When the Moon Is Low

by Nadia Hashimi

  Ali stood up and went inside.

  “You don’t know anything about him, do you?” Hakeem asked in a castigating tone.

  Saleem looked up.

  “Do you have any respect for a guy who shared his space with you?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You want to know what happened to him? Ali lived on my street in Kabul. He was outside his house when his mother called for him and his brother to come back in. She told them it looked like it was going to rain and that they should get back inside. His brother listened. Ali didn’t. He said he would find other people to play with and went down the street. And that was when the rockets flew right into his house. Killed his entire family. Ali came running back to find his brother stumbling into the street, falling to the ground in flames. Ali tried to put them out, but it was too late.

  “It broke him. All he remembers is his mother warning him to come into the house because it looked like it was going to rain. All he hears is her voice and it repeats in his head over and over again. I think he wishes he had gone back into the house and been crushed by those rockets instead of living with the memory of watching them die.”

  Saleem stared at the earth. His face burned with remorse.

  “So leave him and his crazy talk alone.”

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Of course you didn’t. But do you think anyone here has a happy story?”

  Saleem kept his mouth shut. Hakeem stood up and sighed in frustration. The others stood up too but for a different reason. A crowd was starting to gather nearby. A few men were jogging over and calling out to the others.

  Saleem felt very much like an outsider at the moment.

  “What’s going on?” Hakeem called out.

  “Get Akbar!” yelled one of the men. “It’s Naeem! He was killed at the port today! They are bringing his body back.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Saleem

  AKBAR WAS NOT A REAL MULLAH. HE HAD NEVER BEEN FORMALLY trained in religion, but he was one of the oldest in the camp and had a decent repertoire of suras committed to memory. More important, he had a soothing, convincing tone that filled the gaps in his qualifications.

  Only when the body was brought back to the camp did Saleem realize Naeem was the one under the truck, the boy who urged Saleem to find a different truck.

  Naeem had nearly made it onto the ship before he lost his grip and slipped from the truck’s undercarriage. The exhaust fumes had likely dizzied him. As the truck rumbled toward the ship, the driver felt a grotesque thump under his tires and the hollering of voices in the distance. He had let out a bloodcurdling screech to find Naeem’s mangled body under his bloody tires.

  The few Afghans who lingered watched from a distance and saw the boy fall, roll, and twist under the tires. They were too far to do anything but fall to their knees and cry out. By the time they reached the truck, there was nothing left to do but gather his body.

  Naeem hung limply, carried by two men. As they neared, the gruesome details came into focus. His face and body were purple with massive bruising. His left forearm dangled absurdly from the elbow.

  Saleem looked away. He felt his stomach reel and closed his eyes. He walked slowly, then quickly, then ran to the latrines on the outer corner of the camp. His stomach emptied once, twice, three times. He breathed deeply and remembered the determined look on Naeem’s face. He had nearly made it. Nearly.

  Akbar gave out the instructions. He would be buried that very evening. Haste was dictated both by Islamic guidelines and by the hushed concern that the local authorities would step in. They washed Naeem’s still form and wrapped him in a white sheet, as was done back home. They chose to bury him in a wooded area near the camp, thick with trees.

  There was a hum through the community that the police might come into the settlement but they never did. They had no interest in walking through the tarp-covered shacks. They cared only when the chaos spilled out into the rest of Patras.

  Akbar instructed the men to stand side by side. They faced the direction of Mecca, Naeem’s body laid out before them. Saleem joined the others, though he wished he could be anywhere else. Ali stood at his side, tears running down his face. Solemnly and in unison, they followed Akbar’s lead. They formed three rows, about fifty men total, heads lowered and hands folded just below their navels, their elbows tucked at their sides. Akbar led the incantations. They whispered the verses together. Fingertips moved to their ears and back in synchronized motions.

  Saleem had not prayed since his father’s death, but the dua rolled off his tongue naturally. It was a whisper he’d said a thousand times as a child, sounds that spoke of a shared experience, a common path to healing. He felt supported by the strangers standing around him. Prayer was a journey in itself, taking him home in a quiet verse. He moved with the others and he understood. There was nothing but a single breath between them and Naeem. A single devastating moment could return any of them to the dust from which they came. Naeem was close enough to touch and yet irrevocably unreachable.

  Saleem prayed over the young man’s body out of respect. Out of guilt. Out of fear. It could have been him under that truck. It could have been his body lying here before strangers.

  He had lost his place. He strained his ears to hear his neighbor’s whisper over Ali’s sniffles.

  My father did not get even this much of a funeral. God alone knows how his body was treated. Not a soul to wash him, pray over him, carry him to a resting place and bury him with a bit of ceremony. I should have carried him. I would have done these things for him if I’d known. I should have looked for his body. I’ll never pray over his grave.

  Saleem could not focus. His mind ran off in desperate directions, thinking about the war, his father, his family, and how long he could live with his feet flailing in the air. At some point, he would come crashing down.

  Ali began to wail. He called out Naeem’s name and covered his face with his hands. He spoke in sobs. The sound of him made Saleem’s whole body tense. He shifted his weight and tried to block Ali’s voice, tried to hear himself pray.

  Hakeem and his cousin stepped out of the line of men and took Ali by the elbows. They quietly led him away so the jenaaza prayers could continue without distraction. His voice faded as they walked off. Saleem understood this now. Sometimes the storm in a person’s mind raged too strongly.

  They carried Naeem’s body as one. All the men wanted to help shoulder his weight. Akbar noticed Saleem standing back and called him to join in.

  “It is our duty to carry our brother, bachem. Come and take part.”

  Bachem, Saleem heard. My son. His shoulders relaxed. He had not been called bachem in months. His soul must have been hungry for it.

  “There is sawaab in these deeds.”

  Saleem stepped forward. Maybe the blessings of a good deed would be useful to him. He did as Akbar said. Naeem’s body was hoisted up by two rows of men. Saleem squeezed in and reached up with his right hand. He was touching Naeem’s knee. His hand trembled, and he focused his eyes on the feet of the man in front of him.

  Don’t think. Just follow.

  But it was hard not to think. Saleem felt suffocated as the men jammed together to carry the body. Saleem’s chest grew tight, as if the men had squeezed all the air from the small space. One breath. One breath separated him from Naeem.

  Others stepped in to take their turns. Saleem was eager to let them take his place. He stood at the edge of the crowd. Akbar looked over and gave him an approving nod.

  They lowered Naeem’s body into the trench they’d dug out with hands, scraps of metal, and a sense of brotherhood. There was no coffin, just two pieces of cardboard. It was the best they could do and the best any of them could hope for should they end up in Naeem’s place, a makeshift grave to mark the end of a makeshift life.

  CHAPTER 44

  Saleem

  THOUGH IT TOOK LONGER THAN HE CARED TO ADMIT, SALEEM worked up the nerve to go back to the port. The others we
re equally apprehensive to try again. They’d learned, through the paramedics and aid workers in Patras, that no one at the port knew what had happened to Naeem. Some said the boy had walked away from the accident, and others claimed he’d been carried off by friends. It had not prompted many questions.

  Saleem was demoralized but had no choice. He loitered about and watched the trucks and passengers from a distance. When he closed his eyes, he saw Naeem’s face. He was tempted to return to the camp but with only three hundred euros, Saleem needed to accept the risk if he was ever going to make it to Italy and have hope for the rest of his passage.

  He watched and studied and tried to understand the schedule and pattern of the ferries and trucks. Opportunities could come at any time, he reminded himself. He kept his eyes open and replayed what he’d done in Izmir. It was possible.

  When the opportunity came, it was a moment as ordinary as any other.

  Saleem scaled the fence and crept closer and closer to the trucks. He was behind some cargo containers when he heard a truck pull up, brake, and release a thick plume of black smoke skyward. The burly driver, his forearms thick with hair, got out and rolled open the back door. Saleem crouched to the ground and watched intently.

  The series of events that followed occurred in a matter of seconds, one privately cataclysmic moment. The driver’s cell phone rang, a high-pitched chime. He answered it with a lighthearted greeting, the pleasant conversation relaxing his step and leading him away. Saleem was no more than eight feet from the platform. He watched the driver, the phone to his ear and a can of soda to his lips, saunter around toward the truck’s cab.

  Saleem did not stop to think. If he had, he never would have made it out of Patras. He pushed the truck door open wide enough to slip his slim frame through.

  He was inside. It was dark, and he was tightly jammed against what felt like stacks of crates. He guided himself with his hands, waiting for his eyes to acclimate. No commotion outside. Not yet, anyway. Saleem slipped between two towers of crates and ducked low, pushing the crates in front of him to make a wall. Motionless and tense, he waited.

  A trickle of sweat slid down his back.

  He did not think about his mother or Samira or Aziz in these moments. If it occurred to him just how badly he wanted to be with them again, to have their arms around his neck and their eyes brighten at the sight of him, his nerves would have gotten the best of him. He focused on taking small, silent breaths.

  The driver’s voice neared. He was back at the truck’s door, still on the phone. Saleem put his chin to his chest and crouched as low as he could.

  The door opened wider. Light poured in and Saleem held his breath. The driver opened one of the crates, rifled through its contents, and then slapped it closed again. Glass bottles jangled against each other. The driver laughed, his fortuitously cheerful conversation continuing. The door came down hard and locked shut with a steely click.

  Pitch-black.

  He was alone.

  He breathed.

  CHAPTER 45

  Fereiba

  I LEFT AFGHANISTAN WITH THREE CHILDREN CLINGING TO ME. Right now, I hold my daughter’s hand. Samira and I cannot bear to look at each other, nor can we bear to let go. There is a cup of black tea on the table in front of me, along with some magazines and a box of tissues. The tea has gone from hot to cold without me taking a sip. The dog-eared magazines have pictures of smiling people who look nothing like me and know nothing of my life. That leaves only the box of tissues. One tissue has half freed itself from the box and dangles toward me as an offering.

  But I refuse.

  The walls are painted a light blue, the color of a burqa left out in the sun. I wonder if I’ll ever see this color and think of birds’ eggs or light-washed waters. For now, it still takes me back, and not forward.

  Samira’s hands are warm. The sweater she’s wearing is one Najiba’s daughter has outgrown. My daughter looks like a new girl in it. Her face has already started to fill in. What a difference it makes to see her bangs drawn back with a new tortoiseshell barrette that her aunt brought for her. It is a luxury to think about hair and clothes. I remember the clothing I used to wear in my first years with Mahmood. Now, I think of just how unimportant clothes are . . . and yet how life changing they can be.

  Truths can be wholly contradictory, the blackest black and the whitest white all at once.

  It’s now been two hours. The faces around us have been kind and unjudging. Their words slow and patient. The nurses smiled at Samira and she smiled back. It made it easier for me to see my youngest child led away. He watched me as he was rolled away, his fingers writhing, pulling at my heartstrings. The nurse put a hand on my arm and squeezed gently, saying wordlessly that she, too, was a mother and they would take good care of my son.

  If they can mend his heart, there is hope for me.

  In the few weeks since our arrival, much has happened. The hardest part was the first step—approaching the customs officer with nothing but the bare truth of why we were there, a white flag begging for mercy. The customs officer scowled and huffed and led us away as others watched, thankful not to be in our shoes and craning their necks to hear what was being said. We were a curiosity. I kept my eyes on the officer, unable to meet the onlookers’ stares.

  We spent hours in one room before being shuttled off to another. At some point, they brought in an Iranian man. He translated my words into English, dryly and mechanically. Not once did he smile or offer a word other than what he was asked to say. He was not there to be our friend or advocate and made certain that point would not be misunderstood.

  The process had begun. We were sent to a shelter, a building with small rooms and shared bathrooms. There were other refugees there, all in the same process. People of all different colors and tongues. Unable to communicate, we eyed one another with cautious distrust, as if we were vying against one another for a single opportunity, as if there could be only one winner among us. We wondered who had the most compelling story. Who among us was most worthy of this country’s sympathy? It was a disturbing, silent rivalry.

  We were interviewed again. I gave every detail. I told them about my husband and the work he did and the enemies he’d somehow made. I told them of the night the men came to our home and took him away. Samira stared at the floor and listened. We’d not spoken of that night since it happened. The interpreter relayed our story to a woman who made notes, nodded her head, and moved on to the next page of questions. I told them about Saleem and how he disappeared along the way. I told them so they would have a record of my son for when he appears. They confirmed names and dates of birth and names of family members and addresses and all kinds of details. I was asked again and again for the same information, so many times that I thought I might trip over my answers, even though they were truths.

  My sister Najiba was permitted to visit us. I fell into her arms. To be around family is to feel the possibility of growing roots again. When they asked about Saleem, my heart dropped. I’d been hoping he’d somehow made it to England ahead of me and was already in his aunt’s home, waiting for us to make our way there. My sister held me tightly. Her family came with her, Hameed and the children. The reunion was bittersweet, clouded by Mahmood’s absence. Hameed wiped away tears to see me without my husband, his cousin. For the moment, everything else between us, the twisted way he’d married into our family, was pushed aside. I had other, more pressing worries. Saleem was still missing. My sister did her best to keep my spirits up.

  He will come soon enough, Fereiba-jan. He’s always been a clever boy. He is his father’s son.

  Yes, he is.

  We live in a small apartment now with a single bedroom and a small kitchen. It is modest and glorious all at once. While they consider our pleas, we have been granted identification cards and a few pounds per week for food. More than anything, I am grateful that they have evaluated Aziz. The dear doctor from Turkey was right. Aziz had a hole in his heart and needed surgery urgently, th
e doctors here told me. They would treat him while we waited for our case to be reviewed. With or without an interpreter, there was no way to express how grateful I was to hear that.

  If only I could share this news with Saleem. I look for him everywhere we go. I see boys of his height or with his hair color and pray that one of them will come running toward me. I hear his voice in crowds and turn frequently and abruptly, wondering if I’m walking past him without knowing it. What if he is here but cannot find us? Samira knows and is unsurprised by my behaviors. She does the same. Harder than anything is not knowing where he is.

  I dare to imagine a perfect world. I dare to dream that the woman writing my story on those many pages will stop and remember that a boy by the name of Saleem Waziri is here and in search of his family. I dream that I will tell him his brother is well. I dream that we receive a letter declaring that we will not be sent away and that we will be allowed to work and go to school and stay in this country where the air is clear and life is more like metal than dust.

  And while I’m thinking of these things, a woman in a green hospital uniform walks toward me. Her hair is covered in a blue puff, the same grating blue as the walls. She removes her mask as she approaches. I stare at her face, anxious to see what news she will bring of my son. I can tell nothing from her eyes. I dare not stand up because she may very well knock me down with what she is about to say. I have no choice but to wait and listen.

  It shouldn’t be much longer now.

  CHAPTER 46

  Saleem

  AGAIN, A NEW LANGUAGE. AGAIN, A NEW PEOPLE.

  But everything was the same. It was the familiar feeling of being lost. The same things made his skin clammy and his mouth dry: uniforms, refugees, checkpoints, trains, and the sight of food.

  After what felt like an eternity, Saleem felt the ship stop moving and the trucks began disembarking. The truck had rolled off the ramp into the port in Bari, the eastern coast of Italy. Getting off the truck had been the tricky part. Saleem had waited for the truck driver to make his first stop and open the back door. When he did so, Saleem pitched his coiled body off the platform, nearly knocking the driver to the ground. Like a mouse discovered in a cubbyhole, he scrambled to his feet and took off running.