with another child, one year’s crop with that of the previous year. Our minds constantly assess, determining which ways work better and which do not. So much depends on the point of comparison. One person might prefer the sour taste of an unripe plum over the liquid sweetness that precedes decay. Others prefer laughter over serenity, contentment before perfection.
Those who prefer continuity avoid comparisons and regard any hint of choice as criticism. New interpretations from others might twist their own opinions in unknown ways.
Our village frowns upon too many opinions.
Fear of Beauty Page 16
