Authors: Catherine Stine
Refugees (21 page)
“Sucks?”
“If something sucks, that means it's bad.” Dawn guessed it was up to her to start. “In your e-mail you had some question about us Americans, right?”
“Ah. Yes. Do not take this wrongly. Afghanis try to stay close no matter what, yet your family is so scattered. Do Americans prefer it that way?”
“I wouldn't say prefer, but it's something you get used to.”
“Why would they want to get used to this? You mother seems so sad, so alone.”
“You really think so? I never saw her that way.”
She isn't
my mother,
Dawn almost remarked. “No one wants to be tied down in the States. Life is fast. Everyone is busy. Work takes people many places. We have lots of planes and highways.” Dawn laughed bitterly. “I think of our highways as desperado trails.”
“Desperado trails? What are?”
“It's an old cowboy term for the path an outlaw took—a bad guy from the West who kept moving so he wouldn't be caught.”
Johar's rich tenor rippled into laughter. “Then you are all outlaws!”
“You could say that.” Dawn laughed too. “But what is so great about staying close? From what I've read in the papers about your country, it seems that everything is clanbased, like you're all hiding inside your compounds with your own clan, not branching out into the real world, mixing with other people.”
“People mix—at the bazaar, in school, in our jobs. But clan is good. We have strong families,” Johar insisted. “We have cousins and uncles and aunts, spreading like vines through the villages. Maybe you hear about families hiding from the Taliban, or women hiding because not allowed out.”
“Yes. I've read about that in the newspaper. But wasn't it always men versus women in Afghanistan? I've heard women aren't allowed to do anything.”
“No, no, no. That is separation between public and home, not between men and women. Before Taliban, women worked—as teachers, as doctors. But like with you, it was a while before I feel comfortable. Maybe I still feel is risky to speak with you. Also, some men feel that if women doesn't cover up that is not moral, distracting—”
“Just because I am a woman doesn't mean I'm going to
bite you or put a curse on you or some crazy thing,” Dawn blurted. “And if men are distracted by women, then it's their own problem. Why do they see women just as sex objects? That's so superficial. In America we have friendships between women and men. There are other things in life besides knocking boots.”
“Knocking boots?”
“Sex.”
“Do you think I am superficial, then?” asked Johar.
“Of course not. I'm sorry. You're smart and deep. The subject gets me mad, that's all. I mean, do you think that I shouldn't be allowed to go to college or work in the music industry when I'm older because I'm a girl? Do you think Dr. Garland shouldn't practice medicine?”
“No, restrictions on women sucks, as you say. My aunt said always that women can do whatever men can.”
“Then who makes up all these stupid rules?”
Johar sighed. “I guess religion, tradition.”
“Tradition sucks, then. And religion is so stuck in the past it needs a major overhaul. Spirituality should be allinclusive, not all these religious factions fighting and killing one another. Religion shouldn't do people's thinking for them. Why can't we have a world where everyone thinks for themselves?”
“I agree,” Johar cut in. “Let's go for it, as you Americans say. But give Afghanistan time. Our country may change slowly, in unique ways.” He paused. “After all, Afghans are not little children playing follow-the-caliph.”
Dear Johar—
I've thought a lot about what we discussed. It's strange how our cultures are so different.
I never thought of family that way. Mine has always been scattered. I grew up in a foster home. It was like an orphanage. You must have them in Afghanistan. Then I went to two homes after that. Neither one worked out. So I was returned to the foster home. Louise (Dr. Garland) is my third foster parent—like a fake parent. She keeps her distance from me and I from her. She's not my real mother, and I guess that's why we don't feel close. Do I prefer it this way? No, but how can I change it? I hope you're not mad about what I said. Since you love poetry, I wanted to send you one of my favorites. It's about hobos traveling. Hobos were poor people with no home, kind of like refugees. They traveled by hopping on trains without paying. Here are a couple lines:
Down the track came a hobo hiking and he
said boys I'm not turning.
So come with me, we'll go and see the big
Rock Candy Mountains.
People sang it a lot during the Depression, a time when the whole country was poor and a lot of people were jobless and hungry.
It's great about you teaching!! The children must love you. You seem so patient and kind. What's your favorite poem? xox Dawn
Dawn—
Things you tell me make me sure that change is a great thing. Those candy mountains remind me
of Afghan mountains. Too many poems are my favrite. Here is one abot music, also by Rumi:
Don't woory abot saving these songs
And if one of our instruments breeks
It dosent matter. We have fallen into the place
Where evrything is music
The strumming and the floot notes
Rise into the atmosfere, And even if the whole worlds harp
shoud burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.
I want to ask you, where are your real mother and father?
Regards, Johar
Dear Johar—
I love the Rumi poem on music. I guess that's why I play down at the site so much—it's like I want to bring something beautiful there. As far as my real parents, my dad was never part of the equation. And I don't remember my mother except for what she looked like. Do you know how hard that is? It haunts me. If I remember how she looked, why can't I remember what she said? I was about five when I went to the group home. Maybe my mother was too young or too poor to keep a child. If I knew, it might be easier. But, like you said, clan—blood relations—probably does have some mystical connection. I've looked for her through the Internet and in phone books. Maybe she's
looking for me. Can anyone take the place of your real mother?
XOX Dawn
Dawn—
I surprised that Dr. Garland is not your real mother. She speek as if she is. My mother is gone too. I miss her still. She die frum stepping on hidden mine frum war with Soviets. I get so mad. I have lost father and so many family. And now my brother and aunt are missing. I tell myself I will see them, but sometimes I fear that is just a wishful dream. I am fifteen, and in Afghanistan that is a man, but I do not know what I am doing from day to day. Bija gets sick and cries. I just want it all to stop like end of hellish nightmare. Why would you run away by choice? I wish I did not have to run. Louise can be like mother, yes? She care. She feed you and keep you in her house. My aunt was like my mother. And people in books are like mothers. Rabi'a, the poetess, is my muse. Muse can be like a mother, yes? But war keeps family apart. Always war. Now even war in your country. To remember your mother. It may help. I do not remember things my mother say to me, yet I remember all of her songs. Memories of her songs do help me. Pray on your memory. Meditate on it. Wen your ready it will come out.
XOX Johar
New York,
early November 2001
D
ays grooved into patterns. Dawn would wake up, feed Mara and Chester, water Susie's geraniums, then set up shop on Fifth Avenue to earn money. This spot was close enough to walk to, as Dawn tried to avoid the subway and its post9/11 litany of police investigations into this or that possible terrorist activity—a potentially anthrax-laden bag on the platform or a noxious odor on the number 6 local. Even on the street there were things to watch out for: trash cans with overflowing liquids, loonies with bulging packs, blaring sirens, or low-flying planes with odd flight patterns. The lines between paranoia and caution were blurred.
She played tunes that grabbed attention and held it. Her repertoire included jazz, rock, and classical licks with showy technique, like the Bach. Heads would turn and nod
appreciatively and hands would toss dollars into her case. On a good morning Dawn could pocket thirty, even fifty dollars; on a bad morning, ten.
Sometimes she'd grab a slice of pizza and a soda, then walk up to the sheet music stores around Times Square. Dawn would search the rows with an eye to an international array—Swedish, Spanish, and French. She was frugal over final purchases—she needed to save for food and just in case she had to flee Manhattan.
She and Johar e-mailed constantly. Dawn would hurry back to the apartment in the late afternoon and log onto Susie's Mac. They e-mailed each other about poetry and music. Dawn wrote that her favorite rock bands were the Beatles and Radiohead. Johar e-mailed back,
Americans have strange names for music groups. Garden insekts and a radio on someone's head! How about naming a band Khonok? That means cool.
She laughed as she sent off her response.
What about naming an Afghan band KabuliCool or Yakboots?
They wrote about school and friends and of the future.
I dream to start a school,
he confided in the next e-mail,
and call it Maryam School in homage to my aunt for all she has taught me.
Dawn replied,
I want to play in a concert hall, get over my stage fright.
She felt as if they could sense each other's moods.
Were you sad these last few days?
she asked in one e-mail.
How did you know?
he replied in the next.
What do you look like?
she typed in one day.
I am tall,
he responded,
but not as tall as my brother. I have black hair in curls and Daq says I shuffle like a Sufi in a trance. And you?
She typed back when she received his message,
I have blond hair and brown eyes. People say I'm pretty, but I don't think so. Louise says I have knobby flutist fingers.
She boosted Johar's spirits, and he did the same for her.
War will
end and you'll return to your village,
she insisted. And Johar replied,
Your music helps many to heal.
Dawn taught Johar about the abbreviation LOL so they could laugh together online. One time she actually played him a flute rondo over the phone. Dawn felt closer to Johar than she did even to Jude.
Dawn called Victor again, just to let him know she was OK. If he knew that, Dawn reasoned, it might keep him from calling Louise. She said she was safe but didn't reveal her whereabouts.
Victor said he was relieved, but it didn't take long for the hateful stuff to leak out. He said that she was just trying to grab attention, and he wouldn't fall for it. “Because of you, I was late in turning in my research project,” he ranted. “Because of you I've had to lie to Louise.”
“You've lied all along,” Dawn blurted. “I know how you really feel about me.”
“Know what?”
“You tried to convince Louise not to foster me.”
“Baloney,” Victor muttered. “You can whine about this later. Get back here or I'll have no choice but to call her.”
“Tell the truth!” Dawn shouted. “You never wanted me. And if you tell Louise I took off, I'll tell her you knew all along I was gone.”
“Look, Dawn,” he sighed, “I thought it might work out with you. And yes, I did it for Louise. I had no idea you could cause so much trouble.”
“Trouble? What trouble? I'm sorry that I wasn't all sweet when it was so obvious you didn't want me there.”
“Yes, trouble. Like the time you slept out on the beach all night without calling, or the times you cut school. Sending you back to Epiphany might teach you a lesson.
Heaven knows, nothing else has. But I've washed my hands of this!” Victor yelled, then slammed the phone down. It absolutely unraveled her, but if Dawn kept forcing herself to call him, Victor might keep quiet.
Today she'd tried him three times—times when he had always been home before—but it just kept ringing and ringing. Had Victor finally decided to tell Louise? What then? Louise might have started to care, but Dawn's running away would undo it all. Louise would send Dawn back for sure. Dawn was beyond upset when she decided to call Johar.
“May I help you?”
“Johar! I don't know what to do. I feel so crazed.”
“What happened, Dawn?”
“My foster father finally admitted he never wanted me. I'm not surprised, but he said if I go back, he'll send me back to the group home where I was before.”
“In Afghanistan orphanages are sad and shabby. There is no money for them. Why would Dr. Garland want to send you there?”
“She doesn't know. Besides, she might not want to face him. Victor is her husband. I'm not even adopted, just a foster child.”
“You must talk to her. How can you help this if you don't talk?”
“I don't know. She's so distant. My real mother might understand me.”
“Why more than Dr. Garland?”
“We share the same genes.”
“Genes?”
“Blood. Clan.”
“Maybe you share something else with Dr. Garland.”
“Maybe, yeah.”
Prickly personalities,
thought Dawn. “But you said how important blood relations are. You said—”