Veiled Freedom (64 page)

“I don't know.” Farah's fair-skinned, young face looked as bewildered as unhappy. “I have always been afraid of men. My uncle was cruel, like the man he chose as my husband. But Jamil-jan, he made me feel safe. Like my father and brothers when I was small, though I remember them little.”

Another life story Amy had not yet learned.

“We'll figure out what to do about story time tomorrow. You did such a good job the other day, maybe you'd like to tell some of the stories for me. As to the bandages and medicine Miss Becky left, how would you like to help me? Maybe even learn to do it yourself, like Jamil.”

“You think I could?” Farah's face lit up. “Maybe I can become a doctor like Miss Becky.” Then her smile faded. “And Jamil-jan? Do you think he will ever return?”

“I don't know. But we can hope and pray so.”

As Farah disappeared with the puppy out onto the balcony, Amy entered the office. She was lifting the sat phone from its charger when she noticed a stack scattered by the explosion. Amy hadn't yet looked over the printouts and DVD Jamil had put together last night. One last service he'd left for New Hope. Picking up a thin package, Amy felt the shape of a DVD through duct-taped plastic. She'd started to rip it open when she saw the note taped to it in Jamil's neat printing.

Amy was reading the note when the sat phone rang. She tucked the package into her computer case before answering. Why Jamil had asked her to keep this small packet safe, she had no idea, but it was the least she could do.

“Amy, there you are! We've all been waiting here for your call.”

Amy forced her voice to match the New Hope CEO's cheerfulness. “Sorry I'm late. We've had some excitement here—an explosion. No serious injuries, just some property damage. And it wasn't part of our rental, so New Hope won't have any liability.”

“Good. Then let's get on to why we scheduled this call. I've got good news. Our original country manager slotted for Afghanistan back in September is available again. He's willing to make the switch to Kabul as soon as his visa clears. Certainly before Christmas.”

Nestor Korallis sounded pleased with himself. “And just in time since your three-month interim commitment is up, what—next week? You want out of there to your original objective over in India, we've always got room there for leadership of your caliber. I've no doubt you'd find it more congenial working conditions.

“Or if you want it, the project in Afghanistan is still yours. You've certainly earned it. The new guy can come in as your deputy. Like I said, it's up to you. But I'll need a decision as soon as possible. Say, by tomorrow?”

The news was what Amy had been hoping for, praying for—a living, breathing deputy to take some of the load. Or even the possibility of an experienced country manager so she could walk away from this place without misgivings.
I could go home for Christmas and stay.
Take on a project where I don't have to apologize for my faith or bite back what's in my heart.

Talking to Becky just this morning, Amy had been frustrated enough with the whole system to storm away. After today's turbulent events, she'd even more reason to turn her back on the whole mess. It might even be for the best, the American nurse had warned her, if Amy wasn't willing to live with the conditions here. But now that the opportunity had been handed Amy, it no longer seemed so attractive.

After replacing the sat phone in its charger, Amy slipped down the stairs to the courtyard. Night had fallen during her conference call, but despite frigid temperatures, children were taking advantage of the darkness to play some variant of hide-and-seek up and down staircases and balconies, behind the fountain and empty planters.

Amy entered the kitchen quarters. Without the Hindi soap that usually occupied this hour, women were lying around on tushaks, chatting, their smaller children for the most part asleep in their arms. Farah sat cross-legged beside Najeeda, the sick woman's head lying on her lap. Despite feverish eyes and muffled coughs, Najeeda's son and Fahim were happily playing with Gorg. They smelled of Vicks, and on a nearby burner, Roya added eucalyptus to a steaming saucepan, a primitive humidifier that was nonetheless effective. Against the far wall, Aryana was sitting up straight, her baby clutched tightly. The young mother had been hysterical earlier, insisting the explosion was a conspiracy to steal her son away. Amy picked her way through sprawled bodies to her. “I'm sorry about the men who were here all day. Is everything well now?”

Aryana didn't relax her grip on her child, but it was with a fleeting smile that she shook her head. “As long as it is not my husband's brothers, I do not care who invades this place. My son is safe. What else matters?”

“You do not need to worry even if your husband's brothers do come,” Roya spoke up. “Ameera-jan will not let them near you.”

“None of us will,” Farah said stoutly. “Together we are stronger than any man; is that not so, Ameera-jan?”

“Do not speak so foolishly!” one of the Hazara widows chided. “It is not proper for a woman to speak of opposing a man.”

“I do not wish to oppose men,” Farah retorted. “Only to live free as they do.”

As the older woman started to respond, Aryana said suddenly, “Let her dream. What does it hurt?”

“Yes, let her dream,” Roya agreed fiercely. “Maybe it is not too late for her dreams at least to bear life.”

Roya turned to Fahim's mother on her other side. “You were telling how your family first came to Kabul. You were caravanning over the Salang Pass, and it began to snow.”

As the narrative picked back up, Amy slipped out onto the veranda.
How can I think of leaving them? I don't want to hand Farah and Aryana and Roya and all these others to some strange man, no matter how competent a country manager he is. I love them.

But was Amy willing just to show God's love where she couldn't tell it? To settle, as Becky Frazer had all these years, for making what little difference she could when doors were opening wide to go somewhere she could maybe make a big difference?

If I'm just going to hand out food and clothing and shelter, what difference does it make if it's me here or someone else?

Above courtyard walls, the evening sky was black, neither star nor moon visible through the mantle of smog and dust that had kicked up again once the snowfall had melted off. Amy focused instead on the night's sounds. Childish giggles, stifled laughter, and a slap of darting sandals against tile. The placid murmur of women's voices. A wail of wind across the balconies. The creak of those plastic panels along the back wall.

Still, is love alone really such a small difference to make?
Amy asked herself suddenly and fiercely. Jamil as she'd last seen him—features passionately alive, grief-stricken dark eyes softened to tenderness, sweet smile—rose vividly to Amy's mind.

Love had been there. Maybe a little for Amy herself. She hadn't even dared to explore her personal response to Jamil's revelations. But above all, God's love. The love of a heavenly Father who'd reached down to his lost and hurting creation through the life of Jesus Christ. A love Amy had done her best to live out, however inadequately, among the women and children of New Hope.

And somehow, unbelievably, that love had softened murderous rage and hate to forgiveness and mercy. How many people had not died today because of the difference love had made in one heart?

I get why Steve is so bitter. I even get why Jamil would want to blow up the world. But, Father God, for all the ugliness, I see so much beauty you've created in this place, in these people. For one Jamil, it was worth coming here. To touch only these people within these walls, it's worth staying.

With that breathed prayer, Amy realized her decision was made. She leaned against a pillar, still listening to the night. Beyond the courtyard walls, the laughter and running feet, she could hear a distant rush of traffic, the blare of a truck horn. Out there on those roads, maybe in one of those trucks, Jamil was being carried away to a new life. Was his new mission as simple as he'd made it seem? Would Amy's path ever cross his again?

And what about Steve?

Amy stirred, straightening up from her resting place. Despite the companionable murmur behind her, she was acutely aware that she was standing on this dark veranda very much alone.

Soraya has Fatima, even Ibrahim. The women have each other. I know I have you, Father God, but just one other human being who really cares if I'm alive would be nice right now.

A chuckle gurgled behind a nearby planter. A small, dark shape wriggled, then stilled under the joyous illusion that night had cast a cloak of invisibility. With amusement, Amy watched two stealthy silhouettes creeping around the fountain bed.

There was a scurry of feet. Pouncing shadows. A screech. Then a small missile hurled itself toward Amy, arms clutching at her waist. As satisfied titters drifted off, Amy stooped to hug the clinging child, prepared for tears. “It's okay, Tooba-jan. They're gone.”

But when an opening door cast a rectangle of warm, yellow light across the veranda, Amy saw only a smile on the face lifted to hers. The clinging arms rose to strangle Amy's neck. “Ameera-jan, I love you so much!”

As the girl darted back into the game, Farah stepped out the kitchen door and tucked an arm through Amy's. “Why are you here all alone, Ameera-jan? Don't you want to join us?”

Amy was smiling now as she let Farah draw her toward warmth and light and companionship.
And I love you too, all of you, so much.

The sun was not yet high over the foothills when Jamil jumped down from a jinga truck bed. Walking to the driver's window, he handed in the afghanis that were the bartered passage. Jamil waited for a cloud of dust to settle behind the departing truck before crossing the dirt track. On the far side, a streambed snaked alongside a huddle of mud-brick houses, its water sustaining a narrow belt of fields and pastures. Here several hours south of Kabul, winter hadn't yet arrived. Leaves still lingered on mulberry trees, grass in pastures. In plowed fields, men were busy sowing the region's main crop—poppy. Burqas scrubbed clothes along the stream bank.

Tugging off his patu, Jamil breathed deeply of air that was clean and fresh, even the hint of animal dung preferable to diesel and smog. He hadn't expected to see this morning, and he felt reborn, light of feet and of heart, as he strode along the stream toward the village center.

A startled cry hastened Jamil's strides. A young shepherd herding his flock across the stream had slipped among the stepping stones. Jamil was there before the boy could scramble to his feet, lifting him from the water. A knee had slammed against a rock, a long gash bleeding profusely.

Villagers clustered around as Jamil carried the child up the bank. Dismayed wails told which burqa was the boy's mother. Opening his bundle, Jamil took out cotton, hydrogen peroxide, gauze patches. By the time he finished, the crowd had expanded to the greater part of the village.

“Who are you?” demanded a white-bearded man in the black turban of a Pashtun tribal elder. “What has brought you to our village?”

Jamil added a final strip of adhesive to his bandage before rising. He turned to the village elder and said courteously, quietly, “I am a healer. And a follower of the prophet Isa Masih. I come as he did to tend the sick, if you have any such among you. I come as well to share with you words of life from Isa Masih's own teachings.”

The villagers showed neither surprise nor displeasure. Religious scholars, wandering mystics were nothing new. Did not the Quran's teachings command that such be treated with respect?

Some wandered back to fields and household chores as Jamil spread out his patu under a nearby mulberry tree. Far more remained, tugging up tunics to hunker down on their haunches. With curious eyes, they watched Jamil settle himself cross-legged on the patu. Children pushed their way in to squat down with their fathers. A cluster of burqas hovered on the outskirts.

Taking out the Pashto New Testament, Jamil leafed through its pages. Then he lifted his head, speaking clearly enough to carry to the back of the crowd. “The prophet Isa Masih promises in his teachings that the truth will set you free. He who listens to his teachings and obeys them will be like a house built on a foundation that cannot be swept away by the floods. Hear the words of life he has to say.”

Slowly, measuredly, Jamil began to read.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”

About the Author

As the child of missionary parents, award-winning author Jeanette Windle grew up in the rural villages, jungles, and mountains of Colombia, now guerrilla hot zones. Currently living in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Jeanette spent sixteen years as a missionary in Bolivia and travels as a missions journalist and as a mentor to Christian writers in many countries, most recently Afghanistan. She has more than a dozen books in print, including the best seller
CrossFire
and the Parker Twins series.