“Why don’t you and Dave come to dinner when you get back this Friday? I want you to meet Parween, and Hamid and Amina too. It will be my first dinner party.”
“Now that’s something to look forward to. We’ll see you then.”
Elsa, unable to hide her excitement from her new friend any longer, rushed to Parween’s house to share her news and the invitation to dinner.
“The soldiers came to visit me at the clinic again!” she told her friend, the words tumbling out. “They are all so nice, and there is one…” Her voice drifted off; she didn’t know how to describe Mike. She told Parween about their dinner together and the picnic.
“Your cheeks are red as poppies!” Parween said, her voice filled with delight. “Has this special soldier put the color there?”
Elsa’s hands flew to her face.
“I guess he has,” she confessed. “I’d like you to meet him. You can see for yourself.”
Parween laughed. “Perhaps this is the man you will marry. Will your family arrange the marriage?”
“Good heavens, I just met him!” Elsa protested. “But no, we don’t arrange marriages in Amrika. We wait until we fall in love. Famidi? Love?”
Parween nodded. “I know that feeling, for I loved my Raziq, and I would have chosen him for myself had my family not chosen him for me.”
“I’m sorry, Parween.” Elsa touched Parween’s back. “You must miss him terribly.”
“I do. I think of him every day, and I think how pleased he would be with the children. You would have liked him, Elsa, and he would have liked you.”
Elsa wrapped her arms around her friend as Zahra toddled in and asked, “Che’ast, Mama?”
Elsa and Parween collapsed into waves of welcome laughter until Elsa pulled herself away.
“I have a question—I’ll be seeing more of Mike, but do you think it’s all right? That I’m seen with a soldier? Will people wonder?”
“I think it is fine,” Parween answered. “People know who you are. They know you are from Amrika, as are the soldiers, and they understand that your traditions are different from ours. It is no problem for you to be seen with them. Even my uncle has spoken with them.”
“Really? And it was okay?”
“Yes, Elsa. The people of Bamiyan see the soldiers as their liberators. You need not worry so much.”
“But he’s a soldier first; he made sure to tell me that much. I worry that maybe this isn’t the right time to get involved with him.”
“Whenever it happens,” Parween said, “it is the right time. Do not worry so much.”
Elsa resolved to take her friend’s advice.
Only days later, Parween revealed her plans to travel to Mashaal by bus.
“I know that it has been almost three months since the bus explosion, but I must be free of worry that Mariam’s cursed husband will come here to claim the baby. If he knows there is a boy child, he could make trouble for me. I want to be ready.”
“But how can you get to Mashaal alone?” Elsa asked. Though women could now walk unescorted through their own villages, it still was not acceptable for them to travel any distance, certainly not on a bus, and certainly not alone.
“I will travel just as Mariam did, dressed as a boy. No one will notice me. Don’t worry, I’ll be safe,” Parween declared.
“When will you go?”
“I’ve already made the arrangements. I go tomorrow. My mother will watch the children, and travel on Friday is easier since more people move about. I will invite less suspicion then.”
But Elsa wasn’t so sure. “Johann told me that he’d heard of increasing numbers of Taliban beyond Bamiyan.” She’d secretly wondered if Johann’s news had something to do with why Mike and the other soldiers went away so often lately.
“No, no,” Parween answered. “There is no danger in Mashaal.”
“Well then, since I have the day off, can I go to Mashaal with you?” Elsa asked. “I can wear the burqa I got in Peshawar, and no one will know who I am. I’ll simply seem to be your mother or sister. It gives me a chance to see more of the countryside, and it gives you a traveling companion. What do you say?”
Parween smiled, glad for the offer.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “It will be good to have you with me.”
Elsa glanced at her watch. “What time shall I meet you?”
Parween showed her bare wrist in reply. “I have no timepiece. Be here when the full sun is just over the horizon. We will board the bus in the bazaar, and we will be in Mashaal before midday. I won’t need much time there, and I expect that we will be back in Bamiyan in the late afternoon.”
Elsa was excited at the prospect of traveling. It would be her first real trip beyond Bamiyan. Though she’d thought of Pierre and the warnings of both the Chief and Johann, she decided there wouldn’t be any danger. She’d be traveling in daylight and under the full cloak of the burqa. Only Parween would know that an American was under it.
She considered leaving a note for Mike, but he probably wouldn’t even get it until after they’d returned. She expected him and Dave for dinner the next evening, and she would tell him about it then.
Elsa rose the following morning, drank a quick cup of tea, and explained to Amina that she was traveling to Mashaal with Parween and would be back by dusk.
She rifled through her suitcase and pulled out the burqa. Shaking it out, Elsa wondered how it would feel. She’d looked forward to donning the mysterious garment, but when she pulled it on, she discovered that it was like being enveloped in a tent. She had to tug to get the head covering in place. It was tight and pulled at her hair. The woven grille-like opening for her eyes was hard to adjust to also, and it only allowed her to see straight ahead—all of her peripheral vision was lost.
It was hard, as well, to keep her pale hands hidden in the folds of the voluminous, pleated fabric as she’d seen so many women do. It was, she decided, an awkward garment, and Elsa walked slowly and clumsily once she had it on.
Parween’s disguise, the loose shalwar kamiz that all men and boys wore, allowed her to move more freely. The baggy pants and shirt would hide all evidence of her feminity. She’d pinned her hair on top of her head, slipped on a prayer cap, and wound a turban over the cap, tucking away any stray wisps of hair. Elsa was astounded. Just as with Mariam, Parween had been transformed into a boy. Only close inspection would reveal the truth, and they didn’t plan on any close inspections.
“Keep your head down and your words few like a good Afghan woman, and we will be safe,” Parween advised Elsa as she tucked a penknife into her shirt pocket. She turned to see the questioning look in Elsa’s eyes.
“For courage,” Parween said softly. She was already practicing speaking in a low murmur.
They strode to the village center and purchased two tickets. Elsa stayed quietly at Parween’s side as they boarded the bus, and she kept her head down as Parween pushed through the crowd to seats at the back, as she had seen the men do.
Once they were settled, they had a clear view of the goings-on around them. Within minutes, the seats filled and the bus teemed with people lugging boxes and bags and chickens, and one angry goat who bleated in protest. The bus sputtered and groaned as the engine roared to noisy life with bursts of smoke and backfires. The air inside the packed vehicle was heavy with the stench of mangy animals and unwashed people, and Elsa, caught in the thick of it, pushed herself farther into her seat, uncomfortable with the closeness and grateful for the filter the burqa offered.
The road to Mashaal was a ragged unpaved stretch of dirt and rocks. It had been rugged in the best of times, but now with the added insult of land mines and burned-out tanks, it was downright treacherous. With her head turned full to the grimy window, Elsa watched as the driver maneuvered the bus perilously close to the marked mine sites at the sides of the road. It was only three months since the bus explosion, and she tried to push away her memories of the twisted heap of metal and the bloodied survivors.
> “Ohhh,” she groaned. Parween turned to the window and saw the source of her concern.
“Inshallah, we shall be safe.”
Elsa shook her head and wished, again, that Afghans wouldn’t leave so much up to God.
They settled in for the long bumpy ride through look-alike villages and parched fields. Occasionally, they passed a little patch of farmed land where stalks of wheat or rows of potatoes poked through the ground.
After traveling for almost an hour, the bus ground to a sudden halt and the driver announced that the road ahead was blocked. A large tree had fallen and several wagons and another bus were stopped, their passengers and drivers standing about discussing the dilemma. They had already tried—and failed—to move the enormous trunk. The passengers spilled out of the bus, most settling along the road to pass the time in prayer or conversation.
Parween and Elsa strode off to sit under some nearby trees.
Within the hour, a truck laden with UN supplies stopped at the roadblock. A burly driver and a scrawny assistant got out to survey the obstacle. They studied the scene, bent to feel the weight of the tree, and decided to try moving it with their truck. They motioned for the other vehicles to move out of the way, climbed onto their rig, revved the engine, and drove the truck until it was only inches from the obstruction.
The driver backed up slightly and then pressed heavily on the gas pedal as he shifted gears. The vehicle plunged forward, knocking the tree out of its way as though it were mere kindling.
The driver pulled on his rig’s horn as he continued down the road. The onlookers cheered as they scurried back to their vehicles, ready to get on with their travels. Elsa and Parween scrambled to rejoin their bus and reclaim their seats as the bus set off for Mashaal.
In less than an hour, the bus lurched up a steep incline and onto another tortuous road framed by crumbling houses and abandoned tanks. Children dressed in rags scampered through the debris. Villagers were busy rebuilding their homes, patting down mud and fitting dried straw into cracks and gaps. Many of them stopped their labors and turned to watch as the bus passed by.
It rounded a corner, squeezed between rows of barely standing mud houses, and finally came to a stop under a towering tree. This was Mashaal. The driver heaved a weary sigh, pushed the lever to open his doors, slid from his seat, and announced that if anyone wanted to return to Bamiyan, he would be leaving in two hours.
The passengers—all in a hurry now—jostled to get off quickly. Elsa and Parween sat and waited for everyone to get off before they rose and climbed down from the bus.
Smaller than Bamiyan, Mashaal was another Hazara village, and the women there were even less hidden behind veils. Elsa adjusted the hood of her burqa so that she could finally see without hindrance, and she rearranged her veil to cover her hair, though she noticed that many of the women wore veils and scarves that allowed their own hair to spill out. Adorned with heavy pieces of pewter jewelry, these weren’t typical cowering Afghan women. Their dresses and head garments were brightly colored, and, despite the warmth of the day, they wore heavy, multicolored vests embroidered with vivid beads and tiny mirrors. They walked about, almost strutting, graceful in their swaying skirts.
Many of them balanced heavy sacks on their heads and children on their hips. A small group that was shooing a donkey home stopped to watch Elsa and Parween.
“Parween, those women,” Elsa said, shrugging in their direction, “they’re watching us.”
“We are strangers here. That is why they look,” Parween replied as she approached the little group. “As-salaam alaikum, chetore asti? Khoob asti? Jona jurast?” she called, and they smiled and returned the greeting. “My sister has been sick; she has lost her voice.” The women all nodded their concern as they smiled at Elsa.
“My name,” Parween said, “is Walid, and my sister is Samyah. We are here looking for our cousin. She came to Mashaal some years ago to marry an elder. We have had no word of her since the trouble.”
“Ahh, who would that be? Your cousin, what is her name?”
“Her name is Mariam, and she came from Bamiyan.” Parween couldn’t help herself, and her words came out draped in sadness. The women cocked their heads in unison and conferred with whispers before replying.
“Ahh,” they murmured together, and the eldest—a small woman with weathered skin and gentle eyes—stepped forward to speak.
“We do not know where Mariam is now,” she said. “She had a very bad time here, first with her old goat of a husband and his wives, and then with the Taliban.” The women shook their heads in agreement.
“She was a sweet girl saddled with a miserable old man,” one of them said.
“Did no one help her?” Parween asked.
They looked about for eavesdroppers and, seeing none, said that they had stepped forward once the Taliban were done with her. “They threw her onto the road and rode off on their fine horses. They were animals and she was nothing to them, not worth killing, and certainly not worth a kind word.”
“The Taliban, may Allah crush them all.” The oldest woman crinkled her nose and spat.
Parween smiled. Here was a kindred spirit.
“The old Omar-Saeed, her husband who had given her to the Taliban to protect his fat old behind, refused to take her back,” the old woman said. “He had taken another wife and wanted nothing to do with Mariam. But his first two wives, disgusted at the old goat and sorry for their own bad behavior toward Mariam, rescued her from the road and brought her to my sister’s house. Her husband was off in Yakawlang on business and we hid Mariam there for a few days.”
The woman paused and looked away.
“She was in a bad way. She had been beaten and burned and those animals”—she spat again for emphasis—“had had their way with her. We washed her wounds and her poor bruised and burned skin and we fed her sweet tea and rice and prayed for her to get well. When my sister’s husband was due home, we took Mariam up there.” She pointed to the small caves jutting out from the sturdy overhead rock cliffs.
Tears stung Parween’s eyes. She wanted to block out the words, the story of Mariam’s suffering, and she dropped her face into her hands and cried softly.
Elsa drew her friend to her in a comforting embrace.
“Shh, don’t cry,” she whispered.
The strange encounter caught the attention of the little circle of women and they leaned forward to look more closely at the strangers from Bamiyan. Parween saw their questioning glances, and she swept the turban and prayer cap from her head long enough to reveal that she was a woman. She quickly pulled her hair back onto her head and replaced the little cap before winding the turban again.
The astonished women stared, and then, as understanding took them one by one, they smiled and each kissed Parween’s cheeks.
“Mariam was my dearest friend,” she said conspiratorially, “and I have come today to see if there is any word of her or her husband.” She peered at each of them in turn.
The women shook their heads sadly.
“She just disappeared,” the youngest one said, piping up. “I went one morning to bring her water and naan, but her clothes were strewn around the cave, and she was gone. We have had no word. We fear that she is dead. Do you know anything?”
Before Parween answered, she wanted to be sure that Omar-Saeed was no longer interested in Mariam. “What of her husband?” she asked. “Has he looked for her?”
The old woman finally smiled—a toothless, gummy grin—and answered. “Allah took care of him. An American rocket fell onto his house and killed him. He is now the dust that you grind under your feet.”
Parween, relieved of the worry that he would come searching one day, burst into tears.
“Mariam… she has died.” She cried as she told the women of Mariam’s return to Bamiyan and her death in the bus explosion. She did not say that Mariam had been with child. It was best if the baby remained her secret.
The women sighed in collective sadness.
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br /> “It is better that way, for she couldn’t live with what the Taliban had done to her. She is in Allah’s hands now. Poor Mariam,” the old woman said.
“Come,” the eldest said. “Sit with us for tea in the cave where Mariam lived. You can see for yourself where she spent her last days.”
Parween nodded, and the group turned to climb the rock cliffs above. The eldest woman scrambled ahead with the energy of a young man and turned to urge her younger companions to move with haste.
“Hurry,” she said. “We don’t want any prying eyes to find our cave.”
The little group clambered up the rocks and into an opening, and Elsa and Parween stepped in and gasped in astonishment. The tiny hidden entrance concealed a well-stocked, carpeted room strewn with pillows, sleeping pads, and clothes. The old woman held out her arms and welcomed them inside.
“Besheneen, sit, my friends, we shall get tea.” She struck a match to a small pile of kindling and a tiny fire flared into life. While the small pot of tea boiled, she handed a small pile of clothes to Parween.
“These,” she said, “belonged to Mariam. They are the clothes we found here when we discovered she had gone.”
Parween held the pile close and caught the faintest hint of Mariam’s once familiar scent. She buried her face there and let the memories wash over her.
The old woman leaned to her and in a gentle tone said, “Do not be sad. In her last days here in the cave, Mariam was happy. Now we know why. She had planned all along to escape this place and return home. Those plans made her smile and gave her happiness. I hope that thought brings you peace.”
Parween fell into the old woman’s comforting embrace and sobbed as the woman stroked her back.
When her tears had subsided, Parween sat up and took the old woman’s hand.
“Thank you, all of you, for helping Mariam.” She wiped her sleeve across her eyes and rested her hand on Elsa’s arm.
“This is Elsa, a nurse come from Amrika to help the people of Afghanistan. She is my friend, and yours as well.” Elsa shed the burqa, and the women gasped in astonishment.
Lipstick in Afghanistan Page 19
