His mother touched his hand and said, “Mark, we’re just worried that something could happen. Couldn’t you go somewhere like Europe?”
“No.” What was there for him to photograph in Europe? French women walking their dogs down the Champs Elysee? Italian women catering to their forty-year old sons? He took a deep breath. “Look, while I agree there might be some risk, it’s not like I’m going into battle. Mohommad wants to do a book about the plight of women in Afghanistan. They are almost prisoners in their homes. They can’t drive, the girls can’t go to school, and basically the women are the property of their husbands.” He saw a hint of understanding in his mother’s eyes, but his dad was leaning back, his arms crossed, obviously still skeptical. He tried one more time. “Don’t you understand? Mohommad intends to help the women of Afghanistan with the book. It’s a chance for me to do something good. I know it doesn’t compare to being a doctor, but I think I can help make a difference.
Nobody spoke and only the sound of the clock ticking on the soffit above the sink broke the silence until Mark said, “You realize that I’m not asking permission. I’m just asking for your blessing, but either way, I’m going.”
His parents exchanged a look across the table. Mark wasn’t sure exactly what they said in their unspoken communication, but they must have come to a conclusion because his mother nodded to his father.
“You’re a grown man, so we can’t stop you even if we tried, but if you feel you have to go, there isn’t much we can do to change your mind. Just stay safe.”
The muscles in Mark’s neck eased. He hadn’t been aware of how knotted they had been until they relaxed. Almost giddy with relief, Mark nodded. “I intend to. Mohommad has been back to visit several times in the last few years, so he knows where it’s safe to go and where it isn’t. Plus, he already has an itinerary planned for us.”
For the next hour, Mark spoke of Mohommad’s plans and his father offered advice here and there, while his mom reminded him of items he would want to pack. Most of their suggestions were just common sense ones that Mark would have done anyway, but he thanked them nonetheless, and pretended that he would never have thought of those things without their help.
Chapter 2
Mark slung his camera bag across his chest, one hand resting on it as he and Mohommad navigated the teeming streets of Kandahar.
Tan. That was his first impression of the city. The color dominated the landscape — from the jagged mountains in the distance to the dusty ground beneath his feet, but as he took in the streets up close, he realized that splashes of color were everywhere and the crystalline blue sky seemed endless. Motorbikes, cars and bicycles fought for dominance on the roads, and if there were traffic rules, Mark couldn’t figure them out. It looked like a free-for-all.
A figure covered head-to-toe in blue cloth passed him and he tried not to stare. Mohommad had briefed him on the laws of Afghanistan, but it was one thing to hear that women had to wear the stifling burqas, but to see it close-up was unsettling. How did the women even see where they were going? It went beyond merely a veil. In the burqas, even the women’s eyes were covered, and only a rectangular window covered in a mesh of sorts, kept the women from being blind under the garment.
His shirt stuck to his chest as the heat beat down from the sky and radiated up from the pavement. He pulled it away from his body and wondered how the women managed not to faint dressed as they were. As they passed a street vendor selling some kind of food, it crossed his mind that eating in public must be difficult or impossible. Maybe they only ate at home? Mohommad said they only had to wear the burqas in public.
The camera case bumped against his side and he steadied it. His travel visa allowed him to take photos only of landscapes not people, and especially not women, but Mo had assured him that once out of the city they would be able to use the cameras without worrying about Taliban watching. While members of the militant group lived in the smaller villages too, everyone knew who they were and so Mo said it would be challenging, but possible to avoid them. The fact that they had to basically sneak photos had Mark uneasy, but Mohommad didn’t seem worried and had relatives who said they would help arrange photo opportunities.
Their hotel looked like it had once been opulent, but after years of war and inner strife, its best days were behind it. Far, far behind it. Mark didn’t care. He was so tired from the flight which had two layovers, he just washed up and slept like the dead. The next morning, they ate a light breakfast of scrambled eggs, which weren’t much different than he was used to eating, except these had tomatoes in them. They rounded out the breakfast with fruit, nuts and tea, and although he would have preferred coffee, the tea went well with the fruit.
“So, are we heading out to your uncle’s home today?” Mark popped the last grape in his mouth.
Mohommad nodded as he drained his tea and set the cup down. “Yes, they live a bit north of here. We’ll go there, and tonight there will be lots of food and celebrating. Tomorrow, we’ll go out and begin working on photos for the book.”
“Sounds good.”
* * *
Mark sat on the floor with Mo’s uncles and cousins and shook off with a smile another entreaty by Mo’s uncle to eat more. His stomach already felt like it was going to burst, but he almost wished he had room. The food was delicious. They had dined while sitting on the floor and eating from communal bowls filled with lamb kebabs and some kind of rice with raisins, small slices of carrots and pistachios which he scooped up and ate with a toasted sesame seed flatbread. Fruit was offered at the end of the meal while tea was once again the beverage of choice. Tea had never been a favorite beverage, but it was beginning to grow on him.
He sipped it and glanced around the room. The home itself had reminded him almost of the mud homes that Pueblo people of the U.S. Southwest had lived in, except this one was surrounded by a high wall. Mo had explained that his cousins all lived within the compound with their families too. Mark couldn’t keep straight who was who and he wasn’t sure exactly of the living arrangements, but children were everywhere, the sound of their laughing and playing filling the house.
Women had been present and served the meal, but they had left the room and Mark assumed they ate elsewhere. Sleeping arrangements hadn’t been made clear to him yet either, and he blinked with fatigue. A pile of blankets occupied one corner of the room. The only thing he knew was that everyone slept on the floor, which was fine with him.
The men around him all burst into laughter and he wished he could follow the conversation. If he could, he knew he wouldn’t feel so sleepy, but while everyone was welcoming and friendly, he felt out of place. Although several of the men spoke English, they all were speaking Pashto now, even Mo. While Mark had known that English was not Mo’s native tongue, it was still strange listening to his friend converse in his own language. It was as if he became someone else. His mannerisms changed along with the tone and inflection in his voice. In his first language, he was no longer Mo, but Mohommad.
* * *
The next morning, after a surprisingly restful night on a thin mattress on the floor, Mark and Mohommad loaded their cameras into the back of their vehicle. The plan was to visit some neighboring villages where Mohommad had some distant relatives. Two of Mo’s cousins, Faisal and Sayeed, were going to accompany them. The men were a bit younger than Mo, and had seemed friendly enough the evening before.
While Mark checked to make sure all his lenses had come through the trip unscathed, Mo stepped close and said, “My cousins speak English very well, and they think we are only here to take photos of how life is in Afghanistan. I’ve insisted that we need pictures of everyone, including the women so that we can show the people in America the truth about the beauty of this country, but they weren’t too thrilled about having to ask the men in the village for permission to photograph the women. It might help that I remember some of the men, but you’re a foreigner and not Muslim. You might have to sit tight until we know for sure if it’
s okay.”
Mark zipped his bag shut and glanced over his shoulder to make sure the cousins weren’t within hearing distance and was satisfied that they were filling water bottles at the well.
“Why did you bring me if I can’t photograph women? I mean, you’re from here, right?” He couldn’t help the spark of anger. While the trip itself was amazing, his real excitement had been the thrill of participating in an effort to make a difference in the women’s lives. He hadn’t expected to effect any real change, but buried beneath all the doubt and rationality had been a scrap of hope that maybe, just maybe, the book would help in some small way.
Mohommad pulled back, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, I was born here, but I was just a child when I left. I’ve only been back a few times since then. You saw the bullet holes and the ruined buildings in Kandahar. It isn’t high on anyone’s list of vacation destinations, including my family’s. Given the choice, my father took us to Disney World.”
Mark broke eye contact and rubbed the back of his neck. “Look…I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.”
Shrugging, Mohommad waved off the apology. “No problem. You’ll get your chance. Besides, I also need photos of the homes and conditions here, not just the women. Those photos will help set the tone of the book and give it context.”
Mark nodded, but he wasn’t completely satisfied. Mo took fantastic landscapes and certainly didn’t need any help in that regard.
The drive was bone-jarring and Faisal drove like a colony of bats were chasing them out of the depths of hell. Mark swiped his arm across his forehead. Maybe the hell association stemmed from the heat. He was used to hot, humid Chicago summers, but this was like a blast furnace. His teeth felt like they were going to rattle right out of his head. The ride would take about forty-five minutes, which had surprised him when Mo relayed the news. This was the definition of a neighboring village?
With all the bumps and jolts, Mark soon gave up all attempts at conversation and instead settled back to observe the scenery. The raw beauty of the landscape made him forget the heat. The air had a quality he couldn’t define—it was as though he had been looking through a dusty window his whole life and suddenly, it had been wiped clean. Everything was so crisp, despite the dust. Distance was deceptive and Mark was sure he could have thrown a baseball and it would reach the mountains, but he chuckled at the idea even as it crossed his mind. The mountains were miles away. Growing up in Wisconsin, he wasn’t used to mountains, only rolling hills, but he had traveled a bit and gone skiing in Colorado a few times. His dad had also taken the family on vacation to the Grand Canyon one year. Maybe Afghanistan looked so different because there was less pollution.
He sipped from his canteen of water. Despite the insulated cover, the water was already warm, but dust coated the inside of his mouth so he took another sip. He’d have to get used to it for the next few weeks because in the dry heat, it would be easy to get dehydrated. At least his Cubs baseball hat would provide him some protection from the sun. He had a month or so to acquire a tan in Chicago before the trip, but he had a feeling it might not make much difference and was glad for the loose long-sleeved cotton shirt Mo had recommended instead of the simple t-shirt Mark had been planning to wear.
At the first village, he stepped from the vehicle and stretched, working some kinks out of his neck as he swept his tongue over his teeth, half-expecting to discover a few loose fillings. Finding everything still secure, he forgot his minor discomfort from the drive as he took in his surroundings. The mouth-watering scent of roasting meat vied for dominance over the pungent scent of sheep and the vague smell of something rotten. High-walled compounds surrounded the center of the village with a spot of green nearby where Mo had explained the village shared a large common vegetable garden. It surprised him to find it in the middle of the village, but he guessed it needed to be near the water source. From doing some of his own studying, he knew that the compounds usually housed three or four related families.
The men of the village were eager to show them around, proudly showing their herds of sheep. It seemed the women were always just out of sight. A few ventured out in their burqas, but the only other glimpse he had was a flash of movement in a few doorways when he would turn. He had the feeling of being watched, but it wasn’t an ominous feeling of being spied upon, it was more one of curiosity. He just wished one woman would pause for a second so he could snap her picture. Faisal tugged on Mark’s arm and pointed to some children playing near the well. They kicked a clod of dirt back and forth as though it was a soccer ball and it soon become apparent that the goal of the game was to destroy the clod, but only through kicking it. When one boy inadvertently stepped on it, the others shouted and shoving ensued. Faisal laughed and said something to the other men. Smiles and chuckles lit their faces even though the guilty clod smasher was beneath the pile of other boys. Mark took a step towards them. He didn’t have a plan, but the unfairness of the other boys piling on compelled him to try to break up the fight, but Mo blocked him with an outstretched arm.
“Don’t interfere. This is how it is with children. They learn to defend themselves at an early age here.”
“But it’s five against one,” Mark said, keeping his voice as even as he could, not wanting to cause a scene. “What if he gets hurt?”
Mo laughed. “Then he’ll learn to either fight harder next time, or become more nimble on his feet so that he doesn’t ruin the game.”
At that moment, the boy emerged from beneath the pile, having somehow wiggled out. Instead of running, he laughed, wiped a trickle of blood from his nose, and shouted something to the others. Mark couldn’t understand the words, but he needed no translation for the tone. The boy was clearly saying the Pashto equivalent of ‘Suckers!’
Embarrassed, Mark shrugged. “I guess you were right.”
Mo nodded as his face split into a grin. “You know I always am.”
“Shut up.” Mark smiled and lifted his camera, snapping a succession of shots of the boys as they kicked a new clod to begin a new game.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement and pivoted, surprised to see a woman peering at him from an open gate to one of the compounds. Years of photography had honed his ability to react to a good shot, and without thinking, he zoomed in and was able to squeeze off several frames of the young woman. Her eyes, wide and green, were unguarded for a split second before a veil of fear dropped down and she lowered her gaze and ducked back within the compound. It was too late. All Mark had required was that split second. He had the first of the photos for the book. Elated, he grinned at Mo. “Did you see that?”
It wasn’t Mo who answered, but rather Faisal as he gave Mark a shove. “What are you doing taking photographs of a woman?”
Stumbling sideways, Mark caught his balance and suppressed the impulse to shove the guy right back. It only took a second for his temper to cool and then he closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. Here he was, their guest, and he had already broken the rules. “I…uh…I was taking a photo of the house and I didn’t see her until afterward. I apologize.”
Faisal glared and Sayeed stood a step behind him, arms crossed.
Mo moved close, shooting Mark a dark look before he turned to his cousins, a smile replacing the scowl as he put a hand on Faisal’s chest. “It was an accident. I won’t use that photo. It’s just that Mark sometimes gets too focused on his work and doesn’t pay attention like he should.” Then he grinned. “Focused. Get it?” He gave his cousin’s shoulder a light slap. “Come on. I want to see the new well.”
Mark capped his camera in frustration. Sweat trickled down his back as he trudged after the small group and tried to work up the enthusiasm to marvel at the well. He appreciated the significance of it, especially for the women, as it made their lives easier, but he just wished he wasn’t hogtied in regards to his photography. As the day wore on and women scurried into their respective compounds when Mo’s group approached, his frustration mounted. Faisal and
Sayeed never mentioned them, and Mo ignored them too.
How was he going to photograph ghosts? Because that is what the women seemed to be to him. Blue colored ghosts. Even their feet were almost impossible to see beneath the yards of cloth and it gave the impression that they floated over the ground.
As the day progressed, it was more of the same. The only women he saw served them food in bowls and retreated to another area to eat. At least, he assumed they ate. He took countless photos of the homes, sheep, gardens, a few young boys roughhousing, and the men of the village, but he never had an opportunity to take another photo of a woman in that village.
* * *
Mark lay on the pad and scratched his chin, cursing the beard Mo had suggested he grow to fit in better. It made sense to grow it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. In the ten days they had been in the country, he had acquired a deep tan and with his dark hair and green eyes, he could be mistaken for an Afghan. At least until he spoke, but he learned to keep his mouth shut and observe. He had picked up a few words and Mo translated when he could, so he wasn’t totally lost in the conversations, but after a while, he found that the other men forgot about him. This worked to his advantage and allowed him to occasionally catch a glimpse of the women.
With a last satisfying scratch, he turned onto his side and yawned. He pushed aside the worry that they wouldn’t obtain enough photos for the book. It had plagued him to the point he feared that his obsession with spotting the women would be noticed and misinterpreted, but Mo didn’t seem to have the same problem with the lack of opportunity. In fact, he had hardly taken any photos of anything the whole trip and when Mark had asked him about it, Mo had shrugged and said all in good time.
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 2
