The Missionary

by Margaret Ferguson

  “Unless he’s stuck in the Khyber Pass.”

  She turned and leaned against the small table, her hands behind her. “No,” she replied, with a shake of her head, still not meeting my gaze. “When he didn’t return, a few of the villagers went looking for him, just in case.” Her eyes finally met mine. “He probably realized he couldn’t get back and decided to wait it out in Kabul.”

  “So, when do you expect him back?”

  She glanced down at her watch. “He should be back in, er, uh,” she replied, drawing out her answer. “Two months.”

  “Two months!”

  A small smile grew across her lips. “Could be longer. We just have to keep checking the Pass.”

  I stared up at the ceiling and ran my hands through my medium, non-military-cut hair. “I can’t stay here,” I breathed out, turning.

  “Well, I’d call for a ride, except our generator is under a ton of rock. For all practical purposes, we’re cut off from the outside world. So, you might as well face it, soldier. You’re stuck with us for the time being. Besides,” her eyes narrowed as she leaned in. “I don’t know where you think you might go. This isn’t necessarily the friendliest place on Earth. But, I think you already know that,” she added under her breath. “And somehow I feel that might have something to do with why you are here.” She placed a colorful pillow under my knee. Then she shook off an intricately designed, hand-woven blanket—sending millions of dust particles and hair flying into the sunlight that streamed through the dirty window, before placing it over me.

  “Which is why I can’t stay.”

  She stood, hands on hips, looking down at me like a teacher scolding a child. “This is a safe place.”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples with my fingers. Then I glanced across the room at the young boy who was going through my pack, occasionally glancing at us. “How do you know?” I nodded toward the kid. “He was with some pretty unsavory characters last time I saw him. How do you know we can trust him?” Abraham inspected each item as he removed it. “Hey! Leave my stuff alone,” I snapped, a little miffed.

  Abraham stopped. When the woman nodded at him, he began again.

  “Abraham is one of the most trusted people in this community.”

  Abraham flinched when he heard his name and smiled.

  “But when I saw him,” I began, “I believe he was with—,” my voice trailed off.

  “Abraham’s uncle is Taliban.”

  “Then what’s to say he won’t turn me in, at some point?”

  She turned to Abraham and motioned with her hand. He took her gesture as an invitation to join her. She spoke in Pashto to him.

  He answered her immediately, using his hands to speak.

  When she turned back to me, they were both smiling. I understood what was said. Abraham told her he’d never turn me in and that he and every man in his village would stand up to protect me.

  “So, you’re just going to take his word for it?”

  She tilted her head just a bit, eyebrows raised. “Absolutely,” she insisted, her soft tone meant to deflate my retort. “I would trust Abraham with my life.”

  “And because you would, you expect me to?” I barked.

  “No,” she replied matter-of-factly. “That’s your choice. No one is going to make you stay. You’re free to leave anytime you want.” She turned and walked to a pile of clothes. When she picked them up, I recognized them as mine. “Only, I wouldn’t encourage it.” She handed the clothes to Abraham, and he immediately took them outside, bowing as he stepped backward from the small house.

  “Hey! Where’s he going with my clothes?”

  “To burn them.”

  “Burn them!?” I exclaimed.

  “Yeah,” she said, refilling my cup and pouring herself one. I leaned on my right elbow as she handed me the misshapen metal vessel. “I think it’s important that you understand something.”

  I began sipping the dark, hot liquid tentatively as she spoke.

  “No one knows you are alive right now, outside this village. And that fact alone will keep you alive. But some people travel here often, to our clinic, to trade goods or to just pass through. And the fewer things we have that might stand out or scream ‘we have an American soldier here,’ the better it is for you.”

  I pondered what she’d said as she wiped around my injury with the now cool cloth.

  “For all practical purposes, we are harboring a fugitive.”

  I looked up at her as she gently treated the outside of the wound with an antibiotic gel.

  “Getting rid of your things doesn’t just protect you. It protects those that are protecting you.”

  “Okay,” I said determinedly. “So, basically what you’re saying is, I’m stuck?

  “Look at it this way,” she began, trying to sound confident as she turned toward the door. “You could still be up in that tree.”

  “Yeah,” I scoffed. “There’s that.”

  She smiled slightly before wrapping the scarves around her face again.

  “What’s your name?” I called after her.

  “Mary Beth,” she said before disappearing into the cold.

  Chapter Seven

  And then I was alone, with only my thoughts. And I can’t begin to tell you how they wandered. What is one to do when he’s on a mountain, in the middle of Afghanistan? It took all of fifteen seconds to survey the interior of the home. Suddenly, for the first time since I was nine years old, camping for a week with my family, did I have to face what to do with myself. What to do with my time. In a hospital, in the states, you had a television or maybe a cell phone. At Medical on base, you had magazines, or books, or at least a friggin’ crossword puzzle. Now I understood the term “twiddle your thumbs,” because I was doing it.

  And of course, either of the aforementioned medical facilities had nurses or orderlies, or someone to fetch you whatever you might need. Or friends to pop by and check on you. Here, I was staring at the ceiling. Within thirty minutes, I was getting antsy. If I had to do weeks of this, I’d go mad. As I stared at the wall beside me, scratching at what appeared to be a blemish, I realized that the mudded wall was the wall and that if I kept scratching, I’d scrape right through. How would I fill it in and repaint it? It wasn’t like I could jump on my donkey and ride down to the local Lowe’s or Home Depot.

  Fifteen minutes later, one of the tribal council walked inside without knocking, followed by a small, wide-eyed boy. The elder man put his hand on his chest and bowed before turning and giving the young boy instructions. Then he sat the child down and side-stepped back out the door. We stared at each other for a few moments, small curious eyes sizing me up before I finally looked away. I readjusted myself on the cushion beneath me. It wasn’t the most comfortable bed I’d ever slept on, but at least I wasn’t hanging from a tree nor was I out in the elements any longer. For that, I was genuinely grateful. Considering where I was two days ago, I was thankful that I was even alive. But now, incapacitated as I was, I had a problem. A considerable dilemma. The little mud house in which I was staying had no electricity and no running water. Things I took for granted every day simply weren’t there.

  Not wanting to scare the young boy, I motioned for him to come over. After a few moments of coaxing, he walked to my side. I merely looked at him and said, “Abraham?” The boy turned immediately and ran from the house. When Abraham checked on me fifteen minutes later, I explained to him in Pashto as best as I could that I needed a latrine. Though I didn’t quite know how to translate “take a dump,” he got the gist of it. Whether it was the contorted expression on my face or the putrid smell emanating from me, he realized my dilemma and hurried from the house.

  A few minutes later he returned with four of his friends. It hurt like hell when they picked me up, but by then, I didn’t care. Within moments, the five friends carried me outside, into the cold, slightly down a short hill and to the right. Before I even reached it, I could smell it. I’ll never, ever, complain about
the latrines on an army base again. I’ve heard that freezing weather can hinder the smell of human waste. I can in all honesty say; that’s not the case. And well, I won’t be graphic, but what I had to endure out there while five young men held me up was humiliating, to say the least. That those five young men holding me up as I did my business, was more than most men in America would do for their best friend, much less a complete stranger.

  Afterward, they carried me back to the little house, gave me some water so that I could clean myself up, and then they left. Abraham returned a few minutes later, bringing me a bottle. He didn’t have to say anything. His hand motions alone told me that if I had to pee, he had just handed me my toilet. Man-speak. Then he heated some water and made more tea before dipping another clean, new rag in it and carrying it to me for my wound. Carefully I placed the scalding moist towel onto the hole in my leg. I grimaced before turning back to my host.

  Abraham shared a little bread and rice and beans that his mother had made. I know this because he told me all about her and his three sisters, all who were younger than he. After we’d shared our tea, I asked him to bring me my rucksack. I showed him a special compartment and had him take out all the nutrition bars I’d packed for my trip. He handed all eight to me. I took one and gave him the rest. When he tried to return them, I pushed his hands toward him.

  What he had just done for me was more generous than anything any man ever had done. It was the least I could do. We dug through every pocket in my pack until I was confident that it was empty. I kept the camelback and the medical kit, my knife, and pistol. As I took every item out, he seemed fascinated or intrigued. Many of the things I didn’t have a clue how to translate. So, he gave me a vocabulary lesson as he told me what each was. Outside of the things I kept, I gave him the rest, including my body armor vest. Then I instructed him to burn my rucksack. Trust me when I tell you that was hard to do. I’ve had it for ten years. It had seen four tours and had saved my life more than once. But, in the end, it was just a pack. And if keeping it might bring harm to these people, then I’d rather see it burned.

  As the sun started to go down, the shadows crossed the floor and then the walls, and it was time for him to go. Abraham lit a candle and set it beside me before bringing me a cup of fresh water. Finally, he motioned to me, asking in his way if I needed to defecate again. I shook my head. I’d hold it as long as possible rather than have to brave that humiliation again. Not that I’d tell him that. He nodded with pride as he left with arms full of his new gifts. And, after an hour of waiting for someone to bring me dinner, I realized that I had just eaten it.

  My mind drifted to Mary Beth. What was an American woman doing out here in the middle of Afghanistan, a country that didn’t respect women’s rights or think of them as equals? I was very curious.

  I can tell you, I’ve slept in some pretty unique places in my life. I’ve slept with my cousins on the buoy pits on an old armament burial site in Rhode Island, staring up at the sky, looking for UFOs. I’ve slept on the roof of my great granddad’s house down by the rail yard in San Antonio, just to watch the trains go by all night. And on top of my uncle’s house in Chattanooga, watching for Santa Claus. I’ve slept on the beach—with no tent and no sleeping bag—in Galveston, with three of my drunken friends, only because we were too far gone to walk to the hotel room we had rented for spring break. In Cuyamaca Valley in California, we slept on concrete picnic benches, trying to figure out constellations. It also happens to be where my step-brother, Steve, swears he saw Bigfoot. Yes, there was beer involved.

  And now I’m a U.S. soldier, stuck in a village in the middle of the Hindu-Kush Mountains, with thousands of Taliban fighters literally living within miles of me. Considering my current situation, I’d be surprised if I got any sleep at all.

  And yet I did.

  Chapter Eight

  When I awoke the next morning, Abraham was sleeping on a toshak a few feet away. He sat up immediately when he saw I was awake. After a few moments of awkward silence, Abraham jumped up and moved to a small linen sack, taking from it a handful of nuts and berries and a slice of flatbread. I sat up on my elbows as he placed it into a bowl, then the bowl on my stomach.

  “Thank you,” I offered in return.

  He nodded proudly, turning his attention to the bottle that I had filled in the night. Without hesitation, he grabbed it and carefully carried it outside, then returned moments later, and set it beside my bed, empty and ready for a refill. I hesitantly tasted a berry, unsure from where it had come. It wasn’t like there was a grocery store around the corner, so I had to presume they grew it or traded for it. It wasn’t very sweet, but it wasn’t bitter either. I mixed the almonds and berries, alternating them with the naan. Abraham watched me eagerly eat my puny meal. But, hey! I’m not complaining. It was sustenance, and I needed it to get my strength back.

  After finishing my breakfast, I motioned for him to retrieve the remnant of supplies which sat in a pile just out of my reach. When I ran my fingers back and forth across my teeth, he seemed to know what I meant. He brought me the medical bag, where I had tucked the few possessions I had left in the world, the night before. I asked him for a cup of water, and he obliged. Then I fumbled awkwardly, half sitting, as I brushed my teeth. I rinsed with the meager amount of water I had, and with the lack of a basin, spat into the small empty bowl beside me that my breakfast had been served in.

  Abraham hurriedly took it from me and then disposed of it, with a mere toss out the door before returning and wiping the bowl out with the end of his dirty scarf. I glanced at him, smiled awkwardly and thanked him with my hand to my heart. He immediately matched my motions.

  The Afghan culture is an affectionate one; the men usually hug one another; the women hug or kiss each other’s cheeks. Throughout my time in Afghanistan, I quickly learned that my initial perception of the Afghan people was wrong. It was in my nature and my training to be cautious. To be suspicious, especially when there didn’t seem anything about which to be. I didn’t for a moment forget where I was. But if my time in this country had taught me anything, it was that the Afghans were a simple people. A gentle people. Mostly.

  You can’t help but feel for a country that has been in turmoil for centuries, with in-fighting amongst themselves. It’s not unlike other countries—even my own, except that my government doesn’t force a single religion on all our citizens or punish by torture and death those who aren’t compliant, or kill and starve its own people, just because it can—at least, not since its attempt to exterminate my ancestors six generations removed.

  The mujahedeen formed to fight the Soviet-led invasion. The Taliban—the Pashto word for “students”—formed in defiance, to replace the unacceptable acts of the mujahedeen against its own citizens. The small army, with less than fifty soldiers, was established to fight against the tyranny of their new leaders. They were primed to intervene when the war-torn country’s new government failed to take root because of the in-fighting after the Soviets left. By 1996, when the Taliban had taken control of most of Afghanistan, they had grown considerably, with the help of tens of thousands of Pakistani sympathizers. Sharia law was implemented. Civil rights went to hell in a hand-basket, drug production escalated to frightening proportions, and well, you know the rest.

  In the four years I’ve been here, we’ve done everything from help train the locals to protect themselves to assisting in rebuilding infrastructure. And then some damn fool comes along and blows himself up, taking half a hospital with him. Or he drives by and throws acid on young schoolgirls to intimidate others from attempting to educate themselves. Or bombs the road we just built connecting the impoverished to a semi-modern hub of commerce for them to sell their wares. Sometimes it feels like we’re on a damned hamster wheel, working to help the idiots who don’t understand that we’re here to make their lives better—to protect them. It’s insane.

  Whenever I went home on leave I told Amanda or my family what we were doing here, the difference
we were making—or at least trying to make. They always wanted to know about the people we were fighting; the people we were fighting for. So that they could pray for them. When you see some of what I’ve seen over here, you can’t help but question whose prayers are being answered. Theirs, or ours?

  The door opened, and the elderly gentleman and child entered again. As the man closed the door, he motioned for Abraham to come to him. I watched as they conversed quietly, their eyes occasionally falling on me. The young boy walked to me, and slowly his hand moved to my arm, most notably, to my G-Shock Riseman watch—one of the few items I hadn’t yet given up. His eyes widened as he watched the numbers change. I began pressing different buttons, showing him its various functions, though I’m sure he had no idea what he was looking at. I was merely entertaining him as they talked, much like I would entertain my nephews at Christmas with a variety of items I carried with me, from my watch to my rucksack. Of course, my sisters didn’t appreciate it when I brought out my Yarborough knife or the fake grenade I’d kept as a souvenir.

  A boy’s wide-eyed curiosity is universal. If your young son hasn’t become interested in dissecting anything from small appliances to tiny creatures yet, trust me, he soon will. Little boys are inquisitive. It’s a fact of life. My mother used to tell me stories about the things I would get into—from trying to unscrew the electrical plug plates by sticking a screwdriver into the outlet, to dissecting a toaster oven my father had been working on before he passed out from drinking.

  Apparently, his parenting skills weren’t what they should have been. But that’s what happens when you give a thirty-year-old, out-of-work master electrician a six-pack and a five-year-old to look after for the afternoon. Of course, it took a nurse in the emergency room to warn my mother that doing so was bordering on child endangerment. I think that’s when she knew the end of her marriage was in sight. Had the man not up and died on her, I think she would have left him. With time, though, my traumatic childhood experiences became fodder for family, neighbors, girlfriends—hell, even complete strangers when she was stuck in line at the grocery store.