Opium Nation Page 28

  Still, I am able to get along with these women. I learn a few words of Pashto from them, and they learn a few words of Farsi from me. I learn that wife is shazai, brother is orror, and the Taliban are bad di (bad). They are so similar to the women in the north. Ethnic, political, and linguistic rivalries seem to play no significant role in their lives, because they are not competing for power or positions. They care for their families and take care of their homes, just like the women in the rest of the country.

  Most Afghan village homes have an outhouse with a hole in the ground: don’t look, hold your nose, and shoot. These women do not have outhouses. Their bathroom is their front yard. I squat uncomfortably, looking around to see if I am being watched. Two chickens are my only spectators. The women usually clean up the mess with a shovel and throw it in the nearest ditch outside. I do the same.

  I want to know how this place can be a central point for drug deals, where thousands of dollars exchange hands every day, and yet suffer from so much poverty that these women do not even have a bathroom. Where does the money go? Sangin, located at the edge of the Helmand River—perfect for a healthy poppy harvest—is near the main highway and offers an easy trafficking route. But it’s the higher ranks in the trafficking chain that benefit from the drug, and they do not invest locally—their money is laundered in Gulf countries. The majority of the population here lives poor.

  Back in the room with the women, I am waiting for Imran when a round-bellied man enters. He is not friendly but he speaks Farsi. “What is it that you want from here?” he asks me. “You should not be traveling without a mahram. Imran is not your mahram and you’re traveling with him.”

  I say that I want to find my cousin and that’s all. “Her mother has sent me to find her and I mean no harm to anyone.”

  There is no sympathy. He orders the woman to serve me more tea and dashes off. What is Imran doing? Is he going to protect me from these men who seem to hate me? I really don’t know much about him. An hour later, he shows up.

  “No luck. We asked every shopkeeper and house in the neighborhood. It’ll be dark soon and we’ll need a place to sleep,” he says sternly. “Let’s go to my niece’s house. They live better than this, and the men there are powerful in this village. We can ask them.”

  I jump up, grab my burqa, and kiss the women good-bye. Back in the taxi we all feel dejected. Imran and Sameh are as anxious to find Darya as I am, but they have their own reasons: they want this trip to be over as soon as possible. They are in danger traveling with me, and it seems that people have figured out I am not related to Imran. The fact that we are traveling together is a grave sin in the villagers’ eyes. I suspect that the population includes many members of the Taliban and powerful drug traffickers. If they find out that I’m an Afghan American, they could kill my companions and me. The Taliban have said that they hate the Afghans coming from the West and those Afghans from Afghanistan who work with them. We have no ransom or political value to them. But I’m more afraid of being kidnapped than being killed.

  We drive for a good hour before arriving in verdant farmland near the Helmand River. Clear water flows in the river and the purple grapes glow amid emerald-green vines. Our car has to roll through mud and water to get to Imran’s niece’s home.

  At the house, Imran gets out to greet a group of men with hugs and kisses on the cheek. I learn later they are his niece’s husband and his brothers. They seem delighted to see him. They ask him if I am his wife and I see him shaking his head. There is a pause for a second and no more questions are asked. One of the men is apparently a doctor. I’m not sure how much of an actual doctor he is—if someone knows how to use a needle to give a shot, that person is considered a doctor here—but it’s a comfort to know there’s a health care worker in the house. There are four brothers living in the same compound. Each has a room, and they all share the courtyard, which they have turned into a garden of roses.

  When I enter the courtyard and lift my veil, the women sitting on the patio all get up with curiosity. Mina is Imran’s niece; she is the doctor’s wife. The striking nineteen-year-old wears a long tunic and loose pants. She looks nine months pregnant as she wobbles toward us, giving her uncle a nod. She says a cold hello to me in Farsi. I know why she is being so uncharacteristically unfriendly. She is thinking, who is this strange woman with my uncle? Where is his family?

  “How is the family, zan kaka [paternal uncle’s wife] and the kids?” she asks him. Then she whispers with concern, “Who is she?”

  He looks at me directly and answers her with confidence, “She’s my cousin from Iran.”

  That is not the story Imran and I had agreed to tell people. We agreed to tell anyone who asked that I am a relative’s friend from Herat who is looking for her cousin. I don’t understand why Imran has changed the story. He tells me later that he forgot our agreement and that this was the first thing that came to mind.

  But Mina knows Imran’s first cousins living in Iran and the suspicious young bride becomes paranoid. She refuses to serve me the rest of the night and exchanges only a few brisk words with me. She is embarrassed in front of her in-laws that her uncle is shaming their family by bringing a stranger, probably a woman he is having an affair with, into their home.

  Mina doesn’t have to say anything for me to know her concerns. Her anger is written all over her face. If I tell her that I have no interest in Imran and I am here for another purpose, she probably will not believe me. But she is the only woman who speaks Farsi. Her mother-in-law is a sympathetic talker who has no problem with the fact that I cannot understand her. She speaks Pashto, telling stories about her family. I pick up only that she is ashamed of Mina’s inhospitable behavior. She keeps gesturing that her daughter-in-law’s mood is due to her pregnancy. The other women are the wives of one of the brothers. One is a heavyset woman with coarse brown skin who wears gold bangles that jingle every time she moves her hand. The other is a pale, thin woman with henna-painted hands. They appear to be happy I’m there, chattering about my presence. One of the wives is absent; she has gone to her parents’ house. We all sit on the patio in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by the scent of roses, which has diffused but not fully disguised the stench from the garbage piled up on the ground below in the courtyard. Each corner of the property has a room, and each brother occupies a separate room with his family.

  Imran leaves with the men to talk about finding Darya. I refuse to sit anymore without doing something to help him. I take out my satellite phone and call Saber in Herat to ask him to help me speak with Darya’s mother. I will at least find out Haji Sufi’s real name. Saber says he’ll go to Basira’s home and call me back. A few minutes later Basira is on the phone.

  “What’s his real name? Where do they live?” I ask her desperately.

  “Well, the men call him Haji Tor. I’m not sure where they live. I know it was Sangin, Helmand,” she yells into the phone. “Thank you so much for doing this for us. May God bless you.”

  “I don’t know if I can find her, Basira Jan, but I’ll try my best.” The line goes dead.

  People locate one another in this part of Afghanistan through family and by word of mouth. There are no phone books or landlines, and cell phones are not in service in the villages in Helmand yet. Villages in Herat, such as Ghoryan, are advancing rapidly, while southern villages lag behind because of violence. I can reach Saber and Basira, who are twelve hours by car from Sangin, but I cannot find Darya, who may be living a few houses from me.

  An hour later, Saber calls back to say he was able to find out from Darya’s paternal uncle that Darya may have moved from Sangin to another district in Helmand with her husband’s extended family.

  “Her uncle also told me to tell you that Darya’s father [Touraj] found out that you’re looking for her. Touraj is going to call her husband and tell him to harm you. They want you to leave her alone, Fariba Jan.”

  “What’s the new address?”

  “Marjah district. That�
��s all I have.”

  I thank Saber and hang up.

  This new information is crucial, but it leaves me with little hope. Marjah is five hours from where we are, and it is not a sure thing. I need a more specific address, with at least the name of a village rather than an entire district.

  I hear the women arguing among themselves. It seems to be about who I should eat dinner with. They all share a house but not meals or expenses. The mother-in-law is with the brother in the northeast corner of the compound, and Mina is in the northwest. She isn’t arguing. I notice that she is no longer sitting with the other women.

  Later I learn that Mina called Imran’s wife on their satellite phone to ask her who I was, and his wife explained that I was a guest and that she should not worry. Mina thought that Imran had purchased me from Iran and was planning to wed me as a second wife. I am amused at how distrustful she is, but also touched that she was protecting his wife and her honor. I admire her brazenness even though she could have gotten me into a lot of trouble. I am not sure what to say to the other women about dinner. If I choose to eat with one of them, I will be rude to those I reject.

  But no decisions are left to me. The two wives married to the same brother win by sheer force. The heavy one throws me over her shoulder and walks me over to the southeast corner of the courtyard and sits me down on her mat outside the room she shares with her husband and his other wives. She leaves my sandals on the patio and later brings them to me. The thin hambaq (a woman who shares a husband with another woman) sits beside her. They prepare salad in the moonlight and bring orange soda from inside their room. The main meal is rice and meat, which is cooked on a portable gas stove.

  Unfortunately, I have no appetite. I point to my stomach and say the word pain in Farsi, dard, hoping it is the same as in Pashto. They look at me concerned and seem to understand. But they still insist I eat. I nibble on the bread and eat a cucumber, then I try to talk to them.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the heavyset woman.

  “Shabnam Gul,” she says with a smile. “This is Turpikay.” She points to the thin woman. “We’re happy that you’re our guest. We don’t go out much, but we have a family garden with fruit orchards nearby and we can go there.”

  “Where is the garden?”

  “I’ll take you in the morning.”

  Many words in Pashto and Farsi are the same, such as bagh for “garden,” and I am becoming familiar with some of the different intonations. Our informal sign language seems to be the best form of communication. Shabnam Gul and Turpikay laugh with me a lot.

  “We’re all friends with each other,” Turpikay says. “But we don’t like our husband. He’s mean.”

  He takes turns sleeping with them in different spots. In the summer, Shabnam Gul sleeps with him on the roof and Turpikay sleeps inside the room. The third wife takes another corner of the room and waits her turn. Their children run around the compound and sleep wherever they want.

  “How do you make a living?” I ask.

  “Tariak,” they answer in unison. Tariak is the word for “opium” in Farsi and Pashto.

  These women see no reason to hide this fact. Apparently they have farmland in another district that produces enough poppy for sale, so they can be fairly comfortable compared with others in town. I figure that if they have a satellite phone, which costs $1,000 to buy and $1 a minute to use, this family has some money. Shabnam Gul gestures as she talks about her husband. She puts out her left index finger and lays three of the fingers of her right hand on top of it, then moves the bottom finger back and forth. I wonder if she is trying to tell me that they have orgies, because Turpikay is giggling loudly. But in the end I figure out that Shabnam Gul means that all three women are under the husband’s control. Still, these women have a raunchy side, and I am delighted at how humorously they can express their complaints.

  The fun with the hambaqs ends when all the men enter. The two wives run to their room. I stay outside, knowing I don’t have to follow their rules. Imran tells me they might have a clue as to Darya’s husband’s whereabouts. Several men they asked have seen him. He is a poppy farmer and a smuggler. My mind immediately flashes to Darya working in the fields, scoring the opium bulbs under the scorching sun.

  The men stand in a circle discussing something animatedly. The conversation becomes loud and aggressive. It is the brother with three wives who is shouting; Imran is trying to calm him down. The word mahram flies around several times. When the brother points at me and begins to yell, it becomes obvious that I have become a nuisance. I can pick up that he doesn’t approve of my clothes, which I thought would fit in; he doesn’t approve of the fact that I am traveling without a proper mahram; and he certainly isn’t in agreement with my search for Darya. To him, I am a liability, a shame to the honor of Afghan women.

  The other men exit the courtyard, and only Imran and this man, who wears a black turban, remain. The two wives step back outside, because now they are in the presence of male kin. They’ve heard the shouting. Shabnam Gul holds my hand in support; she sees that I am frightened. Her hands are coarse but warm. Her husband finally speaks to me in Farsi. The men all seem to speak Farsi, probably because they have access to the outside world.

  “Why are you looking for this girl? She has a husband now, and he’s her owner. You have no right to be searching for her.”

  “Her mother asked me to find her and see how she is. She’s my cousin.” My voice shakes.

  Before the man can speak, Shabnam Gul whispers what I take as a rare admonishment to her husband. “The mother loves her child.”

  The husband ignores his wife. Imran defuses the standoff by touching the husband’s arm. “It’s time for tea,” he says.

  After the evening tea, it is finally bedtime. Shabnam Gul asks if I want to sleep next to her on the roof. I decline. The desired place to sleep in the summer is the patio, and I am offered a spot next to the children. Mina comes and throws a big blanket on top of me and wishes me good night. I notice again how ethnic and linguistic tensions do not exist on the surface here because Mina is a Shia Tajik. But she has married into a Sunni Pashtun family and has learned their language and seems to be happy with her husband.

  That night I sleep for three hours. I wake up with the sunrise and feel like vomiting. The nervousness and food have not sat well. The two wives who are now my friends bring cookies, home-baked fresh bread, and tea with sugar. I don’t touch it. Shabnam Gul sees I am not feeling well. She grabs my hand and puts my sandals on my feet and says, “Garden.” I put on the burqa, she puts on an orange chador, and we leave the house to cross an alley. She opens a padlock to a four-walled paradise. The aroma of mint and roses wakes me up. The sight is magnificent. It is a fairly small garden, a quarter of an acre perhaps, filled with cherry, pomegranate, apple, and mulberry trees. On the ground are newly sprouting leaves of mint, eggplant, tomatoes, and colorful flowers—some roses, some tulips—in pink, purple, red, and yellow. A kaleidoscope of butterflies flutters around the greenery. The garden is groomed, but a wilderness coexists with it: overgrown grass and birds chirping in the trees. I forget my ailments and anxiety. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Shabnam Gul squats down and seems to say that I should not worry, that I will find Darya.

  Our moment of peace doesn’t last long. The men knock on the wooden door and Imran comes to tell me that their search has led to an impasse. He says we can go to Marjah, the new address, but the chances of finding Darya will be slight. It is my decision.

  I think about going door to door myself, but I’m not sure that will make a difference. I will find her, but not this time. I will call people who can find her and tell me how she is so that I can tell her mother. I feel defeated by the men’s hostility and by the realization that the men in Marjah may become violent, especially after Touraj talks to Darya’s husband about me. The tears are welling up but I cannot cry, not in front of all these men. I squeeze Shabnam Gul’s hand.

  “Let’s go back,” I
say.

  We head back toward Kandahar. With us this time is the brother who has the three wives. He wants to get a ride to the bazaar in town and then he will disappear. I never ask his name, perhaps because he does not deserve one. On the way, he sits in the front and says he is a Taliban member.

  “We kidnapped the Italian aid worker,” he says, referring to Clementina Cantoni, who was kidnapped in Kabul that spring. The Afghan and Italian governments were negotiating her release when I left Kabul. “We have her and we’re not sure she will get out alive. It depends on what the government offers in exchange for her. If Imran weren’t with you, the same thing would happen to you,” he roars.

  I say nothing. I wonder if he’s just trying to scare me to seem powerful.

  Later I find out that he was bluffing. He must’ve heard about the kidnapping on the news, because it turns out the Taliban had nothing to do with it. A band of professional thieves from Kabul kidnapped Cantoni, and she was eventually released after the ransom was paid.

  After their rise to power in the south, the Taliban offered the people of Helmand security and complete freedom to grow and smuggle opium. They also protected the Sangin-based Kajaki Dam, which provides power to parts of Kandahar and Helmand. The dam was part of the American project started in the 1950s and then deserted when the Communists invaded. Americans destroyed parts of it with bombs in the 2001 war, but now Louis Berger, an American engineering company, is rebuilding the dam with American aid money.

  The new Afghan government in Helmand is corrupt. Not all residents of Sangin want the Taliban back, but the man threatening me claims to be one of them, and it is clear that the cycle of power and corruption will continue here.