Veiled Freedom (24 page)

“It will be over soon enough. And when it is, it will be as glorious as you have dreamed; that I can promise you.”

“I do not care for the glory, only that your promises are kept.”

He turned back to the jagged opening that had once been a wall, but this time he didn't raise the binoculars. Against the black of night, his mind's eye saw the panorama spread out below. Not as it was nor even as it had once been. But as he'd dreamed it could be. A sweet scent of ripening fruit and grain and the lowing of fattened sheep and goats. The sturdy bulwark of compound walls and homes huddled together for warmth and comfort. Children with full bellies curled up in a father's embrace. Men's faces and fists relaxed in pleasure and kindliness, not hard and raised in anger. Music and feasting and laughter.

The sights and sounds and smells of peace.

Could it be that there were even now such pockets he was too blinded by hate to see?

A shudder shook him, a pang thrusting into him like air striking a freshly opened wound. Or a heart beginning to beat again. He bit hard on his lip until he felt pain instead.

He could not allow himself to feel, to find reason again on this earth to live and love.

He turned swiftly to the shadow beside him. “Soon then. I cannot wait much longer. It must be soon.”

And now the ark was full.

Stepping out onto the marble front steps, Amy accepted from Wajid the package a courier service had just delivered. As he hurried back to his post, she lingered, smiling at the music floating across the front courtyard. The laughter and joyous squeals of playing children.

A dozen of them squatted in a circle on the packed dirt that had once been a lawn, engaged in a lively game of duck, duck, goose—and no longer in silence. Catching sight of Amy, they stopped the game to swarm up the steps. “Ameera-jan! Ameera-jan!”

It hadn't taken the children long to learn her name with the “jan” ending denoting affection, while hugs and kisses needed no translation. Detaching herself reluctantly, Amy sent them scampering back to their game. Though she'd seen it again and again in the disaster relief camps, Amy continued to be astonished at the resilience of children, who with minimal food in their bellies and protection from heat and cold could find reason to play and laugh in the bleakest of circumstances.

Heading back down the hall, Amy walked through the open double doors into the inner courtyard.

“Salaam aleykum, Miss Ameera.”

“Salaam, Farah.”

The Tajik teenager and a Hazara woman were directing several older children in the cleanup of the noon meal, served on a long oilcloth under cover of the colonnade. Two women rinsed dishes in plastic tubs. Others were scattered along the three sides of the veranda, mending worn clothing, twisting yarn on wooden spindles, chatting idly, or resting silently against the wall, a toddler or two curled up in their laps. From inside the communal kitchen drifted music and dubbed drama from a Bollywood soap, courtesy of New Hope's latest addition, a satellite dish on the roof for broadband Internet and television.

Satisfied all was running smoothly, Amy took the outside staircase to the second floor. Two full weeks had passed since Amy's visit to the women's prison, the first few days a madhouse of purchasing supplies, visits to government offices, conference calls to DC. A pair of gas grills and wooden shelving had turned the downstairs salon next to the bathroom into a communal kitchen. Tushaks and more shelving converted the other inner courtyard salons to dormitories.

Alisha Chan and Debby Martini had rearranged their flights to be on hand when Geeti released the first wave of Welayat prisoners into Amy's custody, twelve women and twenty-six children in all. More had been released, but they either chose or were compelled to return to their own relatives. Which was just as well, since thirty-eight new residents was as full as Amy liked to see even in a property this size.

Moving the group into their new quarters was made simple by the scantiness of their possessions—some well-worn clothing, blankets, a few personal mementos. Amy's original idea was to erect some kind of partition so each woman had a space to call her own. But the women vetoed this, and Amy recognized they weren't accustomed to privacy, sleeping as poorer Afghan families did in a single room on tushaks rolled out at night.

Even so, the women had divided into distinct groups. The largest family group was a Hazara widow and two adult daughters, who like Roya were not in jail for zina but a roundup of poppy field harvesters. They had a dozen children among them, ranging from babies to ten- and twelve-year-old boys who were uncles to most of the others. They'd staked out the downstairs salon opposite the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Roya, Aryana, and Najeeda, all from the same Welayat cell with five children between them, chose the salon beside the upstairs bathroom. Farah and two women from other cells with their four children moved into one of the two upstairs salons on the other side of the courtyard while the final three women and their five children took the other.

The divisions were understandable. Roya's group were Pashtuns. Farah's Tajiks, her neighbors Uzbek. Amy didn't like perpetuating the ethnic divides that had caused so much trouble in this country. Yet she'd opened this sanctuary with the premise of offering these women choices, and since the living arrangements seemed to be working, she hadn't interfered. At least the neutral ground of kitchen and courtyard required the women to mingle as their children played happily together.

Communication hadn't proven a problem. Though each tribal group had its own language, the women all spoke some Dari, a
lingua franca
in Kabul, and it would seem in the Welayat as well. Many words were similar to the Urdu that Amy had learned in Kashmiri relief camps, and thanks to dogged study, she was already understanding much of the chatter floating up the stairs.

The final and smallest upstairs salon had been turned over to the two older Hazara boys along with four others above six years of age. Sooner or later, the problem of young males in this female sanctuary would have to be addressed. But not for a year or so. By then Amy could hope other opportunities would have opened for these women.

Entering the upstairs main wing, Amy stopped first by the apartment suite she now shared with Soraya. Two bedrooms were furnished scrupulously the same with twin bed, wardrobe, desk and chair, and bookshelf. The living area between was fixed up Afghan style with tushaks and floor rugs. Two cinder blocks and a board propped a TV against one wall. Amy had lingered with the children longer than she'd realized because when she'd hurried downstairs to retrieve her package, Amy and Soraya's noon meal had been spread out on an oilcloth. Now the oilcloth was cleared away, Soraya gone.

Already Amy couldn't imagine what she'd do without her new housemate. If Amy had settled the women into their new home and provided for their needs, it was Soraya who organized them into work teams to cook and wash and sweep. Soraya who'd helped Amy collect personal data from the new residents, no easy task since Afghans rarely recorded birth dates or possessed a surname. Soraya who'd taken over the new office computer after Amy discovered the keyboard was in the Arabic script Dari used.

Though if it weren't for Soraya, Amy would probably have joined the Welayat women's meals in the courtyard.

“No, that is not your place,” Soraya vetoed firmly. “You must maintain a proper distance to maintain authority.”

Though the distinction troubled Amy's democratic soul, there was something to be said for the clout of aristocracy. Soraya had only to walk into the courtyard and raise her voice for the women to end arguments over chores or meal choice.

Amy tore open her parcel as she continued down the hall to the project office. The package was from New Hope headquarters, and Amy knew its contents because Bruce had called to tell her. She shook out a small camcorder, no bigger than the palm of her hand. An advantage for filming discreet footage outside the compound. Nestor Korallis had been pleased enough at Amy's progress reports to postpone the rigors of travel and jet lag. Instead, Amy was to send video of the new project for its corporate donors.

“Soraya?”

But Soraya wasn't in the office either. Her computer was off, and when Amy glanced out the window, she saw her housemate hurrying down the walk toward the gate.

The Muslim weekend consisted only of Friday, most Kabulis working a six-day week. But last Thursday, the first since her arrival, Soraya had asked if she could take early leave after lunch. A family emergency, she'd murmured.
So maybe she thought I meant every weekend.

“Miss Ameera, you called?” Jamil appeared in the office doorway. “I am finished with the infirmary if you have need of me.”

“No, I just was looking for Soraya. But let me see what you have.”

Amy followed Jamil into the next room. After the Sarai open house, Amy hadn't seen her assistant until he'd picked her up for work Saturday morning. He'd shown Amy his new Friday mosque prayer rug as though he believed she might doubt his word.

But his communication thaw hadn't proved ongoing. If anything, Jamil was more silent than ever. Amy hoped uneasily he was being fed properly. The improvement she'd perceived that first week hadn't continued any more than his communicativeness. Where Jamil ate, Amy had no idea. He disappeared whenever Hamida carried up Soraya and Amy's meals.

I'm paying a food allowance. I wonder if I should talk to Rasheed, see how he's being fed. But Rasheed will be sure to think I'm interfering. Or accusing him of starving the help.

How these social and gender divisions complicated things. It would be so much simpler to run one big cafeteria for the compound. Amy looked around the room. A locked metal cabinet for medicines. A long, sturdy table for exams. Two foldout cots. Shelving held rudimentary medical instruments, bandages, gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and other supplies.

“It looks perfect. Did you find everything you need?”

“I purchased everything on their list.” Jamil held up a copy of
Where There Is No Doctor
, the useful humanitarian handbook translated into dozens of languages around the globe. For major emergencies, Kabul had a hospital. But this infirmary would handle the usual childhood ailments, cuts and scrapes, of which twenty-six children were already keeping Jamil in business as resident paramedic.

For their mothers something else would be needed. They'd never allow a male medic to touch them
. I wonder if any of the NGOs have a female nurse or doctor who'd be willing to come for an occasional clinic. I'd like to see the Welayat women get a thorough checkup.

As she mused, Amy turned back to her package, shaking the rest of its contents onto the exam table.

Jamil looked over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“It's a video camera. See, here is the foldout screen. And here's where you turn it on. There, you can see the medicine cabinet. It takes still photos too.”

“But it is so small.” Jamil's expression was alight with the first enthusiasm Amy had seen on him. Picking up the camera as Amy laid it down, he turned it deftly and carefully in his hands. “And where are the tapes?”

“It's digital. That means it can be uploaded right onto the computer.” Amy looked quizzically at Jamil. “You've used a video camera before?”

“When I was a student, I had a friend who worked for a news station in Islamabad. But his camera was big with very big cassettes.” Jamil set the camera down, then made a motion with his hands as though measuring a fish.

“Maybe you can try your hand at this one. If I can just figure out the manual.” Amy frowned over a page of diagrams and the usual incomprehensible techno-gibberish. “I'm trying to figure out how to shift from video to still shots.”

“But that is easy.” Lifting the manual from Amy's hand, Jamil studied it, then picked up the camera again. “You see this? The screen works like a computer monitor. You push this button as a mouse and choose this menu option.”

To Amy's open mouth, he added, “It is no more difficult to comprehend than a computer manual.”

Amy closed her mouth with a snap. “I could never figure those out either. Does this mean you know how to use a computer?”

Jamil spread his hands. “Not for many years, but if it has not changed too much, perhaps.”

“Then come with me.” Scooping the camera components back into their box, Amy led the way next door to the office. She handed a stack of printouts to Jamil. Translation was one of the biggest office needs; red tape needed translating from English to Dari for appropriate government offices and vice versa for New Hope headquarters. “Could you translate these?”

Jamil shuffled through a few sheets and nodded. “You need them today?”

“Only that MOI project approval I promised to fax Mr. Korallis. The rest can wait for Soraya to finish Saturday.”