Shooting Kabul

by N. H. Senzai

  The cashier entered the numbers one more time as Fadi held his breath. The machine accepted the purchase and spit out a receipt. “Well, what do you know,” the cashier said.

  Just as Felix plunked his tray down next to Fadi’s, the cashier handed back the card.

  Fadi pocketed it quickly and moved on with his tray, but he caught Felix’s smirk as the other boy took out his money and handed it to the cashier. His stomach sank. This isn’t good.

  The cafeteria was practically bursting at the seams. Students packed the benches, sharing stories and eating lunch. Fadi stood at the side, looking over the sea of unfamiliar faces, wondering where to sit. He cursed, wishing Zalmay had the same lunch period as him. Not finding an empty table, he walked to the back and sat on the ground next to the emergency exit. He took his apple juice and opened it as a girl with long black hair walked by. She was so busy talking to her friends that she didn’t notice that her wallet had dropped out of her tiny pink purse. Fadi picked it up and followed her.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “I think this is yours.”

  The girl’s almond-shaped eyes widened in surprise. “Thanks. That’s really decent of you.”

  Fadi recognized her. She was the one running for class president. “No problem,” he said with a shrug.

  “My name’s Anh, Anh Hong.” She stuck out her hand with authority.

  Fadi gave her a weak shake. “I’m Fadi. Fadi Nurzai.”

  “Well, thanks again, Fadi,” Anh said. She moved on with her friends.

  Taking a bite of his cheeseburger, Fadi sat alone, watching students flurry around him like snowflakes in a blizzard. He felt as though he were hidden behind a camera lens, watching another world whirl past in shattered fragments.

  MUFFLED VOICES ECHOED down the hallway as Fadi came up the stairs to the family’s apartment. No one’s supposed to be home, he thought, pressing his ear against the front door. He could hear Uncle Amin’s voice rumbling inside. Fadi inserted his key and pushed open the door to find his parents, Uncle Amin, and Khala Nilufer in the living room, huddled around a pot of tea and sugared almonds.

  “Professor Sahib found a group of women who were trying to get on the truck that night,” Habib explained to the other adults. “They remembered seeing a little girl standing on the side of the road, crying.” His face was flushed as he looked up to see Fadi enter.

  Fadi’s heart pounded as he retreated around the corner into the hall. He didn’t want to be told to go out to play or something. He wanted to hear what was going on.

  Habib continued. “They were a group of sisters taking their father to Peshawar for medical treatment. They were having a difficult time with the old man because he was so sick.”

  I remember them, thought Fadi, his heart pounding. He’d stepped over the poor old man in his rush to get to the truck.

  “Well,” continued Habib, “the women said the crowd dispersed within seconds as the Taliban came roaring down the road, in pursuit of the truck. The women picked up their father and hid in one of the warehouses.”

  “Are they sure it was Mariam?” asked Khala Nilufer.

  “Their description matches Mariam’s features and what she was wearing,” said Habib.

  “Did they see what happened to her?” pressed Zafoona.

  “One of the sisters, Aisha, the one Professor Sahib spoke to, felt bad that a little girl was out there all alone, so she came out to look for her.”

  “Oh, Allah, have mercy,” said Uncle Amin.

  “Aisha spotted Mariam talking to a family and thought she’d been found by her parents … so she went back into the warehouse.”

  “Family? What family?” whispered Zafoona.

  “A man, his wife, and two sons,” said Habib. “That’s who Aisha remembers seeing before she returned to the warehouse. Professor Sahib found another man who’d been unable to get onto the truck that night, but the man didn’t remember seeing Mariam or the family Aisha was talking about.”

  “Who knows what kind of people she’s with,” moaned Zafoona.

  “They must be good people,” soothed Khala Nilufer. “They took in a helpless little girl.”

  “But who knows where they took her!” cried Zafoona.

  “Well, we know the family was trying to get to Peshawar,” said Uncle Amin logically. “They’ll probably get the traffickers to bring them over the border since their passage has been paid for. Once Mariam reaches Peshawar, it will be much easier to find her.”

  “Habib told Mariam not to tell anyone who she is,” interrupted Zafoona. “What if she doesn’t tell these people her real name? She’ll tell them she’s the daughter of a simple farmer or goat herder, or something else.”

  She’s right, thought Fadi, sweat beading on his forehead. Father had told her not to tell anyone who she was.

  “We have to go back to Peshawar,” said Zafoona, sounding more desperate by the minute. “We shouldn’t have come here without finding her first.”

  “We couldn’t do that,” said Habib softly. “We would have been stuck in Pakistan without the chance for asylum. We would be a family without a country. There was no way we could go back to Afghanistan.”

  “What’s more important? Gaining asylum or finding our daughter?” shouted Zafoona. “If it wasn’t for your stubborn insistence that we go back to Afghanistan five years ago, we wouldn’t be in this mess right now!”

  Fadi’s knees shook as he leaned against the wall. He’d never heard his mother speak to his father like this.

  “Where is your ghayrat?” said Zafoona, her voice bitter.

  A hush fell over the apartment as Fadi froze. Questioning a man’s ghayrat, or ability to uphold his family’s honor, was one of the most insulting things you could say to a Pukhtun. Fadi knew his father had to be furious, and embarrassed in front of the others.

  “Now, Zafoona jaan, don’t blame Brother Habib,” said Khala Nilufer in a rush. “Who was to know this would happen? It was an accident. It’s no one’s fault.”

  “Oh, Habib,” sobbed Zafoona, her mood mercurial. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.… It’s just that I’m so tired, and the medicines, they make my head swim.… I’m just not myself these days.”

  “No,” came Habib’s quiet voice. “You’re right. It is my fault. I am head of this family. It was my responsibility.”

  Silence descended over the apartment. Fadi sank to his knees, overwhelmed with guilt. It was his fault that Mariam had been left behind, not his father’s, not Noor’s, not his mother’s. He inched back toward the living room and came to a halt in front of the group. He gulped, opening his mouth to confess. But as the words formulated in his brain, something else flew out entirely.

  “Mariam knows where we were going,” blurted Fadi. “I told her about Mother’s cousin who lives in Peshawar and that she was going to meet us at the border.”

  “You told her that?” said Zafoona, wiping away tears.

  “Yes,” said Fadi, “but I didn’t remember Khala Nargis’s name, just that she was your cousin and that she and her husband ran a clinic for refugees.”

  “So she knows we have family in Peshawar,” said Khala Nilufer, her face eager. “That’s good. Maybe she’ll tell the family she’s with to take her to a clinic.”

  “Allah willing, maybe she’ll find us!” said Zafoona, a spark of light entering her eyes.

  “Good job, Fadi,” said Uncle Amin. “You should have told us this a long time ago.”

  “It’s a good possibility,” said Habib, holding up his hand, “but let’s not get our hopes up too much.”

  “Then find the money to go back to Peshawar, Habib,” said Zafoona. She shot her husband an angry look. “Let’s go to the border and find her.”

  Habib closed his eyes and looked the other way. “I would love to do that, jaan,” he whispered. “But you know as well as I do, that will take time.”

  Fadi looked at the sadness on his father’s face and wanted to hide away in a ball of shame. It’s
me that has no honor. All this is my fault. I have to do something. But what?

  After a quick snack of crackers and peanut butter, Fadi grabbed his camera and left the apartment. Noor had returned from work, and their parents were telling her about Professor Sahib’s phone call. He caught a glimpse of hope on her face just as the door closed behind him. He clambered down the stairs and exited the apartment complex. It was a warm September day, and it felt good to have the sun shining on his back as he walked along Paseo Padre Parkway, heading toward Lake Elizabeth park.

  Mother was right about one thing, he thought morosely. If only we had enough money to go back to look for Mariam. I bet she’s gotten across the border. She’s looking for us, I just know it.

  But where would the money come from? It cost thousands of dollars, and his father barely made enough to pay for rent and food. Even with Noor’s help, there was no way they could collect that much. Maybe I can get a job. But where? You had to be fifteen to work. Maybe he could get a paper route like Zalmay’s friend. But that would take years to save up.

  He needed a younger brother like Claudia’s, who had a ton of money, or he needed to have a stroke of good luck. Claudia and her brother had hit the jackpot while hiding out at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Claudia, a stickler for cleanliness, had insisted that she and her brother take a bath in the museum’s fountain late at night. While wading through the water, they’d found heaps of coins lying on the tiled bottom. Over the years visitors to the museum had thrown money into the fountain for good luck. Claudia and her brother had ended up using the fountain as their own private piggy bank. But Fadi didn’t have a loaded sibling or access to such a bank. He kicked a pebble on the sidewalk in frustration and stubbed his toe.

  “Ow!” he grumbled.

  Maybe I can borrow the money from someone. But who? Uncle Amin wasn’t a possibility. He didn’t make a lot of money, and he was supporting his brother, who was out of work. Then again, his father would have borrowed money from someone, if it had been a possibility, and returned to Pakistan to look for Mariam.

  Professor Sahib’s news, along with all this thinking, was giving Fadi a headache. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers and waited at the crosswalk. As the little man on the light changed to white, he followed a woman pushing a stroller to the other side of the street. The sound of music floated through the air as an ice cream truck came around the corner.

  It’s Mr. Singh, remembered Fadi, Uncle Amin’s neighbor across the street. When he’d first met Mr. Singh the week of his arrival, he’d been surprised to see that the jovial ice cream truck driver had a beard and turban, similar to many Afghans. But he wasn’t Afghan, or even Muslim. He was from India, and his beard and turban were signs of his Sikh religious beliefs.

  Mr. Singh always gave the kids a discount when Khala Nilufer got them Popsicles. Man, Popsicles … a genius American invention. That and Twinkies, peanut butter, lime Jell-O and Snickers bars. He looked with a frown at the group of kids gathering around the small white truck. Darn. I wish I had some money. But I don’t even have a dime to my name. He was about to trudge on when a familiar flash of red caught his eye. It was Ike and his buddy!

  Fadi dove behind a tree just as Felix ran over, carrying two large ice cream cones. Fadi stood watching them, hoping they weren’t hanging out in the park. The boys were standing on the corner, licking their cones, when a sleek gray Mercedes-Benz pulled up next to them. Even though it was a red zone, the car stopped, and a dark-haired woman in a tailored black suit popped out. Felix stiffened and threw his cone into the bushes. The woman waved her finger at Felix and pointed back to her watch. Her hair swung angrily as she gestured to the car and climbed back in. His jaw clenched, Felix nodded to Ike and got into the passenger seat. As the car took off in a squeal of tires, Ike headed toward the bus stop.

  Good, thought Fadi with relief. They’re gone.

  By the time Fadi made it over to the edge of the lake, the sun had begun to sink into the line of clouds on the horizon. Hints of pink, lavender, and gray appeared at the tops of the trees. Fadi took his camera from his backpack and removed the lens cap. This was the first time in months that he’d had a chance to use it. He looked through the viewfinder and aimed it toward the golden hills in the distance. A sense of calm flowed through him as he went through the familiar motions of framing different shots.

  Fadi turned the ring on the lens and focused on a family of ducklings swimming on the glistening water. He framed the last little duckling in the viewfinder and clicked. He clicked again as a little boy was yanked from the edge of the lake by his distracted mother. The look on the kid’s face was priceless—outrage mixed with relief. Fadi looked toward the grass and caught the image of a dog running after a Frisbee. A tall ebony-skinned woman in a lime green jumpsuit ran by him, and he caught her tennis shoes in motion.

  “Hi,” she called out, flashing a smile.

  Fadi blushed and pointed his camera somewhere else.

  Soon he was lost in capturing images of carefree children playing on the jungle gym or pumping their legs on the swings. There was no film in the camera, but that didn’t matter.

  After his father had given him the camera, he’d taught Fadi how to use it, sharing his own passion for photography. They used to go up into the hills in Kabul and take pictures of the city below them. Habib had had a small darkroom set up in their house on Shogund Street, and when he could get his hands on supplies, they would develop the rolls they had taken together. But as the Taliban had gained more power, they had banned photography, so that had ended their forays outside. When his father had brought home the news of the photography ban, his cheeks had flushed with anger. “These are not true Muslims,” he’d grumbled. “In Islam there is no compulsion in religion. One person does not have the right to dictate how another believes or lives.”

  Fadi sighed, wishing his father were with him, but these days Habib was too busy, or too tired, to waste time clicking away with a camera. His headache gone, Fadi went back to brainstorming about how to get enough money to fly back to Pakistan. I got into this mess. I need to figure out how to get out of it.

  IT WAS THURSDAY, third period, and for the first time in a long while Fadi felt a sense of eager anticipation buzz through his body. As soon as the bell rang, he left Mr. Torres’s World History and Civilizations class and wove his way through the crowds to reach the large studio at the back of the school. He paused at the doorway—the smell of paint, plaster, and glue permeated the air. Bright paintings and drawings decorated the walls, and clay sculptures stood along the back of the room. Art supplies sat in organized piles on tall shelves—paint, colored pencils, construction paper, glue, and a myriad of other things he didn’t recognize but couldn’t wait to inspect. Taking a deep sniff, Fadi entered, strolling past the tables placed in a circle in the center of the room. His fingers trailed along the paint-spattered surface as he looked for a spot that suited him.

  As he chose a seat facing the front, he noticed a familiar face at the door. The girl tossed her black hair over her shoulder and gave him a wave. It was Anh from the cafeteria. Fadi responded with a tentative nod and looked away. She’s just being nice because I returned her wallet. He sat down and turned his attention to a collection of black-and-white photographs tacked onto a corkboard. Cool.

  A tall black woman in a shimmering silver top stepped out from one of the supply closets. “Attention, class,” she called out. She strode to the middle of the room and motioned for everyone to take a seat. Her bracelets jingled as the kids stopped chitchatting and took their seats.

  She looks familiar, thought Fadi. The memory of where he’d seen her was there, on the tip of his mind, but someone sat down next to him and interrupted his train of thought.

  It was Anh. She pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “Hey, Fadi, how are you doing?”

  Fadi blinked in surprise. “Uh, good.”

  “Do you like art?”

  Before Fadi could answer, she continued, �
�This is a really fun class. I always choose it as my elective.”

  “Quiet down, class,” ordered the teacher. “Most of you have taken art with me for the last few years, but for new students, my name is Ms. Bethune. Welcome, all of you. I hope you had a great summer. This year we’re going to focus on color and contrast, and our first project is going to be done in a group. So I need you all to get into groups of threes.”

  Fadi’s stomach sank as kids called out to their friends, breaking out into groups. He was going to be left out. He didn’t know anyone.

  “So, do you want to be in my group?” asked Anh.

  Fadi blinked. “Really? You want me?”

  “Yeah,” said Anh. “I always like working with different people. It makes things more interesting.”

  As the groups finished assembling, one last boy stood standing. Fadi recognized him from math class and felt sorry for him; his light brown hair stood in a halo on top of his head while large glasses magnified his watery blue eyes, making him look like a confused owl chick.

  “Let’s ask him,” said Fadi.

  “Sure,” said Anh, waving at the boy to join them.

  The boy pointed at himself and mouthed, “Who? Me?”

  Fadi nodded.

  With a wide, relieved smile the boy hurried over to their table and introduced himself as Jonathan Greenly, Jon for short.

  The three of them huddled together as Ms. Bethune gave instructions on what to do, then left them alone to brainstorm.

  “Look, I don’t know much about art,” said Jon. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Everything I draw looks like a stick figure.”

  “Well, we need to come up with a theme,” said Anh. She pulled a large yellow notepad from her bag.

  Fadi and Jon nodded in agreement.

  “How about the forest?” said Anh.

  “Ooh,” said Jon, scratching a red rash on his arm. “I got poison ivy while camping last week.”