A young man needs to be someone’s boy.
Bachem.
No wonder Mahmood had respected our neighbors the way he did. He’d seen the goodness in them long before they’d needed to show it.
My son was without a father. My children were without their father.
Saleem, my obedient boy, headed off to sit with Samira. I knew he would listen in and I did nothing about it. I couldn’t protect any of us from our reality. I sat down and let Abdul Rahim tell me what he needed to tell me.
“My brother works for the . . . two weeks ago . . . taken by Taliban . . . disagreed with their actions . . . man of ideals . . . brave . . . workers found a body . . . note in the pocket . . . forgive me for sharing this with you . . .”
Raisa wrapped her arms around me. She sobbed, her heavy bosom heaving. I’d known for weeks, but some truths need to be said out loud before they can be believed.
Mahmood would never come back. We’d had our final moment together just a few feet from where I sat. He’d told me everything he needed to in that last moment, his fate written on his face. He had known from the moment the men entered our home.
Saleem slipped back into the living room and walked over to Abdul Rahim who sat with shoulders slumped, his hands folded between his knees.
“Kaka-jan?” he said.
Abdul Rahim met his gaze.
“My father—he is not coming back?”
It was not a boy’s question. It was the question of a young man who needed to know what to expect of tomorrow and what tomorrow would expect of him.
CHAPTER 16
Fereiba
I HAD TO GET MY FAMILY OUT OF KABUL.
With Mahmood gone, there was nothing left for us. We would almost certainly starve once the money ran out. The imminent arrival of our third child complicated matters.
Samira had not spoken since the afternoon of Raisa and Abdul Rahim’s visit. She gave her answers in nods and gestures. I spoke softly with her, trying to coax the words from her lips, but Samira remained silent.
I found Saleem in our bedroom, staring at his father’s belongings. Unaware of my presence, he touched the pants, brought a shirt to his cheek, and laid the pieces out on the floor as if trying to imagine his father in it. He picked up Mahmood’s watch from the nightstand and turned it over in his hand. He slipped it on his wrist and pulled his sleeve over it. It was a private moment between father and son, so I snuck back down the hall before he realized I’d been watching.
My son thought I was too wrapped up in my own grief to know what he suffered, but I observed it all. I saw him kick the tree behind our house until he fell into a tearful heap, his toes so bruised and swollen that he winced with each step for a week. I held him when he allowed me, but if I started to speak, he would slip away. It was too soon.
If I thought of my last exchange with Mahmood, so did Saleem. I could see the remorse on his face as clearly as I felt it in my heart. We would have done things differently, Saleem and I. We would have had much more to say.
From what Abdul Rahim was able to gather, the local Taliban had decided to make an example of Mahmood Waziri. The rest of the family would not be targeted, he believed, but no one could say with any certainty. Even in the light of day, there was little certainty in Kabul. The cloak of night made all things possible.
I couldn’t bear to have my children out of my sight. I sent Saleem on errands to the marketplace only when I was truly desperate. Just one month after the news of Mahmood’s assassination, my belly began to ache. At first, I thought it might be the balmy winter air bringing a cramp, but as I walked from room to room, the familiar pains became clearer.
I paced the room, my lips pursed and my steps slow.
“Nine months, nine days . . . nine months, nine days . . .” I repeated softly.
Just a few hours later, Raisa coaxed my third child into the world. I named him Aziz.
“Saleem and Samira,” I managed to get out. “Meet your father’s son.”
AZIZ WOULD NEED TO GAIN SOME WEIGHT BEFORE WE COULD venture out of Kabul. As I nursed him, his face started to take on his father’s features: the squint of his eyes, the dip in his chin, the curl of his ears.
Abdul Rahim kept a watchful eye on the widowed Waziri family. He invited Saleem to sit with him when he returned from school. I don’t know what they talked about, but Saleem always came home pensive. I was grateful my son had Abdul Rahim to turn to.
Abdul Rahim and Raisa agreed that it was best for us to leave. We had no family to help us. I feared my son would be swallowed by the Taliban, and as a woman, there was little I could do to help us survive.
“We’re going to leave,” I told my neighbors. “I have no choice but to get my children out of Kabul. Their stomachs are empty, their lips parched. There’s nothing for us here.”
Raisa nodded in agreement.
“There’s no telling if things will get better. They could get worse. As much as I hate to see you go, I can’t bear to watch you stay with things like this. If Mahmood-jan, God give him peace, were with you, it would be different. But like this, Kabul is worse than a prison for you.”
“I’m going to need your help.”
Abdul Rahim had nodded. He’d been anticipating this conversation.
THREE MONTHS AFTER AZIZ WAS BORN, I GATHERED MY CHILDREN and packed two small bags with what I thought we would need most: clothing, a parchment envelope with a dozen family pictures, and whatever food we had left. I’d said nothing to the children until two days before we were to leave. Saleem looked resentful that he’d been kept in the dark. We lived in the same space, with the same dismal thoughts, and yet, for the better part of our days, we were confounded by each other. We were a family beheaded and floundered around as such.
“What if they find out we’re leaving?” Saleem’s voice was quiet with fear.
“They won’t find out,” I promised. I had no other way of answering. His expression flat, Saleem held my gaze for a few seconds too long. He had seen through me.
I told myself things would be better once we escaped Kabul’s toxic air.
I sent word to my father that we would be traveling to Herat. I wanted to see him once more before we set off. But Padar-jan was a man who preferred to live in the comforts of yesterday. The letter I got back was nothing more than I had come to expect from my father. The orchard was in such bad shape I would hardly recognize it, he said. Armies of beetles had tunneled through the wood. He had taken to sleeping some nights in the grove, hoping his presence would scare them away but they were quite brazen. The past winter had been especially harsh and he would need to do much coaxing if he wanted to see even a single basket of apricots this year. They were more delicate than children, he believed. It saddened him that he could not do more for us now, but he looked forward to seeing us on our return.
People have different ways of saying good-bye, especially when it is forever.
A FEW WEEKS EARLIER, ABDUL RAHIM HAD KNOCKED ON OUR door and handed me a large envelope. Raisa was with him. Her moist eyes belied the encouraging smile on her face.
The passports Mahmood had purchased were enclosed, even his own. I had touched his photograph, the size of my thumb, and hurt anew that he was not here to make this journey with us. I made the painful decision to ask Abdul Rahim to sell it back to the Embassy for whatever he would give. There was no room for sentimentality. Now the time had come to leave.
“WEAR YOUR STURDIEST SHOES. TODAY IS THE DAY WE BEGIN OUR travels. And remember, if anyone asks you, we are going to visit your aunt in Herat. Say a prayer. We will need God to watch over us.”
When Saleem reached into the closet for his winter hat, I caught a glimpse of Mahmood’s watch on his wrist. I opened my mouth to say something but decided against it. It was best to leave the matter between father and son.
There was much we could not take with us: Saleem’s soccer ball, Samira’s set of plastic dolls, the fractured china set my mother-in-law had gifted us. I looked at
my pots and pans, blackened with fire. The handwoven carpet in the living room had watched us grow from bride and groom to a full family, and then bore witness to the night we were undone. Tears of joy, tears of heartbreak had melted into its pattern. I left it all, the pieces of our broken life, for Raisa. I knew our home would not remain vacant long. Once Mahmood’s cousins learned of our escape, one of them was sure to claim it. Kabul had become a game of musical chairs with squatters, militants, and relatives plopping into an empty house before someone else could claim it.
Abdul Rahim checked his watch nervously. We were on a timeline. Our neighbors had offered to escort us to the bus terminal. If we were stopped, Abdul Rahim would say he was my brother.
I carried a bag in one hand and had Aziz tucked under my burqa. Saleem had a knapsack strapped to his back and held Samira’s hand, following behind Abdul Rahim but walking ahead of me. He and Samira both looked back frequently, as if they thought I might wander off.
The terminal was a widened road with buses parked in haphazard rows. At the front door of each bus, a man stood calling out the bus’s destination. We found our bus and saw that it was filling quickly.
“How long is the ride, Madar-jan?” Saleem whispered.
“Very long. Try to sleep—the time will pass more quickly.”
The children and I filed on. I went to the women’s section in the back with Samira and Aziz while Saleem took an empty seat in the men’s section up closer to the driver. I kept Aziz on my lap, and Samira sat beside me. Seats were limited, and more than a few of the younger women were forced to stand.
The bus rumbled onto the main road. Burqas lifted like theater curtains as conversations picked up.
In the second hour, Samira fell asleep, despite the bumps and jumps the bus took on the rough road. Even Aziz and I dozed for a few minutes, waking only when the chatter grew in intensity. Then I realized we were no longer moving.
My right leg burned with pins and needles.
After three hours of tinkering and cursing, the bus driver was able to restart the engine. We were back on the road but moving at a snail’s pace. Twice more the bus driver had to disembark and curse the engine back into working order.
THREE DAYS LATER, WE FINALLY REACHED OUR DESTINATION, the cantankerous driver yelling for everyone to gather their belongings and exit.
We were in Herat.
“Your father used to come here a few times each year, on behalf of the ministry,” I told my children. “He was leading one of the projects in this area.”
Saleem kicked at the dirt as he followed the blue shadows off the bus.
“Why didn’t he ever tell me about it?”
“It was long ago,” I said, taking note of the resentment in his question.
We waited, as Abdul Rahim had instructed us, and an hour after our arrival, we were approached by a couple. A short man in his fifties whispered my name as a question.
“Khanum Fereiba?” he asked.
“Yes,” I confirmed with relief.
“Abdul Rahim and Raisa-jan have told me to expect you.” He motioned for his burqa-clad wife to join him.
I ushered my children ahead of me, and we followed Asim and Shabnam to their home. Shabnam was Raisa’s sister, their voices and matronly figures remarkably similar. We would stay with them for just a night. By the following evening we would be on a bus headed for the Afghan-Iran border. Saleem and Samira were disappointed, especially once they’d met the couple’s young children. Samira played with the girls while Saleem held Aziz and listened in on Asim’s warnings for the treacherous road ahead.
“You must be wary of the people you will meet,” he cautioned sternly. He swirled the tea leaves in his glass prophetically and continued. “Herat is the doorway to Iran, so we hear and see much of the traffic that passes. The Taliban are present here and look for any opportunity to make an example out of someone. You know, of course, their rules on mahram escorts. And they know that many people are trying to make their way into Iran, so keep your eyes open and try not to attract attention.”
Asim and Shabnam lived in a three-room home that had not gone unscathed in the rocket attacks. Parts of the roof had been patched, and the windows were boarded up. With her burqa off, Shabnam’s resemblance to Raisa was even more apparent. Saleem and Samira smiled to see her familiar face. I listened intently as Asim went on.
“You’ll be traveling in a small van. Usually, they are very full and there’s hardly room to breathe, so keep your little ones at your side. They’ll be nervous. The driver should take you across the border and into Iran. The price for the passage has already been settled, but they will try to wheedle more from you. Keep all your monies and valuables well hidden. Look very reluctant and give him a little token piece. Make the driver believe that’s the very last thing you have.”
I looked at Saleem, wanting to tell him to run off and play so he could be spared this conversation. On the other hand, maybe he deserved to know what he was about to be involved in.
“Bear in mind that the van will only take you to the border. You’ll have to walk across on foot. The smugglers make the crossing under cover of night. Once you get to the Iranian side, there will be another van waiting for you. This van will take you to Mashhad. I believe Abdul Rahim has given you the address for your contact there. There are many Afghans in Mashhad and, inshallah, they will help you to find your way. I understand that you’ll be going on to Europe. The road ahead of you is difficult, but many have traveled it.”
I sighed heavily. Saleem took notice.
“I pray God will make us among the many who successfully pass through it. This is the only way I see for my children. I hope I’m making the right decision.”
Shabnam nodded sympathetically.
“You are a mother and a mother’s heart never guides her children down the wrong path,” Shabnam reassured, her plump hand squeezing mine.
The children, exhausted from the bus ride, slept well while I nodded off, waking periodically to find myself still in Herat, unable to believe that I’d actually set off on a journey so dangerous with three small children. In the dark room, amid the hush of night breathing, I still wondered if I’d made the right choice.
What was it that my orchard angel had promised me so many years ago?
In the darkness, when you cannot see the ground under your feet and when your fingers touch nothing but night, you are not alone. I will stay with you as moonlight stays on water.
I closed my eyes and prayed he hadn’t forgotten me.
CHAPTER 17
Fereiba
THERE WASN’T MUCH TIME FOR ME TO RECONSIDER. IF I’D HAD just one more day, I might have lost my nerve. The desert before us made me dizzy with fear.
Aziz was not nursing well. He was sleeping more and fussy when awake. The journey to Herat had not been an easy one and we were all exhausted.
In the afternoon, I leaned over my sleeping children and kissed their foreheads gently, whispering to them to coax their eyes open. Night, the time when the border was most vulnerable to trespass, was approaching. Holes opened up and scared, desperate people crawled through. While war had turned some Afghans into lions, it had turned a good number of us into mice as well.
Shabnam gave us bread for our journey. Asim led us to the meeting point. Saleem and Samira followed his footsteps. They held hands as dusk settled in, a half-moon luminous in the cloudless sky. We stood at the storefront of a mechanic’s shop and waited. It could be minutes or hours, Asim had said with a shrug, but the van would come.
Forty minutes later, with Aziz twisting and grunting uncomfortably, a van rounded the corner. I pushed the children behind me, pressing them against the shop’s façade. The van came to a stop just a few feet from us.
“Get in,” whispered the driver. “Quickly.”
This was Mahmood’s plan for us, I reminded myself, as I ushered my children into the van. Trust him that this is the right thing to do.
Two other families were packed
into the van, each with four or five children. I whispered a greeting and led my family into a corner of the hollowed-out vehicle.
There was no room for idle chatter. Too much weighed on our minds. Thick silence was cut by Aziz’s noisy breathing as it harmonized with the rusted engine.
Just outside Herat, the driver stopped the van and leaned over the back of his seat.
“From here, we cross the desert and then the border. You will all pay now or be left here.” His tone was dry.
The driver got out of the van and opened the back door. He pointed at the man sitting across from me who crept out to settle his family’s fare. His wife and children watched on anxiously, nervous to be even a few feet apart from their father.
Next went the father of the second family. I looked at my children, watched them stare unabashedly at the fathers.
I must be everything to them, I told myself.
I stepped down to meet the driver, leaving Aziz on Saleem’s lap. I handed over a small envelope and waited while the driver nimbly thumbed through the bills I’d already counted and recounted.
“You and your children are traveling alone.”
I nodded.
“That’s a problem. I don’t think we can take you.”
I tried to steady my voice.
“What’s the problem? The money is all there.”
“You know how it is. I’m taking a risk by bringing people across. But you, an unescorted woman . . . you understand? This is a much bigger risk for me and not one I can do for this price. It’s not fair to me.”
Though Asim had predicted this, I seethed to hear the driver’s reasoning. If we were stopped, no one would pay a bigger price than I. But I was prepared. I would play his game.
“Please. Have mercy on me and my children. We have nothing left. What are we to do for food?”
“Sister, what is anyone to do for food? I have children too. Do I look like a king? Who will have mercy on me?”
The border was so close I could taste it.