In My Father's Country (35 page)

Whenever possible, the PRT included the ANA in their missions. There was a first sergeant named Kevin, who led the Embedded Training Team (ETT) that oversaw the training of the Afghan National Police,
and he had asked John if his guys could be included as well. Although it hadn’t yet become mandatory to include the Afghan National Security Forces in U.S. missions, we saw the benefit of bringing the ANA along, not only to link the locals with their government but also to keep the village children from getting too close. I had seen again and again how kindhearted American soldiers had a difficult time being tough on the children, whereas the ANA soldiers had no such issues, literally beating them off with sticks—they were from a culture where the whole village really does raise a child, and disciplining them was part of that.

This was the first time I was going to formally talk to the soldiers about my people. I was energized, excited, and nervous. I had some time before the briefing, so I thought I’d pull myself together a little, change my tunic, comb my hair, and maybe put on a little makeup. After putting on some mineral powder, I wanted to rinse out my makeup brush, but there weren’t any sinks near my room. The bathroom, which was a long walk from my B-hut, reeked of raw sewage and harsh disinfectant. However, there was a small sink outside the chow hall, so I walked down to the chow hall with the brush in my hands.

A soldier wearing dark sunglasses was walking in the opposite direction. The day was hot, the sun so close. The soldier’s hair was longer than army regulation allowed, spiky and black, with some gray peppered around his temples. He sized me up, then released a brilliant smile that I could tell he’d used to good effect for his entire life. It lit up his face and took years off his age.

“What’s that for?” he asked, nodding at the brush.

I glanced at the name sewn above his pocket and recognized Kevin’s last name. He was the head of the ETT I was about to brief. Oh, great; he is going to think that I am just a civilian more concerned about makeup than what was going on around me in the country. My cheeks grew hot.

“This brush …,” I began. “I am painting an art project in my room, and I just needed to rinse this out.”

“You’re painting with that? I’ll ask my CAT I to get you a real paintbrush from the local economy.” He was always very generous.

“Oh no, I can’t ask you to do that!”

“It’s no trouble at all. You can’t paint anything with that little brush!”

“Okay. Now I feel guilty for lying to you. This is actually my makeup brush. But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny ever seeing you before!”

He burst out laughing, and I knew then that we would become great friends. “You must be Saima,” he said, pushing his sunglasses on top of his head, getting a better look at me.

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re the bossy, frank, opinionated, impossible-to-please Pashtun.”

“Is there any other kind?”

“You’re the one keeping everyone on their toes.”

“Well, what do you expect? I am Pashtun and I am female; it is my job to make you all nervous and stressed.”

He laughed easily and introduced himself as Kevin. I said I already knew who he was, just as he knew who I was. This seemed to amuse him.

The brief was held in the Tactical Operations Center. All the soldiers going on the mission were required to attend. I was not used to being alone at the front of a room, addressing others. Later, I would become so at ease in this role, I would wonder why I was ever so nervous. Until that moment, however, my standard spot had been at my commander’s elbow. I didn’t want to sound as if I was lecturing, but I had so much to share.

I tried to keep it simple. I said that the main thing was to remember that what might seem to be a normal, friendly question to Americans might be insulting to Pashtuns, who in general are a lot more reserved around outsiders. It was important to let the villagers lead the discussion. We were there to talk about their concerns. The mission was to get acquainted, and to allow them to see that we, as Americans, were interested in what they had to say and what their priorities were.

“If they say anything that could get you riled up, if they question why you are in Afghanistan, explain that you are here to help, that it was not your decision. Remind them that you are not here by force but that the Afghan government asked the U.S. government to assist in the nation’s reconstruction.

“If they offer you tea, accept it graciously. Even if you don’t really
like tea, please drink a little. They love talking about the antics of their children, and you can talk about your children too, but do not talk about their women, and refrain from talking about the women in your lives. Do not discuss religion.

“The meeting will most likely be outside, but if they invite us inside, pay attention to whether or not we’re entering a mosque. In small villages like this one, the mosque might not be obvious. It will look like any other house, only there will be a loudspeaker on one of the walls. That’s how you’ll know it’s the mosque. Since you are soldiers, you are not required to take off your boots when entering the mosque. However, because you are visiting with me, a female, I doubt they will ask us inside the mosque.” The soldiers were listening. They wanted to do this right.

As I spoke I thought about the tiny village just down the road, the mud houses with no electricity or indoor plumbing. The women were behind those mud walls, living a life that none of the soldiers could imagine. What’s more, I couldn’t even imagine it, and I was from there. The men sat beneath the trees, the sky blue and daunting overhead. With that sky, these mountains, who could believe in anything besides an all-powerful God? How could we ever sway them to our way of thinking without using the power of God Almighty?

The next morning we assembled in front of the TOC. The ANA soldiers got one glimpse of me and gawked and giggled like eleven-year-old boys. “Is she Afghan? Look how she speaks Pashtu and English. Do you see her hair? There is nothing covering her hair. She talks to those men, those American soldiers. Is she Pashtun? Is she?”

I pulled Kevin aside. “You’ve got to have a little talk with your guys; they’re acting very unprofessional,” I said.

“Do you want to yell at them yourself?” he asked, grinning.

“I don’t even want to acknowledge their presence. But I’ll do it. I’ll tell them what I think of what they’re doing, and then perhaps you can back me up.”

I stood before them. They fidgeted, not quite sure what was happening. I said, “Look, one of the complaints you Afghans have is that Americans don’t respect your culture. Right now, you’re not respecting your
own culture. You’re acting in a way that says it’s okay to harass females. So if one of these Americans harasses one of your women, you’ll have yourselves to blame. Just because I am behaving outside of the boundaries of the Pashtun culture for whatever my reasons might be doesn’t mean you are free to behave inappropiately, too. Don’t use my behavior to justify yours.” Then I walked away. Kevin dressed them down, and it would have humiliated them had I stuck around to watch. Kevin said later that they were ashamed and wanted to apologize in person. I told him to let them know that I accepted their apology but that I would not meet with them again and give them yet another chance to make me feel as if I were a circus attraction.

WHEN WE ARRIVED
at the village, an old man scurried out to greet us. He was white-haired, stoop-shouldered, and toothless, with a creased smile and a long white beard. He could have been a jolly, if skinny, Afghan Santa Claus. He reminded me of my beloved Baba—he had the same captivating smile and a white turban on his head.

I called to him in Pashtu. “Hello, Baba! How are you?” John and Kevin stood on either side of me, a couple of steps behind. The soldiers and the ANA pulled security, forming a half circle around us, their weapons at their sides.

The villager’s mouth opened, then closed. “
Looray
,” he said, addressing me as daughter, “did you just speak to me in Pashtu, or am I suddenly understanding English?”

“I don’t know, Baba, but it’s never too late to learn a new language.”

“I like these guys anyway,” he said to me, “but now that they’ve brought you here they have become my favorite people. Come, come and have some tea.”

It was early morning, the sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun was already hot enough that standing beneath it and talking was uncomfortable. Thankfully, he led us to a deep shadow beneath the village’s largest tree, just outside the mosque. “What’s going on here? What brings you to us today?”

John said, and I translated, “We have no mission, we are just here to
talk to you. John loves your village. He loves the feeling he gets when he passes through, but he has never before today had the opportunity to sit down and talk with you. You are not far from the PRT. We are neighbors, and just like in Pashtun culture, it is an American custom to get to know your neighbors. In case we need to borrow sugar or eggs some day.”

“
Looray
, we don’t have any chickens to lay eggs! And we get the sugar only if someone goes to the city to buy some. How are we going to give you any?” He looked stressed that he would have to refuse us if we did show up at his door.

“Baba, he’s just saying that! It just means that he wants to get to know you and have some kind of ongoing relationship with you.” I realized that we always focused on the American lack of Afghan knowledge, when in reality, Afghans could equally benefit from learning more about the Americans.

Within five minutes we were sitting beneath the trees, U.S. soldiers, Afghan soldiers, village elders, a nice big crowd of cute little kids, and one woman—me—all conversing at once.

John, Kevin, and I sat on the ground across from the elder and a few other villagers who had appeared from their huts. Baba told us about their new project, converting half of the mosque into a school. At the time in Kunar there was no Ministry of Education in the villages, and no one in the Afghan government to help them, so the villagers hired one of the locals to teach. Each house in the village contributed a small amount to the teacher’s salary; those who were too poor to give money gave butter and flour. John and Kevin expressed their admiration. The elder proudly showed us around. He didn’t ask us for anything. His village had learned to be self-reliant. We walked around the mosque, and while he didn’t invite us inside, he gestured to the place where the classroom was being built. A gang of kids trailed behind us. The elder grabbed one by the shoulder and told him to tell the women that we needed our tea now.

We finished our brief tour of the mosque-school, and as we returned to our tree, children appeared carrying small pots of tea and cups full of sugar. Apparently, someone had gone to the city. Sugar is quite expensive,
but offering it is a sign of hospitality. Afghans don’t stir sugar into their tea; instead they fill the bottom of the cup, then pour the tea over it. For special guests, the cup is nearly half full with sugar. Our cups were nearly filled to the brim, a clear message of profound hospitality. John was quiet, overcome. “This would never happen in Iraq. In Iraq they would throw stones at us.”

Kevin was also pleased. He had told the ANA that this was a mission of getting to know your neighbors, and they were asked to mingle with the villagers, ignoring my presence and building relationships. The ANA had listened to him. The noonday heat settled in. Flies buzzed. Children hovered around the circle of adults drinking tea. A breeze kicked up, and nothing could have felt nicer.

We finished the tea, were offered more, and finished that as well. As the noon sun moved toward the other side of the sky, we decided to head back to the PRT. There was a war to be fought. This get-together had been a small but significant success. As my new Baba uncrossed his legs and stood up, I went to him and thanked him for his splendid hospitality, for inviting the PRT to visit, for showing us the new school, and for the delicious tea instead. Soldiers talked among themselves about how they could get their family back home to send some school supplies for the village.

Behind me, suddenly, I heard a burst of laughter. The kids were giggling, the soldiers guffawing. It was like an unexpected gust of wind. I turned to see John holding his notebook over his front. The soldiers were hooting now, and the kids were hugging themselves, giggling so hard they could hardly keep from falling over.

I must have looked startled. In Pashtu, Baba asked me what was going on.

A soldier told me that when John stood up his pants ripped. Before that moment I hadn’t known that sometimes soldiers don’t wear underwear. Apparently, if they were stuck outside the wire on a mission, or were deployed to some tiny installation where there weren’t any showers to speak of, it was more hygienic not to wear underwear. When John had
stood up, his pants had ripped, and every local of his beloved PRT had been treated to a view of his privates.

This was bad for me. The elders had accepted me as an Afghan American, but this would be too much.

“Go sit in the Humvee and wait for me. I will say good-bye for you,” I told John.

I made our good-byes, but Baba wouldn’t have it. He wanted to shake John’s hand and thank him himself for taking the time to come to the village. I brought him over to where John was sitting in the vehicle, legs crossed, his green notebook secure on his lap. Baba didn’t see anything, but after we left, I’m sure the kids told him everything.

John apologized until it became a joke. From that day forward every time he asked me to accompany him on a mission I would ask whether he was wearing any underwear. He pulled me aside a few times and said, “Please don’t ask me that in front of my soldiers. They’re going to think something is going on between us.”

“I just want to make sure,” I’d say. “I don’t want the Afghan people to think that every time Miriam shows up they’re going to be treated to more than just the sight of a Pashtun female.”

T
WENTY-FOUR

W
ith each passing month it was becoming more dangerous to leave the PRT. I never paid attention to news reports about Afghanistan, but I knew Mamai was sitting back in her little room in Portland, listening to
Voice of America
and the BBC in Pashtu and worrying herself half to death. I didn’t like her knowing of the danger I was in. I would tell her everything was different where I was, that things were not as bad in Asadabad. Still, every day it was more evident that the coalition forces were wearing out their welcome. The insurgents were eluding us during the day and returning to the villages at night to intimidate the locals, while we were safely back at our FOBs. In trying to catch them we were turning villages upside down and sometimes killing civilians who the villagers would later claim were innocent bystanders. Of course this created resentment toward our soldiers, and the villagers started avoiding our presence for fear of the nighttime knock on the door some of them were getting from the insurgents. We were becoming less beloved. Kids still greeted U.S. convoys when they rolled into villages, but instead of scampering along the road shouting, “I love you!” like they had when I’d first arrived in Farah in 2005, they were now yelling “Fuck you!” These sentiments, it seemed, were shared by the adults.