Open Skies

by Niloofar Rahmani

  None of this was of much interest to me. For me, the mountains were something much simpler—a magnificent place where we could run, climb, hike, cook, have campfires, and enjoy wondrous picnics. We were a happy family living a peaceful life.

  My father took me on walks during these trips, a tradition we continued for years to come. He and I would wander off into the hills, my hand in his, and we’d talk. We’d chat about the rocks and the trees, and we’d look up to watch the birds fly across the sky.

  As I got older, my father would talk to me about my dreams and encourage me. He’d tell me I could do anything I wanted if I worked hard enough. His steadfast and unwavering support has been a pillar in my life for as long as I can remember.

  Yet, amid the happiness we’d found in Karachi, there were also struggles that, unbeknownst to me, would compel my father to make another fateful decision that would change the course of our lives forever.

  * * *

  On December 25, 1998, my mother went into labor with her fourth child. My father rushed her to the hospital, leaving the rest of us at home. He was present for the delivery, and my mother had another baby girl, whom they named Maryam.

  Unlike at my and my older sister’s births, when my grandmother had shamed her for not producing a boy, this time my mother was happy and did not despair. My father was again elated, saying that this baby girl would bring another light into our family.

  Now we were six: my mother and father with four children. My oldest sister, Afsoon, was nine; my brother, Omar, was eight; I was seven; and my youngest sister, Maryam, had just taken a breath.

  Most days we stayed around the house helping my mother with chores. We washed our clothes by hand and hung them to dry both inside the apartment and on the balcony. We helped cook and clean, and also played with our new baby sister. Moreover, my mother continued to homeschool us; she never missed a day.

  But some days my mother suffered from severe back pain so acute she could barely walk. My heart went out to her, seeing her like this. There were other days when she would get terribly sick and be so weak she couldn’t get out of bed. I remember sitting by her side, stroking her hand, praying she’d feel better. My mother was so dear to me, and she did so much for us; it pained me to see her hurting.

  Many years later I came to realize one of the reasons she got sick was because she carried so much stress and worry inside her. She loved and cared for our family with all her heart and soul, and sometimes the uncertainty and fear overcame her. She would hide it from us and persevere, always delivering our lessons and making sure we had enough to eat and clean clothes to wear, but it took its toll on her body. Her emotional and physical strength amazes me.

  As I got older, I began to notice other, subtler things. We kids would get new clothes and new shoes, but in all our time in Karachi I never once saw my parents wear new clothes. They just mended the ones they had, year after year.

  I also saw the worry in my parents’ faces. I wouldn’t find out until many years that they were concerned about our lack of a real education and what the future held. In Pakistan, even though we’d been there for over seven years, we were still refugees with no real immigration or legal status.

  There were times when my father wouldn’t get paid for months. His employers knew that as a refugee he couldn’t protest or go to the authorities, so they took advantage of him. As kids we didn’t know this, of course, but I do remember nights when we had less food to eat. There was usually enough for the four children, but often I would hear my parents say they weren’t hungry, and they would not eat. A simple excuse that most children might overlook, but I sensed something wasn’t right.

  I knew my father, and I knew when he was hiding something. He never complained, but I saw it in his eyes. Something troubled him.

  * * *

  Throughout our time in Pakistan, my parents kept an eye toward events in Afghanistan. They would catch bits and pieces from the radio, and I’m sure they heard rumors from the other refugees they encountered in the city. When we could finally afford a television for our apartment, they truly got to see that the Afghanistan they remembered was no more. The Taliban had come to power and a cloud of medieval barbarity had descended upon the country.

  My parents didn’t share this with us. The first time I asked about our homeland after the incident on the playground, my father regaled me with tales about the greatness of Afghanistan. I believed him and desperately wanted to see our homeland. In time we would go back, he told me, once things were better, but he never fully explained what he meant.

  A few years later, there was an instance when my parents were watching the news and told us children to leave the room. Something had come on the TV they didn’t want us to see.

  Later on, I found out that it was a news broadcast about the last Communist president of Afghanistan, Mohammad Najibullah. On September 26, 1996, the Taliban entered the UN compound in the city of Kabul and escorted him under armed guard to the public square outside the gate of the compound. For all to witness, they castrated him, shot him in the head, tied his body to a truck, and dragged him through the city streets. When they were finished, they hung his battered corpse from a pole and left it there for the crows. This practice of hanging bodies for public display was a signal to the population that a new era had begun.

  My mother and father, despite publicized events such as this, could only glean bits and pieces of what was happening in Afghanistan from the news. They didn’t really know how bad things were, and my father had faith in his homeland’s history of struggle and survival against great odds.

  No invader or oppressive regime had ever lasted long in Afghanistan. The Afghans had defeated and pushed out the Greeks, the Mongols, the Persians, the British, and most recently the Soviets. He believed it was only a matter of time before the Taliban fell. They were the remnants of the CIA-backed mujahideen from the Soviet-Afghan War. They wouldn’t last long without foreign support, he thought.

  After seven years, my father was tired of being a refugee. He was at the mercy of his employer, and he feared his children were falling behind in their education and social development. Everything we had—our apartment, our belongings, the scooter—could be taken away for no reason at all. We had no future in Pakistan, and my parents missed their homeland. It might not be the same place they remembered, but it was still home.

  In 1999 my parents made the second-hardest decision of their lives: we would leave our apartment in Karachi and move back to Kabul. My father knew his daughters would not be able to attend school in Afghanistan, but at least his son could. He knew his wife and daughters would have much less freedom under the Taliban, but he was optimistic things would change in time. The Taliban regime couldn’t last forever. And once back in Afghanistan, he could work, and the economy would pick back up eventually. He could be an engineer again.

  The reality of what life would be like in Kabul, however, was something none of us could have imagined.

  8

  Our Return

  My most vivid childhood memories start at about eight years old. Yes, I remember moments from when I was younger during our time in the refugee camp and in Karachi—the playground, the mountains, the food, the apartment—but the year I turned eight proved seminal for me on multiple levels.

  It was 1999, and I can recall the smells, the textures, the hot, the cold, the dryness, the sights, the emotions, the uncertainty, and the excitement. We started off the year in Karachi, and I like to think that I was growing up into a young woman who was becoming aware of the world around me and my place in it. My memories have such clarity that, even when I close my eyes today, I can transport myself back to those days in our apartment, on the scooter, and walking in the mountains with my father.

  There are some events I hope never to forget no matter how much time passes, but there are others I wish I could eradicate from my consciousness. Our journey from Karachi back to Afghanistan, however, is a memory I’m unsure whether I want to keep or
forget entirely.

  * * *

  In July 1999 my parents told us we were moving back to Afghanistan. They’d gathered us together in the main room of our apartment and stood before us as we children sat on the rug. We’d just finished dinner, and the aromas of savory rice and roasted lamb still lingered in the air. The weather was warm outside, and the windows were open to catch the summer breeze, along with the sounds of Karachi’s streets.

  Instead of this gathering being a moment for celebration because we were going back to our homeland, to a place our parents had told us about so longingly and with such joy, the mood was unmistakably somber. Despite our parents’ efforts to sound excited, the tone of their voices, the look in their eyes, even the way they stood so stiff and unmoving, made me think things were not right. They seemed to be hiding something, or at least they weren’t telling us the whole truth.

  My father said we would leave in a few days’ time and that we couldn’t take much with us, just a small bag to carry some clothes, a few snacks, and some water. Everything else that we’d collected from our time in Pakistan—our pots and pans, the gas stove, our blankets and mattresses—had to stay. We gave these items to the other Afghan families we knew in the neighborhood, who wished us luck and said goodbye.

  When the day came to start our journey home, we woke early. The sun had just started peeking over the tops of the buildings and in through my bedroom window, and I remember feeling the summer heat on my face and breathing the dusty air. Outside, the wind kicked up scraps of plastic and trash that littered the nearby streets and alleys, swirling them around.

  As we packed, my mother shared with me that I had been about the same age as Maryam was now when we left Afghanistan all those years ago. She said she’d held me in her arms the entire journey, making sure I was safe and warm and secure.

  Normally this kind of comment would have touched my heart, showing me once again how much our parents loved and cherished us. But this time, my mother’s words fell on me with a gravity I wasn’t sure I understood. She then told me that during this journey, I would have to hold and care for Maryam like she had for me.

  I felt special that she trusted me with such an important responsibility, caring for my baby sister, but I was nervous. My little sister was so small and delicate, and I didn’t know what to expect on the journey. I’d been a baby myself the only time I’d ever traveled so far.

  Then I watched my mother pull out a long blue burka. I’d seen this piece of clothing in my mother’s things before, but I’d never seen her wear it. I asked her why she was putting it on; it looked hot and cumbersome, covering her entire body like a sheet and draping heavily over her head, hiding her face. She said she hadn’t worn it since she left Afghanistan in 1992, but now was probably the right time to put it on again. Her reasoning escaped me, except for her final comment about wanting us to have a safe journey.

  I didn’t ask anything more, but her words about a safe journey made me pause. I knew about the typical hazards associated with long journeys, but the site of the burka and my mother’s words made me think something dangerous awaited us. I sensed we would need to hide and not draw attention to ourselves, that there were people who would do us harm if we weren’t careful, though I didn’t know why I felt this way.

  When my mother finally took the clumsy garment off, she handed me and my sister each a long scarf called a chador. She told us that we were now grown and that we’d need to cover our heads whenever we were outside. It was very important we do this, she said, clasping my tiny hands in hers.

  I didn’t know what to say. I always trusted my parents and everything they told me, but I knew something was different about this trip. It was like everything I’d ever known and found comfortable was slowly and quietly disintegrating with each passing moment. I wanted to understand and I wanted to know why, but I didn’t have the words to ask the right questions. There was just a feeling in my gut.

  * * *

  When we were all packed and ready to leave, my father gave the apartment key to the landlord, who embraced my father and wished us luck. The driver was already waiting for us downstairs; the plan was for him to take us to Quetta, Pakistan.

  The seven of us crammed into a tiny Suzuki Alto, with the driver, my father, and my brother in the front and the four women, with me holding Maryam, in the back. It was oppressively hot, and at times the road was rough. There was little comfort to any part of this trip, and there were long stretches where I thought it would never end.

  After ten hours of driving, with very few stops, we reached the city of Quetta. The sun was already going down, and my father had planned for us to stay the night in a hotel. However, our driver, Ahmed, said it was not safe. Ahmed did not elaborate, but my father said his young family couldn’t continue on like this and we needed rest.

  Ahmed offered to take us to his brother’s house and said we could spend the night there. My father thanked him for his kindness. When we pulled into the drive and crawled out of the cramped vehicle, his brother’s family came out to welcome us with open arms. They offered us tea and cookies and sweets as soon as we got inside. We ate Afghan shorba for dinner, which is a soup made with beef, potatoes, and tomatoes. Even now I can still taste the delicious, savory broth, tender meat, and vegetables.

  We’d spent most of that day on the road and had barely eaten anything. We’d left our home in Karachi and everything that was familiar and comfortable, and now we were in a strange city. We didn’t know this family at all, and they had no warning we were coming. Nonetheless, they opened their home to shelter us for the night and fed us. For me, that soup and the family’s generosity illustrate the hospitality of the people of this region.

  The following morning, another driver drove us the fifteen hours to Peshawar, Pakistan. Along the way, we listened to music by Ahmad Zahir, a traditional Afghan musician. I drifted in and out of sleep, with the music and sounds of the car humming in my dreams.

  We arrived in Peshawar at about five that evening, but my father decided to wait until the following morning to cross the border into Afghanistan. He knew neither what awaited us on the other side nor where we might find shelter, and I could tell he was nervous. The driver stayed with us in the motel that night, and the next day we woke before sunrise.

  As we drove the remaining miles to Torkham Gate, which is the busiest official border crossing between Pakistan and Afghanistan, excitement bubbled inside me. The exhaustion from the past few days had vanished, and I recalled all the stories my parents had told me about our homeland. I pictured the house my parents had built, what it would be like meeting my grandparents for the first time, experiencing the sights and sounds of Kabul with all the cafés and people and bazaars, and beholding the beautiful landscape of the Afghan mountains. We were going home.

  But upon reaching Torkham Gate, we were greeted by a scene I did not expect. The border crossing was a simple metal drop arm guarded by a handful of Pakistani soldiers in long black uniforms. There were numerous jinga trucks, which are large flatbed and container trucks lavishly decorated with bright colors and designs, as well as chains and other decorations that jingle when they drive. They were parked in a rocky lot waiting to transport foodstuffs into Afghanistan. Just over the border, I could see the majestic Spin Ghar mountain range, which would become famous after 2001 and the battles in Tora Bora.

  However, what struck me was how desolate everything looked. Although there were people and cars and trucks around, and I could see small houses scattered on the hillsides in the distance, the entire landscape looked barren. The sky was gray and the weather was cool, and I could practically see the wind rushing across the plains and through the hills. More ominously, the far side of the border along the eastern edge of Afghanistan had a sharp and dangerous appearance, as though it were another world, harsh and unwelcoming.

  When it was our turn to cross the border, we passed through the checkpoint without incident. Our Pakistani driver dropped us near a lot where other c
ars were waiting for passengers. My father soon found an old man from Jalalabad who agreed to take us to Kabul.

  As we started off toward Kabul, I admit that at first I squealed with excitement. We were finally home. But my mood quickly changed.

  Right away the driver advised my father about life under the Taliban. He said if we get stopped, don’t talk too much. Only speak when spoken to and keep answers short and simple. Speak Pashto. No one else in the family should talk, and no one should get out of the car unless ordered to. Women, especially, should not open their mouths or look at anything. The old man also told my father not to reveal that we were coming from Pakistan. We were coming from Jalalabad to visit family in Kabul; that was the story. Last, if the Taliban tried to take anything, let them have it and don’t argue.

  My father listened intently as the man spoke, as did the rest of us. No one made a sound. The old man’s instructions raised our anxiety level from wariness to genuine fear.

  We encountered a Taliban checkpoint twenty minutes later. The driver told my father to remember what he’d said. If my father did as he’d advised, everything would be OK.

  Three men carrying rifles and wearing long black clothing stood in the middle of the road, directing all vehicles off to the side, where other men with more guns were searching and questioning travelers. Their beards hung down to their chests, some pitch black and others dyed a rusty red. Their hair was either wild or tucked under a turban, and several of the men seemed to have smudged soot around their eyes.

  These were the scariest people I’d ever seen, and my heart raced. I saw them pointing their guns at cars and trucks and yelling at people to get out. They hit some people indiscriminately and grabbed and shoved others. They also took bags of flour and rice and anything else they wanted from the travelers. I heard the driver whisper that if anyone resisted, the Taliban would shoot and kill them. I was so scared I buried my head in my lap and closed my eyes.