Enduring Freedom

by Trent Reedy, Jawad Arash

Genres: YA Historical Fiction

Synopsis

On September 11, 2001, the lives of two boys on opposite sides of the world are changed in an instant.
 
Baheer, a studious Afghan teen, sees his family’s life turned upside down when they lose their livelihood as war rocks the country.
 
A world away, Joe, a young American army private, has to put aside his dreams of becoming a journalist when he’s shipped out to Afghanistan.
 
When Joe’s unit arrives in Baheer’s town, Baheer is wary of the Americans, but sees an opportunity: Not only can he practice his English with the soldiers, his family can make money delivering their supplies. At first, Joe doesn’t trust Baheer, or any of the locals, but Baheer keeps showing up. As Joe and Baheer get to know each other, to see each other as individuals, they realize they have a lot more in common than they ever could have realized. But can they get past the deep differences in their lives and beliefs to become true friends and allies?
 
Enduring Freedom is a moving and enlightening novel about how ignorance can tear us apart and how education and understanding can bring us back together.

Release date: May 18, 2021

Publisher: Workman Publishing Company

Print pages: 352

Sample

Nothing in the world was so comforting or wonderful as the Afghan family. Never was that clearer to Baheer than at mealtimes, especially on one of the last warm nights in September when the entire family could eat outside together. Well, they wouldn’t quite all eat together, as there was no dastarkhwānthat could be spread wide enough to fit all eighteen of them—twenty if you counted Uncle Kabir’s newborn twins—to gather around. The women and girls would sit on the floor of the concrete porch with their meal on the larger cloth, for the women and girls far outnumbered the men in this family. The men and boys would gather around the other dastarkhwān right next to them. Soon the sound of two conversations, the women talking about spices they used in the meal and what they were up to and the men discussing their business, would echo through the back courtyard off the high compound walls that provided them privacy and kept them safe from the outside world.

Baheer’s sister Maryam walked past with a big bowl full of salad made of tomatoes and onions. “You could help, you know.” She elbowed him. “Don’t just stand there smiling and doing nothing.” At seventeen, she was only a year older than Baheer, but she sometimes acted as if a decade were between them.

Baheer’s father, Uncle Kabir, and Uncle Feraidoon had returned from a hard day producing and selling woven rugs, and they waited over by the pomegranate bush, discussing the day.

Aunt Zarlashta, Baheer’s favorite aunt, smiled as she placed dishes of korma, a thick mutton curry, out for the family to eat. Baheer prepared the water pitcher and basin that would be passed around so everyone could wash their hands.

Eventually all the family gathered around plates covered in mountains of rice, salad, and korma. Everybody was ready except for the one person without whom the meal could never start, Baheer’s grandfather, Haji Mohammad Munir Khan.

“My dear,” Grandmother called into the house. “Will you please put that thing down and come eat?”

Baheer and some of the others looked toward the east wall of the compound nervously. Even though she had not mentioned a radio, everyone was very aware that a talib, a member of the Taliban, lived on the other side of that wall. If he had heard grandmother and somehow guessed what she was talking about, they could all be in a lot of trouble.

“I’ll go check on him, Grandmother,” Baheer offered, rising from his place and heading into the house. He found Baba Jan, as he often did in the evening, in the main room with the radio perched on his shoulder, the volume low. He nodded at Baheer, stroking his long white beard.

Baheer could barely hear BBC Pashto. “Da London dai, BBC raadio . . .”

Baba Jan turned the volume down further.

Baheer’s stomach rumbled. “Grandmother wants you to—”

Baba Jan held up a hand for silence. A moment later he shouted, “What!”

“What happened?” Baheer asked.

Grandpa turned the knob to click the radio off. In a daze, he put his hand on Baheer’s shoulder as he walked out to join the others.

“Is everything OK?” asked Baheer’s father.

“I heard you shout,” Grandmother said.

“The Taliban have killed Ahmad Shah Massoud,” Baba Jan said.

“The Lion of the Panjshir,” Baheer said quietly. That’s what many people called the last mujahideen commander holding out against the Taliban. Without him and his forces, the remaining free parts of Afghanistan in the northeast would fall to the Taliban.

The family washed their hands, prayed, and then finally began eating. Baheer picked up a mouthful of rice in his fingers, dropping a few grains as he hadn’t done since he was a toddler.

Uncle Feraidoon frowned as he chewed. He glanced at the east wall and spoke quietly, breaking the tense silence. “If the Taliban have finally succeeded in killing Massoud, they will be bolder than ever. We will all need to be more careful to follow their so-called precious rules.”

Uncle Kabir pointed at his brother with a piece of naan. “Speaking of Taliban rules, keep your turban on at all times when you go out. Your beard isn’t long enough, so you need to keep your head shaved.”

Uncle Feraidoon protested. “I don’t like shaving my head.”

“Oh, Zarlashta, you did such a wonderful job with this korma.” Grandmother’s smile seemed forced. “Don’t you all—”

“The Taliban have tried to kill the Lion for years,” Baba Jan said. “They couldn’t have succeeded without help. I’ve heard of their new allies. This Al-Qaeda. Dangerous men. Outsiders.”

Uncle Kabir shrugged, wiping a bit of sauce off his beard with the back of his hand. “Ever since I was a teenager there has been one terrible thing or another. The Soviet invasion. The civil war. The terrible—”

Uncle Feraidoon coughed loudly. “Careful.”

“The Taliban,” Uncle Kabir said quietly. “Fighting never stops, but we push on. More rugs to sell.”

Baheer fought the urge to check the east wall. His brother Rahim, sitting next to him, leaned over to bump his shoulder against Baheer, raising his eyebrows as if asking if Baheer could believe all this. Baheer and Rahim didn’t always need words to communicate.

“I think tomorrow we might have chicken,” Grandmother tried again. “I have an idea to try some new spices.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Baheer’s mother said nervously.

Baheer knew they would not succeed in changing the subject. Even if they did, he felt sure Maryam would ask Baba Jan a question to get them back on the topic of Ahmad Shah Massoud. She loved keeping up with Afghan and world events.

“This situation is different. I can feel it,” Baba Jan said.

Baba Jan was the bravest man Baheer had ever known. He had been chief of police many years ago. After the Soviet Union invaded, he was eventually arrested for continuing to follow the ways of Islam. He was sentenced to death, but his friend, a high-ranking military officer in the puppet Afghan government the Soviets had established, convinced the Russians to release him. Baba Jan was unstoppable, but now he tugged his beard, the lines in his face deepening somehow. Baheer hadn’t seen him this way in a long time.

“Allah will protect us,” Grandmother said.

Baba Jan stared toward the east wall and the talib’s compound. “Something very bad will happen soon. Allah have mercy.”

“You know Allah’s words from the Holy Quran. Trust him.” Grandmother sounded soothing.

“I know. Allah says in his book, in chapter 22, verse 65, ‘For God is Most Kind and Most Merciful to man.’ ”

His grandfather was also the wisest man Baheer knew. He read the Holy Quran every day, memorizing many passages. He read histories and poetry. He remembered and sometimes talked about better times in Afghanistan, when the country was so wonderful and peaceful that Westerners would visit on vacation. And he sometimes spoke of the terrible tragedy of the country’s wars. There were ruins of a stall in the bazaar a few blocks away that Baba said used to be a bookstore until it was burned down during the civil war among the Mujahideen. No one dared to open the bookstore now in the dark era of the Taliban. Baba Jan sometimes told Maryam, Rahim, Baheer, and his other grandchildren about how he had often stopped by the stall to talk to his friend, who owned the place, and to pick up a new treasure in the form of a book.

Baheer might have understood such enthusiasm for learning back at his school in Pakistan, where his teachers were kind and they cared about student success. Back where the Taliban didn’t control everything.

The Taliban had a special department called Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice. Their job was to make sure men kept long beards, tied turbans on their heads, went to mosque at the five different prayer times, and did not sing or listen to music, have televisions, watch movies, dance, fly kites, own pet birds, possess pictures of people or animals, or own forbidden books. They were the Morality Police.

Baheer hated them. Baheer feared them. Whenever he left home—and now even at home, since the Taliban family had moved in on the other side of the wall—Baheer felt like he was a little kid trying to sneak a treat without getting caught. Except the Taliban had so many rules and enforced them so harshly it was hard to escape the constant feeling that at any moment he might face cruel punishment. It was exhausting. It left him feeling physically sick deep in his stomach.

Just a few days ago the Taliban had turned up at school, policing turbans, making sure the boys hadn’t shaved, and checking to see that none had long hair. As they’d approached the school on their bikes, Baheer and Rahim checked each other over and nodded. Neither had shaved because their beards hadn’t begun to come in. Their grandfather made sure their hair was always cut very short, not because of the Taliban but because that was the way a man’s hair should be. With their turbans fixed, they were in good shape.

A few of the other boys hadn’t seemed so confident, trying to hide themselves behind other students. But there’d be no escaping the Taliban. All the boys stood in line, waiting to be examined by the talib leader.

“How are you, guy?” the talib said in a low voice. His black kohl-lined eyes gazed down at Baheer as a smile, such as one might display before a delicious meal, spread across his lips. He grabbed Baheer’s arm and pulled him closer, the rough fingers of the talib’s other hand caressing Baheer’s cheek.

“I’m fine.” Baheer breathed deeply through his nose and tried to pretend this wasn’t happening.

The talib leaned down so his face was right in front of Baheer’s. His breath reeked of sharp spices and blew hot across his cheek and neck. “You’ve been a good boy.” With a strange noise—half grunt and half laugh—the talib swatted Baheer’s bottom and sent him away, already reaching for Rahim.

When they had cleared the monster, they hurried to class. They never talked about the Taliban inspections afterward, the talib’s lustful looks and wandering hands. It wasn’t safe to discuss those things in public, and at home Baheer only wanted to forget it, to keep the dark cloud of the Taliban on the other side of the warm walls of his family compound.

When they’d lived in Pakistan, Baheer had loved talking to Baba Jan about everything he’d learned at school, and his grandfather would usually have some insight to add to the day’s lessons, either from the Holy Quran, classic Persian poetry, or from one of his many other books. Back then Baba Jan had often talked about the growing problem of a generation of young people raised on bullets instead of books, and as the post-Soviet civil war dragged on, followed by the Taliban era, he continued to say Afghanistan’s many problems grew from a lack of education. “Too many know nothing, and wouldn’t know how to think if they did know anything,” he’d say. In Pakistan, doing well in school, Baheer had dreamed of returning to Afghanistan, learning all he could, and eventually teaching other young Afghans so that his country could heal.

Then he’d discovered Afghan schools were a Taliban nightmare.

“Hey.” Rahim elbowed him. “What’s the matter with you? Where did you go?”

Pakistan, Baheer almost said.

“Yes.” Baba Jan nodded to Uncle Feraidoon. “If we make sure the windows are blacked out and the sound is very low. You have it?”

He must have been talking about a VHS tape. A very illegal VHS tape. Probably an Indian movie with plenty of dancing and singing.

“Wrapped in a rug in the house,” Uncle Feraidoon said quietly.

Maryam gave a little squeal and clapped her hands. She loved movie nights more than anyone else. Baheer couldn’t disagree. Uncle Feraidoon had a way of sneaking in the best films. That night, they would watch Koyla, a famous Indian movie. When the meal was cleaned up, the family, except for the little kids, crowded into the main room in Baba Jan’s house. As the opening music played, Baheer was sent outside. His job was to make sure no flickering light from the illegal television showed through the blackout curtains and to ensure nobody outside the house could hear any of the sound. He even walked the whole east wall that separated their home from the talib’s compound, to make sure they were safe.

Only then was he allowed to return. But before he could sit down, a hard pounding rattled the compound’s front door. The laughter among the adults froze. Uncle Feraidoon stopped the movie.

“I’ll see who it is,” Baheer asked. He didn’t want to answer the door. Who could be knocking at this time of night? But he didn’t want to seem like a baby, afraid of everything, and he was already up.

Uncle Kabir stopped him in the front courtyard. “Stay back. I’ll check.”

The pounding continued on the street door, until Uncle Kabir opened it a crack.

Two men stood in the street. A man with a black turban and a large belly pulled Uncle Kabir by his collar. “Do you live here?”

“Yes,” Uncle Kabir replied.

Baheer stepped back, heart pounding, a sharp cold tingling down through his body. Baba Jan was right. The death of Ahmad Shah Massoud must have emboldened the Taliban. Had they heard the television?

“Drag him,” the man in the black turban said to the other one.

The two men grabbed Uncle Kabir by the collar and yanked him toward the street, smashing his face against the steel door frame as they pulled him outside. Uncle Kabir tried to speak, but he was thrown down on the hard dusty street.

Baheer froze for a moment, shaking. Move! Do something!

Finally, it was as if he broke free from his chains and ran to the others. “Baba, they took Uncle Kabir!”

“Who took! Why? Where?” Baba Jan asked, getting to his feet. His grandfather quickly rewrapped his turban and put on his glasses while his father and Uncle Feraidoon hurried with their turbans as well.

Baba Jan breathed deeply, hard fury in his eyes, but his voice was calm and firm. Even in his old age, the man was still respected in the neighborhood for fairness and justice.

Baheer wished that he had even half of his grandfather’s strength, but his legs were shaking, his heart thundering.

“Let’s go,” he said to his two sons, breaking Baheer out of his panic.

“Baba Jan, I want to go with you,” Baheer said. He felt partially responsible. He was supposed to have been the one to check the door. He should have been able to help his uncle.

“Bachem, it’s not a big deal. Stay home and sleep. We’ll be back soon,” Baba Jan said.

“I’m going,” Baheer insisted. As if sleep would be possible with Uncle Kabir taken by the Taliban.

Baba Jan sighed. “OK. But you stay near your father.” To Baheer’s father, he added, “Sakhi, watch him.”

It was dark on the street. Most people in Kabul only had electricity for two or three hours a night, but the Taliban, or those with close connections to them, could sometimes have electricity twenty-four hours a day. Baba Jan led the way to the single light at their talib neighbor’s compound.

As they approached, they heard the talib shouting about Islamic law, heard Uncle Kabir calling out in pain. Baheer’s grandfather knocked firmly on the door.

A half-bowed man came out. “Who are you?”

“I am the father of the man you brought here,” Baba Jan said.

The little man pushed the door open, and Baba Jan led the way inside. Uncle Kabir lay in the dust, his collar torn, his beard a mess, and his hands tied behind his back.

Baba Jan stared at his son, breathing heavy through his nose, his shoulders heaving. “Why have you taken my son?”

One of the taliban stepped up to Baba Jan. “Your men watch our women during the day when I am not here.” He pointed to a window that faced their house.

The window was in Uncle Kabir’s room. Baheer and Rahim rarely went in there because of the twin baby girls. The window had been covered with a blanket since the girls were born, to prevent dust and cold air from coming in.

“That window!” Baba Jan said loudly, taking a step closer to the talib. “How would you even know whose window it is? Without thinking, you just grabbed the first man to come to our door? Anyway, it’s been blocked for months. Besides that, my son works from early in the morning until night in his shop. He has no boys. So no man was looking out that window!” He was shouting now, his voice booming throughout their compound. “Who told you our men were peeping into your home to look at your women?”

The talib answered, a bit quieter than before. “My women.”

“Your women?” Baba Jan laughed.

Baheer’s legs shook. He had never seen anyone speak to a talib this way. He remembered his classmates being beaten or severely punished for doing far less.

“What do you mean?” The talib was even angrier now.

Baba Jan’s sons moved closer to their father. Baheer stepped behind his own father.

Baba Jan continued as if he hadn’t noticed his family’s presence, as if he didn’t need their support. “Look at your window right there!” He pointed at a very small hatchlike window that faced Baheer’s family’s compound. “How do I know your women aren’t watching my men when you are not here? You come to my home tomorrow morning around eleven! I will show you how easy your women could be looking at us! According to Islam, you should first find the truth of the matter, then if something wrong has been done, you punish the wrongdoer! Not before you know the facts!”

“How dare you accuse my women of doing this?” The talib’s voice squeaked a little as he shouted. His forehead wrinkled. “If you were not a white-haired man, I would have you beaten to death and buried right here, and no one would ever know what happened to you.”

Baba Jan thumped his chest. “Do it! Do it, if you have the courage! Or come see tomorrow! I am Haji Mohammad Munir Khan! You know where I live!”

The talib said nothing for a long moment, but his eyes darted from Baba Jan to Uncle Kabir, then at the ground.

“OK,” he said. “He can go. We’ll investigate the matter and talk tomorrow.”

Baheer’s father and uncle untied Uncle Kabir and helped him to his feet. Baba Jan’s fierce gaze remained locked on the talib until his three sons and grandson were heading out of the compound. At last, Baba Jan turned his back on the man and walked out.

“Don’t tell the others about what happened here tonight,” Baba Jan said outside the door of their own compound. “The women and children will be scared.”

“But you invited the man to our compound tomorrow,” Baheer said.

Baba Jan shook his head. “He realizes his mistake. And he is a coward. Deep down, most of the Taliban are cowards. He will not come.”

“Bale, Haji Agha,” said Uncle Kabir. “Tashakor.”

“You’re welcome.” Baba Jan smiled and squeezed Uncle Kabir’s shoulder.

“Bale, Baba Jan,” Baheer said, a warm feeling rushing in to replace the cold fear that had sent shivers through his body the entire time they were in the talib’s compound.

Baheer’s father put his arm around him as the men headed into their compound, safe in their private family world behind the security of their high walls. Baheer watched his grandfather, old but firm and sure, laughing as he walked with Grandmother toward their room. He looked up at the cascade of bright stars in the dark Kabul night, and asked Allah to help him find even a small part of Baba Jan’s courage and wisdom within himself.

The next day, Baheer was tired, having had trouble sleeping after the intense events of the night before. From the worrying reports about the death of Ahmad Shah Massoud and Baba Jan’s fears about it, to the talib taking Uncle Kabir, Baheer had been plenty wound up, and even though it was a beautiful sunny day with hardly any wind, Baheer still couldn’t escape the feeling that something was very wrong.

Or maybe he was only dreading school as he always did. “I hate this,” he said, packing his chemistry book.

“What did you say?” his mother asked.

He should not have spoken aloud. His family did not like hearing him complain about school. “Nothing, Mother,” he said. “Only this subject is so difficult.”

She patted his back. “Ask your father for help. He was a great student and wanted to become a doctor. If it hadn’t been for the Russians . . .” She sighed. “The infidel pigs were kidnapping young kids and forcing them to serve in their army.”

“I know the story, Madar Jan,” he said. All Afghans knew and shared it. The Russians and their Afghan puppets had ruined everything. They’d arrested Baba Jan multiple times for praying and fasting during Ramadan. Uncle Kabir had wanted to become a police officer like his father. Baheer’s father had wanted to be a doctor. Uncle Feraidoon had wanted to finish school and learn how to sew. Baheer used to dream of being a teacher or even of writing for a newspaper, but the Taliban allowed no newspapers, and anyway, few could read. As to teaching, the instructors at his school were so harsh, brutally whipping the hands of their students even just for asking questions, and Baheer could never be part of that. The invasion and brutal war had destroyed over two million Afghan lives and crushed countless dreams.

When Baheer and Rahim finally reached the school, four black Toyota Hilux pickups blocked the entrance, their cargo beds crowded with taliban and their guns. Baheer slowed his bike, gripping the handlebars hard. He’d never seen such a big Taliban presence there before.

“Is this about what happened last night?” Rahim asked.

“It can’t be,” Baheer said quietly. “If this was about Uncle Kabir and Baba Jan confronting that talib, why wouldn’t they just come to the house?” What he’d said made sense, but it did not ease his fear.

“Students!” A voice echoed from a loudspeaker on one of the trucks. “School is closed today. Go home.”

The brothers didn’t waste any time questioning what was going on but pedaled quickly toward home and freedom. For once, Baheer had no problem with Taliban orders. He thought about what he might do with his spare time. Maybe he and Rahim could play cricket in the back compound. Or maybe, Baheer thought with a smile, I could sneak a book from Baba Jan’s study, something better than my school books.

As they made their way back to the compound, taliban- packed trucks rolled past them, forcing them to pull their bikes off the road three times to get out of the way. Taliban pickups were parked on almost every corner. Maybe they were getting ready to attack those last areas of Afghanistan they hadn’t yet managed to conquer because of Ahmad Shah Massoud? Fear of whatever the Taliban were up to warred with his elation over school being canceled.

Back home, Baheer and Rahim hurried to tell Baba Jan what had happened. At first he seemed angry with them, either for interrupting his daily reading time or because he thought they’d skipped school. But after he heard their explanation, he looked off into the distance, stroking his beard. “Yes. Well, go play. Let me think,” the old man finally said.

When they’d left Baba Jan’s study, the brothers danced all the way to the courtyard. “No school today,” Baheer sang, and spun around. “Oh no, no, no!”

Rahim tried to do a flying leap like in the Indian movies. “We are freeeee!” he sang.

“What are you two doing home?” Maryam asked. They told her, laughing and trying to get her to join in their celebration. But Maryam would not dance. “You treat this like a joke,” she said. “But you are so blessed to be able to go to school at all. Me? What can I do? Nothing. Try to teach myself from your books. Practice in your notebooks. I’m not stupid, you know. I’d be a great student.” She spun around and walked away.

Baheer took a few steps after her, but Rahim held him back. “Let her go. She doesn’t understand how lucky she is. Anyway, you know you can’t talk to her when she’s like this.”

Rahim was probably right, but Baheer would have liked a chance to try to explain it to Maryam. School here in Kabul wasn’t about learning as much as it was about trying to avoid painful punishment. Maryam wanted t. . .