Veiled Freedom (22 page)

“I have no real issue with the aid crowd. Salt of the earth and all that, but they've got to be some of the dumbest smart people I know. I'll never forget one of my Basra PSDs. A twenty-six-year-old woman with a master's in international relations contracted to lecture Shia and Sunni leaders on religious reconciliation—as though she'd any experience.”

Amy opened her mouth with a biting reply. But a memory of a college roommate with a fresh law degree heading to Baghdad to raise gender awareness among Iraqi generals closed her jaw. Her friend's security budget alone could have underwritten a tsunami refugee camp. “We don't all run those kinds of projects. Some of us do practical things like feeding people and meeting survival needs.”

“I'm sure you do. All I'm saying is you should try looking at it the other way around. Enough money's been poured into this entire region to turn it into the Garden of Eden.
If
the locals would stop trying to kill each other and us. Or lining their own pockets instead of working for the good of their country. After all, who's to blame if the bulk of the aid money has to be wasted on security?”

The jerk of Steve's head encompassed the noisy, dancing crowd. “Do you think these people
like
spending their days locked up behind barbed wire and sandbags? that they wouldn't prefer to be out there doing a whole lot more for this country than they are? The Afghans had a choice for a future, and they've been their own worst enemy.”

“That's not what I—”

Steve wasn't done. “You have to understand sharia isn't just law to these people. It's the way to God. More accurately, to the Afghans or any Muslim, there's no difference between the two. And if you really believe, as they do, that enforcing Allah's law—sharia law—not just on yourself but your family and community is the only way to heaven, then standing up for it against all your new, powerful infidel allies not only makes sense but is downright laudable. I'll give our State Department credit they weren't dumb enough to persist. They wouldn't have won, believe me.”

“I can't believe you're defending them!” Amy pushed her plate away. “Are you saying it's okay to put someone on trial because of his belief in God? to force people to follow a religion, not by personal choice but on pain of death?”

“Not at all,” Steve said evenly. “I agree that freedom of personal faith is so basic a human right there can't be any other real freedom without it. And that sharia is an oppressive system. But I also believe any real change has to come from the Afghan people themselves. You can't have it both ways. Either it's our right and responsibility to ram democracy and freedom down these people's throats. To make them be good and get along. In other words, to stop acting like they have for a thousand years. And you're talking powerful people with a lot to lose. We'd need Saddam or Taliban tactics and a whole lot more troops than we've got. Or if we're really going to give them freedom, then they—not we—have the responsibility of stopping the killing and corruption and abuse. And for that matter, living with the consequences if they won't. All we can hope to do is ensure they don't become a launching ground against our own country again.”

“Except that as long as the mullahs run the show, that change has no chance. What you're really saying is that it's hopeless. That it's always been hopeless. For the Afghans if not for us. So why are we still here?” Amy didn't like the despairing note that had crept into her low appeal.

“You tell me. I'm just doing a job I've contracted. When I'm done, I'll head home or take another gig elsewhere. What I
won't
do is take it personally. How do you think these people get by?”

It was now full night overhead, any stars or moon hidden behind the smog and dust, the only illumination a dim white gray of fluorescent tubing along tree branches and verandas. But the party was going strong, the dancers moving with fresh energy to an impromptu karaoke competition, the pools heaving with wet bodies.

“They come. They do the job they're hired to do the best they can. Some better than others,” Steve amended dryly, and from his ironic expression, he too was thinking of a certain mineralogist. “Then they go home. If you can't do that, you're not going to make it here. Why do you care so much, anyway? You don't know these people. And one way or another, you've got more freedom than under the Taliban to feed the hungry and take care of women and children and whatever else you came here to do.”

“Because I came here to make a difference. I really believed I could make a difference.” Amy raised her chin high, but the fluorescent lighting overhead wavered as if underwater. “I guess that sounds pretty naive.”

“Not naive. Passionate.” As though surprised at his own words, Steve straightened abruptly.

A cell phone rang. Steve snatched it from his belt. “You're where? You're kidding. . . . I'll be there as fast as I can.” Slapping the phone shut, he pushed himself to his feet. “That's my contact. Got to go.”

But the security contractor didn't move immediately. Roughly, he said, “There's nothing wrong with caring enough to be passionate. Passion is the only way great things get done. Believe it or not, I was once young and dumb enough to feel that way. But caring can get you hurt, especially in Afghanistan. Just watch your back, okay?”

Steve had taken two strides away when he turned around. “By the way, if you're really looking to make a difference, there're some pretty needy kids in that neighborhood just past Khalid's new palace.”

What a strange man Steve was. One minute hard and cold as ice, the next almost kind. Amy watched him swiftly retreat with relief. At least now she could discreetly wipe away those unshed tears.

Amy wished she could be angrier. But she was too honest not to recognize at least some element of truth in his harsh lecture. She swallowed back a lump in her throat. Why had that man's words, that simple piece of data she should have known, hit her so hard?

Because all these years she'd dreamed of coming here and sharing God's love with these people. All those years in Sunday school of praying for the door to be open to the Muslim world. And she was so sure that the invasion, however ugly for both sides, was worth it in part because it meant that door cracking open.

Amy had given credit to her own country for achieving that freedom. Like other Americans, she'd cheered those purple-thumbed Afghan voters, the signing of that new constitution.
How is it possible that was wrong? How could I not know?
And why had so little been said on cable news or anywhere else of what democracy really entailed in Afghanistan beyond those triumphant elections, a few unveiled spokeswomen judiciously trumpeted across the TV screens of the world?

Amy had always been a forthright person. Passionate, Steve had called her, and it was a fair adjective. What was in her, for good or bad, spilled forth, dissembly so alien to her nature she wouldn't know where to start. Especially that which was most important to her, the greatest treasure she had to offer—her faith. Amy had never doubted that the love of God she'd been privileged to experience could in turn transform the world, even while the very strength of her faith impelled courtesy for others' differing beliefs.

But if she couldn't even share that love?

In Hindu India, the Muslim camps of Kashmir and Indonesia, that had never been in question. The very name of the organization for which she'd worked made it abundantly clear in whose name Amy's hands offered their aid. If in her current position Amy had reconciled herself to a certain circumspection, it was because she no longer worked for a faith-based NGO, not because the law of the land made Amy's very essence, all that truly mattered to her, a crime. A crime punishable by death to any Afghan she might influence.

A sudden horror seized Amy. Could she have brought danger on those children in her careless retelling of paradise? But no, as Jamil had been so quick to note, the creation account was one that varied little between Christian and Muslim versions.

Why did you bring me here if the door is still shut? Did I hear you wrong? Was it my own passion to love that drew me here and not yours as I believed?

Not that it mattered. Amy had signed a contract and was committed at least for the next few months. She looked around drearily. Somewhere in this jostling crowd were undoubtedly the contacts, even the personnel, she needed to do that job well. But she was too disheartened to pursue them further this night.

“Amy! There you are!”

Amy turned. Inside the French doors, a plump female shape waved wildly as she liberated her hair from its scarf. Debby Martini. Amy hurried over.

“Amy, I'm
so
glad I caught you. Sorry to be this late. And I can't stay. But I've got wonderful news. Turns out Soraya had a contact at MOI who was able to give us authorization for our halfway shelter.”

The New Yorker's anxious, beaming face lifted Amy's spirits. Debby too had passion. A passion that had impelled her to keep trying to help the women of this country despite all the obstacles and setbacks thrown in her way.

Amy's smile banished that sheen of unshed tears. “That
is
wonderful.”

“
If
we can find housing and funds. I promised not to push you, but you mentioned that personnel shortage was your major obstacle to taking on such a project, and I think I may have a solution. Would you mind terribly a short walk down the block? I'm still with Alisha and Soraya, and Soraya can't come through the security checkpoint.”

“I'd be happy to.”

“We're parked on the next street.” As Amy followed Debby through the guesthouse to the front gate, the New Yorker went on. “As I mentioned earlier, Alisha's USAID contract is up in a few days. Which leaves Soraya looking for a new position. I thought of you.”

Najibullah jumped out to open a passenger door as the two women reached the USAID vehicle. Alisha and her translator were in the backseat. Climbing in, Debby waited until greetings were exchanged before recapping her earlier discussion in a few sentences.

“That's a great idea,” Alisha enthused. “Soraya would give you a female translator. And she knows the local bureaucracy and prison personnel. What do you think, Soraya? I've been concerned about your job ending when I rotate out. That is, if you're interested, Amy. We sure don't mean to jump the gun here.”

“No, this could really work,” Amy said slowly. The very seriousness with which the USAID project manager was taking Debby's proposition had begun to kindle Amy's enthusiasm. “Soraya would solve the communication problem, especially if there's both Dari and Pashto speakers among the prison women. And her law experience would be invaluable.” Her mind flashed to those empty upstairs suites. “Soraya, how would you feel about a live-in position?”

Soraya was sitting so still Amy wasn't sure she'd followed the entire English exchange, her bright red lipstick curved in a polite smile that didn't reach wary eyes. “Live-in means to live with you, yes? Is this live-in a condition of employment?”

“No, though it would certainly be helpful,” Amy said honestly.

“And the wages?”

“I can guarantee what USAID is paying. On top of room and board if you choose to live in.”

“Then I accept,” Soraya said immediately.

Amy's smile grew wide as she looked around at the other three women. “Then so do I. Let's do this!”

Debby climbed out to walk with Amy back to the Sarai. “Honey, I can't begin to tell you how much this means to me. The thought of leaving these women to their fate has been eating me up inside. You're the angel I've begged God to send.”

“I can't promise miracles, but at least I can offer those women a man-free sanctuary until
they
decide what they want to do with the rest of their lives.”

“A one-woman revolution.” Debby grinned at Amy. “Good for you!”

“Yeah, well, I'm not feeling very happy with men at the moment.”

“Oh, come on, there're some decent ones, even here in Afghanistan.” As though Amy's enlistment had rolled a load off her shoulders, Debby's step was newly light and free. She offered Amy a knowing look. “That was a winner you were talking with when I walked in.”

Amy waved away the distraction. “That's what everyone says. There are a lot of decent men. There are a lot of decent Afghans. There are a lot of decent people everywhere. So why is this country in such a stinking mess? Or the entire planet, for that matter? If most people are decent, why can't they act more decently to each other?”

Debby shook her head. “People may be decent. But they're also selfish and out for number one. Yours truly included. Haven't you learned that yet? To change it, you'd need Jesus Christ himself to come back and wave a magic wand. And even one of his disciples betrayed him, if I remember the story right.”

Jesus Christ.

The one person Amy could not introduce into this equation.