TURNING POINT
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Clinton Webb seldom had a nightmare, but when he did, the outcome was always the same, he failed under pressure. What most bothered him with these stressful dreams was that he was always set up unfairly, and was angry at himself for needing to complain about the circumstance. It was like a double-edged sword, first he failed, and then he was always making an excuse for the failure being outside of his control.
Like many people, Clinton did not share his personal feelings with others. His parents and few friends would have considered this a strange and false anxiety as the young man was quite successful in college, bore few responsibilities, and was financially independent at a young age. The Seattle family owned Webb Parking Systems, one of the largest landowners in the city. There were no mortgages or short-term debt, so the business cash flow was significant. Grandfather Webb started the company after World War II, and Clinton’s father was the current President and CEO. Some would say that third generation wealth loses the entrepreneurial spirit, Clinton would say he never had it to lose. His passion was Middle East history, and his driving goal was to visit each country in the area
before the age of thirty.
Last year while traveling in Turkey, he met Della Mead who shared this same fervor for the Middle East. They agreed to meet in Mazar-i- Sharif for the Red Flower Festival (Guli Surkh) on March 21. This event is the main celebration for Nauruz, the Afghan New Year. During this time of year, the red tulip flowers grow in the green plains and on the hills surrounding the city. They had read an article, “The Five Most Beautiful Cities In Afghanistan,” and thought this would be the ideal starting point. The plan would have them travel south to Herat, then further south to Kandahar, up to Bamiyan, and end in Kabul.
Afghanistan in 1975 was peaceful and safe. In 1973, a military coup led by Mohammed Daoud Khan abolished the monarchy of King Mohammed Zahir Shah, and the People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan came to power. Kahn named himself President. Two weeks before departure, Della telephoned to say that she had contracted mononucleosis, and cancelled her plane reservation. Rather than be disappointed, Clinton felt relieved, and looked forward to traveling at his own pace, and would not miss the possible responsibility of another person.
The hotel room window looked across to the Shrine of Hazrat Ali, one of Afghanistan’s most iconic sights, and perhaps the most spectacular example of Islamic architecture. The two blue tiled domes glistened in the sparkling noonday sun. The Blue Mosque was built in the fifteenth century, and gave the city its name, “The noble shrine.” Clinton was forbidden entry to the shrine building itself, but was able to gaze upon its beauty as he walked around the garden park surrounding the complex. He was not a religious man in the biblical sense, but he held a deep-seated belief in a higher power that somehow guided all beings and brought forth the beauty of creation. Kneeling beside a bed of red tulip flowers, he breathed deeply as he expressed within himself thoughts of gratefulness for his life, and for the privilege of meeting the Afghan people and witnessing the elegance of their land.
Buzkashi literally means “goat pulling” in Persian, and this is the national sport of Afghanistan. Two teams of horse-mounted players compete to place a goat carcass in their respective scoring circle at opposite ends of the field. Clinton was told that a taxi would provide the best transportation up to the playing field above the city, for the game the following morning.
Rising early, he delighted in the fresh baked naan from the local baker and a lamb kofta kebab. The taxi was waiting for him as he walked outside. The driver spoke, “buzkashi?” and Clinton nodded yes. Normally he would take advantage of any transportation and take in the sights to a destination, but this morning he was occupied with notes on the Red Flower Festival in two days. He was thrown forward as the taxi made a sharp turn and came to an abrupt stop. Immediately, both back doors were opened, and two bearded men squeezed in on him and quickly placed a hood over his head. He was pushed down to the floor, and feet and legs held him in a pinned position. Instinctively, he tried to call out, but was immediately pounded with fists and told to be quiet. His stomach contracted in a sudden spasm.
His first rational thought was to remain calm, and be mindful of each moment. He silently spoke a prayer to have wisdom in his words and actions. The rough cloth of the hood stank with the odor of animals, and he found it difficult to control his breathing. The car was traveling at a rapid speed and making few stops. He assumed they were moving out of the city.
The two main languages in Afghanistan are Dari and Pashto. The country is multiethnic and multilingual, but in this area Dari is the most common language spoken. While he knew a few words in both, he was not able to follow the soft-spoken exchange between the three men. He felt the destruction of something within him when a word was spoken that he did understood, ransom.
They had driven for several hours when the car came to a stop. He sensed the driver getting out of the car, and soon smelled gasoline, and heard the rattling of a nozzle in the gas tank. A dry wind blew into the car, and he was intensely aware of thirst that gnawed at him. “Water please,” he spoke. After repeating his need, he was pulled up in a sitting position between the two men, and handed a canteen. The lower part of the hood was raised above his mouth, and he took a drink. His hands tingled and his body ached from the cramped floor position he had endured. Gratefully, he stayed seated as the car moved back onto the road.
They drove for what Clinton guessed was three more hours. He had no sense of the direction they traveled, but was aware of the vast open country between the cities. From time to time the car would reduce speed and he would be pushed down to the floor. He would hear a few sounds that would indicate a small village. Eventually, his body detected a steep climb up the road, followed by several turns.
The car stopped, the engine was turned off, and the hood was pulled from his head. The three men wore the traditional Perahan Tunban, the loose baggy clothing, with the Afghan Pakul hat. Each was heavily bearded, and appeared to come from a more rural village environment. The car was parked near a doorway to a nondescript mud house. Looking around as he was hurried inside, he observed several other such houses a short distance away. Led through a darkened main room, the taxi driver pushed him into a small room and down to the floor in a corner. As his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he saw the room was empty except for the carpet on the hard dirt floor. He called out and spoke “salam” and said that he had Afghani currency, travelers checks, and a watch. There was no response. He called out again, “englisi englisi,” and again no response.
Later that night, one of the men brought in a bowl of rice and greasy mutton, a pitcher of water, and a bedpan of sorts. His attempt to sleep was filled with the darkest of nightmares, and he awoke in fear.
Clinton ran his fingers through his matted hair, and rubbed his stubbled face and arms to ward off the chill that coursed through his body. The one dream that reoccurred during the night had him chained to a post and just in reach of a chained vicious dog that continued to bite him at will. On his knees, he bent over in agony and retched into the pan.
One of the captors brought in a soiled Perahan Tunban with sandals and told him to change his clothing. Clinton kept his watch and valuables. A large Pakul hat was pulled down on his head and a blindfold was tied over his eyes. The day was spent driving for hours with several brief rest stops. Sandwiched between the two men, he willed his ears and mind to gain any insight that might help him survive. The car seemed to be entering into a large town as sounds of life surrounded the car. His hat was pulled further down to hide the blindfold, and soon the car stopped. Stumbling, he was led into a building and new voices filled the air. He smelled the aroma of warm food, heard a baby cry, and made out the soothing words of a woman. Clinton was led further away, turned, and pushed down into a rough-hewn chair. The blindfold was removed.
A small square of light fell on the carpet from the one upper window, and a small table and chair was within arms reach. He guessed it was late afternoon. Hearing a sound from a dark corner across the room he jerked his head in that direction. A hunched unmoving figure sat on the floor with a covered head resting on raised knees. “Hello” called Clinton, “englisi.” The figure moved slightly but did not respond. At this moment, a man entered the room carrying a sheaf of papers and sat down at the table in front of Clinton. In heavily accented English he spoke, “Good afternoon Webb, it pleases me to have you back at your hotel.” He placed Clinton’s passport on the table, and again spoke, “You are a rich man, we want $200,000 and then you are free to continue your travels in our wonderful country.” He was told to write down the name and telephone number of the person in the United States who would wire funds. He was further told that no water or food would be given until they had made contact. His countenance darkened as he again spoke, “My people have no patience, and your life means nothing to us. This carpet speaks to you, pay attention.” The man walked out of the room. A tremor struck Clinton as he looked down and observed a copious amount of dried blood on the rug.
After a few minutes of silence, a soft feminine voice arose from the other side of the room, “Hello sir, will you help me?” The young woman said her name was Saba. She was being forced to marry an older man with two wives as payment for family debts. She had escaped her home and was caught by a brother and returned. “My father poured acid on my feet as a warning. I ran away a second time, and these men found me. This time I will be killed for dishonoring my family.”
Clinton learned they were in Herat, and then came news that gave him a glimmer of hope. The woman in the house with the baby was being held against her will. Her husband was a part of this gang of kidnappers, but recently died. She wanted to return to her family, but the others threatened to kill her if she tried to leave. “She will try to help me escape if I promise to take her with me,” said Saba. Clinton agreed it would be worth the risk for all of them to attempt escape, but that any chance of success was predicated on leaving before sunrise.
Night came on rapidly. Soon the woman entered the room with a bowl of food for Saba, and soft-spoken words were quickly exchanged. After she departed, Saba whispered across the room to Clinton, “She has some hidden whisky that she will try to share with the night guard, in the hope that he will fall asleep, we can only wait.”
The minutes seemed like hours, and the hours seemed like days. Clinton forced his mind to block out the past and to give no thought of the future. This was not a dream, failure was not an option, and he would offer every ounce of effort, mental and physical, to their circumstance at this very moment in time.
He was intensely aware of the darkness and willed a rising sun to slow its appearance. Just as fear was starting to grip his being, a shuffle of steps was heard from the main room. The heavily clothed woman appeared with her baby bundled to her chest, and she motioned them forward. They quietly stepped out of the house and into the thin chill of early morning.
The house was in a densely populated older neighborhood. They allowed the woman to take the lead, and she quickly led them down the street for three blocks. Pausing at the intersection, she appeared apprehensive as to the next move. A rooster crowed as an orange glow was meeting the darkness to the east. Clinton looked to his left and observed a small group starting to gather at a large open bed truck in the next block. As he pointed, Saba said it appeared to be a funeral procession, as she observed a casket at the foot of the truck. They moved into the line climbing aboard and sat on a long bench near the front with their heads bowed down. A second truck appeared and additional mourners climbed up and took their seats.
The two trucks started moving down the street. Clinton was grateful to be wearing the soiled local clothing, sandals, and hat. He felt his two-day beard also helped him to blend with the surroundings. Glancing slightly toward the back of the truck bed, he saw a man stand up and start walking toward the front, he quickly looked back down to the floor. The man stopped in front of Clinton and said something in Dari. Saba nudged his leg with several quick taps. Without looking up, Clinton reached in his pocket and unobtrusively held some Afghan currency in front of his chest. The bills were taken, and the man moved to the back and sat down. A few minutes later, there was some commotion on the road and horn honking behind the trucks. The horn honks now appeared to be by the side as if a vehicle was trying to pass. Clinton and Saba froze as a familiar voice yelled from the car. The man casually stood again and moved forward pausing in front of Clinton. He seemed to realize there was a connection between this car and their circumstance. Without raising an arm, Clinton removed his watch and it too was taken. The man yelled at the car while waving his hands and the car turned away.
The trucks stopped at the Muslim cemetery at the nearby village of Jebrael. As the mourners gathered around the grave, the mullah offered prayers to Allah and proclaimed the dead man to have been a good Muslim while alive. The service ended with the mullah intoning “We come from God, to God we return.”
A meal was offered to all who attended the service at a park across from the cemetery. It was a bright cloudless day, and the bare gnarled branches of the trees fascinated Clinton as he gazed at his surroundings. The woman from the ransom house had recognized a friend of her cousin and sat with the young family. Saba stayed close to Clinton and they sat down together. She would nervously turn her head from side to side, still fearful of being recaptured. A sudden loud noise from the street caused her to instinctively grab his hand and look into his face. A bolt of electricity coursed through his body as he was transfixed by her deep green eyes. Clinton knew immediately without question, that Saba was the most beautiful young woman he had ever looked upon. She quickly pulled her hand back to her lap and looked down at her plate. From her side, he could see the deep blush of her cheek, and a second wave of emotion caused him to catch his breath.
The pent up anxiety of the previous twenty-four hours gave both of them a hearty appetite, and they started a slow, comforting conversation as they ate their meal. Saba was nineteen years old and had lived with her family in Farah to the south. Until the family financial troubles arose, she was allowed to attend college, and she worked at the university to pay for her expenses plus contribute to the family needs. Clinton tried to broach the subject of forced marriage and her suffering, but this caused her to turn away. He was angry at himself for this perceived indiscretion, and he was further shamed as he saw tears on her cheek. Saba dabbed her eyes and glanced toward Clinton as if to say she was okay.
The man wearing Clinton’s watch walked over to their table and started a conversation with Saba. Clinton tried to act nonchalant and busied himself adding several small portions of food to his plate. Finally the conversation ended and he walked away. Saba’s voice cracked as she conveyed the exchange. The man was trying to pry into their perceived troubles and wanted to offer help. She told him that she was simply hired as a city guide, and that the only trouble were some young ruffians trying to rob her client. Saba expressed fear that he could not be trusted, and was sure her story was not believed. They both knew they had to act quickly.
Clinton whispered to Saba and handed her his passport and travelers checks. She left the table and came back to the group a few minutes later with the mullah. As he addressed the gathering in Dari, the assembly stood and looked to Clinton with appreciation. Then this educated religious man spoke in English, thanking the traveler for his generous donation to the local mosque in the name of the recently departed man, and for the hospitality of the meal. Several men came over and shook his hand and offered blessings in the name of Allah.
As the trucks were being loaded for the return to Herat, the mullah led Saba and Clinton to his car, for a drive to the bank. The man wearing Clinton’s watch tried to speak with the mullah, but he was waved off with anger, and they drove away. At the bank, a number of travelers checks were cashed, and Clinton gave half to the mullah and retained half for their next big challenge. The mullah asked if he could assist in any other way. Saba thanked the mullah for his kindness, and said her last responsibility was to take her client to the border, as he was traveling to Mashhad, Iran. He explained that there was no bus service, but taxis drove this route for $20 a person as a shared ride, and he would drive them to the station.
Saba found an older driver who did not speak English. She explained that her client needed privacy and would pay $100 for a private car. She would ride to the border and then return to Herat in a shared ride. The 240 mile ride would take five to six hours, and the driver said the cost would be $120 as they were leaving later than the normal departure time. He was paid $60 in advance. The passengers were tense until the taxi was well beyond the outskirts of Herat.
Clinton was intensely aware that this car ride could possibly be the most significant event of his life. He had wanted love, and now he believed he had found love. Their conversation became animated as each would take a turn expressing their hopes and dreams for the future. For the first time, Clinton felt able to express himself freely, as if the shackles of a privileged and cloistered life were lifted. He was excited to hear his voice speak aloud what he had held inside for too long. He spoke of his love for Middle East art and history, and a passion to teach in this field. Saba, while more reserved, so imperfectly understood that a life changing experience was upon her as well. She shared her love of learning, and a desire to see the world beyond the confined culture that had been her life. Too quickly, they arrived at the border crossing. Clinton would go into the office and present his passport. He gave the driver $40, and Saba said he was to wait with her in the car.
Twenty minutes later, Clinton came out with a man and a woman, and they escorted Saba inside. Clinton gave the driver another $40 and spoke “ta didar bad” and waved him goodbye. He then followed after Saba.
Clinton sat in the hallway outside the room where Saba was being interviewed. Slowly sipping a cup of steaming tea, he felt both a physical release and an overwhelming simplicity for the decisions before him. He was able to call his parents, explain the chain of events, and assure them of his safety. His father would wire funds to Mashhad for his needs while staying in Iran. A woman introduced herself and said she was from WOI, the Women’s Organization of Iran. She took notes as she interviewed Clinton, and then entered the room.
Two hours later, the door opened and Saba came out with the two women and the man. Her green eyes had reddened and the surrounding skin was swollen. She looked up to Clinton with a tenderness that gripped his soul. The evidence and collaborated stories were compelling, and the request for asylum held a high degree of certainty. They would be taken to Mashhad and Saba would stay in a women’s detention center while the request was being processed. Clinton would be able to visit on a daily basis.
A sound of laughter was often heard as Saba and Clinton would sit in the detention center garden each day. A gentle breeze would rustle the leaves and the fragrance from roses filled the air. They would allow their hands to touch lightly as the relationship strengthened. A week later Saba was granted sanctuary. Clinton help Saba find a room in a women’s boarding house, and she was given a temporary position with WOI.
Clinton was ready to return to Seattle and would apply for the teaching certificate program at the University of Washington. His father had started the process for Saba’s visit. As they parted, each expressed the joy of this turning point in their lives. They kissed a temporary goodbye.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Clinton Webb seldom had a nightmare, but when he did, the outcome was always the same, he failed under pressure. What most bothered him with these stressful dreams was that he was always set up unfairly, and was angry at himself for needing to complain about the circumstance. It was like a double-edged sword, first he failed, and then he was always making an excuse for the failure being outside of his control.
Like many people, Clinton did not share his personal feelings with others. His parents and few friends would have considered this a strange and false anxiety as the young man was quite successful in college, bore few responsibilities, and was financially independent at a young age. The Seattle family owned Webb Parking Systems, one of the largest landowners in the city. There were no mortgages or short-term debt, so the business cash flow was significant. Grandfather Webb started the company after World War II, and Clinton’s father was the current President and CEO. Some would say that third generation wealth loses the entrepreneurial spirit, Clinton would say he never had it to lose. His passion was Middle East history, and his driving goal was to visit each country in the area
before the age of thirty.
Last year while traveling in Turkey, he met Della Mead who shared this same fervor for the Middle East. They agreed to meet in Mazar-i- Sharif for the Red Flower Festival (Guli Surkh) on March 21. This event is the main celebration for Nauruz, the Afghan New Year. During this time of year, the red tulip flowers grow in the green plains and on the hills surrounding the city. They had read an article, “The Five Most Beautiful Cities In Afghanistan,” and thought this would be the ideal starting point. The plan would have them travel south to Herat, then further south to Kandahar, up to Bamiyan, and end in Kabul.
Afghanistan in 1975 was peaceful and safe. In 1973, a military coup led by Mohammed Daoud Khan abolished the monarchy of King Mohammed Zahir Shah, and the People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan came to power. Kahn named himself President. Two weeks before departure, Della telephoned to say that she had contracted mononucleosis, and cancelled her plane reservation. Rather than be disappointed, Clinton felt relieved, and looked forward to traveling at his own pace, and would not miss the possible responsibility of another person.
The hotel room window looked across to the Shrine of Hazrat Ali, one of Afghanistan’s most iconic sights, and perhaps the most spectacular example of Islamic architecture. The two blue tiled domes glistened in the sparkling noonday sun. The Blue Mosque was built in the fifteenth century, and gave the city its name, “The noble shrine.” Clinton was forbidden entry to the shrine building itself, but was able to gaze upon its beauty as he walked around the garden park surrounding the complex. He was not a religious man in the biblical sense, but he held a deep-seated belief in a higher power that somehow guided all beings and brought forth the beauty of creation. Kneeling beside a bed of red tulip flowers, he breathed deeply as he expressed within himself thoughts of gratefulness for his life, and for the privilege of meeting the Afghan people and witnessing the elegance of their land.
Buzkashi literally means “goat pulling” in Persian, and this is the national sport of Afghanistan. Two teams of horse-mounted players compete to place a goat carcass in their respective scoring circle at opposite ends of the field. Clinton was told that a taxi would provide the best transportation up to the playing field above the city, for the game the following morning.
Rising early, he delighted in the fresh baked naan from the local baker and a lamb kofta kebab. The taxi was waiting for him as he walked outside. The driver spoke, “buzkashi?” and Clinton nodded yes. Normally he would take advantage of any transportation and take in the sights to a destination, but this morning he was occupied with notes on the Red Flower Festival in two days. He was thrown forward as the taxi made a sharp turn and came to an abrupt stop. Immediately, both back doors were opened, and two bearded men squeezed in on him and quickly placed a hood over his head. He was pushed down to the floor, and feet and legs held him in a pinned position. Instinctively, he tried to call out, but was immediately pounded with fists and told to be quiet. His stomach contracted in a sudden spasm.
His first rational thought was to remain calm, and be mindful of each moment. He silently spoke a prayer to have wisdom in his words and actions. The rough cloth of the hood stank with the odor of animals, and he found it difficult to control his breathing. The car was traveling at a rapid speed and making few stops. He assumed they were moving out of the city.
The two main languages in Afghanistan are Dari and Pashto. The country is multiethnic and multilingual, but in this area Dari is the most common language spoken. While he knew a few words in both, he was not able to follow the soft-spoken exchange between the three men. He felt the destruction of something within him when a word was spoken that he did understood, ransom.
They had driven for several hours when the car came to a stop. He sensed the driver getting out of the car, and soon smelled gasoline, and heard the rattling of a nozzle in the gas tank. A dry wind blew into the car, and he was intensely aware of thirst that gnawed at him. “Water please,” he spoke. After repeating his need, he was pulled up in a sitting position between the two men, and handed a canteen. The lower part of the hood was raised above his mouth, and he took a drink. His hands tingled and his body ached from the cramped floor position he had endured. Gratefully, he stayed seated as the car moved back onto the road.
They drove for what Clinton guessed was three more hours. He had no sense of the direction they traveled, but was aware of the vast open country between the cities. From time to time the car would reduce speed and he would be pushed down to the floor. He would hear a few sounds that would indicate a small village. Eventually, his body detected a steep climb up the road, followed by several turns.
The car stopped, the engine was turned off, and the hood was pulled from his head. The three men wore the traditional Perahan Tunban, the loose baggy clothing, with the Afghan Pakul hat. Each was heavily bearded, and appeared to come from a more rural village environment. The car was parked near a doorway to a nondescript mud house. Looking around as he was hurried inside, he observed several other such houses a short distance away. Led through a darkened main room, the taxi driver pushed him into a small room and down to the floor in a corner. As his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he saw the room was empty except for the carpet on the hard dirt floor. He called out and spoke “salam” and said that he had Afghani currency, travelers checks, and a watch. There was no response. He called out again, “englisi englisi,” and again no response.
Later that night, one of the men brought in a bowl of rice and greasy mutton, a pitcher of water, and a bedpan of sorts. His attempt to sleep was filled with the darkest of nightmares, and he awoke in fear.
Clinton ran his fingers through his matted hair, and rubbed his stubbled face and arms to ward off the chill that coursed through his body. The one dream that reoccurred during the night had him chained to a post and just in reach of a chained vicious dog that continued to bite him at will. On his knees, he bent over in agony and retched into the pan.
One of the captors brought in a soiled Perahan Tunban with sandals and told him to change his clothing. Clinton kept his watch and valuables. A large Pakul hat was pulled down on his head and a blindfold was tied over his eyes. The day was spent driving for hours with several brief rest stops. Sandwiched between the two men, he willed his ears and mind to gain any insight that might help him survive. The car seemed to be entering into a large town as sounds of life surrounded the car. His hat was pulled further down to hide the blindfold, and soon the car stopped. Stumbling, he was led into a building and new voices filled the air. He smelled the aroma of warm food, heard a baby cry, and made out the soothing words of a woman. Clinton was led further away, turned, and pushed down into a rough-hewn chair. The blindfold was removed.
A small square of light fell on the carpet from the one upper window, and a small table and chair was within arms reach. He guessed it was late afternoon. Hearing a sound from a dark corner across the room he jerked his head in that direction. A hunched unmoving figure sat on the floor with a covered head resting on raised knees. “Hello” called Clinton, “englisi.” The figure moved slightly but did not respond. At this moment, a man entered the room carrying a sheaf of papers and sat down at the table in front of Clinton. In heavily accented English he spoke, “Good afternoon Webb, it pleases me to have you back at your hotel.” He placed Clinton’s passport on the table, and again spoke, “You are a rich man, we want $200,000 and then you are free to continue your travels in our wonderful country.” He was told to write down the name and telephone number of the person in the United States who would wire funds. He was further told that no water or food would be given until they had made contact. His countenance darkened as he again spoke, “My people have no patience, and your life means nothing to us. This carpet speaks to you, pay attention.” The man walked out of the room. A tremor struck Clinton as he looked down and observed a copious amount of dried blood on the rug.
After a few minutes of silence, a soft feminine voice arose from the other side of the room, “Hello sir, will you help me?” The young woman said her name was Saba. She was being forced to marry an older man with two wives as payment for family debts. She had escaped her home and was caught by a brother and returned. “My father poured acid on my feet as a warning. I ran away a second time, and these men found me. This time I will be killed for dishonoring my family.”
Clinton learned they were in Herat, and then came news that gave him a glimmer of hope. The woman in the house with the baby was being held against her will. Her husband was a part of this gang of kidnappers, but recently died. She wanted to return to her family, but the others threatened to kill her if she tried to leave. “She will try to help me escape if I promise to take her with me,” said Saba. Clinton agreed it would be worth the risk for all of them to attempt escape, but that any chance of success was predicated on leaving before sunrise.
Night came on rapidly. Soon the woman entered the room with a bowl of food for Saba, and soft-spoken words were quickly exchanged. After she departed, Saba whispered across the room to Clinton, “She has some hidden whisky that she will try to share with the night guard, in the hope that he will fall asleep, we can only wait.”
The minutes seemed like hours, and the hours seemed like days. Clinton forced his mind to block out the past and to give no thought of the future. This was not a dream, failure was not an option, and he would offer every ounce of effort, mental and physical, to their circumstance at this very moment in time.
He was intensely aware of the darkness and willed a rising sun to slow its appearance. Just as fear was starting to grip his being, a shuffle of steps was heard from the main room. The heavily clothed woman appeared with her baby bundled to her chest, and she motioned them forward. They quietly stepped out of the house and into the thin chill of early morning.
The house was in a densely populated older neighborhood. They allowed the woman to take the lead, and she quickly led them down the street for three blocks. Pausing at the intersection, she appeared apprehensive as to the next move. A rooster crowed as an orange glow was meeting the darkness to the east. Clinton looked to his left and observed a small group starting to gather at a large open bed truck in the next block. As he pointed, Saba said it appeared to be a funeral procession, as she observed a casket at the foot of the truck. They moved into the line climbing aboard and sat on a long bench near the front with their heads bowed down. A second truck appeared and additional mourners climbed up and took their seats.
The two trucks started moving down the street. Clinton was grateful to be wearing the soiled local clothing, sandals, and hat. He felt his two-day beard also helped him to blend with the surroundings. Glancing slightly toward the back of the truck bed, he saw a man stand up and start walking toward the front, he quickly looked back down to the floor. The man stopped in front of Clinton and said something in Dari. Saba nudged his leg with several quick taps. Without looking up, Clinton reached in his pocket and unobtrusively held some Afghan currency in front of his chest. The bills were taken, and the man moved to the back and sat down. A few minutes later, there was some commotion on the road and horn honking behind the trucks. The horn honks now appeared to be by the side as if a vehicle was trying to pass. Clinton and Saba froze as a familiar voice yelled from the car. The man casually stood again and moved forward pausing in front of Clinton. He seemed to realize there was a connection between this car and their circumstance. Without raising an arm, Clinton removed his watch and it too was taken. The man yelled at the car while waving his hands and the car turned away.
The trucks stopped at the Muslim cemetery at the nearby village of Jebrael. As the mourners gathered around the grave, the mullah offered prayers to Allah and proclaimed the dead man to have been a good Muslim while alive. The service ended with the mullah intoning “We come from God, to God we return.”
A meal was offered to all who attended the service at a park across from the cemetery. It was a bright cloudless day, and the bare gnarled branches of the trees fascinated Clinton as he gazed at his surroundings. The woman from the ransom house had recognized a friend of her cousin and sat with the young family. Saba stayed close to Clinton and they sat down together. She would nervously turn her head from side to side, still fearful of being recaptured. A sudden loud noise from the street caused her to instinctively grab his hand and look into his face. A bolt of electricity coursed through his body as he was transfixed by her deep green eyes. Clinton knew immediately without question, that Saba was the most beautiful young woman he had ever looked upon. She quickly pulled her hand back to her lap and looked down at her plate. From her side, he could see the deep blush of her cheek, and a second wave of emotion caused him to catch his breath.
The pent up anxiety of the previous twenty-four hours gave both of them a hearty appetite, and they started a slow, comforting conversation as they ate their meal. Saba was nineteen years old and had lived with her family in Farah to the south. Until the family financial troubles arose, she was allowed to attend college, and she worked at the university to pay for her expenses plus contribute to the family needs. Clinton tried to broach the subject of forced marriage and her suffering, but this caused her to turn away. He was angry at himself for this perceived indiscretion, and he was further shamed as he saw tears on her cheek. Saba dabbed her eyes and glanced toward Clinton as if to say she was okay.
The man wearing Clinton’s watch walked over to their table and started a conversation with Saba. Clinton tried to act nonchalant and busied himself adding several small portions of food to his plate. Finally the conversation ended and he walked away. Saba’s voice cracked as she conveyed the exchange. The man was trying to pry into their perceived troubles and wanted to offer help. She told him that she was simply hired as a city guide, and that the only trouble were some young ruffians trying to rob her client. Saba expressed fear that he could not be trusted, and was sure her story was not believed. They both knew they had to act quickly.
Clinton whispered to Saba and handed her his passport and travelers checks. She left the table and came back to the group a few minutes later with the mullah. As he addressed the gathering in Dari, the assembly stood and looked to Clinton with appreciation. Then this educated religious man spoke in English, thanking the traveler for his generous donation to the local mosque in the name of the recently departed man, and for the hospitality of the meal. Several men came over and shook his hand and offered blessings in the name of Allah.
As the trucks were being loaded for the return to Herat, the mullah led Saba and Clinton to his car, for a drive to the bank. The man wearing Clinton’s watch tried to speak with the mullah, but he was waved off with anger, and they drove away. At the bank, a number of travelers checks were cashed, and Clinton gave half to the mullah and retained half for their next big challenge. The mullah asked if he could assist in any other way. Saba thanked the mullah for his kindness, and said her last responsibility was to take her client to the border, as he was traveling to Mashhad, Iran. He explained that there was no bus service, but taxis drove this route for $20 a person as a shared ride, and he would drive them to the station.
Saba found an older driver who did not speak English. She explained that her client needed privacy and would pay $100 for a private car. She would ride to the border and then return to Herat in a shared ride. The 240 mile ride would take five to six hours, and the driver said the cost would be $120 as they were leaving later than the normal departure time. He was paid $60 in advance. The passengers were tense until the taxi was well beyond the outskirts of Herat.
Clinton was intensely aware that this car ride could possibly be the most significant event of his life. He had wanted love, and now he believed he had found love. Their conversation became animated as each would take a turn expressing their hopes and dreams for the future. For the first time, Clinton felt able to express himself freely, as if the shackles of a privileged and cloistered life were lifted. He was excited to hear his voice speak aloud what he had held inside for too long. He spoke of his love for Middle East art and history, and a passion to teach in this field. Saba, while more reserved, so imperfectly understood that a life changing experience was upon her as well. She shared her love of learning, and a desire to see the world beyond the confined culture that had been her life. Too quickly, they arrived at the border crossing. Clinton would go into the office and present his passport. He gave the driver $40, and Saba said he was to wait with her in the car.
Twenty minutes later, Clinton came out with a man and a woman, and they escorted Saba inside. Clinton gave the driver another $40 and spoke “ta didar bad” and waved him goodbye. He then followed after Saba.
Clinton sat in the hallway outside the room where Saba was being interviewed. Slowly sipping a cup of steaming tea, he felt both a physical release and an overwhelming simplicity for the decisions before him. He was able to call his parents, explain the chain of events, and assure them of his safety. His father would wire funds to Mashhad for his needs while staying in Iran. A woman introduced herself and said she was from WOI, the Women’s Organization of Iran. She took notes as she interviewed Clinton, and then entered the room.
Two hours later, the door opened and Saba came out with the two women and the man. Her green eyes had reddened and the surrounding skin was swollen. She looked up to Clinton with a tenderness that gripped his soul. The evidence and collaborated stories were compelling, and the request for asylum held a high degree of certainty. They would be taken to Mashhad and Saba would stay in a women’s detention center while the request was being processed. Clinton would be able to visit on a daily basis.
A sound of laughter was often heard as Saba and Clinton would sit in the detention center garden each day. A gentle breeze would rustle the leaves and the fragrance from roses filled the air. They would allow their hands to touch lightly as the relationship strengthened. A week later Saba was granted sanctuary. Clinton help Saba find a room in a women’s boarding house, and she was given a temporary position with WOI.
Clinton was ready to return to Seattle and would apply for the teaching certificate program at the University of Washington. His father had started the process for Saba’s visit. As they parted, each expressed the joy of this turning point in their lives. They kissed a temporary goodbye.
RICHARD SWAIN