“Thank you,” I smiled in return. I watched as Denice looked around the abode as if she’d never seen it before. “So, your husband is a doctor?”
“Yes. A general practitioner, or family doctor as I think you call them in the States. You’d like him, I think. He’s a bit of a rogue as you are.”
I grinned, holding the hot cup between my hands, warming them. “How long have you been here?”
“Three years.”
“Three years?” I exclaimed, a little too loudly.
Denice wriggled her lips. “You’re about to ask me what a nice girl like me is doing in a place like this?”
“Not that it’s any of my business, but, yeah,” I said, sipping slowly, making it last.
“Well,” she began. “It’s a bit of a tale, but only if you’re up to it.”
“Absolutely,” I said, reclining against the wall again.
“Well, Teddy, that’s my husband, he’d been traveling overseas for years with Doctors Without Borders: Sri Lanka, Sub-Saharan Africa, Haiti, Afghanistan. He would come back home with so many stories about the people he had helped, that God had put in his path. So, one day I told him I wanted to go, too. Soon, we began scheduling time off together. We’d close our practices for a month at a time. For four years, we went wherever we were needed. A working vacation, so to speak.”
“What kind of practice do you have?”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
I shook my head.
“I’m a dentist.”
A dentist? Great. I tried not to focus on the fact that it wasn’t my mouth she’d been looking at yesterday. I forced an uncomfortable smile.
“For two years, we came to Afghanistan. We saw the deplorable conditions and the kind people, and we just fell in love with them.” She glanced at Abraham and smiled. “Did he tell you his father and brother died of influenza?”
I nodded sadly.
“Well, on our last trip over we knew we had to do something. We prayed for direction. For almost a whole year we prayed about what we were supposed to do. Then an Afghan family joined our church. A Christian church, mind you. And we got to know these people, and what had caused them to leave their country. Flee their country. Our church became involved with an international mission team, and before we knew it, we were on that team, and on our way to training. Six weeks later, we landed here.”
“So, did you pick the place, or did they?”
“Oh, they choose the place where we serve. But, we have a say. And when we said, “yes,” our adventure began. Obviously, because of the laws here, we are merely here in the capacity to bless the citizens with our professions. The fact that we are Christian is just our bad fortune, as they would see it.” She winked at me.
My smile grew.
“When did Mary Beth and her husband join you, or were they already here?” I inquired.
Denice looked down at her hands. “Mary Beth and Henry were already here. They’d arrived two months before us.” She glanced at Abraham again. “Only, it was too late to help many of those that had been sick. No one had any idea, or they would have sent someone sooner. I’m sure of it.” When she faced me again, she blinked, eyes glistening. “They worked so hard to establish a small clinic here. By the time we arrived, people were already coming in droves from all over the mountains. There’s no government-funded assistance of any kind in Afghanistan. None. Most trained doctors work in the metropolitan areas. Rarely do you see anyone with any significant medical training outside of a big city.”
“Henry and Teddy worked tirelessly—many times, making dangerous treks into the other mountains. They helped so many because they were trusted.” She looked down for a moment, into her hands. “One day, there was a young boy from a Northern village that came here looking for a doctor. Our men hadn’t intended on going back out for another week. They’d just come back from an immunization trip, and there were dozens of those from the local villages that wanted to be checked out for their various ailments. Once someone hears there’s a doctor, they come out of the woodwork. From a hangnail to a snakebite, to diabetes. Mary Beth compared it to being in the States. If someone who doesn’t have insurance suddenly becomes insured, they want to be seen for every malady known to man.”
I chuckled slightly. Good analogy.
“Well, this boy came and begged Henry to help his father, who, he said, was very ill. Teddy finally told him to go on, that he’d handle things here. So, Henry, being Henry, repacked his medical bag, said he’d be back in a few days, and he and Abraham left for the village.”
I glanced over at Abraham, who seemed to sense what we were discussing, a sullen look on his face. When I looked back, Denice was wiping tears from her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “When I think about it, it just breaks my heart.”
Feeling like I needed to do something, I grabbed a precious wad of toilet paper and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said, holding the white sheets in front of her face. “Toilet paper? You’re going to be very popular. I’d guard that with my life if I were you.”
“I keep it under my pillow,” I grinned. “Next to my knife and gun.”
She sniffled again and wiped her nose. “You should be careful who you tell about those items.”
“Duly noted.” I was getting curious. “What happened? To Henry?”
“Oh, yes. Henry,” she sniffed. “Well, he went up into the mountains and three days later, Abraham came back alone, utterly distraught and inconsolable. The village they went to had Taliban in it. They didn’t care that he was there to help. They accused him of being a spy; Abraham said they executed him.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “How long ago did this happen?”
“It’s been almost a year.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “God, I’m such an insensitive jerk.”
“Why is that?”
“I was asking her about her husband yesterday.”
Denice patted my knee. “It’s all right, my dear. How could you have known?” She leaned over and squeezed my shoulder. “It’s all right, Eddie. I’m sure she’ll tell you on her own, when she’s ready.” Slowly she stood and stretched. “This is a hard place for a woman. Usually, single women don’t stay here in the field. They told her she could go home, but she said she was home.” Denice draped the scarves around her head and face again, preparing to leave the building. “She said God wasn’t finished with her yet, wasn’t done with her here.”
I was in complete awe of the woman before me as she looked down, eyes confident. Determined. Strong. Here was someone easily twice as old as me—more fit and vibrant than most women I knew her age—living in one of the most dangerous countries in the world. Yet, she had no fear in her eyes. Her friend had been killed by someone he was trying to help. Welcome to Afghanistan.
“Thank you for the tea,” was all I could manage.
“I’ll bring more later,” she said with a wink, then disappeared into the cold.
I looked over at Abraham, whose head hung between his knees. After a moment, he looked up at me, sensing my gaze. His eyes glistened. Maybe he did hear. Maybe he did understand after all. He wiped tears from his face before racing from the rugged building in which I now resided.
Chapter Thirteen
He awoke from the nightmare sweating—panicked. Disoriented. His body ached like he’d been beaten. His heart pounding painfully against his chest. He tried to sit upright. Only, he couldn’t. He was restrained. Why was he restrained? Think. THINK! His aching head screamed. A deep thundering noise resounded around him. Loud and deafening. His arms jerked against the restraints, only there was no give.
He tried to swallow but he had no spit; his throat dry and raw. He could not remember when he’d last eaten. Much less had anything to drink. His limbs tightened from the intense sound echoing around him, and his arms jerked again, instinctively, as though he had already forgotten the restraints were there. Muscle memory. He couldn’t even cove
r his ears from the noise. It was maddening. It felt like—psychological warfare.
He tensed from the noise and suddenly, his right leg cramped. His muscles tightened painfully as his face contorted in much the same way. His whole body straightened as another cramp gripped his groin just before convulsing, wracked with unceasing spasms. When he could bear it no more, he cried out, tears rolling down his face, into his unkempt hairline as he bounced on the makeshift bed.
“Please, God,” he pleaded hoarsely. The door slammed open, a figure filling the doorway, a gun cradled in his arms.
The Broken
Chapter Fourteen
As all I’ve seen of any woman since my arrival in this tiny village—except for Mary Beth and Denice—is their eyes, I can sincerely say that Zahra’s are the kindest I’ve met so far. I understand the reason behind women’s attire in this culture, based on their belief system. A woman belongs to her husband, and no one should see what she looks like, and desire her. She isn’t allowed to make eye contact with anyone but him, either. It’s regarded as a sign of respect, though some might call it being submissive. But Zahra’s did meet mine, if only for a moment. And it was in that moment—in those eyes—that I saw compassion. I saw mercy.
Even in her long, draped chador namaz—which I’d only seen women wear in Heart, I could see that she was a slender woman. She moved stealthily, not bent and worn like so many other Afghan women I’d seen here. The average life expectancy of a woman in Afghanistan is about forty-eight—remember, I’m a stats guy. In more impoverished regions, less than that. Though I didn’t know Zahra’s age, I guessed she was at least thirty, maybe thirty-five. So, although she was closer to my age, comparatively speaking, she was like my mom’s age in America. That being said, she looked good for her age. Or, at least her eyes did.
Zahra and her daughters arrived with a bounty of food for my dinner. It was more than I expected, and I was humbled. I’ve been entirely dependent on the generosity of others since being brought here. Remember, though I haven’t had an official tour, I’ve been carried out several times by local men and boys to do my business in a ditch. I’ve seen the small village that they live in, albeit just from that view. These aren’t rich people. And yet, they have been generous to me, out of the little they have, in their poverty.
My dinner included Kabuli Palau rice with meat—which I assume was goat or mutton—carrots, raisins, pistachios, and peas. There were beans and cucumbers and tomatoes, and some kind of dumpling called mantu. My stomach must have shrunk since my arrival, my sustenance being what it was, and I didn’t think I could eat it all. But I felt I had to, since she had gone to all the trouble. It’s not like they had a fridge in which to put the leftovers. Plus, I knew that eventually, it would be coming out the other end, and I had learned to time my meals so that there were no late-night bowel movements. No need to embarrass myself further since I’m pretty sure there would be no late-night transports. Sadly, these were now among the decisions that I had to consider.
Abraham’s sisters, Aquila, Zohra, and Sanya, helped set out the meal for us, all without meeting my glance. Zahra held the small bowl where we dipped our fingers. It was important that they were ceremonially clean, since we would be eating with cupped hands—my fingers being my spoon. When I ended up with more rice in my beard than in my mouth, Abraham laughed at my inability to feed myself properly.
His mother and sisters quietly sat in another room as we ate, since men and women didn’t eat together. When we were finished, they cleared our dishes, taking the remaining food for themselves. Then, silently, they left us alone. After they had gone, I lay back, wholly satiated from the meal I’d just enjoyed. For the first time since my arrival, Abraham moved a pillow to sit beside me.
“Why are you a soldier?” he asked.
I pondered that thought. I joined just out of college because I wanted to be an officer. My grandfather had served in Special Forces, one of the first Chickasaw Americans to do so. His stories were of adventure. And I’d always wanted an adventure. I chuckled to myself. Be careful what you wish for, I thought. When I turned to Abraham, he seemed confused by my laugh.
“I wanted to see the world,” I told him. I had to choose my words carefully so that they weren’t lost in translation and misunderstood. “I thought that I could make a difference by serving my country and fighting against those who meant to oppress others.”
“Like in my country?”
I nodded.
“So many of us just want to make enough to support our families and our village. We don’t bother others, and no one bothers us.”
I nodded again, as I watched him.
“There are some here who feel we need to fight. But they want us to fight our own people. And to fight others who they say want to change our ways.”
I crossed my arms and pursed my lips. Abraham was quiet for many moments.
“Then there are some who speak against those that come here to live amongst us. But the Westerners are kind to us, and they help us. They help others, even those who want to kill them.” He looked down at his hands. “Even those who kill them.”
I continued to wrinkle my lips as I contemplated how to respond. Political conversations in the States can set two friends at odds, so, I was at a loss for what to say.
“But they aren’t soldiers.”
I knew where this was going.
“If my uncle had seen you in that tree he would have killed you, wouldn’t he?”
“Probably. Or maybe try to sell me back to my country.”
It was now Abraham who was nodding. He was dancing around the question he wanted to ask. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t say it.
“If you had your rifle, would you have killed us?”
But he did… And I winced. He deserved an honest answer. I owed him the truth. “Yes.”
Abraham continued to nod. “I’m glad you didn’t have your rifle.” He turned to me and smiled, ever so slightly.
“Me, too.” I thought of it still dangling in that stupid tree.
“You are not like the soldiers they speak about,” he added, thoughtfully.
Yes, I am. I’m precisely the soldier they talk about.
When I didn’t respond, he pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “Do you have a wife in America?”
I shook my head.
“Really?” He chuckled. “You are old. You should have a wife, and many children.”
I grinned. “I’m thirty-three, and yes, I’m old, and I should have a wife and many children.” I thought of Amanda. “Maybe I will, when I go home.”
“What will you do when you go home?”
“I will do whatever the United States Army tells me to do.”
“Soldiers here are only soldiers when they have to be. The rest of the time, they are farmers or ranchers or something else.” He looked at me.
“Yeah, well, I’m a soldier because that’s what I want to be.”
“I think no one wants to be a soldier here.”
“I think in war, there are not many who want to be a one anywhere.”
When I looked at Abraham, I could see other questions in his eyes, but he seemed unsure if he should ask them. And there were questions he had that I definitely didn’t want to answer.
“You are the first soldier that I’ve ever met who is not from here.” He smiled as he pondered his next question. “When you leave here, will you ever come back?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know,” I replied honestly.
“I would like it if you would,” he said sincerely.
I nodded. “I would like that, too.”
We both looked away, staring at nothing but the wall facing us. I was exhausted from speaking the language—though I felt I’d mastered it well. We’d broken down barriers of communication and understanding. More than that, we’d bonded.
For the first time since arriving, I yawned. I felt a food coma coming, and I welcomed the thought of a restful nigh
t. The sun had long since gone down; the room lit only by a simple candle that Denice had brought on her last visit. The fragrant odor of our dinner lingered in the air. That, and vanilla.
Abraham seemed to sense that I was tired. He generously waited while I relieved myself and disposed of the full bottle while I turned and lay back on my meager bedding. And as I nestled down into the comfort of my temporary home, and he onto his toshak, I looked at Abraham, and he looked at me. Even after his eyes closed, I continued to watch him.
Here was this young boy on the cusp of manhood, caring for an American Special Forces officer, in the middle of Afghanistan. How many young men in this country lay sleeping cozily, living their lives without concern, eking out a living, then waking to find the war at their doorsteps? What would they do if—or when—someone shoved a rifle into their arms and told them they must fight or die? Or how many boys like Abraham would awaken one day, knowing that they could exist no more like they did the day before, and take up arms because they thought it was the only way to change their lives? How many more boys would I fight that believed in what they were fighting for? What would I do if one day I met Abraham in battle? Would I kill him? Could I?
I closed my eyes. You’re Special Forces, damn it. Remember your training! Kevan was still in my head. That was good. I couldn’t lose sight of why I was here in the first place. When I opened them, Abraham was looking at me, his innocent eyes cutting through all the BS. I sighed dramatically. The answer was no. I couldn’t kill him. I looked deeper into his eyes, begging him to know—I wouldn’t kill you. Couldn’t kill you. Slowly, he smiled at me before closing them one last time.
Crap! I was in trouble!
Chapter Fifteen
Zahra once again kept her word. I had yogurt with my berries and nuts for breakfast. It was tasteless and warm, but it was the best yogurt I’d ever had. Someone had taken the time to prepare it just for me. They could have sold it to feed their family, but instead, they gave it to me. I’d never, ever get that again.
The Missionary Page 8