Reading expanded the meaning of words for me, empowering me to think on my own. When the Koran says, “the good women are therefore obedient, guarding the unseen as Allah has guarded,” obedient takes on new meaning: Women can judge their own behavior. If husbands or fathers do wrong, if our men lie, steal, or kill—then of course we must ignore the men and obey Allah and the way we know is right.
I had no doubt that obeying a tyrant like Jahangir, his evil plans and ruthless control of others, is as much a crime as devising those plans. Jahangir and others had terrible reasons for insisting on dull obedience from women. Men do not want women to compare.
Comparisons can establish ideals or form the basis of sins like jealousy, greed, pride, or sloth. Religion can label an action as right or wrong, with adherents arguing the reasons for centuries.
Our daily routines influence how we hear another’s words and view their behavior. There’s no reason to fear comparisons and inquiries that come with good intentions. Mita said aloud what I had always known: Believers cannot fear the nonbelievers. Those who resist questions or comparisons lack true faith.
The Koran cautions that our time is brief and not to be wasted. Reading the Koran, studying its passages closely, made me more devout. Distorting the Koran for evil purposes is more sinful than rejecting the book.
My village would ostracize me if I admitted to preferring some of Mita’s ways. Yes, some American ways were better than ours. Learning is not evil. Refusing to acknowledge truths is evil. Developing my own thoughts is more valid than blindly quoting the thoughts of others. Examples are better than sermons for teaching.
Living in a small village, I must keep my comparisons to myself.
With Mita hidden away, I planned my days with care. I didn’t talk much, and my family and other villagers assumed that I remained distraught about Ali’s death. Of course, I grieved. But my grief had ushered in a new purpose. I was determined to push myself to read and write, and a patient teacher lent efficiency and joy to the process. Every moment not spent on that task was a waste of time.
Our men kept an eye out, speculating about Mita, but they had no interest in taking time from other tasks for a search. My biggest worry was that Mita might wander away from the cave and encounter one of many searchers patrolling the area. She resented sitting in the cave for long periods and, when I arrived, often insisted on walking about, what she called stretching her legs.
Over and over, I cautioned that discovery would bring catastrophe for both her camp and my village. She promised to remain quiet, leave no signs, and stay close to trees, shielded by their canopy, while taking any steps beyond the cave.
Eventually a routine emerged, with us spending early mornings and late afternoons together. I slept less than half the night, adding to my irritability.
Of course, I longed to make excuses and hurry off to meet with Mita. But that would raise suspicions among Laashekoh women, and make me the subject of their gossip. To snatch extra time with Mita, I had to join others in noticeable ways and made a point of spending a few hours each day with Mari, Talibah, Karimah, and the others. We worked in the fields, prepared meals, washed clothes, or tended the children, and I was quiet, dependable, intent on not mentioning my new activities.
I was accustomed to keeping secrets about what I like to do. That way, no one knew what to take away from me.
As long as I showed no eagerness to escape for a secret task, the other women asked no questions.
Every few days, when the sun was strong and the air dry, the women carried a load of clothing, bed linens, and rags to the river. Young girls and their mothers took more care with the textiles and colors, dipping the items carefully, while older women beat the clothes, ignoring fading patterns or worn spots.
The conversations could be as dreary as those clothes—women comparing thoughts about illnesses, quarrelsome children, cooking, and other chores. When the young girls were not around, the women whispered about how to conceive sons, prevent pregnancies, or keep men away altogether, fooling inconsiderate husbands into thinking a woman’s time of month could last fourteen nights or more with the help of lamb’s blood.
I hid my impatience for lessons, listening to the conversations, agreeing with others on innocuous details of cooking, planting, or weather. Most of my life had been spent in Laashekoh, yet still I felt out of place. My secret lessons alienated me even more.
We carried our clothes to the river, filling pots with water and then building a fire, letting the clothes soak until the water cooled. We stayed close, hoping the visitors would not scold such a large group. With the village under stress, the women whispered about the visitors and the Americans.
Even as we worked, noisy machines buzzed overhead, flying back and forth over the river, and Leila complained. So much noise, when will it stop? She was impatient because she and Mari had to wash clothes for Jahangir and his men, too. Of course, the rest of us pitched in.
Her willingness to talk prompted other women to open up about Jahangir and his group and plead for details.
Yesterday, dozens of men hunted for her along the lower path and river, Talibah added. So close. They’re not giving up.
They don’t believe us . . .
The visitors are convinced that the Americans are really after them. Mari shook her head.
The visitors are fools, muttered another.
All men are fools. Leila repeated an old and useless complaint.
Jahangir and his men want our men to join in fighting the infidels, Mari added.
The group mulled that disturbing news. As a teenager, my husband had fought in the final days of war against the Soviet invaders. In nearby villages, women a few years older than us had lost husbands in that war and were grateful for marriages as second or third wives. Bile seeped into my throat at the thought of my sons leaving to fight.
We did not want another war.
Jahangir says the Americans will demand food from us and not pay, Leila spoke up. The strangers from the north promise to protect us.
The Americans have paid us, Karimah snapped. How do the strangers know more about what happens near our village than we do?
Shhh, Mari cautioned. She and Leila stood, twisting and squeezing water from a heavy wool blanket, before carrying it to a nearby tree. Silence fell over the group. Mari was nervous and so was I, because listening to gossip could get any of us into trouble.
Methodically dipping clothing into a pool of flowing cold water, I let the others think of me as fearful or stupid. My fingers ached, gripping the heavy pieces and swirling them in the water, before lifting, wringing, and hanging them to dry.
Karimah dropped her voice to a whisper, so only a small group nearby could hear. My son told me that Jahangir is looking for someone to send in for an attack. He wants to frighten the soldiers away.
Why involve us? Talibah was alarmed. He can send his own men.
Karimah hushed the younger woman, glancing toward Mari and Leila. My son could get in trouble.
The whispering stopped as Mari and Leila returned from draping the blanket over the branches, so the sun could bake the moisture away. The two women wanted to talk more about the attacks. Our village is closest to this outpost, Leila began. Jahangir says it’s our responsibility to stop them.
Hafa shook her head. It makes sense to wait until the Americans bother us. Just then, a helicopter buzzed low over the stream, with a deafening roar of spinning blades. The women stared at the noisy contraption, a reminder about how little our village controlled.
They aren’t looking for the woman. Leila stood as if to confront the machines. She explained that her father didn’t think the woman was missing. It’s a ruse. The Americans are watching us.
Sometimes it’s best to attack before being attacked, Mari added.
And Jahangir says it’s better to attack while the Americans are new to the area. Leila smiled.
Talk is easy for those who have no sons to lose, Talibah said. Even as she spoke, the helicopter dipp
ed around the nearby mountains and moved out of sight.
Mari flinched at the comment, but responded quickly. War is hard for women, too, she snapped. She was irritated and tired, too, and I sympathized with her. Jahangir and his men went to Gul’s home for many meals and talked long into the night. Mari and Leila had undoubtedly overheard many plans.
Attacking the Americans is not all they want, Karimah spoke up. Jahangir complains about us working in the fields. The strangers say the soldiers will take the girls away from us to work as slaves . . . Her voice drifted off. She did not have to explain.
Jahangir should know, I thought to myself. Even proof would not save me from his wrath.
Do you think Jahangir knows where the American woman is at? Hafa whispered.
Mari glared. He would tell us.
Leila smiled. The Americans could be hiding her to cause trouble.
The conversation shifted to the American woman working with men so far away from her home. I was nervous as the others whispered about Mita, wondering if she had special powers. There was so much to learn from Mita, but I dared not hide her for much longer.
The clothes, including some worn by Mita, were rinsed clean. Taking a bundle at a time, I placed them on a large, smooth rock and pushed at them with my hands to press more water away, before carrying the pieces to the nearby trees.
Jahangir wanted to scare the Americans and make them go away, but it didn’t work, Talibah warned. They may blame us and attack our village.
Jahangir promises that won’t happen, Leila said.
The women and girls who finished quickly helped the others, so that we could return to the village together. As we gathered our piles, I fought my eagerness to hurry away from the village and meet the subject of the massive search.
The women disappeared into their homes, and once again it was easy to slip away. I had more secrets than friends, and sadness overwhelmed me that my closest friend would soon leave.
Mita’s patience amazed me. Early on we talked about reading and agriculture. Our conversations—rushed and packed with words, a stilted combination of Dari and English—naturally tumbled toward history, religion, politics, health, markets, and something she called economics. We spoke about the differences between our cultures. My curiosity knew no bounds, and Mita gave like a gushing rain, so many drops of knowledge that could merge in ways I had never imagined.
She asked questions about my childhood and our daily life. She wanted to know about farming and religious practices, how children played, what women talked about, what families did with their free time. She asked how the village handled disturbances or crimes. She was curious for my opinions about the oddest characters in our village and how others regarded them.
She was shy about describing her parents and her home, and it seemed more fantasy than real. Her father was in the military and once flew planes. Everyone in the family had a vehicle and computer. Machines washed clothes, did dishes, and delivered water. Some mothers with young children stayed home and others went to work, but all could read. Her mother had a degree in math and taught at a university. After marriage, women and men visited parents often. Children, even the girls, traveled to other countries to study and stay with friends. Her family lived on a farm with horses that weren’t used for work.
She was embarrassed by my eagerness to hear about such riches, and I wondered why the Americans came to Afghanistan. “To help,” she said. “To counter the extremists who believe that freedom and the human spirit are a threat to Islam.”
Mita never complained about the hiding place, and was grateful for the supplies I brought each day—ties for her hair, tools, a hairbrush. She was neither spoiled nor helpless as others claimed Americans to be.
Unlike others, she did not laugh about my fascination with composting and worms that made new soil and instead was excited about my idea to mix special rocks to speed the process. Together, we found a shady place underneath a berry bush and dug a deep hole with straight sides. Gently, we rescued worms that might get in the shovel’s way and lined the hole with large rocks. We argued about which mixtures of leaves, grasses, or foodstuff might create the best compost for certain plants, and developed experiments to test which of us was right.
It made me sad to think that we might not have ever met—or never talk again. The power of chance and the pressures of time weighed heavily on us.
Chapter 15
Joey ached every time he returned to the outpost without Mita. He didn’t want to eat or sleep or talk, though he knew that heading back provided a fresh start and resources. An elite search unit was dispatched to the base, and all agricultural work was postponed indefinitely, with resources diverted to the search.
Cameron had protested when Joey put a hold on MWDs—the dogs used for searches. “But her trail will go cold!”
“We tried the one, and there was nothing.”
“You didn’t take it into the village!”
“We know she’s not in the village. We have plenty of equipment.”
More people and equipment for searching didn’t turn up any sign of Mita. At meetings, Cameron tried to dominate the discussions, insisting that Laashekoh was a problem and should be searched. Joey took no joy that others quickly shut him down.
“No one listens,” Cameron complained, once they had returned to the bunk.
“It’s obvious Laashekoh is not involved,” Joey fired back.
“Mita should not have gone into Laashekoh.” The tone was light, but the words hurt. “It was asking for trouble.”
“She wanted to go,” Joey replied.
“You should have known better. Her involvement turned an agriculture mission into conflict.”
But there was no conflict. Joey packed gear to head out for another search in the night. He didn’t need Cameron—he blamed himself for Mita going missing. Joey didn’t care if Cameron thought he could run the team better. Ass-hats had their way of seeing the world and then wondered why others avoided them.
The trouble was Joey wasn’t so sure she was abducted. No one else had raised that possibility, and none of the signs were there, but that didn’t stop his worry. The rest of the team was sure that the project was jinxed. Joey had sent Mita’s radio, Beretta, and helmet off for fingerprint testing. Not that the databases would include many fingerprints of rural Afghans.
All Joey could do was get away from the outpost and search.
The outpost’s headquarters had no offices, no dividers, yet Cameron took it upon himself to check Mita’s desk for clues and then made it a habit to sit at the desk regularly. Joey was short with others who complained about Cameron going through her work and asking so many questions. “He’s second-in-command on agriculture planning,” he said.
Reports about Mita, the terrain, the search efforts were piling up. Search teams for Mita were still dispatched daily. The terrain was tough, but most trips covered old ground with hikes and flyovers. There were no more attacks. Others expressed surprise, but not Joey. The kidnapping wasn’t typical.
Cameron and IT security accessed her computer files and e-mails, and found no hint of fears or anxiety. Her notes were professional and detailed, documenting the visits to Laashekoh and other villages, describing the region as resistant, yet full of potential. “An independent streak bodes well for women’s rights, controlling extremism, and establishing agricultural markets,” one of her draft reports noted.
Sifting through her notes, Cameron scoffed, “It doesn’t sound like we went to the same village!” He was irritated when others did not share his point of view.
“The second visit went better than the first meeting,” Joey maintained.
“And on the third, you lost Mita.” Cameron’s tone was matter-of-fact, not sarcastic.
Joey wanted to keep Cameron busy and didn’t argue as the man typed in furious additions on Mita’s notes: Mixed results were coming in from the fields. The villages were polite, accepting free seeds and small gadgets, but they refused large equip
ment, solar ovens, technical support—anything that signaled cooperation with the Americans. The program was not moving fast enough.
Joey advised Cameron to review Mita’s notes with others. Joey also gave the go-ahead to Cameron on organizing a meeting with the ag specialists to discuss any factors even remotely related to her disappearance. But it quickly turned into a gripe session. “If this program gets up and running again, we need to change how we run projects and focus on crops that matter,” Cameron drawled.
“The ag side of this program is on hold until we get Mita back,” Dan snapped, furious that resources might be diverted away from the search for Mita. He turned to Joey. “I thought this was supposed to give us insights into Mita’s thoughts? This is a waste of time.” He slammed a notebook against the table and stormed out of the room.
“Fine—don’t listen to the one person who warned everyone about Laashekoh,” Cameron shouted to Dan’s back. Joey slipped out of the room, too.
As Joey headed off to prepare for yet another ground search, Dan stopped him. “What the hell was that about? Your job is to keep people like that on a leash.”
“It’s a circus,” Joey admitted. Dan followed him on a path that led away from the structures. “But he’s not all wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Dan lowered his voice.
“He’s annoying as hell. But someone should go through her notes. And we’re just security. The generals like Mita’s ideas today, but they’re part of a revolving door. The next set could like Cameron’s ideas. The specialists have to get their act together. Giving him free rein and a platform exposes the tension. We get an idea about who resents her or why she might want to get the hell out of here.”
Dan lifted his eyebrows. “You don’t think he had anything to do with her disappearance?”
“Honestly, no. But she wasn’t snatched by the village. Maybe her vanishing has more to do with personnel here . . .”
Fear of Beauty Page 17
