Thunder Over Kandahar

by Sharon McKay

  “But you can leave this place forever, can you not? You have family in America,” said Famia.

  “I miss my family. It is hard to be so alone in this place. At home in Kabul I would have had many hands to help with our baby. Soon we will return to Afghanistan.” For a moment there was sadness in her voice.

  “But if your family is not there, and you miss them, why return?” asked Famia. It was a very personal question, but Famia felt so comfortable in her company.

  Mina leaned in close. She smelled of flowers and mountain air. “We wait until it is safe for us to return. We are young, we are educated, we are strong. If we too run away, what hope is there for our country? It is not the West that the old mullahs fear. It is modernity. Anything modern or new is a challenge to their way of thinking. Education is our only hope. Meanwhile, Babrak and I support the medical efforts of Dr. Latouche and others who would help our people—all our people, not one tribe over another. We are all Afghans first.”

  “Famia!”

  Famia looked up to see someone coming into the courtyard—it was Nicolette! A huge smile lit up her face. Babrak stood smiling, too, in the doorway.

  “Bonjour, ma petite. We are here at last!” cried Nicolette.

  Famia began to shake with relief, and she saw Nicolette’s smile replaced by a look of tender concern.

  “Oh, ma petite, were you worried? It was just a delay. A boy who had stepped on a land mine required surgery. His father is chief of police. The doctor could not say no. The horrible man locked us up in a room until he was sure the boy would live! Can you imagine?”

  Famia, pale as ice, leaned against the tree. She had thought she was getting stronger, but she realized then just how much the fear of losing her new friends, the only people she felt any connection to, had hurt her.

  Mina pulled herself up. “Come, sit here,” she said to Nicolette. “I will get you tea.”

  “Excusez-moi, Mina. I have forgotten my manners. How are you feeling? How is the baby?” Nicolette smiled at the young woman.

  “We are well and will talk later. Sit with your friend. She has missed you.”

  “Merci, Mina.” Nicolette sat and put her arm around Famia. No matter how she tried, Famia could not stop shaking, or stop the tears from trickling down her cheeks. “Hush, hush. I am so sorry we worried you. But now it is good. We are here, n’est-ce pas?” Famia nodded, but the tears ran down her face and onto Nicolette’s shoulder. “Hush, I am here.”

  There was a commotion outside the front door. The door opened and in spilled Dr. Latouche and the nurses. Mina, her faced flushed with excitement, was rushing around preparing tea and a plate of fresh fruit and sweets. Nicolette offered to help, but Mina brushed her aside. “It is better that you two talk. Perhaps Famia should rest?” suggested Mina.

  “Yes, that seems wise.” Nicolette’s voice was suddenly serious. “Come, Famia. You rest, and I will tell you what I’ve been thinking about,” she said.

  Nicolette helped Famia into the cool quiet of the sleeping area, where she settled back down on a mat, facing the wall. She was ashamed of her obvious weakness, her tears. Nicolette held her hands.

  “Famia, regardez-moi. For three days I have thought of you, and I think I know what might be best, for both of us. Come home with me, to France. Begin your life again.” Nicolette looked at her with equal parts love and concern.

  Famia caught her breath. It was so touching, but confusing, too, that these foreigners—these strangers, really—cared for her so much. She felt so . . . grateful.

  “You are young. You can go to school. There is nothing for you here. Come home to France.” Nicolette put her arm around Famia’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head.

  A shiver went down Famia’s spine. Was her home really France? She looked up at Nicolette’s face, and words seemed to stick in her throat.

  “Famia, say something.”

  “I was afraid I would be alone. How does one live without family?” She spoke while choking on tears.

  “You will never have to be alone again. I promise, Famia.”

  “I love you. I love you like my sister and my mother and my friend.” Famia looked back at the wall.

  “Then say yes. Come with me and begin again, no?”

  What to say? She turned and again looked into Nicolette’s eyes. “Is it true that in France there is much chocolate?” asked Famia.

  Nicolette’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Because your eyes are dark like chocolate.” It was Famia’s turn to smile.

  “How do you know about chocolate?” asked Nicolette.

  “I just do,” whispered Famia.

  “Then come to France and we will drink chocolat with croissants every morning.”

  “Before, I was afraid. I am not afraid now. But . . . I cannot go with you. Not now, not . . . not like this,” she stammered.

  “Why not?” Nicolette pulled back in surprise. “Famia, you must listen to me. You may be in danger. You must have been running from something or someone before the bomb went off. And your memory should have returned by now. You may never entirely remember your past. Ma petite, the money you carry, perhaps it is drug money. What if someone comes after you? Please, Famia, come home with me. You will be safe, and happy. You will have an education. You will have a life.”

  “But I do not feel afraid of anyone. Is it possible that memory lives on the skin? To whom do I owe my life? I cannot go forward without looking back to say thank you.” The words, filled with anguish, came out in a rush. Famia struggled to sit up. “What you offer is so kind, so good. It is more than I deserve. But the answers to my life are here, I feel it. I must wait for my life to find me. And I think perhaps I can be of use here. If Mina and Babrak will have me, I can help with the new baby. Forgive me.”

  Nicolette’s own chocolate-brown eyes filled with tears. “If I ever have a daughter, I hope she is just like you.”

  Famia sniffed. “What happened to Paul McCartney?”

  “I left him behind,” Nicolette whispered.

  “That is what you must do with me.”

  “Famia, you are not a horse.”

  “No, I am not as useful.” Famia laughed. It was an unfamiliar sensation, but it felt good.

  Nicolette held Famia in her arms for a long time. “Dr. Latouche and I were afraid that if we investigated your past we might have attracted the attention of those who mean you harm.” Nicolette sat back and ran her fingers through her hair. “You are educated, you speak many languages, and yet you were running from something. It is a mystery. But perhaps now there is no choice. When I return to France I will contact the Red Cross. They have a long history of reuniting families. We have to be careful. Do you understand? If your family is angry, and if they find you, we will have no way of protecting you.”

  Famia nodded. “Forgive me?”

  “My dear, yes, of course. This stony land has a strange hold on people. I feel it, too. Bonne chance, ma petite.” Nicolette hugged her tight.

  Chapter 24

  One Year Later

  “Look what I have!” With a great sweep of her arm, Mina pulled off her burka, hung it on a hook, then dug deep into the pocket of her skirt. Smiling, she held a white, almost egg-shaped object in the palm of her hand.

  “What is it?” Famia looked up from her embroidery.

  “It’s soap. It is made in Kandahar from the oil of wild almonds. Smell. The father of a patient gave it to me. We will share it.” Mina held it up as Famia took a deep breath.

  “Lovely.” Famia laughed.

  Baby Toran was crying, but before Mina could reach him Famia scooped him up and rocked him in her arms.

  “You fuss over that baby too much!” Smiling, Mina pushed aside the embroidery that Famia had been working on and plunked down a bag of mulberries and pomegranates.

  “I love him as if he were mine, but I hope the next one is a girl. Kalaq kalaq kalaa,” sang Famia. Toran let out a great baby
chuckle as Famia tickled him under the chin. The announcement that a second baby was on the way had been cause for great celebration.

  “What shall I call the next one if it is a girl? Famia?” Mina laughed.

  “No, call her Tamanna,” said Famia as she plopped Toran onto a puffy toshak and began sorting the fruit.

  “Tamanna, why that name?”

  Famia looked up. “I’m not sure. It’s just a nice name, don’t you think?” she said.

  Mina and Babrak had gone to great lengths to keep her safe. Mina had told everyone in the bathhouse and in her sewing circle that Famia was her little sister from Kabul. In that way, her husband Babrak could be seen walking with his “sister-in-law” without inciting gossip. The only time Famia walked alone was on her way to the school, but there were many women out in the morning in their burkas, most shopping, some visiting the bathhouse.

  Famia had tried to repay Mina and Babrak with money, but they would not allow it. Miraculously, though, a new brass tray and a set of hand-painted teacups in tin holders had appeared. A comfy daybed arrived. It was lovely to lie on it and hold little Toran as he drifted off to sleep. After that came a stove, and then a small television, and a DVD player. Babrak came home with a movie called The Wedding Crashers. They watched it twice and laughed even louder the second time.

  Months ago they had turned the back shed into a new room. Now Famia had a place all her own to put her books. Sahdi, Rumi, Khalili, Khayam, Wafaqi, Jami, Tolstoy, Twain, and many more authors and poets sat on a shelf. There were history books, too, and a much-thumbed book on the stars. Already she was teaching baby Toran to find the North Star in a night sky.

  They had worked out a schedule that accommodated Toran’s care. Mina worked half-days in the hospital. Babrak taught at a school for boys full time but took care of the baby at night so Mina could study for the entrance exams to a midwifery school the foreigners were running. Famia worked as a teacher at a boarding school for girls. At sixteen, Famia was the youngest teacher in the school. She had taken a test and achieved the highest marks of a teacher applicant in the memory of the examiner. Children attended school six days a week, but Famia had arranged a five-day week so that she could care for Toran while Mina worked at the hospital.

  Her memory had not completely returned, although she did have some recollections. She could not remember specific events, names, or places, but she could sometimes feel a memory. And sometimes she could almost hear a memory, like an echo. She told herself that she was an orphan. It was better to believe that her parents were not on this earth than to think that they had deserted her. Mina, Babrak, and Toran were her family, she was loved, that was enough. The gnawing emptiness that had plagued her a year ago was slowly ebbing. The hole in her heart was being filled with new memories, new plans, and a vision of her life’s purpose.

  Mina scooped the baby out of Famia’s arms. “You must hurry. You will be late for school. Babrak will pick you up. Do not walk home alone. And do not give me that look,” laughed Mina as Famia rolled her eyes. “You must stay safe if you are to educate the world.” Mina often teased Famia about her plans to start her own school in Afghanistan. But really, Babrak and Mina believed in her, and that made it easy to believe in herself.

  Famia kissed baby Toran goodbye, pulled on her burka, and, hugging her books close to her chest, raced through the house. They had a good life in Quetta as long they adhered to the rules, although what those rules were was often hard to fathom. The Taliban were near, warlords controlled the hills, and gangs roamed the streets, but in the light of day they felt safe.

  Head down, Famia walked quickly through the streets. There were the familiar smells from the food-sellers—kebabs and baked bread. A waft of garlic blew over a wall. In the distance she heard the hum of the generator that kept an ice-cream freezer going. Ice cream was their favourite treat. Chocolate was her favorite flavor.

  The sounds of fruit-sellers calling out the names of their freshest fruits and the voices of ragtag children playing in the streets were sweet to her ears. Sadly, many of the children were parentless—orphans were everywhere. They were hungry, and easy prey for the Taliban and their training camps, which populated the mountainous regions between Pakistan and Afghanistan. Child soldiers were as easily picked up as pomegranates at a fruit stall. If only she could teach each one of these street children to read the Qur’an for themselves, then those who would distort the word of the Prophet would have less power.

  Bubbly voices of little girls greeted Famia as she entered the school. She loved all the children, but one little girl in particular had stolen her heart. Her name was Roshina and she walked with a limp. Weeks before, Famia had caught other girls teasing her. Famia, a gentle, understanding, and loving teacher, discovered an anger inside her that day that she had not known existed. From that day to this, Roshina would wait for her at the school entrance and the two would walk into class together.

  All the children welcomed her as she entered the classroom. Famia clapped her hands until the children quieted. Together they recited the class motto: May God protect us. May God bring us peace. May God give us strength to continue our education. “We will begin with arithmetic,” she shouted over the din. Silence was immediate. And so the day began.

  The children worked hard, and Famia often rewarded them at the end of the day by reading a story out loud—the tale of “The Little Black Fish” was a favorite. Today, though, they would sing.

  “Simi, will you play your dambura for us?” Famia smiled at the tiny girl from the Hazara tribe. With her shoulders back and her head held high, Simi smiled and picked up her lute. The neck on the instrument was almost as big as she was.

  “Now, remember the words?” Famia said to the class. “I’m a friend of children. I am beautiful and eloquent. I have lots of words hidden in my heart . . .” The children sang out, their faces bright with expectation.

  Babrak was late that day, but that was to be expected. His school was many streets away and he was often asked to supervise soccer games after class. Famia stood on the school steps and waited. There really was no rush to get home. It was Mina’s turn to cook. They took turns making the meals. To her surprise, Famia enjoyed cooking. Even Babrak took a turn in the kitchen. His specialty was mantoo, a delicious mixture of beef and garlic, coriander and mint, layered with yogurt. The kitchen area was a disaster by the time his creation was completed, but no one complained.

  After the evening meal Famia would prepare her lessons for the next day. Mina often chastised her for worrying that her students did not have enough playtime while she herself took none.

  Now Famia poked her nose out the school door and looked up and down the street for Babrak. Tall yellow walls crowded the road. The sun was setting. There was a telephone at the school but none at home. There was no way to find out about Babrak’s delay, but if she waited much longer it would be dark. She had no choice. Famia set off for home. The streets were narrow and poorly lit but still Famia walked on, faster and faster. Twice she tripped over the hem of her burka.

  Breathless, she reached for the door and tumbled inside. Mina stood in the passageway, her face chalk-white. Toran, cranky and ready for bed, was in her arms.

  “Mina, what is wrong?” Famia let the door swing shut. She pulled off her burka and lurched towards Mina. “Are you ill? The baby. . . ?”

  “Babrak was called out of class. Someone is looking for you.”

  Before Mina could say more the door opened behind her. Famia turned. Standing beside Babrak was a tall, elegant man, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and Western-style pants, wearing a white, trimmed beard. He was old, his face wrinkled, his color faded, but he was handsome all the same. He carried a box in one hand and a package in the other. Babrak, his face normally so open and trouble-free, looked worried, almost pensive.

  Babrak spoke first. “This is my wife, Mina, and this . . . is Famia.”

  The man nodded his head towards Mina but stared hard at Famia. Normally she wo
uld have considered him rude, but instead her heart began to bang in her chest. What did her heart know that her eyes did not?

  “Come, we will have tea.” Babrak stood to one side as the tall man walked into the front guest room. Babrak motioned to Famia to follow. Famia looked at Mina.

  “Go, see what he wants. I will get the tea,” Mina whispered in Famia’s ear.

  The old man, so refined and well dressed, sat easily and comfortably on the toshak. Babrak sat across from him. Only with Babrak’s encouragement did Famia sit.

  “Are you well?” the old man asked Famia. She nodded. “A young woman in Paris asked me to give you this,” he said while passing over the box.

  Nicolette! Famia tried not to leap for joy. Who else would send her a package from France?

  “The young woman, Nicolette, asked many questions before she would reveal your location. She was worried that I meant you harm. I mean you no harm.”

  “I know that,” said Famia. She had no reason to say that, no proof, just a sure knowledge that sprang from somewhere deep within her.

  “I have carried that box a long way. I, too, would like to see what is inside.” The man chuckled. It was a pleasant sound. The box was well sealed with tape and paper.

  “Let me help.” Babrak removed the tape with a pocket knife. “You do the rest,” he said.

  Tentatively, Famia peeled back the paper and opened the box. The cardboard wings flopped to the sides. She reached in and pulled out a stubby cylinder. “What is it?”

  The old man smiled. “It is a telescope, a very expensive and powerful one, too.”