the_taliban_shuffle_-_kim_barker

CHAPTER 19
REBEL, REBEL
S
omething needed to give—my nose or my lifestyle. For my entire life,
I had suered from allergies, asthma, sinus infections, bronchitis. But
in Asia, those illnesses had become my usual state. I was allergic to
mold, pollen, grass, anything green, anything with four legs, but
primarily I was allergic to dust, and in every country I visited, the dust
was an unwelcome companion. I was always sick. Even though Farouq
was a doctor, there wasn’t much he could do. Whenever I arrived at the
airport in Kabul, the air immediately assaulted me. It supposedly had a
very high percentage of fecal matter; the dust was called “fecal dust,”
the air, “fecal air.” About eight times a year, a sinus infection knocked
me out, and Farouq brought me antibiotics, a large IV bag of sterile
saline water to shoot up my nose, nasal sprays with foreign lettering,
and decongestant pills. Nothing really helped.
I opted for surgery in Portland, Oregon, so my father could take care
of me. The surgery was actually very simple, and I had soon healed
enough to travel. I couldn’t y, so I rented a car to drive to Chicago.
This would give me a chance to visit my relatives and evaluate my
relationship with both Dave and the United States. I planned to think
about this, and not at all about Sean and what might be happening to
him.
Along the road, I saw my brother in Seattle, who was soon moving to
London, making my parents wonder just what they had done wrong;
my grandmother in Montana, who took me to a funeral and introduced
me as a Pakistani; and a police ocer in South Dakota, who made me
sit in his police car with his police dog while he wrote me a warning
ticket for speeding. Finally I pulled into Chicago. This was my so-called
“home leave.” Every two years, the Tribune paid for its foreign
correspondents to come back for a week, to make sure we didn’t go