The Dressmaker of Khair Khana

by Gayle Tzemach Lemmon

  With Najeeb gone, it now fell to Rahim to serve as his sisters' eyes and ears. Though only thirteen, he had suddenly become the man of their house, and the only person in the Sidiqi household who could move around the city freely. Today he was serving as Kamila's mahram, the chaperone whose presence would help keep her out of trouble with the Taliban.

  Rahim walked close to his sister past the shops and stores along Khair Khana's main road. The two spoke little as they walked toward the market. Soon Kamila spotted a few Taliban soldiers patrolling the sidewalk ahead of them, and she quickly realized they would be better off using the back roads of the neighborhood they knew so well. She and Rahim still had the hometown advantage; the Taliban, most of whom came from the south, remained strangers to the capital. It wasn't unusual for traffic all over the city to be turned on its head by soldiers who drove their tanks and pickup trucks the wrong way down one-way roads, sometimes at high speed. Though they governed Kabul, they still did not know it.

  Kamila guided her younger brother through the winding, muddy side streets that led to Lycee Myriam. He felt responsible for keeping his sister safe, especially now that his father and older brother were gone, and he tried to stay a few steps in front of her so that he could see what lay ahead. He still found it terribly strange to behold Kamila in full chadri; he confessed that he couldn't imagine how she could see the road in front of her through the tiny latticed window of her veil. Biting cold and fear kept their pace quick and purposeful.

  Kamila didn't allow herself to think about the many things that could go wrong; instead she kept her mind trained on the work ahead as they passed rows of houses along cramped streets that were clotted with dirt and mud. She had not shared the reason for their unusual trip with Rahim, wanting to protect him in the event they were stopped. She would tell him later, as they got closer. In a different time her black tote bag would have been loaded full of schoolbooks, but today it contained a handmade dress that she hoped would be the start of her new business.

  After half an hour Kamila and Rahim arrived at the outskirts of Lycee Myriam. Through her chadri Kamila could make out the bubbling chaos of wooden vegetable carts, clothing stalls, and faded brown storefronts. Most of Khair Khana knew that a handful of the street-front shops doubled as photo and video stores, but these businesses had been officially outlawed by the Taliban, so there was no sign of the underground enterprises they hid behind copy machines and grocery counters. The smell of cooking meat floated through the air as they approached the sprawling bazaar, which stretched north for nearly half a mile. Kamila glanced around at a few stalls that sold shoes and suitcases, then shared her plan with her brother.

  "Don't say anything, Rahim," she cautioned him. "Let me do the talking. If the Taliban come, and if there are any problems, just tell them you are accompanying me as we do our family's shopping, and we will be heading home as soon as we're done." Rahim nodded. Assuming the role of bodyguard and caretaker, the young man did not stray very far from his sister's side. He looked right and left every few steps, watching for any sign of trouble. Together the siblings walked into the covered section of Lycee Myriam, a giant indoor shopping mall that was filled with stands and small shops that sold all manner of goods, often in unwieldy piles haphazardly perched on tables and shelves: women's clothes, men's shalwar kameez, linens for the home, stacks of chadri, and even children's toys. It was a bewildering maze that first-time visitors found nearly impossible to navigate. Kamila looked around and noticed a few women coming and going from the stalls that sold shoes and dresses. She couldn't tell whether she knew any of them, since none of these women were recognizable except by their shoes. Turning left, she walked toward a small storefront just off the bazaar's main walkway; there she found one of the dress shops she and her sisters had frequented for years. Through the open door she saw a burly shopkeeper manning the counter. He had a clear view of the corridor outside and would be able to spot most of what was happening along the walkway that connected other shops to his. This would be helpful, Kamila thought, in the event the Amr bil-Maroof, the feared "Vice and Virtue forces," came by while she was inside.

  Pausing for a moment, Kamila waited in the doorway until a woman at the counter paid for her dress and left. Then she entered the shop with a strong, purposeful stride, hoping her nervousness would be undetectable beneath her show of confidence. She knelt down and pretended to examine a stack of dresses that were folded in tidy squares behind a glass case; together they made a cheerful rainbow of colors.

  "Can I help you, miss?" the shopkeeper asked. He was a broad-shouldered man with curly dark hair and a bulging paunch. Kamila noticed that his eyes were fixed on two things at once: his front door and his customer.

  "Thank you, sir," Kamila said, speaking in a firm but quiet tone as she stood up to answer him. She checked to make certain Rahim was next to her. "Actually, I'm a tailor and my sisters and I make dresses. I have brought a sample of our work to show you. Perhaps you would be interested in placing an order?"

  Before he could reply she reached into her bag and neatly spread the blue dress across the glass counter. Her hands trembled, but she worked deftly. She pointed to the beading. "It is very nice for weddings or for Eid," she said. Her heart beat in her ears, and she leaned against the counter to steady herself.

  The shopkeeper picked up the dress and began to inspect it more closely. Suddenly a large, blue-clad figure Kamila saw out of the corner of her eye approached the counter. The shopkeeper dropped Kamila's blue fabric in a heap on the glass but to his--and Kamila's--relief it turned out to be just another female shopper with her mahram. Kamila struggled to look busy while she waited. She didn't dare to look at her brother; she was sure he was as nervous as she was. What have I gotten us into by coming here? she thought to herself. I am always so full of ideas, but maybe I should have thought this one through a bit more. . . .

  But at last the woman departed, and the shopkeeper returned.

  "Another seamstress like you came to see me earlier this week," he said, speaking in a low voice. "She also offered to make dresses for my store. I've never really bought much from local women before, but I think I am going to have to start now. Things are tough for everyone, and no one can afford the imported clothes anymore."

  Kamila felt a small surge of excitement. As she had seen during her last trip to Lycee Myriam, most shopkeepers no longer thought it worth making the risky trip to Pakistan for a handful of dresses that only a few Kabulis could buy. This was her opportunity.

  "Okay, I will take it," he said, putting Kamila's sample next to another pile of dresses on his side of the glass. "Can you make more like this? I don't need so many dresses, actually, but I could use some more shalwar kameez for women, simpler clothing that people use for every day."

  "Oh, yes, that will not be a problem," Kamila said. She kept her voice quiet and even so as not to betray the wave of elation she felt. And she felt grateful for the anonymity of her chadri. "We can produce as much as you need."

  The storekeeper returned the smile he could not see. "Very good. Then I will take five pantsuits and three dresses. Can you have them ready by next week?"

  Kamila assured him she could. The store owner then took down bolts of polyester blends and rayon in different colors from a shelf behind him. Picking up his scissors, he cut enough material to make the suits he had ordered and placed the fabric into a dark shopping bag that he handed to Rahim. Throughout their short exchange Kamila saw that he had been keeping a close watch on the doorway for any sign of the Amr bil-Maroof. He had no desire to be caught speaking with a female customer, even if her mahram was present. So far things had been uneventful.

  "Okay, then, I will see you in a week," he said. "I am Mehrab. What is your name so that I can know you when you come back?" Now that everyone had to wear the chadri, all his customers looked the same.

  Where her answer came from, Kamila did not know. But as soon as the shop owner had spoken she realized it was too dangerous to use
her real name.

  "Roya," Kamila said. "My name is Roya."

  Picking up her black carry-all from the counter, Kamila thanked Mehrab and promised she would return the following week. She and Rahim left the store and made their way back toward the street. Though the entire transaction had taken less than fifteen minutes, Kamila felt as if hours had passed.

  Walking back into the gray morning, Kamila was nearly bursting with excitement. She felt that she was at the beginning of something important, something that could change their lives for the better. She fervently hoped so, but she admonished herself to stay focused. "No need to get ahead of myself when there is so much work to be done. Let's just get the first order finished right. No more big ideas until then."

  "Come, let's go home and tell the girls!"

  Throughout the visit with the storekeeper Rahim had stood still as a tree, watching his sister protectively. Even when Mehrab had placed his order, Rahim had been careful to show no emotion. He didn't want to give anyone a reason to look more closely at the transaction that was taking place inside the shop. Now that they were outside he beamed at his older sister and congratulated her on getting her first order. He was very proud of her work.

  "I was so surprised when you told him to call you Roya," he said. "That was the only time I almost slipped and laughed! You are really a good saleswoman, Kamila Jan."

  Kamila laughed softly beneath her chadri.

  "And you are a very good mahram," she said. "Mother would be proud."

  She kept them moving at a steady pace, for they needed to be far from Lycee Myriam by the time they heard the call to prayer.

  Kamila felt invigorated; for the first time since the Taliban's arrival four months earlier she had something to look forward to. And something to work for. She walked back toward the house with a bounce in her gait as Rahim marveled out loud at his sister's new name. "Roya," he said. "Roya Jan." He practiced saying it again, trying to get used to it, just as he had gotten used to being the only boy in a house full of girls, all of whom now depended on him for nearly everything they needed from the outside world.

  As they walked, Kamila contemplated the long list of supplies she would need to make the dresses and suits: thread, beads, and needles, along with a workspace big enough for them to spread open the fabric so they could see what they were making. They would have to clear out part of the living room, she resolved. When Kamila had visited Karteh Parwan, Malika had generously offered to lend one of her trusted "zigzags"; now the younger sister was tempted to accept the offer. If they delivered their work on time and were able to win more orders, maybe they would even be able to buy another machine for all of them to share. Who knows, perhaps one day they would have work for some other girls in their neighborhood who were stuck at home just as they were. All of this, however, was still a long way off. Right now, beginning this very evening, there was a great deal of sewing and teaching to attend to.

  At last they crossed the barren courtyard and burst into the house. Kamila tossed her empty black bag onto the floor near the door and walked into the living room, where Saaman and Laila waited anxiously. The girls unleashed a barrage of questions as soon as their siblings entered the living room.

  Kamila assured them they had made it just fine, and traced their route through the backstreets of Khair Khana. No, they hadn't seen anything bad or had any trouble and yes, they saw the shopkeeper. . . .

  She paused for a moment to let the anticipation build.

  "I have some news," she started. Both her tone and her face were stony and serious.

  "We got an order!"

  A triumphant smile spread across her cheeks, and the girls broke out in a ripple of relieved laughter.

  "Oh, that is excellent!" cried Laila, applauding her sister's work. She, too, was full of enthusiasm now that they finally had an important task ahead of them. "Well done, Kamila Jan. Now we have to get started! What are we supposed to make?"

  Kamila grinned at her sister's impetuousness. She was delighted to see that the girls were as excited as she was, and that they were ready to begin that very minute. At least we have a lot of energy, she thought, even if none of us has any experience!

  Kamila described Mehrab's order and told her sisters they would have to learn to sew quickly. "It won't be easy," she assured them, "but I am sure we can get it done. If I can learn, so can you!"

  "We will be fine, Kamila," said Saaman, confident and poised as always. "If we have to ask our friends for help, we will."

  "Okay, then," Kamila answered, "we'll get started with our first sewing lesson after lunch. We are officially in business!"

  "And you must call her Roya now," Rahim advised his sisters. The girls looked at Kamila, eager for an explanation.

  Kamila recounted the story, explaining how her false identity would protect both her and Mehrab the shopkeeper. He wouldn't be able to identify her should the Taliban ever question him for speaking to or, much worse, doing business with a woman at the bazaar. No one at Lycee Myriam would ever see Kamila's face under the chadri, and none of their neighbors had ever heard of Roya. She was safe, at least for now, and she urged her sisters to remember to call her Roya if they ever accompanied her to the market. Kamila/Roya felt relieved to see that her sisters understood the need for her alias. And she appreciated the look of respect they showed her for her quick--and smart--thinking on the spot.

  Malika would be proud, Kamila thought, smiling inwardly.

  The idea of getting to work thrilled Saaman and Laila, though they had no idea how they would learn to sew in time to deliver according to their sister's schedule. Like Kamila, Saaman had always been absorbed in her studies and had never before made anything by hand. She confided to her sister that she was nervous she would make hundreds of mistakes and ruin their first order. Laila showed far less hesitation; the bold teenager figured the only way she was going to become a good dressmaker was by trying. Just as Malika had shown her in her corner workspace in Karteh Parwan, Kamila began by teaching her sisters how to cut the fabric. Laila followed along, making only a few small mistakes as she went. Saaman, the most studious among them, watched motionless, and fixed her gaze on Kamila's steady hand as it cut the material.

  "Come on," Laila ribbed Saaman, "it's not so hard, just try it!"

  Elated as she was about receiving her first order, Kamila too felt nervous. Right now she was the only one who knew anything about sewing--and she hardly qualified as an experienced tailor. She had to get this right if they were to attract more business.

  And then, quite unexpectedly, as if in answer to her prayers, came the best news she could have asked for.

  "Kamila, Kamila, did you hear?" cried Rahim, running into the living room to find his sister. She sat sewing on the floor, lost in her work trying to pin an unruly bead onto a piece of fabric.

  "Malika is coming home. She'll be here tomorrow!"

  "What?" said Kamila. "Tomorrow? Oh, that is just wonderful!"

  She put down her sewing and basked in relief. Malika had always been the dependable big sister, the reliable one who had kept her younger siblings out of trouble. Right now they needed her steady hand. Kamila herself was only a teenager, and she was finding it hard to focus on her business while keeping an eye on her four younger sisters, helping Rahim with his classwork, and making sure they had enough food and fuel to keep the house functioning.

  "Yes," said Rahim, "Najeeb talked to her about it before he went. He thought it would be better if we all lived together. It took a little while for her and Farzan to arrange everything, especially with the twins, but his family agreed it would be better if they came here."

  The twins. Kamila was as delighted to spend more time with her newborn nieces as she was to see her sister. And she was thrilled at the prospect of being able to return the favor and help Malika, who had given birth to the babies prematurely just two months earlier. She got up from her seat and walked into Malika's old room to begin sweeping out her younger sisters' things. />
  Every time I think things are bad, something happens, and we get through it, Kamila thought to herself. Father was right; we just have to keep doing our part and everything will be okay. God is watching out for us.

  Days later the girls filled with joy at the sight of one of Kabul's familiar yellow-and-white taxis pulling up to their green gate. Malika was back.

  Since the arrival of the Taliban several months earlier, life had quickly devolved into a series of challenges for the twenty-four-year-old mother of four. Her sisters may have seen her as their rock, but Malika and her husband, Farzan, were reeling both financially and emotionally. With women barred from schools she could no longer work, so her family had to survive without her monthly teacher's salary. Now, with the economy shrinking by the day and fewer and fewer goods coming in and out of Kabul, demand for Farzan's trucking business had dried up to almost zero. In just months the family had gone from two incomes to less than one.

  Malika's tailoring work plus a small amount of savings kept the family going. But she worried constantly about her children. Her twin girls had been born weeks early and had been fighting off infections ever since. In a city which so many doctors had fled and where the infrastructure and sanitation systems had been wrecked by decades of war, this was nearly a death sentence. The babies remained tiny and frail, and Malika shuttled them regularly to the clinic, struggling to fill their expensive prescriptions. Now back in Khair Khana she saw how fragile things were in her parents' home, and how much her sisters--and everyone else in her life--needed her. She was exhausted, but determined to do all that the moment demanded: to be a mentor for her sisters' new tailoring operation, and to continue her own work sewing suits and dresses for clients who valued her skill and creativity. Above all else, she would care for her struggling family. Though it had been hard to leave her friends and in-laws in Karteh Parwan, she knew her place was here in Khair Khana with her sisters.