Refugees (12 page)

Kandahar! They trained in Johar's own country? Naji had bragged about training there with a few lucky Talibs. Was this the new jihad against the West that Naji had spoken of—the one for America's broken promises? If so, then it was true that Taliban and Al Qaeda worked as one.
Khub ast,
thought Johar,
then even Daq could be trained to fly such a plane.
Johar's skin crawled at the thought.

Bija yanked on Johar's kameez. “More grapes, Jor.” Johar gave her the last handful. She was blissfully unaware.

“Such craziness!” A jade-eyed man like those from the forests of Nuristan turned toward Johar. “The Taliban have ranted such lunacy since they first seized the radio broadcasts. We Nuristanis know that they make up many lies.”
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Who knows, my friend, if this event is their imagined fairy tale, eh?”

Johar nodded. Nuristanis were fiercely independent. They had been the last tribe to convert to Islam. Their women wore bold colors, and some refused to wear the burqa. People called them wild, but Johar knew they spoke their truth without regard for others' beliefs. If it was a lie, it would be so much easier to accept. Bija tugged at Johar's sleeve again. He swept her up and kissed her forehead. It was impossible to imagine any man so evil as to fly into buildings full of people!
Inshallah, make it not true.
But if it was, what then?

“Don't speak too loudly, sahib,” the wiry man warned the Nuristani. “This place crawls with fanatics. A Talib has ears like a donkey, my brother,” he chuckled.

“I'll not be a slave to the Taliban or any other scoundrel,” spat the Nuristani. “I challenge them to fight me.” He shot his hands skyward. “Free to the death!”

Two swarthy men emerged from the crowd and began to argue with the Nuristani.

Alarmed by the rising commotion, Johar and Bija veered around the swarm and toward their donkey, tied near a truck filled with cauliflower. Johar grabbed one, resisting the urge to grab an armful. Days were still warm, but evenings brought a frost-nipped dusk, maybe snow, and Kabul, the next town on their journey to Camp Suryast, was at least a two days' ride. They must depart now.

Johar heard the call of the muezzin to prayer and gazed longingly at the mosque. Like a celestial Charikar bowl, its turquoise dome rose from the hill overlooking the market. Girls were not allowed in the mosque, not even tiny Bija. For a moment Johar thought of hiding her in his pattu in order
to pray. But her coughs would disturb the worshipers, so he said his prayers where they stood.

Caring for a toddler was a challenge. One needed the endurance of a camel and the raw strength of a lion—how had Aunt Maryam ever managed? Johar's heart ached. He'd let Maryam down by not trying harder to find out where the Taliban had taken her. Bija was his last chance to make up for past mistakes. No matter what, he must carry her to safety.

Johar fastened their goods to the saddle pack and hoisted Bija, coughing and fussy, onto the beast. For the next few hours, as they traveled on the road south and Bija slept, Johar's mind was ablaze with nightmarish thoughts. What had happened in Charikar? There had been a maelstrom of people, impassioned voices, and brawls. There had been news of American palaces on fire, destroyed as in ancient tales of Genghis Khan, cities conquered and cities lost. When would the insane hatred end—hatred of Shiites, of Christians, Jews, and Muslims? And what about America's biased neglect and Islam's unseeing fury against America?
Maybe,
thought Johar sadly,
it won't end until the last man has killed his twin.
They passed travelers on the road: one-legged men, children whose worm-infested bellies were as bloated as the throats of toads. It was a long procession of sorrow. Johar felt that Allah must cry with bitterness at his own creation.

For the next two nights he and Bija took rest where they could—with a group of vagabonds in a protected valley, and near a well where he filled his jug. Johar's stomach churned from its silted water. He wasn't sure whether it was from the cold or from dirty water that Bija's body grew hot with fever, but her cough, which had been mild, seemed to
creep deep into her lungs. Bija had no more energy for play. She clutched her doll and with listless eyes slumped against him.

In the rose quartz light of dawn, as Bija slept fitfully, Johar removed the wool that was spindled from the quilts and other places, and knit, the wooden needles clacking like a woodpecker's bill. Hats were born from his hands— one with geometric patterns radiating from the crown, a spiderweb design, another skullcap of mulberry-hued strands. He wound them around his belt or pulled the socks in layers over his feet. These were his currency, and easier to conceal as finished products.

As he worked he recalled his childhood wonder in learning the trade. “Nephew, watch me and learn,” his aunt would say as she took strands of wool between thumb and forefinger. She would twist them until they lengthened into one long string, then spin that strand onto a wooden spindle. Johar would copy her. When many spindles were done they would set out gourds filled with dyes: mountain blue, pomegranate red, mulberry, mustard. After the spindles were dry, they would set to knitting. These pleasant memories were disturbed by worry for the future, and Johar tried to imagine his father's voice, and his mother's songs. But they were silent, maybe frightened from a sky through which planes flew into buildings.

On the eighth morning of their trek to Kabul, before Bija stirred, Johar knelt on his pattu and bent his head toward Mecca, for morning namaz. As a breeze tickled his neck, a Farrukhi poem came to him:

He spoke out loud, and that was how the bandit found him. “Money!” demanded the luti, thrusting a switchblade at Johar's belly.

Johar jerked in fright, then cursed himself that he had not so much as a stick with which to hit the thief. “Sahib, I've no—”

“Give me food, then,” hissed the luti.

Johar moved slowly so it wouldn't seem as if he were escaping. He didn't want to aggravate the thief. With silent pleas for Bija to sleep on, he moved his hand cautiously into his pocket and pulled out a skullcap. “I've just made it. It's all I have.” He tried to conceal his shaking.

“Play games with me, will you?” The thief bent down and with a sweep of his arm sliced clear through Johar's pattu. “Your neck is next.”

“No games,” said Johar. “This will fetch you Afghani if you sell it in the bazaar.”

The luti cackled scornfully but grabbed the cap nevertheless, and closed his blade. “Keep still!” he commanded, and scrambled over to Johar's donkey.

Bija began to stir. While Johar ran to her on trembling legs, the luti stole the donkey, the quilts, and all the provisions, and vanished as swiftly as a jackal. Bija was woozy with fever. “Where's our donkey?” she asked.

“The donkey got away,” Johar whispered, hiding his panic. He staggered to the road with Bija clinging to his back and cursed the dust as they trudged on southward.

“Jor, how soon will we get to Suryast?” Bija asked wearily.

“Soon, little jewel. Soon.” But Johar knew better. Without a donkey it could take them days even to reach Kabul. Camp Suryast seemed as far as the distant shores of America.

The few vehicles that passed were mostly Taliban, with one fancy Western-style van carrying some Arab soldiers. Most travelers passed on foot.

Finally, as the sun began to bake through Johar's shalwar and redden Bija's cheeks, another truck, different from the others, rumbled toward them. This one had colorful sides that sparkled like flint, and it tinkled with bells.

Johar waved, and the truck slowed to a stop. Sequined scenes of mountains with grazing sheep adorned its sides. The driver motioned them in. Souls like them—sojourners and refugees, trekking south to heaven knew what— sprawled every which way in the back of the truck like a mound of pungent melons. It was the custom to give travelers a lift, but this driver, whoever he was, seemed exceptionally generous.

“Where are you headed?” one man asked Johar. “To Camp Suryast in Peshawar.” “Ah, my brother is there,” said another, nodding. “And my neighbor's family lives in a camp farther south. We are all running.”

“Where are you headed?” Johar asked the first.

“To Karachi, to the gun bazaar. We must protect ourselves. General Massoud is dead. There is rumor of more war to come.” Johar stayed quiet after that. He had nothing to say about guns. And news of Massoud's death made him despondent. Besides, Bija was burning with fever.

When the men stopped the truck for a break, Johar pleaded with the driver, a Pashtun from Kabul with a handsome nose and oddly impeccable garments.

“Sahib, I will do any bidding,” Johar explained. “I can clean, cook, knit, and weave. It's a matter of survival. My cousin is terribly sick; you can hear it in her lungs.”

“Any bidding?” The Pashtun gazed at Johar with interest.

“Yes, sahib.”
Almost anything,
thought Johar,
but I'll remain on guard.

“Thank you, Allah be praised,” murmured Johar when the Pashtun took pity and brought them to his place near the radio station in Kabul. It was an elegant compound with three rooms and a courtyard full of flowers. The dashing Pashtun, with his kohl-rimmed eyes and curiously dainty manners, fed them pilau with—grateful heavens— lamb! He offered Bija chai with comfrey, which eased her spluttering.

The man, named Aman, accepted Johar's gift of wool socks and laid out a quilt in his spare room.

“I've been looking for a houseboy,” said Aman. “My days are too busy.”

“You will not regret it,” Johar answered, and thanked Aman as if he were a prophet. Aman went into the other room and turned out the oil lantern. Johar listened to the man's steady breathing, then fell into a dreamless sleep, with Bija enfolded in his arms, laboring for her breath.

T
he next morning Aman announced to Johar, “You say you're good with your hands. Do the women's work, for I have no wife.” He ordered Johar to hem the frayed seams of his tunics, darn his woolens, and cook his meals. Later that day Aman brought back wool from the bazaar, saying, “Make me a blanket, boy, then keep some wool for yourself.” Aman seemed oddly feminine, and Johar still felt wary. He had heard tales of how some Pashtun men kept boys for their pleasure. But Aman was only polite and generous, and the temporary comfort of his home was a blessing. Johar and Bija had a cozy room and meals on a clean platter. Johar especially liked going outside to the garden to cover the roses with rags for winter safekeeping.

And there was no city with as magnificent a reputation
as Kabul! As a boy he had pored over faded photographs in Aunt Maryam's books. Decades ago Kabul's Dilkusha Palace had burst with flowers and bubbled with the water of marble fountains. Invading tribes had brought with them a new religion, Islam, in the seventh century, and the country was converted in waves. Soon after, some of the most magnificent places of worship were built, like Kabul's bluetiled Sherpur Mosque. Many invaders later, and long after British rule ended in 1919, Maryam said that women and girls had walked boldly in Kabul. Johar was stunned by her photo book showing ladies traipsing down streets without the hijab, in Western dress and heels. The captions read, “The 1960s were a period of peace and relative security.” Maryam told him that during that time, King Zahir Shah ruled, and Kabul was a popular destination for westerners seeking out Sufi wisdom and the rugged beauty of Asia. She said that progressive schools were the pride of the city. But all too soon after that, the king was deposed by his own cousin. A weak Marxist government followed, and the Soviets saw their chance to invade and import communism. For the next ten years conflict beat Afghanistan's buildings and pocked its roads. Then the Taliban came to power and shrouded the women. Afghanistan's was a tragic history, in dire need of some happier chapters, thought Johar.

On the second afternoon when chores were done, with Bija fast asleep in a cloth slung around Johar's back, Johar and Aman wandered down Kabul's winding streets. Pieces of walls rose up like ghostly spires. Kinsmen shuffled by, their eyes sunken with fear and hunger. When Johar saw those eyes, fear burned through him too. Arab soldiers in a Toyota truck sent dust up in clouds, and a bedraggled man
hacked and spat as he rumbled behind their truck in his shopworn ghadis. Kabulis lived in a ravaged city, yet signs of life and beauty remained. Plane trees still lent their shade along alleyways. And on the outskirts of town, fields of mud huts still encircled the city. “One day we must rebuild this place,” Johar said.

“Inshallah, we can only hope.” Aman pointed to the Talib-run radio station four buildings down. “I work over there.”

“For Radio Shariat?” Panic rifled through Johar. Who was this Aman, really?

“Yes.” Aman sounded proud, but guilty too. An engineer could pay for a compound such as his? What other things did Aman do?

Johar's words stumbled out. “You work for the Taliban, but you are not…?”

“I'm not. But yes, I work for them.” Aman sighed. “Everyone has their price.”