Thunder Over Kandahar

by Sharon McKay

  Yasmine tried not to giggle. Sometimes she thought Baba should be a poet . . . sometimes not!

  “There is Little Bear . . . and Great Bear.” She knew all the constellations. Soon Sirius, the brightest of all stars, would shine in the south.

  “Shall I tell you the story of Ulugh Beg?” asked Baba.

  “Baba, you have told me the story so often I could tell it to you, word for word.”

  “Take my campal.” Baba wrapped the blanket around her. “And I will sit and listen to my knowledgeable daughter.”

  “Prince Ulugh Beg, the fifteenth century’s greatest astronomer, built an observatory and catalogued thousands of stars. He founded a school for boys and girls and inscribed the words of the Prophet Muhammad—The seeking of knowledge is incumbent upon all Muslim men and Muslim women—on the wall.” Yasmine looked up to the starry sky and smiled. “Peace be upon Him.”

  “And what happened to this brilliant man?” asked Baba.

  “He was assassinated by extremists on October 27, 1449.” And as Yasmine looked up to the starry night she had a thought. “Baba, do you wish that we had not come here?”

  “I wish with all my heart that you were in school. I love my country, Daughter, but here we have been robbed of our most precious gifts: thought and imagination. Only in an atmosphere of peace and security can artists, poets, and writers flourish. Without our artists and storytellers, we have no history, and without history our future is unmoored—we drift. It is art, never war, that carries culture forward.”

  The wail of the Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar woke Yasmine the next morning. In that moment between sleep and waking, unconsciousness and consciousness, she knew something was wrong.

  Pop, pop, pop. Gunfire!

  “Mother?” she called out. “Baba?” Yasmine leaped up and ran through the house in seconds. Empty. “Baba!?” Had they left already to go to see the medic at the FOB?

  There were cries and shouts from outside their compound. Yasmine grabbed her hijab, flung open the door, slipped her feet into sandals, and ran across the courtyard and out onto the road.

  Noor was standing in front of her house. “Your parents have been shot,” he told her.

  There was no time to scream, no time to cry out, no time to think. She raced down the road, Noor’s words ringing in her ears: “Your father was seen going into the fort. He talks the kharijis’ language. He is a spy. Your parents will be dead by the time the soldiers come with their army ambulance.”

  Gulping air, Yasmine kept going. Your parents will be dead. That meant that they were not dead yet. Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. Her feet hit the ground with such force that swirls of sand rose up behind her.

  Yasmine did not have to go far before she saw a puddle of saffron material and a body beside it, splayed as if tossed from an airplane. Nearby was an upside-down cart, its wheels spinning in the air. The driver and donkey were nowhere to be seen. Mother’s old burka, the one the driver had made Baba buy so very long ago, was blood-soaked. Baba, too, was lying in a pool of blood. Children hovered. Yasmine threw herself onto the ground and touched her father’s hand while whispering into her mother’s ear, “Mother, Mother.”

  “Yasmine? Daughter?” The words gurgled up Mother’s throat. “Run, hide!” Mother lifted a heavy hand and pushed her daughter away.

  “No, no!” Yasmine buried her face in her mother’s burka. And then a sound, a groan, from her father.

  “Baba!” Yasmine crawled over to her father. “Baba, do not leave me here.”

  A truck pulled up, and soldiers jumped down and took charge. “Secure the area. Move! Get these kids back.” The commanding voice belonged to a woman soldier.

  Yasmine scrambled up and melted into the crowd of children, who had left their chores, their baskets of dough, and their games to gather and watch. More soldiers leaped out of their vehicles, formed a circle around her parents, dropped down onto one knee and pointed their guns out towards the village and surrounding hills.

  “Stand back.” The command was in English but all the children seemed to understand.

  Two medics jumped out of the truck. “Let me through.” A small woman with yellow hair poking out under her helmet and a red cross sewn on her sleeve went directly to Mother. She dropped to her knees and split open a bag filled with medical supplies. Yasmine watched as the woman pulled the burka off Mother’s face. She took out a flashlight and peered into Mother’s eyes. “Jaundice,” she hollered to the male medic, who was treating Baba. Time was both still and fleeting in the same moment. The truck with lights, bundles of supplies, and all manner of things dangling off it had its back door hanging open. Inside were beds.

  “The female has lost a lot of blood,” shouted the yellow-haired woman.

  Yasmine edged as close as she could to the medic looking after Baba and peered over his shoulder. She felt hot air on the back of her neck. She turned. Noor was close behind her.

  The woman medic glanced over at Baba. “I know that guy. He came into the FOB yesterday. He speaks perfect English. Educated, big time. He said that his wife had a broken leg and back problems, an old injury. He was going to bring her into the FOB today. This must be her. Get me a neck and leg brace. Private, get over here and help me.”

  A soldier pulled a stretcher out of the truck.

  “How’s he doing?” The woman tending Mother looked over to the medic caring for Baba.

  “A couple of hits to the shoulder, one to the chest. His left arm is a pizza. He took a few to the thigh, too.” Then the medic pushed a needle into Baba’s good arm. “He’s ready for transport,” he shouted. Another soldier, young and pink-faced, picked up one end of the stretcher.

  Yasmine’s heart hammered in her chest and ears. Her teeth began to chatter.

  “Okay, the braces are secure. Where’s the terp? Tell him to find out who these people are and if they have any family. Ask the kids. That girl there looks scared to death. She must know something.” The female medic was pointing directly at Yasmine.

  Yasmine recognized the interpreter—it was the one who had come to the school.

  “You, who are these people?” He stared at Yasmine and spoke Dari. His eyes blinked and his head twitched. He was nervous.

  The children around her answered for her. “Daughter! Daughter! She is the daughter of spies!” The words seemed to ignite the children as they all leaped and howled with laughter.

  “Yasmine?” Tamanna was running down the road towards her. She was out of breath. “I was delivering the naan. I heard the men talking. I came as fast as I could.”

  Yasmine opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  In that moment, the interpreter called out and motioned to her to step towards him. “Are these your parents?”

  Yasmine nodded. He turned and yelled words that she did not understand.

  A female soldier rushed towards her. “Asalaam alaikum.” The soldier’s accent was funny.

  “ Alaikum asalaam,” Yasmine replied.

  The soldier said to the interpreter, “Tell her that I am just going to touch her, gently. Tell her that I won’t hurt her.” Still smiling at Yasmine, the female soldier bent down and touched her with fluttering fingers. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she said softly, as though she was afraid Yasmine might fly away. “Clean,” she yelled.

  Yasmine looked back at Tamanna. Clean? What did that mean? What was happening?

  “Get in.” The female soldier motioned towards the armored ambulance. Both parents lay on cots inside the truck. Yasmine leaped in. Mother was on one side, Baba on the other.

  “Tell her to get to the back and sit. There’s not much room,” hollered the nurse. She did not need the interpreter. Yasmine understood, but everyone was too busy to notice.

  Children, soldiers, even the interpreter—everyone was shouting as soldiers scrambled into trucks and tanks. The door on the ambulance slammed shut, and for a moment everything went black. There were no windows.

  In that last second Yasmin
e cried, “Tamanna!” But Tamanna was gone.

  A light came on inside the ambulance. Yasmine crouched down and watched as two medics—one hovering over Baba, the other over Mother—went to work.

  Chapter 9

  Wedding Day

  Black spots remained on the road where the blood of Yasmine’s parents had seeped into the ground. Excitement over, the children scattered.

  Tamanna stood still and watched as the dust from the truck’s wheels wafted back to the ground. Was this it? These people, who had come into her life and changed her forever, were gone. She had not even said thank you or goodbye. Tears pooled in Tamanna’s eyes. Suddenly, abruptly, she was alone. She wanted to crumple into a ball and cry. Yasmine, don’t forget me. She whispered the words in her heart. This strange gift of friendship, of learning, of feeling treasured was over, and she had to accept it. She turned and looked directly into Noor’s face.

  “They will die, you know,” he sneered. “Yasmine’s parents—dead. Allah wills it. They are traitors, just like your friend. You must stay away from her or you will get hurt too.” His words burned like kerosene poured on an open wound.

  Tamanna picked up the edge of her scarf, covered her face, and sobbed, “Noor means light. What light do you cast? What good do you do?” She spun on her heels and ran all the way home.

  Breathless, Tamanna leaned against the inside wall of her own courtyard, closed her eyes, and waited for her heart to stop pounding. There, tethered to a rope, in the middle of the yard, was an old, angry billy goat. The goat pawed the dry ground and bleated. Tamanna, suddenly tired, walked up to the goat and patted its head. Did it know that it would soon be kebabs for the wedding feast? “Poor goat.” She ran her fingers through its knotted hair.

  A wedding usually cost much money and lasted for many days. Uncle was insisting that there be a feast—at least he was willing to pay for that, and many people in the village had been invited. But she would have no pieces of furniture, cloth, or jewelry to take with her to the marriage.

  Her wedding should have been the most important event in her life, but to Tamanna it did not feel like her wedding day. Perhaps if she had done the things that most brides do to prepare . . . but her hands and feet were not painted with henna, and no one had yet troubled to help her remove the hair from her body. Except for the hair on her head, eyelashes, and eyebrows, a bride was to go to her new husband hairless. But what did it matter what she looked like? Her husband would not think her pretty. A truly beautiful Afghan woman was tall, with almond-shaped eyes, a small mouth, pale, delicate skin, and a round tummy. Tamanna looked down. Yasmine was right. She was very thin, and the sickness left her tired, too. She’d thought she was getting better but really, she was getting worse. The only way she could control her trips to the outhouse was to not eat at all. She had eaten nothing for two days.

  Tamanna gazed around the courtyard. In the evening, as the sun set on this day, she would receive the blessings of the mullah, sign the Nekahnama, the marriage certificate, and she and her husband would exchange thin gold bands. “Mobarak,” everyone would congratulate the couple. They would clap. She would be a married woman. She imagined it all. Men would hug one another out in the courtyard right where she was standing now. The women would hug one another in the house. Mor’s precious glass bowl filled with sugar-dusted almonds would be passed around. Along with the goat kebabs there would be saffron rice, and rice with raisins and nuts, spinach, manto filled with meat, and eggplant with yogurt sauce.

  Tamanna felt that funny rumbling in her stomach again. How could she make it stop?

  “Tamanna, come and eat,” Mor called from inside the house.

  “In a minute, Mor.” Tamanna ran past Uncle’s shack and into the outhouse. She burned with equal parts of pain and shame. Her legs quivered and her heart thumped hard in her chest. She felt weak, cold, and sweaty, all at the same time. What would happen when her husband found out that she could not control her bowels? Would he beat her?

  “Are you still ill, my daughter?” asked Mor.

  Tamanna, head down and dragging tired feet, walked back around the house and sank down onto an old toshak. She put her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I will be fine,” she whispered. Tamanna picked up a tiny potato and began to peel it. Only then did she notice her mother’s shoulders heaving up and down. “Mor, are you crying?”

  Mor’s voice drifted as her hands peeled vegetables. “I have lost my son to the Taliban and now I have lost my daughter, too . . .”

  “Mor, you have lost me to a husband. What other life is there for me? Aren’t all girls told from birth that they must marry? Think of Kabeer. Did we not think him gone from this earth? And how could he truly be a Talib if he saved Yasmine and Teacher?”

  “My sweet little boy.” Mor nodded.

  “Mor, what will become of you?” Lines creased her mother’s forehead, and she was so thin that the bones of her wrists looked like knots of rope under a thin blanket. But Mor was old, almost twenty-nine.

  “I will go to your grandfather’s house. I will be taken care of.”

  “Will I ever see you again?” Tamanna leaned over and wiped the tears from her mother’s face with the end of her hijab.

  “It is in the hands of the Prophet, peace be upon Him. Take the naan to Rahim Khan. He will be waiting.” Mor nodded towards the stack of bread. “Be quick. Your uncle must not see you on the street. He is—”

  “Smoking chars.” Uncle had been celebrating his freedom from debt by smoking opium. And they both knew, without going to the well or bathhouse to hear the gossip, that he was drinking and gambling, too.

  “Go, go. Go before he returns.” Mor swished her hands in the air, shooing her away like a fly.

  Tamanna kissed her mother’s cheek, stood, then turned back and fell on her knees. “Mor Mora, grand Mora, Mora, Mora, grand Mora.”

  They were the wrong words to say. Mor put her face in her hands and cried.

  “Don’t cry, Mor. I did not mean to make you cry,” Tamanna whispered.

  Chapter 10

  Forward Operation Base:

  Masum Ghar

  Inside the ambulance the two medics talked to each other and into their headsets while bending over Mother and Baba. They did not pay any attention to Yasmine. Had they forgotten that she was even there? She listened carefully. As long as they didn’t use too much slang their words were easy to understand. Baba and Mother needed blood, she understood that. They had to be cross-matched, stat. What was “stat” ? Both Mother and Baba had needles in their arms attached to tubes that led to bags of clear fluid. The bags swung from the ceiling of the vehicle.

  The armored ambulance stopped several times, but finally the back door dropped open. “Whatta ya got?” Yasmine couldn’t quite see the soldier who was speaking, but his voice was familiar.

  “Two locals,” said one medic as both jumped out of the ambulance. “The male took three bullets, female took two. Female has an old leg injury. She needs to be immobilized before transport. I think she’s septic, too, and seriously vitamin D deprived. The male might lose an arm, but the bullets missed major organs. Girl, about fourteen or fifteen years old, not involved in the hit. We’re assuming that she’s their daughter but the terp hasn’t interrogated her.” As they talked they slid the stretchers out of the ambulance and, in a heartbeat, her parents disappeared behind the swinging doors of a small building.

  “Has she been checked?”

  “Clean. Where’s the terp?” The female soldier, talking and walking, barged back out of the building.

  “Terps are busy with a local down at the front gate. They’re sending up an ANA who speaks Dari and a little English.”

  The female soldier peered into the ambulance. Yasmine sat crouched between a metal tank and a stack of medical kits. “Come on out, honey, it’s okay. Come on.” She motioned with her hand. Standing behind her was a tall soldier, gun slung over his shoulder, helmet pushed back revealing a clump of red hair. He was the sol
dier who had come to her school and talked about alligators and crocodiles.

  Hunched over, with her head down, Yasmine scrambled out of the ambulance. “Asalaam alaikum,” she whispered, but more to her feet than to the soldiers in front of her. She looked over the soldier’s shoulder. Where were her parents?

  “Hey, I know her. She was at that school, the one that got attacked. Hi there, Princess, remember me? My name is Dan or Danny—you choose.”

  Yasmine drew the ends of her hijab over her mouth and nose, looked up, then down. His eyes were so blue they looked liked water. He was grinning.

  “She doesn’t understand. Stop scaring her,” snapped the female soldier.

  “I am not scaring her. I’m great with girls. Look here.”

  Dan-Danny fumbled for something in his pocket just as an Afghan soldier came up from behind the khariji soldier.

  “Daraysh. Stop. Identify yourself. You will be shot by the kharijis if you misbehave,” barked the soldier in Dari. He was dressed in blue, wore a heavy black vest, and carried a gun. Yasmine shrank backwards.

  “Hey, what are you saying to her? She’s just a kid.” The female soldier, clearly annoyed, gave Yasmine a pained smile full of sympathy and concern.

  Grateful, Yasmine looked up into the eyes of the woman soldier. They were light brown with streaks of green. She was young, very tall, and had soft yellow hair tied back in a round bun. She wore the spotty camouflage clothes soldiers wore to blend into their surroundings, big boots, and a gun was strapped against her leg.

  “I’ll take charge of her,” she said.

  The Afghan soldier shrugged before walking away, but the female soldier said nothing. Yasmine was surprised. Did she not know that a shrug was a sign of disrespect?

  “My name is Brenda. BRENDA.” The female soldier tapped her chest. “The doctor and medics are with your parents. You sit.” The medic was talking with her hands. She handed Yasmine an orange and a bottle of ice-cold water.