by Sharon McKay
May God protect us.
May God bring us peace.
May God give us strength to continue our education.
He thumped the blackboard and said, “Repeat these words.”
Tamanna and Yasmine exchanged looks, then stared down at their toes. Should they admit that they could read? No one spoke. Teacher pointed to each sentence then reread the words out loud.
“Yasmine?” Tamanna put her hand to her ear then motioned with her head. Yasmine nodded. She heard it too. Vehicles, trucks maybe, outside the school.
Suddenly they all heard it. Girls snuggled closer; little sisters reached for their big sisters; even the boys looked alarmed. There were loud footsteps outside of the classroom. The door burst open. It happened so suddenly that no one had time to react. There, on the threshold, stood a grinning khariji lady, two khariji soldiers, and two Afghan National Army soldiers dressed in blue. Yasmine was comfortable around foreigners, but the rest of the students were used to seeing kharijis in the distance, not like this, not close up.
Teacher motioned to the kharijis. “Come, come,” he said with his hands. “In the name of Allah, most beneficent and most merciful, I welcome you to Afghanistan.” Tamanna and Yasmine exchanged looks. He was speaking in English!
The ANA soldiers left the classroom to stand guard outside. The others came in carrying cardboard boxes. A small, worried-looking Afghan man followed. “Salaam,” said the adults, one to the other. The khariji woman wore a head-scarf covered in yellow flowers. Her skin was brown from the sun and her gray eyes were sparkly, despite being almost buried in a nest of wrinkles, and like most kharijis she had teeth that were very white and very straight. Hardly any adults Tamanna knew smiled. Hardly any adults she knew had all their teeth!
“This is our ‘terp, ’” said the khariji woman while nodding towards the Afghan man. The interpreter gave a little bow. He looked embarrassed and befuddled, and his eyes kept darting towards the back window.
The khariji woman took out a small knife and zip, zip, slit the boxes open and lifted out wondrous gifts: pencils, small pink rubber erasers, rulers, little cases with zippered tops, bound paper, and cloth bags, for every student in the room. The boys leaped up, reached into the boxes, and grabbed what they could.
“Boys, boys!” Teacher clapped his hands. Only when the really tall soldier removed his helmet and stepped forward, brow furrowed, did the boys sit back in their seats. It was hard not to stare at the soldier. His hair was orange and his eyebrows were bushy.
“My name is Dan, or you can call me Danny.” The soldier punched himself in the chest. The boys laughed and the girls covered their mouths with the fringes of their headscarves and giggled.
The foreign lady spoke, and the translator translated. “This school was built by a group of women in the West who care about the children of Afghanistan,” she said. She talked, too, about the UN forces and how they wanted to keep the people of Afghanistan safe. The girls sat and listened respectfully, although the meaning of the lady’s words was lost on them. The boys mostly punched each other. And then, with a clap of her hands, the foreign lady was finished. The interpreter clasped and unclasped his hands. All the adults looked nervous now.
“Khoda-hafez,” said Teacher to the lady and the soldiers. He put his hands together and bowed. The khariji woman and the interpreter also bowed and repeated, “Khoda-hafez. ” Dan-Danny waved and bellowed, “See ya later, alligator,” then turned back at the doorway and said, “In a while, crocodile!” When he winked, his giant eyebrows came down over his eyes like a curtain.
“What did he say?” Tamanna whispered to Yasmine. Her English lessons had not extended to foreign animals.
“He says that we are alligators and he is a crocodile.” Yasmine laughed while Tamanna sat back, eyes wide. Alligators in Afghanistan? Crocodiles, too? “Do not feel bad,” said Yasmine. “Perhaps he is American or Canadian, I cannot tell. They come from North America and do not speak the same English as the British. Some people say that they don’t speak English at all.”
Suddenly they were alone with Teacher, and in that moment even the boys behaved. Standing in front of the long, magnificent blackboard, he said, “Today is a special day. The government of Afghanistan has a difficult curriculum planned, but today I want to ask you, what is it that you want to learn?”
The boys’ hands shot up in the air. “English,” shouted two boys at once. The girls nodded their heads vigorously.
Teacher looked to the back of the room, at the girls. “I would like to hear what you girls would like to learn.”
“Girls cannot learn. They should all be sent home. They should not be in the room with boys,” yelled Noor from the top of the class.
Before Teacher could respond, Yasmine stood and said, “We want to learn about our country.” Tamanna’s jaw dropped. Her friend was fearless.
“Our history is noble, often heroic, and violent, too,” said Teacher. “Many outsiders—the Macedonians, Sassanians, Arabs, Mongols, Greeks, Tartars, the British, and the Russians—have tried to conquer us, and now our government has invited the United Nations into this country to free us from the domination of the Taliban. But listen carefully.” Teacher wagged his finger. “We have been occupied but never conquered. To know about history is to know that dark times pass and after the dark there is light. You must remember that always.”
This time when Tamanna looked around the room she saw more than a flash of anger in Noor’s eyes, she saw something else. Disdain? Hatred? It was a funny look.
Noor bounced up. “We must study halal, ” he said, his chest puffed out and his hands on his hips.
“Yes, we may talk about the Muslim code of behavior,” said Teacher.
“Infidels are unbelievers,” said Noor. “The kharijis eat pork—that is forbidden, haraam. They let their women walk naked. They drink alcohol, and they will molest women if they have the chance.” He took a breath. “‘Persecution is worse than slaughter, ’ that is what we are taught. It is better to die fighting the invaders than to live with them on our land.”
Yasmine watched Teacher’s face grow dark. “To whom are you referring? The kharijis are here to fight the Taliban, they are guests invited by the government. They have built this school and given us books.” He cleared his throat and turned to the class. “Today, we will start with arithmetic.” His hand flew across the blackboard as he wrote simple questions. Noor sat down, his body hitting the wooden seat with a purposeful thud.
The morning passed. Heat filled the room. A few of the smaller boys sitting cross-legged at the front fell asleep, their heads lolling forward or dropping sideways on the shoulder of a friend.
Finally, Teacher picked up a large school bell and shook it. The older boys raced out of the room while the younger ones, startled out of their naps, screwed their fists into balls and rubbed their sleepy eyes. One by one they leaped up and ran out of the room. Respectfully, the girls began filing past Teacher’s desk.
Tamanna stopped.
“What is it?” asked Yasmine.
Tamanna shook her head and listened more intently. There was a sound—a distant whining, menacing hum. It grew louder. Now all the girls left in the room stopped to listen. It wasn’t the sound of big UN tanks. This sound was more like a vibration than a rumble. Tamanna was the first to recognize it.
“Yasmine!” cried Tamanna, pointing. All the girls turned and ran to the back windows.
Three black Toyotas materialized out of gusts of billowing sand.
Taliban.
Every girl froze. Not a breath escaped their lips, not a muscle twitched.
“Burkas!” someone yelled. Yards of indigo-blue and saffron-red cloth spilled out of bags. Up went the cloth then down again as bodies burrowed inside.
Teacher hollered above the din, “Stay together. Be calm.” It was no use.
“Tamanna, I do not have a burka.” Yasmine’s green eyes were huge in a face as pale as ice.
Gunshots pierce
d the air. There were footsteps in the hall. The Taliban had entered the school.
“Everyone out!” the Taliban shouted. More gunfire.
“Run, Yasmine!” Tamanna cried.
Yasmine jumped up onto the windowsill. Poised like a cat, her head swiveled back and forth. She jumped and dropped over the side, out of sight.
“Allah, protect my friend,” Tamanna whispered.
“Out! Out!” More yelling and more gunfire.
The padded headpiece of her burka clamped down onto Tamanna’s head like a lid on a pot. Almost instantly she lost her bearings. Their faces hidden and their eyes covered by a grille, the girls stumbled around with outstretched arms.
“Stay together, stay close!” cried Teacher. There was panic in his voice.
Tamanna took a few steps and fell. She gathered up the cloth in her hands and tried again. Directly in front of her a girl wore white sandals. Tamanna tried to focus on the girl’s feet and follow her out of the room. The girl slipped. As she flailed about, hands outstretched, Tamanna heard the clink-clink of bracelets. She knew the laws of the Taliban, every girl did. The Taliban would beat a woman, sometimes to death, for making any sound. In one fluid movement Tamanna reached over, pulled off the two bangles, and yanked the girl to her feet.
Finally all the girls stumbled out of the school building and stood quivering on the rocky ground. Tamanna raised her head and with one hand pulled the grille of the burka tight against her face. With the grille pressed against her eyes she could see a little better, but the cloth covering her mouth and nose made it hard to pull in a deep breath.
Under a searing white-yellow sun, the girls shook as if freezing from the cold. More Taliban scrambled out of the cars. In menacing poses, with guns propped on hips and thin whips called duras coiled in their hands, they stood in a semicircle around the students. Black surma was smeared around blank eyes, making them look as savage as attack dogs. Shaggy beards meandered across their chests and limp tails of black turbans were draped over their shoulders. All carried big guns, and most wore braces of bullets around their necks and across their chests. The Russian Kalashnikov rifles were large and fierce-looking. Some cradled them in their arms, while others waved the guns over their heads like flags. How many Taliban were there? It was hard to count, maybe fifteen, maybe fewer.
Tamanna wanted to look over her shoulder but was afraid to move. Where were the khariji soldiers? But if the soldiers returned there would be shooting, children would die, and likely the villagers would blame the deaths on the kharijis. It had happened before.
A few of the Taliban stormed into the school while the rest stood on guard, their guns pointed at the students. One Talib sauntered over to a group of young boys and began talking. He gave his gun to a boy who looked to be eight or nine years old. Fear instantly turned to joy as the boy’s grin spread from ear to ear.
“Up.” The Talib lifted the muzzle of the gun until it pointed towards the sky. The boy pulled the trigger. The rat-a-tat startled the girls and made all the boys laugh and clap. “Me next!” “No, me next!” With hands waving in the air, they leaped and jumped, while the Talib grinned and patted the boys on the back. The Talib spoke to each boy. Tamanna could hear bits of conversation. He asked, “Which girl in your village behaves in an un-Islamic way? Who does not pray five times a day?”
One Talib leaned against the car, rested his gun on his knee, and opened his little box of naswar. Slowly he picked out a pinch of chewing tobacco, chopped it in his hand with the lid of the box, then tossed it into his mouth as though it were a handful of nuts.
A young Talib carrying a smaller rifle paced up and down directly in front of Tamanna. He seemed anxious, troubled even. She caught a glimpse of him, his nose, his forehead, his eyes. There was something familiar about him. The boy stopped and stood in front of her. Eyes down, she could see his shabby sandals, his dirty, broken toenails, his hardened, scabbed feet. And something else, his feet were lined with brown marks, as if they had been burned.
“Has your family no pride or honor?” the boy screamed.
Was he talking to her? What was he yelling about? Tamanna shuddered, her stomach . . . she was going to embarrass herself. His voice waned. Wait, he was yelling at the girl in the white sandals. Why?
“To wear white on your feet is to break our law. White is a holy color, the color of peace. You may not walk on it.”
As he spoke he lifted his gun and put his finger on the trigger. The girl shook so hard that the hem of her burka bounced on and off the ground. Tiny, muted sounds could be heard through the grille of her burka. She kicked off her sandals.
A commotion—thuds, bangs, and yells—came from inside the school. A body came hurtling out the door, a jumble of flailing arms and legs. Teacher crashed to the ground. He lay there twitching and sputtering. The gunfire stopped. The laughing boys quieted. And then, the crunch of rocks underfoot as an old Talib stepped out of his car and walked towards Teacher. Stillness prickled the back of the neck as the air emptied of sound. No birds, no wind, no hum or echo—nothing, just the hammering of hearts in ears.
The old Talib spat a dark, green lump of chewing tobacco on the ground, then gazed around with the eyes of a snake lying on a hot rock. His face was covered with raised, dark scars. Spittle collected in the corners of his mouth, and his sneer revealed black, rotting teeth.
“Look up! You students, you girls, watch what happens to a man who breaks our law.” He spoke in a high-pitched, nasal voice that sounded almost—silly. He leaned down over Teacher, grabbed a fistful of his black hair, and yelled in his ear, “Girls and boys that are not related must not be in the same room. Girls must not be educated. You think you can teach girls to be immodest? You want girls to forget Islam? You want them to go to Hell? What do you teach? You teach them to talk to shaitan, to the Devil. You are worthless. Allah and the Prophet, peace be upon Him, will punish you.” The old man drew a pistol from his belt and pointed it at Teacher’s head. Teacher lay motionless on the ground. Was he dead already?
Tamanna’s head drooped. The young Talib who had threatened the girl in white sandals jammed the muzzle of his gun under her chin, forcing her head up. Through the netting she looked directly into his eyes. It was surprising how clearly she could see through the grille when a person was really close.
“Look up. Do you not hear? Are you deaf? You do as you are told, you stupid, nothing girl,” snarled the young Talib. There was yelling from behind. The young Talib looked past her, over her shoulder.
“We caught her escaping.” A scuffling sound in the sand, and a girl was shoved, face first, onto the ground next to the motionless Teacher. Yasmine. A young, grinning Talib rolled her over with his foot. Yasmine, her face exposed, looked up into the sun.
Tamanna took quick breaths. No, no, no. Yasmine, I am here. I love you. You are the sister of my heart. Screams were trapped in her throat.
“See this girl?” The old man poked Yasmine with his foot. “She has dishonored Islam, and for that she will die.” More bullets pierced the sky. The boys from the village were cheering too.
Tamanna closed her eyes and murmured, “In the Name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. All Praise is due to God alone, the Sustainer of all the worlds, the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate, Master of Judgment Day . . .”
The young Talib soldier yanked Yasmine to her feet. She turned, and for a moment her beautiful green eyes locked on the grille of Tamanna’s burka.
“See me, see me,” whispered Tamanna. “I am here.”
Yasmine did not cry. Her face was a mask! She is not afraid, thought Tamanna. Look, she is not afraid!
“What is her punishment?” the old man yelled.
“Death,” the Talib shouted. The young Talib who had stood in front of Tamanna picked up his gun and aimed it at Yasmine. As he did so, Yasmine turned her head. Her gold necklace shone in the sun. Eyes wide with delight, the Talib reached down to rip it off her neck. The clasp held fast.
&n
bsp; “No,” whispered Tamanna. Like a bullet through glass, she shrieked, “ENOUGH! Don’t hurt her!” The strain of her cry seared her throat. Tamanna lunged towards the boy with the gun. The Talib pivoted and turned the gun on her. Tamanna’s hand went down under her burka and with one swift movement she flipped it up to reveal her face.
“Kabeer,” she said. “It is me, Tamanna, your sister!”
There was silence. The girls within hearing seemed to pull in their breath; the others just looked on, quivering with fear. The Talib peered into Tamanna’s face. They were twins, their features identical—round, black eyes, high cheekbones, full lips. Shocked, he stood still for a moment. Then he turned and walked over to the old Talib. Kabeer spoke, but she could not hear his words. The old Talib came towards her. Tamanna covered her face. She could not stop herself from rocking back and forth. She thought she might faint.
“This is your sister?” The old Talib pointed to Tamanna but spoke to Kabeer.
“Yes,” was all he said.
“And this one.” He pointed to Yasmine, who lay on the ground. “Is she your sister also?”
“No,” said Kabeer.
“Then we will make an example of her. We will show everyone that educating girls is against the law of the Taliban.”
Prayers ran through Tamanna’s head. She looked to the ground and could not see the old Talib’s expression but she felt movement. Her head reared back and she looked up in time to see the old Talib raise his gun and point it at Yasmine’s head. He fired. Tamanna squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms. No, no, no. And then she heard laughter, long peals of foul laughter that spilled out of mouths and into the air. She opened her eyes. The bullet had gone into the sand inches from Yasmine’s head.
The old Talib stood close to Tamanna. “Your brother wants me to spare your life. I will do it for him. You tell everyone how your friend and your teacher were spared on this day. Your brother is good. All Taliban are good. You tell people that.”