Read Online Veiled Freedom by Jeanette Windle - Free Book Online Page B

not cover her face to work.”
    His English had a musical, somewhat stilted cadence Amy knew well from Pakistani and Indian colleagues in other relief projects. Its familiar lilt and his slight build, only two or three inches taller than hers, made him far less threatening than the tall, burly Rasheed. This had been a good idea. “In Pakistan or here in Afghanistan? Do you still have family here?”
    A flash of emotion restored somberness to his dark eyes. “My family is the past. I am concerned only with the future.”
    Amy kicked herself mentally. After all the horror stories she’d heard and read of the war years, she should know better than to ask a personal question. Hastily she pulled the lease information from the manila envelope Bruce had given her. This had been typed up in neat English, but the official-looking heading at the top and signatures at the bottom were all in the curlicue Arabic script. “Can you tell me where this address is? How hard would it be to get there?”
    Jamil drifted over to the card table. “The Ministry of Interior? It is not far from here. See?” He pointed to a piece of meaningless calligraphy. “It is near Shahr-e Nau Park on the other side of the King’s Palace. Perhaps two kilometers walking.”
    Amy considered. It could be hours before Rasheed was back with the jeep. What better way to spend those hours than attending to Bruce’s final directive? Maybe even touch base with her new landlord if he was in his offices? Walking would stretch her legs and let Amy get a feel for her new habitat at the same time.
    â€œGood, then if you can show me the way, I’d like to walk to this address. I’ll probably need you to translate as well. I don’t know how much English your government offices usually have.”
    But not as she was currently dressed. Digging into her shoulder bag, Amy pulled out an oversize cardigan she’d tucked in for warmth on the plane. It was uncomfortably hot, but at least it covered her arms and any pretence of shape. Reshouldering her bag, Amy started for the door.
    Jamil made no move to follow. “I am sorry, but you cannot walk the streets uncovered.”
    Amy spun around, annoyed. “Look, I’m sorry if it offends you, but I am not an Afghan woman. I want to respect your culture, but if you’re going to work for me, I need you to respect mine as well, and I hope I’ve made it clear I will not be pushed into a burqa!”
    Jamil spread his hands wide, but there was no yielding in his expression. “It is not for me. In Pakistan I have seen many women not of my family with uncovered face. But I know the men of this city, these streets. You will not be able to walk in peace if you appear so.”
    Oddly, his intransigence gained Amy’s respect. With exasperation, she snatched up the burqa. If nothing else, it would be an opportunity to better understand the culture—the women—with which she’d come here to work. “Fine, just this once. But if I trip and fall, it’ll be your responsibility.”
    It wasn’t quite as bad as she remembered. The shoulder bag held the burqa tentlike away from her body, allowing for reasonable air circulation. As Amy followed Jamil out onto the street, she quickly learned to use her hands underneath to keep the grille positioned over her eyes. In some bizarre fashion, it reminded Amy of her favorite umbrella as a small girl. Also blue, it had curved below her shoulders with a small plastic window through which to see. Like walking around in my own little castle.
    The burqa offered some of the same sense of privacy, along with protection from wind and dust and prying eyes.
    On the negative, the burqa’s mesh grille proved a far inferior window than the umbrella’s plastic. Within blocks, Amy was developing a headache, a dizzying pattern of lines dancing in front of her eyes even when she closed them. She couldn’t