Farishta (31 page)

It didn’t really matter to them who the enemy was. Many of them didn’t even know the name of Afghanistan’s current president. All they wanted was to have their husbands at home, cultivating their crops and tending their animals. They were terrified that if there was renewed fighting in the north, more land mines would be scattered across their fields, the irrigation ditches would be bombed from the air, and their men wouldn’t be able to produce enough food to last through the winter. They wanted to be left in peace to raise and educate their children. They wanted access to medical care and, of course, they all wanted cell phones.

Whenever we stopped in a village over the lunch hour, I’d pull out one of my solar ovens and gather a few women inside a compound to show them how I could boil water with sunshine.

On the seventh day of our patrol, we pulled into a small dusty village, dominated by a hulking mud-walled fortress on a cliff just above town.

“This is the territory of Khan Hussein Cherik,” said Zalmay, the young PRT interpreter who had accompanied us on this patrol. “That is the khan’s home,” he added, pointing with great solemnity up at the medieval walls and imposing guard towers of the massive mud structure.

“He is a great friend of General Kabir. The khan’s granddaughter was the little girl who was almost killed by the suicide bomber in Andkhoy. The one you took to the hospital.” Zalmay’s eyes widened to indicate that Khan Cherik was clearly a powerful and important man and that I was very fortunate to be in his good graces.

“I’d love to see how she’s doing, Tim,” I said to Captain Baker. It was hard to believe that I might actually know someone in this isolated corner of Afghanistan. It seemed that years rather than months had passed since that cold February afternoon in Andkhoy when I’d first seen the little girl with her father.

“If she’s there, you should be able to see her this evening, Angela. We’ll be camping near the village, but we’re all invited to the fort for a meal later this afternoon with the khan and the male members of his family.”

Dinner was a lavish affair. The khan’s son Farhad recounted to the assembled male diners the entire story of the bombing in Andkhoy, portraying me, much to my embarrassment, as a cross between Wonder Woman and Florence Nightingale.

As we prepared to return to our camp, Farhad insisted that his wife and mother wanted me to spend the night with them in the women’s quarters. I shot a quick glance at Baker, who was looking extremely unhappy at this idea. Before he could stop me, I told Farhad that I would love to accept their invitation.

“Please be careful. Call us if you need help for any reason, Angela,” Captain Baker told me as he pressed a radio into my hand before walking through the gate that was about to separate me from the rest of the MOT. Fuzzy turned around and shot me a final worried glance as the tall wooden doors were pulled shut and bolted by the khan’s men.

“
Honum,
come with me, please,” said a servant who led me into a spacious room with arched windows that looked out over a long, irrigated valley. She reappeared, carrying a basin filled with warm water, a folded towel, and a simple blue robe. After I had bathed and put on the robe, a movement at the door caught my eye. It was the little Afghan Shirley Temple peeking shyly around the corner.

When her mother and another woman, whom I presumed to be her grandmother, urged her to approach me, she began to walk in my direction, supported by a tiny crutch under her arm and limping as though she were still in pain.

“Thank you for saving my daughter,” the child’s mother said. She began to weep and kiss my hands. The little girl grabbed her mother’s skirt and looked up at me with solemn eyes.

“I was happy that I could help her. It was a terrible day.” I looked down at the little girl who was now standing in front of me. She was beautiful.

“Why does she limp? ” I asked.

“Part of the metal from the bomb is still in her leg. The doctor said she does not feel pain, but she will always walk this way. Her life comes at a cost. The wounds have left terrible scars. No man will ever want to marry my wonderful child. But my sons will protect her.”

“What is your name, child? ” I asked.

“Farishta,” she replied.

“Farishta is my name, too!” I said. “We are both angels!”

She laughed and pressed her small hands together. “Mama, we have the same name!”

More female family members entered the room followed by their children. We slept early and rose at first light. After we were served tea and fresh warm bread, Grandmother, who had expressed serious concern about me traveling with the soldiers and wearing boots and trousers, stood and walked to my side.

“You are a very bad woman to live with those foreign men, Farishta,” she said, slapping my hand gently, but with a twinkle in her eye. “It is even worse that you dress like them! At least your eyes should look like a woman’s eyes.” She extracted a silver vial of kohl from a pocket in her robe and waved it in the air.

“This will make your eyes beautiful.” The other women nodded.

Grandmother led me to the window where the light was best. She dipped a thin silver applicator into a saucer of water and then into the vial of dark kohl, tapping it to loosen the excess powder.

“This will make a man lose himself when you look at him, but you must be careful not to look at any of those soldiers you are traveling with. They will not be able to control themselves.” The other women laughed hysterically.

“Don’t you have a husband, Farishta?” asked little Farishta’s mother when the laughter stopped.

“I lost my husband many years ago,” I replied.

The women lowered their eyes and fell silent until Grandmother announced matter-of-factly that many women who lose their husbands are still able to find another one.

“You are still young, Farishta,” she chided.

“I’m not as young as you think, Grandmother,” I replied.

When I told them my age, which was only twelve years younger than Grandmother, there was much astonishment and chattering among the other women until Grandmother called everyone’s attention again to the task at hand.

“Do not be afraid, Farishta,” she laughed, holding a mirror close to my face. “Close one eye, then take the applicator between your fingers.”

I drew the silver tip once above and once below each eye just where the lashes sprouted, leaving a smoky line across the inside of my upper and lower lids.

“Let us celebrate Farishta’s new eyes with more tea and sweet biscuits,” Grandmother said, clapping her hands for the servant girl to bring us more refreshments.

A loud crash in the courtyard and the sound of screaming frightened the returning servant, who dropped the tea tray and ran out of the room. Little Farishta’s older brother, Aziz, ran into the women’s quarters, his face white and his lips quivering.

“Mother, soldiers have broken through the outside door.” He was almost in tears. “I am the only man here, and I think the soldiers are going to take me away. Some of them have gone to the roof where Grandfather is drying our harvest of marijuana.”

“You grow marijuana?” I shouldn’t have been surprised at this. Eight-foot cannabis plants grew in profusion alongside the roads and irrigation ditches of Balkh and every other province in the north.

“All families in this district have produced hashish for generations, Farishta-
jan,
” said Grandmother, who seemed surprised at my ignorance. “It is our custom.”

The door to the women’s quarters flew open, and an armed Afghan soldier pointed at Aziz, who cowered next to his mother. “The boy must come with me,” he ordered.

There wasn’t time to radio Captain Baker and his men at the bottom of the hill, but I knew that Afghan soldiers in this part of the country did not conduct presence patrols without American advisors. I found it hard to believe that Colonel Tremain would authorize his men to allow their Afghan trainees to break into a family compound.

I stood up and faced the soldier. “Take me to the American who is in charge of this training mission.”

He was momentarily stunned that a woman would make such a demand, but when I didn’t blink or back away, he released the boy and walked out of the women’s quarters. I followed him through the partially smashed wooden gate. Fifteen Afghan soldiers stood outside the compound with their rifles drawn. Several yards away, I could see an American soldier watching us. His rifle was also pointed at the khan’s fortress.

He shouted in Dari at the Afghan soldier who had come through the gate in front of me. “Muhammad, why did you bring that woman out here? ”

“I brought myself out here,” I shouted back in English. “What the hell are you doing authorizing these soldiers to break into a family compound? ”

“Are you American? ” asked the astounded soldier who lowered his rifle.

“Who authorized this operation?” I demanded.

“Who are you? ” he replied. “And what are you doing here? ”

I explained who I was, and he informed me he was on a special training mission and did not report to Tremain. More than that, he would not reveal. He barked a command in Dari to the Afghan soldiers, who followed him at a trot down a dirt road and away from the khan’s fort.

I switched on the radio to alert Captain Baker.

“This isn’t the first time your Yanks have led patrols into our AO without advance warning,” he muttered. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you stay up there.”

“I’m fine, Tim,” I assured him.

“Right, I’ll report this incident to the PRT and let the colonel sort it out with Tremain.”

They picked me up an hour later. “Angela, if you ever go on a patrol with my MOT again and you ask to sleep overnight in a family compound, please remind me to say no,” Baker pleaded as we drove out of the khan’s village and headed back to Mazār-i-Sharīf. Fuzzy nodded in silent agreement.

“I promise.”

 

 

Four days later, our tired convoy rolled up to the gates of the PRT just before sunset. Driving with the windows down had turned my hair into a tangled, windblown mess. My dust-caked skin was deeply tanned, and the freckles across the bridge of my nose were more prominent than I liked.

But Grandmother’s kohl had not faded, and she had been right about its effect. I passed a mirror in the hall, and the eyes that looked back at me had never been a more luminous green. I shouldn’t have looked any closer. When I did, I instantly regretted not having used sunblock on the patrol. Buried under the grime were the unmistakable cracks and furrows of my emerging crow’s feet and aging neck. On the other hand, surrounded by a hundred men who didn’t really care what I looked like, what did it matter?

I knew that Mark was still in Helmand, and although I silently regretted he wouldn’t be returning to Mazār until the end of the month, I was also glad he wouldn’t see me in my current condition or hear about my encounter with the American soldier.

As I passed the officers’ mess, Sergeant Major stepped out to greet me. “Welcome back, Angela. Look who else returned early,” he said, pointing through the door. Mark was standing alone looking out the window. He turned when he heard my name, but I had already started up the steps to my room.

By late summer, Stefan was coming to Mazār at least once a month for meetings with the Russian consulate staff. He would usually call me with an invitation for an early dinner at the one restaurant in town frequented by expats. It had a small garden, candles on the tables, offered a mediocre Indian menu, and served beer and wine, although only to foreigners.

Occasionally we would go for drinks at the UN guesthouse, where the expat members of the Mazār Social Club gathered most nights. This was not a venue I would have frequented on my own, but my evenings with Stefan were a wonderful escape from the confines of the PRT, and they were useful for getting to know some of the UN staffers on a more personal level.

I found myself counting the days until Stefan’s next invitation. He had never made an improper approach, nor had he probed me for information about sensitive topics. There were no romantic overtones to our encounters, just two diplomatic colleagues who really enjoyed each other’s company. I had even stopped objecting when he insisted on picking up the tab for dinner. My embassy had been formally notified that I was socializing with him and that it was a completely platonic relationship.

On those rare occasions that I left the PRT after dark, the colonel insisted on knowing where I would be, with whom, and when I would return. I felt like a teenager with a curfew, but I willingly complied. One night after dinner, when I stopped by the ops room to sign out for an evening with Stefan, Mark was there, updating the daily intelligence summaries with the ops officer.

“Going out with your Russian again, eh, Angela?” teased the ops officer while I completed the trip sheet.

“Just a few hours at the UN guesthouse,” I replied, glancing over at Mark, who was shaking his head in silent disapproval.

I was surprised to find him waiting for me several minutes later in the narrow passageway just inside the gate as I was exiting the PRT.

“Hello, Mark,” I said, recoiling at his simmering anger and wondering if I had done something to offend him. “Is there anything wrong? ”

“You’re a fool going off like this with the Russian at night, Angela,” he said, blocking my way with one hand pressed hard against the metal door that led to the road in front of the compound. “You know full well that Daoud’s armed thugs cruise the streets after dark. I, for one, do not understand why the colonel allows you to do this.”

He moved closer to me, breathing hard as though he had run to occupy this spot before I arrived. I backed against the cold brick wall of the archway.

“There’s an armed bodyguard in Stefan’s car with us,” I argued.