Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  “And do you, Mason?”

  “I don’t know. I like taking care of you.”

  “Good grief, Mason. You’re too little to take care of me.”

  “I’m a boy. We take care of our mothers and sisters when there are no fathers.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I feel that. No one told me that! I’m a boy.”

  “Perhaps it is time for you to have a full-time father, Mason.”

  It’s in the genes, she thought, now noticing how like his father he looked when he was angry. America, she thought, will do him good.

  CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

  Emily and her children left Amsterdam for Paris, where they met the Ansaris. They traveled by Ariana Airways to Kabul where Aunt Jack was waiting. Harrison returned to America without the Saudi contract, he had been underbid by “TechResolve” as he had anticipated, but his relationship with the Bin Laden conglomerate had ended on a pleasant note and he felt sure that they would keep him in mind for other proposals.

  Since 1971 Afghanistan had been open to tourists and in 1974 most tourists traveled east to west taking the southern road through Kandahar. Emily, however, had asked the Ansaris if they could detour and visit the Giant Buddhas at Bamiyan. They traveled in two Land Rovers through the mountains and Emily was struck not so much by their majesty but by the sheer desolation of the range itself. This was, and she believed this for the rest of her life, the loneliest place on earth. For fifteen hundred years the red mountains and hills filled with secret caves offered protection from the harsh climate to the green peaceful valley below. The statues were an incredible sight! From inside the magnificent head of the tallest Buddha it was possible to see the tip of the Hindu Kush and the Koh-I-Baba mountain range and Emily was photographed sitting on top of the 175 foot statue. Little did she realize that twenty-seven years later, in a turmoil rivaling the destruction of the first monasteries by Genghis Khan these wondrous statues would be lost forever, destroyed by the warriors of another God. The villagers of Bamiyan profited from the flow of tourists visiting the holy sites and there were tea stands scattered around the edge of the village. Emily introduced the children to Afghan chai, which they preferred to the mint tea they drank at home. They ate spiced flat bread and greedily devoured curiously pale green melons while trying to pushing each other over as they sat cross-legged on reed mats in the shade of the trees. They were awed by the stark beauty of the rugged cliffs in which nestled the remains of the walls and towers known as the “Red City” since its destruction by the mighty Khan. Emily had never seen such ferocious rock formations. The land was harsh, intimidating and never ending. One could hide here forever and not be discovered, thought Emily. What a wild place this was; so far every village had been a contrast, sullen and desolate yet each with a uniquely dignified beauty much like the inhabitants themselves.

  Emily and the others spent the night in Bamiyan where their party was treated like gods by the village’s most distinguished family. They feasted on Bulanee Katchalu, a turnover that is stuffed with ground lamb and mashed potatoes and the children dipped Pawkara made from eggplant into mint flavored yogurt and meat sauces while they were entertained by the village musicians who played stringed instruments they call rubabs and dutars accompanied by throbbing percussion on tabla, zerbaghali and dhol. Emily tried to play the santur, an instrument with strings tuned in pairs and threes, played with tiny hammers like a hammered dulcimer. Its sound was eerie and provocative. She had never seen her children so happy. They spun and danced in circles to the music. Mason, who now answered only to Masud, was clearly uninhibited. He sang and laughed, reveling in his new identity and Emily noticed that he didn’t stand out from the rest of the people. He was now one with them and she thought her heart would break. She knew she had somehow unwittingly deprived him of both his heritage and culture, all because she hated his father.

  She looked at Haley, who would not answer to the Islamic Hallah, dancing alone with her teddy bear, watching her brother with a look of betrayal in her eyes. Emily eyed her children curiously. Haley liked being different and could never survive the harsh reality of Afghanistan. There was no doubt she loved the comforts of the West even at this young age. But Mason was now as much an Afghan as his father and grandparents; she could feel him slipping away from her and understood through the psychic bond between all mothers and their sons, his decision to bind himself with this land forever.

  Emily would tell him one day that women all over Asia and Africa bound their children with the land and culture by burying their umbilical cord and placenta in the Earth after the birth. Emily had done that; his was buried in Lebanon on the grounds of the hospital where he was born, not in Afghanistan. Haley’s birth cord was buried in Chester near the wall where her mother’s ancestors dwelled for nine hundred years. Two children, she thought, who look so alike but who are as different as day and night. And when it was at last time to turn in, she gave up her fears and sorrows as she did every night since her pregnancy with Mason to the arms of her protector Isis while she dozed on the rough blankets outside on the verandah looking up at the stars in the brilliant Afghan sky.

  There had been a shortage of rain that year and many of the neighboring villagers were moving closer to the larger and more sophisticated cities for water and food supplies. Because they had been told of the hundreds of people trying to leave the northern and central areas parched from three years of drought and the resulting famine, Emily and the Ansaris left with their drivers early the following morning on their journey to Herat. They knew that the although there were massive aid programs providing money and food from overseas, hoards of people were starving and searching for any solution to ease their sorrow and fill their empty bellies. New roads, built by the Americans and the Russians were few and far between and most people kept to the dirt roads and mountain paths which were crowded and becoming very dangerous for travelers. It would take the party traveling over gravel roads riddled with potholes and flying dirt slightly over one week to reach Herat. When they arrived, they discovered to their surprise that the tiny mud huts in the valleys tilled by hand had disappeared. They now found fertile irrigated fields, blessed with every kind of crop imaginable.

  Herat lies in the north-west corner of Afghanistan on the Harirud River and inhabited for over 2,500 years. Long known as Central Asia’s center of art, poetry and architecture, Herat, the Valley of Gardens was exactly as Ghulam had described it five years earlier, truly magnificent. Emily had not seen such lush green valleys and flower filled gardens since she left England.

  The Ansaris lived not far from the Castle of Pai Hesar, built during the time of Alexander the Great. To Emily’s surprise, the area had quite a cosmopolitan flavor due to the vast amount of young European tourists visiting the site. The family villa faced one of the loveliest gardens on the outside of Herat, named Takht-e Safar. Visible from the house was a slope where pools of water were channeled to flow freely down the steps, creating a magical waterfall reflecting the colors of hundreds of roses and lilies blooming with each seasonal change. The villa, though locally built had a Moorish influence that complimented the European design of the state owned garden. It was surrounded by old fashioned roses in deep crimson and hot pink interspersed with yellow and apricot gladioli. Emily had not believed Ghulam when he spoke of the sheer beauty of this part of his country. There were gigantic aromatic rosemary bushes and flowering vines with orange trumpet shaped flowers growing up the side of the villa and hanging baskets of massive ferns at each side of the mahogany door which itself lent a medieval appearance to the house, its wrought iron grill resplendent with studs and hinges. At the side of the villa were desert palms and prickly pear. A sun bleached stone path lead to modest groves of oranges and lemons. The home itself was a massive two story dwelling with stucco walls. The floors were tiled in stunning geometric patterns, semi circles, four cornered stars, diamonds and octagons upon which low chairs and benches rested on carpets of vivid colors.
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  Downstairs there was one large central room with a double height internal courtyard, again filled to capacity with plants and flowers. At the back was a terrace in sun worn terra-cotta and green with a pit for grilling, and wall benches covered with fat cushions of deep blue. There were smaller rooms, each personalized for the occupant and what looked like a formal office and library. Emily’s quarters consisted of four small rooms and a separate European toilet and bidet. There was an ante-room containing an old fashioned English Victorian copper-footed bathtub with a high back and bottom that looked like a small bench. It had porcelain fixtures and a modern removable shower spray that could be used while one sat in the tub. Doors to a small terra-cotta tiled terrace lead out from two of the rooms. The beds in all the rooms were plain and simple with hand embroidered bed spreads and brilliant white Egyptian cotton sheets. There were built in shelves and long hand carved dressers; mirrors hung behind each door. But amidst all of this, it was the carpets that caught Emily’s eye. She saw the for the first time in her life a carpet with helicopters and animals strangely woven into the design and she realized then that carpet weaving was also a type of communication from village to village. All the rooms had richly colored carpets, some had people and animals within the pattern and others had floral designs, each one telling some sort of story.

  The children fell in love with their rooms and the private terrace. Their clothes and toys were unpacked and they settled down to a meal of Sabzi Challaw, enjoying the lightly spiced cubes of lamb with spinach followed by mango ice cream for dessert. After finally putting the children to bed, Emily escaped to the terrace where she waited for her aunt.

  CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

  “There is a saying here,” began Masud Ansari as they broke their fast that morning, “’May you have the beauty of a flower but a longer life’ Imsh’Allah. We welcome you all to our home. Thank you for joining us in our prayers this morning.”

  They breakfasted on fruit, cheese and Afghan bread. Aunt Jack looked at the Ansaris with suspicion; Emily could sense something was wrong. “I would like to see some of the gardens today. Perhaps you would like to join me, Emily. I suppose there are tour guides available, Humera?” Aunt Jack asked.

  “I would be more than happy to take you Yacouta,” Humera answered with the appropriate respect due an older female relative, but not without considerable suspicion in her voice.

  “Good heavens, do not trouble yourself my sister,” Yacouta replied, using Arabic etiquette. “Enjoy the children. It has been so hard for you not seeing little Masud, who looks so like his father. Enjoy them, I insist. My niece and I can go alone. It is safe, yes? We can be back before dinner time.”

  “I can arrange for a driver for you,” Masud Ansari added as an afterthought of protection.

  “Why, that is kind of you. But not the Land Rover. I have asthma, dear brother and the sand and dust of the road make it impossible for me to breathe.” Her logic, as always, was not challenged.

  What the hell is she up to, wondered Emily, who was now trying hard not to smile at the carefully orchestrated show of respect on all sides of this equation.

  “Of course, I have a Peugeot. As it is also mine and not used for official purposes, it is of course at your disposal. However, our driver speaks only Dari and Farsi.”

  “That is not a problem father,” Emily added, “I am conversant in both.”

  Masud glowed. This wayward young woman had called him father. It was the first time she had acknowledged their relationship even through a failed marriage. This was the highest form of compliment and respect Emily could have shown him. Her point had been well taken. Regardless of Ghulam’s transgressions or the behavior that had preceded such acts, Masud Ansari was still held in highest familial esteem, and family honor means everything in Afghan culture.

  “There is of course the problem of your not being accompanied. It is unusual for women here to wander around unprotected.”

  “My dear Ansari, we look decidedly western and we are obviously not Afghani. I’m sure we won’t be bothered. After all this isn’t Saudi Arabia!”

  Ansari looked a little astonished, as he was clearly not used to being corrected by a woman, but being the gentleman he was, he compromised by letting the women use his best and most security minded driver while he remained at home finishing some reports.

  Within the hour Yacouta D’Aboville and her niece were in the garden of Bage Pole Pashtoon, looking at the view from the Pashtoon Bridge of the Herat River.

  “So what was that all about?”

  “My dear, there is a bit of a crisis heading this way. I understand from my friends in Tel Aviv that earlier this summer, while President Daud had his three day sojourn to Moscow, he actually signed an economic agreement with the Russkies and foolishly, at pretty much the same time, put into effect a cooperation agreement with China and Bangladesh. Now this seems very foolish to the Israelis, because the Muslim Brotherhood is becoming very influential here and the Russians, if necessary will protect their investment. This Daud Khan obviously has too many fingers in the pie and you mark my words Emily, he will have to make a choice which side he will be on. Taking aid from the Russians and at the same time entering into agreements with China is downright stupid. At some point he will have to take a stand with one group and let the others go. From what I understand the Pakistanis are none too thrilled with this political administration because Daud keeps openly supporting the creation of an independent Paktunistan, which is of course the Pashtun dominated area between Pakistan and Afghanistan. They’ve been fighting for independence from both sides since 1947. From an Afghan standpoint this would give Afghanistan a friendly corridor for trade to the coast of the Arabian Sea, but it might create a Pashtun threat for the Pakistanis. He’s made several appeals at the Islamic summit for recognition on their behalf, but they’re too threatened by the prospect to decide in his favor. My big worry is that this entire nation is a time bomb. The Israelis believe that within a few years there’ll be a massive resurgence of the Brotherhood and the Russians will come in and will meet with considerable resistance, which of course will probably be funded by the Americans and the British.”

  “Aunt Jack, this is an area where there will always be revolution, until there is self rule without domination by outsiders, and frankly, I understand that. We all need to stay out and leave them to deal with it themselves.”

  “Now Emily, think long term! Look at the potential here. If the Russians decide to occupy, as they probably will considering the money they’ve poured in here, the Islamics will find this most unacceptable. The United States will back an Islamic resistance in the hope that the Russians will withdraw, having poured money they cannot afford into the fight. They really cannot afford another long drawn out war. Their economy is already in trouble. The Israelis are egging on the Americans, who will side with the Muslims against the Russians. It’s bloody perfect isn’t it? The Russians and the Islamics fight it out and the Israelis, the Americans and the Brits sit on the sidelines like buzzards waiting to pick on the carnage of Afghanistan and rebuild it, taking the oil, minerals and anything else that comes up for grabs. Economic piracy is what it is!” she concluded.

  “But Aunt Jack, the economy has actually improved since this alliance with the Russians. New roads, hospitals and schools are being built, and women are being treated with equality,” Emily argued.

  “My goodness, you are so gullible! Do you think the commies in China and the Soviet Union are doing all this for the good of the mountain people, giving interest free loans and building oil refineries and fertilizer factories? There’s a bounty here. Minerals, precious stones, oil, all needing to be excavated. This could the saving grace for any dying political regime. And it’s the last stand for the Muslims; one decent trade route would restore the old days of glory. Think of a Muslim economic community that could, with a little effort lead straight to the Iberian Peninsula. It happened in ancient times and you’re the one who believes in history
repeating itself! Just think of it, Emily, it could happen! Personally I think it is the most dangerous place on Earth, bar none. But that isn’t what I’m trying to tell you. I have it on good authority that your former husband, Ghulam Ansari is alive and well! He is rising in the Muslim Brotherhood hierarchy and he wants his son. You must leave this place as soon as you can.”

  “Rubbish! Total and utter rubbish! He’s dead. Even his parents believe that, and who the hell cares if he isn’t?”

  “Emily, you are in Afghanistan. There’s barely a functional consulate for Britain or the United States in Kabul, even if you could reach one from here in an emergency. I have heard from my own contacts in Ha Mossad that there is going to be an attempt to overthrow the Daud regime within a few weeks. Make an excuse to take your children out of here before it happens. I understand you are safe for about a week, but then you must go. In the last two days I have spoken with people who have seen Ghulam Ansari. He was injured. He has scars and limps, but otherwise he is not affected. He has other wives and travels in what seems to be a large pack of religious zealots who are calling for an uprising of all Muslims worldwide against oppression of their culture. I understand he now adheres to a strict branch of Islam known as Wahhabism and that he has made very dangerous friends. Some say he was in Lebanon last month, raising funds for the Brotherhood. He separates from his family frequently and travels from camp to camp, recruiting and preaching and he will be here with his magic carpet and full coffers within one month.”

  Emily was horrified. “Do his parents know?”

  “No, they have no idea. But soon they will and they are obligated to him by blood, you know that. If Mason is with them, they will surrender him to his father. That is the law here. Women have no rights, particularly foreign women.”

  “Come on, Aunt Jack. This isn’t Syria or Saudi. I have international rights. Does he have other children?”