Water in the Desert & The Sea

“Did you know?” His lips moved just above the rim of his glass. I watched him carefully- I couldn’t help but watch even though sometimes I wanted to look away. “Did you know that it is lonelier in your cities with all of your…” he began gesturing with his right hand, the whiskey sloshing slightly, left and right, in the glass, “your, your… lights and all of your… pomp and circumstance? Did you know it?”

I stared at him. “Lonelier than what?”

“Than all of this,” he said, sweeping his arm across the view of the landscape. “So much lonelier.”

“I never said this was lonely.”

“Ah, but your eyes did. It was the pity in them- pouring out. The disdain. Poor little simple-minded desert boy. He has no one to keep him company. No one to talk to. He’ll die all alone out here and no one will know it. But I’ll let you in on a secret.” Their eyes were locked and I watched him see much deeper into me than I knew possible. “I hope I die alone out here. It’s better than dying alone there, with all the lights and the noise and the troubles. Here I have my peace. And there’s a little less shame in it, I think. It’s like dying of thirst in the middle of the ocean. There’s so much water and none to drink. What a shame.”

I watched him. “I’m not going to die alone.”

“That’s what you think, but who really knows? He sniffed and took another swig of his drink. He cleared his throat. His eyes looked tired. “What?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just… well you’ve already decided your future.”

“And you’ve let others decide yours.” I just watched; he was silent and unmoving. In that moment I hated him. I think he could see it.

He finished his glass. “Well,” he sighed, rubbing his knees and standing. “I’m off to bed.”

“What a shame. And we were getting on so well.”

He stopped mid-motion and watched me for a moment. “Camp breaks at dawn, so be up with the sun.”

“It’s terribly hot. Why don’t we travel at night?”

He laughed. “I told you it wasn’t lonely out here.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means we wouldn’t be sharing the road.” He gave me a little wink and turned toward his tent. My eyes followed the zipper as he unzipped the front of his tent and ducked inside.

“Goodnight!” I called. The tent zipped closed.

I could hear the animals coming alive around me. I put a few more logs on the fire, downed my tea, and hurried to my tent. He was right. We weren’t alone out here.

***

There I was in the middle of the ocean, thirsty as hell. The stars were out. That’s why I was there- I was always watching the stars. I looked around the room and saw everyone talking, lingering in corners and by tables of bite-sized cakes and hors d'oeuvres.

“That’s absolutely the biggest story right now.”

“Is it now, Mr. Martin?” Thomas Wilson replied. “I’ve grown a bit weary of the cold war.” My eyes snapped back to attention and I watched his face as he took a sip of his martini and handed the olives to Elizabeth. Thomas and his wife, Elizabeth, were some of the magazine’s biggest supporters and investors. They held high regard for Freedom-of-Speech and tried to keep their spoon in the pot as best they could without becoming chefs themselves.

“Weary of the Cold War? Communism is an assault on the American ideal- the American dream itself. Where’s your sense of nationalism, Mr. Wilson?”

“I’d say it died back in ‘Nam with John,” he replied. Elizabeth sat stone-faced and kept her eyes down for a moment. John was their son. She hadn’t quite gotten over his loss yet. No mother ever really did.

“Well…” For maybe the first time in my life, I saw Mr. Martin, fast-talking, fist-raising editor-in-chief, rendered speechless.

“Did you lose someone in the rice patties, Martin?”

His voice was soft and quiet. “I think everyone did, sir.”

Elizabeth looked up. “What about you, young lady?”

“Me?” I asked. I didn’t normally speak at these meetings.

“Yes, you. What’s your name again, dear?”

“Farrah.”

“Farrah, that’s lovely. Do you have an interest in journalism dear?”

“Um.” Inside I wanted to laugh at the question, but outside I simply blinked. “Yes. Yes, I do.” I crossed my legs and sat a little straighter. “I majored in journalism with a minor in international relations.”

“What would you say the biggest story is right now, Farrah?” Mr. Wilson asked.

“Well,” I began, measuring my words carefully. “With all due respect to both you and Mr. Martin, I believe you’re both wrong on your stance on covering the cold war.”

“How can we both be wrong? He says cover it, I say don’t. That doesn’t leave much of a third option.”

“Yes it does- a regionally large third option, sir.” I cleared my throat and set my drink down on the table. “It’s called the Middle East. Most specifically, at this time, Afghanistan.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Yes. Right now, the next generation’s Vietnam is building trenches, but no one’s talking about it nearly enough. Soviet control has a strong hand, currently, on the Middle East and, specifically, Afghanistan, and America is trying to pry that grip away finger by finger. They’re funding the rebel fighters in Afghanistan in an attempt to use their zeal to bury the communist system. It’s a holy war for those people, sir, and they’re not backing down. Additionally, the way of life there is changing. You have traditional values, Soviet mentality and occupation, women’s rights, and a strong oppressive voice coming from Islamic religious leaders. I don’t care if you’re interested in politics, equality, women’s liberation, economics and oil, military strategy- whatever it is, it’s front and center in the Afghan conflict.”

I stopped talking and they all watched me. I couldn’t get a solid read on them. Loud Mr Martin sat silently somewhere between ‘why didn’t you say something earlier?’ and ‘why did you open your mouth?’ and the Wilsons seemed to truly be thinking.

“Mr. Martin,” Mr. Wilson started suddenly. “Do we have any foreign correspondents in Afghanistan right now?”

“N-no sir.”

“Well, we might want to consider it.”

“Honey,” Elizabeth began, although I couldn’t yet make out whether she were speaking to me or to Thomas Wilson. “Do you write as well as you talk?”

I smiled. “Better. There’s more time to think when I write.”

“Well then, what about her? I think her skills are dreadfully underused as an assistant and her education suggests she’s more than qualified for the job. If she’d be willing to take it, that is. I don’t know much about Afghanistan, to tell you the truth, but it sounds hot and dusty. Not to mention it may not be very safe.”

“I’ll go,” I said. “On a temporary basis, at least. To see how things go.”

Five years of treading ocean water under the glare of Editor in Chief, hoping for a drop of fresh water and here was a water cooler and a raft all in one. A leaky raft and lukewarm water at best, but it was dry and it was hydrating.

“Well that’s that, then,” Mr. Wilson replied, finishing off his drink and letting out a satisfied sigh. “Have your travel coordinators and so forth get started with the arrangements. We’ll get the ball rolling on that right away.”

***

My eyes opened slowly to reveal the glowing fabric of a tent in the sun. Even at six in the morning the sun was hot. It wasn’t hard to get up even just so I could stop cooking a bit. I unzipped the tent and poked my head outside to see our little team packing things away and loading up our vehicle.

“Coffee’s over there, City Girl,” Andrew said, holding a box and gesturing toward the fading pile of embers where our fire had been the night before. “Be quick about changing, though. We need to try and make it to the front by noon.”

I nodded and stepped out of my tent. Mo, one of the other men, began breaking down my tent while I poured my coffee. I took a sip and looked around. “Wait, wait. There’s no place for me to change now!”

“Calm down, Princess. Go behind the truck. We’ll stay on this side.”

“There is not even camels out here,” Mo replied, folding up the blankets that had been inside my tent before. Mo- short for Mostafa. He was our translator and guide. He spoke both Pashto and Dari, and there didn’t seem to be a rock in the whole country he hadn’t looked under or a grain of sand he hadn’t already held in his hands.

“Which way to Mecca, Mo?” I asked.

“That way, Miss,” he said, pointing. He always knew.

“Have you finished your prayers already?”

“My morning prayers, Miss? Yes ma’am.”

“Alright, well then I better get a move on.” I downed my coffee, pulled my street clothes out of my bag, and went around to the other side of the truck. I pulled my shirt on and stuffed my pajamas in my bag, zipped it up, and rounded the corner, nearly bumping into Andrew. “Oh sorry.”

“You’re alright,” he said.

I began to walk past him and then stopped. “What were you doing just standing there?”

“Waiting for you to finish changing, of course.” He went to the front and hopped into the driver’s side door. I threw my backpack into the back of the car and went around to the passenger’s side.

We drove through the arid, unchanging landscape. Waves of sand rose and fell as far as the eye could see and we rocked over the unpaved “roads” like a boat in choppy water. Rock music played over the radio and the two men in the back sat quietly.

“Do you think they’ll do it?” I asked, finally breaking the silence.

“Think who will do what?”

“Do you think they’ll drive out the Soviets?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“You don’t have much confidence in the USSR, do you? They’re a pretty big contender, you know, or else the US wouldn’t be pushing back at every point of tension.”

“Sure they’re a big contender. They’re a world power and anyone who says otherwise is blind or dumb or both. But they’re fighting for country, and country hasn’t done all that much for them. The Afghans are fighting for God. You can outrun country, but you can’t outrun God.”

I thought for a moment. “Is that why so much support is coming in from the Arab world?”

“Yes.”

“Communism is atheistic, which makes it anti-Islamic,” Mostafa said from the back seat. “These fighters are not just fighting for family and for tradition and for country, but they are in a holy war and they are zealous. And now they have the West backing their war.”

“What do you think of them?” I asked.

“I do not yet know.” Mostafa sat back in his seat.

“There are plenty of groups gaining strength,” Andrew said. “But some of them scare me more than the Soviets- even with what they’re capable of.”

“Any group is capable of doing terrible things, just like any group is capable of doing good things.”

“True.”

“How about you, Andrew? How did you end up out here?”

“I was born out here.”

“You sound American.”

“Yeah, well, My dad’s American and my mom’s a Soviet who grew up here. He was out here working for the government- that’s how they met. I spent my summers and a few years at a time in the States.”

“Really?” I didn’t know whether I should have expected it or been surprised. Where were you in the States?”

“Mainly DC. Sometimes New York. All around, really.”

“So that’s how you know, then.”

“Know what?”

“What it’s like. Dying of thirst in the middle of the sea.”

“Yes. I know what it’s like.” We were both quiet for a moment. “Sorry,” he said finally.

“What do you mean?”

“I was harsh with you last night.”

“You were.”

“It wasn’t kind. It was true, but it wasn’t kind. And you’re a brave woman to come out here to this kind of place just for some principles you hold on to, whether I understand them or not. I respect that.”

I blinked, completely shocked. “Thank you.” I thought for a moment. “To be fair, though, it wasn’t only for some principles. Like you said, I was dying of thirst. It was a chance to do something. Get my hands on a raft and some water and do something with myself.”

He cracked a smile. “I can respect that, too.”

“How far out are we?” I asked, settling back into my seat a bit more.

“About an hour.”

“Alright. I’m going to close my eyes a bit. Let me know when we’re fifteen minutes out.”

“Sure.”

I let the car rock me to sleep.

***

“Farrah?”

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “What? What’s going on?”

“We’re fifteen minutes out.”

“Thanks,” I said. I stretched and pulled myself up in my seat.

“About the interview,” Andrew began. “This group tends to be pretty religious. It’s probably better if you cover your head and give me your questions. Mostafa can translate and you can listen. You have something to record?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Good. Mostafa, do you have that head covering back there?”

“Yes.” He handed it up.

“What’s James going to do?”

“I’m staying with the car.”

I nodded. Suddenly in the distance I started to see movement. People moving around. The air between us seemed to dance in the heat.

“Go ahead and cover up now,” Mostafa said. I obeyed.

Men came out to meet us before we had come the whole way. I looked into their eyes and, finally, I saw what Andrew had been talking about. There was a fire in their eyes- hotter than the desert sun. It was that fire that scared him. It was that fire that scared everyone. Mostafa spoke to them from the back window. They waved us on and we came up to the others. Some were walking around, clearly busy. Some were sitting around, also busy but not so clearly. We were led into a tent and a man with a thick beard and a turban sat in front of us. I held my breath.

***

Mostafa led the way out of the tent and back to the truck where James was waiting. “What do you think? Did you get what you needed?” Andrew asked as we climbed back in.

“Yeah, it was good. I’m glad to get out of there, though.”

“You see what I mean, then?”

“Yes, I see. I know America is helping them, but I’m not so sure they’re an ally to America.”

“They are not an ally to anyone.”

He cranked the engine and we pulled out. “What’s happening here, Andrew?”

“Does anyone know?”

“Someone does.”

The truck jostled over the uneven sand. I watched again as the sand rose and fell, rose and fell, thinking of the man’s words in the tent.

The sun was dipping lower and lower and the sky was deepening into a pinkish hue. In the distance, though, I saw movement. At first I thought it was my eyes playing tricks on me but, finally, the shape began to change directions and grow.

“Andrew, what’s that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “James. Mo.” I looked back and they were both sleeping. “James! Mo! Mostafa!”

“What? What?”

“Who is that? In the distance there.”

Mo leaned forward and looked ahead to the vehicle that was quickly crossing the distance between us and them. “I don’t know,” he said. “Miss Farrah, get down, please. Do not let them see you.”

“Who is it?” I asked, getting down and growing a bit frantic at this point.

“If it’s the Americans, we’re fine. If it’s the Afghans, I’d say its 50/50 but we’re probably alright. And if it’s the Russians…” he stopped.

“What? What if it’s the Russians?”

“Just don’t let them see you if you can help it.”

From where I was crouched in the floorboards I could see figures in the lowering light as the car passed by. Armed men began shouting and waving their guns. There was a soviet flag on the side of the vehicle. Andrew swore under his breath.

“What are we going to do?” I asked. The armored car turned and began pursuing us.

“We have no choice. Our only chance is to stop and get out. They’re probably just looking for supplies. Farrah, we’re going to get out. But you need to get on the floorboard in the back and cover over, alright? There are some blankets, pull them on top of you.”

“Why? Why am I staying in the car?”

“They’ve been in the desert a long time, you understand? It’s been a long time since they’ve seen a woman.”

I crawled into the back and flattened myself out on the floor while Mo and James pulled the blankets over me. I felt the car come to a stop and heard the Russians yelling outside the car.

“They want us to get out. Keep your hands up,” Andrew directed.

The men got out and closed the doors behind them.

“Mwí níkakaya problema ne hatím,” I heard Andrew say.

“Po-ruskiy govoritye? Kto vwí?” a strange voice demanded.

“Mwí jurnalisti.”

“A shto vwí zdes delaetye?”

“Ishim pravdu.”

The commander scoffed. “A shto takaya pravda?”

A new voice shouted something from the back and the flap over the truck-bed made a soft thud as it closed again.

“Mwí beryem etu mashinu. Horoshevo vam vechera.”

“Net! Ne ostavtye nam ymeret zdes v pustinye! Po-”

“Vsyo uzhe!”

I listened, trembling under the blankets. One of the soldiers got in the driver’s seat. I peeked through the crack and watched him as he cranked the engine and lit up a cigarette. As he pulled away I didn’t dare look outside to see what had happened, but I didn’t hear any gunshots. I just heard the sound of the other engine roar to life and the trucks started again through the desert sand. After an hour or so the vehicles came to a stop. As I peeked out from under the blanket I saw lights and heard voices outside. It seemed like some kind of encampment.

“God help me,” I thought.

The soldier got out of the vehicle. I felt like my bladder might burst but I didn’t dare move.

After a few hours some of the lights shut off. It had to be a few hours into the night by now. Carefully I began to crawl out from the blankets and watched out the back window. I saw no one. It was now or never. I reached into the back and pulled out my canteen and backpack and watched as every 5 minutes a soldier passed by on his rounds. I waited for my chance and opened the door as silently as I could. Stepping out onto the hard sand, I eased the door closed, pushing on it slightly until I heard a click. The trucks left the slightest trail in the hard ground and I began running along their path and kept running until I couldn’t breathe anymore.

There was no time to stop. There was barely time to slow down. Who knew who would come along this path next?

As the sun began to peak over the horizon, I collapsed in the sand. I took a drink of water and looked around in desperation at the unceasing barrenness of the land.

“What I wouldn’t give for a map and a compass right now,” I thought. Already I could feel the sun’s heat saturating the air. “He was right,” I thought. “I am going to die alone.” I laughed at the irony of it all. What a sea to be lost in.

There had to be a way. There had to be.

I looked around. A breeze blew gently and I closed my eyes, letting it wash over me. Little bits of sand stirred and some hit my arms and my face. Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes again.

Engulfed in the desert's parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.