Lipstick in Afghanistan

by Roberta Gately

  When the clinic was closed, she tried to work on her growing pile of paperwork. It was an exhausting routine, but she was adjusting to her ascetic lifestyle.

  Living by candlelight and kerosene lantern limited what she could get done very early or very late, so she squeezed every minute she could out of the daylight. Fortunately, the days were growing longer, and she usually arrived home by dusk. After dinner, however, she and Amina lived in near darkness since they had a limited supply of kerosene.

  As for washing, it involved so much preparation—stoking the fire, filling the urn, and heating the water—that Elsa began to skip a day or two here and there. Other adjustments were more challenging. Sleeping on the floor pad was difficult since it was firm, and the floor was cold and hard. She missed sitting, too. Here she squatted for everything—to eat, to talk, to visit, even for the latrine. She longed for a seat or a bed or a toilet, and she quickly tired of the never-ending diet of beans and rice.

  But she was careful not to complain. Hamid had told her more than once how well she was living. The food, the rooms, the donkey that delivered water—all were considered luxurious in Bamiyan.

  In those rare moments of quiet, Hamid taught her Dari—the Afghan variation of the Persian language—and the basics of polite behavior. And he did his best to help her understand his culture.

  “Like it or not,” he said self-consciously, “it is often whispered that foreign women are prostitutes, and many believe they are here to steal good Afghan men.”

  Elsa smiled and wondered if she should tell him about the blue-eyed soldier before deciding to keep her secret crush just that. “Gimme a break, Hamid,” she said in her best Boston accent, rolling her eyes. “Do I look like a prostitute?”

  “This is not a city, Elsa,” he said, glancing around nervously. “I know that it is not true but these are illiterate people.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They are peasants really. Many do not understand why anyone—a woman especially—would come so far for people she doesn’t even know. Naturally, they suspect… how do you say it? Secret motives.”

  He paused to make certain that she was taking him seriously.

  “You must take care. Look away from men and when you meet them, do not put out your hand. Instead, hold your hand over your heart. And remember, if the women feel they can trust you around their men, they will accept you.”

  Elsa shook her head and dropped the subject. The etiquette lesson over, they worked on Dari. Thankfully, Hamid was a patient teacher.

  “Che taklif?” Elsa said, focusing carefully on the pronunciation. “Che taklif? What’s wrong?” She repeated it over and over until the words came almost naturally.

  “Mariz, sick?”

  “As-salaam alaikum. Chetore asti? Khoob asti? Jona jurast?” That just might be the longest hello in the world, she thought.

  “What does it all mean?” she asked.

  “May peace be upon you. How are you? You are well? How is your health?” Hamid replied. “It is long, but it is the formal and proper way to greet someone. Try it,” he urged.

  Elsa sighed and repeated the greeting.

  Hamid leaned forward and tried to hold in his laughter.

  “Kh is a guttural sound. You must say it from your throat. It doesn’t sound like a hard K. Try it again.”

  Elsa struggled with the sounds, but she kept at it, determined to master them.

  She was determined, as well, to find her niche, and she decided to spend more time in the clinic’s emergency room. It felt like the one place where she could demonstrate her expertise and prove to Ezat that she was valuable. Yet the emergency room, Laila had told her, was Ezat’s domain.

  “I’m not certain this is a good idea, Elsa,” Laila said, her brow furrowed. “Ezat doesn’t even allow me in the emergency room and if you go in there, he will not be happy.”

  “Then it may be just what he needs to understand that I’m here to stay,” Elsa replied.

  Elsa and Hamid spent one long afternoon in the emergency room, cleaning, sorting, and figuring out exactly which supplies she had and what she might need. It was familiar work, and she felt more comfortable than she had since she arrived.

  When they’d finished, she stood and stretched. Through the open window, she saw Ezat striding purposefully toward the ER.

  “Uh-oh,” she said, nodding toward the window.

  Hamid spun just as Ezat pushed open the door. He froze and stood in the middle of the ER. His jaw was set; he was clearly angry.

  “What are you doing to my emergency room?” Ezat boomed.

  “Our emergency room.” Elsa stood her ground. “I’ve made some adjustments so it will work better. I moved the suture trays and the dressing material here.” She gestured to one side. “And I placed the intravenous fluids over there. Just small changes, but you’ll see that this setup will make things go more smoothly.” She smiled, hoping to ease the strain.

  Ezat’s nostrils flared and his scowl deepened, but he didn’t speak. Disconcerted by his silence, she continued.

  “Ezat, I worked in a big emergency room in Amrika.” She cleared her throat. “This is the sort of thing I know. We treated gunshot wounds and accident victims and burn victims, and sometimes, we performed surgery right there in the ER. I’m not saying we can do all that here, but we can at least try to do better.” She hoped her voice sounded firm.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “And if it doesn’t work?”

  “Ezat, just give it a chance. Give me a chance. We are going to work together and this ER is a good place to start.”

  He raised his eyebrows, turned, and walked out the door.

  A few days later, morning clinic was interrupted by a persistent blaring horn. Elsa stepped away from her line of patients to look and saw a white vehicle just outside the gate, its bright UN banner waving in the breeze. She could just make out Johann waving furiously at her. Excusing herself, she hurried to his side.

  “Johann, it’s good to see—”

  He interrupted her before she could finish.

  “We have an emergency here. He’s bad, very bad. One of the mine clearers.” Johann shook his head. “Right onto a mine, he… he just stepped and… please just help him.” He pointed to the backseat of the jeep, and Elsa leaned in to look.

  There, crumpled and bleeding, lay what remained of a young man. Where his legs should have been, only bloody stumps were visible; his right arm had been torn from its socket and someone had laid it across his chest. His face was covered with blood and one eye was open and staring.

  She yelled for Hamid to bring a stretcher. Johann was speaking, but she heard only a loud roaring in her ears.

  Hamid and Ezat, a gurney in tow, mercifully arrived and reached into the vehicle to move the young man. Frozen in place, Elsa stood and watched as they lifted him from the car. She was still watching when his shredded arm fell to the ground.

  The bitter taste of her half-digested breakfast filled her mouth.

  “Elsa,” Ezat ordered. “Get the arm and put it here!” He pointed to the man’s bloodied chest.

  But she couldn’t move. Her head was spinning, and she tried to gulp in fresh air, but the smell of the blood and the sight of the wounded man made her stomach heave instead. Her hand flew to her mouth as if she could hold the vomit back. She turned away and vomited the naan and tea she’d had for breakfast. Then she slumped against the UN vehicle, Johann at her side.

  Ezat shot her a disgusted look, reached down, and lifted the bloody stump, placing it onto the gurney. “Let’s go!” he said.

  He shook his head as he pushed the gurney past her to the emergency room.

  “Elsa, my dear,” Johann cried, worry wrinkling his brow.

  “Oh, God. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She felt tears sting her eyes. “I know this stuff, Johann. I work in an ER. I know what to do.”

  She stood shakily, and he reached for her arm.

  “Sit, just for a minute. It’s hard to see them at
first, the victims of these land mines.”

  “No, no, Johann.” She moved away and took a deep breath. “I have to get to the ER or Ezat will never let me forget this.”

  She turned and walked as quickly as she could to the ER, but she hesitated for an instant before she pushed open the door and walked inside.

  Ezat, an Afghan nurse, and Hamid stood around the gurney. The smell of blood and of death filled the small space, and Elsa held her breath.

  Ezat turned, his eyes accusing. “He is dead. And you…what of you?”

  “I froze. I’m sorry, but I do know what to do. Next time will be different.”

  Ezat fixed her with a steely gaze.

  Elsa turned away, blinking back tears.

  * * *

  That night, she lay on her pad and reminded herself that she did know what to do. She’d learned it all in nursing school and then in the ER. Next time, she swore silently, I will be prepared.

  She replayed the scene over and over in her mind, but this time, she reached into the vehicle and pulled the injured man out and worked over him, saving his life.

  I know I can do this, she thought, until she fell into a fitful sleep.

  PART

  2

  Parween

  8

  Bamiyan, 1988

  “A husband, Mama? No.” Parween groaned as dramatically as she dared.

  “Now hush,” her mother murmured firmly. “Your childhood is finished. We must look to your future.” Rahima fixed a steely gaze on her daughter’s dirt-stained face. “As long as you are quiet and respectful, and can cook and clean, inshallah, we should have little trouble.”

  But something in her eyes spoke of doubt.

  Knowing it was an important topic, even if she didn’t especially want to discuss it, ten-year-old Parween folded her grimy hands into her lap and sat cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, trying to listen to her mother. She tucked in her bare feet and rearranged her fraying dress and loose pants as she listened. Her veil, a shawl almost, was draped haphazardly across her head.

  “This is how it must be,” Rahima continued firmly. “So there’s no use pouting. Just do as you are told, or you will find no husband at all.”

  That would be fine with me, Parween thought. But she kept silent.

  She didn’t want a husband, yet by age ten she had already learned that what she wanted would make no difference. The youngest of four children—cursed with the added misfortune of being a girl—Parween had spent her entire childhood answering to others.

  And now this, this talk of marriage, just after moving from the only home she’d ever known! How can life be so cruel?

  Parween Saleh had been just a year old when the monsters from the north, the “Russkis,” had invaded her homeland, a dusty village called Onai deep in the mountains of central Afghanistan. She’d learned to crawl—and then walk—amidst the land mines that dotted the landscape. She’d learned to sleep through the buzz of attacking helicopters and to hide at the sound of the monstrous vehicles that rumbled past the squat, one-story mud houses and out into the distant countryside.

  It often seemed the fighting was going badly, for more than one villager had returned limping or blind or without his legs.

  War brought only misery.

  And then, all at once, right before her tenth birthday, the foreign soldiers had disappeared from the outskirts of her village. The fighting is done, the villagers said. Parween was left with her mother and two brothers—her older sister had already married and left the house—plus three goats, four chickens, and a mangy, nameless dog.

  Parween couldn’t remember her father. He had disappeared early from her life when, as her mother told her, he was called to defend their country against the foreign invaders. Only later did they learn that he wasn’t coming home, having been “martyred” for their country’s cause.

  She had lived all her life in Onai, with her family waiting for her father’s return. But once his death had been confirmed, the small village offered little sustenance, and even less hope, to the fatherless family. Her mother was soon forced to sell their goats and abandon their dog. Though it was common practice for a dead man’s brother to marry the widow, ensuring that the family was cared for, Parween’s father had no brothers and no family to speak of, so Rahima had been forced to turn to her own relatives for help.

  This meant uprooting her children and moving their scant belongings to Bamiyan village, where they would live among the large extended family of Parween’s uncle Abdullah. A shepherd by trade, Abdullah lived in a mud compound that boasted several large rooms, each housing an entire family.

  The trip was long, so long Parween thought it would never end, but finally, after a full day of travel by rickety bus and weary foot, they arrived at their new home. The fertile green valley was nestled in the shadow of great sand-colored cliffs dotted with caves. The gravel and dirt road was crowded with people walking or sitting astride donkeys, the buzz of laughter and friendly conversation filling the air. Parween’s eyes grew wide as she spotted two gigantic statues carved into the face of the mountain. Fascinated as she was, she caught only a glimpse before the family reached their destination and unloaded their things into their new home.

  While her brothers explored every nook and cranny of the compound, Parween stood in the center of the family’s room and looked around curiously. Each of the rooms opened onto a central courtyard that offered an open cooking area, a small well, and an open latrine off to the side. The dirt floor of the little room in which she stood was covered by a fading and fraying hand-woven carpet.

  How beautiful it is, she thought with delight. It’s so soft on my feet.

  They hadn’t owned a carpet in Onai, and she squatted to run her hands over the worn fabric, its smooth feel and hint of color a welcome change from her old floor.

  Real window frames covered with plastic sheeting broke up the monotony of the mud-brown walls and offered her a murky glimpse out into the courtyard. The nearby well was a luxury, allowing them access to water without forcing Parween to trudge for hours balancing water jugs on poles across her back as she had in Onai. When the jugs were full, the poles—old sticks really—had gnawed at her bony shoulders, and she’d spent hours rubbing away the soreness. But with the well, all of that was finished, and she smiled in relief.

  Life will be easy here.

  Parween was tiny; her brothers even called her scrawny. As the youngest, she’d always been the last one fed. But what she lacked in size, she more than made up for in spirit. She had learned early on to look out for herself and she clung to that skill with fierce determination. Most often, her siblings were involved in their own chores and drudgeries and had little time for their youngest sister. Though she’d always had to spend part of each day trudging home with those heavy water buckets and performing other exhausting chores, Parween had still managed to find time for fun, as well.

  She had run with the boys over the rolling hills around Onai, her veil flying out behind her. It was the boys who had taken the time to teach her to fight, to hold her fists just so and deliver punches that had sent more than one of them sprawling in the dirt. They had taught her how to recognize and sidestep the hidden land mines, which everyone knew could blow you right up to Allah, and to avoid the small explosives disguised as toys, which could tear off your arms. But they’d also taught her how to spit so far she could hit a tree, and how to whistle like the birds. Nothing would ever feel as good as spitting farther or whistling louder than the boys could.

  Aside from what the boys taught her, there was little opportunity for schooling—and for girls, no school at all. Reading and writing were useless in the countryside; there was nothing to read, anyway. Counting your sheep or cows or even your money was important, so most boys could at least do that. The boys of Onai had shared with Parween the magic of numbers, and she took to practicing, pointing at roaming sheep and counting, “Yak, do, say, char…” Her talent with numbers made her proud; she didn’
t know any other girls who could add.

  But according to her mother, her flair for numbers and fisticuffs would have to change now that they’d made the move to Bamiyan village.

  While her brothers settled in, Parween sat and listened to her mother as everything that had ever made her happy slowly slipped away like dirt between her fingers. How could she live without running, without the wind rushing through her hair? How could she ever slow down and simply walk without letting her callused feet skip over Onai’s rutted roads and grassy fields? How could she ever survive without spitting or fighting? And, worse still, how could she live without the genuine easy friendship of boys? She’d seen what happened. Once a girl grew up, she was hidden away with no friends, no fun, and nothing to look forward to.

  Parween slumped as she sat. How could she ever bear this misery? She picked at a fresh scab on her hand. Was this to be her last battle scar? She heaved a sigh.

  Once Rahima was done with the lecture, she dismissed her daughter with a wave. Parween stood, tugging to straighten the veil on her head, before shuffling out into the warm sunshine. If she was going to be stuck here, she might as well have a look.

  Just across the way, she stopped and peered up to study the two soaring statues, which her mother had called Buddhas, sculpted right into the mountain. They were so tall she had to crane her neck to get a good look, and to see their heads, she had to lean back so far that she almost fell over backward. But there they stood, silent sentinels watching over the entire village.

  One was larger than the other, and both were nestled in deep indents that cast dark shadows in the bright sunlight. Each figure was draped in carved robes, and they were worn smooth in places. The cliffs surrounding them were dotted with many small caves, some rounded and others square, and as she watched, Parween’s attention was drawn by motion that seemed to be everywhere.