by Sharon McKay
“Why do the Taliban let you travel as you do?” Ariana asked.
Yasmine reared back in shock. “I do not understand.”
“You have walked into a nest of hornets. I want to understand why you have not been stung,” said Ariana.
“We have traveled only at night. They do not know we are here,” said Yasmine.
“When a sheep dies in these mountains, they know. Do not underestimate the Taliban. Tell me, do you hear whistles in the night?”
Yasmine nodded and instantly realized what a fool she had been. Of course, the whistles were Taliban signaling to each other.
“If they let you travel these mountains it is because they do not care or have more important plans,” said Ariana.
Yasmine rested her chin on her knees. She had to believe that they had not been spotted. “How is it that your mother cannot speak?”
Ariana shrugged. “I was a child when the Russians invaded my country. They attacked the mujahideen, our courageous defenders, on a mountain pass. There was a battle. My father was tending to our flock of sheep. He was not a soldier but he loved this country, and so when he was given a gun—an old gun that did not work—he went with the mujahideen to fight the Russian invaders. When he did not return, my mother went up the mountain in search of him. The last words she spoke were, ‘I will find your father and bring him home.’
“It has been said that instead of finding my father she found a dying Russian soldier. He cried out to her and she gave him a sip of water. She was a young, compassionate mother, and he was a young soldier. He died as she held the cup to his lips. A mujahideen spied her giving comfort to the enemy. They could not stone her because my father was a martyr, so they took pity on her and only cut out her tongue.” Ariana looked up at the stars. “My mother cannot read or write. We can only guess if this story is true. But what is true is that my mother has no tongue.”
For a long time they sat. “What of your husband?” asked Yasmine.
“He was from the city of Herat. I was tending the sheep and he was walking towards Pakistan. Herat is a city of poets. Do you know this city?”
Yasmine nodded.
“My mother offered him shelter for the night and he never left.” She paused as if waiting for a reaction. “Does that shock you?”
“You are very beautiful. I am not shocked.”
Ariana let out a small laugh. “An explosion killed all of his family, and so he was free to take a wife of his own choosing, and he chose me.” Ariana paused as if trying to reason the miracle of it. “He and I were the same in many ways. In a country where women are expected to have many children, we were both without siblings. Like him, I had lost my father and my three brothers had died as infants. My mother did not demand a bride-price, she asked only that we stay together.
“For a short while we were happy, and then the Taliban came for him one night. I was hiding, but they knew I was there with my mother and our newborn baby. They said that he could join them or watch them murder me and our son. He went with them and was killed by the Americans. The Taliban pay the family of those who have been martyred. When the foreign soldiers kill our men, do they offer such compensation? Tell me, who is more just?”
They could hear laughter from inside the house. The words Paris, France, and Babar rang out.
“But if it is as you say, and the Taliban know everything, why do they let you live as you do?” asked Yasmine. There was something not right about Ariana’s story, but Yasmine had never lied or known liars and so it was hard for her to judge.
“The wars have taken my father, maimed my mother, and martyred my husband. That is why the Taliban leave me alone, at least for now,” added Ariana.
The two sat under the stars for a long while. “And your son, Zmarak?” Yasmine asked.
“He was born as you see him—happy with the world and his circumstances. Do we all not wish such a life?” replied Ariana with a shrug.
Yasmine reached into the moneybelt that circled her waist and held out many thousand Afghani banknotes.
Ariana lurched back. “How dare you offer money in exchange for hospitality freely given?” She was tall and strong, but in that moment so was Yasmine.
“I offer this not as an exchange for hospitality but as a gift independent of hospitality. You have a stove. The kerosene jug lies on its side. It is empty. This is for kerosene to keep your son and mother warm during the winter. That is all.” Yasmine placed the money on the ground in front of Ariana.
A moment passed. Ariana sat back on her haunches. “That will pay for much more than kerosene,” she said, but gently. She picked up the money and tucked it into a deep pocket. “Rest for a few days. My mother will care for your friend and make her well. It is her nature.”
Yasmine was about to give thanks but, as usual, Ariana ignored her and kept talking.
“Beyond that mountain range there is a large, open pasture. In five days many tribes will come together for a game of buzkashi. Thousands will gather. Buzkashi is more than a game, it’s a way of life. The Taliban might not care about two girls and a boy walking through the mountains. In six days, Zmarak will take you along the high paths and through a village. Do not stop. Zmarak must not go too far. He is always in danger of being kidnapped by the Taliban.”
“Surely Zmarak would not make a good soldier.”
Ariana sniffed. “A suicide bomber does not have to be smart, only tortured into submission. They would make a simple boy into a bomber and tell him that when his body blows up into a million pieces he will smell sweet almonds and go to Allah’s warm embrace.”
“But how would he know how to do such a thing? He is not . . .” Yasmine did not want to use the word.
“You think he is not capable? Young suicide bombers are often wired so that they can be detonated from afar. Even dead, their bodies can kill. The Taliban operate by fear, not loyalty. You think that only girls are under attack but boys, too, must hide, not only from the Taliban but from the warlords. Warlords put bells around the ankles of young boys, dress them like women, and make them into bacha bazi, dancing boys. They are used like women. It is an old, filthy tradition that must die.” Ariana stood and dusted herself off. “When you leave here you must move quickly. Besides the Taliban and wandering bandits, there are many foreign soldiers in the area. And if foreign soldiers are near, so are land mines and suicide bombers.”
Yasmine nodded.
“You must change your burkas. Come.”
Yasmine followed Ariana back into the house. The boy and his grandmother were already asleep and curled up under the sheepskin. Tamanna lay on the pillow, awake but sleepy.
Ariana opened a wooden trunk, took out two old burkas, and gave them a shake. “My husband brought these from a bazaar just after we were married, one for me and the other for my mother. They are old and worn now.” Ariana held up a tattered green burka and fingered the material. “Do you know the history of this thing?”
Again, Yasmine looked at the woman with surprise. She shook her head.
Ariana stared hard at Yasmine. “The burka has been around for centuries, but hardly anyone would wear it in the past. Have you heard of Habibullah?” There was pride in her voice.
“He ruled only a hundred or so years ago,” said Yasmine. For the first time in her life, she was embarrassed to have answered correctly. She did not want to appear to be a know-it-all in Ariana’s company.
“Yes, and he had a harem of two hundred women. The princesses were clothed in silk burkas stitched with gold thread. The burka was only for the upper class. And do you know that it was the Christians, not the Muslims, who first hid their women? Even now many women believe that wearing the burka is an honor. They feel naked without it.” Suddenly Ariana scoffed and threw the burkas at Yasmine. “They are walking prisons, shrouds for the living dead. Take them and leave the ones you are wearing.”
“How do you know such things?” Yasmine asked quietly.
“What do you mean?” Ariana stood t
all.
“How do you know about Habibullah?” The question was no sooner out of Yasmine’s mouth than she regretted having asked it.
“My husband was a teacher and I a good student. You think that I am ignorant because I live in the mountains. I am strong. All the women of Afghanistan are strong. We will endure.” Ariana looked away, but it was too late. Yasmine could see tears in her eyes.
When they awoke the next day Ariana was gone. Where had she gone? Ariana’s mother could tell them nothing, and the boy would not have understood the questions.
Five days passed. Ariana was right, the old woman took great care of Tamanna. She served Tamanna cold food for her fever—goat yogurt, eggs, chicken, walnuts, and spring fruit. Hot food—beef, ginger, spice—was for colds. Soup was the exception. Chicken and coriander soup cured everything. Tamanna ate all that she was given. With the old woman’s care, Tamanna grew strong.
On their last morning, while Tamanna slept, Yasmine closed her eyes and silently made du’a.
Insh’ Allah, I am doing the right thing.
Insh’ Allah, my friend will stay well.
Insh’ Allah, my parents are safe.
Insh’ Allah, good things will come to these kind people.
She stood, stretched, and sniffed. She could smell soup brewing in the pot. “Salaam,” Yasmine said to the old woman, then she skipped out to the courtyard. Streaks of light in the eastern sky promised a fine day.
“Good work!” Yasmine called out. Zmarak, holding a crumbly yellow brick, turned and beamed a boy-smile. Over the past five days, and under the watchful eyes of Beelow the cat, Yasmine and Zmarak had rebuilt the wall in the front of the house and even remade the chicken coop to keep the chickens out of the fledgling herb-and-vegetable patch. Yasmine picked up a stone and slammed it into the pile.
“Salaam.” Tamanna stood at the doorway holding a mug of soup. “You are a good worker,” she called out to Yasmine. To see Yasmine do such work made Tamanna laugh.
Yasmine looked back at Tamanna and then up at the surrounding mountains. She took a deep breath of clean mountain air. Imagine always living in peace, imagine always feeling at peace. She wiped her forehead and said, “We must get ready to leave.” Tamanna nodded. Yasmine caught a look, something in Tamanna’s eyes. Fear? No, not fear. Was it regret?
Zmarak gave Tamanna a present, a newly carved walking stick. He had shaped the bottom into a point so that it might easily drive into the ground. The old woman packed provisions for their travels, dried goat and naan. Yasmine shook out their food bag. All that was left were some of the candies wrapped in gold foil and the near-flattened water bottles. She gave all but two candies to Zmarak and his grandmother. They kissed. They cried. The old woman bellowed, but now they were used to her sounds and sometimes could understand her meaning. She thumped her chest, clasped her hands, fingers to fingers, palm to palm, and cried out to Allah. Tears fell down her face, running in and out of wrinkles until they pooled on her cheeks. She was haggard and spent, but Tamanna, especially, saw only beauty.
Zmarak was about to translate when Tamanna said, “She says that she will carry our memory in her heart and remember the joy we brought to this house.”
The boy’s laughter was a familiar sound now, too.
“May Allah bless you,” Tamanna whispered as she held the woman in her arms.
Yasmine handed Tamanna her mother’s embroidered patoo and nodded. Tamanna understood. She tossed the patoo over the woman’s head and shoulders. The old woman picked up the fringe and covered her nose and mouth. Her eyes, as black as pebbles under water, glistened.
Chapter 16
With Only the Sky to Hold
Zmarak took the lead while Yasmine and Tamanna followed behind. As long as a male was in their company they could walk freely during the day, but that did not mean they were any less cautious. Yasmine’s eyes were never still. But if it was as Ariana had said, that the Taliban knew everything, why did they not attack?
Walking during the day gave them a new perspective. With full bellies and uncovered faces they could occasionally stop and admire the soaring mountains, plummeting gorges, and protected valleys that harbored delicate white and yellow flowers. A crisp wind blew off the snow-capped mountains.
“Our land is beautiful,” said Yasmine. She was beginning to feel something for this country. What had Mother called it? A call back to the land.
The path underfoot disappeared and reappeared, but Zmarak plunged on, undaunted. He was quick, sometimes too quick, leaping from rock to path, then back to rock. He stopped often to let Yasmine and Tamanna catch up.
The girls turned a corner, their hands grasping at scrub, their feet feeling their way along a narrow track. And he was gone.
“Where is he?” There was panic in Tamanna’s voice.
“There!” Yasmine pointed. They could see the top of Zmarak’s skullcap disappearing around a small hill.
“Zmarak!” Tamanna called out. He turned, waved, and bounded down another path towards home.
“He has gone as far as he’s allowed,” said Yasmine.
“Zmarak, may Allah protect you and your family!” Tamanna’s words were carried off by the wind. In this short time, Tamanna had come to care for him as she would a brother.
They carried on down the path, both deep in thought. Suddenly Yasmine stopped, and Tamanna banged right into her. “Down,” Tamanna muttered. They crouched behind a boulder, then peeked around it. In front of them they could see a dozen or so huts made of branches, mud, and bits of tin, clinging precariously to the mountainside. A child wearing a necklace of yellow glass played in front of a dilapidated shed. There were no other signs of life.
“Where is everyone? Where are the dogs?” Yasmine whispered. It was usually the barking dogs, clucking chickens, and sometimes braying donkeys that told them a village was near. Yasmine shook her head, then pointed to an overhanging rocky ledge. They would make the climb and avoid the village.
“What are you doing?” It was a man’s voice, deep and raspy. He had approached silently from behind. Startled, both girls pulled their burkas over their faces and looked through the grilles into the dull, vacant eyes of a grandfather. His cheeks were shrunken, his nose hooked, his face gaunt and skeletal, and his clothes were so filthy that they looked to be made of mud rather than cloth. Strands of hair falling from his gray turban were matted into his straggly beard, and white spittle collected in the corners of his mouth.
Yasmine was about to speak when he abruptly turned and stumbled down the path. They watched as he stopped in front of a hut and kicked aside a torn rug that hung over the opening. A puff of smoke drifted out as he entered and the rug fell back into place.
Tamanna sniffed. She recognized the sweet smell that went up the nose and stayed there. It had often come from Uncle’s hut behind her house. “We must get away,” she hissed.
At that moment, the child with the necklace reappeared. Startled, Yasmine turned and looked down into huge, liquid eyes. The child smiled, slipped her small fingers into Yasmine’s hand, and pulled her forward.
“Yasmine, no!” Tamanna grabbed Yasmine’s skirt.
“It’s all right. She’s just a child,” said Yasmine as her feet inched forward. The child led Yasmine towards the rotting, wooden steps of the hut.
Tamanna, right behind her, held her breath. “Yasmine, do not go in,” she whispered.
“It does not look dangerous,” she whispered back.
“Asalaam alaikum,” Yasmine spoke as she stepped closer to the doorway. “Asalaam alaikum,” she said again.
“Yasmine, no.”
Yasmine pulled back the rug that covered the door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, and then a small cry bubbled up her throat. Three children—one a baby and two others who looked to be no more than four or five—lay nearly naked on the floor beside their sleeping mother. Despite twitching limbs, they all looked more dead than alive. The tip of a pipe dangled from the mother’s l
ips. Smoke curled up from the bowl of the water-pipe.
Tamanna tugged at Yasmine’s sleeve. “They are opium addicts. We must not stay here.”
Shaken, Yasmine looked towards the other mud huts in the tiny village. “Is everyone here addicted?”
Tamanna nodded. “There is no medicine so they use opium for pain. The mother blows smoke into the child’s mouth. Soon everyone, even little children, becomes addicted.”
“How do you know such things?” Yasmine looked at her friend with both shock and amazement.
“In the bathhouse, women talk. And I know the smell, my uncle . . .” Tamanna said nothing more. There was nothing more to say.
Yasmine looked at the little girl, then gazed up at the surrounding mountains. Suddenly, almost inexplicably, rage filled her body. If one was good, worked hard, and trusted in Allah, life would unfold as it should. That was what she had been taught. That was her belief. But at every turn there was only misery and pain. Her body grew cold, so very cold, as she covered her face with her hands. The cries came from deep within. They seemed to grow until she was enveloped with grief. She leaned down, dropped the heavy haversack, and collapsed on the ground. All of it—the hunger, the fear, the senseless violence—felt as though it were piled on top of her, as though she might collapse under its weight.
When Yasmine looked up at last, her eyes burning, she saw Tamanna and the child sitting silently nearby. “I’m sorry,” Yasmine said. She wiped she face with a flat palm.
Tamanna extended her hand and they walked away. The child with the necklace toddled behind, oblivious to her surroundings or destiny.
Yasmine turned back and stared at the child. “What can we do for her?”
“Wait, we can give her something.” Tamanna took out the last two candies wrapped in gold foil and handed them to the child. The girl plunked down in a puff of sand and grinned.
