by Atia Abawi
“Did I get one? Where’d they go?” The first voice sounds confused.
“I think you scared them off,” the almost-familiar voice responds with a hint of annoyance. Why does he sound so familiar?
“Good. The fish are like these villagers. We have to show them who’s boss! Maybe next time, we can chase some of the human fishes here with my gun!” I hear him chuckling. “Grab the water, and let’s go so we can make it back before it gets dark.”
As I hear the men tying the jug to the bike and preparing to leave, I’m suddenly very aware of Samiullah and how close his body is to mine. I’ve never been this close to him—to any boy—in my life. His heart seems to be beating as fast as mine. He’s still squeezing me tight, and I’m squeezing back, feeling the muscles and veins on his arms as he holds me close. We listen as the roaring of the motorcycle fades away to a distant rumble, and still we don’t move. I feel so safe like this, safer than I ever have before.
When the sound of the bike has completely faded, I turn my body around to find Samiullah staring at me. His green eyes look as unsettled as I feel. All I can do is stare back.
“Well, that was a close one,” he says softly, his arms still cradling me. “Are you okay? I’m sorry for dragging you and—”
“Don’t be sorry. You saved us,” I tell him. I feel nervous again talking to him and avert my gaze. I know I should move away and undo the tangle of our bodies, but I can’t make myself do it. We stay like that, quiet, listening to each other breathe for what seems like minutes, but is probably only a few seconds.
“You’ve got dirt on your face,” Samiullah says, breaking the silence as he gently wipes his thumb over my right cheek. “Is that what’s passing for makeup these days?”
All I can do is stare at him. The spot on my cheek tingles underneath his finger. I know it is wrong to be lying here like this, but I don’t want to move.
“Come on,” he says, finally pulling away. “I should probably get you home before someone sees us.”
I nod, and we both stand up. I can’t stop the shiver that runs through me. Even in the hot sun, I feel cold without Samiullah’s body next to mine.
Four
FATIMA
Samiullah says good-bye to me on the wheat fields in between our homes, out of the sight line of his mud house and mine. The land belongs to his family, but Samiullah and I are safe from intrusive eyes because my father and Karim have moved on to a different field, slashing away at the long strands of wheat on the other side of the property. The harvest is almost over, so they are making sure they’ve reaped the whole lot.
I walk the rest of the way back by myself, trying to gather my thoughts about what just happened. But I’m still confused.
Shouldn’t I be terrified by the fact that Latif’s men almost saw us? They could have killed us—they would have justified it by saying we were unmarried and alone. So why do I feel more anxious about what just happened with Samiullah? About the way he touched my face and held me close?
In no time at all, I’m home. I stand in front of our house. It’s made up of many small dried-mud rooms spread out on a small patch of dirt, not just one building like Kaka Ismail’s house. Like Samiullah’s house.
I walk past the cooking room and the sleeping room to the chicken coop and take a seat on the patch of dirt next to it. As I lean my head back, I close my eyes and let the sun prickle my skin with warmth before it begins to set behind the mountains, bringing the brisk night air. I can smell the pile of dried dung patties stacked against the wall on the other side of the cage. Our village doesn’t have enough trees to burn, so we rely mostly on cow dung for cooking and heat. The smell is so pungent you can sometimes taste it. But right now, I’m not bothered. I’m too distracted by thoughts of Samiullah, his eyes, his touch and his strength.
“Fato!” I’m jolted back to the present as I hear Afifa running toward me. Her fire-red hair darts at me like a cat chasing its prey. But her little body wobbles more like the chickens in the coop.
Afifa’s entrance startles those dumb birds, who are now frantically cackling and running around the cage, sending dirt up in the air. The dirt makes its way into my mouth as Afifa jumps into my lap and smacks a tiny wet kiss on my lips.
“Salaam, Afo Jaan!” I greet her with affection.
Kissing her bubbled cheeks, I’m reminded of my own innocence, which I somehow feel slipping away after hearing my parents talk and spending the afternoon with Samiullah. I can’t resist sucking in Afifa’s small chubby cheeks after I’ve kissed them. And as if on cue, she giggles with delight. I finish my kisses by laying the last one on her forehead.
“How was your day, my shadi gak?” I ask, squeezing her tiny body to mine.
My burdens suddenly disappear.
“I’m not a little monkey!” Afifa giggles.
“You’re my little monkey,” I say as I start to tickle her.
“Okay! Okay! I’m a monkey!” She protests the tickles. “I’m a shadi! Where were you? Why didn’t you play with me today? I mished you!”
I love the way she slurs her words. I love everything about her.
“I was out walking, my shadi gak.”
“Where?” she says. Allah tobah—God forgive her nosiness. She must get it from our mother.
“What’s it to you?” I say, tickling her again, and this time I don’t stop. Her laughter is now mixed with tears as she begs for it to end.
“Fatima, is that you?” I hear my mother. “Come here, little woman. Where have you been? You’re late. You need to help me with dinner.”
“I was with Zorah,” I lie as my mother approaches, holding a plastic bowl full of wet potatoes. That’s where I was supposed to be, at least.
“Oh, really, with Zorah? How is Zorah? How is her grandmother doing?” my mother says, raising her right eyebrow. “Why did they send you home so late?”
“They’re great! Both Khala Jaan and Zorah send their salaams!” I pick Afifa off the ground and ignore my mother’s last question. “I’ll clean Afo up and come help peel the potatoes.”
I can feel my mother’s eyes on me as I walk my little sister toward the stream.
• • •
After I clean Afifa’s face and hands with the cold flow of the stream, she runs off to find our father, who should be back from the fields soon.
I then begin to wash my own face. The cold water splashing the day’s dirt off my skin feels so refreshing. But my mind starts to race with thoughts of Samiullah. They send me back to the moment he was holding me—so tight that I could feel his solid chest against my back.
I pull my sleeves over my elbows and rinse my arms. But even with the cold water on my skin, I feel the warmth of his body next to mine. The beating of his heart. His breath on the back of my neck. The touch of his hand on my face—
“Fatima!” I’m startled by the screeching of my mother’s voice.
“I’m coming!” I yell as I jump up.
I quickly make my way to the dirt patch where my mother has already begun peeling the potatoes without me. Nearly half the bowl is skinned.
I guess I took longer than I thought.
“Where were you today?” my mother asks with a tinge of anger in her voice.
“Madar Jaan, I already told you I was with Zorah.” I say, picking up a knife and a potato. I know there is no way she can prove otherwise, because she hasn’t left our home. And if it came down to it, Zohra would lie for me even if she didn’t know why.
“So you didn’t go and see that boy?” she says, and I feel her eyes on me. But I won’t look up to meet her scrutinizing gaze. “You asked so many questions about his return last night.”
“Who? Samiullah? No. I haven’t seen him since he left three years ago. I just heard from Zohra about his return the day before yesterday,” I say, concentrating on my peeling but feeling my stomach tig
hten. “I guess he’s back to working with his father and going out on their delivery trips?”
“No, he didn’t go anywhere.” Suddenly I feel my stomach drop. What does she know? “His father came over here to check on the crops. Ismail Khan said he was going to pick up some items on Saturday,” my mother says.
“Oh . . .” is all I can respond, my eyes focused on my potato.
“Oh? Tobah. Tobah.” My mother shakes her head in frustration asking for God’s forgiveness as she always does. Not for herself, of course, but for her wicked daughter. “You are forbidden from seeing him. You are not a child anymore, and I won’t allow you to ruin our name by being seen with him or any other boy. Remember that.” She carries the potatoes to the tandoor, where a pot is waiting with a half liter of oil. Underneath the pot, a steady fire is burning, fueled by two dried dung patties. She dices the potatoes and a small tomato, drops it all in the pot and lets it cook.
We hardly speak during dinner, except for the normal requests to please pass the bread, sprinkle some salt or pour a glass of water. My father fills the silence as he usually does, talking about his day with Karim, as my eight- and six-year-old brothers hang on every word.
“When he went to pick up the bag of wheat, a cat jumped out from behind the pile! That’s when Karim shrieked like a little girl and fell backward, dropping the bag and landing on his koonak.” My father chuckles with the boys. I glance over to my left and find my mother giggling quietly. My little sister is too preoccupied with her food or lack thereof. She’s reaching her little bangle-decorated hands into the pot of potatoes, trying to dip her piece of bread. She comes out with just naan soaked in oil. But looking at her glowing eyes, you would think she had dipped her bread in gold.
“Fato!” my father says to me.
“Yes, Baba Jaan?” I quickly respond.
“I saw Samiullah early this morning. He came by to say hi. He is a good kid.” My father quickly slurps up a handful of potato. “He sent his salaams to everyone.” He licks his fingers. “Were you helping your madar jaan today?”
“No, Baba. I was with Zorah and her grandmother today,” I lie. Of all people, my father is the one I most I hate lying to.
“Strange. Karim said Zorah was taking care of her brothers and sisters today because his wife was taking his bibi to the clinic in town,” my father says with curiosity.
“Oh, yes. They came back early. I guess there was no line today,” I lie again, feeling the sinking pit in my belly.
“Well, that’s good,” my father says, quickly moving on to another story and refocusing on my younger brothers.
All I can feel is the stinging gaze of my mother. Oh, God, does she know? Luckily it’s dark, and all we have is one oil lamp dimly illuminating the dining mat, so it’s easy to avoid her eyes and focus on my food.
• • •
After dinner we set up our sleeping mats. I tuck Afifa snug into her blanket. She looks like the little baby she used to be not so long ago.
“Fato, dostit darom,” she says, rubbing her little hand on my left cheek.
“I love you too, my shadi gak,” I reply.
“I’m. Not. Shadi,” she slowly protests as her eyes desperately try to stay open.
“Okay, you’re not a monkey. You’re my little Afo. And I would do anything for my little Afo.” I slide my hand on her cheek as I watch her give in and fall into a deep sleep. I’m finally beginning to feel the exhaustion of the day’s events myself, and I let out a big yawn.
I get up and kiss both of my parents good night and head to my mattress, slipping underneath the blanket. I say the same prayers that my mother taught me when I was younger than Afo is now, and begin to doze off—I’m too exhausted to stay up tonight and eavesdrop on my parents’ conversations.
I get lost in a dream not long after I snuggle into my pillow. Samiullah and I are running around the fields like we did when we were young children. A feeling of joy and happiness overcomes me; I think it’s the feeling of innocence. I’m praying in my dream that it can last forever—
“Baas!” I’m awoken by the sound of my father’s voice filled with anger.
“But, Mohammad, she’s at the age,” my mother pleads.
“I said enough! No more! I’m not marrying my daughter off to strangers. How do we know how these people will treat her? How do we know if we will ever see her again? I can’t trade her to someone in another village for a little bit of money; just because it is in our culture doesn’t make it okay.” My father’s voice begins to shake. “She isn’t a sack of wheat. I can’t just sell her for a few Afghanis and breathe easily for the rest of my life. Besides, she’s too young. This conversation is over.”
I keep my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. But the pit of my stomach is turning. I feel sick.
“What about me, Mohammad? Didn’t we marry when I was around Fatima’s age? Things turned out fine for me. God is generous. We have to put our trust in God.” Her pleas continue. “The boy comes from a rich Hazara family in the next village over. We can go and see her when we want. At least we will have the peace of mind that she is with our own people. They’re not barbaric like those other groups!”
How can my mother say all this? Why does she want me to leave my home, my family and my life?
“They’re not barbaric. What are you saying, woman?” my father slams back. “There is no innocent party in this country! You think just because he’s from our ethnic group he’ll treat our daughter like gold? Did the Hazaras not torture people through the wars too? Did I not kill people because of our ethnic pride?”
A jolt shoots up my spine, and I begin to tremble. My face tingles from the rush of blood. And I can hear my teeth clacking against each other, but I can’t stop them. I suddenly feel so cold. The noise from my teeth is blaring inside of my head and it makes it hard for me to think. I can’t believe what I just heard. My gentle baba has blood on his hands? The feeling in my stomach gets worse. I really think I’m going to be sick. But I try my hardest not to move; I don’t want them to know that I’m awake. Or that my world has just turned upside down. It can’t be true. The words may have come out of his mouth, but he must mean something else.
“Mossuma, I’ve done things, things I can never forget,” he sighs. “And I can’t pretend I’m not guilty. I fear every day that my loved ones will pay for my sins. Ali already has. I’m afraid that my greatest punishment will be to see my family suffer because of my past.”
“But, Mohammad, it was a different place and time. And you were just following orders.” My mother’s voice softens, ignoring my father’s mention of my older brother, who was killed by thugs years ago on his way to Iran. A trip he took at my mother’s foolish encouragement to make the family money as a laborer. “God will forgive you; you were a young boy—”
“God can’t forgive the things I did. What so many in this country did to each other! How can God forgive such atrocities?” My father’s voice begins to shake. “God has cursed this country and our people. I’m afraid God will continue to punish my children for the things I did, the things I let happen. I’ve already lost one child, I don’t want to lose another.”
“Mohammad,” my mother tries to interject but fails. I can hear her sniffle. They never speak of Ali. It has always been easier that way. But I still think of him all the time.
“I saw a man, one of our fighters, stick the head of a rifle in a baby’s mouth. I can still see the baby sucking on it, as if it was his mother’s nipple. The fighter couldn’t stop laughing and pointed for all of us to look. They baby thought we were playing with him. It was just as his tiny mouth began moving again, in search of milk from the barrel that . . . the gun went off.” My father’s voice breaks. I hear him clear his throat.
Did he really allow this baby to die?
“Mohammad, that was the civil war, you were in Kabul. You had no other choice. That same
baby’s father probably would have killed you.” My mother’s voice is also shaking. I can tell she’s trying to pacify him but is also scared.
Is this why my father never speaks of his time in Kabul? My brothers and I have always asked about what life was like in the capital city. But he will never tell us.
“My love, we don’t know that.” My father’s voice is still so quiet and soft. “They just lived in the wrong neighborhood. And we had orders from the commander to send them all a message. I still don’t understand why, to be honest, and I hope I never do. All I know is that I took part in that sin. I killed men, women and children. I allowed it to happen.”
The thought of my father participating in atrocities makes me even more nauseous. I feel like I’m going to vomit, but I breathe deeply and try to will the nausea away. I don’t want them to know I am awake and listening.
“But if you hadn’t done it, they would have killed you! It was survival. You were just surviving.”
“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t survived. Now I am forced to live with those memories.”
“Mohammad . . .” My mother says my father’s name with such tenderness, and I realize for the first time that she does love him. Just like in Zohra’s bibi’s stories. She loves him very much.
“This is why I want my daughter to live a happy life,” my father says, his voice full of tears. “I’ve seen men steal women, keep them locked up as slaves—I’ve seen them sold, raped and killed. I’ve seen fathers crying on the streets, holding pictures of their daughters, asking if anyone has seen them.”
I had heard these stories before, but I never thought they were true. I can barely believe them now, even though my own father has seen these things happen. Seen them, and done nothing to help.
“I’ve seen a man marry a woman only to torture her in order to make her family pay for a wrong they had done to his family. I don’t want to take that gamble with my daughter’s life.”
