Tiny Dancer (7 page)

He hit the first hard bump in the road a lot closer to home than he expected, when he brought the news to his father about this powerful medical challenge. Dr. Richard Grossman was less than enthused about the chances of success for such a complex endeavor. Where his son saw great opportunity, the elder surgeon saw overwhelming potential for outside interference. He didn’t challenge his son’s ability to do the procedures, but had no appetite for trying to press forward with such a complex set of procedures, under the constant gaze of bureaucratic supervision.

But Peter Grossman was not to be dissuaded. Old father-son rivalries that been hanging in the air for years ignited like gasoline fumes. Peter was surprised by the passion he felt in opposition to his father’s reaction. It struck him as more of a father/son dismissal of Peter’s ambitious plan than a serious rejection of the surgical and humanitarian opportunities of the case. Although Peter had always been even-tempered by nature, when strong emotions were present, his response was to channel them into head-down, eyes-forward determination. He vowed that if he had to carry this case forward on his own, he would do exactly that. He arranged for the facilities of the Grossman Burn Center to be there for Zubaida, as well as the nearby Sherman Oaks Hospital.

Rebecca prompted the Children’s Burn Foundation to move quickly. “There are others overseas who’ll step in, if you don’t,” she warned. Then she hammered on the risk of leaving this girl’s case to less experienced or less well-equipped surgeons.

At last, the Foundation sent a letter guaranteeing up to $300,000 worth of the many costs behind caring for a child through a year of medical procedures.

There would be a long and complex series of
at least
twelve operations from a course of treatment that Peter laid out, based on her medical file and the detailed photos of her injuries. Since he couldn’t make a final treatment determination until he examined her in person, it was possible that her surgeries could take even more time. She would certainly be in the U.S. long enough to require schooling, in the meantime. There was even word that her dental situation was abysmal and could required major care, as well.

Red tape began to roll in the door on giant spools.

So far, Zubaida’s supporters had managed to slip in under the media radar, still fearing political backlash from jealous other interests, but now that there were Afghani ex-patriots in the U.S. who got tipped off to the story, there was real worry over the possibility of a rush of angry competitors to the NGO’s gates.

There had already been calls, inquiries…

* * *

Zubaida’s father explained it to her over and over. He explained it while she raged and appeared not to hear him and he explained it again when she was calm and seemed able to listen. She heard him every time, but it was impossible for her to believe what she was hearing. Ever since her injury, doctors had meant nothing but pain to her. The American doctors were gentler and in the past weeks, their medicine had healed up most of her infected wounds, but meanwhile the scars had kept right on devouring her to the point that she couldn’t raise her head at all, anymore, and eating didn’t seem worth the trouble.

She could tell that the American doctors were trying to say soothing things to her. It didn’t help much; everybody said soothing things to her all the time. Then they started poking and scraping and driving her insane again. It was painful to listen to them, anyway. Their strange English language made them sound like they were talking through their noses—blurts of meaningless noise.

If it wasn’t for the anger and the fear seething inside of her over this invisible monster that was slowly strangling her, she wouldn’t be feeling much of anything beyond a dull despair. She was helpless in the world of adults. As the shrunken monster that she had become, she had no control over anything, not even her own body.

So when her father assured her that he would take the initial journey with her, the comfort in that was small—he hadn’t been able to do anything to keep the doctors from torturing her in Afghanistan or in Iran, had he? And even though the American doctors didn’t hurt her as much, they still insisted on washing her in places where she was hurting, where she wanted to be left untouched.

What could her father
actually do
, she wondered, if the Americans decided to kill them both? Or what if they decided that Zubaida wasn’t worth the effort and it was easier to just kill her? What could her father do to stop them?

Even worse, what if the Americans possessed ways to harm Zubaida and her father that neither of them could even imagine—ways that would make them wish for death, instead?

* * *

On June 2, 2002, The New York Times published articles stating that the FBI had stumbled in its anti-terrorist work so far, and the CIA was publicly acknowledging that the successful penetration of tiny, fanatical terrorist cells was virtually impossible. The CIA article contained a photo of former Director George Tenet at the CIA memorial wall, reaching out to touch a star representing an operative killed in Afghanistan. The war for hearts and minds in Afghanistan was portrayed as a near impossibility.

On that same day, halfway around the world, the same Special Forces Sergeant who had accompanied Mohammed Hasan to get his visa was now driving the military truck to ferry Hasan and Zubaida to the transport plane for the trip to Afghanistan’s capital of Kabul. From there, they would be administered with a host of vaccinations and Zubaida would have more antibiotic treatment before they flew on to the United States.

In the weeks since Zubaida was taken into the military medical system, the Sergeant and his squad had managed to keep a constant supply of small amounts of pocket cash flowing to Hasan and his daughter, making it possible for them to remain in Kandahar while preliminary medical work was done on her. The squad members all knew their careers were at risk for breaking the list of Perfectly Good Reasons why a local civilian should never be taken into the U.S. medical system. The infamously low pay of non-commissioned officers was a further deterrent to discourage the soldiers from pulling money out of personal supplies that were never enough to begin with.

The intensity of commitment required for Special Forces work discourages rule-breaking of any kind. Nevertheless, the domino chain never failed to move forward yet another notch, every time another combat soldier or military physician had their first actual contact with her. Whether it was the freakish level of her injuries or the unflinching eyes that stared back from beneath her carapace of scar tissue, the energy wave carrying Zubaida continued to roll ahead.

The unspoken message was somehow conveyed with every individual’s reaction to the dilemma that she presented. Whether or not they ever said the words, their actions spoke them loud enough to hear.

Screw it. Sometimes the rules just don’t fit.

The Sergeant pulled the truck next to the military transport plane and noticed that Zubaida appeared to be frightened and depressed. He realized that this was not only her first plane ride, but probably the first time she had ever seen one up close. So before they transferred out of the truck, he presented her with a basket of treats that some of the soldiers on base put together for her as a send-off gift.

Her eyes sparkled for a few moments when he surprised her with the basket, but her mood shot straight back down when she realized that the gift didn’t mean she was being spared from having to go. From her point of view, everything around her had become unreal and was happening much too fast.

Ever since her accident, any sort of new and strange experience went hand-in-hand with adults who did painful things to her. Now the massive rumbling sounds of the revving airplane engines were far too strange; they seemed to guarantee that there was going to be something awful waiting for her on the other end of this unbelievable trip.

The Sergeant backed the truck up to the high door of the transport so that Hasan could walk Zubaida aboard, then he followed them on and helped to strap her in her seat. She cried out every time he touched her, and she made it plain that she didn’t want to hear any soothing words, either—whether she understood them or not.

Hasan continually spoke to her in their native dialect, and although his American observer couldn’t understand the words, he could tell she didn’t take any comfort in whatever her father was saying to her.

What the Sergeant had no way of realizing was that from Zubaida’s point of view, Mohammed Hasan was allowing the two of them to be taken someplace very far away, in return for some vague promise of miracles—as if these Americans had the power to give Zubaida’s music back to her, anyway.

She understood that they were going to stop in the capital city of Kabul for a time, while they prepared for the rest of the trip. But she also knew that once they finally reached America, Zubaida and her helpless father were going to be alone, out there among the Others.

Chapter Three

Zubaida and her father
were met in Kabul by military physician Mike Smith. He had been coordinating her treatment to get her ready for the long trip, and the more he learned about this case, the more he found that it was beginning to become a thing of personal concern for him. His enthusiasm bubbled up out of him later that evening when he went home and sent an email to Peter Grossman.

It has been a wonderful day. Our translator arrived at 10:00 AM, and it turns out she was on the plane with me when we flew from the United States toward Afghanistan, back in January. That’s just the first of the many “divine coincidences” that took place today. Other members of the Task force that work at the US Embassy here picked us up and we met Mohammed Hasan and his little daughter, Zubaida, just as they came off the airplane at the Kabul International Airport.

Zubaida could not be more than 4 feet tall and very slender. She said she was very scared on the airplane and I told her I was very nervous the first time I flew on an airplane too. —She’s afraid of any medical contact. Just talking about putting an emollient on her cracking skin (further contractures are taking place) made her run behind her father and cry.

Hasan states that Zubaida is having nightmares more and more frequently. It doesn’t help that she gets reactions in public that are scarring her self image. I’ve had to stare down and actually block a few idiots from standing in front of her and making her feel awkward.

My main concern, though, is her adjustment to being a patient. She’s terrified at the opening of a pack of gauze and hasn’t let me anywhere near her.

After reading the letter, Peter had no doubt that Mike Smith was so involved with her case that somehow or other, he would find the time in his schedule and be just the man they needed to fly to the U.S. with her—and then accompany her father back home a week later. It was clear that this girl compelled people’s help, but at this point he still didn’t have any first hand knowledge of her.

* * *

On June 10th, 2002, Homeland Security Director Tom Ridge spoke to a gathering inside the Ronald Reagan Building in Washington, D.C., explaining President Bush’s decision to create a powerful new Office of Homeland Security. This purpose of this office was revealed to be the coordinating of all stateside security efforts among the FBI, the CIA, and any other organization involved in assuring the continued survival of American society.

The need for such action came with one of the Western world’s great political revelations of the early twenty-first century—that the concept of “freedom” is interpreted very differently by cultures around the planet, and that we can’t rely on “freedom” as a coin of influence that will be respected by all the world’s other realms.

Consensus had finally been reached at the highest levels on the idea that the government’s most powerful bureaucratic reaction to the state of the human condition was to restructure government agencies and increase their range of power.

The situation begged for an answer to the question of whether or not there is anything of great value that America
as a civilization
can export to the rest of the shrinking globe, besides certain material goods and the threat of annihilation.

In short, the highly advanced state of governmental defensiveness itself implies that the American heart is not only real, but worth preserving. It is something that can be recognized by its effect upon events at home and abroad. It is not that the people who live in the United States are any different than others around the globe, but rather that the pallet of opportunity presented by a democratic society enables and encourages the development of natural human traits that have often been repressed elsewhere by entire civilizations.

The creation of the new federal super-bureau was a standing acknowledgement that any example of the American heart is something that is recognized and appreciated, anywhere else on the planet where individual human life is respected—but that there are still many places where individual human life is garbage.

June 10th was also the day that Zubaida and her father landed in Los Angeles with Mike Smith, plus the NGO representative and a translator who met them at their London stop and flew with them. Smith was glad that the public in the U.S. was far less inclined to stare at her; they made it through the airport without any nastiness. All were driven to the offices of the Grossman Burn Center of Sherman Oaks, in the San Fernando Valley northwest of downtown Los Angeles.