Refugees (23 page)

“Well, I understand your point too,” said Louise. “At certain times, connecting emotionally with patients is the right thing for a doctor to do.”

“I think so. But you
are
a talented doctor,” Dawn insisted. “I never forgot how you bandaged that man in Oakland, you know, after the car accident. And maybe sometimes it's good to distance yourself, as long as you can connect at other times.”

“That makes sense,” said Louise. “Finding out just how horrible some patients' lives are can be unsettling. I try just
to focus on treating the patient. I imagine myself fixing them and push the rest out of my mind. But I suppose that's unrealistic, dumb….”

“It's not dumb,” answered Dawn. “You're doing your job, that's all. What do you treat most patients for?” she asked with real interest.

“Malnutrition, which is complex because it contributes to a host of other diseases, including pneumonia and malaria.”

“Why?”

“When people, especially kids, are weakened by malnutrition, they pick up whatever is going around. In Suryast, unfortunately, there's a lot going around.”

Dawn thought about all the people in New York who weren't physically sick but were so devastated. “What about psychological problems?” she asked. “In New York since the attack there's a lot of depression and posttraumatic stress disorder.”

“Oh? Has there been a lot of news coverage of New York?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Dawn paused. “Did you know that Johar saw his dad being shot, and that a land mine blew up his mother? I mean, God, how can a little kid handle that?”

Louise seemed surprised. “He hasn't talked to me about that.”

“He's a tough guy. We haven't been talking for that long, but the stuff he tells me…He doesn't even feel sorry for himself.” It felt good to Dawn that Louise was listening, maybe caring about the same things Dawn cared about. She went on. “Johar says he's lost without his family, but that taking care of Bija is freaking him out.”

Louise went silent. Dawn wondered if she'd lost interest
or was angry about something. “It's hard,” Louise said finally. “I didn't know both his parents were dead.”

Dawn asked, “Do you ever get over losing your parents?”

“Truthfully? No,” said Louise. “I lost my mother five years ago to kidney failure. And two years later my father died of cancer. I'm still trying to make my peace with it.”

“I didn't know.” Louise had dealt with huge loss right before Dawn's arrival. Was that why she wanted a daughter?

“Do you speak with Johar often?” asked Louise.

“Yeah,” Dawn admitted. “Do you? I mean, more than just about doctor stuff?”

“Sometimes. Maybe it's good that you talk with him, Dawn.”

“Yes. It is.”

Dawn opened the door to the blare of rock and a shrill whistle.

“Hey, hi,” Susie called. “Could you turn off that silly teakettle for me?”

“Welcome back,” said Dawn. She switched off the burner, poured water into a waiting cup, came into Susie's room, and placed it on her bedside table.

“Thanks.” Susie swished the tea bag in the hot water. “Dawn, you've got to see these guys.” She pointed to the TV.

Dawn leaned against the door frame. An MTV VJ was interviewing young men in loose shirts and pants. “They're handsome,” Dawn remarked. “Where are they from?”

“Afghanistan. They're interviewing kids in Kabul about music, about their lives.”

The skin along Dawn's back prickled. A glimpse into Johar's world!

The guy who was being interviewed had expressive hands, which he waved around as he spoke. “I like rock music and adventure films, but now, no Western films. Too bad for that. Still, we sneak in Hindi films,” he said. The VJ asked him if he prayed five times a day and if it was hard to get up so early. “Yes, I pray five times in day. Not hard to rise in morning. I
like
to rising before sunup.”

His English is almost as good as Johar's,
marveled Dawn. Suddenly she wondered what Johar really looked like, what it would feel like to see him and sit together rather than just talking on the phone. She imagined how cool it would be to sit close and read poetry together.

Susie plumped a pillow. “Come. Get comfy.” Dawn plopped down, and Susie handed her a bowl of charred popcorn. The VJ was interviewing a cluster of young Afghan girls now. “Such grace,” Susie said. “Those flowered scarves. Too cool.”

“They
are
beautiful.”

The next TV clip was a close-up of a woman. “Look at that awful burqa,” Susie remarked. “But the way she drapes it, and her proud voice. Such dignity.”

“From the news reports,” Dawn said, “it's only a matter of time before the Taliban is crushed. The allied forces are almost to Kabul. But it's coming at such a huge price. We're clueless in the States to their level of pain.” Dawn couldn't believe how much she sounded like Louise. “My foster mother's translator tells me such awful stories.”

“Yeah, the stories those people would tell,” Susie exclaimed. “I'd love to interview them.” Her pixie grin spread as she turned to Dawn. “And I've got to admit, I'd love to get my hands on a few bolts of that floral fabric.”

“Wouldn't it be fantastic if we could go over there?” Dawn blurted out.

“Yes!” Susie exclaimed. “You know, ever since you told me your foster mom was stationed over there, I've been trying to work an angle on a news feature. Maybe I could interview the ICRC doctors and their patients.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Susie took a bite of popcorn, made a face, then spat some burned kernels into her palm. “What a rotten cook I am. What do you say I treat you to dinner? You've done such a smash-up job of watching Mara and Chester.”

“You're not a rotten cook,” Dawn said as she eyed the burned popcorn. “On second thought—you are.” They laughed. “I'll take you up on that offer,” she added.

Susie jumped up. “Let's go,” she said and dumped the popcorn into the trash. “You've got to tell me every detail of what's been happening.”

N
ovember winds snapped at the folds of Johar's pattu beneath him. He turned his head left, then right while reciting praise of Allah's mercy. With that, the early morning namaz was done, and Johar rose restlessly, recalling the note on his tent. If it was Daq who had arrived, what a miracle it would be!

“The man said he was family,” Vikhrim said when Johar hurried into the office. “But he wore the black turban of a Taliban. You are a Tajik from the north. What was I to think?”

The turban ruled out Tilo. He would have worn a Western suit. “My brother, Daq, may be fighting with the Taliban. What did the man's face look like?” Johar asked impatiently. “And why didn't you tell me this earlier?”

“I did not want for you getting eager, for who knows if this man is who he saying he is?” Vikhrim examined Johar's face. “He was square-jawed like you, but taller.”

It must be Daq! They would have much to talk about. Yet despite his anticipation Johar was unsettled. Vikhrim said that the man had appeared ill. War could make a man sick, even insane. And what if Daq's arrival
was
a Taliban ruse—a trick to take Johar by force now that the snakes had begun to lose their stranglehold on Afghanistan? Still, every muscle in Johar's body longed to grasp his brother in a long embrace.

Johar inhaled the acrid smoke of fires, which with the onset of cold weather had replaced the reek of open sewers. Finally the Alliance, with help from the Americans, had liberated the northern strongholds of Mazar-i-Sharif and nearby Taloqan. Maybe soon Kabul! The news had spread from tent to tent, and most had been overjoyed. Only the southernmost farmers, whose Pashtun families formed the Taliban's loyalist ranks, were upset by the news, for if the Alliance marched on Kabul, the balance of power would surely shift away from the Taliban. The Americans, Vikhrim said, were pleading with the Alliance to hold off from taking Kabul until a coalition government could be formed. It made sense that each tribe should be represented in any new government. Otherwise, quarrels would never cease.

“Bija, let's hurry. I'm late for the clinic.” Johar helped tie the sash on her gown.

“I'm hungry,” Bija whimpered.

“You had a bite before dawn. And you wanted to be like the grown-ups and fast. During Ramadan we grownups wait until sundown to eat again. Besides, Anqa will feed you later.” Lately Bija's demands rankled his raw nerves.

“But my belly hurts.”

“Enough!” he snapped. Children weren't required to fast. Johar crouched down and dipped his hand into the rice bowl. He gave her a mound, which she popped in her mouth.

“Jor, tell me about Ramadan,” she said, happily chewing.

Johar sighed. He began to comb out her tangles with his fingers. “Prayer and fasting purify one's body so that Allah shines through. Ramadan is about charity to others, and about family.” He remembered when his family would pass out coins to the beggars near the bazaar. He envisioned the candles at night and his father's soothing voice reading the Quran.

“Then where is Uncle Daq?” asked Bija.

“We don't know if it was Uncle Daq who wrote the note. Have patience.” Johar had made a stupid blunder in telling Bija. If it wasn't Daq, they would both be crushed.

“What about sweets?” asked Bija. “You said children get sweets on the last day.”

“Yes, on Eid al-Fitr, the festival at the end of Ramadan, which breaks the fast. I have no sweets, my pearl, but how about a ride on a swing? Maybe I can fashion one.” Johar finished braiding her hair and covered it with her print scarf.

“A ride on a swing! Promise?” Bija ran outside with her dolly. A moment later she screeched, “Look! It's Uncle Daq!”

Johar tripped over the edge of the tent flap in his haste. It was Daq, loping towards them in a black turban and dirty shalwar kameez! Johar ran to Daq and hugged him. Bija was already hugging his legs.

Daq laughed. “No need to fall over yourselves to greet me.” His ribs stuck out like old camel bones and his flesh was cold yet damp. Stepping back, Johar stared into his brother's eyes. They were yellowish, sunken, and bloodshot. “Well, what do you see?” asked Daq. Johar recalled that look in the eyes of men who had crouched like apparitions along Baghlan's most crime-filled street. No, it couldn't be—the yellowed whites of a drug addict? “I saw the note you sent, brother. Wedged in her door.”

“Was Maryam there?” Johar's heart leaped to his throat. “Did you see her?”

Daq shook his head, and Johar's heart sank.

“It's a relief to see you,” Johar said. “But are you ailing, brother?”

Daq's face creased with irritation. “I'm fine.” Bija climbed silently into his shrunken arms, arms whose muscles had once rippled like the flanks of stallions. “The Taliban took care of me. See, new boots, as Naji promised.” Daq held up his foot with a boot once shiny, now clotted with dirt, its seam parting at the toe.

“Handsome boots.” Johar attempted a smile. “You're here! I can hardly believe it. Where are you staying?”

“I'm staying behind the old bazaar stalls south of the Khyber Pass.” Daq lurched forward, then backward. “I'm here to bring you back with me.”

Even in his dilapidated state, Daq was still imposing. It would be good to have him along when they trekked back to Baghlan through the mountains, with its wild bands of luti hidden behind every curve. Johar said, “Thank Allah you're done with the war.”

“The war? The war is just beginning. I'm taking you back with me. Little brother, it's about time you learned to fight as a soldier.”

“But the Taliban are almost done for,” said Johar. “Thank the heavens you're still alive for soon their forces will be driven from every village.”

Daq laughed. “They are only taking a break and will return to finish the job.”

“What about me?” Bija asked. “Where will I go?” She wiggled from Daq's grip, scurried to Johar, and hid in the folds of his garments.

“We'll take you with us, to Ramila's,” Daq said.

“But I want Mama,” Bija demanded, and began to cry. Daq was silent.

“No one's heard word from Aunt Maryam?” Johar asked. “Are you sure?”

“No.” Daq muttered, gazing unsteadily at the ground. “I told her to stop her teaching, but she wouldn't listen. I told her—”

Johar's skin prickled along his arms in a dark sense of foreboding. He stroked Bija's head to soothe her. Dawn's words echoed in his mind:
protect life in your own unique way.

“Let's go, brother. Pack your bags. Time to move on,” Daq demanded.

Bija peeked from the folds in her cousin's robe. “Johar needs to work at Dr. Garland's today,” she explained in a grown-up voice.

Johar smiled almost apologetically. Maybe this would stall things—give them time to change Daq's mind. “I have a job at the Red Cross clinic. Come along, I'll introduce you.”

“Red Cross clinic? An American organization?” Daq uttered with suspicion.

“It's international, actually,” Johar replied. As they walked on, Johar tried to overlook how gaunt Daq had become, how he stumbled, his rattling cough. He pictured
them walking to Maryam's together before the war had begun.

Johar let Bija come along instead of taking her to Anqa's. As he watched her skip up ahead, he worried what Daq would think of Dr. Garland.