1 #2
“I may go back to college. There won’t be any missions for us to go on if the targets are part of the government,” Wahida says.
She is the youngest of the group and the most junior.
Wahida’s family has asked her to leave the platoon behind, especially since the Americans announced they were tired of Afghanistan.
“What would you study?” Soraya asks. “I think you would be a wonderful teacher.”
“Yes, teaching would be perfect if I had any patience whatsoever. Does this look like the face of a patient person to you?”
Wahida asks. She swivels and leans forward to give Soraya a good look at the face in question.
Soraya laughs. “Not at all. Actually, you have the scowl of a butcher. Maybe that’s a better option for you.”
“At least butchers have meat on their tables,” Wahida says, snapping her gum. Zarifa rolls her eyes.
“Be serious, ladies! What will become of us? What do you think, Marjan?” Zarifa asks, knowing Marjan will not sugarcoat her
response. Marjan is naturally cautious, and realistic. When they descend upon a village in the middle of the night, it is
Marjan who keeps her eyes sweeping the shadows for attackers. She does not trust a single piece of intel, and for good reason.
The Americans mean well, but too often their intel is worthless.
“I’m not a politician. Your guess is as good as mine,” Marjan replies. She checks her watch. “I need to get my daughter,”
she says. She is growing anxious being here and sitting still. She rises to her feet and walks out the door, past a row of
Hesco barriers and empty barracks. She remembers the thrill she felt her first days here, her tongue tripping over the names
of her American colleagues and the equipment, testing the limits of her body. She wouldn’t have believed any of it possible
if it hadn’t been for the other women around her, women like Jenna and Elaha, who looked so at ease on these dusty grounds.
They had welcomed her, extended a hand to her when her ankle twisted on a loose rock during a training march, and taught her how to ignore the bitter remarks from the men in uniform, some of whom staunchly disagreed with women being allowed into the special forces.
She spent so many years hiding from the world, shrinking herself to fit into small places and feeling like the only way to protect her daughter was to be apart from her.
Not one of her colleagues, perhaps not even Soraya, could fathom just how much the training had transformed her.
“Marjan, wait! I’ll leave with you,” Soraya calls out. She jogs to catch up with Marjan. Soraya wears large tortoiseshell
sunglasses with round frames. Her lipstick is mostly gone now, transferred to a plastic water bottle. Marjan always feels
like a peasant around Soraya. It has nothing to do with money; Soraya’s glamour comes from her own creativity, a willingness
to be noticed. In their first weeks of training, some of their American partners had been surprised to see the Afghan women
show up with made-up faces—perfectly arched brows, winged eyeliner, powder. They couldn’t make sense of it.
Can I ask you a question? Krista, a redhead from a place called South Carolina, had asked as she watched Soraya touch up her lipstick. It’s the middle of the night and we’re geared up for a mission. Why do you bother with all of that?
Krista had heard plenty of men grumbling about having women on base. They grumbled even more about having women anywhere near
combat missions. Women were a distraction. They were weaker, and missions would suffer for it. What if they were captured
by the enemy and raped? Krista wished the men who were so concerned about women being sexually assaulted by enemies would
show the same concern for women harassed or assaulted by their brothers in uniform. So Krista and the other women downplayed
their femininity. Hair pulled back. No makeup. More gym time. To be respected by the guys, they tried to act more like the
guys.
Soraya balked at this.
People think you cannot be a woman and a soldier, she explained. We have to show them it is possible. We are women and we are soldiers. That’s why I dress the way I want to dress. I make my face the
way I want it. And if I die, I die pretty.
“This heat is too much for me,” Soraya says with a sigh.
Marjan knows, for her friend, there are many sources of heat.
Her family has grown increasingly resentful of her role with the platoon.
To avoid being called a family of traitors, they have lied to relatives and friends about Soraya’s activities.
It might have worked had it not been for those damning pictures.
“Soraya, you shouldn’t be stuck here like the rest of us. You’re the rising ambassador, aren’t you? You should be in Europe
speaking at that big United Nations conference. I still can’t understand how the UN hasn’t gotten you out of here by now.”
Soraya scoffs.
“The United Nations doesn’t have the power to blow its own nose,” she says. Her plans are always derailed by some disaster,
the first being her father’s death. Law school became impossible when her brother lost the family’s money attempting to launch
a business. COVID foiled her chance to attend a global summit on gender. And now the Taliban seem to be putting her out of
work.
“If we try to cross into Pakistan, we’ll need to pay traffickers. Do you think your father’s family will help you?”
“No,” Soraya replies. She looks away, and Marjan gets the feeling she’s working up the nerve to say more, but when she looks
back at Marjan, her expression has brightened.
“How’s Hawa doing?”
“She’s fine,” Marjan replies. “You know her. Hours spent away from the music school are hours wasted.”
Soraya throws an arm around Marjan.
“Look at you! The mother of a musician, an artist. Does she get any of it from you? Did you ever dream of singing when you
were a child?”
Marjan almost laughs.