Thunder Over Kandahar

by Sharon McKay

  Twice the car slowed to a crawl only to zigzag between small herds of one-humped camels. Yasmine sat back, and for the first time since she had stood beside Michelle at the fort, she allowed herself to think of the future. Mother and Baba would get well and they would all go back to England. Tamanna would come too. Grandfather would be there. Her memory of him was growing vague—a tall man who lifted her high in the air and laughed. He was like Baba, kind and smart. She looked out at the stony land that seemed to pass by at the speed of light. She would leave this country, possibly forever. Why did she feel sad?

  The car suddenly stopped. Both girls bolted forward, slamming into the back of the driver’s seat. Tamanna cried out as a tooth cut into her lip. Yasmine looked out to barren, rocky land. What was wrong? She looked ahead to see what might be blocking the road. Nothing. She looked behind. Nothing. The road was empty.

  The driver leaped out of the car and hissed, “I will not be given orders by girls, you daughters of devils. Get out. You have polluted my rickshaw with your filth.”

  Even before his last words were uttered Yasmine had grabbed the two bags, the blanket, Tamanna’s hand, and scrambled out of the car. The heavy haversack unbalanced her. She slipped on the gravel and crashed down on her already skinned knees. She felt she should say something to the driver, remind him that he would not get paid, that he would not work for the kharijis ever again, but the driver’s contempt had turned into rage, and rage could kill.

  “Daughters of dogs,” he screamed, then spat at their feet. He turned and spotted the foreign, leather shoes on the floor of the back seat. In a hail of more foul words he reached into the cab and hurled both shoes at the girls, hitting Yasmine in the forehead and Tamanna in the chest. Then without looking back he climbed into his rickshaw, spun it in a circle, and, in a plume of orange dust, headed back towards the village.

  For a moment they just stood still. Slowly Yasmine turned and looked west. KAF was at least two hours by car in one direction, and nightfall was two hours in either direction. Two girls alone on a road in the desert at night would not last long.

  “Uncle will come after me,” whispered Tamanna.

  Yasmine nodded. The driver would tell everyone in the village that he had not taken the girls to Kandahar City, that he had left them stranded on the side of the road, that he would not take orders from daughters of dogs. He would brag. The men would cheer him.

  “Uncle does many drugs. Perhaps he will think that bandits will kill us instead.”

  Yasmine nodded. There were scorpions in the desert, sandstorms, thirst and hunger. There were many ways to die in the desert.

  “Yasmine, what do we do?” Tamanna’s voice wobbled and caught.

  Yasmine forced air into her lungs. “We walk.”

  “To Kandahar City?” Astonished, Tamanna turned towards her friend. Yasmine’s profile was perfect, like a queen’s. Her green eyes stood out like emeralds in the sand. They were warrior eyes, fierce and determined.

  “No, that is what would be expected. We will do the unexpected,” said Yasmine with pretend confidence.

  Startled, Tamanna pulled back. “Where will we go?”

  “We will go up into the mountains.” Yasmine looked across the flat desert and beyond to the darkening mountains of Pakistan.

  Tamanna was astounded. This was madness! But Yasmine continued. “We must go back, pass the village, pass the FOB, go up into the mountains and cross over into Pakistan,” she said. “We cannot use the roads. We must take goat paths and old caravan trails.”

  “But Yasmine, it will take days, maybe weeks to reach the border on foot, and everywhere there are land mines, and the Taliban live in the mountains,” said Tamanna.

  “We have no choice,” said Yasmine.

  It was Tamanna’s turn to look out into the pale desert, as raw and smooth as a lion’s pelt, and to the fierce gray mountains beyond. In that moment she understood that when there are no reasonable choices, one must make an unreasonable decision.

  “They will not come after us in the mountains. They will think we are afraid.”

  “Are we afraid?” whispered Tamanna.

  “Yes.”

  Chapter 14

  Shadow of the Sky

  White-hot terror pinioned them in place. Neither drew a breath. And then Yasmine said, “We cannot wear these burkas. They attract attention. They are too new, too beautiful.” She spoke quickly and with authority.

  “I know what to do. Look.” Tamanna pointed to a large family group led by an old man clutching a hooked staff. They were walking, one after another, across the flat, desert plain, pushing a herd of bony goats ahead. The goats fanned out in different directions. She also knew what they were hoping—that a goat, rather than a man or a valuable donkey, would trigger a land mine. The old man and young children followed the goats, and behind him came a line of women carrying babies and leading burdened donkeys.

  “Give me your burka, hurry.” Tamanna pulled her burka up over her head, balled it under her arm, and knotted her headscarf under her chin.

  “Why?” Yasmine took off her burka and handed it to Tamanna. She, too, covered her hair with the scarf that lay around her neck.

  “I’ll explain later.” Tamanna kicked off her shoes, pivoted on bare feet, and ran towards the family. Yasmine watched as Tamanna moved across the sand with unexpected grace. She was amazed. Tamanna, so shy, seemed to have transformed right in front of her!

  “Asalaam alaikum,” she called out to the women.

  A girl carrying a baby at the end of the column turned back and stared at Tamanna. She called out to the other women in the group. Then all the women stopped and turned. One, two, five, then six women gathered around Tamanna. Even the children nudged into the circle to listen. Unaware, the goats and the old man trudged on. Yasmine, sitting on her haunches, almost laughed out loud at the thought of the old man and his goats walking alone, forever, until they fell off the face of the earth.

  The women and girls passed the blue burkas around, fingering the material. Yasmine watched from a distance as heads bobbed like pecking birds and hands flew up in the air, a sign that the bargaining had begun. Twice Tamanna turned as if to walk away. Twice the woman pulled her back into the negotiating circle. Even the children and animals seemed to be in on the discussion. And then the circle broke up and Tamanna came running across the sand towards Yasmine.

  “I wanted to make an exchange—beautiful burkas for old, dirty ones—but there was mistrust.” She was holding her side and puffing. “So, I demanded . . . money . . . too.” Tamanna opened a clenched fist to reveal the paper money. Under her arm were two filthy, torn burkas. They were both the color of mud, full of holes, and frayed at the hem.

  Tamanna peered into the distance. It looked as though a small sandstorm was rolling along the road towards them. “Quickly, put it on.” Tamanna tossed Yasmine the nicer of the two burkas, put the food bag over her shoulder, threw the other burka overtop, and clutched the embroidered patoo to her chest. “Put your shoes in the bag. They will be recognized as foreign-made.” Tamanna was now in full command.

  The cloud of dust kicked up by a bus was getting closer. Yasmine slipped the black shoes into the bag filled with her parents’ papers, draped it over her neck and shoulder, and pulled the burka overtop.

  “Dirty your hands,” whispered Tamanna as she dropped to her knees. Both dragged their nails across the ground and rubbed their feet with sand.

  A lone flatbed truck charged towards them. Tamanna lifted her dusty hand and waved. She had never been in a truck but she had seen them stop at the village many times. The truck wobbled from side to side, then lurched back and forward before coming to a grinding stop. In the back of the truck men and boys sat on benches on one side, women and girls on the other. The middle was filled with goats, chickens in cages, and multicolored bundles. Two large dogs with clipped ears and leather straps binding their muzzles pushed their noses through wooden slats and growled. They were valuable dog
s, fighting dogs.

  Tamanna divided the paper money between her two hands and approached the driver.

  “Where is your maharam, the man to accompany you? You cannot travel alone.” He was like the dogs, snarly. Tamanna opened a fist revealing paper bills. “Get in.” The driver snatched the money out of her hand and yelled over his shoulder to the other passengers, “These are my sisters.”

  The travelers did not believe him, but the lie was proper and expected and nothing more was said. The girls climbed into the back. The truck reared back, coughed, and leaped forward.

  An hour had passed, maybe more, when Yasmine gripped Tamanna’s hand and pointed. “Tamanna, look!” They were approaching their village. Yasmine tucked the haversack between her feet and under her burka. Coming towards them on the other side of the road was a millie bus.

  Tamanna closed her eyes, but Yasmine peered intently through the grille of her burka. Neither took a breath. Tamanna’s eyes flew open and in that second she spotted Uncle Zaman. Perhaps Uncle had bribed the driver, because the millie bus slowed. If the driver of the bus flagged the truck, both vehicles would stop. The bus came to a crawl, as did the truck. Even at a distance Tamanna could see Uncle’s eyes flick up and down, searching, searching. Likely the driver of the rickshaw would have told him to look for blue burkas. Had they not exchanged their new blue burkas for old ones . . . Had they walked towards Kandahar City instead of doubling back . . . Had they not flagged down the truck . . . Had the driver not taken the bribe . . .

  The bus passed the truck. Yasmine collapsed against the rail behind her back. Tamanna sat as still as stone.

  As the sun turned the desert sands to ruby-red they passed the FOB to one side and the village to the other. Brenda, Michelle, and Dan-Danny would be inside the FOB. What would happen if they just climbed off the truck, pounded on the great door, and asked for help? She knew the answer. They would help her but not Tamanna. To take a girl away from her home, help her run away—that was kidnapping, against the policy. But passing the FOB was harder than Yasmine had expected.

  Tamanna was not looking at the FOB, she was staring intently towards the village. “Mor,” she whispered.

  Yasmine squeezed her friend’s hand. If she told Tamanna the truth, that her mother had been beaten by her uncle, she was sure Tamanna would leap out of the truck and run home. But what good would that do? Was she right or wrong to keep the truth from Tamanna? Yasmine closed her eyes and said a prayer. When she opened them, she looked ahead to pale-gray mountains that stretched across the horizon. The border crossing was in the hills. There was no turning back.

  The truck stopped at different villages. People got off and more passengers got on. There were no greetings or farewells. Stars came out. Finally, the truck stopped near a village and the children, people, goats, dogs, chickens, bundles tumbled to the ground. Women and children set up camp while the men smoked hand-rolled cigarettes. Exhausted, many of the smaller children simply curled into balls on the ground and fell asleep. Everyone was careful not to point the soles of their feet towards Mecca.

  The driver glared at Tamanna. “Yasmine, we must go,” she whispered. The girls lumbered off into the dark desert, Yasmine weighed down by the haversack, Tamanna hampered by her bad hip and the bag with the food. One clutched the campal, the other the embroidered patoo. Yasmine glanced back at Tamanna, and for the briefest of moments she laughed. “Look, we are two little hunchbacks trudging across the desert.” It was agreed that walking during the night was safer. They carried on.

  Once away from prying eyes they pushed back the hoods of their burkas and felt the cool night air on their faces.

  “See, that is the Big Dipper, and that is the North Star. We have to keep the North Star on our left.” Yasmine pointed to the brightest star in the sky. The moon was late rising, but when it did come out and the stars dimmed, they could see the shapes and shades of the desert all around them. The desert rolled and meandered, the shadows of the dunes disguising its dips and crevices.

  Once in a while they heard whistles—eerie echoes that pierced the night air. It was like birdsong, in a way beautiful. “Goat or sheep herders,” said Yasmine, although she sounded neither convinced nor convincing. It was the howls of dogs running in packs that frightened them most.

  Yasmine’s shoes were of no use. Sand collected in them, weighing her down. She walked barefoot. Many times Yasmine looked back at her friend. If Tamanna’s hip was bothering her, she did not let on.

  “It is almost dawn,” said Yasmine. Tamanna nodded. A buttery sun, masked by floating dust particles, was rising in the east. The mountains were still a day’s walk away but rocks that looked rooted deep in the earth were starting to emerge from the sand.

  “Look.” Tamanna pointed to three large boulders. “If we string your father’s campal across the top and hold it in place with stones, we can hide underneath.” The blanket was red-gold, the color of the desert. Even from a distance they would not be spotted. Exhausted but determined, the girls worked quickly, and in no time they were scrambling under their makeshift tarp to sit on the burkas. Mother’s embroidered patoo went across their shoulders. Like all Afghan girls, they had learned how to blend in, to hide.

  “Your lip is still big from where you hit the back of the seat in the car,” said Yasmine.

  “And you have a big bump on your head from where the driver hit you with a shoe. We are like soldiers after a battle,” said Tamanna. For a moment they laughed, or at least they made the sounds of laughter.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Yasmine. She opened a bottle of water and passed it to Tamanna.

  “The medicine is working.” Tamanna gulped and paused as she searched for words. “I think that you risked your life to bring me this medicine. The driver would have taken you to Kandahar City if I had not been with you.”

  “Risk? At the school, when the Taliban wanted to kill me, you stood up for me. How could I do any less for you? I am your sister. I love you.” Yasmine touched Tamanna’s hand. Tamanna hung her head. To be told that she was loved left her breathless with wonder. “The driver would have left me anyway, and if he had, I would now be alone.” Despite exhaustion, Yasmine spoke in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “And I would be dead, or dying,” whispered Tamanna.

  Joints ached, heads thumped, and legs, unused to such exercise, quivered. They were too tired even to eat. Both fell into a long and uncomfortable sleep.

  Sometime later Yasmine woke with a startled cry. Jolted awake, Tamanna reached for her. “What is it?”

  Yasmine, more asleep than awake, sputtered, “I dreamed of fish, their bodies shimmering in water under a brilliant full moon.”

  For the first time in a very long time Tamanna really laughed. “If you dream of a fish and the moon then you will be a king.”

  “A girl can never be king. Besides, I have told the dream out loud. It will never come true now,” said Yasmine, searching for the water bottle.

  “Then you will not be a prince but a beautiful princess instead, like Scheherazade,” said Tamanna as she pulled back the blanket and looked at the sunset. Everything was confused. It was almost night again. They had slept the whole day through.

  “Scheherazade told stories to keep herself alive. She had to be smart and brave,” said Yasmine.

  “Like us,” said Tamanna, although there was no conviction in her voice.

  “Do you remember the red-faced soldier with hair like a copper pot who came to our school? He said his name was Dan-but-you-can call-me-Danny. Do you remember?” asked Yasmine. Tamanna nodded. “At the fort he kept calling me ‘Princess.’ He showed me a picture of his sister.”

  “Maybe in the West all brothers call their sisters ‘Princess, ’” said Tamanna as she flipped back the edge of the blanket.

  This time Yasmine laughed for real. “That is not how I remember brothers and sisters together.”

  The setting sun threw a thin stream of light onto the ground, turning the brown sky
to gray.

  “YASMINE!” Tamanna screamed as she gave Yasmine a mighty shove. Yasmine fell back into the sand, taking the blanket with her. A scorpion, its shell translucent and its tail curled into an arc, passed Yasmine’s foot by a few inches. Yasmine and Tamanna just sat for a moment. The only sounds were their sharp intakes of breath. Yasmine looked into her friend’s eyes. They were getting used to keeping each other safe. It was what friends and sisters did.

  “Come, we will perform wudu.” Yasmine picked up a bottle of water, intending to pour out the tiniest bit of liquid into the palm of her hand.

  “No, save the water,” said Tamanna. And so in the desert the two girls performed the morning ritual by pretending to sprinkle water over their heads and wash themselves.

  “Bismillah al-Rahman al-Raheem, In the Name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. All Praise is due to God alone, the Sustainer of all the worlds, the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate, Master of Judgment Day,” they repeated.

  “We have food.” Yasmine dumped out the bag Dan-Danny had filled. She laid all that they had in a row. “This is called a power bar. I don’t know what magical power it’s supposed to have, but in England, I ate them all the time.” She laid out four bars, three bottles of water, including the one that had been opened, a bag of nuts, an apple, an orange, and some candies wrapped in gold foil.

  “It is a feast,” said Tamanna.

  “Now I will tell you everything. I will start with Noor. I think he is not the person we thought him to be. I think perhaps, in his heart, he is good. Eat!” Yasmine snapped the power bar in half. “Let us see if we become powerful.”

  They reached the foothills of the mountain range that separated Afghanistan from Pakistan on the second night. Walking through a grove of cypress trees, they came to a mountain path, likely carved out by sheep or goats but hammered down by the feet of shepherds who had climbed this way for thousands of years. The mountains were riddled with such paths and passages, tunnels and rock bridges in streams below and rope bridges up on top.