American Taliban: A Novel
Page 19
He must have found what he needed in the hills, Bill said to calm her, but at his desk in the evening, he e-mailed Khaled, with apologies up front for the intrusion. We haven’t heard from him, he wrote. Please let us know what you know, anything you know.
Twenty-four hours later, Khaled informed Bill that John had signed on for meditation at a camp outside Tangi, stayed there for three weeks, then took a trip higher into the mountains. He probably has no access to e-mail or a phone, and he might not even know about 9/11, Khaled wrote. He’s missed his first few weeks of fall classes. I hope he gets back soon.
Your son, Bill told Barbara, is becoming a yogi, and yogis aren’t known for staying in touch with their mothers.
His report hardly served to calm Barbara’s fears. The country was on high alert, and second and third attacks were expected. On the subways, planes, in cities. Nuclear plants and water supplies were reported vulnerable. Even regular first-class mail wasn’t safe.
You know what, one of Barbara’s oldest friends suggested. Right now, John might actually be safer overseas.
They were dining out, and Barbara was agitated. Maybe so, Bill agreed, hoping to calm her, though he knew better.
The U.S. Army, he knew, was gearing up for war in Afghanistan, and the mountains above Peshawar were no place for an American. He engaged a law firm in Islamabad to file a missing person claim.
The North-West Frontier Province, the head of the law firm informed him, is an ideal place for an adventure. Unfortunately, it’s also where people disappear. Without telling Barbara what he’d heard, Bill e-mailed all John’s friends, asking them to forward their most recent correspondence with his son.
From: khaled102@islamia.edu
To: BillParish@ParishWalkerBrown.com
Date: October 2, 2001
RE: John Parish
Dear Mr. Parish,
Here’s John’s last email to me. We didn’t email much. We met in classes. Went for tea.
I asked his friend Yusef who took him up there to find out more. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear.
Yours,
Khaled
——Forwarded Message
From: Attar attar75@islamia.edu
To: khaled102@islamia.edu
Date: July 29, 2001
FW: locker key
khaled,
i’m giving my locker key to yusef to give to you to keep with your own. will get it from you when i get back, allah willing. since my pig aka my board is too long to fit in the locker, i’m leaving it with yusef.
jjp, also known as attar
———End of Forwarded Message
From: Noor Bint-Khan NoorK@earthlink.net
To: BillParish@ParishWalkerBrown.com
Date: October 3, 2001
RE: John Parish
Dear Mr. Parish,
I hope this helps.
Best,
Noor
——–Forwarded Message
From: Attar attar75@islamia.edu
To: Noor Bint-Khan NoorK@earthlink.net
Date: July 30, 2001
FW: board slide
dear (princess) noor,
i’m taking time out from classes to live in the cool or cooler hills above peshawar and might not have internet access for some time. but i’ll do what i can to stay in touch. i never did meet the female half of peshawar’s population, but perhaps in the hills i’ll come across a shepherdess, though according to the stories merely looking at a tribal girl can start a feud. right now, i know, you’re thinking he’s jinned, and i might agree, but i might also ask what’s wrong with a jinned life.
here’s a maneuver that ali might be ready for. instruct him to practice it first on the lowest rail or curb he can find. it’s called a board slide, combines two 180 ollies, one to get up on the curb, the second to get off. executing the slide in between requires momentum and balance. the trick is to land your board right between the front and back trucks, which means it will really test his balance. so here goes:
begin by rolling parallel to the rail, do a 180 onto the rail, use your knees and hips to push into the slide, then heel into your ollie down and land buttery. in the slide, you want about 20% more weight on your front foot so your board is tipped somewhat forward. this will also help you get some height. ali, have fun and don’t hurt yourself.
noor, i miss you, ka-thee-ran. thank you for taking me inside, allowing me to learn and understand as an insider.
as salaamu + love,
john
ps do you know about rabia, a female sufi saint whose teachings emphasize love?
————End of Forwarded Message
From: Naim Naim24@optonline.net
To: BillParish@ParishWalkerBrown.com
Date: October 4, 200l
RE: John Parish
Mr. Parish,
Here’s what I got. I hope he’s okay.
Naim
———Forwarded Message
From: Attar attar75@islamia.edu
To: Naim Naim24@optonline.net
Date: July 30, 2001
FW: immersion
naim,
before i move on for further, deeper immersion, i want to thank you for your advice way back last year. you were right: this is the only way to truly learn and know. immersion as a kind of submission, really. to islam, to the culture, to the crowds, the heat, the tales, the small and larger cruelties, the poverty, the smells of rotting fruit, the food, the water, to the strangely non-absorbent towels, and more. and it’s true i’m learning much about islam and its culture, and finding it very beautiful, but i’m writing to also tell you that my learning confirms something i said all along: that the choice of religion finally doesn’t matter; only the ideals they teach are important. which means it really doesn’t matter which religion you follow so long as you understand the goal. the prophet learned from the gnostics. the sufis wear wool because john the baptist wore a wool shirt. walt whitman got his transcendentalist ideas from buddhist texts. as one sufi wrote: different grapes offer variations on the taste of grapes, but their essence which is wine is the same.
so, as i take off for my next adventure, shook-rahn for helping to inspire it,
attar
———End of Forwarded Message
From: Katie katiel0l@optonline.net
To: BillParish@ParishWalkerBrown.com
Date: October 3, 200l
RE: John Parish
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Parish,
Sylvie and I are sick with worry, but still we believe, no we know that John will turn up. Just like that, just like John. He will arrive and he will be home again. Thinking of you both with lots of love, Katie
ps Sylvie sends her love too.
pps My Mom says to send her love too and hopes to see you here soon.
ppps Everyone at OBX sends their love.
——Forwarded Message
From: Attar attar75@islamia.edu
To: Katie katiel0l@optonline.net
Date: July 30, 2001
FW: Jilly
dear katie,
i wish i could be with you, because then i wouldn’t have to try to say what i feel. i’m glad you made the difficult decision to stay on in hawaii despite what happened. it’s the right way to honor jilly. in my own way, on land rather than sea, i’m planning to honor jilly by immersing myself further and deeper than i have until now. i am moving to the hills for a couple of months, which means i won’t have internet access for a while, so i want to say i think of you often and with much much love and miss you. stay safe. here, in this brown brown country, i look up at the sky to see your forget-me-not blue eyes. so i’m not forgetting. i remain yours, xxxooojohn
ps give my love to sylvie too.
———End of Forwarded Message
ON OCTOBER 7, Operation Enduring Freedom began with air strikes against military and terrorist camps, and Barbara, who had a map of the area on her desk, grew ever more anxious. John was somewhere in northern Pakistan, much too close to the war zone.
Though on September 11 it had helped her to know that John was far from Brooklyn, now she wished he were living there again.
He might not even know that we’re at war, she said.
That’s what I worried about, Bill said. At first. But now, if he’s anywhere in the area, if he’s not far away in India, he’s hearing the bombs.
In newspaper headlines and lead stories on every television and radio station, Donald Rumsfeld announced the initial strikes successful. Not knowing what else to do, Bill e-mailed Noor to arrange a meeting, and instead of going to his office one day, he took the Metroliner to Penn Station, and then a taxi to the café on Mott.
It was early, the café was quiet, and she brought two coffees to the small corner table.
Business has been slow since 9/11, she said.
She took a vial from her backpack and sprinkled some into her coffee.
Cinnamon? Bill asked.
It’s called havaj, Noor explained. It’s a mix of several spices. John liked it. Would you like to try it?
I’ll pass, Bill said.
Have you heard anything? Noor asked but didn’t wait for Bill’s response.
It’s unusual for him to let so much time pass between e-mails. Before his final e-mail, he was writing every week, and he always remembered everyone, especially Ali, that’s my little brother. He would include detailed instructions for a new skating maneuver, and then Ali would practice hard until the next one arrived. He’s gotten really good. John’s a good teacher.
He impressed me in the beginning, and then he started scaring me, Noor continued. I worried that he was doing things for me, but I was mistaken. It had nothing to do with me. He was just going for full immersion, for the experience, for some kind of adventure. He had a sort of fantasy about becoming a great adventurer in the grand style of the nineteenth century. That’s how he explained it, anyway. And I think that’s what he’s doing. He’s disappeared into an adventure.
I hope you’re right, Bill said. Then he asked a series of questions. I don’t need an immediate answer, he said. I want you to take time to think about them: Did John ever mention training camps? Did he mention someone named Yusef? Did he say anything about fighting on the Kashmir border? About traveling to Afghanistan? About the Taliban? Had she been in touch with Khaled?
Noor answered the questions in the order they were asked. No and no and no and no and no and no, but Samina is probably in touch with Khaled. Khaled’s girlfriend, Noor explained. I’ll e-mail her. She’s in Paris this year.
Bill hadn’t heard of a Samina, but knowing that Khaled had a girlfriend, that he was a kid with the passions of other kids, was comforting. Do you know, Bill followed up, whether there were discussions of Islamic politics at the Sharia School?
I never attended classes, but I’ve heard Sharia students talk politics, though I don’t know whether you could call that Islamic politics. The students at the Sharia are from everywhere—Indonesia, Yemen, India, Egypt, Iran, Pakistan—so they talk about all these places.
Ten minutes later, Bill left money plus a tip on the table. If you hear anything, he said, you know how to reach me.
They shook hands, but then Noor surprised Bill and stepped forward for a hug. I’ll pray to Allah that he comes home soon.
He flagged a cab, gave the driver the address in Brooklyn, and leaned back to think. He hadn’t notified the school of his visit because he didn’t want to give them time to consider any particular position, though by now, since 9/11, no Arab institution anywhere in the world was without a position. He planned to walk into the main office, present himself as father of a former student, and ask permission to observe a class.
The school’s administrator directed Bill to Brother Sami, John’s former teacher.
Your son, Sami offered, wasn’t here long, but he made himself noticed. An excellent student, his reading was varied and esoteric. He provoked the conservative mind.
In that, Bill said, he takes after his mother.
May Allah guide him back to safety, Sami offered.
The session Bill audited focused on the grammar of Arabic, and after half an hour of it, he left. Unlike his son, he had no interest in or facility for foreign languages. Of the school itself, he could say nothing damaging. They offered the instruction they promised. His son, he knew, could be trusted to find trouble on his own, but if he’d stayed in Brooklyn, he would have been all right. Now, too late, Bill wished he had taken a firmer stand against study in Pakistan. And he hoped that Noor was right, that John was having the adventure of his life, and that he would emerge alive to tell about it. He rubbed his forehead and eyes. This time, with his cracked cocktail of curiosity, bravado, misguided empathies, and taste for the strange, John might have gotten in over his head. But what more could Bill do? At a dead end, not knowing what else to do, he found himself wishing that he, too, could place his trust in Allah.
Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge back to Manhattan, Bill looked up at the skyline and saw only what wasn’t there.
AT HOME THAT EVENING, Bill told Barbara where he’d been and what he’d learned. I’m waiting for more from Khaled, who’s getting in touch with a Yusef, John’s last contact. I also told the lawyer in Islamabad about this Yusef. And now I’m wondering what else to do.
Let’s go there, Barbara said. Right away. Instead of waiting for the holidays.
I thought about it, Bill said, but I want to wait a week or two. Here, John and his friends know where to find us. I also wonder what we could do there that we can’t do better from here. It’s not as if we know our way around Pakistan. It’s not as if we can go hiking into the mountains looking for him.
In two weeks then. Maybe we’ll hear from him in the meantime. He’ll want to come home for Thanksgiving.
He won’t want to miss your turkey, Bill agreed.
NOVEMBER 22, 2001. It wasn’t yet dawn, and already Barbara was awake. So over sweatpants and T-shirt, she pulled on John’s high school hoodie. She’d put the turkey into the oven early, swim at the Y, return home to attend the fixin’s, John’s word. She would be home most of the day. She would be near the phone. She had become a woman who waits by the phone, addicted to the news, no matter how unpleasant. She went nowhere without her laptop, she checked her inbox too many times a day. She woke up to the papers, ended her day with the evening updates, and spent the night with Google, in search of the latest postings, while half the world was in bed, even if not sleeping. Sleep, a recent study reported, had become a commodity. More than half of Americans were losing sleep. Bin Laden had murdered sleep. Knowing that even after hours, death and destruction didn’t stop, not for the night, not for women and children, not for pity, justice, belief, Americans were having trouble sleeping. This country was at war, and even when there were no reports of anything particularly significant, there was death. Somewhere overseas someone’s son was dying. Somewhere in the world a mother would grieve. This kept her awake. She checked for e-mail. Thanksgiving was John’s favorite holiday, he had never missed a single one, and if he could, if he were anywhere near an Internet connection, he would send turkey tidings. Or he was on his way home to surprise them. He would walk through the door in time for turkey and stuffing and pie. She wanted nothing so much as to see John demolish the turkey, leave no leftovers, eat the way only a hungry nineteen-year-old can. She made a pot of coffee. She checked for e-mail. If he could he would send holiday wishes. He would surprise them, arrive in time for turkey, overstuff himself with pie. He was perhaps the only person in the world who ate his pumpkin pie with chocolate-fudge-brownie ice cream. She checked for e-mail. They wanted nothing so much as to see John demolish this turkey. She checked for e-mail. She rinsed and dried the turkey. She checked for e-mail. She rubbed salt into the cavity. She mixed paprika, cayenne, and sage in a small bowl. She poured in olive oil. She stirred. With bare clean hands, she thoroughly basted the turkey. She soaped and washed her hands again, dried them, checked for e-mail. She fiddled with the dial on the kitchen radio, foun
d what she wanted. Reports of an imminent Taliban surrender in Konduz. She turned up the volume. Advancing Northern Alliance troops were hit with a sustained volley of Taliban artillery shells, the announcer said. The Alliance responded with a barrage of long-range rockets. U.S. forces continued to bomb Taliban front-line positions in Konduz. Contradictions were multiplying fast as Alliance and Taliban commanders, meeting in Mazar-e-Sharif, both claimed that the fighters would lay down their arms. Amid the turmoil and confusion, as winter drew near, aid agencies in Afghanistan were attempting to move in supplies for millions of war-weary civilians.
She chopped onions, celery, mushrooms, went to check—no, she stopped herself, it was too soon. She peeled carrots and sweet potatoes, couldn’t help herself, and checked for e-mail, but the headlines were the same: Alliance and Taliban commanders, meeting in Mazar-e-Sharif, continued promising that their fighters would lay down their arms. Surrender, she thinks, is good news if it means an end to senseless fighting and killing, an end to untimely deaths, on both sides, all sides. The fighters were only kids, John’s age. And then the bars of Alice’s Restaurant opened, too early in the day, she thought, which meant she’d hear it too many times that day, all day, though hearing it too many times on Thanksgiving Day was practically a family tradition, would be an American tradition if America could be said to have any.