Farishta (35 page)

The colonel gave them a tour of the PRT, which they seemed to enjoy as much as the orange juice, yogurt, and muffins we served them at a long table in the conference room. The mullah in his thank-you speech told the colonel this was his first invitation to visit the PRT since the U.S. Army had departed in 2003. I sat silently at the far end of the table, my hair wrapped in a scarf throughout the breakfast so as not to offend our elderly guests, whom I knew would probably be less than pleased to see a woman in this room full of men.

 

 

The American Embassy never responded to my report on the aggressive security posture of new foreign forces in our area. Nor did they have any comments about the attack on the police-training center. The looming parliamentary elections had overwhelmed everything else.

 

 

My British diplomatic colleague Richard Carrington had spent very little time in Mazār over the summer and as a result our professional relationship had improved markedly. He was about to be permanently assigned as the UK’s representative at PRT Lashkar Gah in Helmand Province to prepare for the arrival of the British Army in early 2006. Helmand was far more dangerous than any of the northern provinces, and I made sure he knew how much I admired him for volunteering to go. He’d come back to Mazār to help plan our itinerary through the Sholgara Valley, where he and I would be serving as official poll watchers on Election Day.

“Right, Angela,” he said, picking up his dinner tray and heading out the door of the officers’ mess, “I’ll be flying to Kabul tomorrow to brief my ambassador on our plans, and I’ll drive back on election eve with my civilian security team. We’ll be ready to follow you and your boys in the Beast at 0530 hours sharp Sunday morning.”

“Safe flight, Richard,” I replied, slipping my feet out of my sandals and curling up on the couch to watch the evening news on BBC. The room was empty. Every officer not at work had gone to the pub to watch another important sporting event.

“Angela, may I have a word with you?” Mark entered the officers’ mess with a tray of food and sat down on the couch next to me.

“Sure,” I said, slipping my feet back into my sandals. We’d both been so busy the past week that we’d hardly spoken.

“I’ve missed our dinners together,” he said, “but my boys and I have been swamped with the elections approaching.” He set his tray down without a sound and ran his fingers through his hair. He was upset about something.

“We’ll have plenty of time later, Mark,” I assured him. Since we were alone, I reached out and took his hand in mine.

“I understand that you and Richard will be traveling into the Sholgara Valley for Election Day,” he said, squeezing my fingers.

“We are, but don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of protection,” I replied, smiling up at his stern face. “I’m keeping my promise never to leave the PRT again without proper security.”

“Are you aware that there is a single narrow road leading into and out of that valley with steep cliffs on either side? ”

“Mark, you know I’ve been to the Sholgara many times.”

“Have you read the intel reports from the MOTs about armed thugs threatening to invade the polling places and intimidate voters? ”

“Of course I have, Mark,” I said, bristling at his condescending tone. I silently forgave him because I knew how worried he was about my safety, but I hated it when he spoke to me like this. “I believe that’s the very reason Richard and I have been asked to go to there.” My voice rose slightly, betraying my irritation. I didn’t want another lecture from him on the dangers lurking outside the PRT. “The presence of foreign observers is expected to help deter that behavior.”

“Of course, but if you manage to enrage enough of those fellows during the day, you’ll offer them a very tempting target when you exit the valley through that pass late in the afternoon.”

Rising from the couch, I snatched my tray from the coffee table and stared down at him. “I’m willing to risk it.”

“I suppose we’re all here to take such risks,” he replied grimly, clearly wanting to say more.

“Mark, I’m not doing this to make some point about my desire for independence. This is my job! It’s why I’m here.” I knew it would be impossible to convince him, but I had to try to make him understand. “These elections are critical. You know that. Monitors are coming to Afghanistan from all over the world to help ensure that the whole process is run as honestly and fairly as possible. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

Mark clenched his jaw in silence as I turned and left the room. He departed the following morning with MOT Bravo, which by design or coincidence was off on a four-day patrol into the Sholgara Valley.

Election Day was chaotic, hot, and dusty. Weapons were not allowed in the polling places, which meant that Fuzzy and the embassy bodyguard could not accompany Richard and me to observe the voting. They had to stay in the vehicles at each stop along with Jenkins and Richard’s civilian driver while Richard and I went into the voting centers, protected only by the oversized international observer badges dangling from our necks. I would inspect the women’s sites on my own while Richard, accompanied by Rahim, who needed no badge, would observe the men.

 

 

Some of the more remote female-voting stations I visited resembled raucous teenage parties. The women, their burkas thrown back, laughed and joked and leaned into one another’s cardboard voting booths as they searched the enormous full-color ballot sheets for the photo of their local warlord, provincial chief, or mullah. They knew whom they were supposed to vote for and would squeal with delight when they finally found the correct photo.

The concept of a secret ballot had not yet filtered down to this corner of Afghanistan. For these rural women, the novelty of going into a semi-public place where they could throw back their burkas for a few minutes was enough of a treat.

The last place I visited at the far end of the valley was quite a different story. Miriam, a local school principal, welcomed me warmly into her well-organized polling station. Her three assistants, who were also teachers in her school, handed the women their ballots, told them how to make their marks, and instructed them not to speak to one another until they were out of the tent.

This orderly procession of female voters halted abruptly when three armed men, scowling and brandishing AK-47s, lifted the back flap of the tent and marched in uninvited. I remembered Mark’s warning about voter intimidation and prayed this would not turn into a violent confrontation. I was more angry than frightened, but I had no idea what to do.

The men didn’t notice me at first, since the faces of all the women in the tent were uncovered. That lasted for lass than ten seconds, when every one of the female voters pulled their burkas back over their faces and squeezed into a tight knot at the rear of the tent. Only Miriam, her three assistants, and I still had our faces exposed.

Miriam glared at the heavyset leader of the group, her wrinkled jaw twitching in anger. She was spitting mad and was having what Colonel Tremain would have euphemistically described as a Whisky-Tango-Foxtrot moment. The two younger men took several steps back to escape the heat of Miriam’s anger and looked to the older man for guidance.

I remained with the female voters at the back of the tent, feeling like a coward next to Miriam’s bravery. She stepped forward with her arms folded over her chest, and in her most authoritative schoolteacher voice, ordered the men to leave the premises immediately.

“I believe that false ballots are being added to the boxes,
honum
,” the old man said sharply. “You must open them so my men can count the votes.”

“These boxes will remained sealed until election officials deliver them tonight to the counting center in Mazār-i-Sharīf,” Miriam replied calmly. The three female poll workers stepped forward and stood next to her, their faces still defiantly exposed.

I pulled out my camera and began snapping photos of their confrontation.

“Journalists are not permitted here,” shouted the older man, glaring at me.

I informed him that journalists were indeed permitted in the polling stations, but weapons were not.

“And if I take your camera? ” he said angrily, “what will you do then? ”

His arrogance infuriated me and I foolishly threw caution to the winds. “I am here from the PRT as an official election observer, and I am accompanied by armed NATO soldiers who are waiting for me at the bottom of the hill. Shall I summon them?” I asked, pulling my cell phone from my pocket. I didn’t mention that I was referring only to Fuzzy, Jenkins, and the two civilians from the British Embassy. I didn’t even know if my cell phone would work out here. I prayed silently that my bluff would succeed. It did.

“You will pay for this,” he warned before exiting the tent with his men.

After promising Miriam that I would report the incident to the election authorities in Mazār, I walked down the hill to find that Rahim had just cast his first vote ever. When my young friend saw me approaching, he waved his purple ink-stained finger in the air and shouted proudly, “Look, Farishta-
jan,
democracy!”

By late that afternoon, our little convoy was headed northeast toward the narrow cut that would take us out of the Sholgara Valley. I rode in the Beast with Rahim, Fuzzy, and Jenkins, and regaled them with the story of the armed gang that had invaded the women’s tent.

Jenkins couldn’t resist interrupting halfway through my story. “And you just stood there and said nothing, right, Angela? I don’t believe that for a second,” he snorted. Fuzzy nodded in silent agreement.

“I did take a few photos for the record,” I admitted.

“Fuzzy, keep your eyes peeled until we get through this pass,” Jenkins cautioned half in jest.

“Right, mate,” grunted Fuzzy.

Since the Beast had no AC and its windows had to be left down so we wouldn’t suffocate in this heat, we were in the lead as our little convoy entered the narrow gap that cut through the valley wall. Richard and his civilian bodyguards following close behind us were protected from our dust inside their air-conditioned, fully armored British embassy van.

We had been driving through the canyon for less than a minute when Fuzzy stiffened suddenly and shouted at Jenkins, “Mate, hostiles ahead!” I peeked out the open window and could see armed men on the cliffs ahead of us. Jenkins was traveling at a good clip, but he hit the brakes hard. Richard’s much more heavily armored vehicle skidded to a halt, inches from the Beast’s rear fender.

I stared up at the shadowy figures lining the ridge and prayed they were not allies of the man I had confronted in Miriam’s polling station. If anything happened to Fuzzy, Jenkins, or Rahim because of my actions, I would never forgive myself.

Seconds later, our radio began to crackle with familiar call signs. “Delta two zulu, delta two zulu. This is bravo nine alpha. We are in overwatch north of your position. Bridge secure. Clear to move through to my location. Out.”

“It’s the fucking Gurkhas,” said Jenkins, resting his head on the steering wheel and heaving an enormous sigh of relief.

He gunned the Beast and we exited the narrow canyon into a shaft of bright September sunlight. Standing on a rise near the bridge was the young Gurkha captain who commanded MOT Bravo. Next to him was Mark, as I had never before seen him—covered with dust, unshaven, deeply tanned, with a pistol strapped to his hip and a rifle slung over his shoulder. He waved solemnly as our little convoy passed safely out of the valley.

In early October, Rahim informed Colonel Jameson he would be leaving for France in January 2006 to begin his studies.

“Farishta-
jan,
he wasn’t even angry,” a surprised Rahim told me when he left the colonel’s office. “All he wanted to know was who I recommended for the new head interpreter.”

“Rahim, by early next year, the British Army will have moved to Helmand and the Swedes will have assumed command in their new compound by the airport. Since the colonel can’t take you with him, he’s probably not too concerned about who will do the translating for the next PRT commander.”

“I have recommended my mother’s brother-in-law, who has just finished medical school in Kabul,” said Rahim, beaming. “His English is better than mine.”

“A doctor! Why would you recommend a doctor, Rahim?”

“He can earn more as head interpreter at the PRT than he can working in a hospital.”

“Have you told the colonel?”

“Not yet. I will bring my uncle tomorrow to introduce him.”

Since the announcement of his scholarship, Rahim had been spending as much time as the colonel would allow at the museum in Kabul with Jeef and Fazli. I knew he was also having clandestine meetings in Kabul with Nilofar, whose absences from Mazār usually coincided with his. I hoped they were being discreet.

Although Mark and I had agreed to disagree about my complicity in their doomed romance, I thought I had finally convinced him that there was no harm in their seeing each other until Rahim left for France. Nilofar would be spending the rest of her life in Mazār-i-Sharīf married to a Hazara businessman she hadn’t even met. My two young friends deserved a few more months together before they were separated forever.

I was thrilled about Rahim’s scholarship and had planned to suggest to Mark that we meet in Paris next spring. I’d skipped my workout to spend an hour at my desk answering an urgent query from the embassy after dinner. I headed over to the pub, where Mark and I had agreed to meet at nine, and ordered a cider. When the back door opened and he entered, still wearing his gym clothes, I waved at him from the bar.

“Mark,” I called. “Come let me buy you something cold to drink.”