is all over the place! You know that. What’s—?”
“Herat is peaceful, I’m telling you!”
“Are you listening to yourself? You know that country! It’s a hellhole of macho tribesmen trying to kill each other and every foreigner they see. Not to mention NATO air strikes.”
“I’m telling you I’ll be safe. I go in, do the research, and leave.”
“You of all people ought to know what nonsense you’re spouting. You’re being ridiculous. Look at that Iranian-Canadian journalist a few years ago. She was beaten to death! By the police!”
“That was in Iran.”
“Which is on the western border of Afghanistan. And Afghanistan is even more dangerous! The place is falling apart! And with their attitude toward women—let alone a woman
reporter
, a
foreign
woman reporter asking impertinent questions! Look, Annie,” my father said, forcing himself to calm down, “I’ve never interfered with your career before, even when you went to …” His voice hardened as it quieted. “Not this time, Annie. No. When I think of what happened in East Timor … Garnet and I—”
Standing there at the edge of the volcano, I quickly pieced together what was happening. My mother had been offered an assignment. Investigative journalism was her strength and—I sometimes thought—the most important thing in her life. In Afghanistan, this time. In the middle of a vicious civil war. And she wanted to accept the job. I knew her. She would sneak into the country if she had to—anything to get the story. Whatever the story was. She thrived on the adventure and, although she’d never admit it, the danger. And she was ambitious. Already well known, she was always afraid that she’d be pushed to the sidelines if she didn’t stay in the game.
“Don’t bring Garnet into this!” she yelled. “It has nothing—”
“Garnet’s already in it,” I said, stepping into the room.
My parents fell silent. My father, his face red with anger, and my mother, eyes flashing, features twisted with frustration—they seemed like total strangers, as if, while I was away, two impostors had invaded our home.
“Why should you leave me out of it?” I demanded.
“Because this is my decision,” she said quietly but firmly.
“Yeah, I guess it is, Mom. I guess you’re the only one who matters.”
“Garnet,” my father said.
There was a sticky silence in the room.
I didn’t mean that, I wanted to tell her. But I
had
meant it.
My father’s colour was returning to normal. My mother’s face softened a little. My mind was racing. How could I convince her to change her mind? Bullying her wouldn’t work. My father had already proved that.
“Can we discuss this calmly?” I asked.
“Not if—”
“Annie, please let him talk,” Dad said, throwing himself into a chair.
My mother tilted her head a little, a gesture of agreement.
“I … I have an idea,” I began, my thoughts forming quickly. “A sort of compromise.”
My father bristled. There was not going to be a compromise as far as he was concerned. I held up my hand. “Just let me say something, Dad.”
He settled back. My mother sat down slowly at her desk.
“Okay. Now, Mom, if you insist on going, I’d like to come with you. No, really,” I added, cutting her off again. “Hear me out. I’d be a help. I could carry your equipment. More important, we know that conservative Muslim men over there, not to mention the Islamists, insist that women should never go out in public unless they’re accompanied by a man—”
Mom’s face coloured with impatience.
“Their husband, or elder brother, or eldest son. I’m your son, right? So you see, I could go along. I’d always be with you, and you’d be … well, legal or whatever the word is. Besides, I’ve never had much chance to travel, so—”
My mother snapped, “It’s out of the question!”
“But why?”
“Because it isn’t—”
And she stopped.
“Safe?” my father said quietly, not so
“Herat is peaceful, I’m telling you!”
“Are you listening to yourself? You know that country! It’s a hellhole of macho tribesmen trying to kill each other and every foreigner they see. Not to mention NATO air strikes.”
“I’m telling you I’ll be safe. I go in, do the research, and leave.”
“You of all people ought to know what nonsense you’re spouting. You’re being ridiculous. Look at that Iranian-Canadian journalist a few years ago. She was beaten to death! By the police!”
“That was in Iran.”
“Which is on the western border of Afghanistan. And Afghanistan is even more dangerous! The place is falling apart! And with their attitude toward women—let alone a woman
reporter
, a
foreign
woman reporter asking impertinent questions! Look, Annie,” my father said, forcing himself to calm down, “I’ve never interfered with your career before, even when you went to …” His voice hardened as it quieted. “Not this time, Annie. No. When I think of what happened in East Timor … Garnet and I—”
Standing there at the edge of the volcano, I quickly pieced together what was happening. My mother had been offered an assignment. Investigative journalism was her strength and—I sometimes thought—the most important thing in her life. In Afghanistan, this time. In the middle of a vicious civil war. And she wanted to accept the job. I knew her. She would sneak into the country if she had to—anything to get the story. Whatever the story was. She thrived on the adventure and, although she’d never admit it, the danger. And she was ambitious. Already well known, she was always afraid that she’d be pushed to the sidelines if she didn’t stay in the game.
“Don’t bring Garnet into this!” she yelled. “It has nothing—”
“Garnet’s already in it,” I said, stepping into the room.
My parents fell silent. My father, his face red with anger, and my mother, eyes flashing, features twisted with frustration—they seemed like total strangers, as if, while I was away, two impostors had invaded our home.
“Why should you leave me out of it?” I demanded.
“Because this is my decision,” she said quietly but firmly.
“Yeah, I guess it is, Mom. I guess you’re the only one who matters.”
“Garnet,” my father said.
There was a sticky silence in the room.
I didn’t mean that, I wanted to tell her. But I
had
meant it.
My father’s colour was returning to normal. My mother’s face softened a little. My mind was racing. How could I convince her to change her mind? Bullying her wouldn’t work. My father had already proved that.
“Can we discuss this calmly?” I asked.
“Not if—”
“Annie, please let him talk,” Dad said, throwing himself into a chair.
My mother tilted her head a little, a gesture of agreement.
“I … I have an idea,” I began, my thoughts forming quickly. “A sort of compromise.”
My father bristled. There was not going to be a compromise as far as he was concerned. I held up my hand. “Just let me say something, Dad.”
He settled back. My mother sat down slowly at her desk.
“Okay. Now, Mom, if you insist on going, I’d like to come with you. No, really,” I added, cutting her off again. “Hear me out. I’d be a help. I could carry your equipment. More important, we know that conservative Muslim men over there, not to mention the Islamists, insist that women should never go out in public unless they’re accompanied by a man—”
Mom’s face coloured with impatience.
“Their husband, or elder brother, or eldest son. I’m your son, right? So you see, I could go along. I’d always be with you, and you’d be … well, legal or whatever the word is. Besides, I’ve never had much chance to travel, so—”
My mother snapped, “It’s out of the question!”
“But why?”
“Because it isn’t—”
And she stopped.
“Safe?” my father said quietly, not so
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