Tiny Dancer (6 page)

At the State Department, Michael Gray was coordinating humanitarian relief into Afghanistan and working under General Tommy Franks’s regime when he learned that efforts were being made to find American medical expertise for a local Afghan case. The word was that doctors on the ground in Afghanistan wanted someone in the United States to attempt some sort of heroic intervention on behalf of a girl who had been so horribly burned that her own scars were slowly killing her.

At forty years of age, Gray’s boyish good looks belied the casual ease with which he grasped complex political interests. He was already aware all of the Perfectly Good Reasons that U.S. forces must not to tie up military assets with medical help to local populations, so he realized that the case had to be extraordinary to have landed on his desk. It quickly became clear that certain Americans over there seemed to be willing to take on this girl’s case despite the fact that if anything went wrong, there would be an explosion of negative propaganda for the military, and ultimately for the U.S. government.

All of that was before he got copies of her medical photos. Once he did, it was clear to him that there were dozens of things that could go wrong with a patient as fragile as this one, stranded as she was inside a country hovering dangerously close to tribal anarchy. If she was to survive, she had to be pulled out of the area and placed under extraordinary medical care right away. It appeared to Gray that things had gone too far to be halted at this point, but he knew that if any major politician decided that this case could land on his or her doorstep in a hail of “scandal,” they wouldn’t hesitate to shut down the entire operation.

It didn’t matter. If anyone was going to decide to break the domino chain, Gray already knew that it wasn’t going to be him. At least he had the luxury of knowing that this was precisely the kind of case that his bosses wanted him to pursue. The explosive political and security risk elements were a dangerous and unpredictable part of the picture, but since Gray’s main job was to coordinate the movement of humanitarian goods and services into Afghanistan, he could see the case clearly against the backdrop of lifelong misery that was guaranteed for Zubaida if some form of radical intervention wasn’t created.

He fired up the complex processes of security checks, visas, and the endless signing of sheets of paper that even Afghani desert nomad Mohammed Hasan recognized as a central part of the American way of doing things.

Soon the efforts spread outside of the military and governmental realms. A powerful but nearly secret Non-Government Organization (NGO) agreed to take on the chore of coordinating events in Afghanistan with potential supporters in America. The NGO case workers insisted on anonymity in return for their efforts, keenly aware of the need to avoid the rush on their services that publicity could generate—which would then require them to expend their resources in handling claims instead of actually doing their work. The potential political complexities of the case were so dangerous that the NGO wasn’t entirely sure that this was a case they should pursue in America, but they also agreed that there was no moral or ethical way to turn their back on the process at this point. They could feel the invisible wave carrying Zubaida along, and the dominos in the chain continued to fall, each one toppling the next.

Michael Gray had an additional reason to be glad to see that this case found its way to him—and he would later be one of the people to comment on the happy level of coincidence surrounding this story—because his kid sister Rebecca just happened to be married to surgeon Peter Grossman, who was partnered with his father, surgeon Richard Grossman, at the Grossman Burn Center of Sherman Oaks near Los Angeles, California.

Gray also knew that his sister Rebecca would listen with special interest. “Energy,” Gray said of her with a grin, “has never been a problem for Rebecca.” He knew that if he could interest his sister in this case, she was likely to grab onto it so hard that she would personally see to it that little Zubaida Hasan got to America for treatment—no matter how thick the bureaucratic red tape might get.

He picked up the phone and called her at home. As soon as the conversation was over, Rebecca called her husband at work and explained the situation to him. Their level of interest was immediate and intense. The energy wave kept right on moving along the domino chain; the reaction they shared was the same as all the other benefactors they would never meet, who by this time numbered in the dozens.

* * *

Mohammed Hasan knew almost nothing of the network of people rapidly developing an interest in his daughter. He continued to bring her in for her ongoing check-ups and he could see that her infected scar tissue had begun clearing up, but he had no clear understanding of what to expect from the Americans.

They seemed so easily baffled by him.

They would speak his native language of
Dari
through their interpreters, asking him some simple question or other, such as, “When can you bring Zubaida back to Kandahar for another check-up?” But when he promised to return with the full moon, they just looked back at him with empty eyes. Then they made their interpreter speak to him about breaking every single hour into sixty little pieces and then spending each one like a miser with tight fists.

So he followed the
Pashtun-wali
that dominates the land and which affects all the Afghan tribes, whether they are part of the Pushtun majority or not. He showed them the respect of speaking back to them in their own fashion, with specific days and hours and tight little minutes. That seemed to make the Americans feel better.

He understood that the Americans were talking about taking Zubaida to the United States for special medical treatment. But the translators also told Hasan that this American medical treatment could consume many months—and since there was no way he could leave his large family without him for so long, this meant that his tiny daughter Zubaida could end up living there alone—among the Others.

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.