Under an Afghan Sky (36 page)

The little hand of the alarm clock was pointing at four. Still no word. Khalid must have felt the same impatience as I did. He reached into his pocket, dug out his cell phone, and dialed a number—Abdulrahman’s, I assumed, since he had been waiting for his call. The phone on the other end rang several times and then I heard the greeting. “As-Salaam Alaikum.” A quick conversation followed, and I heard Khalid asking what sounded like the same question at least three times. Then he passed the phone to Shafirgullah and sighed deeply. He reached across me for the box of cigarettes and lit one. When Shafirgullah got off the phone, the two had a long conversation in Pashto.
Finally, Khalid turned to me and told me we had to go.

“Go where?” I asked. “Kabul?”

“No. We go back to the place.”

“What place?” I knew what he meant, but I couldn’t bear to think about returning to the hole after a day out in the mountains. It wasn’t fair. If we could spend a day here, why not another?

“We must go now,” he told me. “I am sorry, Mellissa. It is not safe here.”

“But it is!” I argued. “No one saw us here today. No one. And this is a better place than in that hole down there. We can wait here. Maybe the phone call will come tomorrow.” I was pleading again but didn’t much care. I did not want to go back to the hole. I didn’t.

“We go.” There was no arguing. He and Shafirgullah started to pack up all the evidence of our being there. The empty juice boxes, the bits and pieces of cookie wrapper, and the blankets we’d used. I picked up the plastic bag that held my personal items.

The Afghans put their guns over their shoulders and told me we were heading down. I could do nothing but follow.

Going down was much harder than going up. I could feel my bad knee buckling under the strain. Those small rockslides we’d created heading up now threatened to take us down with them. Shafirgullah was a deft climber. He led us through a narrow path that ran straight down the mountain and zigzagged through some of the steeper cliffs, often having to wait until I picked myself up from a fall. We came to a big drop that I remembered from the night before. Khalid had had to give me a push up while Shafirgullah had held my arm to help me get my footing. Now I was looking down on it, and it was steeper than I remembered. Shafirgullah had already hopped down and Khalid was behind me, urging me forward. I jumped, and said a silent thank you to God when I didn’t sprain my ankle as I landed. We continued to weave our way down
as the sun made its exit to our left—west, I made a mental note to myself.

Suddenly, Shafirgullah whispered loudly,
“Dresh!”
and Khalid told me to stop and get down. I did as he said, and Khalid crouched between me and Shafirgullah. There was movement in the gulley just below us. I could barely make it out because it had gotten dark, but someone was there.

Then, just as I was wondering whether I should call for help, Shafirgullah stood up and started to laugh. Khalid stood up, and then motioned for me to do the same. “Do you see? Mellissa? Do you see?”

I couldn’t see. See what? They were both pointing. I strained my eyes but still couldn’t see anything.

“Quick—do you see?” Khalid repeated.

I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again, and I finally saw what they were pointing at. In the distance was a large dog—it looked like a coyote, though maybe it was a grey wolf—staring right back at me. I looked at him, or her, for a long time as if silently pleading for help.
Go and tell someone you saw me, if you can. Follow us back to the hole, and bring someone back to rescue me. You can pick up our scent with your nose. Follow us back and then go to the village and bring someone to find me. Please. Help me if you can.

The dog stared hard at us from about thirty metres away, as if trying to figure out who we were and whether we were a threat.

I was still staring at it when a loud bang shattered the silence. The dog fled. Shafirgullah laughed and slung his gun back over his shoulder. I glared at him, but he didn’t notice.

We continued down the mountain, stopping again at the creek for a break. I washed my face and my forearms and breathed in the fresh air, knowing that I would soon be confined in a dank hole again. I could see the town in the distance. We weren’t far away now.
Again, I contemplated running away. Khalid might let me go, but Shafirgullah would shoot me for sure. It was dark, their assault rifles were probably not the most accurate, and I might be able to outrun them. I kept looking for my chance as we made our way back to the village. There wasn’t one. Khalid was in front now, leading the way, and Shafirgullah and his gun were barely a step behind me. Finally, we stopped. We were very close to the town, and Khalid told me he had to blindfold me again. They did not want me to see where we were going and how we were going to get there.

I knelt down and let him tie the scarf around my eyes. I moved it a little so that I would be able to breathe and managed to create a little window over my right eye—the thin layer of scarf allowed me to see the world, albeit through the fuzzy, dark veil. Khalid took my hand and put it through his arm, and he guided me back through the grape fields and bumpy country paths. We talked almost the entire time, with the same exchange entering the conversation every few minutes.

“Khalid, you must help me get home to Canada.”

“Inshallah, Mellissa, you will go soon. I am sorry for you this is not finished.”

I told him it was nice to be away from the hole, even for a short time, and thanked him for taking care of me. I said he was nicer than his friend Shafirgullah, and he laughed.

“He didn’t need to shoot at the dog,” I said. “How do you say ‘dog’ in Pashto?”

“Spay,”
he answered. “He was not shooting dog. He just shooting.”

“Do you like
spays?
” I asked.

“Yes, I like. But Shogufa, she afraid of
spay.
You have a dog?”

“No, but I really want to get one. I love them.” I vowed I’d get a dog someday. My friend Melanie and I had tried to share
custody of a puppy a few years earlier when I lived in Toronto. Fudge was a little brown curly ball, and we loved him the same way divorced parents love (and raise) their children, but our work schedules made it almost impossible. We’d be sneaking him into work when we edited late, locking the door to our edit suite to hide him from the security guards. It was just too difficult, and he ended up in a good home with a co-worker, whose three young children doted on him.

I told Khalid about Fudge, and told him I’d get another dog someday, once I got home to Canada. He asked if I liked
pishos—
cats. I told him that my sister had two cats, but that I wasn’t their biggest fan.

“Dresh!”
came the call again from Shafirgullah, and we all sat down. Was someone walking nearby, and my kidnappers didn’t want us to be seen? Eventually, we continued on, and I could sense that we were back in the town. Through the blindfold I could make out the shapes of mud houses and walls, and trees. We walked through some alleyways and I could just distinguish the abandoned house where I had been taken that first week.

“Sit here,” Khalid ordered. I sat on the ground, still blindfolded. They left me there for what felt like a long time. It felt a little unsettling, almost like I was awaiting execution. Khalid finally returned and told me I would be going back to the hole. “I am sorry, but there is nowhere else to go,” he said.

I nodded. “I know, Khalid, but can I ask you something? Will you not put me in the chain again? It hurt the last time, and I can’t go anywhere anyway. Please?”

He didn’t answer for a while but then said, “Maybe your foot only.”

“No,” I pleaded. “Please, I am not going to go anywhere. I promise. No chain.”
I heard him take a deep breath. “Okay, Mellissa. No chain.”

“Thank you, Khalid. Thank you.”

“Get up,” he said, guiding me by my elbow to the entrance of the hole. “Sit.” Again, I sat cross-legged on the dirt ground. Through the blindfold, I could make out the outlines of what looked like a shed. My captors took some shovels from it and soon I could hear them digging.

“Come,” Khalid said. He led me to the hole, and then he and Shafirgullah each took an arm and lowered me back in. Once down, I took off my blindfold and crawled back down the smelly tunnel. I had Khalid’s lighter, the one with the small flashlight at the end, which I used to light my way.

The cave was still filthy, and it reeked. My backpack was where I’d left it. I shook out the blue duvet. A big spider was sitting on my pillow. I squashed it with my foot.

I sat down and waited for the sound of digging to start. There was no juice, no cookies, no bread. I wondered what they’d do. Someone was coming down. Khalid, maybe? Was someone going to stay with me now that the endgame might be near?

“Mellissa.”

It was Shafirgullah. He had supplies. A plastic bag, black this time, with the juice boxes we hadn’t yet finished and the remaining cookies. But he had something else. The thick metal chain, which he started to wrap around my ankles, fastening them with the padlocks that had just been removed the day before.

“No!” I shouted, but he continued.

“Stop, Shafirgullah! No! Khalid promised me no chain! Stop! That is too tight!”

“I sorry,” he said, shaking his head, “I sorry.” He brought the chain to my left wrist this time, and I protested, complaining it was too tight. He loosened the noose, and then put the padlock around it.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” I said, knowing that he wouldn’t understand. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere. How would I get out? What are you afraid of?”

“I sorry, Mellissa,” he said, before scampering into the tunnel and out the shaft. The sound of digging started. And soon I was covered in a shower of dirt and dust, chained to myself once again, in the exact same place I had been just a few days before. Only now I was a lot less optimistic that the end of my nightmare would come anytime soon.

Oh dearest M,

I can’t believe we have to endure another Friday like this. I scrounge for any hint that we are getting closer to your release. It is very quiet on the streets. The day when good Muslims go to the mosque to cleanse their hearts, I have visions of your kidnappers doing the same.

xx

I was angry. Angry at Shafirgullah for putting me back in chains. Angry at Khalid for not telling him I didn’t need to be chained. Angry at myself for actually thinking I might be in Kabul that night. But who I was really angry with—and this surprised me—was God.

How could you let this happen, God? I’ve been doing nothing but praying and praying and praying. Every hour on the hour. Even on the mountain, I didn’t miss a decade of the fucking rosary. Why aren’t you listening to me? Why aren’t you hearing my prayers? What more do I have to do to get you to hear me?

I threw the rosary on the blanket and stared at it. I decided to go on another prayer strike and see what happened. How could it be any worse, anyway, than what was already happening, or not happening? I looked at the filth that surrounded me and I was beyond disgusted. The trash can that had been my toilet hadn’t been emptied in days. Empty juice boxes, cookie wrappers, stale dirty bread, and cigarette butts littered the place. I felt like I’d been dumped in a garbage bin and left to rot with the refuse.

Look at this, God. Look at me. This is ridiculous. How much longer do you want me to stay here? Why would you want me to stay in here any longer than I already have? How could you let me stay in here? How could you let this happen? I’ve been begging you to help me for the last three weeks. Why aren’t you listening to me? Do you even exist? Or am I just praying to some phantom entity that’s a figment of society’s imagination?

I stopped. It would not be a good time to doubt the existence
of God—not when I needed him to help me. As angry as I was, I still needed help.

The lamp was fading. The batteries were probably dying, but I knew there were new ones somewhere. I fished around in several of the plastic bags trying to find them. They were in the same bag as the cookies, alongside three unopened packages of fruit cremes. My kidnappers had put the alarm clock back in the bag, and I took it out. It was just after ten o’clock. It was Wednesday, November 5, and the night after the US presidential election. I wondered what had happened, and hoped that America had made the right decision. Maybe President Obama would find a way to win the war in this country and give Afghans some hope for a better future. I remembered my plans to have an election party to watch the returns. Two elections in two countries and I’d missed them both. Along with countless other events, I was sure. I felt like I was missing out on life. On
my
life, and everything that was happening in the world. For all I knew, Osama bin Laden could have been found by now and NATO troops were pulling out of the country. Anything could have happened in the last month. Life and the world were passing me by and I couldn’t do anything to try to catch up to it. I was stuck in a dark, putrid hole in the middle of nowhere.

Stop it, I told myself. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You could be much worse off. Your kidnappers have at least left you food and drink. You’re not starving, and you’re not in pain, save for your stab wound and the pain in your stomach. And once this is over, you get to go home to Canada, where you have a pretty good life. You have nothing to complain about.

I lit a cigarette and smoked the whole thing. And when I finished it, I lit another. There was almost a full package left, and I didn’t really care anymore about running out. I’d just ask for more when someone came to check on me.
If
they were going to come check on me. They had to, didn’t they? Someone had to. Or maybe
they didn’t and they were happy to leave me alone for a few days. I thought better of lighting another smoke and stuck a straw into a box of apple juice instead.

I felt completely, hopelessly alone, though I tried to remind myself that I wasn’t. People were looking for me, talking to my kidnappers to try to get me released. The military was probably also looking for me, and maybe it already had an idea where I was. And perhaps there would be another opportunity to escape at some point. One way or another, I would be home soon, and I would never, ever again have to drink out of a juice box, or eat fruit creme cookies, or pee in a trash can.