Sparks Like Stars

by Nadia Hashimi

  The pride in his eyes disarms me.

  Waleed’s Toyota is in decent shape. There is a bit of wear and tear on the body, but it seems reliable enough. He raises a hand to the armed security guard as he pulls away from the hotel.

  “I will show you as much as I can,” Waleed says. “Kabul is a city of high walls but higher flags.”

  We approach the university. The lecture halls and dormitories are mostly hidden from view, as are most buildings and offices. We weave through roads crowded with cars, taxis, buses, and bicycles carrying one to two passengers. A Coca-Cola sign hangs on a light post.

  Today’s sun is gentler than yesterday’s. Waleed points out the Afghan Parliament building and, across the road, the hollowed-out Darulaman Palace, which had been home to the Ministry of Defense when I was a child. Once stately as a New York City museum, the palace now has gaping holes in its walls, cratered interiors, and heaps of rubble in its halls.

  “Waleed-jan,” I say, as we stand on the edge of the grounds, “this is the view the members of Parliament have in their sessions.”

  “Yes, sister,” Waleed replies in Dari. “But if they see it or not, everyone in Parliament knows what has happened here. You cannot hide the sun behind two fingers.”

  Mom and Clay watch me protectively as I step in and out of the car, as if I’m made of glass and at risk of shattering. They share quiet, concerned glances that I pretend not to see.

  “I want to see my home,” I say. Waleed nods. I describe my home’s location by landmarks, which is how everyone, including Waleed, relays addresses in Kabul. He navigates the city expertly, and soon enough we are at the very place where the general had stopped his car and questioned Mom and me all those years ago.

  Two boys come down the street, the taller one holding a soccer ball with frayed seams. The gutters on the side of the streets teem with waste. Waleed walks in step with Clay and two steps behind me.

  The farther along the street we walk, the more disoriented I become. A third of the homes are gone. Another third are riddled with holes or look like the ground has shifted beneath them. Some are new constructions. We walk one block and another. I cannot remember.

  “It should be here. This feels like the place,” I say, imagining the rooftop my father had leapt upon and the balcony where my mother grew a small herb garden. I look carefully at each house. The shapes are all wrong, nothing fits my memory.

  Mom has her hands on her hips.

  “Gosh, just look at this,” she whispers.

  “This neighborhood suffered very much during the civil war,” Waleed explains.

  Clay bricks crumble beneath my boots. My throat tightens, and no amount of practiced breathing can release the tension.

  I see a scrolled stone banister post, and the first step of a staircase that once led to a second floor. The spiral reminds me of the soft curls of my mother’s hair, of the way her wrists twirled when she danced, and in a flash I know where I am. I take a sweeping look at the devastation, at the remains of my childhood home.

  Mom puts an arm around me. Clay and Waleed have taken a respectful step back, recognizing in the hunch of my shoulders and the bow of my head the posture of grief.

  I pinch my nose with the tissue Mom has slipped into my hand, then clear my throat.

  Waleed takes two steps forward.

  “When did you say your family left, sister?” he asks.

  “Before the Russians came,” I reply. I snap a few photos so I will have something to return to later. “I don’t know if anyone lived here after we left.”

  I remember the general we’d seen sauntering out of my home so many years ago, as casually as if it were his brother’s home.

  I slip to the ground and scoop up clumps of debris with two hands. Sand falls through my fingers. A sliver of glass. A piece of splintered wood, maybe from a window frame.

  Two curious women in burqas walk past me. The mesh window of their chadoris are turned toward me.

  My Rodabeh, my princess of Kabul. My father’s sweet words echo in my mind.

  Your Kabul is gone, Shair had said to me all those years ago.

  I rise, dust my hands off, and remind myself that even if the home had been in pristine condition, untouched by the onslaught of rockets this neighborhood suffered, it would not have brought me any peace.

  I say a quick prayer under my breath.

  I pray the rockets that destroyed this house did not claim the lives of innocents.

  I pray a house will be erected on this land and children will experience the joy of waking up to the sound of their parents’ voices.

  I pray the rubble I have held in the palm of my hand will not haunt me.

  “Aryana. Are you okay?” Mom asks quietly. I nod.

  I turn my back to the dust and walk back to Waleed’s car. I feel heavier and wonder what will become of me during this trip. But my father never averted his eyes, never walked out on meetings out of frustration.

  “I want to see everything,” I tell Waleed as we all return to our seats in the car. My headscarf has once again started to slide, so I pull it toward my forehead. “Where should we go next?”

  Mom and Clay exchange a glance.

  “Aryana,” Clay says somberly, “we have time here. We can spread it out over the next few days.”

  “Clay’s right, sweetheart,” Mom says.

  “We should be busy over the next few days,” I reply. “I understand if you’d rather not, but I need to see exactly what I missed.”

  Mom looks like she’s about to say something, then resists. She looks out her window, biting her lower lip.

  “Then I suppose we have much to do. We will go to OMAR,” Waleed says.

  Clay lets out a long, slow breath. We are back on the road, my home falling away.

  “Who is Omar?” I ask.

  “OMAR is not a person, sister,” Waleed replies, cutting the steering wheel sharply to the left to avoid a pothole.

  The rest of the day is dizzying.

  We see buildings buckled by rockets rained on the city from a distance, the mosque my father used to attend for Jumaa prayers, and a movie theater in the early stages of reconstruction.

  Children selling bottles of soda or sticks of gum swarm our car at intersections. They are insistent, smiling through chapped lips. Spotting our cameras, they want their pictures taken.

  “Hollywood,” one calls out, as he puts a hand on his hip.

  “Titanic!” yells another, sticking both his arms out like he’s on the stern of the ship embracing an expanse of sea.

  I am laughing.

  I am crying.

  I am thankful I am not alone.

  Waleed takes us to a building on the outskirts of town. When the sign comes into view, I learn that OMAR is an acronym standing for Organization for Mine Clearance and Afghan Rehabilitation. We step out of the car and take a moment to fix our scarves and jackets before we walk to the entrance of the land-mine museum. A man in a hunter-green tunic and pantaloons runs over to us and announces that the museum is currently closed. In the field behind him are a couple of helicopters and a tank.

  Waleed fishes a few bills out of his pocket, brightening the guard’s face. He swings the door open and begins to give us a tour of the collection. We find mortars, AK-47s, a Molotov cocktail, bricks of TNT, and the weighted blue protective suit worn by de-miners. Mines of all shapes and sizes sit in glass display cases, like archaeological discoveries. Innocent items were booby-trapped so that when a child stooped to pick up a doll, her touch would trigger a blast that splintered her leg bones. The more casualties, the closer they were to winning the war.

  Waleed tells us that plastic mines evade metal detectors, so de-miners must feel around for them, pluck each one painstakingly from the earth. Occasionally a wandering goat or nomad trips a wire and is pierced with ball bearings of nails. Small children have wandered into fields and disappeared in one clap of thunder.

  Afghanistan does not have one million goats, Waleed
tells us, nor one million chickens, nor one million schools—but the dead, the wounded, the missing, and the bombs can be counted in the millions.

  Waleed’s math has teeth. Clay makes notes on a small pad, and I take a few photos that I might later delete. When we leave, our next stop is the school I attended as a child. Girls with white headscarves pinned primly under their chins watch me from the corners of their eyes, whispering conspiratorially to one another and clutching books to their chests.

  When I was a child, girls didn’t have to cover their hair. My mother wore a headscarf only in a masjid or when visiting a family to offer her condolences and prayers. I cringe to see women sheathed head to toe in burqas, obscured from the world. I know that, for many, this cover is the least of their concerns, but it is one marker of how much has changed. I wonder what my mother would say if she were to see me wearing a headscarf now.

  Waleed takes us to the maternity hospital. His sister meets us at the entrance, buttoning her white coat as she approaches us. A black stethoscope hangs around her neck.

  Her name is Dr. Nazari. She wears not a drop of makeup, and the small gold hoops dangling from her ears are her only jewelry. Her hair is tied back at the nape of her neck. She looks to be about my age. She shakes my hand, her grip firm, her English accented.

  Waleed and Clay stay back, out of respect for the laboring mothers who fill the halls and walk the grounds while they await their turn for a doctor’s attention.

  Mom asks how many patients they care for daily, and Dr. Nazari shakes her head.

  “Too many. The answer to all your questions is ‘too many.’ How many mothers die of hemorrhage to bring a fourth or fifth child into this world? How many newborns take their last breath before they see a new moon?”

  She leads us down a narrow hallway.

  Round-bellied women lie on beds with metal frames, curtains pulled for privacy. Nurses wearing surgical face masks slip into rooms with IV poles and pans, with sheets and towels. Not since I was a medical student have I been in a hospital as an observer.

  “What is your specialty, Doctor-sahib?” she asks me in Dari as she escorts us into the building.

  When I tell her, she raises an eyebrow, impressed. I want to tell her she needn’t be. Following her into this hospital, I feel humbled.

  Before I can figure out how to tell her as much, a nurse runs up to Dr. Nazari. A baby has turned into the wrong position. She is needed urgently.

  “I hope you will return, Doctor-sahib,” she says as she squeezes my hands.

  When Waleed returns us to the hotel, we are exhausted. The sole of my foot aches, like a fault line of pain. Clay wants to transcribe his notes while everything is fresh in his mind, and Mom wants to put her feet up.

  I change into sneakers and my running pants. I find the hotel exercise room and feel like I am finally breathing when my feet pound against the treadmill belt. I turn the speed up, ignoring the throbbing in my foot and the stiffness in my legs. I wait for the release to come, the lift of hitting my rhythm. When it doesn’t, I jab at the machine to turn up the speed.

  But the belt catches, as if someone has thrown rocks into its gears, and in one hopeful stride I am tossed from the runway. I land in a crumpled heap with my back to the wall, wondering if I have what it takes to get through the miles ahead.

  Chapter 53

  We step into the taxi that will take us to the American embassy. It’s less than six miles away, but it is a weekday and the streets are as congested as Midtown Manhattan. Clay asks the driver if he is hopeful about any candidates in the upcoming presidential elections.

  The driver’s English is good enough to understand Clay, but he can’t string together a reply.

  “Who knows what we’ll end up with? Donkeys look like stallions from a distance,” he mutters in Dari as he adjusts the rearview mirror.

  “How many television stations are there now?” Clay asks. The driver lets out a long whistle. There are more than he can count.

  “Taliban here—one radio, one television, one mouth. Now, one thousand mouth,” he laughs, pointing to his head. “One thousand headache. But I happy. You come my house, see my television.”

  “Ah, that would be great,” Clay says earnestly. He looks perfectly at ease here, almost more than he did in the bookstore where I first met him. I find myself watching people we meet carve out space for him, as if this were his homecoming, not mine. Clay looks over the seat at me and grins. I look away, feeling revealed.

  The cab hits a pothole deep enough to bounce us in our seats and send my stomach fluttering.

  Mom is listening, though she’s got her eyes on the world outside. She adjusts her headscarf and cranes her neck to see a sleek-lined building sitting next to a clay mosque. We pass a woman in a sun-faded chadori standing on the side of the road. She has a bundled child in her lap and one hand extended to passersby.

  “Ariana TV. Very good,” the driver says.

  Aryana.

  My name is everywhere. Emblazoned on airplanes, the movie theater, a television station, a soaring wedding hall, a congested intersection, and a host of restaurants. The country cannot let go of her historic name, my eponym.

  Did the echo of my sister’s name haunt or comfort my parents?

  I listen, as if they might send an answer in the mountain breeze. Being in Kabul has sharpened my senses. I can see and hear my parents more clearly, as if I’ve tweaked a dial and caused the static to fall away.

  Sitara! Come hold your brother’s hand. I hear them call my name. I can smell the fried leeks my mother would stuff into dough to make savory flatbreads.

  I see my father lift Faheem in his outstretched arms for a taste of flight. He tosses him into the air, and Madar watches her precious son become airborne for a heartbeat, then exhales to see him return safely to Boba’s arms. Though nervous, she does not stop Boba, and I understand, because, like her, I can resist neither the pride on my father’s face nor Faheem’s elation to defy gravity.

  Pieces of my father’s midnight song return to me:

  I lie in rest, and yet you travail

  Your glimmering love set to prevail.

  His voice pulls at my heart, like fingers on the string of a rubab. How silly I was to laugh at this song when I was a girl, to think he was chiding me for wanting to stay awake past my bedtime.

  Another pothole.

  They have named a road after the singer who died in a tunnel in a suspicious car crash not long after the coup. He had criticized the Communist regime at a time when dissidents were disappeared dozens at a time.

  We are fast approaching the American embassy. The driver lets us out at the gates, where police officers eye us from a distance. They scan our faces and our clothes well before we move through the official security checkpoints and our bags are sent through an X-ray machine.

  “It looks so different,” Mom says, admiring the renovated structure. The pattern of glass panes on the facade reminds me of fish scales. Two flags, American and Afghan, fly high overhead.

  We pass through another security checkpoint. Mom’s connections and former position win her no special treatment here, her homecoming dulled by all that has happened since she served in this mission.

  A woman with her hair in a youthful ponytail leads us to an office. She offers us water or juice, which we decline. Clay and I sit, but Mom paces the room, looks at the books on the shelf behind the desk, and then sighs and paces some more.

  I shift in my chair. My back and hip are bruised from yesterday’s treadmill mishap, but my legs still crave a run. I can’t be still too long.

  “Any idea who we’re meeting?” Clay asks, taking a leather-bound notebook out of his bag.

  Before Mom can answer, the door swings open and nearly hits her back.

  “Oh no. I’m so very sorry,” the woman exclaims. She’s dressed in a long houndstooth blazer and black pants. “I didn’t see you behind the door.”

  Mom waves away her concern, and a round of introduction
s and handshaking begins. Her name is Carla Stevens, and she’s a political officer in the embassy. Mom takes a seat, and Carla offers us water or coffee.

  “It’s good to meet you. I can’t imagine how this must feel for you,” Carla says. Mom’s face grows soft with nostalgia. “I’ve a great deal of respect for your work, Ms. Shephard.”

  I put a hand over Mom’s. In the years when she had made waves at State, calling out the sexism and discrimination, many of her colleagues distanced themselves from her. Diplomats tend to be diplomatic, after all. If she hadn’t pushed as hard as she had, she probably would have retired at a higher pay grade.

  “I’m sure you’ll do the same for those coming up behind you,” Mom says. She looks at her pointedly, sweetly, as she transfers this obligation onto Carla’s shoulders.

  Carla nods and tucks a strand of her walnut-colored hair behind her ear. She extracts a pen and notepad from a desk drawer.

  Mom signals for me to take over. I explain that we’ve heard about the government’s commission to find the bodies of the assassinated. Then I tell her that I was orphaned the night of the coup and have been waiting decades for the chance to find answers. I’m even more concise with her than I was when I told my story to Clay. It’s a bit like crossing a river after figuring out where the stepping-stones are. Carla allows me to finish before she speaks.

  “First, let me offer my condolences. I can’t imagine the pain this must have caused you,” she says, her brows knitted with concern. “I must admit, I’ve not heard of any search efforts, but I’m going to make a few calls and I’ll see if my contacts with this administration can shed some light.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Mom says gratefully.

  Carla stands then and waits for us to follow. But the three of us remain fixed in our seats. She blinks twice, slowly, before she flips her notebook open again.

  “You mentioned you’re staying at the Intercontinental. Let me get your room number and I’ll be in touch just as soon as—”

  “If you need your office to make the calls, we’re happy to wait in the lobby area or an empty conference room or the cafeteria,” I suggest.