Words in the Dust (21 page)

Up on the roof, a few minutes after the morning prayer, footsteps crunched on the mudstone behind me. Malehkah looked at me with her nose swollen and dark bruises under her eyes.

“Do you need something?” I asked.

“This belonged to your mother. She had promised to teach me to read it, but …” She shrugged as she held out a worn brown leather-covered book. “I brought it up here that night, so the Taliban never found it. Anyway, she would want you to have it.”

“Tashakor.” My voice was nearly a whisper and my hands shook as I accepted this last piece of my mother.

Malehkah stared at me, but didn’t move. There were hundreds of questions I wanted to ask her, but somehow none of them seemed just right. It was silent for a long time. Finally, I had to ask, “Why did you —”

“I was always hard on you … because I felt …” Malehkah swallowed. “I was married off like Zeynab when I was not much older than she was. I had to take care of someone else’s children and then my own. And when I looked at you, with the way your mouth used to be …” She touched her own mouth. “Your hopelessness reminded me too much of my life.”

Downstairs, baby Safia cried. “There has to be …” Her voice shook. She reached out her hands and gestured at our compound before waving toward herself. “… has to be something better.” Malehkah turned and headed for the steps, but
she stopped and faced me before she went down. Tears were in her eyes. The baby’s cry was turning to a wail. “Something better, Zulaikha.”

When she was gone, I pulled my chador tighter around me against a cold breeze. Dark clouds had blown in and hovered over the eastern mountains. Winter was coming. It would rain soon. I crouched down and looked at the book Malehkah had given me, my mother’s book. I could read the faded silver lettering on the worn leather.
Yusuf and Zulaikha.

When I looked to the sky again, the rising sun burst through the cloud cover in splintering golden-white rays. I hoped it was a message from Allah. A sign to tell me things would get better. That somehow life could be happy — could be filled with something real and lasting and meaningful.

A gentle breeze blew my hair back, and I smiled as I closed my eyes to let the sun warm my face. Then, with my finger, I wrote a single word in the dust:
Inshallah
.

Dari, the Afghan dialect of Persian (Farsi), is one of the two official languages of Afghanistan. In the following pronunciation guide and glossary, the Afghan names and Dari words used in this novel have been spelled out phonetically in parentheses to guide English speakers to a more accurate understanding of the way the names and words sound. These phonetic spellings are based on a system advocated by the University of Nebraska at Omaha Center for Afghanistan Studies.

Afghani
(Afghaanee) – the Afghan unit of currency.

Allahu Akbar
(Alaahu Akbar) – an exclamation that means

“Allah is the Greatest” or “Allah is Great!” Known as the
takbir
in Arabic, the phrase is used in both the call to prayer and the five daily ritual prayers.

arusi
(aroosee) – the second stage of an Afghan wedding, a combination of further ceremony and wedding reception, filled with food, dancing, music, and gifts

baba
(baabaa) – father

bacha
(baachaa) – boy

baksheesh
(bakhshish) – a gift

bale
(baalay) – an expression meaning “okay, good, yes”

chador
(chaadar) – a semicircular shawl, often worn as a head covering and held closed in front

chadri
(chaadaree) – a garment that some Muslim women wear in public. A long veil that rests on top of the head and extends below the knees, with a small mesh screen over the face for sight and breathing. Known in Arabic as a
burqa
.

dastarkhan
(dastarkhaan) – a large tablecloth spread out on the floor, where food is set out and meals are served

dewana
(daywaana) – crazy or foolish

Eid
(Eed) – an Arabic term meaning “festival”; in Islam, commonly used to refer to the holiday of Eid ul-Fitr, which celebrates the end of Ramadan, the holy month of fasting

hajji
(haajee) – a title of honor for a man who has made the Islamic pilgrimage (the hajj) to Mecca

inshallah
(Inshaalah) – “God willing”

-jan
(jaan) – suffix meaning “dear,” appended to a name as a sign of affection

khuda hafiz
(khudaa haafiz) – good-bye

madar
(maadar) – mother

muezzin
(moazin) – in Islam, one who calls the faithful to perform the five daily ritual prayers. The call itself is named the
adhan.

muallem
(malim) – teacher

mullah
(mulaa) – a Muslim trained in religious law, usually holding an offical position

naan
(naan) – an oven-baked flatbread, made with yeast

nikah
(nikaah) – literally, the wedding contract between a Muslim bride and groom; also used to refer to the ceremony in which this contract is formalized and the bride-price is paid

perahan-tunban
(payraan wa tunbaan) – the Dari name for a set of clothing consisting of a long tunic over a pair of loose trousers; known in Urdu as a
shalwar kameez

rafiq
(rafeeq) – in Arabic, “friend”

rubab
(rubaab) – a lute-like musical instrument played by plucking; one of the national instruments of Afghanistan

sahib
(saahib) – a term of respect

salaam
(salaam) – a common greeting; in Arabic, “peace”

salaam alaikum
(salaam alaikum) – a common Islamic greeting meaning “peace be upon you”

shahba-henna
(shabi hinaa) – a party held the night before a wedding, at which the bride’s feet and hands are painted with henna

shirnee-khoree
(shirnee khoree) – an engagement party; literally, “the sweet eating”

tabla
(tabla) – a drum played with the hands

tandoor
(tandor) – a clay oven used to bake naan as well as other foods

tashakor
(tashakur) – thank you

toshak
(toshak) – a narrow mattress that could be used as either or both a bed and a sofa

wah wah
(waah waah) – an expression meaning “hooray, congratulations, good for you”

walaikum salaam
(walaikum salaam) – the standard response to “salaam alaikum,” meaning “And upon you be peace”

wudu’
(wu zoo) – in Islam, the act of cleansing the body before the ritual prayers

I wrote this novel by accident.

At the beginning of 2004, my six years of part-time service in the Iowa Army National Guard were almost over. I planned to teach high school English and write books about kids living the adventure of growing up in the small towns of Iowa, like I had. But just like Zulaikha, I found out that life doesn’t always go according to plan. In January, the army called me to active duty, and in late June of 2004, I left America for the first time in my life and found myself transformed from aspiring writer to terrified soldier, in the middle of war-torn Afghanistan.

Based on what I knew about the war from television and from my army training, I had expected my unit’s mission to focus on hunting down terrorists — shooting and being shot at by the same kind of monsters who killed so many Americans on 9/11. Instead, as I sweated in a tent at the air base in Bagram, Afghanistan, I was shocked to hear that my unit would provide security for the reconstruction of the country, which had been devastated by many long years of war. Specifically, we were going to be assigned to one of the Provincial Reconstruction Teams (PRTs) stationed at small bases around Afghanistan. These PRTs were designed to help the Afghan people establish schools and improve roads and communications. The army hoped the peace secured by the PRTs could offer Afghans a chance to build a better future for themselves, free of the influence of the oppressive Taliban militias.

To my everlasting shame, I was upset when I heard about my peacekeeping assignment. I remembered the horrible images I’d seen on 9/11, and I blamed the Afghans. I made the terrible mis
take of assuming that most of the Afghan people were just like the terrorists. I felt that if I had to be taken away from my home and family, I wanted my chance to make the terrorists pay.

When I reached my station in the western Afghan city of Farah, though, my feelings began to change. Instead of finding American-hating monsters, I met kind people and a lot of smiling, curious children. Afghans offered friendly greetings when we came to their villages. Some of them invited us to dine with them in their homes. A few times, they even helped us dig our Humvees out of the mud when we were stuck. I began to understand the difference between dangerous groups like the Taliban and the typical, peace-loving Afghan people.

After about a month, our first load of mail finally arrived. A package from my wife contained a paperback copy of a children’s book by Katherine Paterson called
Bridge to Terabithia
. In a difficult time, when food rations were low and I was feeling very scared and lonely, I read this wonderful story of true friendship. It reminded me of hope and peace and beauty. That same day, I stood at my guard post, looking over the top of the wall that surrounded our tiny compound. Across the street, I saw a little Afghan girl in a dirty dress with no shoes. She dragged a small cardboard box with a piece of string. It was maybe her only toy. As I looked at her and remembered all the Afghan children I had seen, I thought about how much they were like the kids in
Bridge to Terabithia
. They seemed to be full of imagination. They wanted to have fun and friends. A chance to grow up safe.

Finally, I had to admit that all along, I had been wrong about the Afghans. That poor little girl had nothing to do with 9/11. She was not the enemy. She was as much a victim of the Taliban and Al Qaeda as I was. She was
more
of a victim. At that moment
I took my peacekeeping and reconstruction mission to heart. I began to be as respectful and helpful as I could to the Afghans I encountered. I even volunteered for extra missions that would allow me more interaction with the people, especially if it meant a chance to help the children in some way.

My unit spent our year on duty helping to build schools, providing security for the presidential elections, and handing out toys and candy to Afghan boys and girls. We worked hard to show the Afghans with whom we lived and worked that we were trying to help. We weren’t perfect, and I am very, very sorry that we did not help even more than we did, but partly because of our efforts, Farah and western Afghanistan were relatively peaceful in 2004 and early 2005.

As with so much else of my experience in Afghanistan, the girl who inspired the character Zulaikha came into my life by accident. My unit was on a mission to make contact with the elders of a village north of Farah. Our commanders wanted to ask the elders if there was any way the Americans could help improve the village. On this mission, one of the soldiers saw a young girl with a cleft lip. That is, she was born with the two segments of her upper lip not joined in the center. In addition, her nose was disfigured, and her upper set of teeth were badly crooked, some sticking out almost straight forward. These sorts of birth defects occur in the United States too, but American doctors almost always perform corrective surgery early in the child’s life. In the case of this Afghan girl, however, surgery would have been hard to get and very expensive. Also, the Taliban who ruled Afghanistan during her early childhood and enforced harsh rules based on their strict interpretation of Islamic law forbade almost all contact
between unrelated males and females, and would probably not have allowed a girl to see a doctor anyway.

A short time later, our chief medical officer, a woman not unlike Captain Mindy in this novel, led a second mission to the village to locate the girl and see if we could arrange corrective surgery for her. It wasn’t a mission that came down from high command, but one my fellow soldiers and I felt strongly about. After all, if we couldn’t at least try to help this girl, what good were we?

Almost miraculously, we found the girl we were looking for soon after our arrival. We tried to be friendly, but given that we rolled into town in armored Humvees, I imagine she was scared when she realized we had come looking for her. Although she was timid and for the most part kept her mouth covered, she had a quiet dignity and a spark of courage in her eyes. The girl’s name was Zulaikha. After meeting her, we knew we had to do whatever we could to get her the help she needed.

Since her surgery was not part of our assigned mission from the army, my fellow soldiers and I pooled our money together to buy taxi fare to a nearby airport for Zulaikha and her uncle, and civilian plane tickets to transport them to our air base at Bagram. An army doctor there volunteered to conduct the surgery. When Zulaikha returned to our outpost in Farah, I was amazed at how much she had changed. Not only were her lip, teeth, and nose completely different, but her demeanor had improved as well. She was still quiet and shy, as anyone might be around strangers, but she no longer covered her mouth with her shawl or her hand. Better yet, she smiled. The last time I saw her, she was riding in the back of one of our trucks, on the way home through our compound’s front gate.

Had I not been sent to Afghanistan, I would never have known about her. I thought about all the people back home who might never know about her. Her birth defect was only one of the many obstacles that she would have had to endure in her young life, but she faced it with remarkable strength. To me, she represented all the Afghan girls who are struggling to make better lives for themselves and for their families, and even though she lacked the ability and resources to tell the world her story, that did not mean that it did not deserve to be told. She looked back at me as she rode away, and although she could not hear me or understand my words, I promised her I would tell her story.

Keeping that promise proved more difficult than I at first imagined it would be. I returned to Iowa in June of 2005 and to the high school English classroom a few months later. At the same time, I began studying Afghanistan. Although I had spent a year in Farah, taking extensive notes and many photographs and videos, the Afghan people value their privacy, and I did not know enough about how they lived their daily lives. To compensate for this, I learned all I could about Afghanistan, keeping in touch with a few Afghan friends via the Internet and reading lots of fantastic books, some of which I’ve listed in the recommended reading section here. Afghanistan’s people and history are fascinating, and I highly encourage everyone to learn more about this great country.

Of course, another problem I had in keeping my promise is that I have never been a girl and I am not an Afghan. Many would say that stories about Afghan girls should best be told by Afghan girls. I agree completely. I would love nothing more than to read the story of the girl who we helped in her own words. However,
the terrible reality is that by some estimates, 87 percent of Afghan women are illiterate. The Revolutionary Association of Women of Afghanistan (RAWA) recently estimated that up to 99 percent of women in Farah Province could not read or write. Though progress is being made in Afghan education, too many Afghan girls are simply unable to get their stories out. In spite of this, or perhaps even because of it, I believe it is very important for more Afghan stories to be told, as a greater understanding may foster peace.

I have done my absolute best to be respectful and true to the culture and traditions of Afghanistan. I am grateful for the help of my friend Khalid Siddiq and to my advisors Rebecca Gandum and Fahima Vorgetts for their expert advice. Any remaining errors are entirely my own.

While this is still a work of fiction, the broad outlines of Zulaikha’s story are not the only things based in real life. The novel begins in June of 2005 and ends the following September, shortly after Afghanistan’s first parliamentary elections in thirty-three years. As mentioned in the text, the people of Farah Province elected Malalai Joya, a woman of great courage who has continued to demand peace, freedom, and equal rights for all the people of Afghanistan up to the present day. The village of An Daral is based on a beautiful mountain valley town called Anar Darreh, and Zulaikha’s house is modeled off of a compound in Farah where I lived with a small group of my fellow soldiers while we waited for Afghan contractors to finish constructing our base outside the city. The Citadel that Khalid and Zulaikha climb in the story is drawn from a massive ancient castle in Farah, which is said to have been built by Alexander the Great when his army
invaded the region around 330 B.C. Unfortunately, Zeynab’s horrible fate, and her last request, were also inspired by true events, and I’ll never forget the night when my squad was called out to the Farah hospital to provide what assistance we could to a young and horribly burned Afghan girl.

Finally, I can only hope that readers of this novel or of the books on my recommended reading list will be inspired to want to do more to help the children in Afghanistan. To that end, a portion of the royalties from this book will be donated to Women for Afghan Women, an organization working to secure education and human rights for women in Afghanistan. I highly encourage everyone to consider donating to this worthy cause. The contact information for this great group is provided below. Afghanistan faces many challenges, but through the efforts of concerned and caring people around the world, and with the dedication and indomitable courage of Afghans like Zulaikha, a new Afghanistan will rise up from war to a peaceful and prosperous future.

Women for Afghan Women

158-24 73
^rd
Ave.

Fresh Meadows, NY 11366

http://www.womenforafghanwomen.org/