one more assault upon a system that surely didn’t need another.
It was clear before the letter even ended that this case had personal interest for him, just as it did for the others who came to the story before he did.
But he ended by confiding that he was growing more concerned about a potential backlash with the public or with public officials, especially in the Middle East. He said that there had already been inquiries, asking in effect, “why is so much being done for one little girl, in a land where so many thousands are desperate for medical aid?”
Smith’s concerns were prophetic; the question “why so much?” was one that everyone involved in Zubaida’s case was going to hear, over and over.
* * *
Mohammed Hasan was not so foolish as to be blind to the power that he would hold, right up until the instant that he got back aboard an airplane. He didn’t have to actually do anything so inconceivable as actually defect; all he had to do was realize that they knew he could defect if he really wanted to. These were people it would be easy to bluff in marketplace dickering—so easy to read. Everybody was always eager, too eager, to answer all of his questions whenever he asked about returning back home. If he could just keep them from getting to comfortable with the idea that he was actually going to quietly walk out of Zubaida’s hospital room and return to the airport with them, that they would be eager to keep him happy. And as long as they were, he could squeeze the very best of care for Zubaida out of all of them.
It was the last gift that he could give to her, and it would have to be enough.
A few days after her second set of operations, he quietly gave away his power by cooperating with his hosts, kissing his daughter goodbye and returning to the airport without any fuss. Dr. Mike Smith accompanied him, and Hasan had to wonder if that was to strong-arm him if he tried to bolt at the last minute. But Hasan had no such desire. His wife and family needed him, back there in a place that was nothing at all like the playground of indulgence that he glimpsed in this part of America. Those who feared that he would bolt like a donkey and run for sanctuary knew nothing about him.
In his last moments with Zubaida, he could see her fear and uncertainty so clearly in her eyes, but at the same time he saw that her usual air of steady calmness was much stronger, now. Fire couldn’t kill her; neither would the Others. She would soak up whatever Western magic that Dr. Peter and his staff performed for her, then return back home and grow up to a life that might come close to something normal. Surely there would be no decent arranged marriage for her, since Dr. Peter made it clear that they could never perfectly restore her features. As damaged goods, she would most likely have to work all her life, probably at some form of manual labor. So it was good that she would now have both hands and that at least her face wouldn’t scare people and draw crowds.
Hasan was not from a culture that made him feel ashamed for crying in front of every one of the Americans who were there to help him and Zubaida while he bid them goodbye.
Then with a final hug and a few whispered words of reassurance to his daughter, he went away with Dr. Mike and another translator to begin the seventeen hour series of flights back home.
For Zubaida, the crash back to cold earth came within hours after her father left, just before she was released to go recuperate with her host family. With all the uncertainty stretching out ahead of her, she was tempted to seize on an overly rosy view of things to make herself feel safe. After all, she had very little post-operative pain, and although the long term surgical process had been explained to her, when she saw her restored features in the mirror, she seized on the hope that the hard part was over—maybe the rest would simply involve taking a lot of medicine or something.
Denial and gravity are both
It was clear before the letter even ended that this case had personal interest for him, just as it did for the others who came to the story before he did.
But he ended by confiding that he was growing more concerned about a potential backlash with the public or with public officials, especially in the Middle East. He said that there had already been inquiries, asking in effect, “why is so much being done for one little girl, in a land where so many thousands are desperate for medical aid?”
Smith’s concerns were prophetic; the question “why so much?” was one that everyone involved in Zubaida’s case was going to hear, over and over.
* * *
Mohammed Hasan was not so foolish as to be blind to the power that he would hold, right up until the instant that he got back aboard an airplane. He didn’t have to actually do anything so inconceivable as actually defect; all he had to do was realize that they knew he could defect if he really wanted to. These were people it would be easy to bluff in marketplace dickering—so easy to read. Everybody was always eager, too eager, to answer all of his questions whenever he asked about returning back home. If he could just keep them from getting to comfortable with the idea that he was actually going to quietly walk out of Zubaida’s hospital room and return to the airport with them, that they would be eager to keep him happy. And as long as they were, he could squeeze the very best of care for Zubaida out of all of them.
It was the last gift that he could give to her, and it would have to be enough.
A few days after her second set of operations, he quietly gave away his power by cooperating with his hosts, kissing his daughter goodbye and returning to the airport without any fuss. Dr. Mike Smith accompanied him, and Hasan had to wonder if that was to strong-arm him if he tried to bolt at the last minute. But Hasan had no such desire. His wife and family needed him, back there in a place that was nothing at all like the playground of indulgence that he glimpsed in this part of America. Those who feared that he would bolt like a donkey and run for sanctuary knew nothing about him.
In his last moments with Zubaida, he could see her fear and uncertainty so clearly in her eyes, but at the same time he saw that her usual air of steady calmness was much stronger, now. Fire couldn’t kill her; neither would the Others. She would soak up whatever Western magic that Dr. Peter and his staff performed for her, then return back home and grow up to a life that might come close to something normal. Surely there would be no decent arranged marriage for her, since Dr. Peter made it clear that they could never perfectly restore her features. As damaged goods, she would most likely have to work all her life, probably at some form of manual labor. So it was good that she would now have both hands and that at least her face wouldn’t scare people and draw crowds.
Hasan was not from a culture that made him feel ashamed for crying in front of every one of the Americans who were there to help him and Zubaida while he bid them goodbye.
Then with a final hug and a few whispered words of reassurance to his daughter, he went away with Dr. Mike and another translator to begin the seventeen hour series of flights back home.
For Zubaida, the crash back to cold earth came within hours after her father left, just before she was released to go recuperate with her host family. With all the uncertainty stretching out ahead of her, she was tempted to seize on an overly rosy view of things to make herself feel safe. After all, she had very little post-operative pain, and although the long term surgical process had been explained to her, when she saw her restored features in the mirror, she seized on the hope that the hard part was over—maybe the rest would simply involve taking a lot of medicine or something.
Denial and gravity are both
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