After breakfast I helped my father clean our car. My mother and my sisters were collecting our clothes in the tent. My father started to check the engine. There was no need for me to be with him; I let him do it by himself.
The rain had stopped now, and I went to see the river, which was about half a mile from our tent. I said goodbyes to all of the trees, stones, and birds that I had come to love. I felt as if the mountains were saying goodbye to me as well. We had all become good friends, except for the big stone that had rolled onto our tent. I did not go to him, though he was still nearby in the river.
* * *
But something was not right with the river. The water was gray and breaking in waves over the stones. Dust floated on its surface. The fish seemed unable to swim, as if they had been struck blind. Some of them were dead and were being carried away on the rising water.
I could not understand why the river was acting this way. I stood on the bank and let the water run over my toes. Very quickly it rose to my ankles, and then to my knees. I was beginning to feel a little afraid of the gray water. I wondered whether it was angry at us for leaving.
I picked up a fish that stared at me and wiggled only weakly. As I was holding it and saying my thanks to the river for all it had given us, the water suddenly climbed up to my thighs. It was very strong and nearly took me away with it. I scrambled up the bank and looked up the gorge between the two mountains. The water was climbing its walls and speeding in my direction.
Nothing could hold back that water. It was much bigger than the river. I could see that it ran wherever it wanted and washed away everything that stood in its way.
Would it reach our tent and our car? Would it take away my family, and I would never see them again? This river would never let such a thing happen to me. He knows me, I told myself.
I quickly climbed to the top of the riverbank and raced toward our tent, shouting at my father, “Get them out of the tent. A flood is coming!”
My heart was beating like that of a frightened deer, but I never stopped running or shouting. My father was in front of the tent, lighting a fire to cook the ducks that he had caught. He stood up, confused. The rain had stopped an hour ago. How could a flood be possible? he appeared to be asking himself.
I fell down several times. My clothes were muddy, but I kept running, gasping for breath and shouting at him to start the car. At last he saw the wall of water where the peaceful river had been. By the time I reached the car, everybody else was already in it.
The water was fifty feet behind me, rushing fast as if it were trying to knock me down. It made a terrifying roar as it pushed large stones and tree branches in front of it. The water was no longer gray, but almost black.
I was the last person to get into the car. As soon as I put my first foot inside, my father hit the accelerator. The tires spun in the muddy ground for a second. Then the car jerked forward and sped up the sloping field to the road as if it, too, were afraid of the oncoming flood.
Everybody except my father looked out the back window and saw the flood wash our tent away like a nasty person destroying a kid’s sand palace like the ones we had built in the large sand pile at Grandfather’s house. The flood took all of our clothes and what remained of our food with it.
Before we could reach the road, the flood overtook us. First, it covered the tires, then rose halfway to the windows. The engine began to sputter, and the car slowed down. My sisters and brother were crying.
My father was in a panic and mumbling prayers under his breath. My mother was saying, “Calm down … calm down … we will be all right,” but we did not know whom she was talking to. No one was listening to her anyway.
Now the water was inside the car, almost up to our ankles. My sisters were holding their feet up as the water came level with the seats. The engine kept sputtering, but the car finally lurched onto the road. When we reached a high spot, we opened the doors, and the dusty water rushed out even faster than it had come in.
We got out and looked back at the field. It was all underwater now.
We had escaped from death once again, only to discover that we had nowhere to go.
The announcer on the BBC World Service was saying, “A misunderstanding between two commanders has resulted in a resumption of hostilities in Mazar-e-Sharif this morning. The fighting resumed shortly after one in the morning, with both sides reporting casualties. Two children and an old man who were on their way home after shopping were killed this morning.” The announcer mentioned their names, and asked their families to come to the hospital in Mazar to collect their bodies.
* * *
Now we could not go to Mazar. But we no longer had a tent, or food. My father drove half a mile toward the town, then parked the car by the side of the road, where it widened. Everyone was stunned. My father’s face was white, as if there was no blood in it. My mother was rocking the crying machine in her arms. The rest of us were silent, too numb to say anything.
The sun began to disappear behind the mountains, and the moon started to rise. The night air became cooler, and we were all hungry. My parents had some money, but there was no shop where we could buy anything.
My father left the car to say his evening prayers on the roadside. We locked the door behind him. Whenever another vehicle approached us, I was afraid they might stop and kill us to steal our car. I was even afraid of the people who were riding donkeys when they ambled past. They looked frightening to me, even though they were normal people. They had not seen many cars, and they kept staring as they swayed by. I am sure that when they got home they talked about us.
When my father had finished praying, he winked at me from where he was sitting on some gravel. I said to my mother that I wanted to take a leak. She nodded, and I got out of the car. I peed, then I went to my father.
He put his hand on my right shoulder as we were walking away from our car toward several walled gardens at the edge of the town.
“Tonight you have to steal something. Can you do that for your father?” he asked me with his eyes wide open, looking for me to answer him. I stopped walking, but he kept going. I became a little afraid and ran to catch up with him.
“But you told me that stealing is a big sin, when I stole your money from your jacket pocket a few months ago. I told you I had made a mistake, and you said that kind of mistake can happen only once. If I repeat it, it becomes an unforgivable sin. Do you remember that, Father?” I asked, as he walked past one walled garden after another.
“Yes, I do remember. But sometimes you have to do something that is wrong to make things right,” he went on in a steady voice. “If you steal some pomegranates, you will save your sisters and brother from hunger. You and I can sleep with empty stomachs for a night, but I’m worried for your mom. She doesn’t have enough milk to feed your brother. She has to eat something,” he said.
Then he stopped and pointed with his right hand to a large garden nearby and said, “You have to go over there very carefully. Nobody should see you. Be aware of your four sides, and fill this bag with pomegranates.” He always carried a large plastic bag in his pocket for when he went to the bazaar, and now he gave it to me. “When you come back with pomegranates, tell your mother that you bought them from somebody who was selling them,” he said.
I said “All right” and started walking toward the garden bravely. But then I thought about it some more, and I felt very sad that my father picked me among all his children to be a thief.
I remembered Grandfather telling me, “Avoid three evils: lying, stealing, and gossiping.” Even though Grandfather was not here, his words were there with me, and they were stronger than my father’s. I walked back toward our car, but stopped when I saw my father walking slowly toward me.
“What is wrong? Why are you back with nothing?” he asked.
“Everyone will call me a thief!” I said.
“Who is everyone? You’re doing this for your father! You know that. For me. I wouldn’t call you a thief,” he said.
“Why don’t you ask one of my sisters? Is it because I have skills in stealing, because I stole your money one time in my life? Everyone called me a thief for weeks after.” I felt like I was about to cry.
He sat down on the big round stone where we were standing. All around us were small white stones brought by floods years ago. He asked me to sit next to him.
“I respect your feelings, but you have to try to understand the situation. We cannot buy food for dinner, and we did not eat lunch. We do not have any place to go, and no one will receive us in their houses in this village. It is war, and everyone is afraid of others. The whole village is afraid of us, as we are afraid of them.
“It will take me at least a week to make the villagers my friends so they’ll trust me. You go and steal pomegranates from that garden now, and somehow I’ll make the owner my friend, and afterward we’ll tell him everything about tonight. I’m sure he’ll forgive us both. The reason I’m not doing this is because you’re smart, and little. If they catch you, they won’t kill you. But if they catch me, they’ll think of me as someone dangerous. Do you get my point?” he asked.
I thought about all he said. I agreed that he was right about everything.
“All right!” I said. I walked toward the garden. I talked to Grandfather in my heart and told him that I was sorry to be doing the thing that he told me strictly to avoid. I also told him that I was doing this for my father, and he was the one who should be blamed, not me.
* * *
When I was next to the wall, I sneaked into the garden very carefully, like I had seen heroes do in movies. Maybe somebody would make a film about my stealing. That made it seem a little funny.
When the wind blew, it moved the leaves of the trees and made them sound like someone’s steps. I watched my four sides as I was told. I saw nothing but trees with big pomegranates hanging from thin branches, nearly breaking them. I picked five huge pomegranates that made my bag full and heavy.
It is not enough, I thought. But there was no more space in the bag for even a small one. If I take this to my father, he will fuss about that. “Why did you not pick small ones?” he would ask. But then I thought that I am not paying money for these; nobody should ever complain over something that cost nothing.
First, I tossed the bag over the wall. I was just starting to climb the wall to jump out when I heard dogs barking, very close. I thought the dogs were outside the garden and that they had seen my bag and were fighting over it.
I waited to hear better where the sound was coming from. Suddenly, I saw two big dogs running very fast toward me. They were inside the garden. From the light of the moon shining through the trees, I could see their muscles straining as they ran.
I froze in place. My mind was not signaling me what to do next. I thought for a moment and asked myself, “Should I stand here and let the dogs tear me into pieces for my stealing, for the sin I just committed?” I thought that Grandfather was punishing me. But Grandfather always told me, “Never be afraid of anything; let others be afraid of you.” I knew I had to escape even though they were bigger than any other dogs I had ever seen, even bigger than the ones in the garden of Haji Noor Sher in Kabul. Water was running from their mouths as they barked. Their eyes were so red, they looked like they were filled with blood. I tried to be courageous.
They had now reached me and were close enough that I could have petted them, but they were not those kinds of dogs. I felt a wave of fear. The instant they saw that, they snapped at me. Their teeth were long and sharp. But I got my courage back and continued staring in their eyes, stiff like a sculpture. They stepped back. Each of them seemed twice as big as me.
Someone called to them from the other end of the garden, an old man’s voice. One of the dogs turned halfway toward the voice, then he came back and barked at me a few more times before running off. The other one bared his sharp teeth, but held back. The old man was still calling and whistling.
Someone started throwing stones into the far side of the garden, making the trees rustle. The dog stopped barking at me and looked at the trees instead. The stones were big. It was definitely not a kid throwing them. The dog ran to find out what was dropping from the sky.
I heard my father’s voice whispering urgently from behind the garden wall for me to climb out.
I pulled myself up on the wall and was halfway over when the dog lunged and bit my leg. I could almost feel which of his teeth were tearing into my flesh. My father saw my face and guessed what had happened.
“Don’t shout! Be brave!” my father said hoarsely.
He thrust his hand up to me and pulled me toward him. The rough mud-brick wall scraped my stomach. The dog let go and started barking again.
I jumped down from the wall and landed on the leg that had been bitten. I started to shriek in pain. My father put his hand over my mouth.
My leg was bleeding. I could not see how badly I was hurt. My father tore his prayer bandanna that he always carried on his shoulder and tied it tightly around the wound. The dog on the other side of the wall was going crazy.
I wanted to look at the injury, but my father did not let me see it.
“It is nothing; it is just a small scratch. You’ll be fine,” my father said.
I did not believe him. There was fear in his voice. I never heard my father speak with a shaky voice like that. I kept walking like a cripple with all my weight on my right leg. The skin on my stomach felt like it had been scraped off.
I made it back to the car and climbed into the front seat. My mother was in the backseat, tapping my little brother’s back and singing a lullaby to make him sleep.
She did not notice my leg, but she could see the fatigue on my face. She stopped singing and gave my little brother to my older sister, who had snuggled next to her. “Are you all right? You look like hell!”
I said nothing. She looked at my father, who was standing outside. He said nothing. “I’m fine,” I told her. “We were just attacked by some dogs, and one of them bit my left leg, and it hurts a little.”
“What dogs? We didn’t hear any dogs,” she said.
“Because your windows were all rolled up,” I answered, trying not to let the pain be heard in my voice.
“Let me see it,” she said quietly. I turned around to show her. She looked at my wound, shook her head, and started to clean it with a handkerchief. It was still bleeding and dripped into my mother’s lap.
She rolled down the window all the way to the bottom and shouted at my father, “Why have you let such a thing happen? Did you just let the dog chew his leg while you watched?”
My father was quiet. My little brother woke up and my mother shouted at my older sister to take the crying machine out of the car.
She asked my father for a bottle of water from the trunk, washed my wound, and put some alcohol on it, which stung. Then she sat next to me in the driver’s seat while my father was out walking up and down the road, holding my little brother and breathing the fresh cool air.
“You didn’t buy those pomegranates, did you? I know there is no shop anywhere nearby.” She was looking into my eyes very intently. “So tell me what happened, and don’t make me ask you twice, and don’t disappoint me with your lies,” she said sternly.
Her eyes were fixed on my mouth until I finished.
“I’m afraid to let you out of my sight till we get home. Don’t do anything like this again,” she said, then she hugged me.
“Okay!” I said. I wanted to cry. I remembered being in our courtyard, helping Grandfather weeding, eating on one long tablecloth, making jokes with my cousins and aunts and watching TV together. Those things seemed so far away. I sighed several times to ease the pain.
“What is the matter, Qais?” my mother asked. She was holding my head against her chest and rubbing my back. I could not force words out. There was a faint ringing in my ears, and I wanted a place to hide.
“Is it still hurting?” she said.
“Yes, Mother,” I
said.
“Or is there something else that you haven’t told me yet?” she said.
“No, there is nothing. It just hurts and it is itching, and I’m very tired,” I said.
“Okay, then sleep as long as you want.” She tapped me on the back as if I were a baby. I fell asleep in her arms. But I knew that I was a thief, and that my sin was unforgivable.
8
The Garden of Hamza’s Father
I woke up and was alone in the car. My parents, sisters, and brother were seated out on the ground having breakfast. They had cheese, butter, milk, yogurt, homemade jam, hot naan, and fresh tea. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was not dreaming, but it was real. Everybody’s mouth was full. My stomach was floating from hunger. I opened the door to join them. When I put my left foot on the ground, the pain was so sharp I felt as if a hot knife were ripping through me. My father came and helped me. I did not ask where all the food came from. I was just happy to be seeing butter, jam, and milk after two weeks.
“A villager invited us to his house,” my mother said.
“A villager? Who is he?” I asked.
“Oh, I think you know him,” she said.
“I know him? How?” I said.
“Because last night you heard his voice calling his dogs,” she said.
I froze with fear and shame. “The man in the garden where I stole pomegranates?” I asked. My sisters looked at me sharply. They all said in one voice, “You stole pomegranates? You are a thief?” Then they started softly hissing, “Thief, thief, thief.”
“Not again!” I said.
“Shut up, girls! He did it for me. I told him to do it. If anyone says the word ‘thief,’ she will be spanked!” my father said.
A Fort of Nine Towers: An Afghan Family Story Page 14
