Words in the Dust

by Trent Reedy

  Radio Guard chuckled and motioned for his comrade to pull the small coil of wire out of the way. He waved us through the gate. “Welcome to Farah Base.”

  To get to the base, we had to walk down a long, narrow lane between two coils of razor wire. The wind whipped up the dust, and I covered my face and closed my eyes against the grit. My father sighed and then licked his lips. “Stay close to me,” he said quietly. “Stay close to me and do not speak unless I tell you to.” I wanted to tell him that it was all right, that I didn’t mind the walk. I would have walked all the way from An Daral for a chance to have a normal face.

  Suddenly, my chador pulled back off of my head. It had snagged in one of the sharp barbs on the coil of wire. Baba began to reach for it, but I quickly squeezed in between him and the wire. He’d pull too hard and rip my favorite chador. Besides my special white Eid chador, I only had two, and my other one was a drab dark blue. This pretty pink one was much better. The bright color drew people’s attention away from my mouth.

  “Hurry!” Baba growled. “I told you to stay right by me!”

  Moving as gently as I could, I pulled my shawl off the wire and wrapped it around my body. I walked beside Baba as we made our way up the narrow path, careful not to get snagged again by the sharp steel teeth. As we neared the base, the walls seemed to loom even higher, another spring of sharp razor wire perched on top. The voice on the radio had said they were happy we’d come. If that was so, I’d hate to be here if they were angry.

  The path widened to nearly three meters when we were about ten meters from the gate. Finally, two Americans stood up from a bench in the shade of the wall.

  “Salaam, rafiq!” It was the African soldier I’d seen before. He had a big smile and warm eyes on a face as dark as my other shawl. I was surprised by how much smaller he looked without his body armor and helmet. He slung his rifle around his back and reached out to shake hands with Baba.

  Shiaraqa, the interpreter, smiled next to him. “This is Corporal Andrews,” he said. Then he translated for Corporal. “He welcomes you to Farah. He says the captain is very happy you’re here.”

  Corporal Andrews crouched down and held out his hand to me. I remembered what my father had said and I pulled close to Baba’s side. I felt him squeeze my shoulder and I looked up to see him nod in the direction of Corporal’s outstretched hand. I hoped the soldier didn’t notice me shaking as I reached out to him. He gently shook my hand and smiled again. It was the first time I had touched a man who was not a member of my family. I prayed I had understood Baba correctly and he wouldn’t be angry with me for accepting the handshake.

  Shiaraqa watched as though my touching a strange man was completely normal. He must have been accustomed to outrageous American behavior.

  A second soldier approached, this one wearing armor on his chest and back but without a helmet. He shook my father’s hand and then extended his hand to me. Again, I had to shake hands with a strange man. But this one was quiet, not like Corporal Andrews.

  Shiaraqa translated for Corporal again. “Corporal Andrews says he is very sorry, but his friend must search people before they can enter the base. He says he does not like to do it, but his commanders force him to.”

  My father said nothing but nodded as the light-skinned soldier motioned to a little cement wall. There were three bags of sand on the ground, and Baba-jan was asked to place his hands against the wall while he spread his legs with his feet between the bags. I watched as the second soldier began to touch him all over. He patted his hands on each side of both of Baba’s legs, up and up until his hands were too high. Why did they do this? Surely, no one would keep a weapon in that place. The soldier felt around Baba’s waist. I looked away. My hands and feet sweated. The Americans seemed to have no idea how to treat people, especially how to treat girls. If they insisted on shaking my hand, would they also want to search me like they were searching my father?

  So much wire everywhere. There was exactly one way out, back the way we had come in, but if I ran, the guards at the outer fence would catch me anyway.

  Finally, they finished the search. Baba stepped close and put his arm around me. It was my turn, but I didn’t care what was at stake. I absolutely would not allow this soldier to put his hands all over me.

  “You can go in now,” said Shiaraqa.

  Did that mean I didn’t have to be searched? Maybe I was too young. Maybe they’d forgotten. Maybe there was a shred of decency in them and they wouldn’t touch a girl all over the way they’d felt my father.

  “You do not need to search my daughter?” Baba said. I looked at him. Why did he have to ask that?

  “What did he say?” Corporal Andrews asked in strange-sounding Dari.

  The interpreter smiled and answered him in English. The American laughed and reached down to a pocket on the side of his pants. He pulled out two candies in shiny gold wrappers and held one out to my father and one to me, smiling as he said something. The Afghan translated Corporal’s words. “We do not search angels at the Farah base.”

  I breathed with relief as we followed them. He should not call me an angel, but anything was better than letting him touch me like that. For people who called us rafiqs, they certainly didn’t treat us like trusted friends.

  We were led through the massive steel gate with its sharp metal spikes sticking straight up from the top. It clanged shut behind us. We were inside now. In the private world of the Americans. Somehow, the place looked even larger from within. To our right was a big metal tower with water tanks mounted on top. One soldier sprayed water from a hose while others used rags to wash their big truck. Outside another building, more men were busy changing the tire on a different vehicle. A few more soldiers ran next to the wall, wearing only black short pants and gray shirts. They were the only men on this busy base who had no guns.

  There were at least five big buildings, with more under construction, all of them painted tan. They had built a whole village.

  “Ah. Here she comes,” said Shiaraqa.

  A little red truck pulled up and out stepped Captain Mindy. Like Corporal Andrews, she looked much smaller without her armor and helmet, yet even inside the base, she still wore a pistol at her side.

  “Salaam!” said the woman. I guess all American soldiers knew at least that one word. She held out her hand for me to shake and I looked up to my father. This was terrible. She must shake Baba’s hand first, not mine. But she simply smiled and kept her hand extended. It was a great relief when my father nodded permission. Still, I felt like I was betraying Baba, insulting him by being greeted first.

  Captain spoke and Shiaraqa translated. “She welcomes you. She says she is sorry that she did not learn your names the last time she saw you.”

  “Sadiq Frouton,” my father said in a quiet voice. “This is my daughter Zulaikha.”

  “Zulaikha?” said Captain. She continued talking with a smile and her hand over her heart.

  “She says Zulaikha is a lovely name,” said Shiaraqa. He motioned toward the truck. “If you will climb in, she will take us to the medical room.”

  Baba and I crawled into the tiny backseats of the small vehicle, while Shiaraqa sat up front and Captain Mindy drove us across the base. We passed one of the construction sites, where dozens of Afghan men were hard at work on a new building. Nearby, two soldiers threw a big, brown, egg-shaped ball with pointed ends back and forth. Baba didn’t seem to notice them. He stared straight ahead, his hands folded tightly in his lap and his eyes narrowed.

  Finally, we stopped near the double doors of another tan building. Several meters away, seven Afghan men worked with pickaxes and shovels, carving a trench almost a half-meter deep. Near the trench, a soldier stood guard with his weapon hanging by its strap from his shoulder.

  Baba leaned forward toward Shiaraqa and spoke quietly. “Why are the workers guarded?”

  The interpreter shrugged. “They are digging to bury some electrical cables for the new barracks. The Americans are worried the
workers will steal the tools.”

  Baba sat back in his seat and cracked his knuckles.

  We climbed out of the truck and were led inside the building. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. We went a short way down the hall and then into what must have been their medical room. The floors, walls, and ceiling were white-painted cement. A large wooden desk occupied the corner. In the middle of the room were two wooden beds, and between those was a cart loaded with strange machines and equipment. Captain Mindy brought out two plastic chairs.

  “She asks you to please sit down,” said Shiaraqa.

  I waited, watching over my chador to see what Baba would do. Without a word, he sat down in one of the plastic chairs and motioned for me to sit as well. I sat down, but first I pulled my chair a little closer to my father’s. Captain Mindy took a seat on one of the wooden beds. Shiaraqa remained standing, but leaned against the wall.

  Shiaraqa translated for Captain. “She has some bad news.” I pressed my hand to my mouth. “The helicopter cannot make the flight from Kandahar. They say the weather is too bad.”

  As soon as the interpreter spoke, my shaking shoulders dropped. I slumped down in my chair and pulled my chador more tightly over my mouth. My father shifted position and cleared his throat. His words were short, clipped, and controlled, and the quiet in his voice frightened me like the stillness before a storm. “The weather is fine outside. It is hot, but not too windy. Why can’t the helicopter make it?”

  When Shiaraqa finished translating his words, Captain rolled her eyes and held up her hands, talking to Shiaraqa. He turned toward us. “She says she does not know why they have decided they cannot fly. Maybe it is the weather up in the mountains. She does not make this choice.”

  I watched my father clench his fists in his lap. Captain must have noticed his tension because her voice became louder and her words seemed to come more quickly. She shook her hands in front of her chest. Shiaraqa said to us, “No. You must not worry. There is another flight in one week.”

  Baba shook his head. “I have to work. I have asked engineer Hajji Abdullah to supervise my job site so that I could take this trip, and now it is for nothing. She said the helicopter would be here today!” He smacked his hand on the handle of his chair. Captain Mindy started talking to Shiaraqa, but Baba didn’t give him the chance to translate. “The most powerful army in the world and they can’t land a helicopter on a clear day? Or maybe this woman doesn’t know when the helicopter is supposed to come.”

  “What he say?” Captain spoke urgently in bad Dari to Shiaraqa.

  Shiaraqa started to translate, but Baba grabbed his arm and turned the interpreter back to face him. “Tell her, I have traveled a long way. She needs to do the surgery here herself. Today.” He did not even look at the woman.

  When Captain heard the translation, she laughed and shook her head. My father quickly stood up. His plastic chair scraped back on the cement floor. A cold, dull emptiness dropped in my stomach. Shiaraqa looked at the floor, but translated Captain’s words. “She does not have the training or the equipment to do the surgery here.”

  Captain started talking again with Shiaraqa translating, something about how this surgery was routine for the American doctor at Kandahar, but my father was already on his feet. Maybe the doctors would have no trouble with my mouth, but Captain didn’t seem to understand that she had insulted my father. How dare she laugh at him and then go on with her plans like everything was fine? I looked at Shiaraqa, hoping he would explain this problem to the woman.

  “She hopes you will return in one week so that —”

  “I cannot come back in one week. The helicopter was supposed to come today! I do not get my money from my government like she does. I must work for it. I cannot afford to keep making these trips and missing work.” He punched his fist into his palm. “She said that helicopter would be here today! These damned infidel Americans think we are all simpleminded.” He tapped his finger to the side of his head. “Child minds, that we will just do whatever they say. They want us to pat them on the back for invading our homeland. They act like our friends, but I see the soldiers with their rifles guarding the poor workers outside. I felt their hands checking me for bombs. That’s their friendship! Their trust! I know. Our family will be busy with wedding plans in a week. You tell her that we won’t be back.”

  I felt an ache in the back of my throat and a stinging in my eyes.

  Shiaraqa told Captain Mindy what my father had said, and her smile faded.

  “She doesn’t understand why you can’t find someone to bring the girl next week so she can have the operation.” Shiaraqa translated Captain’s words, but he sounded like a puppet, not happy at all about what he had to say.

  My father folded his arms over his chest and glared at Shiaraqa.

  Captain Mindy repeated some of what she’d said earlier, but with greater emphasis. Shiaraqa shook his head and started to say something back to her. She snapped her fingers at him. I felt my father straighten up next to me. Finally, Shiaraqa sighed and spoke to me. “She says you are very beautiful and when we get this little problem taken care of, you will be a little princess.”

  My father breathed out a deep sigh that almost sounded like a growl.

  I looked at my baba-jan, praying to Allah that he could fix this the way he could fix his car or a broken hinge on a door at home. Instead, he only silently stared at Shiaraqa. The surgery, my one hope in the world to be normal or even a little pretty, all the fantasies about a someday happy marriage, none of it was going to happen. Those dreams belonged to my beautiful sister. I would be Donkeyface forever. I’d always be stared at and pitied. I’d never be free of the cruel comments and humiliations from people like Gulzoma. When I saw her at the shahba-henna and the day after that at the wedding, she’d treat me like a monster on display for the guests.

  Anwar had been right all those times he’d shouted at me. I was ugly. I would always be ugly. But now I knew he was right about something else too. I was ugly and stupid. Stupid to have ever believed that life could be any better. Stupid to trust the Americans.

  Captain broke the long quiet. “Here.” Shiaraqa put the American woman’s eager words into our language. “You remember the corporal who was at the gate today? He is the one who told us about you. He wanted you to have these little presents.” From a shelf above the desk she brought out a toy animal, a dog maybe, and two dumb toy cars. At least my little brothers could be happy.

  Captain went back to the shelf and I shook my head. I didn’t want any more of their useless trinkets. She returned and held out a blue notebook with a metal spring binding and two new pens.

  “Baksheesh,” said Captain.

  I had to dab at my eyes with my chador. A few days ago, I would have been thrilled by such a gift and the way the pen and paper would help me with Muallem’s lessons. But what was the use of all that ancient poetry when I was doomed to be the same old Donkeyface? Donkeyface. I wiped the tears away and accepted the presents, putting all of my gifts into a plastic bag that Captain held open for me.

  Baba gently pushed my shoulder. I finally looked up. “Tashakor.”

  Captain Mindy smiled but nervously turned a ring on her finger as she spoke.

  “She is very sorry you won’t be able to make it back here in a week for the flight. If you change your mind, she is sure we can still make this plan happen sometime,” Shiaraqa said.

  “We need to go,” Baba said. “I have work.”

  Outside the building, I kept my chador tight over my ugly mouth. Captain crouched down in front of me again. Suddenly, she put her arms around me and there was nothing I could do but wait until this strange woman let me go.

  Finally, Baba took hold of my arm and pulled me away. Captain Mindy stood up and smiled at my father, though something in her eyes had changed. She reached out her hand for him to shake. “Tashakor,” she said. Baba ignored her and pulled me away.

  And with a plastic bag full of toys
, my notebook, and two pens, we were taken back to the front of the compound, where there was a new set of American soldiers guarding the gate. Again, these soldiers made a big fuss. Again, they insisted on shaking my hand. Then they put candy into my bag before Baba-jan and I were finally released and allowed to leave.

  The inside of the car felt as hot as Malehkah’s stove. I rolled down the window, sat back in the seat, and dropped my shawl. Baba got into the driver’s seat and started the car, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He punched the steering wheel in front of him.

  I gripped the top of my plastic bag in both hands and waited. Finally, Baba turned to me, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “That stupid American woman. You don’t need their precious surgery. You’re my daughter. You’re pretty enough just as you are.” That was it, then. He had decided. I would never be normal. “I am a very busy man, you know. Too busy to be worrying myself with this big complicated plan the Americans dreamed up.”

  I looked down at my hands, twisting the bag in my lap. It would be wrong to let my father see my disappointment after all he had been through today. Then I felt his big strong hand on my shoulder. He squeezed it and gave me a shake. When I looked up, he forced a smile. “Come on. Let’s head back.”

  I turned away from my father and looked out the window, fingering my disgusting mouth as we passed the mounds of garbage on our way back home.

  At supper, I still had to tilt my head back when I ate, pushing the rice deep in my mouth with my fingers to keep the food from slipping out. Even then, a few grains ended up in my lap. This was how I had always had to eat. I never thought about it as much as I did that night.

  “Najibullah.” My father ripped off a big piece of the beef and put it all in his mouth at once, wiping the spiced sauce from his lips with the back of his hand. When my brother didn’t answer, Baba leaned over and lightly elbowed him as though Najib couldn’t hear, even though they sat close. “We’ll go out again tonight. I want to tack up those three support braces for tomorrow.” He was a little hard to understand when he talked with food in his mouth.