Tiny Dancer (33 page)

They immediately sought out a UN ticket office to take care of the plane tickets for Zubaida’s parents, then went to secure a room and found a clean but very basic “guest house” that would allow both Americans and Afghan guests. Then they ended the day with a meeting between Peter, Zubaida, and members of an Afghanistan-based charitable NGO that had been set up by and Afghan-American friend named Captain Daoud, to begin discussing possible options for Zubaida’s future.

Peter had hoped that she would enjoy translating for him. They made a deal before they left California that she would be his interpreter in Afghanistan, since she could now communicate well in
Farsi
and English. She had gained experience at dealing with
Farsi-
speaking people during her journey because they are so much easier to find in America than speakers of her native
Dari
. Her
Farsi
skills had grown along with her English, so that when Peter first brought up the idea of her being his translator, she seemed eager for the chance.

But once inside the country, she became very clingy and nervous, refusing to speak
Farsi
at all. She told the people in their greeting party that she didn’t remember any
Farsi
, although Peter recalled her knowing a great deal of it a week earlier in California.

He recognized the withdrawal behavior as part of her frequent reaction to overwhelming circumstances, and felt sure that if he didn’t push her about it she would straighten herself out on her own. So they bid goodbye to Captain Daoud and others and made their way back to the guest house, then got into their beds early for the long rest that they were both going to need the following day.

The next morning, they did a little touring around and sight-seeing along a tiny avenue called “Chicken Street” that was packed with beggars and vendors. They went mostly to help the time go by until her parents arrived later that day. There were plenty of other sights to distract them, as well; newly opened schools were being held in bombed-out buildings, while commerce was being reborn inside of hundreds of large metal cargo containers—turned into tiny shops that peddled every sort of merchandise. The makeshift storefronts lined the streets of the
bazaar.

After lunch, right about the time that the distraction factor of the marketplace commotion was beginning to wear thin, it came time for Zubaida’s reunion with her parents. To avoid drawing a crowd, Peter arranged for a car to take Zubaida’s parents from the airport back to the guest house, where they would all meet in the private courtyard. Captain Daoud and U.N. officer John Oerum and a translator were there, along with a small crew from ABC television. By the time that Mohammed and Bador Hasan arrived at the guest house and were escorted into the garden, Peter and Zubaida were already there waiting.

He noted that Zubaida was beginning to fall into her familiar state as the excitement and anticipation began to overwhelm her. But the moment that her parents stepped into the courtyard and Zubaida made eye contact with them, the buzz of conversation from everyone else fell silent. Peter watched the reaction build. At first, father and mother could only gasp in delight and disbelief at the degree of recovery to their daughter’s features and body. Then came the cries of relief and tears of joy. Those quickly gave way to open wailing by both Mohammed and Bador, while Zubaida silently embraced them and buried her face against their shoulders.

Peter found himself overwhelmed by emotion. Mohammed stepped to him and brought his hand up to his heart in thanks, then embraced him. Peter looked him in the eyes as if to say
, here she is, I have kept my promise to you.
Then he cried along with her parents while they embraced him and poured out their joy and gratitude through the translator.

It all went on that way for another forty-five minutes or so, then everyone gave Zubaida and her parents time to be alone together. Peter had rented them a room there where they could go to have some privacy. Zubaida decided to move into their room right away. He watched during that first hour, while she began her metamorphosis into her Afghan identity, returning to her place as a living cog in the family machine. She took the role of responsibility in their presence, making sure that her mother had enough to drink and otherwise felt well and content. Peter stayed on at the family’s request and watched while Zubaida excitedly pulled out every item in her suitcase and showed them to her parents, some of which had to be carefully explained.

While she lost herself in the excitement of having both of her parents there with her again, giving her their full attention, Peter looked on and felt the heaviest pang of the separation blues hit him. He could see that he was no longer so important to this little girl who, only one day earlier, had been unwilling to leave his side. In that first moment, he couldn’t help but feel like saying,
remember me?
But the urge passed as he realized that he was seeing a good and healthy thing; there was no other direction for her but straight ahead, and she was taking the first step with a giant stride.

Now it was plain to see that she was home again, not just back in her home country, but back in the embrace of her family. Through all the months of Zubaida’s American experience and all of her exposure to luxuries she never knew existed, she never lost the desire to be back with her family. Peter reminded himself that no matter how well she adapted to life in America, she was an Afghan. No matter how harsh her home environment might appear to Western eyes, it was the familiar reality of her life, and the scene in front of him proved that her need to be back among her family was strong.

Over the next couple of days, Peter and Mohammed had a series of meetings with the Coalition for Human Assistance, a charitable Non-Government Organization,to discuss Zubaida’s future. The reality of her school situation was that the nearest school to Farah was at least a one hour walk in each direction. In the 110 degree heat of the desert summers and the sub-zero cold of the harsh Afghanistan winters, daily round trips of that size were unrealistic. The were some funds available from Zubaida’s small trust of donations, but even if they could be stretched to build a new school in her home town, the permits would have to be sought through the Ministry of Education’s bureaucracy, an unlikely priority for them at this stage in the country’s war recovery. But Peter left feeling that at least the dialogue had been started, and the CHA represented a local organization with the ability to reach Mohammed in Farah, in order to help maintain follow-up for Zubaida. The big questions weren’t going to get answered on this short trip, but the structure to pursue them was set in place.

On day four, everybody got ready for the flight from Kabul to Herat. From there, the family would drive on out to the village of Farah, but Peter would separate with them in Kabul and return to the United States. They reached the airport terminal through the chaos of street traffic just in time to hear the announcement that the flight had just been cancelled. There was nothing else to do but re-set themselves emotionally and go back to the guest house for the night. For Peter, it was both a reprieve and an extension of the torment. He could see that Zubaida was sad to leave him, but he also saw her high level of excitement at the prospect of going home and seeing the rest of her family. As painful as the impromptu “dress rehearsal” for the next day’s departure might have been, it also allowed him to witness her final, necessary transition within her own mind while she stepped back into her family fold and her cultural world. He watched that transition play itself out, right there in front of him—her adaptability was only surpassed by her strength of will.
What a life she could have!
he thought.

Or what a life might be slowly extinguished, in this place.

He was now free of his formal responsibility to her, but he was also losing the control of events around her and giving up the chance to protect her. He wondered what a modest trust fund could actually achieve for this girl, inside of this environment? How could such a thing even be administered, with her isolated in that remote village on the other side of the world from him?

His best and perhaps only real hope was that Zubaida would be allowed some sort of an individual future in the world, that her education would be completed and her intelligence and personality would be unleashed. But that was now in the hands of her father. Peter trusted that after the man put out such heroic efforts to find help for her, surely he would not just raffle her off to some warlord as a curiosity piece. Such a thing would be permitted, in that environment. There were sure to be those around Mohammed Hasan in the marketplace who would hiss their opinions into his unwilling ears and warn him to take a fair bid for his Scarred Miracle Daughter right away, while the freak show aspect of public awareness was fresh in people’s minds. She would be twelve, in a few months, an accepted age for marriage to an older, established man.

Meanwhile Peter and Rebecca could cheer from the sidelines via the occasional satellite phone call, for all the influence that might prove to be. She was back inside of her world again. There was no doubting it, now. The sense of assurance that he felt in knowing that this thing had been done right actually relieved some of the pain. Just not all of it.

The following day, July 3rd, was their fifth day there. It turned out to be the last for them; this time their plane was ready to board as scheduled and prepared to depart on time. In the confusion of getting everyone onto a van that would taxi the passengers out to the plane, everything seemed to speed up. There was barely time to say goodbye. Peter hugged Mohammed and Bador, and when it came time to hug Zubaida he felt tears welling up as he told her that he loved her. She looked him in the eye and said, “I love you too, Dad.” And that was all. Zubaida spun around to join her parents and jumped into the airport van. She waved while they rode away.

He went back to the guest house feeling a Zubaida-sized void in his heart. Usually, the objectivity of the work in the operating room kept him from getting emotionally involved with a patient. In Zubaida’s case there had been no holding back with any of that. Her very presence somehow compelled a sense of concern and interest in her; most people appeared to feel it from her. Even those who had been put off by her manic emotional behavior during her worst periods of stress nevertheless acknowledged that her ability to charm was as strong as her ability to disrupt. Her absence would leave a lasting void.

Peter felt like he had no more emotions left to wring out—in the tense hours before leaving, he hadn’t told Zubaida or her parents about the crushing phone call that he had received from Rebecca, bringing him the terrible news—their baby was lost to a miscarriage, and the couple was forced to deal with that news from opposite sides of the planet. There would be time enough to tell Zubaida later, if she needed to know at all. For this trip, Peter wasn’t going to tell her anything that would distract her from her reunion with her parents.

But now that the Hasans were gone, he learned that there was no way to catch an early flight home—the next flight back to the States wouldn’t leave for another two days. Not only was he kept from being with Rebecca, but he had to spend the following day cooling his heels in Kabul. His head throbbed and his stomach churned while he tried to offer Rebecca whatever consolation that he could, from so far away, but there was only so much that talking could do. He just needed to be home.

Then at last on July 5th, his flight arrived and, after a round of servicing, was finally announced ready to depart. But just before boarding, he got a call from the nearby military clinic, asking if he could take a look at a burned two year-old boy. Peter couldn’t delay this trip back to Rebecca, so the clinic arranged to rush the boy to the airport. In the final minutes before departure, he was able to examine the boy behind a makeshift curtain while curious onlookers shuffled around trying to get a peek.

He made some suggestions for treatment, offering to help them clear the bureaucratic red tape if they would contact him through his office, then raced to his plane to depart. There was no way for him to follow up with that particular patient, but he could see that it was another case where the future of the child would only be bright to the degree that somebody made it a point to find the proper help and make it happen.

Even the few days that he had spent in Kabul had shown him that the country was host to a generation of amputees and burn victims, mostly resulting from the millions of land mines planted throughout the countryside. Only the most determined and resourceful among them received any meaningful medical treatment. Against that background, the depth of determination that Mohammed and Zubaida both showed was all the more extraordinary, over the long months of their attempts to find help.

Once the plane lifted off and began to climb, Peter felt a palpable sense of relief. He never felt personally threatened while he was in Afghanistan and was treated with the kindness and respect for which Afghanistan’s people have traditionally been known. But a strong sense of foreboding had followed close behind him at every moment. While the frequent kidnapping and beheading of Westerners in the Middle East had not yet begun, he still felt a strong sense of the cold emotional winds that blew in the area. He knew that they had the capacity to change direction in an instant, and just that quickly, a place that was safe becomes deadly.