Anoosheh had never wanted to be on the board, but several years ago Mr. Durani’s daughter, the one who had emailed the school about his death, had approached Anoosheh because she felt the American board members were too far removed from the children her father had devoted his life to helping. Anoosheh agreed. From her perspective, it had become clear in the years following his death that Mr. Durani had been the driving force of the foundation. Anoosheh had told Mr. Durani’s daughter that she would serve on the board, such service to be conditioned on her continued employment by the schools. With the support of Mr. Durani’s daughter, the vote to approve her had been unanimous.
Anoosheh did not underestimate the importance of today’s meeting. The Ministry of Education could order the schools closed. Even if the board had not decided Anoosheh should attend, she would have gone anyway, but as a single woman, she could not attend without a male member of the board. Oren Culbertson, a Texas oil millionaire, had been designated by the board to be the American face of the foundation at the meeting.
Only Mr. Culbertson was late.
Anoosheh sat primly in her chair and tried not to fidget. Perhaps in an attempt to impress the rich American, the Ministry of Education had arranged to use a spacious conference room on the third floor of a new office building in downtown Kabul. The furniture was made of steel and glass and black leather, and the large windows overlooking downtown Kabul were bulletproof.
Anoosheh wasn’t worried about gunfire from the street. This decade’s war centered in the north, the battles little more than border skirmishes. No violence had touched the capital city. The fighting had the potential to be the first wave of the next invasion of her country, but she thought it unlikely. The would-be invaders had no support from the world’s superpowers, and their belief in arcane religious dogma did not rise to the level of suicidal fervor. The only potential violence here was what the representative of the Ministry of Education who sat across the conference table from her could do to her schools. If the way he kept glancing at the clock on the wall was any indication, the outlook was not good.
When Mr. Culbertson finally arrived, he was not alone. He introduced the woman who accompanied him as his wife. Anoosheh stood and began to nod a polite greeting, then stopped when she realized she knew this woman. Mrs. Culbertson was much older now, and the few strands of hair poking out from beneath the hijab she wore tight around her face were no longer the color of the setting sun. Still, she had no trouble recognizing the woman who’d taken her from the refugee camp after Anoosheh had written her mother’s name in the dirt.
As Anoosheh feared, the meeting did not go well. Mr. Culbertson spouted well-rehearsed rhetoric about mission and empowerment and educational opportunities for the underprivileged in a manner which he no doubt felt was friendly—and it might have been in Texas—but here in Kabul his words only sounded disrespectful and condescending. The representative from the Ministry of Education stayed silent and allowed Mr. Culbertson to continue to talk until it became clear even to Mr. Culbertson that he had nothing left to say. When he finally stopped talking, the representative, a small man who clearly relished his power over others, sat forward in his chair.
“Your schools do not teach the approved texts,” he said. “How can you expect your students to integrate into Afghan society if they are not taught Afghani traditions?”
Anoosheh cleared her throat softly, hoping that Mr. Culbertson would hear and offer her the opportunity to speak.
He didn’t, but his wife did. “I believe Anoosheh has something she would like to say,” she told her husband. “Go ahead, dear,” she said to Anoosheh in the same flawless Pashto she’d used in the camp. Anoosheh had never known why the woman had spoken English at all that day. Perhaps it had been a test to determine who could understand her.
“With all respect,” Anoosheh said to the arrogant little man from the Ministry of Education. “Students who have been traumatized by violence should not be taught to merely integrate into Afghan society.” Anoosheh knew well enough on what rung of Afghan society the representative thought her students belonged. “They should be taught they can excel as well as any child.”
The representative from the Ministry of Education turned his cold gaze on her. “I was told you are here because you teach at the school. This does not concern you.”
“Anoosheh is a member of our board,” Mr. Culbertson said to the minister. “She is also our school’s brightest scholar, and a fine example of the success of our teaching methods. She was only six years old when she first came to our schools.”
If Anoosheh hadn’t been so angry, Mr. Culbertson’s praise might have made her proud. As it was, she had a difficult time keeping her tone non-confrontational.
“With respect,” she said again. “We teach the approved texts at the school, as the Ministry requires. We also teach our students how to integrate into the larger world in which they live. These are skills which the board believes will best serve our students and help them overcome the difficulties they will face as adults.”
Even before she finished speaking, Anoosheh could tell that the cause was lost. The Ministry had made its decision before the meeting started.
The representative turned his attention back to Mr. Culbertson. “Your schools will begin teaching the approved texts, and only the approved texts, effective immediately. The Ministry will send representatives to the schools to observe all classes. Should any class be found in violation of this order, your schools will be shut down and the students returned to their families.” He stood. “The decision is final.”
Anoosheh was shaking by the time the representative left the room. Half the children in her schools had no families. If the schools closed, they would turn to begging on the streets.
She would have to find a way to keep teaching the children the things they needed to know to succeed in a world that included more than just Afghanistan, no matter how insular the Ministry wanted to make the education system. She had to make this work. She owed it to the students. She owed it to the memory of Mr. Durani. Mastana would help. Mastana was one of the best teachers at the Maidan Shar school.
“Anoosheh, can I have a minute?” Mr. Culbertson said, startling her. She’d been so deep in thought she had forgotten he was there.
Even through the mesh of her burqa, she could tell he was about to deliver more bad news.
“The board...well, they’ve asked me to relay a message to you,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s not very pleasant, so we should just get right to it.” He cleared his throat, and then held himself up straighter. “The board wants to thank you for your years of service, but what with the way things are over here these days, the board feels it’s better to play along and make sure the schools keep running. We realize you’re passionate about your beliefs. We just don’t think those beliefs are more important than keeping the schools going, even if all we do is give the kids a basic education and a hot meal every day.”
Anoosheh couldn’t believe this. “Are you telling me I’m no longer on the board?”
He spread his hands wide. “We’d also like you to resign from the school.”
Anoosheh recognized the gesture from the videos she’d watched on her computer. He was telling her it wasn’t his fault, that he was doing the best he could. She wished she could believe him.
“Look, we’re not saving the world here,” he said. “We’re just trying to keep these kids alive and teach them enough so they can stay that way.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. She turned her body toward Mrs. Culbertson. “‘We can’t save them all,’ that’s what you said when you took me from the camp.”
Mrs. Culbertson remembered. The look of shock on her face gave her away. “Yes, I did say that. It was the hardest lesson I’ve learned doing this work.”
“But by saving me, you saved a small piece of the world,” Anoosheh said. “When we help a child reach her best potential, you make that piece of the world better. Can’t you see? We are sa
ving the world. Making it a better place. That’s all I’ve been trying to do. Make this world a better place for all children, not just the ones born of privilege.”
Mrs. Culbertson’s eyes grew moist, but she didn’t cry. “I’m sorry, I truly am. The board’s focus has to be on keeping the schools open. That means we have to play by the rules the Ministry sets for us.”
“At least until the political climate over here shifts again,” Mr. Culbertson said. “Then maybe we can revisit this decision.”
Anoosheh closed her eyes and bowed her head. She could not believe Mr. Durani would have wanted this. He had introduced her to the world beyond the school when he allowed her to use the computer. He had given her a great gift that day, and she had worked the rest of her life trying to repay him by continuing the work he’d started. She had no intention of stopping now.
Anoosheh straightened her spine and looked Mr. Culbertson in the eye through the hated mesh of her burqa. “I would like to start a new school,” she said. “I would appreciate any assistance you can give me.”
Mr. Culbertson shook his head. “I’m afraid that I can’t do that, Anoosheh. I’m pretty sure you understand why.”
Anoosheh rode down in the elevator with Mr. Culbertson and his wife so she wouldn’t appear to leave the building unaccompanied, but she said nothing else to them.
Thanks to her position on the board of Mr. Durani’s foundation, Anoosheh knew that the money to operate his schools didn’t all come from millionaires like Mr. Culbertson. People all around the world donated small amounts of money year after year to the foundation that bore his name. Anoosheh could start a new foundation of her own to do the same thing. It would take time for enough small donations to equal one new school, but Mr. Durani had made educating Afghan orphans like Anoosheh his life’s work. Could she do anything less?
***
2041
The narrow road that hugged the mountains might have been paved at one time, but now it consisted of hard-packed dirt and rocks bordered on one side by a sheer drop off and the steep mountain face on the other. Anoosheh had made the mistake of looking out the side window of the transport into the ravine. The rusted-out carcasses of cars littering the ground far below gave silent witness to travelers who had not driven this road carefully enough. Anoosheh spent the rest of the trip giving silent thanks for her skilled driver.
The village at the end of this road was tucked into a narrow valley between the high mountain peaks. The village was little more than a gathering of flat-topped houses built against the mountain, and like many places in Afghanistan, had been the site of fierce fighting between the Afghan army and religious factions intent on imposing their will upon the entire country. The fighting was over now, and the villagers were rebuilding. The newest addition was the school sponsored by Anoosheh’s foundation.
Mastana had tried to dissuade Anoosheh from traveling to the village for the school’s dedication. Anoosheh’s bones were not as strong as they’d once been. The doctors told her the malnutrition she’d suffered as a child had permanently damaged her. The fragility of her body prevented her from using new technology that could have given her a replacement hand that functioned like the hand she had lost, but by now Anoosheh had long since forgotten the shame she used to feel about her stump.
Anoosheh had her own dedication ceremony she wanted to conduct in private, as she had done for all sixteen schools her foundation had opened in villages like this one. It had taken her years to open the first school, but her foundation was self-sustaining now, thanks to donations from people the world over. The Ministry of Education chose to ignore her as long as she operated in remote regions of the country, and that suited Anoosheh. After all, she had never liked Kabul.
Her driver stopped the transport in front of her newest school. Anoosheh did not need to inspect the interior of the little house. It was divided into two simple classrooms, one for boys and the other for girls, like all her schools. Once the children learned basic skills, Anoosheh’s foundation would pay to install the technology necessary to connect the school to the greater world beyond.
Anoosheh got out of the transport and made her way to the school’s front door. As with all her schools, a flat stone plaque had been installed to the left of the door. Her driver brought the supplies she needed, and Anoosheh went to work with her brush.
First she painted her mother’s name on the plaque, followed by her father’s. Next she painted Sayd Farouq Durani’s name. The last name she painted was Hasti, long gone now, but never forgotten.
As she finished, Anoosheh became aware that she’d drawn the interest of a small crowd of children. “Are you a teacher?” a small boy asked.
“I was.” Anoosheh pointed at the names she’d written. “Can you write your name?”
The boy shook his head.
“You will learn,” she said.
“Zeyba can write her name,” the boy said.
A girl near the back blushed furiously and ducked her head. She wore no hijab, and she would wear no shaylah in Anoosheh’s school.
“Come here,” Anoosheh said to her. “Show me.”
The girl did as she was told. She smoothed a place in the dirt and began to write with a finger, but Anoosheh stopped her. “Here,” she said, handing the girl the brush. She pointed at the empty space at the bottom of the plaque. “Write your name here.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “My writing is bad. It will look ugly.”
The shapes of the names Anoosheh had painted weren’t as beautiful as the ones she’d written as a child before she’d lost her hand, but she’d come to realize over the years that beauty was in the memory, not the writing. As long as her schools existed, people would read the names of the people she cherished and would know that these people had once lived.
“Do you know why we write names?” Anoosheh asked the girl.
She shook her head.
“Names are how people remember you.” Anoosheh smiled at her. “I wish to remember meeting you this day.”
The girl looked dubious, but she painted her name at the bottom of the plaque. The driver would no doubt want to paint over the ragged letters before he sealed the stone, but Anoosheh wouldn’t let him.
“What is your name?” the girl asked when she was done. “Did you write it here?”
“No.” Anoosheh hadn’t painted her name on any of her schools.
The girl handed her the brush. “I want to remember you.”
Did she deserve to be remembered? Who was she to say? Perhaps this day would be as important to Zeyba as the day Mrs. Culbertson had come to the refugee camp had been for Anoosheh.
While Anoosheh painted her name, she considered Julia Culbertson. The woman was directly responsible for giving Anoosheh a chance to be more than a maimed orphan begging in the streets, yet she’d never included Julia’s name on any of the plaques. Julia Culbertson had passed away in her sleep a year after she’d come to Kabul with her husband.
When Anoosheh finished writing her name, she painted another, only this time in English. Zeyba’s life would be better because of what Julia Culbertson had done. She hadn’t saved everyone, but like Mr. Durani, she’d saved far more than she knew. They may have focused on their failures, but Anoosheh preferred to remember their successes.
The world is changing because of their work, she thought. The world should remember the shape of their names.
Introduction to “Neighborhoods”
What is there to say about Dean Wesley Smith that hasn’t already been said? Author, publisher, raconteur, op-ed writer, and slayer of sacred publishing cows (if you don’t understand that last one, head to his website—www.deanwesleysmith.com—and find out).
But to give you a taste, check this out: Bestselling author Dean Wesley Smith has written more than one hundred popular novels and well over two hundred published short stories. His novels include the science fiction novel Laying the Music to Rest and the thriller The Hunted as D.W. Smith. With Kristine Ka
thryn Rusch, he is the coauthor of The Tenth Planet trilogy and The 10th Kingdom. He writes under many pen names and has also ghosted for a number of top bestselling writers. Dean has also written books and comics for all three major comic book companies, Marvel, DC, and Dark Horse, and has done scripts for Hollywood. One movie was actually made. Over his career he has also been an editor and publisher, first at Pulphouse Publishing, then for VB Tech Journal, then for Pocket Books.
About his story, he writes: “‘Neighborhoods’ got started one night when I was watching the Mayor of Chicago talk about how they were going to stop the violence. Then, in the same newscast, the Congress of this country couldn’t even pass a simple gun registration bill. So, I had the thought that the only way to save the kids was to either get them out of the neighborhood or make their neighborhood bulletproof. I have a five-year degree in architecture, so I used that background to design a building that would work for security, schools, power, green living, and support the people living there without creating even more Projects that had failed in the past.
“Then, to give the people a decent chance to make it, they had to have their homes paid for completely, so their money went to education and food, and so much more. So I used the idea of crowdsourcing both the initial investors behind the scenes and out front for the actual purchase of the apartments built like modular homes.
“Scary fact is that this would work, even though it seems like science fiction at the moment. Especially with a couple of floors as wind tunnels and solar on the sides. This would be a money-generating building without any rents, or just low tenant fees.”
It is an idea whose time has come—not only in America, but around the world. Hopefully, a business will arise that will take it upon itself to make this vision a reality.
Fiction River: How to Save the World Page 15
