Farishta (14 page)

“The next day, the Northern Alliance and your soldiers flooded the tunnels and drove out the remaining Taliban, including an American. It was horrible. I have never told my mother about this battle. One of the Northern Alliance generals captured several thousand Taliban in Kunduz, brought them to our province in shipping containers, and left them to die in the desert. Some of them were only boys!”

Rahim was so young to have experienced such horrors, although I had to admit he was the same age as most of the soldiers. He seemed to have survived it all without serious residual trauma, but I felt a strong desire to shield him from anything like that in the future.

“Many, many people were killed during those days of fighting, Angela. If my mother found out, she would have forbidden me to work for the soldiers after that, but I liked being an interpreter and my family needed the money. We still need the money,” he added with a heavy sigh.

“I would like to return to the university, but I must support my family so I stay with the PRT.”

The sky was now almost dark, and Mazār was about thirty miles away. When rain began to pound the Beast with fat drops, Jenkins and the colonel’s driver ahead of us slowed for a procession of small children crossing the road. Each little boy and girl was bent under an enormous bundle of sticks and brush.

“Where are these children going?” I asked Rahim.

“They are bringing fuel back to their village so their mothers can cook,” he replied. “As you can see, we Afghans have cut down most of our trees for firewood. Long ago, much of my country was covered with forests of cedar, pine, oak, and fir. We had wild animals living in the mountains. Now even many of our fruit orchards and vineyards have been chopped down for cooking fuel.”

I watched the sad parade of children disappear into the darkness.

“We used to export dried fruits and nuts all over the world, Angela. Now all we export is opium paste,” said Rahim bitterly.

“I still don’t understand why these little children are out gathering firewood so late,” I replied. “Isn’t it dangerous? ”

“Angela, Afghan men do not do this sort of work, and the women are not allowed out in public, so it is the village children who must perform this task every day. Sometimes they go onto the property of other farmers to find fuel. They do it in the evening so they won’t be caught and beaten.”

“But if there are no trees left, what are they collecting? ” I asked.

“They cut down bushes and reeds that grow along the irrigation ditches. Unfortunately, the more of these bushes the children remove, the more erosion our farmers suffer. It is a vicious cycle, but how can they stop it? Their mothers need fire to cook.”

“We see kids like those little ones every time we go out on patrol,” said Jenkins.

Fuzzy nodded. “Yeah, poor buggers should be in school.”

“You’re right about that, Fuzzy,” said Rahim.

“Rahim, how do you think the handover ceremony went today,” I asked, changing the subject. I wanted to take advantage of this temporary break in his wall of silence.

“It was just like all the others,” he said. “The khans order their men to put out their oldest and most useless weapons for the colonel to admire. Everyone makes a speech. I translate. The muj collect their certificates, the colonel reports their compliance to Kabul, and the major weapons caches remain concealed.”

I was stunned at his sudden burst of candor, although it confirmed what I’d overheard when the men standing near me had been discussing their hidden weapons caches. “So this has happened before? ”

“All the time,” he replied. “Right, fellows? ” he asked Jenkins and Fuzzy.

“I’m afraid it’s true,” said Jenkins.

We were now driving in the dark, with only oncoming headlights visible through the rain. There was no shoulder on this road. Overloaded trucks, many with only one headlight, continued to speed by us with inches to spare.

I was growing to like this quiet young Afghan, no matter how unwilling he was to like me. He was direct and honest—and though I hated to think it, he was about the age my son would have been.

“What did you study at university? ”

“Architecture,” he replied. “I had a wonderful Afghan professor in my first and only year at university in Pakistan. He wanted to start a renaissance in traditional building practices, using the earthen wall and mud-brick designs of our ancestors with a few modern alterations. He teaches in Germany now, but he has many followers in Pakistan and Afghanistan. I continue to study his writings on my own,” he added, patting a worn textbook on the seat next to him.

“Today in my country, only farmers still build the old way, but it is our way. It uses our Afghan earth and dung and chopped straw, it is beautiful, and it is perfectly adapted to our climate. City people stupidly have great disdain for traditional architecture. They want so-called ‘modern’ cement and cinder-block buildings, which require heating and air-conditioning.

“Someday when I get my degree, I will design beautiful buildings that respect our ancient architectural customs. I will make my people proud again,” he said in a voice that resonated with determination.

Jenkins turned off the main highway, and we bounced down the last quarter mile to the PRT. The Beast’s headlights glinted off the deep pools of water ahead of us.

“The power must have gone out while we were away,” I said, noting the darkened buildings on both sides of the road. This was the first time I’d been outside the PRT at night.

“Angela,” snapped Rahim, “we have not had electricity in Mazār for weeks.”

“What do you mean? ” I said. “The power was on when we left the PRT this morning.”

“The PRT runs on electricity from generators, Angela. Can’t you hear them roaring day and night?”

He was right, of course. I heard the generators all the time. They had kept me awake my first night at the PRT, but had rapidly become background noise, which I no longer noticed. It had never occurred to me why the PRT would have power when the rest of Mazār did not.

Rahim wasn’t finished. “Only the wealthy in Mazār can afford their own generators and diesel fuel. Look around you, Angela. Where do you see lighted buildings?” he demanded.

It was then I noticed for the first time that only the PRT, a few sprawling compounds owned by warlords in our neighborhood, and the Kefayat Wedding Club several blocks away with its illuminated plastic palm trees, were lit up and visible through the rain.

“Why is there no power? ” I asked. A flush of shame rose in my cheeks. Was I so cosseted in the PRT that I hadn’t noticed the darkness that surrounded us every night?

“Angela, do you not know that most of Mazār’s meager supply of electricity comes from across the river in Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan?” asked Rahim, as though he were addressing a child.

“If the governor doesn’t pay the bill, or the lines break, or our northern neighbors don’t have enough power to sell to us, there is nothing we can do.” He turned his back on me and stared silently out the window at the dark shadows of men drinking tea in the few shops illuminated by flickering kerosene lamps.

“You seem to be picking up far more information than I ever have,” Harry said, handing me the report I’d written on the weapons handover. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t mind coming with me to all my meetings outside of camp.”

“I’d love it, Harry. That’s why I’m here.”

Much to Rahim’s relief, Harry and I didn’t need him for the frequent disarmament discussions with local UN officials since everyone at those meetings spoke English. Despite our friendly conversation on the trip back from Sholgara, Rahim had made it abundantly clear that he wished to spend as little time as possible in my presence.

Since my language skills had to be kept secret, we brought Rahim along to translate the first time Harry and I went to see Governor Daoud, the former warlord who controlled Balkh Province. Rahim made a point of sitting as far away from me as possible.

Harry frequently saw the governor to convey complaints the PRT received from delegations of Hazara men. Under the Taliban, the Hazara, a minority sect, were brutally massacred. Tens of thousands had fled to Iran and Pakistan, leaving behind their land and possessions.

At least once a month, small groups of Hazaras bundled against the cold in their gray blankets appeared at the gates of the PRT to deliver handwritten requests for help in recovering their lands. Their letters, always written by a scribe in elaborate Perso-Arabic script and marked in purple ink with the fingerprints of the illiterate petitioners, detailed their repeated accusations of land theft against Daoud’s sub-commanders. We could offer no help other than our useless promises to hand their petitions over to the very Afghan authorities they believed had taken their property.

 

 

The first time I arrived at Daoud’s office with Harry and Rahim, a member of the governor’s staff escorted us with much bowing, scraping, and fluttering of hands into a large reception hall. It was a garishly furnished room with high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and overstuffed brocade chairs on gilded legs—a stark contrast, I would soon learn, to the cramped, musty offices of governors in the other northern provinces.

Daoud had led thousands of mujahideen against the Russians and then against the Taliban. After the expulsion of the Taliban, he had been engaged for several years in combat for control of the northern provinces with his former Northern Alliance ally, General Kabir. Both men had voluntarily given up their tanks and heavy weapons and agreed to an uneasy truce in late 2004. Harry was convinced that the presence of the PRT in Mazār was the sole check on both men’s desire to wield absolute power in the north.

With great fanfare the governor swept into his office, followed by his entourage, thirty minutes after we had already consumed several cups of tea awaiting his arrival. I was prepared for such behavior. Traditional displays of power in this part of the world required that supplicants be kept cooling their heels for at least this long. With his tardy arrival, Daoud had indicated that he considered us to be the “supplicants.”

Despite walking with a severe limp, this stooped, white-haired man radiated an aura of unquestioned power. The governor greeted us with a slight bow and brushed an invisible piece of lint from his green silk cape. His beard was neatly clipped and, like the other men in the room, he wore a snowy white turban.

Harry presented me to the governor, who regarded me silently while Rahim translated. The governor greeted me in Dari and awaited my response.

I replied with a simple Dari greeting and extended my hand, which he took briefly, then dropped. “So you speak our language? ” he said, adjusting his glasses and staring at me with unreadable black eyes.

When I hesitated Rahim jumped in, “
Wali Sahib,
the woman only speaks a small amount of Dari. I am here to interpret for her and the colonel.” The governor’s eyes remained trained on mine.

“Do you not use her name?” he asked Rahim sharply.

“Yes, sir, I call her Angela,” Rahim replied, lowering his eyes in apology.

“Angela. What does this mean in our language?” the governor asked Rahim, who was now watching me.

As I held the governor’s gaze, I heard Rahim answer, “It means ‘angel,’
farishta
in Dari.”

“Farishta
,
” the governor repeated slowly. “Well then, please be seated, Farishta-
jan,
and let us begin this meeting.”

I could see that Rahim was uncomfortable with the governor’s reply. He knew, as did I, that I had just been insulted. What little authority I had as a representative of the U.S. government had been casually dismissed by the governor’s use of the familiar
jan,
a Dari term of affection among friends and family members. One did not use
jan
with strangers, especially in an official setting, and I knew Daoud would never use it with Harry. In this case affection was not the governor’s intent. By daring to address me in public with such familiarity, he was ensuring that everyone in the room knew he did not consider me to be on an equal footing with the British colonel.

Male servants entered silently to refill our cups with tea and replenish cut-crystal bowls with the pistachios, green raisins, and sugar candies we had been munching while waiting for the governor. Electric heaters blasted warm air from the ceiling.

While the governor sat stiffly in his throne-like chair, Harry presented the PRT’s current list of complaints. The governor responded, as Harry had predicted, with vague promises to create a committee that would investigate the latest charges of land theft from the Hazaras. He assured us that we would be summoned to meet again at an unspecified future date to receive his committee’s report.

Sitting on the governor’s left, in a dark blue uniform with red epaulettes and three silver stars on each shoulder was his new chief of police, a senior Pashtun policeman from Jalalabad, whose scraggly beard and beaked nose reminded me of Fidel Castro. The police chief traveled everywhere with a Pashto interpreter since he did not speak a word of Dari, which made him an odd choice by the central government to lead a Dari-speaking, provincial police force in northern Afghanistan.

The requirement for Rahim to interpret everything from Dari into English for Harry, back into Dari for the governor, and then for the police chief’s personal interpreter to repeat everything one more time in Pashto, tripled the length of our meeting. This, along with the endless pouring and drinking of green tea and the governor’s thirty-minute absence from the reception room to say his afternoon prayers, stretched what should have been a one-hour meeting into three and one-half hours with no bathroom breaks for the governor’s captive audience. To say it was taxing would be an understatement.