The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2009

J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 9 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 29 Nov. 21, 1979, was the last day of school before the four-day Thanksgiving weekend. For my family, the holiday would be quiet. My mom and sister were on a field trip to Mojendaro. Dad and I had been invited out to dinner for Thanksgiving, but he had declined. After lunch, I walked to world history class with my best friend, Ellen. “Steven’s coming on Thanksgiving to meet my par- ents,” she said, fingering the heart with his name inside it she had drawn on her binder. Steven was a 19-year old Marine security guard at the embassy. The classroom walls featured huge maps of China, India, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan. Pictures of Chairman Mao Tse-Tung with President Richard Nixon, Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, the Ayatollah Khomeini and Mahatma Gandhi — and now some of the American hostages in Iran. Pieces of red, blue and green yarn con- nected places with newspaper articles. The bookshelf lin- ing the front wall was stuffed with globes, a set of World Books and other encyclopedias. “Your report should be at least 500 words long,” Mrs. Cook announced. A collective groan sounded around the classroom. At 1:45, we heard a sharp rap at the door. Mr. Kain, our assistant principal, opened it and motioned to Mrs. Cook to step into the hallway. The two huddled, whis- pering too low for me to eavesdrop. Mrs. Cook turned to the class and said, “Excuse me for a minute. Start your assignment.” As the door closed, the volume in the room began to rise. “Who’s got lookout?” Ian asked. Ellen pushed aside three globes, and stationed her- self at the door. Meanwhile, Dwight ran around balancing a meter stick between his lip and his braces. Ian pushed his desk up against mine while similar groups formed across the room. “OK, brainiac, what do we write?” “Shut up, Ian.” Tracy pushed her glasses back up her nose and paced behind my desk. “Let’s start with when Pakistan was part of India,” I suggested. “Too much information,” Darla said, pushing her midnight-black hair out of her eyes. “We have six other countries to cover, don’t for- get.” “India and Pakistan split 30 years ago,” I said. “Should we write that?” Tracy asked, beads of perspiration break- ing out on her forehead. “I’m going to start with the hostages taken in Iran,” Dwight said as he stuffed a pen- cil in each nostril. “It has to be 500 words long,” Ellen said. I leafed through my notes, where I saw that Pakistan got its name as an acronym for all the Muslim provinces: P for Punjab, A for Afghans, K for Kashmir, S for Sind and then “istan,” the Persian word for “land of.” Put it all together and Pakistan means “Land of the Pure.” “Maybe we should write, ‘Pakistan and India split due to religious differences,’” I said. “I can’t find that in my notes,” Tracy said, flipping through her pages. “Besides, this isn’t a religion paper,” Darla argued. “All countries fight about religion,” I said. “Religion is the reason they hate each other.” I looked around in the silence. “Right?” An eerie silence descended, broken only when Darla said, “India divided into three sections: West Pakistan, India and East Pakistan. Then East Pakistan became the new nation of Bangladesh.” “Sounds good,” Tracy said using the sleeve of her shirt to polish her fogged-up lenses. “But what about Iran and Iraq?” “Let’s all take a different country,” Ian suggested. “And share the facts.” “Our papers can’t be the same,” Darla argued. Dwight launched a paper airplane with the word ‘dumb’ scrawled on it. Ian grabbed it, jumped up on his desk, balled it up and chucked it forcefully at Dwight’s head. A paper ball bounced off my binder and hit Tracy. She didn’t flinch, but continued to wring her hands. “We’ll get in trouble if Mrs. Cook walks in.” Ian dove off the desk and tackled Dwight in mid-air, taking him down to the ground. Dwight let out a star- tled yelp, “My nose! You’re crushing me. Get off!” F O C U S He didn’t answer right away, so I studied the shelves, regarding a picture of Prime Minister Bhutto, now dead, with my father.