Refugees

by Catherine Stine

  Susie bounced from her chair. “Of course! You must have loads of worried people to contact.” She cut herself short, noticing Dawn's melancholy expression.

  “I'll pay you,” Dawn offered.

  “Not to worry.” Susie flashed her elfin smile. “I've got high-speed access and it's unlimited. That's one thing that wasn't destroyed when the towers came down.” In the middle of Susie showing Dawn her computer a horn honked below, and she peeked out the window. “My car service is here.” Susie stuffed a mess of folders in her laptop case, spritzed on some perfume, and grabbed a backpack. “Thanks again for taking care of my kitties. You should've heard my neighbor cheer when I said he was off cat duty.” Her grin showed off dimpled cheeks. Then she was gone.

  Dawn went into Susie's office and sat for a while staring at the geometric pattern morphing on the screen saver. Then she shook off her shoes, closed the window against the fall chill, and unpacked her award for musicianship. Dawn placed it on the side table, then set up the satellite phone and dialed. She felt almost ready. It was time.

  “Louise?”

  “Oh, Dawn, hello!” It was oddly reassuring to hear Louise's voice.

  “How are you?” Dawn asked. “Did you get the message that I called?”

  “Yes. I sent back an e-mail. You know, every time I call the house, Victor says you're out. How is it that you're always out? You're not cutting school?”

  Victor hadn't told Louise a thing! Dawn was relieved, but it proved how uncaring he really was. When Dawn had called to string him along, Victor had shouted his typical refrain: “You'd better get back before I call social services.” She hadn't believed a word. He was thrilled to be rid of her. “Cutting school? Don't be silly, Louise. I'm in rehearsals and spending time with Jude, that's all.”

  “Well, dear, I miss you.”

  Dawn almost believed it. If Louise would only lose the mannered voice and shout it! But Dawn never shouted either. We're both so polite, Dawn thought. There's something messed up about that.

  “It's hard to get news over here, although we heard about the World Trade Center,” Louise said. “What an unbelievable tragedy! I almost cut my trip short, but these Afghan refugees are in a terrible predicament—sick and starving. I haven't seen so many cases of malnutrition since the days of Biafra.”

  “Sounds awful,” said Dawn.

  “It really is. And think of all those poor families in Manhattan! Thank God the Red Cross there is so dedicated. They're putting in twenty-four-hour days. What do people in San Francisco think?” asked Louise.

  “They're freaked! They fear the Bay Bridge might be next,” Dawn guessed.

  “How are you feeling about the attack?” asked Louise finally.

  “I feel awful for the families.” Dawn cared about them so much. And it wasn't in a voyeuristic way, like Jude said. She was helping out for once. It made her feel clean, good, happy. She almost exploded with the urge to tell Louise about her flute playing, about her conversations with victims' families. But Louise couldn't know. Not yet. “What about you, Louise? Are you safe? Is it scary there? Johar said that Al Qaeda has training camps in Afghanistan. And what about the Taliban? Has anyone threatened you?” Dawn was a little surprised by how worried she really felt.

  “No, no, I'm fine,” Louise replied. “The Taliban supports Al Qaeda mainly because Al Qaeda funds them. Even though the Qaeda group is made up of mostly Arab foreigners, both groups feel that anyone not adhering to their version of Islam should be eliminated. The Afghan people are caught in their crossfire, so to speak.”

  “That country seems like it's been through hell.”

  “Yes, and since the Taliban ordered all aid workers to leave Afghanistan, there are precious few doctors. But they have less control over us across the border in Pakistan. God, the suffering here…”

  “What about Johar?” Dawn asked. “Does he get enough to eat? Where does he stay?”

  “He was in a tent with another family, but then he made his own tent. He's lucky. Some families live out in the open. The place is overcrowded and filthy. It's a breeding ground for disease.”

  “That's scary. Do many people die?”

  “A lot do, even though we do our best to treat them. Most times it's too little, too late. We just don't have nearly enough of the right supplies.”

  Dawn thought of all the people she saw down at the site when she played. Huge crowds would form to listen to her music. Some of them were there every day. “How do you handle all the sadness?” she asked.

  “It's difficult, Dawn. It's really, really hard.” Louise sighed deeply, and Dawn sensed how exhausted she must be. “But I'm a doctor,” Louise went on. “It's my job to stay focused and detached.”

  “Yeah, but how can you stay detached? I mean, what about making a connection? Isn't that part of the job too?” Dawn felt a swell of irritation. When she played for victims' families it worked best when she threw her emotions into it. She didn't always know what to say, but the people seemed to gain huge relief from the feelings she poured into her music. “It's ironic,” she blurted. “Johar gave me the opposite advice—not to run from things that frighten me, not to detach. What about Johar? Are you detached from him too? No wonder they can't stand Americans over there. People can't tell if you actually care or are just doing a job.”

  “Dawn, that's unnecessary! Of course I care about the people here. I need to keep a professional distance, though. And Johar is my assistant.”

  “But what do you think of him, really?” Dawn persisted.

  “Well…” Louise paused. “His comprehension of English is quite something. He claims his aunt, who was a schoolteacher, taught him. The aunt's brother smuggled in English textbooks. Johar suspects that his uncle might even be living in the States.”

  “I know,” Dawn put in. “His aunt's been captured. Did he tell you that?”

  “No, he didn't.” Louise's tone cooled. “How often have you spoken with him?”

  “A few times,” Dawn admitted. Why did Louise have to sound so clinical? “Sorry, but I need to go.”

  “But I wanted to—”

  “I'll e-mail you. Promise.” Click.

  Everything seemed like a duty to Louise. Nothing seemed to matter personally. Dawn felt the opposite. Everything mattered but she could hardly ever express it. Dawn suddenly remembered that Louise had mentioned sending an e-mail, and she logged on.

  Dear Dawn:

  I am relieved to hear that you are fine, especially with all the dreadful things going on in the world. You asked about my assistant, Johar. He and his cousin came from Baghlan, where the Taliban were harassing the civilian population. His English is quite good, so when my regular assistant, Nils, had to travel, I hired this boy. He is a diligent worker. And yes, Johar did give me the message that you called.

  I miss you very much and I am looking forward to seeing you again. Mother

  Louise did miss her. Dawn felt sick inside. Louise had been trying to relate, she really had. Maybe it's me, thought Dawn.

  conversations

  New York and Suryast, Pakistan,

  late October 2001

  Dear Johar—

  Hi. Louise (Dr. Garland) must be mad at me. We had an argument. Did she tell you about it? I got so angry! But she's so formal and phony sometimes—like a stranger with me. When she gets that way, she doesn't seem to care about people, only about her weird sense of duty. After we hung up I opened the e-mail she had sent me earlier, and felt guilty and sad, because she was really trying to connect in the e-mail. Before I came to New York, I couldn't get my feelings out. Now sometimes I overreact. How do you get feelings out without getting burned or burning yourself in the process? I'm still playing flute for victims' families at the Trade Center site. I'm starting to talk to them more too. It's hard, but not as tough as I thought. You've inspired me with all your poetry and encouragement. Up until now, I haven't done much for other people. Maybe nothing ever. Well, that's not true, but you know what I mean. Do y
ou know lots of poems by heart? Rumi was an ancient Sufi master, wasn't he? We studied one of his poems in school. Are you OK over there? Are you getting food? I'm so worried about you and Louise and your cousin. XOX (that means with affection or something) Dawn

  Dawn—

  Good to hear from you. What abot you argu with mother? Doctor Garland work hard. She say she did wrong thing by you to come here. Say her best not good enof. Powerful emotions are difficult. Men can cry here but must be always strong. Sometimes I just want to say I give up. But that is cowards way so I say “no way,” as you Americans say. But Bija and I OK. We are lucky. I feel guilty too, becase we are so lucky. So many here have no luck at all. One good thing—I start class! I teech childrin poetry and teech how to make hats—also teech English. You inspire me to leeve tent of hellish bully—now brother of bully is my student. Very funny. I laugh when clever little Zabit stand up to his mean brother and attend class. May I ask a qestun? Why is Dr. Garland here with no husband? Why she here without you? Why Americans scatter like crows?

  Regards, Johar

  Dear Johar—

  There's just so much to talk about, and I'd like to actually hear your voice. Can I call you at 6:30 a.m. your time? Is that early enough for you to be alone?

  Dawn—

  Yes. I wait for your call. Johar

  “Dawn?”

  “Johar, it's you!” His voice was warm. He was there for her. It made Dawn happy. “E-mail sucks when you need a real conversation,” she said.

  “Sucks?”

  “If something sucks, that means it's bad.” Dawn guessed it was up to her to start. “In your e-mail you had some question about us Americans, right?”

  “Ah. Yes. Do not take this wrongly. Afghanis try to stay close no matter what, yet your family is so scattered. Do Americans prefer it that way?”

  “I wouldn't say prefer, but it's something you get used to.”

  “Why would they want to get used to this? You mother seems so sad, so alone.”

  “You really think so? I never saw her that way.” She isn't my mother, Dawn almost remarked. “No one wants to be tied down in the States. Life is fast. Everyone is busy. Work takes people many places. We have lots of planes and highways.” Dawn laughed bitterly. “I think of our highways as desperado trails.”

  “Desperado trails? What are?”

  “It's an old cowboy term for the path an outlaw took—a bad guy from the West who kept moving so he wouldn't be caught.”

  Johar's rich tenor rippled into laughter. “Then you are all outlaws!”

  “You could say that.” Dawn laughed too. “But what is so great about staying close? From what I've read in the papers about your country, it seems that everything is clanbased, like you're all hiding inside your compounds with your own clan, not branching out into the real world, mixing with other people.”

  “People mix—at the bazaar, in school, in our jobs. But clan is good. We have strong families,” Johar insisted. “We have cousins and uncles and aunts, spreading like vines through the villages. Maybe you hear about families hiding from the Taliban, or women hiding because not allowed out.”

  “Yes. I've read about that in the newspaper. But wasn't it always men versus women in Afghanistan? I've heard women aren't allowed to do anything.”

  “No, no, no. That is separation between public and home, not between men and women. Before Taliban, women worked—as teachers, as doctors. But like with you, it was a while before I feel comfortable. Maybe I still feel is risky to speak with you. Also, some men feel that if women doesn't cover up that is not moral, distracting—”

  “Just because I am a woman doesn't mean I'm going to bite you or put a curse on you or some crazy thing,” Dawn blurted. “And if men are distracted by women, then it's their own problem. Why do they see women just as sex objects? That's so superficial. In America we have friendships between women and men. There are other things in life besides knocking boots.”

  “Knocking boots?”

  “Sex.”

  “Do you think I am superficial, then?” asked Johar.

  “Of course not. I'm sorry. You're smart and deep. The subject gets me mad, that's all. I mean, do you think that I shouldn't be allowed to go to college or work in the music industry when I'm older because I'm a girl? Do you think Dr. Garland shouldn't practice medicine?”

  “No, restrictions on women sucks, as you say. My aunt said always that women can do whatever men can.”

  “Then who makes up all these stupid rules?”

  Johar sighed. “I guess religion, tradition.”

  “Tradition sucks, then. And religion is so stuck in the past it needs a major overhaul. Spirituality should be allinclusive, not all these religious factions fighting and killing one another. Religion shouldn't do people's thinking for them. Why can't we have a world where everyone thinks for themselves?”

  “I agree,” Johar cut in. “Let's go for it, as you Americans say. But give Afghanistan time. Our country may change slowly, in unique ways.” He paused. “After all, Afghans are not little children playing follow-the-caliph.”

  Dear Johar—

  I've thought a lot about what we discussed. It's strange how our cultures are so different. I never thought of family that way. Mine has always been scattered. I grew up in a foster home. It was like an orphanage. You must have them in Afghanistan. Then I went to two homes after that. Neither one worked out. So I was returned to the foster home. Louise (Dr. Garland) is my third foster parent—like a fake parent. She keeps her distance from me and I from her. She's not my real mother, and I guess that's why we don't feel close. Do I prefer it this way? No, but how can I change it? I hope you're not mad about what I said. Since you love poetry, I wanted to send you one of my favorites. It's about hobos traveling. Hobos were poor people with no home, kind of like refugees. They traveled by hopping on trains without paying. Here are a couple lines:

  Down the track came a hobo hiking and he

  said boys I'm not turning.

  So come with me, we'll go and see the big

  Rock Candy Mountains.

  People sang it a lot during the Depression, a time when the whole country was poor and a lot of people were jobless and hungry.

  It's great about you teaching!! The children must love you. You seem so patient and kind. What's your favorite poem? xox Dawn

  Dawn—

  Things you tell me make me sure that change is a great thing. Those candy mountains remind me of Afghan mountains. Too many poems are my favrite. Here is one abot music, also by Rumi:

  Don't woory abot saving these songs

  And if one of our instruments breeks

  It dosent matter. We have fallen into the place

  Where evrything is music

  The strumming and the floot notes

  Rise into the atmosfere, And even if the whole worlds harp

  shoud burn up, there will still be

  hidden instruments playing.

  I want to ask you, where are your real mother and father?

  Regards, Johar

  Dear Johar—

  I love the Rumi poem on music. I guess that's why I play down at the site so much—it's like I want to bring something beautiful there. As far as my real parents, my dad was never part of the equation. And I don't remember my mother except for what she looked like. Do you know how hard that is? It haunts me. If I remember how she looked, why can't I remember what she said? I was about five when I went to the group home. Maybe my mother was too young or too poor to keep a child. If I knew, it might be easier. But, like you said, clan—blood relations—probably does have some mystical connection. I've looked for her through the Internet and in phone books. Maybe she's looking for me. Can anyone take the place of your real mother?

  XOX Dawn

  Dawn—

  I surprised that Dr. Garland is not your real mother. She speek as if she is. My mother is gone too. I miss her still. She die frum stepping on hidden mine frum war with Soviets. I get so mad
. I have lost father and so many family. And now my brother and aunt are missing. I tell myself I will see them, but sometimes I fear that is just a wishful dream. I am fifteen, and in Afghanistan that is a man, but I do not know what I am doing from day to day. Bija gets sick and cries. I just want it all to stop like end of hellish nightmare. Why would you run away by choice? I wish I did not have to run. Louise can be like mother, yes? She care. She feed you and keep you in her house. My aunt was like my mother. And people in books are like mothers. Rabi'a, the poetess, is my muse. Muse can be like a mother, yes? But war keeps family apart. Always war. Now even war in your country. To remember your mother. It may help. I do not remember things my mother say to me, yet I remember all of her songs. Memories of her songs do help me. Pray on your memory. Meditate on it. Wen your ready it will come out.

  XOX Johar

  groove

  New York,

  early November 2001

  Days grooved into patterns. Dawn would wake up, feed Mara and Chester, water Susie's geraniums, then set up shop on Fifth Avenue to earn money. This spot was close enough to walk to, as Dawn tried to avoid the subway and its post9/11 litany of police investigations into this or that possible terrorist activity—a potentially anthrax-laden bag on the platform or a noxious odor on the number 6 local. Even on the street there were things to watch out for: trash cans with overflowing liquids, loonies with bulging packs, blaring sirens, or low-flying planes with odd flight patterns. The lines between paranoia and caution were blurred.

  She played tunes that grabbed attention and held it. Her repertoire included jazz, rock, and classical licks with showy technique, like the Bach. Heads would turn and nod appreciatively and hands would toss dollars into her case. On a good morning Dawn could pocket thirty, even fifty dollars; on a bad morning, ten.

  Sometimes she'd grab a slice of pizza and a soda, then walk up to the sheet music stores around Times Square. Dawn would search the rows with an eye to an international array—Swedish, Spanish, and French. She was frugal over final purchases—she needed to save for food and just in case she had to flee Manhattan.