by Atia Abawi
I am more than baffled by this confession. I can tell by the softness in his voice that he’s telling the truth. But I still don’t understand it. How could he give up the opportunity he had to see other villages? Maybe even the capital? Get an education? Although I feel guilty for making him feel so sad, I have to ask, “Did you miss your family? Did you get homesick?” I know from his eyes that it’s not that, but I don’t know what else to say. And I have so many questions I’ve wanted to ask him about his time away, but I haven’t had the courage to hear his answers. I was afraid I would be jealous of his other life, a life I wasn’t a part of and never could be.
“Yes, I missed my parents and my brothers, sisters, cousins, you—I missed everyone,” he says. I can’t help but feel joy in knowing he missed me, because I missed him too. When he first left, I used to lie on my toshak at night wondering if he thought about me. “But that’s not it. I honestly thought I would never come back. Being there was like my body and soul were stuck in darkness. Remember that day, years ago, when that horrible storm hit our village?” I know exactly what he’s talking about. I never saw a day or a storm like it again. The sky turned black, and thick clouds rumbled with the anger of God or the unforgiving laughter of the devil. But I can see that Sami remembers something more. “Do you remember that frightening feeling when the storm built up, and it was so thick, so dark, and suddenly the angry clouds were no longer just in the sky? They formed a moving wall from the ground to the sky, raging, tumbling and twisting toward us—almost as if the devil had come to take us away.”
Although I was young, I remember it all clearly. I had never seen my family so afraid. Kaka Ismail told us to come to his house with Sami’s family. Many of the villagers made their way there too. We shivered in both fear and cold from the downpour. Sami’s mother made tea for everyone, trying to be hospitable and likely just trying to keep busy. No one had ever seen the clouds that way before. The men stayed in the maymon khana just outside the house because they’re not allowed to see women who belong to other men. But I was with the women and girls, sitting in the kitchen inside the home. Samiullah’s mother kept brewing tea over the tandoor, and out of courtesy, we all continued to drink and nibble on bread as we heard the thunder and lightning in the distance.
The younger boys were allowed inside the mud-walled home, but they kept playing in the courtyard, getting wet to show how brave they were. Every once in a while, when the thunder roared, the boys would jump. I remember watching my brother Ali playfully taunting the younger boys who were afraid. He was the oldest of the group, but probably the most lighthearted, trying to make them all smile.
I can also see Sami, much younger then, sitting on the roof of one of the mud rooms, drenched by the rain, his face lost in whatever he was looking at. But it was easy to see his expression turn to terror as his eyes locked on to something in the distance. He looked down and caught my eye before yelling at all the kids to squeeze into the small space with the rest of us. “Do not leave this room!” he shouted, frightening us even more, before he ran out to the guesthouse, where the men were waiting. That was when we heard it. The rumbling sounded as if it were coming from below the ground, a thundering noise that I can still hear inside my head. The wind picked up, and debris began flying everywhere. We moved away from the door when we saw cups and brooms flying as the air outside sucked them from the house. We all held on to one another, and the small children began wailing. Looking around, I also saw tears of panic in the eyes of the adults. My mother held on tightly to my newborn baby brother, who was sleeping and unaware of any trouble. She pressed me against her body in an attempt to hold me as well. I could see the storm from a distance through the small window. It was a dark cloud twisting outside of the house and carrying objects as it passed, I thought I even saw cows and chickens being carried away.
They called it a toophan. It damaged some homes and properties, but shockingly and luckily, no one died, surprising all of us after we saw the damage it left behind. Many animals were missing after the storm. Sami’s bibi jaan said that when a storm like that hits, it’s because an innocent person has been murdered. My father told me that was a superstition among the older people. He said, “If what she said were true, Afghan skies would always be black.” He told us that these types of toophans are rare in Afghanistan. In fact, he had only heard about them from a foreign movie he had seen in Kabul, but in the movie they called it a “tornado.”
I remember the darkness and the fear, but I don’t understand why Sami is comparing this storm to his time away at school, a time I imagined he was meeting new friends and forgetting his old ones.
“That feeling of impending doom,” he says. “That’s how I felt every day at the madrassa. That place was . . . a nightmare.”
His confession catches me off guard.
I reach my hand out to Sami, and he grabs my fingers tight. I’m about to ask him why it was a nightmare, what was so terrible about the madrassa, when we hear branches cracking. I look at Sami and see my own panic mirrored in his eyes. He drops my hand. My heart races—not from what we’ve been talking about or how it feels to be with Sami, but from pure, unadulterated fear.
Seven
RASHID
Look at them scatter like mice. Proof that they know they’re sinning. Just the noise of my sandals stepping on some sticks has them running for their lives. This is the deed of a kafir. May God punish both of those unbelievers! Better yet, I can help God in that mission. I can be his vessel. Why else would God have me witness this blasphemy?
I’ll teach those two a lesson they’ll never forget. But not right now. I have plenty of time to punish those donkeys.
I pick up my bag of belongings and gifts and head to our house.
Walking by the base of the mountain path sends me back to the time before I left for the madrassa. I used to race the other kids up the rock-strewn dirt. I’d always be in the lead, pebbles flying from my heels as I ran, spraying anyone who was on my tail. Out of breath and panting, I’d make it up first. I was the best; I still am. Just thinking about it, I can taste the sweat sliding into my mouth—the flavor of victory and greatness. I lick my upper lip to capture it again.
I stop at the rusty, light blue gates of our front door. The fallen tree we rolled over here from the woods years ago still sits outside the house—a place for resting and watching the village. There was never much to see except the peasant neighbors walking over here with their clay jugs, mooching off our well. The only exciting change was when they swapped the clay containers for plastic ones. My uncle has always been far too generous to those bastards of Ghengiz Khan. His misguided generosity still stirs my blood.
Taking a deep breath, I knock on the metal door—the echoing noise sounds like the banging at an ironsmith. I listen as the soft squealing of women running toward the door gets closer. I smile. They must miss me so much.
I hear the door unlock and my aunt yelling at one of my cousins to let her do it, which makes me laugh. I love it when they fight over me. The door slides open slowly, and my dear aunt is standing there with a cluster of smiling girls behind her. At least I think they’re all smiling. The cousins’ wives are covering their faces, so I can’t actually tell. I run up to my aunt, who is looking frailer than before, and kiss her hand as she starts crying and kissing the back of my head. I’ve always had a soft place in my heart for two of my aunts. Uncle Ismail’s sisters never married because there was never a good enough suitor. As the leader of the tribe it would have been beneath him to give them away to just anyone. And although I agreed with that decision, I always wondered if they were happy living with their brother and watching as their nephews and nieces got married and had children.
“Aday, I’ve missed you so much,” I say as I continue to kiss her wrinkled skin, more withered than I remembered it. Aunt Gul Babo gently pats my face. I look up and see her eyes welling with tears. I give her a wink and then look to the
other ladies. “Salaamona, mainday, aw, peghlo, singa yasti?” I ask them how they are, and the response is just a bunch of giggles and a couple of them running off.
It’s good to be home.
My first stop is the room with the tandoor, since the little children have found a way to glue themselves to my legs. I find my aunt Gul Bashro, Uncle Ismail’s other sister, and the young girls making one of my favorite meals, aush. There is flour everywhere, including on the cheery faces of the girls greeting me. They’re rolling and kneading the dough before they slice it into long lines and mix it in a giant cauldron of boiling water with diced leeks. I’m touched that they remembered how much I love this soup. Although I am a little insulted they haven’t sacrificed a goat for my arrival. I’m sure they’ll do it later.
“You finally made it!” my aunt says. Gul Bashro isn’t as emotional as Gul Babo. She’s definitely got some Pashtun male charm in her. “Look at all this effort for you. I hope you know how hard it is to make aush.” She says this with a half smirk, as I go to kiss her hand, whitened by flour.
“Kor mo wadan, may your house always be safe. It smells delicious!” I say. That’s when I catch a glimpse of her: Samiullah’s sister, looking as beautiful as ever. Her name matches her presence, Nur—she’s a light glowing upon all of us. She has averted her gaze like a good young woman should. Even though she’s two years younger than Samiullah, she has obviously hit womanhood.
I don’t stare. Instead I quickly grab some raw dough and stick it in my mouth before running off, barely in time to save myself from a swat from my aunt’s rolling pin.
That’s when I see Gul Bibi, Sami and Nur’s mother, my father’s younger sister. When my father was murdered, it was Gul Bibi who convinced my uncle to bring me into their family. Gul Bibi and my father had a bond even stronger than most siblings. When they were children, they were inseparable. My grandfather used to tell us that if my father wasn’t around, my Gul Bibi wouldn’t eat, not until she knew that her big brother was eating too. After my father’s death, she said that what kept her alive were her children and her lala’s son. My eyes well as I see her frail, bony body, so I bow my head and go to kiss her hands before she can see the tears. Pulling her hand away, she brings me up and squeezes me to her chest.
“My boy, my sweet, sweet boy,” she says gently. She touches her damp hands to my cheeks before she kisses them, followed by my eyelids, then my forehead. I don’t mind.
“It’s good to see you, my sweet mother,” I say, and I mean it. I didn’t realize how much I missed her until this very moment.
“Enough, enough. Let the boy go.” My great-uncle’s voice surprises us from behind. Jaan Baba is the only male elder in our house right now, and he has made his way out to the courtyard to greet me. As soon as the kids see him, they scatter. I guess he still has his charm with the children. He is leaning his frail body on a walking stick and has already put his arm and hand out for me to kiss. I quickly run and bring my lips to his fingers. His hand is shakier than a generator on full blast.
“Salaam aleykum, my son; your arrival brings us joy,” he says, pulling his hand away. “The men are out but will be back before the sun sets. For now, come sit and tell me everything about your new life.” He shoos my Gul Bibi away as he turns to walk inside and barks at one of the girls, “Jamila! Bring us some tea!”
Waiting for the sun to set and the men to arrive feels like waiting for clay to dry. I tell Jaan Baba nearly a thousand times about the school and how they are thinking of making me into one of the teachers. His sleeping bouts and the rumbles of his snoring keep interrupting my stories. Every time he wakes, I find myself repeating everything over again, which is beginning to annoy and frustrate me, but I pretend like it’s fine, even adding some forced smiles and laughs. I know we have to respect our elders, but how about they show some respect in return for our patience in sitting with them! If only Jaan Baba and the rest of them knew what their precious nephew Sami has been doing all day, then they would respect me even more.
While we wait for the men to get home, some of the kids run in and out of the room peeking at me. Some remember me from when I lived here; others don’t because they were too small when I left. At first it’s cute when they pop their tiny heads in, but after a few hours, they are annoying me as well. “Za larsa!” I finally yell at them to get out of the room. Their eyes pop with fear as they run out.
When the men arrive, I can hear my uncle Ismail being greeted by the women. I get up and head out to the courtyard, and I see my uncle and my cousin the infidel lagging behind him. Sinner! He’s so smug, trying to act sweet as he picks up the little kids, who are giggling like goats. Even his lovely sister Nur kisses him after she’s greeted her father. Sami doesn’t deserve her respect and admiration. He lies to everyone and acts as though he is a man of virtue. I don’t understand why he’s so loved. He’s a pathetic fool and a dropout. A failure! He may be my uncle’s oldest son, but I’ve done more to make them proud. I’m the one who stayed in the madrassa, who learned to recite the Quran. I’m the one they should be the proudest of. Not that little ant.
“Ah! My son! So good to see you!” Ismail Aaka finally directs his attention to me. As we hug, I see Sami smiling at me. I play along in this charade and smile back.
“Salaam aleykum, Rashid,” Sami says coming in for an embrace. “I’ve missed my uncle’s son. Have you been well?” I’d almost think he sounded concerned if I didn’t know him better.
“Very well, cousin,” I respond. “Life is good, learning all of God’s splendid instructions and hoping to share it with our loved ones.” I look at him, waiting for a reaction. We both know he has lost any standing when it comes to the glory of God’s teachings.
“I’m glad you’re well,” he says, slapping my shoulder. “I hear the ladies made you a feast tonight! I think they may have even sacrificed a chicken in your honor.”
A chicken? That’s it? Well, it’s not a goat, but it will do.
The men gather in one of the rooms, and a distarkhan is laid out for us to place our food on. One of the young boys brings the quza and chilemchi. He pours water from the metal pitcher, and we rinse the dirt off of our hands to prepare for dinner. Tonight they brought the glass bowls and metal spoons out for the aush. As for the chicken, we rip it apart with our hands and devour it.
I can tell it’s been a long time since some of the men have eaten meat by the way they are savoring every bite, pulling every last bit off the bone and sucking it clean. I do the same, but it hasn’t been long since I’ve eaten meat. Just last week. after the instructors from the madrassa sent me to help Mullah Latif and his men, we took some chickens and roosters from a home in a nearby village. We told the villagers it was their duty to pay us with their poultry that night for protecting their village. It was the least they could do for us.
But I don’t want my family to know yet that I have been trusted to take care of these villages as a part of a group of God-fearing citizens. I need to ease them into it. They don’t have any concept of good and bad, God and the devil. At least not like I do. I’ll teach them as much as it is possible for them to learn. But not yet. I know how much my uncle hates Mullah Latif. He calls him a fraud and a thief, but that’s only because Ismail Aaka doesn’t know better yet.
“So, Samiullah, where were you all day? I was hoping to see my dear cousin when I arrived,” I say as I stuff my mouth with some bread soaked in the oil and tomato sauce from the chicken.
“I’m sorry for missing you, but I went into town to help Father in the shop,” he responds. I can’t believe he has the nerve to look me in the eye when he says that. “We were trying to sell some of our wheat to one of the villagers, but he looked so poor and desperate that father just gave it to him. This drought has hurt a lot of people, but I feel it’s the same every year.”
“Because it is the same every year.” No wonder he dropped out of the madrassa—he’
s an imbecile. “That doesn’t mean you should be giving handouts to every villager who says he’s poor!” I quickly catch myself before my temper rises any higher. “Did you see anything else today?”
“No, that was it,” Sami says quietly. He stuffs his mouth and begins to chew. Finally, he feels the shame. He is beyond helping. He lost God long ago. And today I find him holding the hands of a peasant girl? The devil has a hand in this. It will be up to me to fix my little cousin.
Eight
RASHID
The next morning I catch Sami trying to leave the house like a snake slithering out of his hole. I rush out after him, ignoring the calls from the ladies to have tea and bread. He is making his way in the opposite direction of the wooded area where I saw him yesterday. Who is he trying to fool?
“Hey, cousin!” I run up to him. “Where are you going?” I give him a fake smile.
“Good morning, Rashid. I’m just heading to town to get the store ready for my father,” he says rather convincingly.
“Can I come with you? I haven’t seen the store in ages,” I say. And I don’t really believe you want to go there, I want to add but catch my tongue.
“Of course, but there hasn’t been much of a change. I hope you’re not too disappointed,” he says, still walking. I catch him making some glances toward the Mongol peasants’ house. Pathetic cow.
My presence is saving him from the mistake of seeing Fatima. God will reward me for my good deeds. I want to hear from Samiullah’s mouth that he has sinned. Maybe if I spend the morning with him opening up my uncle’s shop, he will let it slip.
When we finally make it to town, I take a look around. Sami was right—not much has changed. There are still the same shacks lined up along a dirt path. They look like houses made of oversized playing cards, but instead of paper, they are constructed from ribbed metal siding and roofing. Only about half of the twenty or so square boxes look like they’re being used; the others lie empty with doors open, abandoned. Relics like these are found all over the village, empty huts that once housed entire families, now forsaken and left behind. So many people are abandoning their land and heading to major cities, as if that will help their financial woes. The more the Afghans head to the cities, the more they are exposed to sin, scandal and greed, elements of Shayton that are being spread throughout our country by the foreign invaders and the unbelievers.
