Uzma Khan - Thinner Than Skin

It was taking off from a runway in Nevada, from a place called Cactus Springs. I liked the name. I liked how it could be read in many ways. It could be a declaration of the ability of cactus to leap, which some do, if you brush up against them. Or it could have nothing to do with movement. The cactus could be standing still, but in the middle of a well, or a fountain, or several fountains, all gushing copiously. Or it could be long seasons of cactus — entire years made up only of March, April, May.

This was how it worked.

There was a pilot who stayed on the ground. Once the robot plane was in the air, the pilot could set its path as it flew over Afghanistan and Pakistan, hunting for al-Qaeda fighters. Inside the drone was a camera capturing entire villages, where dark figures slid quickly into labyrinths, their shadows shifting, crisscrossing, into walls, into rooms, into each other. A target became a non-target, a non-target became a target. Before the camera could tell them apart, the world could be saved.

Beneath the photograph was a caption. If the target is taking cover or lying down the effect is reduced, but if it can be caught standing up or running then the full effective casualty radius of 200 feet will apply. It ended with a wistful afterthought. While a drone can drop two 500-pound bombs with each strike, its camera shows us images of daily life in an area most of us never think about.

To be the one looking up at that.

And to be the one at a Playstation in Cactus Springs, looking down on a land that wasn’t even down there, as you were about to destroy it.

A small part of me felt exhilarated at the power of the drone’s camera. (A large part of me felt exhilarated at the power of all cameras.) That bird’s eye view. My life as a pelican. Or an owl.

Irfan’s messages were increasingly concerned with where the unmanned planes were taking off from. Cactus Springs in Nevada, or Shamsi Airfield in Pakistan, near the Afghan border? Since the start of Operation Enduring Freedom, Shamsi was being used as a base for US Special Forces — that much was known. Prior to that, Irfan reminded me needlessly, it was used by wealthy Arabs to launch a different predator. Falcons. They were flown in on jets to hunt the endangered Houbara Bustard, a pheasant with aphrodisiac meat, though the real aphrodisiac was watching a falcon spray a Houbara’s feathers. (Falconry was forbidden to Pakistanis, yet Pakistan produced more falconry gear than any other country, all for its Arab patrons. Call it hospitality.) Ironically, since the start of the war and use of the airfield by US forces, the bustards could no longer be hunted on the same scale. But people could. Had Shamsi Airfield been gifted to the CIA to launch predator MALE? Irfan threw these questions at me.

As well as this detail: in the sand dunes near Shamsi lay another airbase that could, after a sandstorm, disappear for days. It was in these sands that, soon after the war began, a Pakistani shepherd found unexploded US cluster bombs. He kicked one by accident while herding his sheep. It tore apart his hands and legs and made the news and elicited anger. Since then, if any shepherd lost his limbs, even the story was lost.

I heard the ring in my pocket. A text from Farhana. Fourteen killed in a mosque. Why a mosque, Nadir? I texted back, Um, ask God? I shut off my phone. I shut off my computer. I went for a walk.

I passed a newsstand. Kidnappings Traverse Border. I assumed it meant the Afghanistan — Pakistan border. But as I moved away, the word Mexico jumped out at me, and I thought, Oh—that border. Then I thought, Oh—this border.

I kept reading. Phoenix, Arizona, was becoming the kidnapping capital of America, and, outside Mexico City, of the world. The torture tactics of Mexico’s drug cartels — including ripping off hands and legs — had spread across the border. It concluded, Are we too obsessed with al-Qaeda to care about our own backyard? For California or Arizona, terrorists linked to the drug trade are a more immediate threat.

The article excited me. See! We’re not the world’s biggest danger! Mexicans are worse! Even if I look like both! I carried the paper all the way to Farhana’s house, as though for reward.

She said I was being racist. “Stereotyping Mexicans as drug dealers and violent gangsters is not a productive way of thinking. It engenders fear. Makes you think of fellow human beings as ‘them’.”

“And fear of Pakistanis?”

“Are you calling me racist?”

“Why would I?”

“Why aren’t you answering me? You know I’m sorry this is hard for you.”

“I am. You know I’m sorry you’re afraid, but we’re not going anywhere near the Afghanistan — Pakistan border.” (I thought fleetingly, we are the border.)

“I’m not. What should we have for dinner?”

“Okay then. Sushi?”

Later, she was in the mood. I wasn’t. We tried again in the morning. I was as floppy as ahi.

When she got out of bed, I asked the shadow between us if her “return” was a way to somehow purge her fear of the place she called home. A fear that had only recently been made known to me. A fear that would haunt us right till our departure in July (and, I was to find out, even after we arrived). She wanted a role in it, this home, but didn’t know what. It was still only March; the shadow stretched its limbs and bared its teeth and said nothing. On subsequent failed attempts — still no altitude or endurance — the shadow would only keep growing in length, as would its silence.

Did I finally hear the answer in July?

Was saving Kiran by dragging her into the boat the role?

A woman, a child, a voyeur. How quiet the confrontation. How murderous the gaze.

“Come with us in the boat,” said Farhana, bounding toward me from the shores of Lake Saiful Maluk.

I’d been watching her descend the hill and move toward us for a while. Irfan now sat up, blinking in bewilderment. He’d fallen asleep again.

“You guys!” Farhana rolled her eyes. “Come on, Nadir. Wes says it’s safe.”

“Safe as a leaking boat can be,” said Wes. He’d found the potatoes and the pear.

Irfan rubbed his eyes and looked at Farhana. “You haven’t eaten lunch yet.”

“No,” I added. “We saved you sandwiches.”

“I’m not hungry.” She was looking away, at the lake, now a bowl of amber light flecked with clouds — or were those whitecaps? “Nadir’s done it before, haven’t you?” She sounded dubious.

I said I had in the past, and the boats did leak. I watched the brow furrow, the tongue slide into the indent of her lower lip. But she’d made the proposal and I knew she wouldn’t retract it. If she didn’t want to follow through, she’d want me to prevent it from happening. I’d seen the same conflict play out in the weeks running up to our departure from San Francisco. She was protecting her own fear while desiring to be free of it.

Irfan was still wiping the sleep from his eyes. From behind his fingers, I heard him mutter, “Well, if Wes says it’s safe …”

“We could take a long walk instead,” I offered. “Look for the cave.”

“What cave?” Wes sliced the pear with his penknife, presenting half to Farrah.

She took the half. It was like breakfast all over again. “What cave?” she echoed, a trickle of pear juice on her chin.

“The one where the fairy princess took shelter with her lover, Saiful Maluk. You remember, after the jinn got jealous and tried to drown them.”

“Awesome,” said Wes.

“It’s far,” said Irfan.

Farhana turned to me. “No. I want to get in a boat. With you. And the girl.”

“The girl?”

She nodded. “She’s never been in one.”

Irfan laughed. “Of course not! The boats are for tourists.”

“That would explain why you’ve done it,” she shot back.

“She may not want to.” He glared at her.

“Oh, she wants to. No one’s ever asked what she wants.”

“Have you?” He stared harder.

“Oh shit!” Wes laughed.

Irfan turned to me, said loudly this time, “If Wes says it’s safe.”

I was about ready to take the boat — by myself.

While Irfan and Farhana glowered at each other, the child hung back, behind Farhana. To be honest, I’d only been vaguely aware of her standing there till just this moment. Now I saw that she was eyeing the tents along the lake’s shore. And then, as suddenly as I spotted her, she skipped away, her bracelets jingling.

“Where are you going?” Farhana called after her.

“She’s going home,” said Irfan.

Farhana was walking away, toward the tents.

“Where are you going?” I called after her.

“To tell her family I’m taking her with us.”

Irfan turned to me. “Teach her something. She’ll be putting them in a very awkward position. They won’t want their child going off with a group of strangers and they won’t want to say no to Farhana, who’s a guest. She should accept their hospitality,” he pointed to the empty plates, “instead of pressing for more.”

“She thinks she’s doing the girl a favor.” My defense ended up sounding like criticism.

“That’s exactly the problem,” Irfan agreed.

“It’s a ride in a boat.” Wes shrugged. “You guys talk as if poor Farrah were trying to abduct her.”

Poor Farrah?

“Give her a break,” he added, maddeningly.

I followed Farhana.

Farhana followed the girl.

Irfan followed me.

Wes literally inhaled poor Farrah’s sandwiches.

It was as Irfan said it would be. The girl, whose name was Kiran, appeared fairly neutral to the outing. Her family was against it. Farhana pleaded with them and eventually, Kiran’s father agreed. At least that is how I understood his quiet responses to her fragmented Urdu, and later, while walking us to the lake, how Irfan translated their more rapid conversation. “It’s even harder to say no to a female guest,” Irfan added, Farhana ignoring him. “It’s considered bad manners.”

Kiran’s father and brother — the same boy who’d brought the food — were standing outside the tent, watching us walk away. I could hear a woman’s voice from inside the tent. Later, as I held the boat so Farhana could climb inside, I turned back to see two women watching us as well. One held a young child in her arms, and she was arguing furiously with Kiran’s father. I saw her black shirt billow in the breeze; the cuffs of her sleeves were rimmed in fluorescent pink thread and I could hear bangles chime as the arms gesticulated in protest. It might have been the same woman I’d seen by the fire. Kiran’s bangles as she arranged herself in the boat — folding her hands in her lap before unfolding them again — were like an echo of the woman’s bangles. There was such perfect synchronicity between them that it had to have been a private conversation. I knew, as we pulled away, that the woman was her mother.

I rowed backward at first, looking behind me as the bow pierced the lake’s skin, cutting a wide triangle the shape of a fin. Somewhere over my left shoulder must have loomed the actual summit of Naked Mountain, radiant in the evening light, I was sure. I could imagine the clouds circling him like a promise; he was above their promise now. Below us, in the glacial water, Queen of the Mountains’ valleys and crests plunged all the way down to a depth that was surely our own nadir.

The boat was shaped like a tub and it was heavy. It wobbled. Apart from the ungainly shape, the rocking made no sense; there was almost no breeze. I rowed out about twenty feet before swiveling the boat around to face in the general direction of Naked Mountain. The tide did not recede. It was the same tide that had confounded us when we first got here; it was the tide of his ardor for the Queen, hers for him, and we were intruders, duly rebuked by being splashed from all sides. The further out I rowed, the larger grew the swells. Kiran and Farhana shared the plank in the stern of the boat, and every time the whitecaps hit her, Kiran shifted in her seat, rocking the boat more. She was light but her disquiet was heavy. She’d been talkative with Farhana when they walked into the hills together, but not now. I asked Farhana if it was me.

“Maybe.” She frowned. Switching to Urdu, she asked, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

The girl shook her head.

“At least she’s honest,” I said.