Shooting Kabul Page 2

  “And, Fadi, pay attention. We won’t have a lot of time once the truck shows up.”

  Fadi nodded, straightening his back.

  Habib glanced down at his wrist, but it was bare. He’d given his watch to their faithful servant, Shamim, that morning as they’d left the house. “What time is it, Noor?” he asked, pulling thoughtfully on his white-streaked beard.

  “Seven minutes past midnight,” replied Noor, glancing down at her glow-in-the-dark Mickey Mouse watch with the frayed strap.

  A braying donkey rounded the corner, its owner in tow, causing the family to shrink against the building, trying to disappear into the shadows. Fadi peeked around the cement wall to watch the one-legged man pet the long-eared animal. Fadi closed his left eye and imagined the scene through his camera’s viewfinder. There was something sad yet endearing about the image. Many men, women, and children had lost limbs to land mines across the country. Fadi blinked, his eyes watery. For all the problems in Afghanistan, this was still home. Dread crept into his heart. Would this be the last time he ever saw it?

  “Oh, Rosebud, my lovely four-legged friend,” coaxed the man. “Let’s go home so you can have potato peels for dinner.”

  Rosebud tried to bite her owner, causing Mariam to smother a giggle.

  Fadi smiled and shrugged off his morose thoughts. His mind wandered back to Claudia and her great escape. We need to be successful in ours. He didn’t want to imagine what the Taliban would do to his father if they were caught.

  AT 12:42 AN ARMY GREEN TRUCK rounded the corner and stopped a few blocks down the road. Its canvas top ruffled in the wind as it paused and shut off its lights. Habib stepped out from the shadows to get a better look, but without warning the truck revved its engine and drove off, disappearing around the corner. Muffling a curse, Habib returned to his spot next to his wife, who sat on a wooden crate Noor had found.

  Fadi held on to Mariam’s skinny arm while tightening his grip on his backpack. Everything he owned was in that bag—a change of clothes, the family photo album, his Matchbox cars, an old honey tin, and his camera, the old Minolta XE. At the last minute he’d thrown in his ragged coverless copy of From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. It was the only book he had been able to save from being sold.

  Since the banning of books, people had resorted to illegally trading them on the black market. Every few months Fadi would accompany his mother and Noor to a carefully chosen location arranged by a bookseller whose renowned shop had been raided and shut down. After digging through piles of old books, they’d quickly make their purchase. Within minutes they’d emerge onto the road and head home, the books hidden in bags under piles of vegetables.

  The bookshelf in their living room at home now held only an assortment of religious bound volumes and his father’s periodicals on agriculture. All the family’s other books—the thick novels, compilations by the great Afghan poet Rumi, children’s books, and magazines—were stashed in the unused chicken coop in the backyard, next to the lone plum tree that hadn’t been chopped down for firewood. It was the tree Fadi had fallen out of when he was eight, when he broke his nose.

  “Fadi,” whispered Mariam, poking at a pile of soggy paper with a stick she’d found. “I’m bored.”

  “Me too,” said Fadi with a sigh. “Be patient. We’ll leave soon.”

  “Shhh!” hissed Noor, glaring at them.

  Fadi was in the process of giving her a cross-eyed I-dare-you-to-hit-me look in return when they heard the rumble of an engine coming from a side street.

  “Hush, all of you,” scolded Habib, peering down the street.

  Two orbs of bright light reappeared where the green truck had disappeared.

  Fadi tensed. There it is! The same truck. It revved its engine and slowed down. The truck traveled a few blocks farther from the tea shop, then sat idling, as if waiting for something. Or someone.

  Habib stepped forward and squinted at the row of numbers printed on its side. “Three-two-nine-three-eight,” he whispered, then checked a scrap of paper in his hand. “Quickly,” he ordered, grabbing the suitcases. “Fadi, take Mariam.”

  This is it, thought Fadi, his heart racing. His father had paid human traffickers twenty thousand dollars, the family’s entire savings, to get them out of Afghanistan into neighboring Pakistan. But they wouldn’t stop there. They had a long, dangerous journey ahead of them. He took Mariam’s hand and hurried toward the truck.

  Noor followed, half carrying, half dragging their mother toward the truck while Habib picked up the suitcases and followed.

  Gripping Mariam’s hand, Fadi avoided a pool of stagnant water and circled a heap of rusting metal parts.

  “Where are we going again?” breathed Mariam.

  “To Peshawar,” whispered Fadi. “It’s a city on the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Remember Mother told you that her cousin lives there? She and her husband run a clinic for refugees, and they’re going to meet us at the border.”

  “Oh,” replied Mariam, clenching Gulmina as Fadi dragged her past a narrow shadowy alley.

  Fadi paused next to a burned-out car for the others to catch up. Noor and his mother came up beside them, and then a loud splash echoed on the right, followed by the sound of running feet. A group of men ran in front of them and veered toward the truck. Two women with three small children emerged from behind an oil drum near the truck and scrambled onto the back of the truck.

  “Hurry,” yelled Habib, his eyes wide as he staggered past. “We have to get on that truck.”

  Dozens of people emerged from hiding places, all scrambling toward the truck. Fadi and Mariam followed Noor, bypassing a group of women carrying an old bearded man with sunken, tearful eyes.

  “Come on, you two,” Noor shouted over her shoulder. She half lifted, half pushed their mother ahead, elbowing past two teenage boys with bundles under their arms.

  Pushy as always, thought Fadi, tightening his hold on Mariam’s hand.

  He tugged, but Mariam didn’t budge. What the …? He looked down to see her fumbling with Gulmina. “Come on, Mariam,” he grumbled.

  “Wait,” she pleaded, trying to tuck her Barbie under her sweater.

  “We don’t have time!”

  “Can you put Gulmina in your backpack?” she asked, holding out her precious Barbie.

  “No, not now. We don’t have time,” Fadi turned back to the truck, dragging Mariam behind him.

  “Noor!” echoed Habib’s voice from up ahead. “Bring your mother this way.” Habib had thrown the suitcases onto the back of the truck and had clambered on board. He spotted Fadi and waved at him to hurry, then turned his attention back to Noor as she reached the truck. Habib leaned down and wrapped his arms around his wife as Noor pushed from below. He pulled Zafoona over the railing and helped her inside.

  With his eyes trained on the spot where his father had disappeared, Fadi started to run. Mariam clung to his hand, gasping for breath, trying to keep up. Habib reappeared at the back of the truck, and Fadi saw him reach down to pull Noor inside. He was about thirty feet from the back of the truck when a family in stained, torn clothes tumbled out from the warehouse next to them and pushed ahead.

  “Ouch!” cried Mariam, losing her balance as one of the unkempt boys knocked her over.

  “We’ve got to hurry!” cried Fadi, wasting precious seconds to pull her up. His heart raced. He couldn’t see Noor or his father. He grabbed Mariam’s sweaty hand and pushed through the mob.

  The old man they’d passed earlier lay on the muddy street, surrounded by the women who had been carrying him. They were sobbing, talking to themselves, trying to figure out how to get the exhausted man on board. He doesn’t look good, thought Fadi, feeling a pang of regret. But he couldn’t help them even if he wanted to, so he scurried on, straining to see over the heads of the two girls at the edge of the crowd.

  There he is!

  Habib was a few feet away, standing on the truck’s bumper, combing the crowds. His eyes widen
ed as he saw Fadi. “This way, Son!”

  Fadi spotted a gap between two women in burkas and dove in. Only a few more feet and we’ll be on the truck. He’d reached the rear tire when a panicked scream tore through the crowd.

  “It’s them!” shouted a fearful voice.

  The crowd constricted around the truck, plastering Fadi and Mariam against the back tire.

  “Who?” yelled someone from the truck.

  “I can’t breathe!” cried Mariam.

  “The Taliban are here!” repeated the first voice.

  The sound of tires squealed in the distance, back toward the tea shop.

  Screams sounded at the edge of the crowd, and people began to push, struggling to get on board. Three men climbed on top of the truck, hanging on to the cables that fastened the canvas roof to the metal sides.

  “I’m leaving now!” shouted the driver, his voice a worried growl.

  Fadi inched around the back as strong hands reached down to grab his shirt. “I’ve got you!” cried Habib.

  “Ouch!” cried Mariam, stumbling as she clung to Fadi’s hand.

  “Hold on to Mariam!” ordered Habib as the truck revved its engine.

  “I have her,” shouted Fadi, glancing back at his father.

  Habib started pulling Fadi up. “Keep a tight grip,” he said. “I’m going to lift you both up.”

  “Gulmina!” cried Mariam as Fadi jerked his face toward her.

  He saw a blur of bright pink fall to the ground.

  “We can’t leave her,” said Mariam, twisting sharply.

  “No!” cried Fadi, reaching out with his other hand to get a better grip, but he missed. Instinctively he clung to Mariam’s hand, but her sweaty little fingers slipped through his just as the truck rolled forward and picked up speed.

  Habib jerked him up just as she crumpled to the ground.

  “Father,” he cried in desperation, “let go.” He tried to pull free of Habib’s grasp, but he was already on the back of the truck.

  Father and son looked at each other in horror as the truck raced up the alley, leaving stragglers behind. Mariam was swallowed up in the dispersing crowd, a tiny little girl in a sea of strangers. Screams filled the air as a black SUV made a U-turn near the burned-out car and closed in behind them. Men with long beards and crisp turbans hung off the sides, pointing in their direction.

  The driver hit the gas and the tires squealed as the truck made a sharp turn and then accelerated right through a bombed-out warehouse onto a parallel alley. Fadi looked from the edge of truck’s railing in disbelief. His six-year-old sister had been lost because of him.

  FADI CLENCHED THE BOARDING TICKET in his fist and stared out the small round window. An expanse of feathery white clouds floated in the turquoise sky. From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler sat on his lap, but he hadn’t read a word of it. The words kept swimming around beneath his eyes, not making much sense. With a shuddering sigh he closed his eyes, leaned back in his seat, and tried to think of something else … anything else. But he couldn’t. The hot ember of guilt burned in his mind, and his thoughts flew back to the night of their escape.

  ˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙

  Habib’s anguished face appeared, begging the truck driver to turn back. But the frightened driver didn’t stop. The Taliban were in hot pursuit, and he had a lot of money riding on getting his human cargo across the border. At first Zafoona didn’t understand what was going on, but her pale face whitened further as Noor told her what had happened.

  Zafoona sat in shock, and then she screamed, “Nooooooo!” The raw sound reverberated through the back of the truck. With superhuman strength, she lunged toward the back flap, but Noor held on to her. “We have to go back! My baby, my baby is there!” sobbed Zafoona. As illness and exhaustion overcame her, she crumpled to the ground. “She’s all alone.… She’s only six!”

  Fadi could hear the echoes of her anguished wails as she pleaded to the other passengers to stop the truck, to go back to find her little Mariam. But the others looked away. They couldn’t stop, or they would all be arrested, or worse, killed. Noor held on to her mother’s sobbing body, trying to comfort her as best she could, her horrified gaze flying from her father to Fadi. Habib tried to climb out of the truck, but the other men wrestled him to the floor. He would get himself killed—either from falling off the truck or by the pursuing Taliban.

  Fadi sat huddled in a corner replaying over and over again the instant his fingers had left Mariam’s hand as the truck accelerated to a breakneck pace, finally losing their pursuers in a side alley of Jalalabad’s maze of streets. From there the driver drove off the main road toward the border. By the time the truck reached Pakistan, Zafoona’s cries had ceased to an exhausted whimper. Habib still clung to the back railing, watching Afghanistan disappear behind them.

  His father’s shame flowed over Fadi as the other passengers looked at Habib with pity. Habib’s ghayrat was in tatters. He had lost his sense of honor because he had not been able to protect his namus—his daughter.

  But it wasn’t his fault, thought Fadi. It was mine. I have no honor. I didn’t protect Mariam.

  Fadi opened his eyes and glanced to his right. Noor slouched next to him, complimentary earphones jammed into her ears. Fadi winced. The intense rhythm of drums and the discordant clang of cymbals could be heard from his seat, and he wondered if she was going to go deaf. But Noor didn’t seem to notice. She sat staring down the aisle with an intense frown on her face. In her lap sat a fashion magazine she’d picked up at London’s Heathrow Airport, where they had caught their flight for the final leg of their journey. The magazine was open to a spread showing a model hiding in a tropical forest, dressed in shades of coral, resembling an orchid. Noor hadn’t turned the page since they boarded the plane hours ago. Across the aisle Fadi eyed his parents. Zafoona slept, slumped in her seat, while his father reviewed the forms they’d received from the American consulate in Peshawar.

  The papers had been waiting for them, arranged with the help of Habib’s old college adviser in the United States. Stamped on them was the word “asylum.” The consul at the U.S. embassy had explained that the U.S. government allowed refugees to come to America if they were in danger in their own country.

  We certainly were in danger, thought Fadi, watching his father’s long fingers gently refold the pages. Fadi recalled the chilly night when the family had sat down for their evening meal and the Taliban had found Habib.

  “Turnip stew again?” complained Mariam. “That’s three days in a row.”

  “Don’t complain,” said Zafoona. “There are thousands of children on the streets who don’t have even a piece of moldy bread to eat.”

  Mariam crossed her arms over her chest and sat with her cheeks pooched out.

  “Come, jaan, eat,” cajoled Habib. “If you finish, I believe there is a jar of plum jam left. Wouldn’t that be nice on a piece of bread?”

  “Don’t spoil her,” said Zafoona with a glower. “No treats for you, young lady, until your food is finished.”

  Mariam had just picked up her spoon when there was a loud knock at the front gate.

  “Are we expecting guests?” asked Habib. His forehead crinkled.

  Zafoona shook her head. Her eyes widened and she leapt up from her seat. “Children, upstairs now.”

  “Shamim,” Habib said, and turned toward their servant. “Open the door and see who it is.”

  Instead of hiding in his room as he’d been ordered, Fadi crept down to stand at the top of the stairs. With his face pressed between the balusters, he watched a line of dark turbans file into the house, met by Habib, his back straight and tense.

  Shamim hurried to get tea for their guests while the group exchanged pleasantries and settled down on the cushioned floor of the living room. Fadi inched down the stairs as far as he dared to listen to the fragmented conversation trickling up to the second floor.

  “… your family is greatly honored in Afghanistan,” said a young
, gruff voice. “We have heard heroic tales of how your brothers fought against the treacherous Soviets and helped defeat them.”

  “One died taking out a KGB command post,” came another awed voice.

  “Yes, yes,” murmured Habib’s soft voice. “My brothers were honorable men who fought and died for their country …”

  Fadi couldn’t make out the rest of his father’s words, and he leaned forward, nearly losing his balance. Another inch and he’d have tumbled down the steps.

  “You are a proud Pukhtun, like most of our Taliban brothers,” murmured a deep, commanding voice. “You did a great service by getting rid of those poppy fields.”

  “It was my honor to rid Afghanistan of opium, brother,” responded Habib.

  “Now we need your help again, Brother Habib,” said the gruff voice.

  “A man with a Western education like yours could provide great service to our country,” continued the commanding voice.

  “What do you mean?” asked Habib.

  “You studied in the United States, did you not?”

  “Well, yes,” replied Habib. “I received my PhD in America.”

  “Ever since we took power, foreign governments like the United States and France have said they will not recognize our authority to rule Afghanistan. Once again, we’ve been called to come before the United Nations to present our position. You could help us. You have lived among the Americans and know their ways. As our ambassador, you could convince them to accept our rule.”

  Fadi sat back in shock. Join the Taliban? As an ambassador? He leaned over the banister, practically hanging upside down so he could hear his father’s answer.

  “Brothers, you honor me greatly,” replied Habib. “But I am not a leader or a politician. I am just a teacher at heart. I don’t think …”

  Fadi frowned. He’d lost the rest of his father’s words. Talk louder! He was about to tip over when he felt a sharp pinch on his butt.

  “Get up here, you little brat!” Noor whispered in his ear. “Do you want to get Father in trouble?”