couldn’t dismiss from my mind the worry that one day I would get the salt wrong and Greg, who’d never even said an unkind word to me, would break my neck.
“Greg, you’re not ready for life with me,” I said. “You think you are, but you’re not. You are so sweet, and so kind. I would just make you miserable. In thirty years you’d look back and realize how unhappy you were with me and your life would have been a waste.”
“How can you even say that I would think that? You mean everything to me, and you know we belong together.”
We’d found a bench in one of the galleries. I sat there and let him hold my hands. What could I say? That the thought of marriage made me feel like I was suffocating? That I would rather go to Afghanistan than get engaged to him? How could I protect the one person I cared the most about, while still keeping my own liberties, which I cared about even more?
AT THE END of the weeklong military training I was scheduled to board a military plane to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, where I would catch a plane to Bagram Airfield (BAF).
I called Najiba to say good-bye.
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “Just come back.”
“I’m going to try it for at least six months,” I said. “That’s the shortest contract they offer.”
“Saima, you’re talking about Afghanistan . Just because we were born there doesn’t mean we belong there. You’re too Americanized. Don’t you like your life here? Plus, you can’t even get along with the Afghans in your own family here in the States. What do you think is going to happen there? Those people aren’t going to be welcoming you with open arms. Afghanistan is no place for an opinionated and pigheaded woman like you. They stone to death women like you.”
E LEVEN
M y recurring nightmares were coming true. I was on a plane back to Afghanistan.
The difference being, it wasn’t my uncles making their threats a reality—I was returning of my own free will. As the flight crew read through the roll call for the manifest, I realized that the company I had chosen to go with knew exactly what they were doing when they decided to push me through all the paperwork and training within two weeks. If I had being given any more time to think about it, I would have backed out and decided to stay in sleepy Portland.
What was I thinking? For one thing, I have always thought that the only way to stop fearing something is to be immersed in it. Of course, I can’t seem to make this work when it comes to swimming, but returning to Afghanistan I wanted and could do. So, I thought, I will sign up for the shortest contract—and if I needed to leave before that was over, I would do just that. Feeling in control of the situation and of the timing of my return made it a lot easier to get on that plane.
I had not been happy in America, not the way I knew I could be if I took care of what I considered unfinished business from my childhood. I had left Afghanistan under the worst possible conditions. All those years later, sitting in Oregon, trying to find satisfaction and happiness in freedom, I would randomly be reminded of one thing or another frommy early years in Afghanistan, and it would instantly take me back to the despair of my childhood.
ATLANTA TO SHANNON to Bishkek to Bagram. On the outside, the plane looked like a commercial jetliner, but inside it had been stripped down to the basics. Wires dangled from the ceiling. There were no overhead bins, no inner shell, no disguising the fact that we were traveling in a tin can with wings. The back of the plane was reserved for cargo—mostly food and ammunition. As I crawled over duffel bags and stretched legs to find a seat, I vowed to never complain about flying coach again.
The engines were loud enough to warrant earplugs. The soldiers all had them, but no one came down the aisle, offering them. You were meant to have grabbed them from a tray as you boarded, but I hadn’t known that. From this I learned one
“Greg, you’re not ready for life with me,” I said. “You think you are, but you’re not. You are so sweet, and so kind. I would just make you miserable. In thirty years you’d look back and realize how unhappy you were with me and your life would have been a waste.”
“How can you even say that I would think that? You mean everything to me, and you know we belong together.”
We’d found a bench in one of the galleries. I sat there and let him hold my hands. What could I say? That the thought of marriage made me feel like I was suffocating? That I would rather go to Afghanistan than get engaged to him? How could I protect the one person I cared the most about, while still keeping my own liberties, which I cared about even more?
AT THE END of the weeklong military training I was scheduled to board a military plane to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, where I would catch a plane to Bagram Airfield (BAF).
I called Najiba to say good-bye.
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “Just come back.”
“I’m going to try it for at least six months,” I said. “That’s the shortest contract they offer.”
“Saima, you’re talking about Afghanistan . Just because we were born there doesn’t mean we belong there. You’re too Americanized. Don’t you like your life here? Plus, you can’t even get along with the Afghans in your own family here in the States. What do you think is going to happen there? Those people aren’t going to be welcoming you with open arms. Afghanistan is no place for an opinionated and pigheaded woman like you. They stone to death women like you.”
E LEVEN
M y recurring nightmares were coming true. I was on a plane back to Afghanistan.
The difference being, it wasn’t my uncles making their threats a reality—I was returning of my own free will. As the flight crew read through the roll call for the manifest, I realized that the company I had chosen to go with knew exactly what they were doing when they decided to push me through all the paperwork and training within two weeks. If I had being given any more time to think about it, I would have backed out and decided to stay in sleepy Portland.
What was I thinking? For one thing, I have always thought that the only way to stop fearing something is to be immersed in it. Of course, I can’t seem to make this work when it comes to swimming, but returning to Afghanistan I wanted and could do. So, I thought, I will sign up for the shortest contract—and if I needed to leave before that was over, I would do just that. Feeling in control of the situation and of the timing of my return made it a lot easier to get on that plane.
I had not been happy in America, not the way I knew I could be if I took care of what I considered unfinished business from my childhood. I had left Afghanistan under the worst possible conditions. All those years later, sitting in Oregon, trying to find satisfaction and happiness in freedom, I would randomly be reminded of one thing or another frommy early years in Afghanistan, and it would instantly take me back to the despair of my childhood.
ATLANTA TO SHANNON to Bishkek to Bagram. On the outside, the plane looked like a commercial jetliner, but inside it had been stripped down to the basics. Wires dangled from the ceiling. There were no overhead bins, no inner shell, no disguising the fact that we were traveling in a tin can with wings. The back of the plane was reserved for cargo—mostly food and ammunition. As I crawled over duffel bags and stretched legs to find a seat, I vowed to never complain about flying coach again.
The engines were loud enough to warrant earplugs. The soldiers all had them, but no one came down the aisle, offering them. You were meant to have grabbed them from a tray as you boarded, but I hadn’t known that. From this I learned one
Similar Books
