Thunder Over Kandahar

by Sharon McKay

  “Mor!” Tamanna ran into the courtyard of her mother’s house and looked around. “MOR!” She drew back the rug that covered the doorway and peered into the dim.

  “Daughter, I am here,” said Mor.

  It took a moment for Tamanna’s eyes to adjust to the light that filtered in through a small window. Her mother sat slumped on a pillow. The Qur’an, encased in soft cloth, sat on a raised pillow in front of her.

  Tamanna stumbled towards her mother. “I must tell you—”

  Mor held up a flat palm. “I have something to say also.”

  “No, listen. At the school . . . Kabeer . . . he is alive. Mor, he is alive! He is with the Taliban.” Tamanna lowered her voice and whispered directly in her mother’s ear, “Kabeer is alive.”

  Mor’s eyes widened with shock. “Kabeer?” she whispered. Her eyebrows arched, she took in a sharp breath, and then she rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  “Praise be to Allah, it is what we dreamed of,” said Tamanna as she picked up her mother’s hand and rubbed it against her own cheek. “What is it, Mor? Why are you not happy? What is wrong?”

  A sorrowful sound came out of Mor’s mouth. Mor put her head in her hands. “Your grandfather insists that your uncle’s gambling debts be paid.”

  Tamanna sat back on her heels. She was confused. What had this to do with Kabeer?

  “Must we sell the house?” Tamanna, fearful, eyes wide, pulled away from her mother.

  “No. It’s not the house that your grandfather wants sold.” Mor, suddenly still, stopped and looked up at Tamanna with dead eyes.

  “No!” Tamanna moaned. “No, no!” She stood and backed towards the door, her face contorted in shock.

  “Allah has made women to suffer,” said Mor. Silently she stroked the taweez that hung around her neck. “I want you to remember that had your father lived he would have found a good husband for you. Remember, your father loved you. He was a good man. There are many good men in our country.”

  Tamanna dropped to her knees and grew quiet. So this was why Uncle had been so pleasant about letting her go to school—he knew it would not last. She did not ask Mor about her would-be husband. Likely Mor knew nothing.

  “When?” asked Tamanna in a low, flat voice.

  “Before the new moon—an unlucky time to marry. Muharram is a month of mourning.”

  Ten days, thought Tamanna.

  Chapter 7

  Yellow Walls, Dusty Birds

  Yasmine could hear the comforting, warbling prayer of the Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar echoing from a speaker on the top of a minaret. She lifted her head to look through her small bedroom window and crimped her eyes against the morning sun. How did one mark time when one was asleep? Turning her head slowly, she saw a haggard old man with red-rimmed eyes sitting on a stool.

  “Baba?”

  “Praise be to Allah, you have returned to us, Daughter.” Baba’s voice was filled with anguish and relief.

  In the shadows she saw her mother, who sat among pillows that bolstered her on either side. “Mother?”

  The woman lurched towards her daughter and, with all her strength, gathered her in her arms.

  “How long?” It was hard for Yasmine to form words. Her tongue felt thick and the words seemed to scratch her throat.

  “You have been in Allah’s hands for two days, Daughter.” Mother pulled away and sank back into the pillows. “We were wrong, Yasmine. Wrong to bring you here. Your father and I have agreed. We will leave this place, this country. He is making plans. As soon as you are better, we will leave.”

  Yasmine looked past her mother to Tamanna, who stood in the doorway. Reluctantly, she closed her eyes again.

  Another day passed, then two. Every day Tamanna had helped her get out of bed, dressed her, and coaxed her forward.

  Today she would do it all on her own. Tentatively, gingerly, Yasmine stood and slowly, silently shuffled across the room. She walked through the house, occasionally reaching for the back of a chair or the wall. Finally, Yasmine stood looking out into the courtyard.

  The yellow walls that surrounded the house glimmered in the pale dawn light. Dusty birds twittered in the tree, and Baba, always up before dawn to say his prayers, sat on a bench surrounded by three thick notebooks. Beside him on the ground was the toshak that the girls used to sit on to listen to his readings and lessons.

  Yasmine let go of the doorframe and stood unsteadily.

  Tamanna, in a heartbeat, was at her side. “What are you doing out of bed? Come, before your father sees you.” She wrapped her arm around Yasmine’s waist and led her back to her pillow. “Lie down. I will get you some tea.”

  Tamanna disappeared from view as Yasmine closed her eyes and felt the memories wash over her. She remembered lying on the stones in front of the school. She could see Tamanna hovering above her. She looked as though she was praying.

  Tamanna, I see you. I see you. Why are you praying?

  “Here, sip.” Tamanna reappeared holding an earthen mug of sweetened green tea. Tamanna supported Yasmine’s back while lifting the cup to her lips. “Your poor neck. Does it hurt?” she asked.

  Yasmine touched her neck and felt the rough, raised skin that circled it.

  “My brother did that to you. He yanked at your necklace but it did not break. I am sorry.” Ashamed, Tamanna bit down on her lip. But he had been a good boy once, a kind brother. Somewhere inside him, that boy must still exist.

  “It is not your fault, and anyway, it does not feel bad.” In truth, while badly bruised, she did not feel terrible, although there was a ringing in her right ear that refused to go away.

  “What happened to Teacher?” Yasmine asked.

  “He is alive. The foreign soldiers came back. Someone must have called on a cell phone. They heard the sounds of the tanks and got back into their cars.”

  “I remember you carrying me. You saved me,” said Yasmine simply.

  “No, it was not me. It was Kabeer, my brother, who saved you. He went to the Taliban leader and made him stop hurting you.”

  No, it was you, thought Yasmine, but she said nothing. It was not often that Yasmine heard such pride in Tamanna’s voice. “Has your brother returned to your house?”

  Tamanna shook her head. “Perhaps he cannot forgive me,” she said, her voice soft and low.

  Surprised, Yasmine asked, “But what is there to forgive?”

  Tamanna just shook her head. “Rest now. I must bring tea to your mother.”

  Yasmine lay back on her pillow and thought of Tamanna and her brother Kabeer. Something gnawed at the corners of her memory. Something was not right. She closed her eyes and slept.

  Another day passed. Yasmine, stronger and steadier on her feet, stood in the doorway looking out at the courtyard. Father was writing in his notebook, while Tamanna pulled laundry out of the copper lagaan and did her best to wring it dry. With squared shoulders, Yasmine crossed towards her.

  “Yasmine!” Tamanna looked up from the laundry.

  “Shush.” Yasmine put a finger to her lips and pointed to her father. “Let me help,” she said softly. She pulled back her sleeves and reached into the brown water.

  Tamanna saw the purple bruises etched in pale yellow. “No. Look how hurt you are.” She surprised herself. It wasn’t like her to be so bossy. Her tan face went pink with embarrassment.

  “But I am much better, and besides, you do not look well either.” Yasmine peered at her friend. Tamanna’s cheeks had thinned and her eyes looked hollow. “Why have you lost weight?”

  Baba, suddenly aware of his daughter’s presence, put down his notebook and rushed over. “Yasmine, my dear, you must not do any work.”

  “Baba, look.” She pointed to a mound of laundry. “This is too much for Tamanna, and I am feeling fine.”

  “I will help Tamanna,” said Baba as he reached for the laundry.

  Tamanna could not contain her amazement. A man help with the laundry? It would be more likely that a goat would make a b
argain with a butcher!

  Yasmine looked nervously towards the open gate. The door and a freestanding wall prevented prying eyes from getting a clear view of the courtyard, but still, she knew that if the men of the village saw Father helping with the laundry they would call him a fool, or worse. Yasmine and Tamanna had not talked about the gossip around the village since the housekeeper’s death, but both girls knew it had not gone away.

  “If you leave the laundry alone, I promise I will sit with Mother,” Yasmine said firmly.

  Baba made a pained, funny face but nodded, kissed Yasmine on the forehead, and picked up a book by the poet Rumi.

  “Go, be with your mother,” Tamanna agreed. “She is not well.”

  “Is it her leg?”

  Tamanna shook her head. “No, it is something else. Her skin is not a good color and she has not slept well since you were attacked. Go.”

  “I will if you eat something.” Yasmine pointed to a bowl of fruit.

  “Yes, go.” Tamanna nodded.

  Head high, shoulders back, and standing as straight as she could, Yasmine walked into the house.

  Mother lay on a bed, her body so long and thin under the quilt that it hardly looked as if there was a person there at all.

  “Mother, are you awake?” whispered Yasmine.

  “I am, my daughter. Do you feel better?” Mother struggled to sit up.

  “Lie still. I am much better. But now it is you who are sick. Are you warm enough?” Yasmine covered Mother with her favorite embroidered patoo and sat on a three-legged stool beside her cot. Tamanna was right. Even Mother’s eyes had a yellow tinge about them.

  “Here, Mother, sip.” Yasmine held a cup of water to her mother’s lips then dabbed her mouth with a cool, soft cloth. “Does that feel better?” Mother nodded and Yasmine slipped a cassette into the tape deck. “Would you like to listen to music?” This time Mother smiled and nodded.

  An Afghan woman sang a song of longing for death. She asked that she die and become the water in a stream, the wind over the desert, the grass of the plains. Yasmine closed her eyes and let the words float around her.

  “Yasmine, are you still here?” whispered Mother.

  “Yes, Mother. I was just daydreaming.” Yasmine picked up a damp cloth and used it to cool her mother’s cheeks.

  Mother took Yasmine’s hand. “Yasmine, remember that there is kindness in the world, freedom to follow your heart.” Spikes of pain broke Mother’s voice. Yasmine had a better understanding of pain now. But while she was getting better, it was clear that Mother was getting worse.

  Asleep, Mother’s face was a mask of calm. Yasmine took a deep breath and put her head in her hands. How had it come to this? Mother, an educated woman who had attended Le Sorbonne in Paris and Radcliffe College in America and spoke of dogs in buns, of girlfriends named Linda and Melissa, of popcorn and movies. Where was the medical help that she needed now? If they had stayed in Oxford, surely she would have been better by now, back on her feet.

  The tape came to an end. Except for her mother’s soft breathing, the room was silent.

  “She is sleeping, Baba.” Yasmine walked out into the courtyard and gazed around in amazement. A long line of laundry, scrubbed and wrung, hung on the line. She looked over to Tamanna, who made a half-hearted attempt to hide a smile. “Oh, Baba,” Yasmine sighed. He had helped with the laundry after all.

  She put her hand affectionately on her father’s shoulder. “Baba, what is wrong with Mother? It’s more than her leg.”

  Baba nodded. “She would not leave your bedside, and the effort and the worry has been hard on her health. Visit with your friend, my daughter. I will sit with your mother. Even asleep your mother is good company to me.”

  Respectful as always, the girls fell silent until Yasmine’s father had collected his precious notebooks and disappeared into the house. Yasmine looked over at Tamanna as she collected the soap. It was very rude to make comments about another’s body but Yasmine couldn’t help herself.

  “Tell me, why you are so thin? It seems that while I slept both my mother and my best friend have become ill.” Yasmine reached for her friend’s hand.

  Tamanna looked away. Best friend. She took a breath and shook her head. It was too embarrassing to discuss.

  “Please, Tamanna. You are getting smaller and smaller.” There was a time when Tamanna had been the bigger and stronger of the two.

  “Food does not want to stay in me. It leaves as quickly as I eat it.” She was ashamed.

  “Then you must go to one of the clinics the khariji doctors set up. They have medicine,” said Yasmine.

  Again Tamanna shook her head. “The khariji doctors do not charge for their diagnosis but medicine must be paid for, and Uncle will not pay.”

  “But Father will. You know that to be true! Both he and Mother love you like a daughter. And the kharijis charge very little for their medicine.” Yasmine gripped Tamanna’s hand even more tightly.

  “No, you must not tell your father. It is too . . . humiliating. He has done too much for me as it is. Promise me, Yasmine, that you will not ask him for anything more. Besides, it is too late.” Tamanna stopped, dithered, and then blurted out, “I will be married soon.”

  The news hung as heavy in the air as wet laundry on the line.

  “Married? Married? When?” The words slipped through Yasmine’s clenched teeth.

  “In two days. I wanted to tell you before but you were so ill and then I thought that if I told you our last days would be sad. Uncle says that the sooner I am married, the less chance there is of me being spoiled. The first day of school . . . Noor . . . I was seen running away from him. They say that I was not spoiled because there was not enough time, but next time . . .” She stopped talking. Tamanna did not add that the price her future husband agreed to give her family would pay off Uncle’s debts. “The Nekahnama certificate has been drawn up. Nothing can be done.”

  “Do you know who will be your . . . ?” Yasmine could not bear to say the word husband.

  Tamanna shook her head. “It is good that you are leaving, Yasmine. You belong in the big world, not here. This was a gift, this time together. But now it has come to a close, and every day I thank Allah for bringing you here. It’s like a window opened, but now it is closing, and everything has returned to its rightful place.”

  Chapter 8

  Tears

  “A car will come from Kandahar City. We will leave in a few days.”

  “Kandahar? Not Herat?” asked Yasmine. She had assumed that they would return to the city where Baba worked.

  “No, my dear. We will fly from Kandahar to Dhabi and then on to London.”

  Home. England. Yasmine sat very still. This was what she wanted, and yet Oxford didn’t seem like home anymore. Would any place feel like home now?

  Baba and Yasmine sat under the tree in the courtyard and looked up, past the wall that surrounded their yard, to the distant mountain. Even in the dying light it was possible to see the deep paths the khariji soldiers had carved into the mountainside. Toy-like tanks rested on strategic high points. Their long barrels pointed down into the village. The kharijis’ FOB was like a world within a world.

  “Mother is so ill. Can she travel?” Yasmine asked.

  “I have talked with the soldiers about your mother. I told the medic that she has a high temperature and her skin has a yellowish look. But the medic said it is not their policy to treat people who are ill.” Baba shook his head.

  “What does he mean, not their policy?” Yasmine leaned in towards her father. “The medic is a doctor, isn’t he? How can it not be his policy to treat sick people?”

  “The medic was a woman and is neither a doctor nor a nurse, as I understand it, but someone specially trained in field medicine.”

  Yasmine nodded. It was easy to forget that only a few yards away, in the big FOB, there was equality between men and women. “But that does not explain this policy,” Yasmine persisted.

  “It means
that there are limitations to what they will do for civilians like us. Their commitment is to care for anyone who has been hurt by the war.” Baba spoke like a very tired man. “However, perhaps it is because I speak English, or perhaps the medic was just being kind—she said that if I can bring your mother to the fort tomorrow she will be examined.”

  To Yasmine, Baba was a handsome man, tall and strong, but for the first time since the attack on Mother in Herat, Yasmine saw defeat in her father’s eyes.

  “Baba?” Yasmine reached for her father’s hand. “If a civilian was being forced to do something she didn’t want to do, something that might be against the law in other countries, would the kharijis help? Would they help a girl who is being told she has to marry someone she doesn’t even know?”

  “No, Daughter. They cannot help Tamanna.” He let out a deep sigh. “They are invited guests of the government and must not interfere with local customs.”

  Tomorrow was Tamanna’s wedding day. It seemed that nothing would stop the day from coming. “Will we go to the FOB tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Your mother and I will go. I have arranged for a cart to come before dawn. You will stay here.”

  “But—”

  “No, Daughter, I do not want you to be seen going into the FOB. There is no reason for you to come. Your mother and I will leave at first light and come home to a good meal that you will prepare for us.” Baba tapped her hand. His voice was kind, as always. Even so, she knew better than to argue. Besides, no daughter would contradict her father.

  The evening light had turned the air pink, the earth gold, the sky cobalt blue, and the distant mountains a ruby red. Night descended like a velvet cloth, and soon they would be sitting in the dark.

  “Baba, we are almost out of kerosene.” A small red jug sat beside their generator.

  “We can do without lighting the lantern tonight,” said Baba. They sat in silence as millions upon millions of stars lit up the night sky. “I have seen the lights of New York and London, but behold the magnificence of nature,” said Baba. “Ours is a country of pebbles and rocks, and yet the stars shine down from the heavens like stones polished to a glittering shine.”