The Middle of Everywhere (29 page)

Zahra was actually about my age, but she looked much older. I compared her life to mine. While she had worried that her children would be killed, my worries had been about my kids getting into graduate school or finding a nice apartment to rent. While she struggled to keep from starving and freezing to death, I had debated whether to become a vegetarian. Our lives showed in our faces and our bodies. Zahra had arthritis and decayed teeth. I had no serious health issues and had access to good doctors and dentists.

At first Zahra had worked cleaning office buildings, but she had been fired for moving slowly. She was unlikely to find a new job with her age, limited English, inability to read or write, health problems, and depression. Zahra was terribly lonely here, and she worried constantly about her son. I asked her once if she had any dreams and she had burst into tears and moaned, "I have no dreams."

She sat alone in her basement apartment watching the worst possible television shows and accumulating a great deal of misinformation. She had heard that Americans had half a million sex slaves hidden away in their basements. I said I doubted that. She had heard a computer could make all the airplanes in the world crash at once. I said I had never really thought about that. She asked me if all American men had mistresses. I offered a definitive no.

I advised her, "Please do not watch so much television. Sit outside under the trees or visit with your friends."

The one thing that gave me hope was that Zahra was interested in Ritu's pregnancy. She would feel Ritu's rounded belly and smile her toothless grin. "Baby," she would say. "Baby good."

Zahra had few visible attributes of resilience, no family, and a terrible history. She had no hope, energy, ambition, or trust. She felt cursed and wished she could visit a shrine and pray for forgiveness. She wondered what terrible crime Afghanis had committed that their nation was being punished so heavily. If anything could save Zahra, it would be this community of women who included her in their lives.

Nessima had a better situation. She was hardworking and healthy and her family was intact. But her lack of education would keep her in minimum-wage jobs. Her husband's family had checked her teeth like she was a horse the day they met and inspected her. She and her husband had always had a troubled relationship and in Nebraska it had deteriorated. However, at least they could both work and provide their four children with a home and adequate food.

Nessima often quoted sexist old sayings such as, "A woman in bed by night, by day a walking stick." She told me that when she and her husband fought, she taunted him, "If you're a real man, beat me." I responded carefully, "That isn't a good thing to say in America. It is against the law to hit women here. Your husband could go to jail. And, Nessima, you could be hurt."

Nessima's husband also worked at the dog food factory, first shift, so that he could watch the kids while she worked. He felt Americans were sinful and unfriendly. Nessima said of him, "
Hello
and
sorry
are the only English words my husband knows."

Nessima appeared to have mixed feelings about Nebraska. The world she believed in had grown murderous. In this new place, she was working and learning to drive. Her values remained conservative, but she enjoyed her freedom to shop, go to classes, and to drive her kids to Kmart and the parks.

She didn't enjoy her job—after eight hours on the killing floor, her bones ached and she stank from dried blood, but she liked making money for the first time in her life. Even though she handed her husband her check, they were both aware that she earned half their income. In Nebraska, power was more evenly divided between them; Nessima wasn't as humble as she used to be.

Ritu was a shy, pretty young woman. Looking at her in the support group, smiling and gentle, it was hard to believe she had witnessed the executions of all the men in her family. She'd escaped with her three children, traveling on foot to a refugee camp in Pakistan where they had survived a harsh winter with no tent. She had been raped in that camp, although no one spoke of this directly. Now she was pregnant with the baby of the rapist.

Generally in Afghanistan, rape is a great shame for the victim and her family. But this was America and the women were reacting in a new way. Ritu had no time for shame and the other women spoke of the upcoming birth with happy anticipation. They all did what they could to help. When Ritu worked double shifts, Zahra slept at her house. Nessima invited her home for meals, and Leda gave her used children's clothes.

Until the war came, Ritu had been a nurse, an educated woman with a husband she loved and healthy children. When the Taliban closed her clinic, she'd been forced to stay at home, knowing her patients desperately needed help. After her husband was killed, she and the children almost starved to death. Yet here in Nebraska, she never complained.

Ritu supported her family with a minimum-wage job. Her disposable income was probably about what I spent each month on café lattes. Still, she shared whatever she had with the rest of us. Today she kept passing me pistachios and encouraging me to eat. The only time I had seen her cry was when she told us about her baby's ultrasound and said the doctor believed the baby would be healthy. She'd asked me, "Why am I crying when I am happy? I never cried when I was sad."

In these women's stories, a lot of pain had gone under the bridge. But the women were clearly happy to be in America and in this group. They were delighted their children were well fed and learning to read. Ritu said, "We are grateful to Lincoln. It is a quiet, safe place."

Americans seemed lonely to them. Leda said in Iraq if a new family moved into a neighborhood, for a week they wouldn't lift a finger. Neighbors would bring them meals and do their chores. Fathers would help the men carry things and mothers would clean and cook for the wife to make her feel welcome. She sighed and said, "Everyone here is too busy." Ritu added, "In America everyone makes his own life, and that is a good thing and a bad thing."

As usual, the women discussed food and shopping. They all were amazed at the products in our stores. Nessima was surprised there were dolls that talked and that you could buy a mix to make a cake. The first time she went to Kmart she walked up and down the rows wondering what everything was for. Ritu told of seeing all the types of women's underwear at Kmart. At first she couldn't figure out what these objects were. She said, "They were so beautiful. All the colors of the rainbow."

The women all agreed that cooking was better in their homelands where food was sacred. Leda said Kurdish women won't cook when they are stressed. They believe negative emotions ruin the food. The Kurds eat together slowly, talking for hours.

Ritu said, "Middle Easterners eat slowly and calmly. We don't talk about bad things at meals. They are peaceful times."

Leda noted the casual attitude Americans take toward food. She said, "With Americans eating is just for physical need." She was shocked to see us eat on the rim or while we were doing other things, such as driving or attending a lecture.

Nessima was amazed by vegetarians. Meat was very desirable in her country. She made a hand gesture near her brain to signal that she thought vegetarians were a little crazy. She told me, "They have never tasted my lamb curry."

All the women loved American buffets. Nessima oohed and aahed over the local Buffy's Buffet selection. Even Zahra had been taken there on her birthday. I remembered a
New Yorker
cartoon showing two pilgrims talking: "Actually the attraction wasn't freedom from religious persecution, but, rather, the all-you-can-eat buffet."

Ritu said, "Afghanis believe it is a sin to waste food." She was upset when her children made art with macaroni and uncooked pinto beans at school. She said, "I have many relatives who are hungry. It is disrespectful of the school to use food so foolishly."

At the mention of relatives, the room grew quiet. Leda looked at me. I asked gently if they remembered their assignment to bring pictures of their old homes. Leda brought out pictures of her house in Iraq. Then Nessima and Zahra showed pictures of their homes. All had nice houses with pretty gardens. As they passed these pictures around, all four women cried.

Nessima said, "Before the Taliban, Afghanistan was modern and happy. The streets were filled with neighbors talking. Now the streets are empty. Men are fearful they will be forced to fight for the Taliban. Women are prisoners in their own homes."

Zahra said, "Even young girls have to be completely covered to go outside."

"To escape, people walked or rode horses into Pakistan. Many died on the way," Nessima explained. "Children froze or fell off mountains."

Ritu spoke of her brother still in Afghanistan. "I don't even
know if he is alive. It is impossible to exchange mail or call him. There are no airports. There is no consulate."

Leda said simply, "I, too, have seen a life of war. Every day I thought I might die. No matter how hard America is, I am grateful to be here. My children have a chance in this country."

I asked the women if they would like to do an art project. There is an old chestnut: Art turns agony into ecstasy. I didn't expect any ecstasy, but I did hope that drawing might help these women express feelings they couldn't express in their limited English.

They nodded in polite agreement. I pulled out paper and colored pencils. The women marveled at my supplies. I said, "Sometimes it is good to draw sad events, to take them out of your heart and place them on a piece of paper."

I said, "I know this may be painful for you. I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think it would help you. I want you all to draw a picture of fear."

Zahra hesitated for a while, but the others drew eagerly and unselfconsciously, like schoolchildren. I realized most had never had an art lesson or even an opportunity to draw. They had no one's art to compare with their own.

Ritu drew women in black clothes scurrying around the corners of buildings looking for food. They looked like crows, all in black, skinny, trying to find crumbs. She drew herself in the robes she had been forced to wear by the Taliban. She told me, "The first time I wore that heavy cloth over my face I had an asthma attack."

She continued, her eyes blazing with emotion, "The cloth was hot in summer and cold in winter. I couldn't wear my glasses with the eye veil and I was blind without them. I fell down many times." She paused to collect herself and then said, "Walking across mountains in the snow I threw it away. I couldn't wait any longer to get rid of what I hated."

Nessima drew herself and her children in black boxes that looked like coffins. She said, "We were prisoners in our small hut. It was a very dark time."

Leda drew her family on the run, a line of people with the father in the lead, then the mother, then the children in a row like ducks. Everyone was holding hands. Above the family was a crescent moon. In the distance, bombs were felling.

Zahra didn't draw anything for a long time. Then she drew slowly, her nose almost touching the paper. Watching her work, I had the feeling she had never drawn anything before. When she finally finished and lifted her head, I saw that she had drawn a meadow with sheep.

To me, it didn't look like an unhappy scene, just a crudely drawn meadow with stick sheep. But Zahra's face had been drained of color and she was trembling. I asked about this meadow. She shook her head many times and said only, "Something terrible happened here."

The women passed around their drawings. Nobody said very much. We could all guess at the feelings behind these sad pictures. I thought about the difference between the last five years of my life and the last five years of theirs. I wondered how I had ever had the nerve to complain about anything.

I collected the drawings and said, "I want to teach you an important word." On the board I wrote "hope" and I said it aloud several times. I defined it. They all smiled.

Ritu said, "Hope is good."

After the drawings of fear, we drew peace. The women drew their homes in America. The pictures, with big flowers and round suns in the corners, looked like the drawings of fourth graders. Leda put an American flag in front of her house. The other women admired that touch and they all drew flags in their front yards.

I talked about ways to relax. I suggested warm baths, lotions, and foot and back rubs from their families. I said that going outdoors and admiring the flowers and trees would be relaxing.

Zahra said her doctor said that swimming would help with her arthritis. Nessima said she would love to swim, but her husband wouldn't let her go to a public pool. Leda and Ritu both said they wouldn't feel comfortable swimming near men. I said, "I will check into a swim class for women only at the YWCA." I added, "Ritu, swimming is good for pregnant women."

The women gathered up their purses and books. Leda showed the others free tickets for the circus she had received from a local radio station. She said, "I will take my kids to look at lions and elephants. It will be a happy day for us."

Zahra looked sad and hunched over. She was heading home to her television with its tall tales and advertisements for things she would never be able to buy. I made a mental note to look into her son's situation. It would take time, but eventually we might be able to bring him to America.

Ritu touched Zahra's shoulder and said, "I am hoping you will help me with my baby. My time is soon."

Zahra straightened up as she agreed to help. As she left the room, she told Nessima, "Baby is good. Very good."

As I watched Ritu lift herself heavily from her chair, I thought about her coming baby. Ritu was already overworked, but she had never hinted that the baby would be a burden. In fact, she had told me she was very eager to see her baby take its first "breath of life."

I reflected on all of the stories from all over the world in which a child comes to end suffering. This may be our first and oldest human story. The Christmas story is one example of the many birth and salvation stories. A family wanders far from home, poor and scared, looking for a safe haven. A stranger is kind and allows them a place to rest. A baby arrives in a time of darkness and fear. The stars in the sky signal the glory of this event. The newborn brings its family great joy and the hope that he will save the world, at least the small world of the family. It's an archetypal story because it reflects our deep belief in the healing power of children. The face of hope is a newborn baby, not just for Zahra, but for all of us.