The next morning, they did a little touring around and sight-seeing along a tiny avenue called “Chicken Street” that was packed with beggars and vendors. They went mostly to help the time go by until her parents arrived later that day. There were plenty of other sights to distract them, as well; newly opened schools were being held in bombed-out buildings, while commerce was being reborn inside of hundreds of large metal cargo containers—turned into tiny shops that peddled every sort of merchandise. The makeshift storefronts lined the streets of the bazaar.
After lunch, right about the time that the distraction factor of the marketplace commotion was beginning to wear thin, it came time for Zubaida’s reunion with her parents. To avoid drawing a crowd, Peter arranged for a car to take Zubaida’s parents from the airport back to the guest house, where they would all meet in the private courtyard. Captain Daoud and U.N. officer John Oerum and a translator were there, along with a small crew from ABC television. By the time that Mohammed and Bador Hasan arrived at the guest house and were escorted into the garden, Peter and Zubaida were already there waiting.
He noted that Zubaida was beginning to fall into her familiar state as the excitement and anticipation began to overwhelm her. But the moment that her parents stepped into the courtyard and Zubaida made eye contact with them, the buzz of conversation from everyone else fell silent. Peter watched the reaction build. At first, father and mother could only gasp in delight and disbelief at the degree of recovery to their daughter’s features and body. Then came the cries of relief and tears of joy. Those quickly gave way to open wailing by both Mohammed and Bador, while Zubaida silently embraced them and buried her face against their shoulders.
Peter found himself overwhelmed by emotion. Mohammed stepped to him and brought his hand up to his heart in thanks, then embraced him. Peter looked him in the eyes as if to say, here she is, I have kept my promise to you. Then he cried along with her parents while they embraced him and poured out their joy and gratitude through the translator.
It all went on that way for another forty-five minutes or so, then everyone gave Zubaida and her parents time to be alone together. Peter had rented them a room there where they could go to have some privacy. Zubaida decided to move into their room right away. He watched during that first hour, while she began her metamorphosis into her Afghan identity, returning to her place as a living cog in the family machine. She took the role of responsibility in their presence, making sure that her mother had enough to drink and otherwise felt well and content. Peter stayed on at the family’s request and watched while Zubaida excitedly pulled out every item in her suitcase and showed them to her parents, some of which had to be carefully explained.
While she lost herself in the excitement of having both of her parents there with her again, giving her their full attention, Peter looked on and felt the heaviest pang of the separation blues hit him. He could see that he was no longer so important to this little girl who, only one day earlier, had been unwilling to leave his side. In that first moment, he couldn’t help but feel like saying, remember me? But the urge passed as he realized that he was seeing a good and healthy thing; there was no other direction for her but straight ahead, and she was taking the first step with a giant stride.
Now it was plain to see that she was home again, not just back in her home country, but back in the embrace of her family. Through all the months of Zubaida’s American experience and all of her exposure to luxuries she never knew existed, she never lost the desire to be back with her family. Peter reminded himself that no matter how well she adapted to life in America, she was an Afghan. No matter how harsh her home environment might appear to Western eyes, it was the familiar reality of her life, and the scene in front of him proved that her need to be back among her family was strong.
Over the next couple of days, Peter and Mohammed had a series of meetings with the Coalition for Human Assistance, a charitable Non-Government Organization,to discuss Zubaida’s future. The reality of her school situation was that the nearest school to Farah was at least a one hour walk in each direction. In the 110 degree heat of the desert summers and the sub-zero cold of the harsh Afghanistan winters, daily round trips of that size were unrealistic. The were some funds available from Zubaida’s small trust of donations, but even if they could be stretched to build a new school in her home town, the permits would have to be sought through the Ministry of Education’s bureaucracy, an unlikely priority for them at this stage in the country’s war recovery. But Peter left feeling that at least the dialogue had been started, and the CHA represented a local organization with the ability to reach Mohammed in Farah, in order to help maintain follow-up for Zubaida. The big questions weren’t going to get answered on this short trip, but the structure to pursue them was set in place.
On day four, everybody got ready for the flight from Kabul to Herat. From there, the family would drive on out to the village of Farah, but Peter would separate with them in Kabul and return to the United States. They reached the airport terminal through the chaos of street traffic just in time to hear the announcement that the flight had just been cancelled. There was nothing else to do but re-set themselves emotionally and go back to the guest house for the night. For Peter, it was both a reprieve and an extension of the torment. He could see that Zubaida was sad to leave him, but he also saw her high level of excitement at the prospect of going home and seeing the rest of her family. As painful as the impromptu “dress rehearsal” for the next day’s departure might have been, it also allowed him to witness her final, necessary transition within her own mind while she stepped back into her family fold and her cultural world. He watched that transition play itself out, right there in front of him—her adaptability was only surpassed by her strength of will. What a life she could have! he thought.
Or what a life might be slowly extinguished, in this place.
He was now free of his formal responsibility to her, but he was also losing the control of events around her and giving up the chance to protect her. He wondered what a modest trust fund could actually achieve for this girl, inside of this environment? How could such a thing even be administered, with her isolated in that remote village on the other side of the world from him?
His best and perhaps only real hope was that Zubaida would be allowed some sort of an individual future in the world, that her education would be completed and her intelligence and personality would be unleashed. But that was now in the hands of her father. Peter trusted that after the man put out such heroic efforts to find help for her, surely he would not just raffle her off to some warlord as a curiosity piece. Such a thing would be permitted, in that environment. There were sure to be those around Mohammed Hasan in the marketplace who would hiss their opinions into his unwilling ears and warn him to take a fair bid for his Scarred Miracle Daughter right away, while the freak show aspect of public awareness was fresh in people’s minds. She would be twelve, in a few months, an accepted age for marriage to an older, established man.
Meanwhile Peter and Rebecca could cheer from the sidelines via the occasional satellite phone call, for all the influence that might prove to be. She was back inside of her world again. There was no doubting it, now. The sense of assurance that he felt in knowing that this thing had been done right actually relieved some of the pain. Just not all of it.
The following day, July 3rd, was their fifth day there. It turned out to be the last for them; this time their plane was ready to board as scheduled and prepared to depart on time. In the confusion of getting everyone onto a van that would taxi the passengers out to the plane, everything seemed to speed up. There was barely time to say goodbye. Peter hugged Mohammed and Bador, and when it came time to hug Zubaida he felt tears welling up as he told her that he loved her. She looked him in the eye and said, “I love you too, Dad.” And that was all. Zubaida spun around to join her parents and jumped into the airport van. She waved while they rode away.
He went back to the guest house feeling a Zu
baida-sized void in his heart. Usually, the objectivity of the work in the operating room kept him from getting emotionally involved with a patient. In Zubaida’s case there had been no holding back with any of that. Her very presence somehow compelled a sense of concern and interest in her; most people appeared to feel it from her. Even those who had been put off by her manic emotional behavior during her worst periods of stress nevertheless acknowledged that her ability to charm was as strong as her ability to disrupt. Her absence would leave a lasting void.
Peter felt like he had no more emotions left to wring out—in the tense hours before leaving, he hadn’t told Zubaida or her parents about the crushing phone call that he had received from Rebecca, bringing him the terrible news—their baby was lost to a miscarriage, and the couple was forced to deal with that news from opposite sides of the planet. There would be time enough to tell Zubaida later, if she needed to know at all. For this trip, Peter wasn’t going to tell her anything that would distract her from her reunion with her parents.
But now that the Hasans were gone, he learned that there was no way to catch an early flight home—the next flight back to the States wouldn’t leave for another two days. Not only was he kept from being with Rebecca, but he had to spend the following day cooling his heels in Kabul. His head throbbed and his stomach churned while he tried to offer Rebecca whatever consolation that he could, from so far away, but there was only so much that talking could do. He just needed to be home.
Then at last on July 5th, his flight arrived and, after a round of servicing, was finally announced ready to depart. But just before boarding, he got a call from the nearby military clinic, asking if he could take a look at a burned two year-old boy. Peter couldn’t delay this trip back to Rebecca, so the clinic arranged to rush the boy to the airport. In the final minutes before departure, he was able to examine the boy behind a makeshift curtain while curious onlookers shuffled around trying to get a peek.
He made some suggestions for treatment, offering to help them clear the bureaucratic red tape if they would contact him through his office, then raced to his plane to depart. There was no way for him to follow up with that particular patient, but he could see that it was another case where the future of the child would only be bright to the degree that somebody made it a point to find the proper help and make it happen.
Even the few days that he had spent in Kabul had shown him that the country was host to a generation of amputees and burn victims, mostly resulting from the millions of land mines planted throughout the countryside. Only the most determined and resourceful among them received any meaningful medical treatment. Against that background, the depth of determination that Mohammed and Zubaida both showed was all the more extraordinary, over the long months of their attempts to find help.
Once the plane lifted off and began to climb, Peter felt a palpable sense of relief. He never felt personally threatened while he was in Afghanistan and was treated with the kindness and respect for which Afghanistan’s people have traditionally been known. But a strong sense of foreboding had followed close behind him at every moment. While the frequent kidnapping and beheading of Westerners in the Middle East had not yet begun, he still felt a strong sense of the cold emotional winds that blew in the area. He knew that they had the capacity to change direction in an instant, and just that quickly, a place that was safe becomes deadly.
Zubaida had described it right, in a through-the-looking-glass way and with a child’s plainspoken manner, when she reassured Peter’s mother that there was no worry about Peter’s safety in her homeland. She would take care of him.
So she had. The greetings he received while they moved about the city together, whether on the open street or in the few meetings that they had with various officials, were all done with high regard. Sometimes that was because the people there already knew something of the story. Other times, it was just the reactions of people who take their cue from the Afghan girl’s obvious familiarity with, and affection for, the American doctor. Thus even in situations where Peter might have been vulnerable under other conditions, the American with the Jewish name was never threatened, suffered no harm, and Zubaida had taken care of him there.
It was so good for him to be able to take a deep breath and let it all go, to let the plane carry him home while he rested up and tried to restore some of his energy. He needed to be with Rebecca as badly as she wanted him back at home. If desire could fuel a jet, the flight would have landed much sooner.
* * *
That same day of July 5th, 2003 was also the day that Taiwan became the final territory to be removed from the World Health Organization’s list of SARS-affected areas. This was a vitally important bit of reassurance against the prospect of a pandemic, for a world that had become so interconnected by air travel that a virulent disease can come bubbling up out of some place that nobody’s ever heard of and quickly spread to all sorts of places everybody knows well. For better or worse, the civilizations of the world were now so inextricably connected that things going on in one part of the world invariably made an impact on virtually every place else, sooner or later.
Various ideas regarding what it would be best to do about the human condition were bandied about by glossy media pundits, seasoned political negotiators and religious leaders of every persuasion. They talked and threatened and bellowed and screamed in an ever rising tower of babble that produced only chaos, and then they pointed to the chaos and pronounced it a miracle.
Meanwhile, underneath the clamor and din, an actual miracle quietly descended, in the way that actual miracles tend to do, when Zubaida and her entourage returned to the village of Farah. She was home again after more than a year in America, two years since the girl that they once knew was consumed in fire. The story of what had been done to restore her made it such an incredible experience for everyone who witnessed the before-and-after, that their unstoppable reports were enough to occupy the gossip networks of the entire region.
The local people who were old enough to have survived the decades of war were also people who had seen more than twenty years of constant raids and retaliations, beginning with being “taught a lesson” by the Soviet invaders for failing to convert to communism, to the back-breaking “tributes” demanded by the feuding warlords, and finally to the nonstop demands of the screaming Taliban enforcers. So far, however, even the oldest and wisest of the villagers knew nothing more about these Americans than the fact that their soldiers were currently in the region.
Out in Farah, the local people had only seen U.S. soldiers when their jeeps drove in and out of the village to deliver messages to Hasan about his daughter. All the villagers heard his stories about the kindness of the American soldiers in the ancient city of Kandahar, and of how well they conducted themselves toward Hasan and his daughter even though the residents of Farah were only common people. These American soldiers behaved like common people themselves, and they supported Hasan and his daughter out of their own soldiers’ pay, for weeks at a time, before the military hospital began to help them. How could they do that? Are all American soldiers rich?
Beginning with those first American soldiers, then the Civil Affairs people, then the military doctors, then the political powers that be, the villagers heard Mohammed’s story time and time again, all about how more Americans kept getting involved until the miracle was at last made plain, there for all to see, and Zubaida Hasan walked among them once again. She was whole again. The burned thing that she had once been was long gone.
One after another, the villagers got their chances to speak with Zubaida. Sometimes when they asked her questions she would ignore them, pretending that she couldn’t hear anything that was said to her. But at other times, when the mood struck her, she would tell long stories that were very hard to believe. When she spoke out that way, it hardly mattered what she told them. She became the medium and the medium was the message. They heard her clear voice and they saw the same old spark in eyes—so quick to fire—whi
le she wove her story.
Even though it was impossible for them to conceive of how much her frame of reference was forever altered by her unique journey , none could fail to see that she stood up straight among them, now. She looked them directly in the eyes, even though she was still not yet twelve years of age. They looked back at her and saw that she was Zubaida Hasan returned to them, not some imposter. Whatever those mysterious Americans had done, there was no trickery.
They knew she came back home voluntarily, too, even though she was said to have lived in American splendor. They knew that she had been alone, a single small female child in the land of the Others, and that with her parents’ consent she had been held in that country with its Western ways all through the year.
Nevertheless, here she was back with them. Not only was she healed and restored to a degree that looked more like the product of witchcraft than mere science and medicine, but she had survived a year among the Others and come away unharmed. Most heartening of all, for the villagers—and living proof that the so-called “irresistible lure” of America is a myth—she was home again with her family, right there in Farah. Anyone could see that she was in good shape and all was well. The story was so perfectly resolved that the rest of the villagers felt free to get back to the relentless daily grind of struggling for life in a broken economy.
Zubaida herself had no particular message to give to the people who pressed her with their curiosity and their endless questions. She was, after all, the message itself: an “alive and well” message, able to do whatever she wanted and free to make mischief. So amid an Afghan culture that reveres generosity and heroism, when Zubaida’s amazed visitors looked at her and remembered how she had been, they saw touchable evidence of the American heart.
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