Under an Afghan Sky (17 page)

I’d actually believed, perhaps naively, that it would help me blend in with my surroundings and maybe protect me a bit from threats like Khalid and his gang of kidnappers. How wrong could I have been?

“You really thought I was Hazara?” I wanted to know.

Khalid nodded.

“So why did you take me anyway? You know a Hazara probably couldn’t afford to pay you.”

“Yes, but we had to be fast. Police coming. So we take you.”

“And aren’t you lucky that I’m not a Hazara.” My sarcasm was lost on him.

“First, we think you China,” he said, shaking his head. “Bad. They no money.” I looked at him quizzically, and he explained that there were Chinese workers not far away, building a road. Another group had kidnapped a couple of them, but no one would pay a ransom for their release, so after several months in captivity, they were killed. “They cut their head,” he said, with a knowing smile.

It suddenly dawned on me—the randomness of what had happened—and I felt guilty for suspecting the innocent Afghan with the cell phone at the camp and felt angry at Khalid. I grabbed my notebook out of his hands and flipped it open. I meant to continue my letter to Paul but was distracted by the names and numbers Khalid had been asking me about. How I wished I could turn back the clock. If I hadn’t spoken to that family in the camp, maybe I would have been long gone by the time my kidnappers arrived. They would have simply kidnapped someone else. But how could I possibly wish this on anyone else? Was I that selfish that I would rather save myself and let some other poor, unsuspecting person suffer through this ordeal? It was a tough one, but I rationalized
it by telling myself that it wasn’t me who would be saved but my family and friends—it was they who should be spared whatever hell they might be going through right now.

I tried to imagine what my girlfriends in Toronto were doing. Jen, Kas, Maureen, and Angela. And my girlfriends in Regina—Stef, Coreen, and Shelley. The CBC would surely be telling them everything it could, trying to offer reassurance. I hoped they weren’t worrying about me too much.
I hope they are all self-medicating with good red wine and a top-shelf vodka,
I said to myself tongue-in-cheek; I felt a pang in my chest, I missed them so much. But it gave me great comfort to know that they had each other, and I would have given anything at that moment to be clinking wineglasses with them.

It wasn’t fair. But then, life isn’t fair, a little voice in the back of my mind reminded me.

I felt the hot rush of tears and quickly turned to face the wall so that Khalid would not see me. I did not want my kidnappers to see me cry. But it was too late. His hand was on my back.

“No cry, please, Mellissa,” he said gently.

I wiped my eyes and told him I was okay.

He took my hands and looked at me intently. “This will finish. You go to Kabul.”

“When?
When?
” I asked.

“Soon, inshallah, soon.”

“How soon? A few days? A week? Tell me when.” I was almost pleading, but I didn’t care anymore.

“I will call my father and tell him to fix the money.”

“You mean you haven’t yet? You told me you were going to do that on the first day! You lied to me, Khalid. Why should I believe you?”

The young Afghan shook his head. “I call, but this thing take time.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. I didn’t want to spend another day, another second, in this hole. I stood up and hit my head on one of the beams. Then my hair got caught in a hook there.

“Fuck!”

“Shh! No talk too loud!” It sounded like an order.

I was just about to argue that no one would be able to hear me when I heard footsteps above. Khalid froze. He put his finger to his lips. A woman’s voice yelled at someone. I didn’t understand what she was saying, but Khalid did. He smiled.

“What is she saying?” I asked. The woman yelled again, louder this time.

“She angry from her son. She say his father will be angry from him too.”

We listened quietly from our little hole in the ground. Undoubtedly, the woman had no idea she was practically standing on top of me.

“You mean she’s angry
with
him,” I corrected. More yelling, and then a child’s voice. A dog barked.

“She say his father will… hit him.” Khalid raised his arm as if he was about to whack someone across the face. Soon the yelling and barking and footsteps began to fade. I pictured a woman in a burka, or perhaps a big headscarf, maybe with a cane, chasing after her young son and threatening punishment at the hands of his father. How many times does this scene replay itself in a day throughout the world?

Khalid was smiling. “My mother—she say that all the time!”

“I think everyone’s mother does.” I smiled too. I’m pretty sure my mother probably said the same thing when my sister and I were little.
Wait until your father gets home. Then you’ll see what kind of trouble you’re in!

“You are not afraid from your father?” Khalid asked.

I corrected his grammar again. “No, I’m not afraid
of
my father. Maybe I was when I was younger, but not anymore. I’m older now.”

“How old are you?” he asked.

“I’m thirty-five,” I said.

“You not,” he responded.

I nodded, yes, but he didn’t believe me, so I took my passport out of my pants pocket and opened it to show him my date of birth. He stared at me for a long time, then shook his head. “You older than my brothers.”

I nodded again. I felt old. Old and tired. I leaned against the wall and lit another cigarette. I was going through the pack very quickly, and Khalid took it from me, putting it back into the breast pocket of his black kameez. He reached out his hand and made a V with his fingers, indicating he wanted to take my smoke.

It wasn’t tasting so good to me, so I passed it to him and he took a long drag, blowing smoke out his big flat nostrils. He handed it back to me, and soon I was putting out the butt on the wall, then flicking it out into the tunnel.

“You must eat,” he said, opening another package of sandwich cookies. I shook my head and told him I wasn’t hungry, but he took three cookies out and pressed them into my hand.

“Eat,” he ordered before poking a straw through a pouch of pomegranate juice and handing it to me.

I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until I took a sip. The package was gone in under a minute. Khalid took out another one. “You must eat. I bring you—what you want?”

I laughed. I wasn’t hungry, but if I could eat one thing in the world, I wanted a big, juicy cheeseburger with fries—not exactly a readily available dish in Afghanistan. It was all I’d been eating on the base in Kandahar. We all joked about how bad the food is there, but I rather liked the burgers and fries served at the DFAC’s—the dining facility’s—grill station. There was also a good salad bar, and I’d often give up on the so-so entrees in favour of a salad and a
burger and maybe a few fries.

“You like rice?” Khalid was asking. “Chips?”

I liked both, but I told him not to bother. I wasn’t hungry, and besides, maybe fasting for a few days would be good for me, given the number of burgers I’d had over the past few weeks. I was only half serious, of course.

“I bring for you,” he told me. “I will bring for you.”

“It’s okay, Khalid. I am okay eating cookies.”

He held up the box of chocolate cookies and the package of fruit creme cookies. “You like this or this?”

I pointed to the chocolate one.

“I bring more,” he promised.

“Khalid, don’t bring me anything more. I don’t need anything. The only thing I need is for you to bring me back to Kabul. Please. I don’t need any of this stuff. I just need to go home.”

I felt a sudden longing for home and tears threatened to fall again. I blinked hard and bit my lip until I could almost taste blood. “I just want to go home.”

Khalid was studying me carefully, so I turned around and faced the wall again. He said nothing and opened a package of cookies. I could hear him crunching away and brushing off the crumbs. I lay down on my side and closed my eyes. I fished my rosary from my pocket and started to pray again.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

I think it was after the second Hail Mary that I heard Khalid’s voice. It was quiet and soft and sounded like an echo.

“Inshallah, soon, Mellissa, soon. Inshallah.”

Dearest M,

It’s just after 7 a.m. on Thursday, October 16, and it’s now been almost five full days since you’ve been gone. I slept well, which is amazing considering I spend my days and nights in turmoil. So many fantasies and fears racing through my head, and wondering, always wondering, what you’re going though. Sleeping in your clothes, if you’re able to wash, what time they get you up in the morning, what they’re feeding you. And most of all, if they’ve been moving you about, and just what awful coldness and discomfort you’ve been going through. Can you brush your teeth? What about your contact lenses?

I’m sitting in the garden and it’s chilly until the sun comes up over the next door roofs. I have a pot of tea and I like the solitude because I can completely be with you, trying to get inside your head. This was the day we were supposed to do the Terry Fox Run, and that was one of the first things I thought of when I woke up. We’d be halfway around by now. Those are the good thoughts that I try to keep at the front of my mind, in the hope of keeping the demons away.

xx

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, BOOM! Tick, tick, tick, tick,
BOOM!

I sat up with a start. I looked over at Shafirgullah, snoring loudly next to me. He had come down to trade places with Khalid a few hours before.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, BOOM!

Automatic gunfire. Mortars, maybe. I looked at the clock—it was just after midnight. It was loud, as if the fighting was going on just above our heads. I looked over at Shafirgullah, but he was a snoring lump, oblivious to the noise. And then I heard it. The unmistakable sound of a helicopter. Maybe two. That had to mean that the Americans or British were close.

I wondered again where we were in relation to Kabul. I thought we might have been west of the city, but I couldn’t tell where we had driven from the refugee camp. The noises grew louder and, for a while, it sounded like the helicopter was hovering right above the hole.

Maybe someone had found out where I was. Maybe this was help, a rescue mission perhaps, spearheaded by the Special Forces. I imagined what might happen if someone actually found me. They’d come through the top of the hole—and then what? Would they kill Shafirgullah with a gunshot? What if he had a knife? Would he try to kill me first? He didn’t have a gun, so I wasn’t worried that he would shoot me before my rescuers made it down, but he might try
to strangle me. I was confident I could take him under normal circumstances—but I knew I wouldn’t have any strength to sustain a long fight. My wounds were still tender, and a steady diet of cookies and juice wasn’t exactly a great source of energy and protein.

I imagined myself struggling with Shafirgullah. I could see his hands around my neck. I’d kick him in the groin and then go for the back of his neck with my fists once he doubled over in pain. Then the rush of soldiers would come through the tunnel and pull me to safety. Shafirgullah would be captured alive and taken to the prison at Bagram. Or they would shoot him dead right there. I hoped they wouldn’t kill him. I didn’t want to see him killed right in front of me.

Dearest M,

We’re worried the Afghans will try to mount a rescue mission, and you’ll be caught in a crossfire. My heart jumps at the thought. The people at the embassy say they’ve been assured by the Afghans that will not happen, and a rescue would only be tried with the consent of the Canadian government. I sure as hell hope so…

xx

The young Afghan snorted loudly in his sleep, startling me back to reality. The helicopter noise now sounded more distant, and the
rat-tat-tat
of gunfire had also faded.

The firefight was over. Both sides had moved on.

Except I was now wide awake.
Thank you very much, boys.
The last thing I needed was to be woken up when it was so hard to get to sleep in the first place.

I picked up the package of cigarettes and lit one. I could hardly believe I was smoking so much again. I had quit years ago, having only the odd drag of a friend’s cigarette if I was drinking—and it had been a while since I had even done that.

But when soldiers sat down with me and offered me a smoke, it just felt rude to say no. Besides, there’s nothing like sharing a cigarette to break down barriers between people. The summer before, I had made a lot of friends sitting out there in the heat, smoking cigarette after cigarette. And by the time we left to go on our first operation, I felt like I was part of the company.

The soldiers were really quite an amazing species. They were fighting a war that had become increasingly unpopular at home, yet they did it because they believed they were making a difference for people half a world away. I have never met a soldier who didn’t truly believe he or she was in Afghanistan because it was the right thing to do.

“It’s a broken country,” I had said to Major Dave Quick, who was in charge of India Company, of the 2nd Battalion, Royal
Canadian Regiment—the battle group unit that my cameraman, Sat Nandlall, and I were attached to for more than a week.

“It doesn’t mean it can’t be fixed,” he replied.

I blew out the last of the cigarette and threw the glowing butt into the trash-can toilet by the entrance of the hole. It seemed to me, sitting in this small, dank cave, that Dave Quick had been wrong. This was a lawless place where corruption runs through the country’s political blood, where governors can be bribed and deals are cut to release insurgents from prison. Which I hoped wasn’t being done in my case. Khalid had told me they were asking for money, and for his friend who was in prison at Bagram Air Base to be released, in exchange for my freedom. My heart sank when he told me about the friend because I knew such arrangements could take a long time, and President Karzai would have to get involved, and to be honest, I hated the thought that some kidnapper or suicide bomber was going to be released to wreak more havoc on the Afghan people because of me. I had told Khalid not to ask for the friend, that it would never happen. Khalid had responded by telling me he had promised his friend he would secure his freedom one day with one of his hostages.