Tiny Dancer

by Anthony Flacco

  He didn’t doubt that the Others could conjure all sorts of man-made miracles inside of their own land, but the fact that Zubaida would spend so much time among them was more than he could comprehend.

  All alone there, among them. What would it do to her?

  While he considered his grim decision, Hasan couldn’t help but wonder about the truth of these Americans’ medical claims, anyway. What manner of people can replace a body that has been melted away? Who can restore the human face when it is ruined beyond recognition?

  He was not the kind of father who could willingly let any small child go away alone, but neither could he rely on his neighbors to continue caring for his wife and children, if he went with her—the pair had already spent so much time away from Farah. His sixteen year-old son Daud was filling in as the man of the house in proper Afghani fashion, but Hasan knew that in any home which does not truly have the man of the house around and about, things have a way of spiraling out of control.

  Hasan wondered whether he could return home to take care of the family, and send Daud along with Zubaida as her guardian? Daud would be a good choice, as far as his ability to handle the responsibility, and Hasan knew he would be a fierce protector of his sister. Father and son shared names in common with the great hero, Sardar Mohammed Daud, who deposed Afghanistan’s king in 1973 and installed, for the first time, a new form of government called a republic. Even though this new thing only lasted for four years before the Soviets invaded and ignited a generation of civil war, Sardar Mohammed Daud’s revolution gave the Afghani people a taste of self-government that they had not forgotten.

  The fierce spirit of Zubaida’s brother was the kind she would need at her side, if she was to be stranded so far away and among so many Others. Hasan’s son had a quiet and solid form of strength that would tell people, without words, how they must not think this shrunken girl is unprotected.

  Daud might fear making the trip at first, but Hasan didn’t doubt that his son would go if told him to. And that was about as far as he got with the idea before he realized it was impossible.

  It was the papers, for one thing. By the great Ali, the Americans loved to sign papers. They seemed to sign papers for everything. At least when it came to matters of children, the Americans made it clear that it was important for the parents to always sign for the young ones, which at least showed that they had their priorities straight. Still, knowing those things didn’t lower his constant amazement at the river of papers.

  Unfortunately, even though sixteen year-old Daud was old enough to marry and old enough to own his own flock and to wander the plains with his wife and children and their herd, if he chose to do so, he was still called a “child” by the Americans. He couldn’t sign papers.

  And yet, once Daud and Zubaida were far away, in America, alone among the Others, more papers would surely appear, would they not? And what if these Americans did come forward, talking fast to young Daud and waving papers that they might “allow” him to sign—would they be doing that simply to take advantage of a naïve young man?

  It was a hard question. Hasan had been dealing with the Americans for several weeks, now—but he still couldn’t be sure whether they followed any sort of a consistent and reliable Code or not.

  No. Daud would have to continue filling his father’s shoes at home. If Zubaida was to make this uncertain trip at all, her father had to be the one to go with her, even if he couldn’t remain there with her and had to return to their homeland. He could at least see that everything was right.

  Hasan had no idea that an American named Michael Gray was back in Washington helping him to secure an emergency visa for himself and his daughter, but he soon felt the result of those efforts on the Afghanistan end. He soon found himself riding in a military truck next to a Special Forces soldier, with their translator hiding on the floor of the vehicle, while they rode through the dangerous streets of the city’s ancient section. The possibility of random gunfire was high, but some local authority had decided that this neighborhood was where the visa application office should be located.

  So far, the soldiers had been personally generous to Hasan and showered his daughter with kind words and little trinkets. Such things usually seemed to make her happy for a few minutes, at least until something else set her off.

  There was always something else.

  Hasan felt himself cornered. It was too exhausting to be suspicious of everybody all of the time, so he relaxed into a fatalistic acceptance of the events unfolding around him. There was some measure of peace in knowing that things were quickly moving beyond his control; he had already made up his mind to follow this path, no matter where it led.

  * * *

  Back in the States, the momentum continued despite inevitable technical difficulties.

  The people at the charitable NGO received offers from other hospitals around the country, along with offers of support from the Red Cross and the Shriners, along with a lot of personal interest from Afghans living in the U.S. or Europe who wanted to know how they could help. The NGO decided to accept the State Department recommendation of the Grossman Burn Center as the best possible option for Zubaida. Then they began the complicated process of getting all the right signatures on the stacks of papers and permits on their end of the arrangements, in full accordance with Mohammed Hasan’s interpretation of the American way of doing things.

  Peter and Rebecca Grossman were already so personally interested in the outcome of the case that they both felt delighted and relieved when they learned that a suitable private home for Zubaida’s recuperations had been located in Los Angeles. The family was of Middle Eastern origin and spoke Farsi, which is close enough to Zubaida’s Dari to permit conversation.

  At the same time, the Peter and Rebecca felt their first twinge of uncertainty about the complex logistics behind this challenging medical case—even though the NGO had promised to have a “back-up family” prepared, in case things went badly in the private home, no one there seemed to be concerned enough to take time away from their stacked obligations and go through the process of finding one. The press of never-ending appeals for help kept everybody on the NGO staff focused on immediate situations and left Zubaida facing the prospect of being ejected from treatment before her body was ready.

  The problem was that like most Non-Government Organizations, their staff perpetually walked the thin line between becoming too “secret” and isolated from their target group, or being made so publicly visible that they become overwhelmed with appeals for help. Major portions of their budget would thus be consumed by salaries for people to vet through all the applications, rather than on case workers who could create actual results.

  For them, the best use of limited time was to hope that all the precautions taken in selecting the host family would ensure success over the long haul. They had countless other hands beating on their doors.

  Nevertheless, the lack of a back-up location was a special worry for Peter Grossman, as the doctor and surgeon in charge of Zubaida’s medical care. The long process that she would have to endure was especially vulnerable to failure if her host situation somehow collapsed in the middle of the months-long process. Zubaida’s father could only remain in the U.S. for the first week, because his large family would be waiting back at home and in need of his support. So Peter knew that it was vital to guarantee her a stable place where she could communicate freely with the adults caring for her—and where her culture would be respected—so that she would remain in the U.S. long enough for him to complete the restorative process that he envisioned for her.

  He hit the first hard bump in the road a lot closer to home than he expected, when he brought the news to his father about this powerful medical challenge. Dr. Richard Grossman was less than enthused about the chances of success for such a complex endeavor. Where his son saw great opportunity, the elder surgeon saw overwhelming potential for outside interference. He didn’t challenge his son’s ability to do the p
rocedures, but had no appetite for trying to press forward with such a complex set of procedures, under the constant gaze of bureaucratic supervision.

  But Peter Grossman was not to be dissuaded. Old father-son rivalries that been hanging in the air for years ignited like gasoline fumes. Peter was surprised by the passion he felt in opposition to his father’s reaction. It struck him as more of a father/son dismissal of Peter’s ambitious plan than a serious rejection of the surgical and humanitarian opportunities of the case. Although Peter had always been even-tempered by nature, when strong emotions were present, his response was to channel them into head-down, eyes-forward determination. He vowed that if he had to carry this case forward on his own, he would do exactly that. He arranged for the facilities of the Grossman Burn Center to be there for Zubaida, as well as the nearby Sherman Oaks Hospital.

  Rebecca prompted the Children’s Burn Foundation to move quickly. “There are others overseas who’ll step in, if you don’t,” she warned. Then she hammered on the risk of leaving this girl’s case to less experienced or less well-equipped surgeons.

  At last, the Foundation sent a letter guaranteeing up to $300,000 worth of the many costs behind caring for a child through a year of medical procedures.

  There would be a long and complex series of at least twelve operations from a course of treatment that Peter laid out, based on her medical file and the detailed photos of her injuries. Since he couldn’t make a final treatment determination until he examined her in person, it was possible that her surgeries could take even more time. She would certainly be in the U.S. long enough to require schooling, in the meantime. There was even word that her dental situation was abysmal and could required major care, as well.

  Red tape began to roll in the door on giant spools.

  So far, Zubaida’s supporters had managed to slip in under the media radar, still fearing political backlash from jealous other interests, but now that there were Afghani ex-patriots in the U.S. who got tipped off to the story, there was real worry over the possibility of a rush of angry competitors to the NGO’s gates.

  There had already been calls, inquiries…

  * * *

  Zubaida’s father explained it to her over and over. He explained it while she raged and appeared not to hear him and he explained it again when she was calm and seemed able to listen. She heard him every time, but it was impossible for her to believe what she was hearing. Ever since her injury, doctors had meant nothing but pain to her. The American doctors were gentler and in the past weeks, their medicine had healed up most of her infected wounds, but meanwhile the scars had kept right on devouring her to the point that she couldn’t raise her head at all, anymore, and eating didn’t seem worth the trouble.

  She could tell that the American doctors were trying to say soothing things to her. It didn’t help much; everybody said soothing things to her all the time. Then they started poking and scraping and driving her insane again. It was painful to listen to them, anyway. Their strange English language made them sound like they were talking through their noses—blurts of meaningless noise.

  If it wasn’t for the anger and the fear seething inside of her over this invisible monster that was slowly strangling her, she wouldn’t be feeling much of anything beyond a dull despair. She was helpless in the world of adults. As the shrunken monster that she had become, she had no control over anything, not even her own body.

  So when her father assured her that he would take the initial journey with her, the comfort in that was small—he hadn’t been able to do anything to keep the doctors from torturing her in Afghanistan or in Iran, had he? And even though the American doctors didn’t hurt her as much, they still insisted on washing her in places where she was hurting, where she wanted to be left untouched.

  What could her father actually do, she wondered, if the Americans decided to kill them both? Or what if they decided that Zubaida wasn’t worth the effort and it was easier to just kill her? What could her father do to stop them?

  Even worse, what if the Americans possessed ways to harm Zubaida and her father that neither of them could even imagine—ways that would make them wish for death, instead?

  * * *

  On June 2, 2002, The New York Times published articles stating that the FBI had stumbled in its anti-terrorist work so far, and the CIA was publicly acknowledging that the successful penetration of tiny, fanatical terrorist cells was virtually impossible. The CIA article contained a photo of former Director George Tenet at the CIA memorial wall, reaching out to touch a star representing an operative killed in Afghanistan. The war for hearts and minds in Afghanistan was portrayed as a near impossibility.

  On that same day, halfway around the world, the same Special Forces Sergeant who had accompanied Mohammed Hasan to get his visa was now driving the military truck to ferry Hasan and Zubaida to the transport plane for the trip to Afghanistan’s capital of Kabul. From there, they would be administered with a host of vaccinations and Zubaida would have more antibiotic treatment before they flew on to the United States.

  In the weeks since Zubaida was taken into the military medical system, the Sergeant and his squad had managed to keep a constant supply of small amounts of pocket cash flowing to Hasan and his daughter, making it possible for them to remain in Kandahar while preliminary medical work was done on her. The squad members all knew their careers were at risk for breaking the list of Perfectly Good Reasons why a local civilian should never be taken into the U.S. medical system. The infamously low pay of non-commissioned officers was a further deterrent to discourage the soldiers from pulling money out of personal supplies that were never enough to begin with.

  The intensity of commitment required for Special Forces work discourages rule-breaking of any kind. Nevertheless, the domino chain never failed to move forward yet another notch, every time another combat soldier or military physician had their first actual contact with her. Whether it was the freakish level of her injuries or the unflinching eyes that stared back from beneath her carapace of scar tissue, the energy wave carrying Zubaida continued to roll ahead.

  The unspoken message was somehow conveyed with every individual’s reaction to the dilemma that she presented. Whether or not they ever said the words, their actions spoke them loud enough to hear.

  Screw it. Sometimes the rules just don’t fit.

  The Sergeant pulled the truck next to the military transport plane and noticed that Zubaida appeared to be frightened and depressed. He realized that this was not only her first plane ride, but probably the first time she had ever seen one up close. So before they transferred out of the truck, he presented her with a basket of treats that some of the soldiers on base put together for her as a send-off gift.

  Her eyes sparkled for a few moments when he surprised her with the basket, but her mood shot straight back down when she realized that the gift didn’t mean she was being spared from having to go. From her point of view, everything around her had become unreal and was happening much too fast.

  Ever since her accident, any sort of new and strange experience went hand-in-hand with adults who did painful things to her. Now the massive rumbling sounds of the revving airplane engines were far too strange; they seemed to guarantee that there was going to be something awful waiting for her on the other end of this unbelievable trip.

  The Sergeant backed the truck up to the high door of the transport so that Hasan could walk Zubaida aboard, then he followed them on and helped to strap her in her seat. She cried out every time he touched her, and she made it plain that she didn’t want to hear any soothing words, either—whether she understood them or not.

  Hasan continually spoke to her in their native dialect, and although his American observer couldn’t understand the words, he could tell she didn’t take any comfort in whatever her father was saying to her.

  What the Sergeant had no way of realizing was that from Zubaida’s point of view, Mohammed Hasan was allowing the two of them to be taken somep
lace very far away, in return for some vague promise of miracles—as if these Americans had the power to give Zubaida’s music back to her, anyway.

  She understood that they were going to stop in the capital city of Kabul for a time, while they prepared for the rest of the trip. But she also knew that once they finally reached America, Zubaida and her helpless father were going to be alone, out there among the Others.

  Chapter Three

  Zubaida and her father were met in Kabul by military physician Mike Smith. He had been coordinating her treatment to get her ready for the long trip, and the more he learned about this case, the more he found that it was beginning to become a thing of personal concern for him. His enthusiasm bubbled up out of him later that evening when he went home and sent an email to Peter Grossman.

  It has been a wonderful day. Our translator arrived at 10:00 AM, and it turns out she was on the plane with me when we flew from the United States toward Afghanistan, back in January. That’s just the first of the many “divine coincidences” that took place today. Other members of the Task force that work at the US Embassy here picked us up and we met Mohammed Hasan and his little daughter, Zubaida, just as they came off the airplane at the Kabul International Airport.

  Zubaida could not be more than 4 feet tall and very slender. She said she was very scared on the airplane and I told her I was very nervous the first time I flew on an airplane too. —She’s afraid of any medical contact. Just talking about putting an emollient on her cracking skin (further contractures are taking place) made her run behind her father and cry.

  Hasan states that Zubaida is having nightmares more and more frequently. It doesn’t help that she gets reactions in public that are scarring her self image. I’ve had to stare down and actually block a few idiots from standing in front of her and making her feel awkward.