Farishta (22 page)

Leaving the two soldiers with our vehicle, Mark, Rahim, and I followed an Afghan policeman along a narrow path into a fenced area near the mosque where VIP guests were being served steaming glasses of green tea.

Hundreds of nervous Afghan policemen, their arms linked to hold back the frenzied pilgrims, did not hesitate to bring their wooden batons down on the heads of anyone who pushed too hard against their human phalanx.

Just below the VIP viewing stand was the fifty-foot ribbon-draped
janda.
It lay on its side, tied down like Gulliver and looped with the ropes and pulleys that would be used to hoist it into position.

We took our seats, which were still shaded from the heat of the rising sun by the dome of the mosque. Several members of the Mazār consular corps and a few of the governor’s ministers, whom I had met previously, recognized me and nodded in my direction, but the din of the crowd made conversation impossible.

A loudspeaker blared prayers and religious music, while an announcer shouted futile orders to the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims to move back. Mark and Rahim sat stiffly in their chairs, staring straight ahead.

There was not a cloud in the sky as the sun rose higher and the shadow of the Blue Mosque slid slowly away under our feet. The heat became instantly oppressive, and the restive crowd pressed ever closer against our heavily guarded enclosure.

“Angela, there’s Nilofar,” shouted Rahim, jumping to his feet. He grabbed my arm and gestured toward the crowd, where the young law student was trying to support an old woman. They were both about to be trampled by the crowd behind them.

“She is close to the
janda,
and one of the policemen is trying to force her back. She is with her grandmother. May I leave you and the major here to help them? I can get to them through the VIP gate.”

I looked at Mark. “You’re in charge. May he go? ”

Rahim pointed Nilofar out to Mark. She was arguing with a very agitated policeman and was struggling to keep her grip on the old woman.

“Go help her, Rahim,” Mark ordered. “Angela and I will be fine. If we’re still separated after the ceremony ends, meet us back at the PRT vehicle. Go, man! Quickly!”

I watched anxiously as Rahim fought his way through a sea of blue burkas and turbaned men to reach Nilofar’s side. She was surprised to see him, but clearly relieved as he supported the old lady, pacified the policeman, and shielded both women from those behind them who were straining to reach the
janda.

“Is that young woman a relative of Rahim’s?” asked Mark.

“No, she’s a law student we met when we visited the women’s prison last month. Rahim and I had dinner with her family a few weeks ago.”

“Her family?” he said, sounding surprised. “She’s an unmarried girl, and they invited him into their home? ”

“It wasn’t quite like that, Mark,” I replied. “Nilofar wanted to see Rahim again, so she invited us both to dinner. The men and women ate separately. She told her parents I was Rahim’s American cousin and said I had insisted he come with me.”

“And you went along with this? ”

“It was perfectly harmless, Mark.”

“Angela, in this country, there is little we foreigners do that can be classified as ‘perfectly harmless’ especially when it involves interfering with the Afghans’ strict codes of conduct.”

I rolled my eyes at this latest reprimand and turned to watch as Rahim struggled to hold back the crowd that threatened to crush Nilofar and her grandmother.

“Her male relatives may not be very happy to see him getting so close to her,” Mark mused as he observed the unfolding drama below.

“I don’t think the normal rules apply under these circumstances, Mark.”

“Is Rahim involved with this young woman? ”

“I have the distinct impression he’d like to be. Unfortunately, she’s Hazara and he’s Tajik, which would present a big problem for both of them if things actually get serious.”

“Let’s hope they don’t,” he said before lapsing again into silence.

Moments after Rahim arrived at Nilofar’s side, the governor finished his remarks. At his signal, a group of heavyset men wrapped thick ropes around their hands and began hoisting the
janda
into place. As the top of the pole rose skyward, people showered it with fistfuls of paper money and extended their arms to be the first to receive its magic.

Cannons boomed while a group of men blew their horns and pounded their drums. When the line of policemen nearest the mosque dropped the barriers, the crowd, no longer restrained, surged with a deafening roar toward the
janda.

Mark and I watched helplessly while people swarmed around the pole. The old woman extended her trembling fingers, rested them for an instant on the
janda,
raised both hands in victory, then collapsed into Rahim’s arms.

“Good God, how will he get them out of there? ” cried Mark.

Nilofar stumbled, and Rahim, who was already carrying the old lady in one arm, reached out to wrap his other arm around Nilofar’s waist to keep her from being trampled.

As I watched Rahim battling to protect the two women, I felt ashamed that one of us had not offered to go with him. There was nothing I could do now. Policemen were shoving us and the rest of the VIPs through a narrow enclosure that had been held open for the governor and his entourage.

Once the governor’s black Mercedes sped away, the police melted into the crowd and hundreds more chanting worshipers surrounded us in their desperate quest to get close to the
janda.

Mark’s hand grabbed for mine, but I was already being sucked into the swirling mass of pilgrims. Our fingers laced together briefly before the crowd closed in and forced us apart. I was starting to panic as men, who had suddenly noticed the presence of an uncovered woman in their midst, began to press their bodies against mine. Slapping them away and shouting at them in Dari to back off, I forced my way into the midst of a group of women.

Enraged but also frightened by the anonymous men who had violated me with their groping hands, I remained hidden inside the sea of blue burkas, trying to regain my composure. Thirty minutes later when the crowd had thinned and I found my way back to the PRT vehicle, Mark and Rahim were waiting with Jenkins.

“Thank God you’re safe, Angela,” cried Jenkins.

It was impossible to read the look on Mark’s face as he walked up and took my hand in his.

“I didn’t mean to abandon you in that crowd, Angela. There was nothing I could do.”

“It’s all right, Mark. I’m fine,” I said, pulling my hand out of his and hoping that neither he, Jenkins, nor Rahim could tell how terrified I’d been just a few minutes before. “How’s Nilofar? ”

My young Tajik interpreter could barely suppress his elation after the daring rescue, which had put him in direct and forbidden contact with Nilofar.

“Angela-
jan,
her brothers spotted us right after Nilofar’s grandmother touched the
janda,
” he said breathlessly. “Both her brothers thanked me for protecting the women since they had become separated from them in the crowd, just like you and the major.”

He was beaming and wanted to recount every detail of his adventure.

“Nilofar’s grandmother is fine and she is so happy. She had to touch the
janda
to cure her arthritis. She has invited the three of us to come to dinner. You, too, Major Davies,” said Rahim, making no effort to conceal his delight at the prospect of another evening at Nilofar’s home, even if it meant only speaking with her father and brothers.

Still out of breath with excitement, he turned to Mark and added, “Thank you, Major Davies, for allowing me to go and help them.”

“Of course, Rahim, you did the right thing,” replied Mark with a mixture of disapproval and relief. He glanced at his watch and turned to Jenkins. “Right, Corporal, let’s see how quickly you can get us back to the PRT without flattening any camels. They’ll be serving lunch for another forty minutes, and I for one have had enough excitement today. Any objections if we skip the afternoon’s festivities? I really don’t think the governor will notice our absence. Angela, I’d hate to deprive you of another
buzkashi
game, but . . .”

“No problem here, Mark,” I said as we climbed into our vehicle.

An hour later, I was sitting in the officers’ mess with a plate of spaghetti balanced on my knees, regaling three young officers with tales of our morning’s adventure at the Blue Mosque. I looked up and smiled at Mark as he appeared in the doorway holding his lunch tray. He hesitated for a moment, turned away, and walked alone into the soldiers’ dining hall.

By early April, the PRT had been without its senior interpreter for more than four months. The ailing professor was still staying with relatives in Kabul and recuperating from a series of surgeries. None of the interpreters knew exactly what was wrong with him or when he was coming back, but they didn’t seem to miss him and seldom commented on his absence. Rahim, the most proficient English speaker after the professor, was called on with increasing frequency to accompany Colonel Jameson to his meetings with the Afghans.

Richard had been more absent than present lately due to the British Embassy’s constant requests that he come to Kabul to fill in for officers on R&R. He was also traveling on a regular basis to the American PRT in Helmand Province, where preparations were under way for a handover to the British Army in early 2006.

When Richard was not available, Colonel Jameson expected me to join him at all meetings outside the PRT. This meant that Rahim and I were spending even more time together.

I was growing increasingly fond of this passionate, intelligent young man who brimmed with ideas for his country’s future.

Since meeting Jeef, Rahim had developed an intense interest in archaeology. On our lengthy day trips to meet with officials in the neighboring provinces, he often carried along stacks of books about his new favorite subject. When I asked him about the piles of reading material on the backseat of the Beast, all stamped with the faded crest of Balkh University, he replied with a satisfied smile, “I am learning about the ancient and amazing history of my country, Angela-
jan
.”

“Where are you getting these books? ”

“I have a friend at the university who is checking them out of the library for me,” he replied, pressing his lips together to avoid providing additional details about his “friend.”

“Do I know this ‘friend’? ” I asked.

“You do, Angela-
jan
, but I can’t discuss that with you right now,” he said as his face reddened. He lowered his dark lashes to hide the excitement his eyes.

“Be careful, Rahim,” I warned, “both of you.”

 

 

The following afternoon, Rahim arrived breathless and grinning at the door of the bullpen. “Angela-
jan,
Nilofar is outside waiting to see you. She says her grandmother has finally invited us for dinner to thank me for rescuing them at Nauroz. They want the major to come as well. Do you think he will?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself, Rahim.”

Nilofar had been stopping by the PRT on a fairly regular basis. She normally had a women’s rights issue to discuss with me, but her arrivals and departures seemed always timed to coincide with Rahim’s duty schedule.

Our little walled compound was the only place in all of Mazār-i-Sharīf where the two of them could safely steal a few minutes alone in the shaded archway that led to the outer gate.

Rahim had pleaded and Mark had reluctantly agreed to accompany us to Nilofar’s home for dinner despite his disapproval of the little white lie about Rahim being my distant cousin.

This minor ruse bothered me far less than the much greater deception I was involved in—the embassy’s continued insistence that I conceal my Dari language ability. Over the past three months, I had attended meetings with and monitored every one of the interpreters at the PRT. I found their translations accurate even when we were asking warlords and known corrupt officials about opium poppy production. The ailing professor, whom I had yet to meet, was the only one I had not monitored.

I was growing weary of this subterfuge. And because I was worried that when the truth came out it would damage my relationship with Rahim, I could never completely relax in his presence. My requests to the embassy continued to fall on deaf ears.

The only useful side-chatter I was picking up from the Dari-speaking men seated near me at meetings were grumblings of resentment about the continued presence of foreign troops in the northern provinces. Mark, who had been asked by the colonel to join him at meetings attended by Balkh’s Pashto-speaking chief of police, was reporting similar comments.

 

 

“Angela, may I have a word with you?” Mark had followed me into the hall after a long staff meeting.

“Sure, Mark, what’s up?” I attempted as always to lighten the tone of our conversations. His was so annoyingly formal for a person I had seen almost every day for more than three months.

“It’s about your observation today that we are ignoring rural Afghan females at our peril.”

“Go on,” I replied, placing my hands on my hips and bracing for another argument.

“How can our patrols interact with females when the MOTs are all composed of men from infantry companies? And what could a woman possibly tell us that would be useful in any event? ”

“Perhaps the British Army should try recruiting a few female soldiers from other regiments to join the patrols. You’re missing out on a lot of information when you ignore half the population, Mark.”

He stared at me in silence as I walked away, satisfied that I had made my point.

April 8, 2005
✦ THE VILLAGE OF MARMOL