Free One Child by Jeff Buick

and the Taliban target their vehicles. I've taken to driving south through Quetta and crossing the border into Afghanistan near Spin Buldak. It's faster, but more dangerous."
    "The Americans have a lot of men near Spin Buldak," Ahmad said. "Many tanks."
    "It's a Stryker Brigade, not tanks," Tabraiz said nonchalantly. He turned to Kadir. "I understand you have a daughter who would like to attend school."
    "Yes, Tabraiz Khan," Kadir said quietly. "She is very smart and would do well with her studies."
    "Halima. Is that her name?" Tabraiz asked, then continued when Kadir nodded. "How old is Halima?"
    "Eleven. She will be twelve in two weeks."
    The Pakistani nodded his approval. "An excellent age to join a family with means. Young enough to learn new skills, and old enough to realize what an opportunity she has." He sipped his tea and leaned closer to Kadir, his eyes focused on Halima's father. "She will have to work hard for the family. Does she understand that?"
    Kadir nodded. He knew without thinking that it would not be good to tell the man he had yet to discuss the issue with Halima. "Yes, she does. Halima is a very hard worker. On the days when I am working, she watches her two younger sisters. She fetches water from the well every day and buys our food at the market."
    The man raised an eyebrow. "She negotiates with the sellers in the market?" he asked.
    Kadir allowed a small smile. "She does. Last week I gave her two American dollars and she returned home with enough food for a week."
    "So she is smart and capable."
    "Yes," Kadir said.
    Tabraiz finished his tea and held out the empty cup as Ahmad hoisted the pot and refilled it. "Tell me of your family, Kadir Khan. Your father and your mother. Your many brothers and sisters."
    Kadir's chin fell to his chest. How could it not? A horrible disgrace was upon him. "I have no family. They are all dead."
    "Everyone?" Tabraiz asked. His face registered surprise.
    Kadir could barely raise his head to answer. Nothing mattered more in Afghanistan than family. Blood and tribal allegiances were the mortar that bonded a besieged population and defined who you were. Without family, without a tribe, you had no identity. At least, not one worth mentioning. Tragedy and death were his heritage. His father, dragged off to Pul-i Charkhi prison by the Russians and eventually shot in the head. His mother, raped and beaten to death by more of the same soldiers. His brother had died as a warrior, fighting with the mujahedeen against the Russian tanks and jets. Cousins, aunts and uncles, nephews - everyone murdered by one form of conqueror or another. He and his three girls were alone in a country that counted family before money.
    "Everyone," he said, his voice nothing more than a whisper.
    There was a brief silence, then Tabraiz said, "Then it is all the more important that Halima be given a chance to have a good and prosperous life."
    Kadir swallowed and raised his eyes. A full minute passed, then he cleared his throat and asked, "What family would Halima be living with?"
    "A good question. My client is an accountant for a large mulTinational company. He has a wife and four children. Two boys and two girls. The oldest child is nine, so Halima would spend a considerable amount of her working hours tending to the children and helping with meals. It is a busy house and with her in school four days a week, Halima would be very tired at the end of each day. Because of this, her wages will be considerable. About one hundred Afghanis a day. But she will have no expenses, so she will be able to save most of what she earns."
    Ahmad's wife returned to the room with three plates heaped with food. Borani , fried vegetables covered in yogurt sauce, was the largest dish, with sides of mantu and rice. The men dug in with their fingers and Tabraiz commented on the high quality of the mantu , a ravioli-like pasta with lamb filling. The Pakistani asked about Ahmad and his family, and the conversation centered on