Shooting Kabul Page 3

  Grumbling, Fadi retreated to his room.

  As soon as the Taliban left, Fadi, his mother, and Noor hurried down the stairs, followed by Mariam, who sleepily rubbed her eyes.

  “Go to bed, Mariam,” urged Noor.

  Mariam shook her head. “I’m part of this family too, you know,” she grumbled. “I want to know what’s going on.” With a huff she followed them down into the living room.

  Over the next half hour, Zafoona’s cheeks grew pale as she paced back and forth while Habib described what had happened. “Oh, my goodness,” she said, wringing her hands. “This is terrible, just terrible.”

  “I know. What a pickle.” Habib sighed, tugging at his beard. “The Taliban have become an irritation to foreign governments.”

  “Well, taking in Osama bin Laden and his troublesome friends doesn’t help their cause,” said Zafoona.

  “But the men at the bazaar said Osama was a good friend to Afghanistan,” piped up Mariam. She’d created a fort made from cushions and was looking out of the opening. “He fought against the Soviets and saved us.”

  “Oh, brother,” muttered Fadi. Mariam is going to get it.

  Habib smiled. “Yes, Mariam jaan. Osama bin Laden helped us fight against the Soviets. The United States even gave him money during the war. But unfortunately he is using that friendship for his own gain, and the Taliban feel obligated to help him.”

  “But, why?” asked Mariam.

  “Our Pukhtunwali tenant of melmastia dictates that we do not turn out a guest once we have given them our hand in friendship and a place at our table.”

  “Oh, Allah, have mercy,” replied Zafoona. She collapsed onto a chair and wrung her hands. “What are you going to do?”

  “I can put them off for a while,” said Habib. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “I’ll figure a way out of it.”

  “There is the smell of war in the air,” said Zafoona ominously. “The Northern Alliance is bringing together warring factions to resist the Taliban. Shamim was telling me the rumors he overheard in the market.”

  Fadi and Noor exchanged a worried glance. The Northern Alliance, led by General Ahmed Shah Masood, a great warrior during the Soviet war, was made up of non-Pukhtun Farsi-speaking groups. Many of the groups didn’t get along and were led by corrupt warlords with unsavory reputations.

  For a moment Habib’s face twisted in frustration. “In the end they all want to grab power for themselves,” he said in disgust.

  Unlike his brothers, who had joined the army after high school, Habib had gone to the university. He didn’t believe in war, or that violence was the way to solve problems. His dream had always been to rebuild Afghanistan and bring peace to its people. Fadi could see the disillusionment in his father’s eyes.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Noor, speaking up. She looked from her father back to her mother.

  “We should have stayed in Madison,” muttered Zafoona.

  Fadi had heard the argument before. While living in the United States, Zafoona had watched the news coming out of Afghanistan with growing concern. It had been in the spring of 1996, and Mariam had just been a year old. The Taliban had risen from eastern Afghanistan and had marched through the country, slowly gaining control.

  “Are you sure we can’t stay in the States, Habib?” Zafoona had asked.

  “Jaan, my student visa runs out in a few months and we have to leave,” Habib had told her. “I could try to find a job here—that would extend our stay—but don’t you think it’s our duty to go back? We are educated. We can help the country get back on its feet after so many years of war. I can help the farmers improve their crop yields, so fewer people will be hungry. You can open a school, like you’ve always wanted to.”

  Zafoona had pursed her lips in contemplation as Habib had pushed on.

  “Just last night CNN was showing the Taliban’s visit to the United Nations headquarters in New York. They are an amazing group of young men—inexperienced, sure, but they are bringing law and order to Afghanistan. They’re getting rid of all the corrupt and brutal warlords that took over the country after the Soviets left. Many refugees are returning.” Habib had coaxed, “In your new school you could teach the kids all about the great books you love so much.”

  Zafoona had smiled and relented. She knew her husband was an idealist, and in the end she’d agreed to his plan. Deep in her heart she’d also wanted to see her mother, whose health had deteriorated while they’d been in Wisconsin. Within a year of their return to Kabul, Habib’s dreams had been shattered. The Taliban took control of the capital, and Kabul University was closed. The black-turbaned young men banned the education of girls, and any hope of Zafoona’s opening a school was erased. The once respected and honored Taliban became what they were fighting against, the oppressive warlords and dictators that had preceded them. When the Taliban gave Habib the ultimatum to join them, Habib knew the family could no longer stay.

  The flight attendant interrupted Fadi’s dark thoughts as she stopped her cart next to them. Noor snapped out of her daze and pulled out her earphones.

  “We have two options for your meal today,” said the flight attendant with a white-toothed smile. “Chicken with pasta or fish over rice pilaf.”

  Fadi looked at her blankly for a few seconds; his brain was slow in getting used to English again, even though his mother had drilled them every day during their homeschooling. “Chicken”? What is “chicken”? Oh yeah, charg. “Chicken, please,” he said.

  “Chicken,” responded Noor. “Please,” she added as an afterthought. She pushed Fadi’s elbow off the armrest. “Stop hogging my space.”

  Fadi quickly moved his elbow. He didn’t want to provoke her. She was in one of her moods again. The flight attendant gave them their trays and turned to his parents.

  “Two fish, please,” said Habib, lowering his and Zafoona’s tray tables.

  As Habib took the steaming trays of food, Zafoona opened her eyes. She was a little better after the medicines the doctor in Peshawar had given her, but she was still weak.

  “Try to eat, jaan,” whispered Habib. “You need to keep your strength up.”

  Zafoona rolled back the tinfoil and eyed the fillet of fish lying on a small pile of yellow rice. As she picked up the fork, her eyes filled with tears. “How can I eat when I don’t know if my baby is hungry or not?” she whispered.

  Deep creases lined Habib’s clean-shaven face. “She will be found,” he said.

  “You could have gone back to Jalalabad again,” said Zafoona.

  Fadi watched his father’s face sag. “I didn’t find anything, jaan. There was no trace of Mariam, or anyone who’d seen her. I barely snuck back across the Pakistan border with my life. I had to bribe the border guard with the last of our cash.”

  Fadi dug his fingernails into his seat. The four days his father had been gone had filled them with constant fear. If the Taliban had caught him, he would have ended up in jail, or worse. It wasn’t till he’d returned, dirty and exhausted, that the family had breathed a sigh of relief. But he hadn’t found a trace of Mariam.

  “We should have stayed in Peshawar, then,” said Zafoona, turning her face away from the food.

  “We couldn’t, jaan,” said Habib patiently. “We’d delayed as long as we could. If we hadn’t left, our asylum papers would not have been held for us. Then we would have been a family without a country to call home. We couldn’t have returned to Afghanistan, and we couldn’t have stayed in Pakistan.”

  “But she’s out there all by herself,” insisted Zafoona.

  “Mother,” whispered Noor, leaning across the aisle toward them. “Dad did what he could.”

  Zafoona’s reddened eyes filled with tears, and she huddled in her woolen shawl.

  “Jaan, your cousin Nargis has a crew of men in Peshawar looking for any news of Mariam,” said Habib, rubbing Zafoona’s hands to warm them. “Nargis said she’d call us first thing if she learns anything. And Professor Sahib is headed to
Jalalabad with his sons to search along the Afghan border.”

  “But—,” began Zafoona.

  “Mother,” Noor interrupted, “Mariam is an American citizen, so the U.S. consulate is keeping an eye out for her too. And I helped Khala Nargis post Mariam’s pictures at the International Rescue Committee’s office. If she comes over the border, they will find her.”

  “There are so many people looking for her, even your old schoolmate we ran into at the United Nations Refugee Agency’s office,” added Habib. “She will notify us if they or other local nongovernmental agencies dealing with displaced persons spot her.”

  Zafoona looked away from them and pursed her quivering lips. Noor settled back in her seat and sighed.

  Fadi rolled the foil off his steaming chicken and, without much interest, removed the plastic silverware from its protective plastic bag. Watching the spoon slide into his hand, he paused, bewildered. Mariam’s voice called out to him as if from a haze.

  “Fadi!” shouted Mariam. “I want the spoon!”

  “Oh, all right,” grumbled Fadi, handing her the wooden spoon while he kept the steel fork with the crooked prong.

  The sun was just about to set and the two of them were in the backyard, crouched under the lone plum tree. In less than twelve hours they would be in a taxi, headed toward Jalalabad. Fadi glanced back at the house as the last of the sun’s rays glinted across the expanse of windows, tinting them silver. Withered rosebushes grew along the sides of the house, planted years ago by his grandfather. Fadi wondered if he’d ever see any of it again.

  “Are you ready?” Mariam interrupted his morose thoughts, an eager smile playing on her lips.

  “Yes, I’m ready,” grumbled Fadi. He’d been cornered by her earlier that day, and in order to escape her chattering on and on about not leaving her treasure behind, he’d agreed to help.

  For a moment Mariam’s smile faltered as she looked around the base of the scraggly tree. She pooched out her cheeks and inspected the trunk, parched and peeling from the drought. Her eyes widened in alarm. “I don’t remember where I buried it,” she squeaked.

  Fadi released a pent-up breath. “Mariam,” he said quietly, “there’s still packing to do, and we’re leaving really early in the morning. Are you sure this treasure of yours is so important?”

  “Yes,” said Mariam, her lower lip trembling.

  “Oh, all right. Don’t cry,” said Fadi. “Just pick a spot and start digging.”

  For the next hour, aided by the light of the full moon and a sputtering candle Fadi had found in the empty house, they crawled around in the dirt, excavating dozens of shallow holes. His fingernails caked in soil, Fadi was about to call it quits when the earth loosened around a small tin box in their twenty-sixth pit.

  “There it is!” cried Mariam. Her small fingers pulled an old honey tin out from near the roots of the tree, and she sat back with a tremendous grin. Fadi could see the gleam of her teeth in the moonlight.

  “Okay. What’s in there that’s so important?” he asked.

  Mariam pulled open the rusty lid and shone the candle inside. Nestled in a scrap of purple velvet was a tiny jar of Mariam’s baby teeth. Next to it was Gulmina’s hand, which had been chopped off by the metal fence. There was a broken pearl earring that belonged to their mother, one of Noor’s old belt buckles studded with gleaming colored glass, a shiny stone that resembled a gold nugget, her father’s tassel from his graduation cap from the University of Wisconsin, and old water-stained pictures Fadi thought his mother had thrown out. One showed Fadi holding Mariam when she was a baby.

  “Wow,” said Fadi. “You saved all this stuff?”

  “Yup,” said Mariam. “It’s all the memories of my life.”

  “Well, I’m glad we found it, then.”

  “Will you keep it in your backpack for me?”

  “Absolutely,” said Fadi, pulling Mariam up. Covered in dust and clumps of dirt, they hurried inside to clean up before their mother found them.

  The spoon felt cold and clammy in his hands. Fadi dropped it into his lap and leaned back from the tray table. There are a lot of people looking for her, he thought. She’ll be found soon. But, niggled a dark voice in the back of his mind, she shouldn’t have been lost in the first place. If only I’d stopped to put her stupid doll in my backpack like she’d asked me to, then she wouldn’t have dropped it. It was all my fault. He pulled his bread roll apart, sending a shower of crumbs over Noor.

  “Watch it!” she growled.

  He offered his slice of cake as a peace offering. She took it and stabbed at it with her fork.

  While in Pakistan he’d tried to sneak out of Khala Nargis’s house. He hadn’t known exactly where he was going, but he’d wanted to go look for Mariam. But before he’d been able to exit the gates onto the chaotic rain-drenched streets of Peshawar, Noor had caught him.

  “Where are you going?” she’d asked.

  “Uh, to the corner store. To get some, uh, candy,” he’d mumbled.

  “You don’t have any money.” She’d stated the obvious.

  “I was, uh …”

  “Get back in the house,” Noor had barked. “One missing kid is enough.”

  The piercing look she had given him had made Fadi wince. She knows it’s my fault Mariam got left behind.

  WELCOME TO SAN FRANCISCO, announced the sign at the head of the cavernous international arrival hall. Fadi stood in the immigration line and looked around the sprawling airport in awe. Two other planes had arrived at the same time as their Virgin Atlantic flight, and the sea of pearly gray carpet swarmed with people, all waiting to have their papers processed.

  “Move,” ordered Noor. She pushed Fadi forward as their turn came.

  “Papers, please,” said the immigration officer. He wore a crisp white shirt with an official seal stitched on the right sleeve.

  “Here you are,” said Habib, handing him a large envelope. He gave Fadi a wink as the officer pulled out the pages.

  “You’re seeking asylum, I see?” the officer asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fadi looked at the thick pile of papers from the Consul General in Peshawar. It was the story of what had happened to them in Afghanistan and the danger Habib had faced when he’d been pressured to join the Taliban.

  The officer entered a series of numbers into the computer, his face serious. After what seemed like an hour of typing, he turned his attention to the pile of passports.

  “What’s this?” he asked, pulling an American passport from the bundle. “There are four of you, so who is this fifth person? Mariam Nurzai?”

  Fadi froze, watching Habib’s fingers tighten around his fraying leather briefcase. His father had mistakenly handed over Mariam’s paperwork along with theirs.

  Noor’s lips tightened into one of her perpetual frowns.

  “She … she is our youngest daughter,” said Habib, clearing his throat.

  “Where is she?” asked the officer. He peered over the edge of the desk.

  “She’s not here,” replied Habib. “She … she was accidentally left behind in Afghanistan.”

  “Accidentally left behind?” questioned the officer. His bushy blond eyebrows arched upward. He glanced over the rest of the family. His sharp blue eyes paused for a moment on Fadi, who looked down at his old tennis shoes.

  “Yes.… It was an accident,” said Habib. “But authorities are looking for her.… We hope to find her very soon,” he added more forcefully.

  The officer’s gaze softened. “I have three daughters. Couldn’t imagine one of them lost all alone like that.” He nodded to Zafoona, who sat in a wheelchair provided by the airline, dabbing at her eyes. “God willing, she’ll be found soon, ma’am.” With that he stamped the family’s passports with loud thumps and sent them on their way.

  Fadi looked down the long hallway with bleary eyes. Five years ago we were on our way back to Afghanistan from the United States. Mariam was a baby, barely able to walk. A moment of anger flare
d through him. It’s Father’s fault. We never should have gone back to Afghanistan in the first place when things were so bad.

  “Come along,” said Habib, interrupting Fadi’s thoughts.

  They followed the signs directing them toward baggage claim. Once their small suitcases were collected from the luggage carousel, they proceeded through customs, had their luggage inspected, and then finally exited the wide double doors.

  A sea of eager smiling faces bobbed around them, calling out names and waving cards with passenger’s names on them.

  “Who’s coming to get us?” asked Noor, her face hidden behind a curtain of long, black hair.

  “Your uncle Amin,” said Zafoona. She leaned forward in her wheelchair to scan the crowd.

  Fadi had vague memories of meeting Uncle Amin when they’d returned to Kabul five years before. Uncle Amin was married to Fadi’s mother’s younger sister, Khala Nilufer. Uncle Amin was his mother’s third cousin or something, since Uncle Amin’s mother was Zafoona’s father’s first cousin. Marriages in Afghan families could be complicated like that.

  A jovial, smiling man, Uncle Amin had been a doctor at Kabul’s main hospital. After it had been bombed during one of the many skirmishes between battling warlords, he had decided to leave the country. Khala Nilufer had repeatedly called Zafoona in Madison, urging them not to return to Kabul since they themselves were in the process of leaving. But Habib had been set on returning, convinced that refugees like Amin and Nilufer would return once the Taliban brought law and order.

  Within a month of Fadi’s and his family’s return, Uncle Amin had taken his family and his parents, Abay and Dada, across the border into Iran. For a year he’d worked in a refugee camp with an international aid organization. From there they’d gone to London, then to the United States. Zafoona’s older brother also left Afghanistan for Germany later that year, along with his wife and children. Only Mastura, Zafoona’s youngest sister, remained in Kabul. Her husband had been killed in the war with the Soviets, and she and her two children lived with her in-laws.

  “There!” said Zafoona. “There he is!”