Thunder Over Kandahar

by Sharon McKay

  There was nothing to fear, and so the girls walked past the tumbledown huts, picked their way through strewn garbage and rubble that littered the ground, and kept going until they came to where the rutted road turned back into a path.

  This time, neither looked back.

  Chapter 17

  Taliban

  Once again, they walked by the light of the stars. The paths were steep and slick with frost. The moon was full as they crossed a rope bridge cobbled together with wooden slats, most rotten and some missing. They couldn’t see the river rushing beneath them but they could hear it.

  Down in the gullies, where only the thinnest moonbeams reached, they hopped across rock bridges. White water ran so fast around the boulders that a wrong step would have carried them away. The soles of Yasmine’s shoes were flat and on the wet rocks they became slippery. Bare feet were best. Her toes soon went numb in the icy water. More frightening was the thought of breaking an ankle or leg. What then—to die slowly of the cold and hunger? No, it was better to drown quickly.

  The haversack holding Baba’s notebooks weighed Yasmine down and occasionally slipped to one side, throwing her off balance. Tamanna repeatedly offered to carry it. Yasmine shook her head vehemently. The added weight would only increase the pressure on Tamanna’s hip. As it was, she was limping badly again.

  “Tamanna!” Yasmine cried as she stumbled. The haversack shifted. Tamanna, in the lead, turned back and grabbed it. Yasmine let out a muted sob as it was lifted off her back.

  The straps had cut deep welts into her shoulders.

  “Sit,” said Tamanna.

  Yasmine shook her head. “We should keep going. Listen.” Both cocked their ears to a familiar sound. They could hear the beating of helicopter propellers. The border could not be far.

  “Just rest for a few minutes,” said Tamanna.

  Yasmine sank to the ground. For a moment they sat there in silence. Tamanna took a sip of water and passed the bottle to Yasmine. Up until then the idea that they might actually succeed had been unimaginable. And in truth, Tamanna felt that she was not walking to anything, she was walking away from something. But now, with the border so near, the possibility of a future was creeping into her thoughts.

  “Once, you said that many women in the West live without family. Is that true? Are they all very lonely?” asked Tamanna.

  “If they live alone, it is their choice. I remember a friend of my parents, a doctor, who lived alone. I remember her as being happy,” said Yasmine. “Come, if we stay any longer we will not get up at all.” Yasmine stood and eased the haversack back across her shoulder, pursing her lips tight to swallow the sting.

  A day and night had passed since they had said goodbye to Zmarak.

  The sun was rising. There were roads nearby but, without a male to accompany them, Yasmine and Tamanna kept to the deserted paths. The routes criss-crossed, backtracked, some simply petered out, while others fanned out so broadly that the trail became a road large enough to accommodate tanks and trucks. It was easy to tell that the Russians had once used these routes. Rusted, broken Russian equipment was scattered about like weeds.

  They climbed up a hill. Again, the road to the border was in sight. Even at this early hour they could see a string of colorful burkas, horses decorated with bells and blankets, jingle trucks, caravans of fat donkeys trailing bony goats and dusty children, and businessmen carrying large cases of mysterious goods, clogging the road. Once again they plunged into a valley.

  “Look.” Yasmine stopped short and pointed to an ugly black lump on the ground. “What is it?”

  “Naswar,” whispered Tamanna. A great plug of chewing tobacco lay like a donkey turd in the middle of the path. Tamanna stared down at it. It was of high quality. Uncle chewed such tobacco, spitting it out in the corners of the house and courtyard. In these parts, only the Taliban would have been able to afford such expensive tobacco.

  “It could be from someone driving a caravan,” said Yasmine. They had seen many caravans. Most were carrying ragtag refugees, though once they had seen what might have been a foreign medical caravan—it was hard to tell from a distance.

  Tamanna said nothing. They plodded on. Not even Babar stories would help them now.

  Exhausted, they looked for shelter to wait out the daylight hours. Yasmine motioned towards an abandoned hut, its tin roof almost flattened and the mud walls around it partially caved in. Come, come, Yasmine signaled with her hand. Talk was too exhausting, and besides, they were on the cusp of a great ravine and sound carried.

  Yasmine stepped towards the entrance of the hut and stopped. There was something underfoot. She froze. “Stop!” she cried.

  Tamanna halted mere feet away from where Yasmine stood, still as a statue, her eyes wide with terror. The Russians, Americans, and even Afghans themselves had buried millions of land mines. They were all over the place. Some had even been made to look like toys.

  “Get away,” Yasmine muttered. “Get back.”

  “Stay still,” Tamanna whispered, approaching her on tiptoe.

  “No, get away. Get away!” Yasmine brushed Tamanna’s shoulder with her hands.

  “Hush.” Tamanna knelt down and, with her fingertips, lightly swept the ground. Some of the mines were triggered by a reverse pressure. One could step down on a mine and nothing would happen, but once the pressure was removed the land mine would be set off. Others were connected to a can of petrol or stick of dynamite.

  Tamanna picked up a twig and began to dig a little trough around Yasmine’s foot. There were dozens of shell casings scattered around but no wires that led to a buried fuel source. Nor could she see a plank of wood that might be pressing on a detonator.

  “No mine,” she said with a shudder.

  Yasmine crumpled onto her knees and took in long breaths.

  “Come,” said Tamanna gently.

  The ground around the hut had been beaten down. Strewn about were more shell casings, a broken wind-up radio, empty water bottles, plugs of chewed tobacco, and dead batteries. A broad-leafed tree had draped itself over the hut, looking both protective and ominous at the same time.

  Yasmine pushed open a wooden door and peered into a filthy, garbage-strewn room. Light filtered in through a small window beside a stack of thin mattresses, but still it was hard to see anything. Another tattered rug, almost more holes than cloth, covered the hard dirt between the door and the mattresses. Drawing a deep breath, Tamanna stumbled in behind.

  “Tamanna, look!” Yasmine picked up a crumpled newspaper and held it up to the light streaming in through the window. On one side there was a story written in Pashto about infidels and beside it pictures of American soldiers. They looked huge in their military uniforms. On the flip side of the paper, an Indian woman wearing a glittering pink sari held up a bottled drink in her perfectly manicured hands. Her face had been scratched out with a pen but her body remained untouched. Taliban. They were near, Tamanna could feel it.

  As Yasmine looked out a window covered in thick plastic at the rocks and scrubby trees that pressed up against the back of the hut, Tamanna limped over to the stack of mattresses. They were paper-thin and very dirty. Yasmine turned and reared back in disgust.

  “It is no safer in here than it is out there,” said Tamanna.

  Hesitant, but equally exhausted, Yasmine crawled between the mattresses and, as always, tucked the bag filled with Baba’s and Mother’s papers under her head. Tamanna clutched the other bag, although now it held only dregs of water in crinkled water bottles and crusts of bread. They were warm and, for the moment anyway, felt safe. Sleep was instant.

  Hours later, perhaps midday, they awoke to the sound of wings beating against the wind. Yasmine sat up. No, it wasn’t birds, something was slapping against the wall. The plastic on the windows had come loose and snowflakes wafted in.

  “What is it?” Tamanna whispered.

  “Nothing. Sleep.” Yasmine settled back down. They were warm, the air was fresh, and, despite the ra
cket and their rumbling stomachs, they fell back into a deep sleep.

  It was later, in the quiet time between day and night, that the whining and pleading bray of a donkey jolted Yasmine awake for the second time. She squeezed Tamanna’s arm. Both heard the crunch-crunch of feet on rocks coming towards the hut. They lay still, paralyzed with fear. The door opened. Tamanna and Yasmine lay buried under the mattresses in the darkened room.

  The voice of a youth was yelling something. The girls strained to hear. “There is no one,” repeated the boy. By the sound of his voice he was standing on the threshold. If the boy came in . . . if . . . if . . . if. The door slammed shut.

  Neither spoke as they scrambled towards the window. Out went the bags, then both girls dropped over the side. Tamanna let out a muffled moan as a bolt of razor-sharp pain shot up her leg and into her hip. Thorn bushes scraped their hands and legs as they pressed their backs against the wall of the hut. Two hearts hammered. The door inside the hut banged open again. They could hear footsteps.

  A head popped out the window directly above them. Tamanna looked up. The boy was peering off into the distance. It was growing dark. She could see his hands gripping the windowsill, his chest, his chin, the shape of his face—it was enough. She felt her heart thump, her body grow cold. How could this be? And then the boy pulled back and disappeared into the hut.

  Wordlessly, Tamanna turned to Yasmine and mouthed the words, Kabeer—my brother.

  Chapter 18

  Star-Tipped Sandals

  They waited with their backs to the wall and the campal covering their heads. Yasmine put her mouth close to Tamanna’s ear. “Tell me, why did Kabeer join the Taliban?”

  Tamanna hung her head and murmured, “My fault.”

  There were distant sounds. The girls tensed. Each held her breath and reached for the other’s hand. The sounds became clearer—the clop-clopping of hooves and the repeated pounding of paws on the stony path. Dogs came bounding up and raced around the hut, sniffed under the blanket, and looked both girls in the eyes. Frantically Yasmine reached for the food bag. She tossed the dogs their last bit of bread. The dogs were young and poorly trained. A nibble was enough to make them happy and send them on their way. A horse whinnied. More staggered clip-clops followed, likely donkeys laden with supplies. Someone was yelling. The sounds of the small caravan were getting closer.

  Sick rose in Tamanna’s throat. She recognized a distinctive nasal voice. It was the Talib with the scarred face—the one who had wanted to kill Yasmine at the school. Then suddenly his voice grew faint, as if he had been swallowed up. He must have gone into the hut. With a thumping heart Tamanna peeked out from under the campal and crawled until she could peer around the corner of the hut. There was someone else with them, a boy with a yellow plastic flower tucked behind his ear. She inched back, throat dry, shaking.

  “How many?” Yasmine whispered in Tamanna’s ear. Tamanna squeezed Yasmine’s hand four times.

  There was no escape—the slightest movement would set the dogs barking. They sat with their arms circling their knees. The hut was quiet, and as far as they could tell no guards were posted. Tamanna’s hip throbbed. Her leg and foot went numb. Sweat beaded on her forehead even as frost formed on the rocks around them.

  Yasmine snuggled closer to Tamanna and thought of her parents. She could see her mother’s dark eyes and long, shiny black hair, her father’s smile, she could almost hear his laugh. Mother, Baba, I do not want you to be alone in your old age. I love you. I think of you. I miss you.

  Large white flakes fluttered in the air and blanketed the ground. Baba’s campal did little to keep out the cold. Only when Yasmine and Tamanna were sure that all were asleep did they push back the campal and feel the rush of cool night air. Tamanna, rubbing her leg, whispered in a barely audible voice, “Yasmine, I will go to Kabeer and ask for his help.”

  Yasmine could not believe her ears! “No, he is a Talib now.”

  “He is my twin. It is different. He would not betray me. And remember, he went to the commander and asked that your life be spared.”

  “We are so close to the border. We do not need his help,” said Yasmine.

  “And how do we cross without a maharam, a man?” snapped Tamanna. For the first time she could hear the anger in her own voice. How to explain the attachment of a twin to one who did not even have a brother or sister? “Yasmine, I cannot leave my country without saying goodbye to my brother. You must go on ahead. I will catch up to you.”

  Yasmine chewed the fringe of her scarf. “How will you talk to him?”

  Tamanna had been thinking about this for hours now. “The sandals.” She pointed to the star-tipped sandals on her feet. “It is many years since he has seen them, but he loved these sandals. I am sure he will recognize them. We can leave them out along the path. He will see them and know I am near.”

  This time Yasmine shook her head vehemently. “If the others see the sandals first they will steal them, and then what will you do? You cannot walk without shoes.”

  Tamanna thought for a moment. “Then I will leave one sandal. No one will take just one sandal. They will think it fell off a child riding in a cart.” Tamanna was adamant. Even if it meant her life, she would talk to her brother one last time and tell him that he was loved, that he would always be loved, and that he was missed.

  Defeated, Yasmine nodded, but she knew that if Kabeer betrayed his sister they would both pay the price.

  Tamanna slipped off one sandal and left it on the path that led back down the mountain. Then she hobbled to a new hiding place. Yasmine, carrying the bags and the campal, hid farther down the path. They waited for the dawn. Finally, a smudge of a rose-colored sun rose in the east.

  There was commotion inside the hut as the small caravan made ready to leave. The donkeys, burdened with packs twice their size, stumbled down the path. The little boy, still wearing a now wilted flower behind his ear, with bells around his ankles, wielding a big stick, came after the donkeys. The commander, on his horse, and the other young Talib followed. They walked carefully. One slip and they would all plummet into the ravine below.

  Kabeer, dragging his feet in the dusting of snow, trailed behind. Tamanna’s heart beat wildly. The sandal had been kicked by one of the lead donkeys and lay on the side of the path. No, no! He was walking past it. He’d missed it!

  Tamanna bolted up and whispered, “Kabeer.”

  He turned, and with cold, dead eyes looked straight at her.

  Kabeer scowled as he turned again to watch the small caravan move down the mountain path ahead of him. He did not ask his sister why she was in the mountains. He did not ask if she was well, if she was hungry.

  Tamanna did not notice or did not care that he did not find her presence shocking. He looked different now, too. At the school he’d worn a poorly wrapped, fat, dirty turban. His clothes had been filthy, and hanks of greasy hair had hung down over his shoulders. Now he was dressed in a clean, pale robe, with a warm scarf around his neck and a cap on his head. His hair was trimmed, and there was not even the shadow of boy whiskers. Only an old Russian Kalashnikov rifle strapped across his back announced that he was Taliban. Tamanna ignored the gun. To her eyes he looked wonderful, like a student. She was remembering his sweetness and how they had played together.

  “Our mother loves you,” said Tamanna. “She waits for you always.” Tamanna reached out her hand.

  Kabeer reared back and cried, “Do not talk to me of my mother. You bring shame to our family.” He spat out the words like dirt, like she was dirt, a fly on the wall, nothing.

  Tamanna was confused. “I did not bring shame to our family.”

  “Where is your maharam? You walk outside the house without a male family member. Your face is uncovered. You embarrass me.” He turned to leave.

  “Please, do not go.” Again Tamanna reached out, and again he shrugged her off.

  “I am Taliban. We are pure Islam. Taliban apply Islamic rules and laws. Westerners are impure. They
have nudity everywhere. Adam and Eve saw that they were naked and so they clothed themselves. We have the computers and DVDs of the infidels and we see their nakedness.” His voice had a dead sound to it, as if he was speaking from memory. But what did all this matter? It was not the infidels she cared about, it was Kabeer, her brother.

  Tamanna began to stutter. “But . . . but Mor sent you to live with Uncle in Kabul. How was it that you joined the Taliban?” She wanted to know, of course she did, but mostly she wanted to keep him talking.

  “The man Mor hired to take me to Kabul took me to the commander instead. The commander is a warlord, a powerful man. Even the Westerners respect him.” Kabeer’s head flopped down and his chin rested on his chest. He hesitated, as if he was unused to talking about himself.

  Tamanna remembered the night he was taken away by the man who owned the water cart. Kabeer, such a little boy, had cried out, “Mor, Mor, I do not want to go.” She had hidden behind her mother. When Mor would not relent, Kabeer had reached out to his sister, “Tamanna, Tamanna, help me.” The man had scooped Kabeer up in his arms. He’d been small for his age but strong, and he had fought fiercely. “Mor-jam, do not send me away. I do not want to go.” His cries had been full of longing and fear. The stranger had raised his free hand and hit Kabeer hard across the face. Tamanna had felt the pain of the slap. It lit her body on fire. Shocked into silence, Kabeer had taken one long look at his mother, who remained stone-faced. And then they were gone.

  Tamanna had run after him into the night, tears streaming down her face. “I love you. I will wait for you,” she had cried.

  Mor had grabbed her and pulled her back into the compound. “Stop your crying. We must keep him safe. This is the only way.”

  Tamanna had cried herself to sleep that night and many nights after. Behind the curtain that divided the room, Mor too had cried, but silently, afraid that any show of weakness would bring bad luck.