Refugees (26 page)

“I did! I know it would be a huge change, but isn't it a great idea?” Johar was silent. “Was there something wrong with that?”

“Yes, something is wrong! I thought you understood me.”

“I think I do.”

“Not if you think I want to flee from my country! What have I fought against all this time? What is it I've been dreaming of?”

“You've been dreaming of a family reunion. And now Daq is at the camp, and Bija, and you could go see your aunt first—”

“It's true, most of my family is here. But tell me, what else I have spoken of all these weeks?”

“I don't know. You tell me.” She sounded defiant.

“I thought you were not like any others. I thought you understood.”

“That's not fair,” she said.

Johar sighed. “I want to go back to Baghlan and start a
school. I want to be with my aunt if she's still there. Not run away to America like all the million refugees who flee their homes.”

“But I thought you and Bija…” Dawn started to mumble. “I thought you would like to be part of our family, at least until Afghanistan is stabilized.”

“People like me will stabilize Afghanistan!” he shouted. “If all people run, there will be none to rebuild.” His anger shifted to weary frustration. “They say America bursts with refugees from wars. They say these refugees stay, make money, and make new life. Maybe some should go back to rebuild their countries, not hide out in lands that already have plenty.”

“That's a really negative way of putting it,” said Dawn. “I wouldn't say anyone is escaping here. Your uncle Tilo is teaching abroad, right? I'm sure he does a lot of good as a teacher—opening people up to other cultures. And immigrants work very hard in America. I think it would be so tough to start out here brand-new.” Dawn's voice lowered. “I hear what you're saying, though. You are a stubborn dreamer like me.”

“Yes. But I used to think I was different from my people.” Johar paused. “I am no different. Thinking of myself as separate, misunderstood—that was my fear speaking.”

“Fear? You are the least fearful person I know. I couldn't do what you're doing.” Dawn chuckled. “Maybe someday you will visit—not to live here, just to visit.”

“Yes, someday when my country is not hurting.”

“Can I come to help you, then?” Dawn asked. “Or would an American be unwelcome at your school?”

“All students and all teachers will be welcome at my school.”

D
awn scurried through the East Village. She was thinking about how things peeled off in layers like onion skins. Just when you thought you had peeled off the last dried-up piece, another layer of unfinished business revealed itself from underneath. Sander was unfinished business—all the times she had shied away from his offers to play in the band after that first awful time. She passed a row of Indian restaurants, a health food store, and a hardware store, all the while murmuring to herself, “Yes, I
want
to play my flute with the guys, even though I'll have to deal with Pax's superior attitude. It's not going to freaking
kill
me! And yeah, it's scary how when I think of jamming with Sander, my insides hum. But hey, terror never felt so good, because it's a
feeling,
dammit! Pulse the feeling through me like Pax's mad bass and Sander's percussion.”

Dawn buzzed his doorbell. Footsteps pounded down, and Sander opened the door. “Perfect timing,” he huffed. “The band's rehearsing. Want to come in and listen?”

“This time I'm here to play.”

“You brought the flute? Excellent!” They clomped upstairs to the apartment.

Dawn called over to Pax, “Is it okay with you that I play?”

“Whatever.” He shrugged and waved her in with his bony hand.

Sander's coffee table was littered with chip bags and empty soda bottles. There was hardly a spot to open her case. Dawn twisted the flute together and wove her way around the chaos of pillows, bongos, and guitar picks poking their plastic nubs through the shag. She eased into a spot between Pax and Sander, plugged in the flute, and began.

As Sander hammered the snare for the song's climax he called to her; “Sounds great! You're soaring!” Then he turned to Pax. “Lighten up on the bass, guy. You're drowning out the flute.”

This time Pax is the one being bawled out,
Dawn realized. They practiced Sander's tune and a cool Incubus song. She taught them her compositions: the bhangra and a Middle Eastern rock song she had titled “Arabesque.”

Sander had to run through Dawn's songs a dozen times, adjusting to their novel beat. “These tunes rock!” he remarked. “How did you come up with this stuff?”

Dawn shrugged. “I wrote it for ground zero. I needed all kinds of music.”

“It's fresh,” Pax said. “We need something fresh.” He started jiggling his head like one of those bobble-headed car accessories. “We could do a September eleventh benefit
gig with some of that material.” Pax was coming around in full colors. Who would've thought?

They played “Arabesque” over and over as the shadows crept over the sills, and hypnotized themselves with its orbital mantra. Streetlights hissed on, neon storefronts flashed, and Dawn realized abruptly how late it was. She suddenly remembered that she needed to call Louise and Johar. Dawn lay the flute on Sander's amp and unearthed the sat phone from her pack. “Got to make a call. Can I have some privacy?”

“Sure.” Sander pointed to his room.

Dawn walked in and sat on his bed, the scent of sandalwood wafting up. She had tried to call earlier, but no one had answered. They must have been celebrating the Taliban's release of Kandahar, their last southern stronghold. She dialed, thinking about how her feelings had been shifting toward Louise in increments so tiny she had hardly noticed at first. Shifts toward Louise. Louise was sort of like a tree. Her bark was tough, but she had been there, in plain sight. You could lean on a tree or climb its leafy branches and feel the sun warm on your shoulders. Still, it was high time Louise understood how crummy it was to have a parent always flying away. Dawn would work to find the words to tell her how that felt.
Decent words for a change,
she thought.

The phone rang and rang. Where was everyone? Worry began to drain away the pleasure of band practice, the sandalwood, and any world beyond Peshawar. Was it the celebration at the end of Ramadan? No, that had gone by. Maybe they were out to get supplies. Why hadn't they told her where they were going? She dialed again. On the fifth ring, someone picked up.

“Salaam.” It was a strange man's voice.

“Is Dr. Garland there?” asked Dawn. There was an uncomfortable silence. “Who is this? May I speak to Johar?”

Finally the man responded. “I'm Nils. I work here for the ICRC. Neither Johar nor Dr. Garland is here.” He had an accent, unlike Johar's. “May I ask, who are you?”

“I'm Dr. Garland's daughter. Where are they? They're usually here at this time.”

“Yes, but the clinic is shut.”

“Why?” Had the army seized the clinic?

“The clinic was sacked, I'm afraid.”

“What? What do you mean?” Hysteria rose in Dawn like a stormy tide. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No. Apparently it happened late last night after the clinic was closed. They stole the computers, the supplies, and most of the satellite phones and did quite a bit of damage to the walls. I managed to salvage this phone. Thankfully, it was tucked away behind a desk. This place will stay closed until repairs can be made.”

“Can you get Louise or Johar? I'll hold the line.”

Nils sighed. “I have yet to speak with them myself. Your mother was not here when I returned from my trip, and neither was Johar. But stay calm. They'll return soon.”

“Stay calm! Shouldn't you figure out where they are?” Dawn was shouting now. “How do you know they weren't hurt? I need to know where they are!”

“I understand your worry. Give me your number and I will keep you posted. I'll call as soon as I have information.”

Sander peered in, then came to sit by her on the bed. Dawn gave her number to Nils, clicked off, and threw the phone on the bed. “What's wrong?” Sander asked.

As he held her, Dawn began to weep, her tears dampening his shirt. Dark images filled Dawn—of Louise's body
in a ditch, of Johar lined up and shot. Why hadn't she realized how much danger they were in every day? Everything had seemed sort of stable—she could call and they would be there. But the situation was precarious. Johar had been a stranger just a few months ago. And Louise—Dawn hadn't known her either. She had willed herself into total denial. But now—now these two were more important to Dawn than anyone else in the world.

She hadn't returned since those early September nights. Dawn entered St. Peter's, tiptoed along the marble floor to the altar, and knelt before the candles. Stuffing a wad of bills into the donation box, she whispered, “What can I do?”

She switched on the first candle. “For Louise. Please, bring her back to me.” She switched on the second. “Keep Johar safe.” And another. “For Bija.” Dawn switched on all the rest. They flickered in a fierce rectangle like the candle flag had at Union Square's memorial. The glow cast ruby light on the statues of the saints. “For Johar's aunt Maryam and his brother, Daq; for Sander and Jude. For all the people I hated and all the ones I loved but never told, for America and the world and our messed-up lives.” With closed eyes she felt the breadth of her own emptiness.

J
ohar left Bija with Anqa, then hurried along the path, eager to work. When Dr. Garland had let him off early he'd felt uncomfortable every time he pictured her alone with the patients. That was two days ago. After Daq had stormed off, Johar had sat on the ridge to mourn the rift between him and his brother. He recalled rosy images of Baghlan—of them as boys playing mansur in the dirt, of steadying the sheep for Daq so shearing could be done. He made silent apologies for Daq's behavior; he'd had a difficult time as the eldest, and Daq missed Father the most. The day before had been just as bad. Johar's anger toward Dawn had frightened him. She had only been trying to help.

Before he knew it, Johar was at the clinic, circling around the gathering crowd of patients. He swung open the
door only to find the place was in a shambles! Papers were scattered on the floor, and the laptop and phone were missing from the desk. The supply shelves were bare, and it looked as if a stick had been taken to the flimsy chipboard walls.

“Dr. Garland?” called Johar. “Dr. Garland?” He knew she wasn't there, for he'd spoken to her this morning at Anqa's. The doctor was on her way to visit a family who had moved outside the camp, and had asked if he would mind holding down the fort, as she put it, for a few hours. She mentioned that Nils was returning but that Johar was such a help he would remain on. Johar surveyed the damage to Nils's office. The satellite poster was ripped from its wall clasp and trampled, as well as most of the files. And Nils's computer was gone. No more e-mails. The thought depressed him.

As Johar returned to the main room something crunched underfoot. He picked it up. It was Dr. Garland's photo. The frame was broken, but Dawn's face gazed out soberly, challenging the viewer. Daq must have done this! Johar's mixed feelings for his brother flared into pure rage.

No more excuses for Daq. A deadly resolve settled in Johar as he marched through Suryast's warrens of tents, along its ditches, and through the grasses to the road north. Johar felt for his gun and was repelled by it. He hadn't thought about it for a while, though he always carried it. He couldn't imagine using a gun against Daq, but he might need it for protection. To calm himself, he chanted a poem Dawn had e-mailed him:
Escape is not a safe place; escape is not a safe place; escape…
Musicians called Pearl Jam had written those lines.
I can't escape fear,
he thought.
I can't escape my disgust. I can't escape my duty.
Daq had put him in his
place long enough. Today Johar would not escape the pain of setting his brother straight.

The sun baked through his shalwar kameez as Johar flew past trees spurred with devotional nails. Fields of camel thorn scraped his feet.

How far was the pass? Daq hadn't said exactly. It could be five or ten kilometers. Daq had said his hut lay behind a stall with a red sign south of the Khyber Pass. On his trek south Johar had traveled not through the pass but through gaps in the border patrol to the west of it. These stalls would be new to him, so he must keep a keen eye out.

Johar was weakened from last month's fast, and he had managed just a bowl of rice earlier. He trudged along the trail for what seemed like hours, his side aching. He passed a rusty stall, but behind it lay only sand. He passed a nomad further on, who requested a charm to guard from injury.
The man must think I'm a dervish of some sort,
Johar thought, shaking his head. The nomad raised his cane in anger, yet moved on.

After a few hours, a structure bearing a dusty red sign loomed ahead. Johar hurried toward it. Fifty paces beyond the stall, a guard leaned against the door of a mud hut, Kalashnikov by his side. He was young, maybe Johar's age. Johar hid behind the stall. Again, the thought of handling the gun made his stomach lurch. There must be another way to defend himself. He tried to devise an approach. The cramp in his side sickened to waves of nausea. Johar stepped to the side of the stall. He could see the boy in his black turban, his body taut like a lynx's.