“So, in your war, you eat, you go to school, you live in warm homes.” She shook her head. “I think you do not know war, not real war. If you did, you’d understand Mike. He’s trying to rescue us, to save us, and for that he carries a gun. I appreciate that. Why can’t you?”
“Things aren’t always as simple as you make them out to be.” Elsa sighed, rolling Parween’s words around in her mind.
“Things are not always as complicated as you make them, Elsa. You are like a tree—strong, yes, but rigid. Too rigid I think. If someone doesn’t fit into your perfect idea of how things should be, you turn away. You should see this from Mike’s point of view. He angered his superior by bringing the child to you. And you question him?” She shook her head. “Na famidam, I do not understand you.”
Elsa felt her eyes well up. Maybe Parween was right. She was rigid. She did see everything in black and white. She’d done it with her sister and brother. They’d fallen from grace and she’d never forgiven them. She should have been more understanding of them, and of Mike. Instead, she’d pushed them all away.
Parween’s voice softened. “When you see Mike—and you will—ask him if he’d save Hamid. That is the only thing you need to know.”
24
Almost two weeks had passed since Elsa had seen Mike, and she was beginning to wonder if she would ever see him again. If only he weren’t a soldier, she thought sadly. If only— She caught herself. If he weren’t a soldier, she wouldn’t have met him, and if he weren’t a soldier, she wouldn’t be missing him now, she wouldn’t be praying that he was safe. Now the only “if” was if she would see him again. She picked up her pace on the lonely road.
Despite her earlier promise to Mike about taking risks, there were still times when Elsa walked to the clinic or to Parween’s alone. She understood his concern—at least she told herself she did—but she was convinced it wasn’t justified. This was Bamiyan, after all, and there was no war here. There were just friendly people who recognized her now, often waving or calling out as she passed.
She’d become more confident in her duties as the ADM nurse-administrator too, sometimes dealing with the paperwork early in the morning so she could finish up the day in the clinic. But at each month’s end, with messages from Paris to read and detailed reports expected, the workload piled up. On those days, she sent Hamid ahead, and frequently it wasn’t until early afternoon that she set off alone along the sparsely traveled road to the clinic.
Among her messages this afternoon, she’d learned that the UN was sending a European orthopedic surgeon from Kabul to see if any of the patients needed surgery. Johann had asked Elsa to draw up a list of potential patients, and as she walked along, she was preoccupied with the surgeon’s upcoming visit, mentally reviewing the list she had begun to compile.
At least the surgeon’s visit had given her something besides Mike to think about. She needed to talk with Laila and Ezat about the list. Easily twenty patients came to mind, many with limbs half-destroyed by land mines, others with long-neglected bone injuries. Her first thought, though, had been of Amina, and she hoped the surgeon would be able to attend to her. She knew the young woman would be overjoyed to be rid of her extra finger.
Elsa was lost in thought as a snorting and rusty pickup truck passed by. She paused to let the dust clear, and as she stopped, so did the truck, its engine dying with a growl. It was loaded with unkempt, disheveled young men who watched her from the bed of the truck. Dressed in traditional clothes and veil, she might have easily passed for just another Afghan woman, but as usual she donned her sunglasses and bright lipstick.
There was no mistaking it; she looked like a foreigner.
Several of the men stood up and leered at her. One of them climbed from the truck and stood in the road.
Elsa pulled her head-scarf a little closer and stood perfectly still, not sure what to do. The air was heavy, and the only sound she heard was the throbbing of her heartbeat pulsing in her ears. Her breath came in shallow puffs, and her mouth felt like cotton.
A second man stepped from the truck onto the road.
The hair on the back of Elsa’s neck stood straight up. They were too close; if she ran, they’d catch her in seconds. She carried no weapons and nothing that she could turn against them. If she screamed, no one would hear. She was truly alone.
She held her breath.
The seconds ticked away like hours and the sudden braying of an errant donkey filled the air, breaking the silence.
“Elsa, wait!”
The glorious sound of Parween’s voice broke through the pall of terror that hung in the air, and Elsa finally breathed and turned away from the truck.
From her house, Parween had seen the truck pass. The men were cloaked in the black turbans of the Taliban; the sight of them made her stomach turn, and she had hurried after them to investigate. When she saw Elsa, she had picked up her pace.
Parween darted to her friend’s side and, seeing the surly group gawking rudely, pushed her veil away from her face. With all the ferocity she could muster, she spat right in their direction. She sneered at the men and shouted, “Burro! Go!”
Then she steered Elsa onto a nearby path that curved between trees and irrigation fields, offering them an escape route. As they made their way, they heard the loud rumble of the truck again as it started with a cough and drove into the distance.
“Oh, Parween, thank God you came along. I was so scared. Who were they?”
“Taliban.” Parween spat out the word, her hate evident in every syllable.
“Weren’t you afraid?” Elsa asked.
“I am tired of being afraid,” Parween answered with an intensity that Elsa hadn’t heard before.
“Were those some of the Taliban that were released recently?”
“Maybe… probably.” Parween sighed. “They should never have released them. There will only be trouble.”
“Why are they still here? This is Bamiyan. The soldiers will see them.”
“The soldiers cannot be everywhere. And the Taliban are stupid. They don’t care.”
When they were both calm again, Parween peered out to make sure the truck and the men were truly gone. The empty road held only welcome silence.
Elsa took a few minutes to compose herself and turned to Parween. “Mike was right, and you were too. The Taliban are everywhere. Even Bamiyan is changing.” She shivered at the thought.
“But for now, they are gone,” Parween said. “You saw those cowards. They ran off at the approach of a shouting woman!” She chuckled, and Elsa let herself relax, and think about the day ahead.
* * *
Elsa sat with Laila and they began to formulate the list of surgical patients.
“What would Ezat think?” Elsa asked. “Shouldn’t we ask him?”
“He’ll be happy with the ones we choose. He trusts us both.”
Elsa smiled at the words and bent over the list.
The number of possible candidates was endless, and they decided to choose only those who had lost limbs to the ever-present land mines for now. Other injuries—even birth defects—would have to wait.
“But”—Elsa paused—“I would like to include Amina on the list. What do you think?”
Laila looked over the list again. “We can include her and let the surgeon decide.”
Two days later, the surgeon arrived. “This is Doctor Hans Deiter,” Johann said. The surgeon, a small, thin man with tufts of gray hair peeking from his nose, turned to Elsa, who stretched her hand out in greeting.
“Please move the patients through quickly,” Deiter snapped. “I have no intention of staying in Bamiyan any longer than necessary.”
Elsa pulled her hand away. “Why is that?”
“There is no electricity, no showers. Primitive!” He practically grimaced. “I don’t know how you can stand it, but I don’t have any intention of finding out.” He turned on his heel and hurried off.
Elsa saw Laila in the clinic doorway and called t
o her.
“Laila, the surgeon is here. Have you met him?” When Laila shook her head, she added, “He’s awfully grumpy, but maybe it was just the trip. Are you ready for tomorrow?”
Laila looked away, and Elsa could see that there was a problem.
“Ezat,” she said almost apologetically, “will not allow me to be with you when the surgeon is here. He says it is not right for me to be so near a foreign man. He is nervous and has forbidden it.”
“Oh, Laila, can’t we speak to him?”
“No, Elsa. He doesn’t want me near. There’s no use trying to talk him out of it. It’s almost as if he is afraid that I will forget that I am an Afghan.”
Elsa opened her mouth to reply but Laila spoke again.
“It is all right; it is his way. Please, you must not take offense. He will be there to help.”
Elsa sighed. Ezat isn’t so different from Mike, she thought, suspicious of people and customs he didn’t understand. Well, she couldn’t change any of that right now. “I’ll miss you tomorrow. I’ll ask Parween if she can come in to help interpret for the women. I’m not sure my Dari is good enough for our guest.”
The following morning, Elsa set up the ER as a consult room for Deiter, who arrived and perched himself haughtily on a stool.
Elsa ushered in the first patient, a young man whose left arm had been mangled by a land mine. Hamid translated Deiter’s questions for the man, who stood nervously as Deiter examined his deformed arm. Finally, the surgeon pulled away.
“He will be the first on the list, Elsa.”
Elsa asked Hamid to bring in the second patient, a boy who’d lost his right leg to another mine. Ezat, who’d just arrived, accompanied the boy inside.
He mumbled something and nodded to Deiter, who turned to Elsa with a questioning look.
“This is Doctor Ezat. Although he speaks some English, Hamid will interpret so that he can present the male patients.”
Each time Ezat spoke, he did it so softly that Elsa could barely hear him, but Hamid did, and he turned to Deiter to translate. The small boy stood and cried silently as Deiter poked and prodded his blistered stump. The doctor added the boy’s name to his list and motioned for them to bring in the next person. Before the day was finished, he’d seen nine surgical candidates and had accepted them all.
“You’ve done an excellent job, Miss Murphy, Doctor Ezat. Good referrals all.” He bade them good day and was whisked off in a fancy SUV to the UN office for the night. Ezat watched as the vehicle sped away, and then he turned to Elsa and smiled.
Burying her surprise, Elsa smiled back.
Relieved that they were halfway through the list, Elsa looked forward to the next day, when Amina would be seen. When she told Amina that she’d included her name on the consult list, the young woman started to cry.
She couldn’t stop her tears or her countless words of thanks and blessings, but Elsa had to offer a word of caution.
“Amina, your extra finger may not meet his criteria for surgery, but it’s worth a try, don’t you think?” Through her sniffles and cries, she took Elsa’s hands and kissed them.
The next morning, Amina happily accompanied Elsa to the clinic, where she joined the group of four other patients already waiting.
Deiter arrived and settled himself on the stool. “I will choose only two or three more, Elsa.” Ezat had not yet arrived but the surgeon was in no mood to wait. “You can send the first one in.”
The remaining patients entered, one by one. He added only one of those to his list; the last he declared too old for surgery and the man, who was perhaps forty, was sent away without even an exam.
Ezat had arrived late, and his eyes shone with anger when Hamid told him of the surgeon’s rejection of the old man. Without uttering a word, he turned and left.
Amina was the final candidate, and knowing there might be one more open slot on the list, Elsa had to hide her enthusiasm as she escorted her in to see Deiter. Amina, so nervous she was trembling, had to be pushed gently into the room.
Parween entered as well and spoke up.
“This woman has extra finger on her right hand. Very bad here, very bad. It can ruin her life.”
Amina looked pleadingly at Deiter as she held her blighted finger up. He motioned her forward so he could examine her affliction without rising from his stool. He pulled at her useless extra finger and stood, a look of disgust on his face.
“You”—he turned to Elsa—“have wasted my time with this foolishness. An extra finger is not worth our time in Kabul. What nonsense. This is my list.” He thrust the paper at Elsa and walked out of the room.
Her shock turned quickly to anger. With Amina’s sobs behind her, she chased after him.
“Wait,” she called out, waving the list in her hand. When she caught up, she swallowed an almost overwhelming urge to tell him off and instead asked when they could send the first patients to Kabul.
“Look at the list,” he said. “Send the two young boys in ten days and we will decide then when their surgery will be.” He hesitated and turned back. “I am sorry to be so abrupt, but I am busy and the last patient—” He shook his head. “What nonsense.”
“But not to her. That extra finger has ruined her life.”
“Nothing I can do about that. Nothing you can do either, I would guess.” He waved his hand and hurried to the waiting UN vehicle that would take him to Bamiyan’s makeshift airfield. There, a small plane waited to whisk the self-absorbed surgeon back to Kabul, where at least there would be electricity and some semblance of civilization.
Elsa returned to the consultation room, where Parween had already calmed down Amina.
“The doctor,” Parween said, “would like to help you but he cannot, not this time at least. He was told to take only those with terrible afflictions and you are lucky in that yours is not as bad as the crippled woman who was carried in earlier.” She paused and looked at Amina, who stood stoically.
“Famidam,” she whispered, picking at her extra finger. “Those who have real troubles should go first. Inshallah, someday my turn will come.”
25
While Elsa wrestled with her doubts about Mike, Sidiq had known from the moment he met Amina that he would marry her, and finally, some three months after their first meeting, he approached her brother, Rashid. Sidiq had wanted time, he said, to improve his appearance in the hopes it might improve his prospects.
He had also been practicing what to say with Hamid. They lived in the same small rooming house in the village, and Hamid had been tutoring him.
“Stand tall, breathe quietly, and close your mouth when you are not speaking,” Hamid had told him. When Sidiq was ready, he’d sent Hamid ahead to speak with Amina’s brother because Sidiq had no family in Bamiyan. Rashid already knew Hamid, and when he learned that a young man was interested in asking for Amina’s hand, his mouth fell open. When he could speak again, he had many questions.
“Sai’est? But who is he?”
“He is Sidiq. He works at the clinic keeping records and files. He is a good man, and he has seen Amina.”
“How do you mean?” Rashid asked, his voice rising. “Where has he seen her?”
Hamid paused. It wasn’t proper for single men to see single women; he had to explain it so Rashid would understand.
“Well, you know that Elsa is very busy and sometimes, she works at her house. Sidiq has seen Amina there.” He held his hand over his heart. “It was not improper, let me assure you. But he has seen her and knows of her extra finger. It matters not to him. He would like to ask your permission to marry her.”
Rashid folded his arms across his chest.
“Bring him here, then. Let me meet him.”
The following morning, Sidiq and Hamid knocked at Rashid’s heavy gate. Sidiq’s hair was clean, cut, and combed; the shalwar kamiz he wore was new; and he wore a genuine though anxious smile.
Rashid bade them enter and after suitable introductions and the obligatory two cups of
tea, Sidiq announced his intentions.
“I am here to ask for your blessing and your permission.” He paused and breathed noisily. “I know that this is not the custom, but as Hamid told you, my family is in Kabul. I can pay only the small sum of one hundred U.S. dollars. I hope that you will excuse my boldness, accept my offer, and allow me to marry your sister.”
He sat back anxiously, wheezing, and waited for Rashid’s reply.
To his delight, Rashid smiled broadly.
“Balay, yes, of course,” he shouted almost gleefully. He rose and took Sidiq into his arms, planting a kiss on each side of his face.
Sidiq breathed a heavy sigh and his voice rose.
“Besiar tashakore, brother, besiar tashakore.”
Rashid rushed to tell his sister of her betrothal.
“My dear, the young man Sidiq from the hospital has asked to marry you and I have said yes,” he announced happily. “You are excited, yes?”
“Balay, brother, balay!” She clapped her hands, and Rashid spoke again.
“I have set the date for three weeks from today so that Sidiq’s family might have time to travel from Kabul.”
The preparations were elaborate. Sidiq would pay for the marriage feast and arranged for a goat to be slaughtered the night before the celebrations. Half would be given away to penniless villagers, and the rest would be roasted over an open fire for the guests.
Rashid purchased the remaining food, rice with carrots and raisins and beans, all of which would be cooked at his house before the feast. Rashid’s wife and female neighbors would also prepare fresh yogurt, and the Bamiyan bakery would bake the naan and special cakes.
Sidiq, flush with his own good fortune and hoping to impress his family, rented a small generator from the cassette store as well as a string of twinkling lights. A tape player and cassettes were borrowed for the event, and the village buzzed at the prospect of such a celebration.
Everyone hoped to be invited to the festivities, and most would be. Elsa, Parween, Hamid, Laila, Ezat, and the entire clinic staff would be there.
Lipstick in Afghanistan Page 21
