Veiled Freedom Page 18

  They’d reached the office again. Jamil looked at Amy, his expression perplexed. “But I have told you what Rasheed said, not what I think. Still, he is right to chastise his wife. How else will he maintain discipline in his home? The Quran says women are to be silent and obey. And it is only natural he would not wish his family to mix with such women. You say they are not truly criminals. But they were in jail because they were not obedient.”

  “Seen and not heard, you mean.” Amy swallowed back disappointment. Had she thought because Jamil was younger and educated, he couldn’t be as prejudiced? “I guess I should be glad he doesn’t treat me like his wife and the other women.”

  “But you are not a woman.” Even as Jamil said the words, an apologetic glance slid to Amy, then away.

  Amy didn’t let it go. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I only meant that you are a foreigner, not an Afghan woman. You speak, you think, you walk like a man. You are—” The hunch of Jamil’s narrow shoulders was expressive. “What is permitted for you is not permitted for Afghan women.”

  Like some kind of third gender, neither woman nor man. Amy understood perfectly the logic, infuriating as she found it. Afghan men knew what women were supposed to be and do. But that conflicted with accepting generous salaries from Western women.

  So they just turn us into some kind of asexual creature rather than admit they’re wrong about women to start with. And someone like Soraya they just ignore. Fine, I’m not a woman, so let’s forget about being bashful.

  “What do you think? You said your mother was an educated woman.”

  Jamil was silent, and at first Amy thought she’d pushed too hard. Then he said slowly, “That was long ago. Before the Taliban. She studied under the Russians, and they were godless, as all know. Even so, she was a good Muslim woman. She would not answer back to a man or dispute what my father ordered her to do. Besides—” contempt flared in his dark eyes—“these women are ignorant and unruly. Rasheed is right. It takes discipline to keep them in order and properly subject to men. As my mother was to my father.”

  “And what about love?” Amy demanded, outraged. “I have no problem with women being respectful to their husbands. My faith teaches that too. But men are also supposed to love their wives like they love their own bodies. And take care of them. And treat them kindly if they want their prayers to be heard.”

  Jamil’s eyebrows knit together. “That is not in the Quran.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s in the Bible. That is the Christian holy book.”

  “I know it is your holy book. But I did not know it contained such sayings. May I see it for myself?”

  Amy hesitated. Jamil had been talking so freely for a change, she might have been in one of the frequent philosophical discussions Hindu and Muslim and secular, as well as Christian, colleagues enjoyed back in the refugee camps or even in Miami. Not an Islamic fundamentalist regime, she reminded herself.

  At her hesitation, Jamil added, “I have seen the book you read during the calls to prayer. That is your holy book, is it not? I have wondered what it contains. I would like to see this hadith—this teaching—about marriage for myself.”

  “Of course, if you’d like.” Amy took out the Bible she kept in her desk. Now that she was living submerged in Afghan life, the calls to prayer had become part of her own daily routine. The interruptions weren’t as burdensome as Amy had expected, the memorized Arabic prayers repeated so swiftly the whole process took only a few minutes.

  Until Soraya’s coming, Amy had wondered if the prayers, like so many other rituals here, were only for males. Her housemate not only religiously followed the salat—schedule of prayers—but superintended the other women’s observance, descending to the courtyard each time the high, undulating call rang out from a neighborhood minaret.

  “They must be taught to be good women, moral women,” she’d told Amy decisively.

  Though Amy didn’t like the flavor of coercion, the other women seemed to take it for granted, so she’d left it alone. As a Christian and infidel, Amy knew she wasn’t expected to follow suit nor indeed that it would be appreciated were she to mimic their actions. Instead, she sat at her desk, praying and reading her Bible until Soraya returned to the office. Amy hadn’t realized Jamil had taken note.

  “I just wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble if reading the Bible isn’t permitted in your culture,” she finished diplomatically.

  Jamil’s face darkened, his voice sharp as he answered, “If you think the foreigners can forbid us to read your holy book as they forbid us to drink their alcohol or enter their buildings, we are not children. We do not need you to choose for us what is right and wrong.”

  “That’s not what I meant. And I don’t think it’s the foreigners who make those rules. I’ve been told on pretty good authority that it’s your own Ministry of Vice that makes those laws.”

  Jamil considered, then seemed to accede to the justice of that because he went on more mildly. “There is nothing in the Quran forbidding the reading of the Christian holy book. It is simply not customary. I have never seen them available to be purchased. But Isa Masih, your Jesus, is one of our prophets, and Muhammad himself spoke of your holy book as containing the word of Allah. Of course, it is said that which the Christians use has been corrupted. That is why it was necessary for Allah to send Muhammad a new holy book.”

  “I can promise you that isn’t true,” Amy said decisively. “There are manuscripts today of the Bible that predate Muhammad, some of the Old Testament from even before the time of Christ. What’s in my Bible certainly hasn’t been corrupted. But why don’t you read it for yourself and see what you think? Here are the passages I was talking about.” She flipped her Bible to Ephesians 5, then 1 Peter 3. “See? God won’t even hear all those prayers if a man doesn’t treat his wife kindly.”

  Jamil read again, his lips moving silently as he sounded out the English words. “So it does say. But this book is in English. The Quran is in Arabic alone, the sacred words exactly as they were given to Muhammad. If this is not in the original language, how can you know what has been corrupted?”

  “The Bible has been translated into hundreds of languages, including Dari and Pashto. But the original languages and old manuscripts still exist, so anyone can go back and see if it’s been translated truthfully. You don’t have to take my word for it. Check it out on the Internet.”

  Amy glanced at Jamil as she put the Bible away. “I didn’t realize you spoke Arabic. But if the Quran is in only Arabic, how do most Afghans who don’t speak that language know what it says?”

  Jamil’s shoulders rose and fell. “I do not speak Arabic. But we memorize the surahs and the hadiths in school. And the mullahs tell us what they mean.”

  “So you can’t be so sure either what the original really says.” Amy’s wry grin robbed the comment of any offense.

  Turning suddenly to her desk, she rummaged through her shoulder bag. “You know, if you’d really like to see what our holy book says for yourself, I can give you this. It’s only the second half of the Bible that tells about the life of Jesus and his teaching and his disciples, but you’re sure welcome to it. Please, I’d like to give it to you as a thank-you for everything you do for me.”

  The olive green volume extended in the palm of her hand was a pocket-size New Testament Amy kept in her bag in preference to lugging around her larger study Bible. Jamil looked at it but didn’t touch it, showing as much reluctance as though the book contained a cobra’s venom.

  As the moment extended to awkwardness, Amy let her hand drop. “That’s okay. It was just a thought. Here, let me turn the computer on, and I’ll see if I can pull up the program Soraya was using to do that translation.” As she spoke, Amy discreetly turned to slide the New Testament back into her bag.

  But before she could do so, Jamil snatched it, tucking it into his vest. “No, wait. It is a fine gift. I . . . I wish to read it. Thank you.”

  Jamil walked swiftly b
ack toward his quarters. It had taken the rest of the afternoon to finish the translations Ameera had requested, so long was it since he’d read or written the Western script. His evening meal awaited retrieval in the guard shack, but Jamil had chosen to fast. The food Rasheed’s wife set aside for him and the elderly Wajid was nourishing enough, better than he’d eaten in years. But the acid twisting unendingly at his stomach did not permit him to enjoy it.

  And now confusion tore at his insides as well. Jamil had told Ameera she was like a man to him. But it was not true. However he might try to pretend it wasn’t so, her femaleness troubled him in its closeness. The flower scent of her hair, a shimmering gold he’d thought artificial when he’d seen it in photographs or on the satellite television channels. The shape, definitely not male even under the enveloping attire she now adopted.

  But the directness and contemplation and fire with which Ameera spoke was not female. Or so he’d always been taught. There’d been female students in Jamil’s classes in Islamabad. Not many, but women too needed doctors. They kept to their own corner of the classroom, eyes lowered, not offering opinions. Not like the vociferous, argumentative male students. Did they have such discussions as Ameera offered among themselves when men were not listening?

  And the things Ameera had to say. The things she did. These were more troubling to Jamil’s peace of mind than her undeniable womanhood. His pace quickened as though the propelling of his body would thrust aside unwelcome thoughts. Jamil didn’t bother with the front gate. Wajid’s slumber never roused unless someone thundered against its metal. Hoisting himself onto the partition wall, he dropped easily to the other side. Two mechanics hammering inside an open hood looked up but showed no reaction. They’d grown accustomed to Jamil’s shortcut.

  Beyond the tin-roofed work shed and a scattering of vehicles that now included the Corolla, a row of small, concrete rooms ran along the partition to the rear of the mechanics yard, guest habitation for clients from out of town. Rasheed had tossed a tushak into the farthest for Jamil. In the back wall, a metal gate led into the rear quadrant of the compound. A large padlock kept the gate secure, but above the wall could be seen green, leafy crowns of trees, apples and apricots visible in the higher branches.

  Unlocking a much smaller padlock he’d purchased at the bazaar, Jamil went inside. Not that there was anything worth stealing beyond his clothing, personal oddments, and the new prayer rug. There’d been a time when he’d have thought a beggar more fortunate. Now his scant possessions seemed riches.

  Because he’d skipped the dinner hour, light still filtered through a small, barred window. Jamil stretched out on the tushak and pulled the camera manual from inside his vest. The diagrams and their terse English explanations entangled in his mind with the woman who’d commissioned him to decipher them, bringing back the twisting to his stomach. Dropping the manual, he turned over to bury his face in his arms. But cutting off the light was easier than cutting off his thoughts.

  Ameera. Why did people like her have to come here? to shake up the convictions that had burned like acid into his soul? It was so easy to hate, to fuel the passion of his fury, when he saw what others were doing to his homeland. The foreigners with their extravagances and drunken revelries. Their convoys speeding with arrogant disregard through the streets. The endless conferences and surveys and programs that put money into their pockets but brought so little change to the people of Afghanistan.

  And the leaders of his own people who were no better. Who restored to power the same brutal warlords who had ripped this country apart. Who posed in their Western suits for TV cameras or with the foreign dignitaries behind the high, guarded walls of their embassies. And who were now happily splitting up the foreign aid nest egg, as they’d squandered Soviet and American and Saudi billions in turn, building their own fortunes and futures instead of their homeland.

  But then along came this Ameera, who did not fall into any of his equations. Who spoke to him, not as a woman to a man, but as two people who might even be friends, mind speaking honestly to mind, heart to heart as no other in his life had spoken. He hadn’t even known a man and a woman could speak so to each other.

  And her actions. The care—yes, and love—she gave to these women and children to whom she owed nothing. Jamil had seen the beggars on the streets, driven past the hovels of the poor and hungry, since his earliest recollection. But he’d never thought much about their plight until he’d come to share its desperation. Even then it had been his own that consumed him, not others’.

  Nor would he soil his hands now for such women as shared these walls, quarrelsome and troublemakers, did he not need sanctuary and food enough to fuel his body. As would not Soraya without incentive of that generous foreign salary, Jamil had absolute certainty. He knew the arrogance of the aristocrat because it had once been his own.

  As for Rasheed, Jamil knew the reason for the chowkidar’s capitulation, if Ameera did not, because he’d overheard the man’s complaint to Wajid. “The landlord will not permit me to evict these delinquents. He says foreigners grow angry at such things and complain to their press. And he is in need of the Americans at this time.”

  But this Ameera!

  Jamil had seen on the TV screen the luxury in which Ameera’s countrymen lived, so different from her present life. Yet she chose to live among his people, eat their food, learn their language, instead of remaining in the wealthy quarters of the foreigners. And the look on her face when she embraced a child. No, whatever reason Ameera had come to his country, Jamil could not accuse her nor convince himself that she did all he’d seen her do with any other thought than to help his people.

  What made the difference? Ameera was an infidel. Yet she was nothing like the Christian world he’d seen on satellite TV, against which the mullahs railed with reason. She behaved like—

  A better Muslim than I have ever been, he admitted into the tushak. A Muslim such as the mullahs say women should be. Giving to the poor. Praying. Living a life of modesty and service. More so, she was compassionate, kind, even to those who were not of her faith. And that the mullahs did not teach.

  Rolling over to a sitting position, Jamil unearthed from a vest pocket the slim volume Ameera had given him. The olive green oblong roused in him both supreme distaste and curiosity. Was it the teachings said to be in these pages, teachings of the prophet Ameera professed to follow, that made her so different? What in those teachings differed from those of the Quran?

  It was true that like Adam and Noah and Abraham and Moses, Isa Masih was lauded as a prophet by Muhammad himself. But Jamil had not been totally honest in his bold declaration to Ameera. If the Quran itself made frequent reference to the teachings and works of the prophet Isa, or Jesus in Ameera’s language, it gave few details, and the book said to contain those details was so little favored by the mullahs, Jamil had never heard or seen its contents. The Taliban had banned the book completely as an instrument of the infidel West. But they’d banned so much else, and it had been reflexive protest against their autocratic dictates as much as the new ones these foreigners thrust on the Afghan people that prompted Jamil’s impetuous pronouncement.

  And yet why not? If the Quran did not forbid, was it not perhaps the duty of a Muslim to ascertain who this Jesus was, what he had taught? It would be useful practice for the translations Ameera had requested.

  Or was this only a distraction, an excuse to please Ameera?

  Jamil sat with the small volume in his hands, fingering its cover until a corner began to curl, as twilight cast a dappled pattern of light and dark onto the wall above his head. Soon it would be too dark to see its pages. With sudden decision, Jamil opened the book. Turning a page, he began to read.

  “Hey, Steve, DynCorp just faxed over the final report on the MOI suicide vest.”

  Steve put aside Khalid’s movement schedule to pick up the single sheet of paper Phil dropped onto his desk.

  The medic saved him the bother of skimming through it. “Basic summar
y, no news. Jason had his trainees do a full workup, fingerprinting everything in sight and everyone in the building. Minus all the visiting police chiefs and their entourages, who’d long gone by then. Prints on the bomb components matched a couple good ones on the balcony railing but no matches to the fingerprint roundup. They’re feeding their catch now into a computer database. Great training exercise, but without suspects for a match, it won’t do us any good. The only interesting tidbit was the vest itself. Schematics right off the Internet, but the trigger mechanism was remote control. A cell phone. I thought these guys usually blew themselves up.”

  “I’ve heard of remote-control IEDs but not suicide bombs. Hmm.” Steve swiveled his desk chair to stare out a picture window. The upstairs suite the CS team had co-opted as command center overlooked the same concrete slabbing as Khalid’s reception salon but no longer offered a view of the massive Mi-8 helicopter. The minister had finally agreed to retire his monster to a well-guarded helipad on the PSD base where some out-of-bounds guest couldn’t slap a magnetic explosive on its underbelly.

  Steve ran a satisfied eye over an assortment of armored SUVs and Humvees with gun turrets that had taken its place. “So the perp wasn’t the one who called off the mission. On the other hand, he had to make the choice to drop his vest behind. I wonder who had the remote and where. Or maybe we’ve got it all wrong, and the perp was just carrying the trigger separate from the bomb.”

  “Unless we catch the guy, we may never know,” Phil said. “Nor is there any evidence of how the perp entered the building. Everything was locked up tight. No sign of break-in on doors and windows nor marks of grapple hooks coming over the perimeter wall. As to the apartments next door, no one admits to seeing anything beyond bazaar traffic and MOI’s own security.”