by Sharon McKay
“TAMANNA!”
The figure looked up—bloodied lips, bloated face, one eye swollen shut, dried blood rimming her nose. Yasmine took a breath then ran towards her and fell to her knees. Bending down, Yasmine cupped Tamanna’s chin in her hand and gently lifted her face towards the sun.
Startled, Yasmine reared back. It wasn’t Tamanna. It was Tamanna’s mother. “What has happened?” Yasmine, catching her breath, touched the woman’s battered hands. It was the woman’s turn to react. She drew in a breath and raised her arm across her face as if to stave off a blow. “Do not be afraid. It is Yasmine, your daughter’s friend. Who did this to you?”
The woman sank back against the door frame. She mumbled something, but her words were garbled.
“I do not understand. Say it again,” whispered Yasmine.
She took a shallow breath and spat. A bloody tooth landed on the ground. “Zaman . . . huban broter . . . wedting . . .” The effort exhausted her and again the woman slumped forward.
“Zaman, Tamanna’s uncle? Where is she? Where is Tamanna!” Yasmine leaped to her feet. “Tamanna! Where are you?” She barged into the little house, ran across the stone floor, and yanked back the curtain that separated the sleeping areas. “TAMANNA!” Yasmine’s heart pounded in her chest. The house was empty.
Breathless, Yasmine returned to the little, broken woman. “Where is she?”
“Zaman—left. Tamanna—gone. I told—run—hide—do not return.” Yasmine’s eyes darted around the yard, half expecting the uncle to come roaring across the courtyard.
“I will get you water.” Yasmine filled an earthen mug with water from the cistern and returned, too, with a small, damp rag. “Why did this happen?” Water spilled over the lip of the cup, and Yasmine willed her hands to stop shaking. She held up the mug and Tamanna’s mother grasped it and pulled it towards herself, wincing as she sipped. She took a breath and spoke slowly, carefully forming each word.
“Man to be Tamanna’s husband—watched her as she delivered naan to Rahim, the kebab-seller. He saw her limp . . . thinks it is a birth defect . . . she will bear defective children. He says he was lied to. He will not sign . . . the marriage certificate.”
“So, Tamanna will not get married. Her uncle will just have to accept it. Things will be as they were.” As Yasmine spoke she dabbed the dampened cloth on the woman’s face, gently cleaning as much of the dried blood as she could.
“No. Zaman’s debt will not be paid. He blames my daughter. Says she is worthless—will never get a husband—she shames our family. He says that no man will want her. If he finds her, he will murder her—call it an honor killing. What honor is there in . . . killing a girl? A perfect girl . . . who he himself maimed? If she limps, it is his fault!” Struggling, her hands inching up the door frame, the woman stood. “He is taking strong drugs. He is in a rage.”
A hope, a thought, brewed in Yasmine. “Please, please, I’m leaving for Kandahar City, right now. Let her come with me,” she begged.
The woman looked up at Yasmine as if she were a spirit. She sputtered and wobbled on her feet. “No,” she wailed. Her head shook.
“Dear Aunt, I beg you. A driver in a rickshaw will take us there.”
“No, no, no.” Tears ran from the woman’s eyes. She reeled back, stumbled, and fell. “Allah, have mercy on me,” she cried.
“I beg you. Dear Aunt, please, please. You know there is no life for her here. My parents love her as I do. She will be my sister. She will be cared for, go to school. Please. You said yourself that her uncle will kill her.” Yasmine, still on her knees, clutched at the woman’s skirt.
“No, you have to understand . . . it’s too late. Tamanna has gone to her brother, in the mountains. See, she took . . . his shoes.” The woman pointed with a quivering hand towards a vacant spot by the door.
What shoes? What was the woman talking about? The world seemed to shift around Yasmine. Tamanna gone to the mountains? A Talib . . . help a girl? It was more likely that the Taliban would give aid to an American! And no girl would last long in the desert alone. Danger was everywhere. Travelers attacked unaccompanied girls. It was assumed that any girl walking without a man was unpure and deserved to be raped. Near breathless, Yasmine bent forward, holding her stomach as if punched. Words rattled around in her head: Find her, find her.
“My daughter is the love of my life . . . the noor of my heart. But I was afraid to tell her . . . afraid . . . my heart would break, afraid my love . . . would make her weak. I loved her too much. I tempted fate. She is doomed.” The woman crumpled into a ball, cupped her hands around her wounded head, and sobbed.
“It is not your fault, none of this is your fault. Tamanna knows that you love her.” Gently, Yasmine ran her hand over the woman’s bony back. She was skeletal, starving. “What will happen to you?” she whispered.
“I am to go to my father-in-law’s house today, like this . . . ugly . . . damaged. They are poor. They will call me a parasite.”
Yasmine reached into her money pouch and drew out a fistful of the green American bills. “Perhaps if you give this to your father-in-law he will better protect you, at least for a little while.” Yasmine tucked the money into the woman’s clenched fist. Opening her hand the woman stared down at the paper money. She did not know what it was. “Hide it. Others may try and steal it from you. Give it only to your father-in-law.”
Yasmine left the woman as she found her. There was no consoling her. She stepped out onto the road and began to retrace her steps. The rickshaw driver would be getting impatient, but he would not leave, he wanted the money. She stopped and thought. How could it be that Tamanna had gone into the mountains to find her brother? It didn’t make sense. Tamanna would not have left the village in daylight, she would have hidden until the stars came out. And standing on the road, in full view of the village, Yasmine suddenly knew exactly where Tamanna would hide.
Yasmine stood outside her own house and rattled the door. The gate was bolted from the inside. “Tamanna,” she called through the slats of the corrugated tin. Nothing, not a sound, not a peep came from the other side of the wall. Even now she could feel the eyes of the neighbors upon her.
Pushing her face up against the gate she called out again, and again. There was a funny smell. What was it? Her skin grew cold. It was the smell of kerosene.
“Tamanna? Tamanna, what are you doing?” Yasmine cried out. She pulled the bell-cord again and again and again. The neighbors would hear but it no longer mattered what anyone thought. Nothing mattered.
“Tamanna!” Still no response. Yasmine hammered the gate with a closed fist. Sharp ridges of tin cut into her hands and made them bleed. She gulped air, stepped back, and looked at the wall that surrounded the courtyard. It was smooth and at least six feet tall, but unlike many walls that surrounded homes, Baba had refused to imbed glass shards in the top or surround the house with barbed wire to ward off thieves. If she could find a way to scale the wall she could jump down to the other side. All she needed was something to climb up on.
“You don’t belong here. Your father is a spy. He deserves to die.” Noor stood in the middle of the road. He jutted out his chin and yelled, “Why do you care about her?”
Yasmine stopped. Why was he just standing there? He must have known that Tamanna was inside. She glared at him. “Why do you hate us? What are we to you?” There was no time to wait for an answer. She spotted a broken barrel lying on its side across the road. Noor just stood and watched as Yasmine dragged it across the road, turned it over, and pushed it up against the wall. But as she jumped up, her foot went through the top splitting the barrel into pieces. Gasping, Yasmine sprawled flat-out on the ground. When she looked up, Noor was there.
“Come.” Noor stood above her. He motioned with his hand.
Yasmine’s eyes narrowed as Noor walked around the side of the house out of view of the road and the neighbors. She did not trust him, and yet she scrambled to her feet and followed. Then he did something startl
ing. He knelt down on all fours and sidled up against the back wall of her house. Yasmine stopped, unsure of what to do. Was it a trick?
“Hurry,” he hissed. He wanted her to stand on his back!
She looked at him hard and had a funny thought. Was it possible that he cared about Tamanna? That he liked her? Boys and girls were not allowed to like each other. Besides, he might never marry any girl until he himself was in his middle years and made money. He was poor, too poor to afford a bride-price.
“You care for her!” Yasmine blurted out the words before her thought was fully realized.
Noor’s face darkened. He shifted back and forth like a goat in a pen. There was no time to talk, let alone think. Yasmine climbed on his back and reached up. She stretched. The top of the wall was still out of reach. Noor grunted. He started to stand, and as he did Yasmine rose higher and higher.
“Climb up,” he huffed.
Yasmine hoisted herself up until her elbows were on the top of the wall. She could see Tamanna standing in the middle of the courtyard, the red plastic jug of kerosene dangling from her hand. Kerosene! In her other hand—matches. Tamanna meant to douse herself with the flammable liquid. She meant to set herself on fire!
“TAMANNA!”
Slowly, Tamanna raised her head. Her eyes were blank. Yasmine swung one leg up and over, then the second leg, until she sat on the wall. She looked back at Noor. There was a strange, pleading look in his eyes.
“She is alive,” Yasmine called out over her shoulder.
Noor nodded, turned, and ran.
Yasmine leaped down from the wall and stumbled towards her friend with outstretched arms.
“Yasmine?” Tamanna spoke as if in a trance. “There was not . . . not enough kerosene,” she stammered. Sitting in swirls of dust, the girls held on to each other as if drowning.
“Tell me, what has happened?” Yasmine asked while holding her tight.
“A boy came to our home and told Mor that the man who was to be my husband fought with Uncle in the place where they sell liquor. I will not be married now.” Tamanna spoke in gasps. “Mor told me to run away. She is afraid that my uncle will kill me because he will not get the bride-price money and because he will say that I have brought shame to my family.” She was confused, each word sliding into the next.
“I went to your house,” whispered Yasmine.
“Is Mor all right? He will return in a rage!” Tamanna bolted upright.
Yasmine dithered, but just for a second. If Tamanna went back to her house she might meet her uncle. And then what?
“Your mother is well.”
“Did Uncle return? Did he harm her?”
“No. She is well.”
Chapter 13
Two Burkas
“Burkas!” Yasmine ran into her house.
Tamanna followed. “What is happening? I do not understand.”
“It’s best if no one sees you leave. Hurry.” Yasmine opened a trunk and pulled out two silk, indigo-blue burkas, each with a crown made of silver thread—the same ones Baba bought when they’d left Herat. Yasmine flung a burka at Tamanna and grabbed the second one for herself.
“Leave?” Confused and wide-eyed, Tamanna watched as her friend kicked off her sandals and slipped on a pair of her mother’s shoes. They were foreign-made, of thick and heavy leather, and by the looks of them they had never been worn.
“We are going to a place the kharijis call KAF near Kandahar City. Hurry,” said Yasmine. She looked down at the star-tipped sandals on Tamanna’s feet but said nothing.
Kandahar! Never in her dreams had Tamanna thought that she would see a city. “How would we travel to such a place?” she asked.
“The kharijis in the FOB, the fort, arranged for a rickshaw. It is waiting just outside the village.” Yasmine spoke in snatches of breath as she grabbed her father’s blanket. She turned and ran towards the door.
“I d-do not understand,” Tamanna stuttered.
“I will explain later. Wait.” Yasmine bolted back into the house. “Put this under your burka.” She stripped Mother’s bed and handed Tamanna the beautiful embroidered patoo.
Tamanna did not know what to do, so she did as Yasmine had asked. Both girls adjusted their burkas before stepping out onto the road. Yasmine turned back and pulled hard at the door and listened for the thunk of the bolt slipping into place. But really, what did it matter if the house was locked or not? Allah willing, they would never return. “Hurry,” she hissed as she took the lead.
Heads down, burkas billowing out behind, they walked as quickly as possible without tripping or drawing attention. Neither was used to wearing the burka. The thin, silver thread around the headpiece clamped down on their heads and glistened in the sun. Hearing was difficult, seeing was almost impossible, and the air underneath the burka was stale, making it hard to breathe.
Tamanna’s star-tipped sandals had hardly been worn by her brother and the leather was stiff. Yasmine’s toes in her mother’s shoes chafed. Worse, the shoes were heavy and made it hard to run. Hopping on one foot and then the other, barely slowing down, Yasmine yanked the shoes off her feet and, along with Baba’s blanket, clutched them to her chest under her burka. Never mind that the ground was littered with old plastic buckets, garbage, broken glass, and that she might cut her feet, she needed to run.
As the heat of the day ebbed, men, boys, and small children emerged from their houses. Both girls could feel eyes upon them. The men hissed and pointed. Who were these women? Burkas were expensive things, and new burkas, without rips and tears, were a rare sight in the village.
They came to a clearing. To the left was the school building, or where the school was supposed to be. Had they torn it down completely? Men stood around the damaged building with their hands on their hips, tsk-tsk-ing. Yasmine and Tamanna slowed down.
Someone shouted, “Run!” Yasmine turned back. Who had said that? Noor? Yes, it was him. With Tamanna close behind, Yasmine made a dash for the rickshaw.
The driver took a long drag off a hand-rolled cigarette, narrowed his eyes, and watched as the girls darted towards him. Yasmine reached out, batted the thick curtain aside, and lunged for the backseat. Thank goodness, the haversack and bag remained untouched on the back seat.
“Get in.” Yasmine pushed the bags onto the floor. Tamanna tumbled in, with Yasmine behind her. “Drive,” she pleaded.
The driver paused. His thoughts were plain. He would not get paid unless he delivered the girl to KAF, to Kandahar Airfield, but now there were two girls, not one.
“Drive!” This time Yasmine shouted. The sound of her own voice shocked her. The driver tossed away his cigarette and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Get down.” Yasmine pushed Tamanna to the floor.
Only when they had left the village, when they were sure no one could see, did Yasmine and Tamanna unfurl themselves from the floor. Both girls flung back the burkas, exposing flushed, red faces. Clutching the straps that hung beside the curtains, they slid and bounced around the seat as the rickshaw jolted down the road. With her free hand, Yasmine reached deep into her pocket and pulled out the small pill bottle.
“It is medicine from the kharijis. This pill will stop you from running to the outhouse. One pill a day for five days.” Yasmine shook a long, white pill out of the bottle and held it out in an open palm. “In five days you will be cured.”
Tamanna peered at the pill. “I do not understand.” What was she to do with it?
“Put it at the back of your throat, then drink.” Yasmine reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of water. The top cracked as she twisted off the cap. “Drink,” repeated Yasmine.
Tentatively, Tamanna placed the pill on her tongue, gulped water, and tried to swallow. She coughed. The pill came up, or rather did not go down.
“Try again,” said Yasmine.
On the second try the pill slid down Tamanna’s throat. Only then did Yasmine take a deep breath, lean back in the seat, and think, What have we done?
The rickshaw picked up speed. Brightly painted jingle trucks, with their bells and toys dangling across the windshield, lined the shoulder of the road. Raggedy, stick-wielding boys maneuvered long-eared goats around the vehicles. Occasionally millie buses packed with travelers passed by, coughing black clouds. The buses had religious sayings written on the sides, although few people could read.
Women in indigo and saffron burkas walked along the road gripping the hands of small children while balancing bundles of firewood on their heads. Everything whizzed by so quickly that it was difficult to focus on objects outside the car. “It’s as if we can fly,” whispered Tamanna. Yasmine caught the eye of the driver in his rear-view mirror. He was staring back at them with unmistakable contempt. Dirty hands gripped the wheel as he pressed his foot down on the pedal.
“I do not understand, why have the kharijis provided this transportation?” Tamanna tried to be heard above the motor’s high-pitched whine. She was almost shouting.
Yasmine leaned to one side and whispered into Tamanna’s ear, “My parents are there. You will be safe with them. You will be their daughter, too.”
Tamanna pulled back. “Their daughter? But such a thing is not allowed under our law!”
Yasmine put one finger to her lips and motioned towards the driver.
Tamanna sat back, confused. Moments ago, she’d had no future. Moments ago, she had made her peace with this life. She had decided to die. She had not thought of Heaven or Hell, of right or wrong. She had said a prayer, asked for protection for her mother, then reached for the red jug of kerosene that Yasmine’s father used to fill the lamp. When she’d tipped it and found it was empty, she knew that Allah had willed that today was not her day to die.
They passed through villages. One or two of the walled compounds would look inhabited, then the next two would be empty, the next occupied, the next empty, and so it went—like missing teeth in a mouth. Occasionally they passed fields of flags and cement tombstones marking the deaths of martyrs. Burkas weaved among the flags.