Shooting Kabul Read online

  Wow, Fadi thought, looking at some of the photographs Clive Murray had taken. Some of the most arresting images focused on people—portraits of children at play, women cooking, and old men sitting in contemplation.

  He looked at Anh in awe. “This is really awesome, all of this research.” He handed the stack back to her, but she pushed it back.

  “This is your copy,” she said. “Now all we have to do is figure out what they like and make sure our pictures appeal to them.”

  “Thanks,” said Fadi. “You’re really amazing.” He slipped the pages into his backpack, his mind churning with hundreds of possibilities of what to shoot.

  “Look, I’ve heard you talking to Ms. Bethune about angles, light, speed, and all that other photography stuff. It really sounds like you know what you’re doing,” she said. “I’m pretty good at doing research and investigating. So how about you help me with my photography and I’ll keep you loaded with information?”

  “That’s fair,” said Fadi. He grinned. “You help us figure out what to shoot, and I’ll help us shoot it.”

  “Great,” said Anh. “That sounds like an awesome plan.”

  Fadi gave Anh a grateful look from under his eyelashes. This was really going to give them a leg up on the others. Man, she’s really like Claudia, he thought. While at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Claudia and her brother had tried to solve the mystery of one of the statues, given to the museum by Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. The first thing Claudia had done was go to the library on Fifty-third Street and do research on the famous Renaissance artist Michelangelo.

  “Where’s Jon?” wondered Fadi. He looked around for their missing partner.

  “Oh, he’s out with some viral thing,” said Anh. She pulled out the library books she’d shown him in the library.

  “Oh,” said Fadi. “That’s too bad.” Jon tended to be sick a lot, poor kid.

  “No, he’s not,” said a girl on Anh’s left. She was from homeroom, Patty’s friend, whose name he could never remember.

  “What?” asked Anh.

  “Rumor has it Jon was jumped by Ike on the way home from school,” said the girl. Her eyes were bright at sharing a juicy tidbit of gossip.

  Fadi gulped. “Are you sure?”

  “Yup,” said the girl with a nod. “Ravi saw it happen. Ike took Jon’s collection of DVDs.”

  “Oh, man,” said Anh. “Was he hurt badly?”

  “No, just shook up. But you know Jon.”

  “Yup,” said Anh. They did. Jon tended to get hurt easily.

  Poor guy, thought Fadi.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Ms. Bethune. She walked through the door and put down her bag. “We need to get cracking on our collages today since I want to finish this project before Thanksgiving.”

  Fadi flipped open the book on undersea life and examined the bold colors of the tropical fish. He blinked, forgetting Jon for a moment as he noticed how the photographer had captured a bright orange and black clown fish nestled in a pale sea anemone. The fish practically popped off the page.

  Fadi remembered what his father had taught him while they’d roamed the hills of Kabul, exploring birds’ nests and finding colored rocks. The three key ingredients of a photo were simplicity, composition, and lighting.

  The photographer who’d taken the picture of the clown fish had captured all three elements in one picture; he’d chosen the image of a single fish and not cluttered up the picture with too much other stuff. Since you couldn’t use a telephoto lens underwater, he’d probably zoomed in and cropped the shot tighter. His composition of the shot was impressive. He’d used an artist’s technique called “the golden mean” to divide the picture into imaginary thirds both vertically and horizontally, like a tic-tac-toe board. Then he’d placed the subject of the photo, the fish, on or near those imaginary lines or their intersections so that the orange and black fish popped against the pale tentacles of the anemone.

  Fadi knew that great photos almost always showed a skilled use of light. The best photos were taken at dawn, in the late afternoon, or at dusk, when the low angle of the sun produced rich, warm colors and long shadows. You needed to avoid shooting at noon, a time when light was “flat.” It could seem very complicated, but for Fadi, once a camera was in his hand and he was looking through the viewfinder, it all fell into place. Then, with one click you could capture an amazing image.

  Now I just need to figure out what that amazing image is. Fadi sighed. One amazing image that would get him to Peshawar.

  HABIB MANAGED TO FIND an empty parking spot at the back of the lot and squeezed his taxi in between a delivery truck and a Mercedes-Benz. “Come on, bachay,” he said, turning back to Fadi and Zalmay, who sat in the backseat. “We don’t want to be late for Friday prayers.”

  Zalmay nodded happily. It was his birthday, and Habib had promised to take the boys to Toys“R”Us after prayers to pick out a present. Fadi followed Zalmay and his father through the parking lot toward the blue and gold tiled facade of the mosque. Stragglers took off their shoes and said their Salaams to friends and hurried inside. Fadi paused at the front step to unlace his tennis shoes. After taking them off, he slipped them into the shoe rack and walked inside. The mosque had just opened, and he could smell the faint scent of fresh paint in the wide, airy prayer hall.

  “My dad donated money to build this mosque,” whispered Zalmay, puffing out his chest.

  Fadi looked around, impressed. No expense had been spared by the Afghan community to construct the majestic building. The main hall could accommodate more than five hundred, and its rising minarets announced prayers five times a day.

  “There,” whispered Habib, pointing to the right.

  Uncle Amin had managed to save them a spot before things had gotten too crowded. The trio made their way across the soft carpet and sat down.

  The imam shuffled toward the front of the building and the mihrab, which pointed toward Mecca. His long, fluffy white beard hung down his chest, and a prayer cap covered his bald head. He settled his rotund frame onto a prayer rug in front of the crowd and cleared his throat into the microphone. It was a hint to quiet down before his khutba, or sermon, began.

  “I hope he doesn’t talk about smelly socks again,” whispered Zalmay, elbowing Fadi.

  Fadi muffled a giggle. Last week the imam had talked for more than an hour about Allah’s love for cleanliness and purity of both body and soul. His jowls shaking with emotion, the imam had spent ten minutes telling people not to come to the mosque wearing smelly socks or after eating garlic because that disturbed the prayers of people around them.

  He had a point, thought Fadi, eyeing the clean white socks of the man in front of him. His nose wrinkled. I don’t want to kneel next to smelly feet.

  “I thought long and hard about what I should speak about today,” began the imam. His usually animated voice was subdued. “My mind kept coming back to the events of Tuesday, for it was a terrible, terrible day. It was a day of killing—a day of violence.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the air. The audience sat still, many with their eyes downcast, as if in meditation.

  Boy, we’re not talking about smelly socks, thought Fadi. I kind of wish we were.

  “But as I thought about who the perpetrators were, or why they had done these deeds, I kept coming back to a surah in the Holy Qur’an. The verse, number thirty-two, is in chapter five. And before we talk about anything else, I feel we need to think long and hard about what this verse means.”

  The imam cleared his throat, and soon the hall was filled with melodious Arabic, the language of the Qur’an. The imam paused a moment, then translated. “We ordained for the Children of Israel that if anyone slew a person—unless it be for murder or for spreading mischief in the land—it would be as if he slew the whole people: and if anyone saved a life, it would be as if he saved the life of the whole people.”

  He followed the translation with ten seconds of silence, allowing the words to fill the cavernous room.


  “So, brothers and sisters, what the Qur’an is saying is that if we kill one human being, it is as if we have killed all of mankind, and if we save a human, it is as if we have saved all of mankind. That is the point we must understand. When you kill, you cease to be a true human.”

  Fadi stood in a daze as the sliding doors closed behind him. His mind was still back at the mosque and on the imam’s sermon. It had reminded him of the importance of human life, and of its value. A shiver of unease settled over him as he stared out into the sprawling store. Dozens of beady eyes stared back at him from the line of stuffed circus animals on sale.

  “Fadi, come on,” prodded Zalmay. His cousin pushed him past the greeting cards and wrapping paper.

  Fadi looked away from the stuffed animals with a shake of his head. He’d never seen so many toys in his entire life. Aisles filled with all kinds of gadgets, puzzles, and games stretched in every direction. He stood at the end of an aisle, paralyzed, not knowing which direction to turn.

  “You get something as well, Fadi jaan,” said Habib. “Something small, though,” he added with a wink.

  “This way,” said Zalmay. He dragged Fadi past the toy trains.

  Fadi wanted to stop, to check out the intricately laid-out tracks, the towns, bridges, and water tower, but Zalmay had a set destination in mind.

  “Uncle Habib, we’ll be in the electronics section,” Zalmay called out.

  Habib smiled and waved them on.

  They jogged through aisles of puzzles, past the bicycles and the sports equipment. Kids ran through the store, tossing balls at one another, laughing happily. A little girl drifted behind her mother, her arms overflowing with princess dresses, glass slippers, and a sparkling tiara.

  Fadi stumbled for a moment, eyeing the girl’s bright pink dress. Mariam’s favorite color.

  “Here,” said Zalmay. He pulled Fadi into the video games section.

  Fadi blinked anxiously and turned away from the girl to watch his cousin’s eyes widen at the row of new releases.

  “Wow,” Zalmay said breathlessly. “The new Super Mario! And Space Invaders Five! You’re going to love that one. I played it at a friend’s house last week.”

  Zalmay walked up and down the aisles, checking out different games, reading the descriptions and the reviews.

  After a few minutes Fadi got bored. “I’m going to check some stuff out,” he called out to Zalmay. “I’ll be back.”

  Zalmay waved at him distractedly while talking with the sales assistant about the superiority of Myst over Civilization.

  Fadi wandered through the stuffed animal shelves, amazed at how lifelike they were. He patted an electronic dog that waved its tail and barked. He passed by the superhero action figures, remembering a lot of them from Saturday morning cartoons. He paused at the X-Men figurines and looked them over. Neat, but no, he didn’t want to spend money on one. Hoping to find his way back to the board games, he turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks.

  From both sides of the aisle hundreds of Barbies stared down at him. Fadi closed his eyes. His body felt cold and his hands went numb. He swallowed, feeling thirsty all of a sudden. His eyelids flickered open. Cowgirl Barbie gave him an accusing glare. Artist Barbie stood next to her, holding a paintbrush, sharing a conspiratorial frown with Doctor Barbie. Fadi’s chest tightened and he glanced downward. Assembled on the bottom row stood a platoon of Barbies from around the world. Native American, Korean, Spanish, Nigerian, and Austrian Barbie were whispering to one another … whispering about Gulmina.

  The memories he’d kept hidden away in the back of his mind came like a flood, threatening to drown him. Fadi stumbled forward. He needed to get out of the aisle. He dragged his leaden feet, begging them to cooperate, but the row of Barbies seemed to lengthen, stretch out for miles. He gulped, his throat parched. Pink. There are so many kinds of pink … Beach Barbie carried a coral-hued towel, Movie Star Barbie drove a fuchsia jeep, Ballerina Barbie twirled in a pale pink tutu. Unbidden, an image flared in front of him. It was Mariam, holding out Gulmina, asking him to put her into his backpack. And I didn’t do it. He could practically feel Mariam’s tiny fingers slipping away from his as the phantom rumble of a truck echoed in his mind.

  Hot anger flared from his mind and rippled through his body with a surge of heat. He glared at a smiling Barbie in a fluffy lavender dress, and his hands balled into fists. It’s her fault. He heard a scream echo through the store, not realizing that it came from his own throat. Anger overcame reason and he launched himself into the display case. He knocked off a line of dolls, and they crashed to the floor. He stomped on the slender rectangular boxes, his tennis shoes making crunching sounds. He fell to his knees and ripped off the lids and pulled out Diamond Princess Barbie. He shook her with all his might and started banging her and Soccer Barbie against the concrete floor.

  The store manager found him, huddled on a pile of crushed boxes and Barbies, sobbing. It was the woman with the little girl in hot pink who had spotted him tearing apart the Barbie section. After Habib was located, the two men disappeared into the manager’s office. When they returned, Fadi saw the understanding and compassion in the store manager’s face. Fadi hadn’t caused a lot of damage, but they had to buy four of the Barbies, whose arms and legs had snapped off. Zalmay gave the dolls an odd look when he saw their purchase, but he was too excited about his own gift to ask why Fadi had chosen a bunch of Barbies.

  Fadi sat at the edge of the dastarkhan, across from Zalmay and his other cousins. He’d pulled his hair forward so that no one could see the purple bruise on his forehead from where he’d hit his head against the metal frame of the Barbie display case.

  Everyone was unusually quiet as Khala Nilufer and his mother passed out plates of food. Fadi glanced at the empty spot next to the sliding doors that led to the backyard. It was where Uncle Amin usually sat. But he wasn’t home yet. A huge chocolate cake with twelve candles sat on the coffee table, waiting for later. But he wasn’t in the mood. Only Abay and Dada seemed oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. They sat together, having an animated conversation about some jewelry Dada had bought for her when they had first gotten married. In their rush to leave Kabul, she’d left it behind. Now she was joking with Dada that he should get her a new necklace. She pressed her lips and pretended to be angry. Fadi couldn’t help but smile at Dada’s hopeless shrug. Sometimes they acted like newly-weds, and it was kind of embarrassing to watch.

  Noor arrived from work and sat down next to him. “What’s up?” she asked.

  Fadi looked into her curious eyes, and his heart constricted. I want to tell her. I need to tell someone about Mariam and Gulmina. “I beat up a bunch of Barbies at Toys“R”Us,” he whispered.

  “You did what?” she asked. Her brows shot up.

  Fadi’s heart raced. “Look … I know it was stupid, but—” Before he could confess, Uncle Amin walked through the door, his face grim.

  Khala Nilufer dropped the basket bread on the dastarkhan and spun around. “Amin jaan,” she said, “is it true?”

  Uncle Amin ran a hand over his sparse hair and glanced at the kids. “Yes, but I’ll talk about it later.”

  An awkward silence filled the room as the kids gave one another questioning looks.

  Sahar, one of the younger cousins, leaned forward and puffed out her chubby cheeks. “Someone beat up poor Mr. Singh,” she said in a garbled whisper.

  “What?” said Zalmay.

  “Mr. Singh, the ice cream truck man,” said Sahar, her eyes round. “I heard Mama telling Khala Nilufer.”

  “Someone beat up Mr. Singh?” Zalmay burst out.

  Uncle Amin exchanged a pained look with the adults.

  “Why would someone do that?” asked Zalmay.

  “He’s such a nice man,” said Fadi, all thoughts of a confession evaporating.

  “Oh, my goodness,” grumbled Uncle Amin, looking at his wife.

  “They’re going to hear about it from other people,” s
aid Khala Nilufer with a deep sigh. “Tell them what happened. It’s important they hear it from us.”

  Uncle Amin sat down next to the sliding doors and grabbed a glass of water. He took a long drink before speaking. “Last night Mr. Singh went to the warehouse to pick up a shipment of ice cream, like he usually does,” he said. “He was getting back into his truck when he was attacked by two men.”

  Fadi stared at him, his eyes wide. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.

  “He was attacked because the men thought he was a Muslim since he wore a turban and beard. They blamed him for what happened on September eleventh.”

  “But he’s not a Muslim,” said Zalmay, near tears. He’d known Mr. Singh for many years and had received many gifts of free ice cream.

  “I know, Son,” said Uncle Amin. “But the attackers didn’t know, or care, I suspect. They were mad over what had happened and they wanted to take it out on someone they assumed was a Muslim.”

  “How is he?” asked Fadi. He remembered seeing Mr. Singh that last time, handing out ice cream to kids near Lake Elizabeth. He felt numb.

  “He’s in the hospital with broken ribs and a concussion,” said Uncle Amin. “That’s where I was, visiting him and his family. The doctors say he’ll recover in a few weeks.”

  “Mr. Singh’s family must hate us,” said Noor, her voice soft.

  “No, of course not, Noor,” said Uncle Amin.

  “But he was attacked because they thought he was one of us, a Muslim,” pressed Noor.

  “No, no,” interrupted Khala Nilufer. “Mr. Singh’s family would never blame us for what happened to him.”