Thunder Over Kandahar

by Sharon McKay

  • SHARON E. McKAY •

  THUNDER

  over

  KANDAHAR

  Photographs by

  RAFAL GERSZAK

  To the women of Canadians in Support of

  Afghan Women (CSAW).

  Your commitment and ongoing tireless effort

  to better the lives of women and girls in

  Afghanistan will not be dismissed or forgotten.

  Most especially, Liz Watson, Linda Middaugh,

  Bev Le François, and Christine Vasilaros.

  The world of humanity is possessed of two wings:

  the male and the female. So long as these two wings

  are not equivalent in strength, the bird will not fly . . .

  — Abdu’l-Baha’i

  • • •

  We are Afghan people

  We are Afghans of the mountains

  We have one stance and one way

  We have one faith and one hope

  We are Afghan people

  We are Afghans of the mountains.

  —Popular children’s song,

  originally in Dari

  Contents

  Chapter 1: Yasmine

  Chapter 2: Home Again

  Chapter 3: Call Back to the Land

  Chapter 4: Tamanna

  Chapter 5: Warrior Eyes

  Chapter 6: Education Is Light

  Chapter 7: Yellow Walls, Dusty Birds

  Chapter 8: Tears

  Chapter 9: Wedding Day

  Chapter 10: Forward Operation Base: Masum Ghar

  Chapter 11: Goodbye, Tamanna

  Chapter 12: To Drown in Fire

  Chapter 13: Two Burkas

  Chapter 14: Shadow of the Sky

  Chapter 15: Blameless Stars

  Chapter 16: With Only the Sky to Hold

  Chapter 17: Taliban

  Chapter 18: Star-Tipped Sandals

  Chapter 19: Pink Mist, White Smoke

  Chapter 20: Adrift in Clouds

  Chapter 21: The Border

  Chapter 22: How Tall the Mountain

  Chapter 23: Prayers on a Breeze

  Chapter 24: One Year Later

  Postscript: When the Future Comes to Pass

  List of Terms

  Timeline

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Yasmine

  Herat, Afghanistan

  “Come, put on your scarf. We will walk through the park to the university, meet your father, and buy ice cream—chocolate, your favorite.”

  Smiling, Mother held Yasmine’s hijab between two pinched fingers and made it dance. It was gray and ugly. Well, maybe it wasn’t actually ugly, maybe it was really quite nice, but Yasmine looked away anyway.

  “I don’t want to go out.” Yasmine spoke softly. She meant no disrespect, it was just that going outside meant being careful about where she looked, whom she spoke to, what she said, what she wore. It was exhausting . . . and boring.

  Yasmine sat on the floor on a big pillow with a book opened in front of her. Getting used to the furniture in this new place had been hard, too, although one low, brass-topped table and a bunch of pillows could hardly be called furniture. They had lived in Herat for almost a year now—ten months, to be really accurate—and Herat, Afghanistan, was a long way from Oxford, England. It was like living on Mars—assuming that there were camels on Mars, and goats, and land mines.

  Mother put aside the headscarf and sat beside Yasmine. “I know these past months have been hard on you, but look at all you have accomplished. You speak Dari well now, and your teacher says that you are the best student in the class.”

  Yasmine shook her head. It was easy being head of the class. Half of the girls could barely read, and every week one or two left school to get married. Married! At fourteen!

  “I want to go home,” she whispered.

  “Yasmine, this is our home.”

  Yasmine looked up past Mother’s shoulder to the window—a window that looked nowhere. All the windows in the house Baba had rented either faced a wall or were covered up. Mother said that during Taliban times the windows in homes were blackened or covered to prevent strangers from seeing the women inside, and when the Taliban left the window coverings had stayed, just in case. In case of what? Baba said that the Taliban had been beaten by the United Nations forces, but at school they said that the Taliban had only retreated, they were never far away. Which was true? Really, how could this place ever be home?

  “You will come to love this country, you’ll see. And you should be very proud of Baba for deciding to come back here to teach. Your father is an important man in the West, but here is where he can do the most good. And soon I will go to work, too. There are not many women lawyers in Afghanistan.”

  “But we were all happy at ho . . . in England. And I miss Grandfather,” said Yasmine.

  “Your grandfather understands why we are here. I was born in this city. Herat is a city of writers and poets. Come now, the flowers are in bloom and the cypress trees—they are so beautiful, emerald green. Wait until they turn as red as fire. Imagine, trees so brilliant that they almost light the way! We will be happy here, you’ll see.” Exasperation was creeping into Mother’s voice. She handed Yasmine the headscarf and picked up her bag and house keys.

  Yasmine tied the hijab under her chin, careful that it hid all her hair. She did not wear headscarves all the time in England. Thing was, she didn’t mind wearing a hijab in England because she didn’t have to. That made all the difference.

  Trailing behind her mother, Yasmine walked from the back of the house, which was the family area, to the formal sitting room at the front, the one reserved for guests. The house had four rooms and a courtyard. It might have been nice, had the bricks on the outside walls facing the street not been damaged and repaired and then damaged all over again. Yasmine knew the history of Afghanistan, Baba had explained it over and over. First the Russians had invaded. Mujahideen guerrillas, Afghans, fought the Russians. Then the Russians left and the warlords fought each other. And then came the Taliban times, and now the United Nations forces were here to fight the Taliban. With so much war, it was sometimes amazing to think that any buildings still stood, or that any people were still alive!

  Never mind the condition of the outside of the house, the inside was pretty rough too. There was no air conditioning or central heating inside. They had already lived through one freezing winter. Mother had bought lots of nice Afghan rugs, and they had plenty of blankets, but nothing could make this house as wonderful as home—and England was home, no matter what Mother said.

  In Oxford their flat was cool in summer and warm in winter, and they had huge windows that looked out across a city crowded with church spires, brick chimneys, and stone buildings. Rain or shine (mostly rain) Yasmine would stare out the windows to the streets below. You couldn’t actually see the pastry and flower shops, clothing stores, coffee houses, libraries, and movie theaters, but they were there! Inside, bookcases reached the ceiling. Some books were written in foreign script, Dari mostly, while others were writers she too was beginning to read; Twain, Waugh, Tolstoy, Kipling, Donne, Wiesel. Plump sofas and overstuffed chairs cozied up every corner, and Mother always put tall, fresh-cut flowers in a giant vase in Baba’s study. Best of all, Yasmine had her own room, with a canopy bed, and her own television, too. Here in Herat she was supposed to sleep on a big mattress stuffed with cotton—on the floor!

  Mother smiled again as she locked the courtyard door behind them. “I love the park.”

  Yasmine nodded half-heartedly. They had been to the park many times, and it wasn’t that great, not like the parks in England. Why didn’t Mother see it?

  The sid
ewalk along Jada-e welayat was made of colorful tiles. It might have been amazing a long time ago, but now it was dirty, and the tiles were damaged and chipped. Mother said that the city of Herat was beautiful, but there was garbage in the streets, and lots of the nice old stone buildings were being replaced with great big ugly glass-and-metal ones. Many of the shops were boarded up or covered with corrugated tin or chain-link fence. Behind the main streets was a labyrinth of laneways and homes hidden behind mud walls. They passed Toos, Yasmine’s favorite restaurant. At least they had pizza on the menu there.

  Old men sat in groups, on blankets or in plastic chairs, many holding small children in their arms. Boys trailed women in burkas, their feet dragging in the dust. When the Taliban were in control of everything, a woman could not go out of the house without a maharam, a male to walk with her. It wasn’t like that anymore, but still, most women on the street were accompanied by men or boys. And in Taliban times, all women had been forced to wear burkas outside the house. Many women still wore the long gown that covered every inch of them, even their faces. To Yasmine, it just looked ugly. And it was hard to imagine that there was a real woman under there. They looked like shadows that could be blown away by the wind. Seeing the way they moved, heads held unnaturally high and swiveling from side to side because they had no peripheral vision, made Yasmine shudder.

  A woman in a burka was coming towards them. The lump under her burka wiggled. Yasmine guessed that she was holding a baby in one hand and her shopping bags in the other. The burka covered everything, like a tent, but her head was bent and she was shuffling.

  “Why is she moving like that?” Yasmine whispered.

  “It’s best if the grille is pulled tight against the face. That way a woman wearing a burka can see more. But her hands are busy so she is looking down, trying to see the ground instead.” Mother spoke in a low, controlled voice.

  Yasmine turned away. It seemed rude to stare, even if the woman couldn’t tell. One thing was for sure, she would never wear one, ever. The clothes she and her mother had to wear were bad enough—plain black skirts that fell below their knees, trousers underneath, and long jackets over white blouses that buttoned to the neck. It was hot out, and they were dressed for winter . . . well, fall, anyway.

  “See, the sun is out. It’s not really that bad, is it?”

  Mother looked at Yasmine and smiled. It was a thin, pleading smile. Even dressed in dull clothes, Mother was beautiful, with almond-shaped, jewel-green eyes like her own, a high forehead and cheekbones. To Yasmine, Mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. Daughters know such things about their mothers.

  “Careful.” Mother reached for Yasmine’s hand at the corner of the street. Yasmine was fourteen years old, too old to hold her mother’s hand. But then, crossing the street in Herat was different from crossing the street in Oxford. For one thing, the crossing lights here only occasionally worked, and anyway, the cars didn’t always stop. Both of them looked right and left and right and left, and then made a run for it.

  A balloon-seller stood a short distance from the giant iron gates of the park. The colors of the balloons reminded Yasmine of home: lemon-yellow like the daffodils that grew in Mrs. Asquith’s garden, red like the pillar box on the corner of their street, cobalt-blue like the English sky after rain.

  Mother reached into her purse and handed the balloon-seller a few Afghani.

  “Mother, I am too old for balloons.” In England she would have felt silly but in Afghanistan, it was worse. Here a fourteen-year-old was considered a grown woman. If anyone from her class saw her—not that that was likely—she would really look silly.

  “One each, please. I’ll take a green one, the color of a bride’s dress.” Mother, smiling now, whispered into Yasmine’s ear, “Pick one. Perhaps we are his first sale of the day.” Yasmine chose a yellow balloon and tried not to think of daffodils.

  They stood at the gates of the park and looked in. The paths were covered with white and gray pebbles and bordered by pink, yellow, and white flowers. But some of the plants looked like scrub, as though they didn’t get enough water. Up ahead was a pond.

  “My cousins and I used to float little white paper boats in that pond. The water was so sparkly. One year my uncle brought remote-control boats from India and we raced them across the water. My cousin’s boat sank. He was so upset he jumped into the pond to retrieve it.” Mother laughed as her eyes misted up.

  Yasmine glanced at Mother, then looked back at the pond, trying to see what her mother saw. Instead she thought of Christ Church Meadow and the boat races on the Thames during Oxford’s university term.

  “After, we would drink sweet tea sprinkled with sugar and cardamom,” said Mother.

  They walked on, Mother chatting on about people who were gone now, some to America, most killed by the Russians or the Taliban.

  “Do you remember the song I sang to you when you were little? I’m a friend of children. I am beautiful and eloquent. I have lots of words hidden in my heart.” Mother whispered the words in her ear.

  Yasmine tried not to shrug. To shrug here was considered very rude.

  “You remember the words, Yasmine. Open my heart, open my treasure house, so I can tell you my secrets. Tell you a hundred stories.” Mother sang in a soft, lilting voice.

  “Mother, I am too old to sing baby songs.” Really, this was too silly.

  “Open my heart, open my treasure house, so I can tell you my secrets. Tell you a hundred stories,” Mother sang again.

  The corners of Yasmine’s mouth turned up.

  “Ah! Do I see a smile?” Mother asked.

  Yasmine couldn’t help herself, she grinned.

  “There it is!” Mother was laughing, but Yasmine’s grin was really more of an embarrassed grimace. Maybe she could pretend that she was little again and they were at Oxford’s Botanic Garden, just off the High Street.

  “I’m a friend of children. I am beautiful and eloquent. I have lots of words hidden in my heart.” Mother’s words were little more than whispers floating in the air, but still people turned their heads, some of them scowling.

  “Shush, Mother!” This time Yasmine giggled.

  They were coming to the tall, majestic gates at the other side of the park. As they passed through them and onto the road, Yasmine had to admit that perhaps once, a long time ago, they must have been really amazing. The two walked along the sidewalk, shaggy bushes to one side, a busy boulevard to the other.

  “I’ll tell you sweet stories, ancient wisdom. Tell you tales and—”

  “Mother, stop!” This time Yasmine laughed out loud.

  A truck pulled up beside them, its wheels squealing like little animals caught in a trap.

  “I’m a friend of children. I am beautiful and eloquent. I have lots of words hidden in my heart . . .”

  Feet pummeled the ground. Yasmine turned. Men in black turbans, with black surma smeared around their eyes, piled out of the back of a truck. They carried sticks, chains, and clubs, all raised up in the air. They were running towards them.

  “Mother!” Yasmine cried as her hand slipped from Mother’s grasp. No, her hand had not slipped away, Mother had pushed her away, pushed her so hard that she tumbled into the prickly sweetbriar shrubs along the sidewalk.

  “Hide, hide!” Mother waved her off while running back into the park, as if to draw them away from Yasmine. She did not get far.

  “Mother!” Yasmine screamed.

  They had surrounded her. Mother fell to the ground and covered her head with her arms. The whacks on her back sounded like rice bags being dropped from a great height. Thud, thud, thud.

  “You, the daughter of America, don’t you know our laws? You dress with no respect. Don’t you know that a woman cannot go out without a man?” they yelled.

  “Mother, Mother! Stop! Don’t hurt my mother! Stop!”

  Yasmine scrambled out of the bushes. She lifted her fists and beat at a man wearing baggy pants. He hurled her back into the thorny b
ushes, as if she were nothing, a piece of paper, litter. Yasmine reeled backwards, smacking her head hard on the ground. She lay face up, surrounded by white and yellow flowers, in stunned silence. A green and a yellow balloon drifted up into a clear blue sky. Finally she heard the crunch and pings of spraying stones under tires as the truck pulled away.

  Chapter 2

  Home Again

  “Wake up, Mother, wake up.” Yasmine rolled over and crawled towards her mother on hands and knees. She whispered into her mother’s ear. Mother, curled on the ground, lay still.

  People came to help. They made calls on cell phones. A man wanted to lift Mother up into a car but he was afraid to touch a woman who was not his wife. “They are everywhere, the Taliban. The khariji soldiers, the foreigners, think that they have beaten the Taliban, but they return like waves in the sea.” Distraught, the man helped by flagging down a pickup truck. The driver agreed to take mother and daughter to the hospital. Three women lifted Mother up and into the back of the truck.

  “Come, girl.” A woman opened her arms and hoisted Yasmine into the truck. “Do not cry. Be brave.”

  Yasmine lay down beside her mother on the floor of the truck and whispered into her ear, “Mother, wake up. Wake up, Mother.”

  The truck stopped in front of a gray, cinder block structure. Bullets had strafed the building and the windows were either broken or boarded up. No, this wasn’t right. This was not a hospital. Yasmine knew what a hospital was like. She had been to one back home, after hurting her wrist while playing field hockey. There were supposed to be attendants that helped people out of cars and ambulances, but here there were only dirty little boys standing by a door. They tried to pull Mother out of the truck as if she were a sack of apples. Mother slipped out of their grasp and slammed down onto the ground. Together they shifted Mother onto a gurney and then rolled her through swinging doors, only to lower her down onto a thin rug on the floor in a hallway.

  Yasmine kissed Mother’s cheeks while trying to straighten her own hijab. Where were the nurses with uniforms and clipboards, pushing little trolleys filled with medicines? And hospitals were supposed to be clean. This place smelled of cigarette smoke and dirt.