Shooting Kabul

by N. H. Senzai

  DUSK APPROACHED with lightning speed, casting a muted purple hue over the backyard. As the shadows lengthened on the ground, Fadi hurried to get ready. A mere half-hour window remained to capture the image before him. He pressed the latch on the right side of the camera and opened its back. Fadi popped in a new roll of film and threaded it into the take-up spool. He paused a moment to run a finger along the camera’s sleek, shiny lines—so different from his old beat-up Minolta. He cast a grateful look over at Anh as she helped him organize the photo shoot.

  No time to waste. He snapped the back of the camera shut and chose the appropriate shutter and aperture settings, which controlled the amount of light the film would be exposed to. Shooting at this time of day was tricky, and he needed artificial light to balance out the fading glow of the sun. With Khala Nilufer’s permission, Fadi and Zalmay had dragged two tall lamps onto the patio. Zalmay had plugged them in and positioned them behind Fadi’s back, on the right. The illumination from the lamps accompanied the fading sunlight, while the slight angle of the lamplight created soft shadows across his subjects.

  Fadi shot Anh a thankful smile as she pulled her tripod out of the duffel bag. She’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier, dragging her camera and equipment with her.

  “Do you need another lens?” asked Anh.

  “No, this one works great,” said Fadi, grabbing the tripod. To accommodate the muted light, Fadi needed to hold the camera as steady as possible and use a longer shutter speed.

  “Are you ready?” Fadi called out to the two people sitting in front of him.

  “I think so, bachay,” said Dada.

  It had taken Fadi half an hour to convince Uncle Amin’s elderly parents, Dada and Abay, to pose for him, but finally they’d agreed. It was flipping through Clive Murray’s bio that had given Fadi the idea to do a portrait shot. He’d read that of all subjects, people made the best photographs, since nothing fascinated humans more than looking at other people. A good people photograph showed character and emotion, creating a bond with the viewer. And Abay and Dada had amazing character in their faces. Years of marriage, love, loss, trials, and tribulations were written in every wrinkle, line, spot, and curve of their faces. Their faces were maps of their lives.

  Dada sat a bit stiffly, looking around at the equipment with a frown. He wore traditional Afghan clothes, and a bright, colorful cap covered his balding head. Abay sat next to him, shrouded in a gauzy white scarf, as if hiding from the camera. Fadi had positioned the couple on a low bench, framed in the back by the shadow of overgrown rosebushes. He knew that, unlike the human eye, photographic film didn’t easily handle bright whites and stark blacks. So the shade provided by the bushes created various tones of gray that were easier for the film to absorb. Fadi added the flash to brighten his subjects’ faces.

  “Anything more I can do to help?” asked Anh.

  Zalmay hovered behind, carrying extra film.

  “No, it’s perfect. Thanks,” responded Fadi. He shooed the younger kids back to the sliding glass doors. They’d tumbled out of the house, intrigued by all the commotion. With curious eyes they watched, sucking lollipops Fadi had given them to gain their cooperation.

  Fadi looked through the viewfinder and framed Abay and Dada in the little square. But he didn’t want to fall into a pitfall many photographers fell into—shooting a subject’s entire body, head to toe. He knew that when taking a portrait shot, the face, especially the eyes and mouth, were the key elements. So Fadi fit Abay’s and Dada’s heads into the shot and pulled back. He stopped when he’d cropped them to their shoulders. The viewfinder sought each line in Abay’s and Dada’s faces, which told the tale of the life they had led, filled with joy, pain, challenge, and triumph. He pressed the shutter button and took a dozen or so shots.

  Something isn’t quite right, he thought. Abay and Dada were too formal. They appeared uncomfortable, like they didn’t want to be there. “Abay, Dada,” he called out. “Please try to relax. Think of something fun, something funny maybe.”

  Dada nodded and smiled while Abay lowered her scarf from around her mouth. She looked at the camera nervously. Fadi took a couple more shots. These were better. But not great.

  “Sahar,” he called out. “Can you do a dance or something for Abay and Dada?”

  Sahar puffed out her cheeks and shook her head.

  “Look, I’ll get you guys ice cream from Mr. Singh’s truck.”

  The kids looked at one another and whispered. Fadi tapped his foot, looking up at the darkening sky.

  “Two ice creams,” said Sahar.

  Highway robbery, thought Fadi, but agreed. Time was running out.

  The kids stood under the lamps and started acting like monkeys, howling and hooting, scratching under their arms.

  Abay and Dada laughed at their antics and relaxed a bit.

  Darn. Not the look I’m going for. But Fadi continued to shoot. In the middle he replaced the roll with a fresh one. Finally, as the sun was about to sink into the horizon, he called it a night. This was it. As good as it was going to get.

  “Thank you, Abay, Dada. I’m done,” Fadi called out.

  Relieved, the elderly couple stood up from the bench. In the process, Abay’s scarf got caught in the rosebushes. Dada grinned, revealing a strong set of white teeth. With gnarled hands stricken with arthritis he gently unhooked her scarf and broke off a large yellow bloom and handed it to her. Abay giggled like a young girl and took a sniff of the rose.

  Fadi froze. This is perfect. He refocused the lens and started clicking just as the sun fired a last burst of golden light over the yard before fading into the horizon. Abay and Dada were oblivious to those around them as they chatted softly to each other. Click. Click. Click. Abay’s face was wreathed in happiness as Dada smiled. Elation flooded Fadi’s heart. He knew that these were some of the best pictures he’d ever taken.

  Fadi carried his lunch tray through the rowdy cafeteria, oblivious to the noise around him. He’d just handed his entry form and picture to Ms. Bethune, five hours before his deadline. He was exhausted and thrilled at the same time. I’m going to win. I just know it.

  He stopped near the vending machines and spotted the table he usually sat at with Anh, Jon, Ravi, and a couple of other kids from photo club. It was empty. He was the first one there. He was about to sit down when he heard his name being called from behind him. He turned, peering across the table with the basketball players, next to the science fair geeks.

  “Fadi,” repeated the voice.

  A group of boys sat next to the band kids. The one who had called his name was Masood, the Afghan boy he’d seen at the market the day his father had had his outburst.

  “Hey, Fadi,” said the other Afghan boy from his math class. “Aren’t you a Pukhtun?”

  Fadi froze. He realized that they were both Tajiks. The entire table was Tajik or Uzbek. They probably wanted to beat him up after what his father had said. Sweat beaded between his shoulder blades. They probably blamed the problems in Afghanistan and the attack on the United States on the Taliban and the Pukhtuns. He gingerly put one foot back, ready to turn around and run.

  “Fadi,” repeated Masood. He impatiently waved him toward the table.

  Fadi looked around the crowded room. Have some pride, he berated himself. Don’t be a coward. It’s not like they can beat me up in front of all these people. Bracing himself with a deep breath and a prayer, he strode toward their table.

  “Yeah, I’m Pukhtun,” said Fadi. He stood straight and met Masood’s probing dark eyes.

  “Tough guys, those Pukhtuns,” said a pudgy kid in an oversize cal sweatshirt. “I’m Zayd,” he added with a wave.

  “Uh, hi, Zayd,” said Fadi.

  “Take a seat,” said Masood, making room next to him.

  Fadi set his tray between Masood and Zayd and sat down.

  “We heard you got jumped by Ike and Felix,” said Masood.

  Fadi nodded. His face still sported faded purplish yellow bruises. />
  “We also heard you gave them a dose of their own medicine,” said Zayd with a huge grin.

  “Those guys deserve it,” mumbled a kid who was sitting across the table. His mouth was full of kebob sandwich.

  “Yeah, man,” piped in another boy. “Did you see Ike’s busted lip?”

  “They’ve been bossing everyone around for years,” said Masood. “And now … now they’ve gotten worse.”

  “They’re going around calling everyone a terrorist. Even the Indian and Mexican kids.”

  “They’re, like, oppressing people, man,” said the kebob sandwich eater.

  Fadi nodded and carefully opened his carton of orange juice. “Oppressing people” is right. He knew Felix had tried to shake Ravi down for money last week. Poor Ravi had nearly peed in his pants and passed out.

  “Time for us to join forces, dudes,” said Masood. He patted Fadi on the back. “Time for us to give them some of their own medicine.”

  Realizing he could finally get revenge, Fadi looked at the guys and smiled. “What do you have in mind?”

  THE PHONE RANG at four o’clock in the morning, startling Fadi out of his sleep. “Huh?” he mumbled, yanking the covers off of his face. The ringer sounded again, its jagged noise filling the apartment. Before he could even get his brain to get his body moving, footsteps pounded down the hallway.

  Habib hurtled into the living room and picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said, his voice husky. In the gloom of darkness Fadi saw a glimmer of his father’s unshaven, sleepy face. Silence descended as Habib listened to the muffled voice on the other end. Fadi squinted through the gloom, the hairs at the back of his neck standing up.

  “Nargis jaan, are you sure?” said Habib. He grabbed the arm of the recliner and sat down.

  Fadi blinked, all sleep gone. What happened? He wished he could see more clearly. He wanted to see the expression on his father’s face.

  “Yes, yes, that’s great news,” said Habib.

  Fadi’s heart lightened. They’ve found Mariam!

  Habib sat quietly for a few minutes as Khala Nargis talked on the other end.

  “Well, we’re closer than we were last month,” said Habib. His voice sounded lighter, almost happy. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Zafoona will want to get all the details.” After his good-byes he hung up the phone and sat as still as a stone.

  Fadi pushed aside his blankets and jumped up. “What happened?” he asked. He grabbed his father’s arm and shook.

  “They found the family that took Mariam,” said Habib.

  “Where is she?” asked Fadi. His heart picked up speed as his blood gurgled through his veins.

  “She wasn’t with them.”

  “What?” His red blood cells froze. “What happened to her?”

  Habib sighed and paused to collect his thoughts as Fadi fidgeted with impatience. “Nargis tracked the family down at one of the dozens of refugee camps in Peshawar. The man, his name is Nisar, said his family had crossed over into Pakistan in the middle of September.”

  Right before the bombings in Jalalabad, thought Fadi.

  “They paid some Pakistani soldiers to let them ride in their jeep. Once they reached Peshawar, they ended up in a refugee camp. They were given a tent, blankets, and food. But when they went to report their names at the central office, Mariam disappeared.”

  “What do you mean she disappeared?” whispered Fadi. Dozens of horrific scenarios played in his mind. Was she kidnapped?

  “She ran away,” said Habib. “She told the youngest son she was leaving and had him promise he wouldn’t tell his parents till she was gone. She thanked them for their help, but said that she needed to find her family on her own.”

  “She ran away?” repeated Fadi like a silly parrot.

  “Yes. When Nisar went to the office to report her missing, his wife spotted Mariam’s picture on the missing person’s board. She told the director that they’d brought the girl in the picture with them from Jalalabad, but that the girl had said her name was Noor, not Mariam.”

  “But why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know, jaan.” Habib sighed. “She obviously didn’t want to tell them her real name. She gave them Noor’s instead.”

  “Yes,” said Fadi. “She probably still didn’t want to reveal who she was.”

  “The director of the refugee camp called Nargis to tell her Nisar’s story and that Mariam had made it across the border.”

  Fadi nodded. She’s alive and she’s in Peshawar, thought Fadi with relief. He was going to find her. He knew it. Now he just needed those plane tickets.

  Habib and Fadi couldn’t sleep after hearing the amazing news. They sat up, eating cereal, watching old black-and-white movies until Zafoona and Noor woke up. Habib and Fadi couldn’t wait to tell them the news.

  “Salaam Alaikum,” called out Gul Khan as Habib and Fadi entered the Khyber Pass. They were meeting Uncle Amin and Zalmay there for lunch after Friday prayers.

  “Walaikum A’Salaam, Brother Gul,” said Habib. “Fadi and I had a hankering for your spicy chapli kebobs.”

  “My kebobs are at your service,” said Gul Khan with a chuckle that shook his belly.

  Fadi inhaled the juicy, meaty smells coming from the kitchen, and his stomach growled. His appetite had improved since he’d learned Mariam had made it to Peshawar. But now, a month and a half later, his family’s relief was fading. Khala Nargis had men looking all over Peshawar but hadn’t been able to find a single trace of her. Ever since the U.S. bombings of Jalalabad, the flood of refugees had increased tenfold, causing more confusion and chaos along the border. Fadi had hoped that by some miracle Mariam would have turned up at their aunt and uncle’s clinic, but it hadn’t happened. So Fadi had knelt extra long on the prayer mat at the mosque, asking Allah for Mariam’s protection and for help in winning the competition.

  The imam’s khutba that week had given him hope. The topic had been the prophet Job and how his patience and devotion to Allah had persevered, no matter what calamity had befallen him—even when his body had been covered with painful sores. In the end, in reward for his patience and devotion, Allah had granted him health, family, and wealth.

  According to Ms. Bethune the results of the competition had been mailed out earlier in the week, and Fadi’s nervousness was growing, despite his attempt at patience. Think positive. With my camera skills and Anh’s help, I’ve got to win. He took a seat across from his father, at a table next to the window.

  “Well, the talk of the town is Hamid Karzai’s election,” said Gul Khan, bringing them hot bread and a bowl of salad.

  “It sure is,” said Habib.

  “Did you know that Hamid Karzai’s brother has an Afghan restaurant in San Francisco?” said Gul Khan. “I bet he’s going to get a lot of business after his brother’s election,” he added wistfully.

  “Salaam, Gul Khan,” came Uncle Amin’s booming voice as he entered the restaurant.

  “Walaikum A’Salaam,” responded Gul Khan. “Sit down. The kebobs are nearly done.”

  Uncle Amin detoured to the bathroom while Zalmay grabbed a seat next to Fadi.

  “There’s talk that you’re going to take on Ike and Felix,” said Zalmay in a rush just as Habib stepped away to grab an Afghan newspaper.

  Fadi frowned. News sure got around. “It’s not like we want to fight them or anything,” whispered Fadi. “But they keep harassing kids, so we’re going to deal with them.”

  Zalmay’s usually cheerful face was marred with worry. “I don’t know, man. You don’t want to make enemies out of those guys. I hear Felix’s parents are some big-time lawyers with a huge office in the city.”

  “Oh,” said Fadi. He hadn’t known that.

  “Yeah. They do all the legal stuff for the Filipino community.”

  “Quiet,” shushed Fadi as Habib sat down with the paper. There was a big picture of a bearded man in a woolen Karakul hat on the cover.

  “Can you believe the Afghan opposition groups a
ctually met in Bonn, Germany, and elected a Pukhtun?” said Uncle Amin as he returned.

  “Before being a Pukhtun, he’s a good man,” said Habib with a smile. “He was chosen by all parties in the jirga, including the Northern Alliance.”

  “That he was,” said Uncle Amin. “I’m just surprised they chose him, since he supported the Taliban at one point.”

  “Times change. Many of us had high hopes for the Taliban,” murmured Habib. “After Karzai helped throw out the Soviets, he worked with the Taliban, until they turned on him. Karzai didn’t want to be their ambassador to the United Nations either.”

  Uncle Amin laughed. “Well, it’s a tough position to fill.”

  Habib’s smile grew broader. “True,” he said wryly.

  “Perhaps now we will have some peace,” said Uncle Amin, his face filled with a mixture of hope and longing. “Karzai is a good man, a fair man.”

  “Amen to that, brother,” said Gul Khan. He carried a steamer platter of kebobs and rice and plopped it down in front of them.

  “Amen” is right, thought Fadi. He looked glumly at the article on Karzai’s hopes for the Afghan Transitional Administration. Maybe things in Afghanistan would get better. Maybe if they had stayed there another six months, they wouldn’t have had to leave. And then maybe they wouldn’t have lost Mariam. Fadi sighed. That was too many maybes.

  FADI HURRIED THROUGH THE HALLS, past drooping Thanksgiving decorations, toward the art studio. The bell had just rung for lunch, and the photo club was having an all-hands meeting. Ms. Bethune had called them together after receiving notification from the contest the day before.

  This is it. Today’s the day. Fadi skidded around the corner, ripping the head off a paper turkey in his haste. He stopped at the entrance to the studio and paused a moment, running a hand through his rumpled hair. A glimmer of Ms. Bethune’s red and silver sneakers appeared next to her desk. He hadn’t slept a wink all night. All he could think about was getting on a plane with his father. In his mind he could see them flying to India, then hopping on a flight to Peshawar. Mariam is in Peshawar, and I will find her. Fadi took a deep breath and passed through the doors.